#loose leaf poetry

[do-you-ever-consider-death]

i've loved people and

i've lost people and

i've lived and

i've learned and

life hasn't always been kind

relationships begin and

they're beautiful but then they end and

more often than not they're messy and

what am i supposed to do?

how were humans meant to love so deeply

when no matter how hard we try

a relationship is doomed?

what am i even saying?

this isn't like me and

i'm sorry if it's stressing you out but

i've been thinking a lot about the inevitability of death recently

but if i'm being honest

(which i am because you're only paper - i can't hurt you)

death is the least tragic way for a relationship to end

(you're a dead tree but now you're here with me - do you understand?)

how can you meet someone and

love them so much and

laugh at their jokes and

get drunk together and

cry about how unfair life is and

take aesthetic photos together and

plan a future together and

go out to dinner and

swap stupid stories and

create inside jokes and

speak in vine references and

create a life together and

grow together and

make memories and

love love love only

for them to decide one day on a horrible truth: “you aren't enough for me anymore”

:(

people change

i understand that but

is it always so sudden?

i learned from my books that

it's a gradual decline

a slow erosion

sad but beautiful

a mutual split with so much love left behind

not... this

it isn't supposed to be this

why couldn't it be like the books?

like it was with my childhood friends?

maybe it's that

I didn't love them as much as you?

or maybe we were never meant to be?

our paths crossed but our souls weren't meant to meet

i wish we'd never met but

that's not really true

now is it?

i just wish it went differently, i guess...

why a thunderstorm

instead of a gentle rain?

was it the same for you

as it was for me?

the people who love me don't like you anymore

i say i understand and

i believe a part of me does but

i don't understand it

i don't understand how

i'm supposed to sit

in a shattered reality and

pretend i saw this coming

my world is shattered and

yet i love you and

how is that fair?

my world is in pieces yet i love

they all say i'm better off and

i think they're right and

time is a great healer but

i wish i could stop defending you

maybe it's true i hurt you but you never told me that and

you hurt me too and

i really wish i could hate you for that and

just move on

but here i sit

books torn apart

glass shatterd

completely displaced

still i defend you, or

at least i defend what we had as

the red alert blares -

all the things i couldn't see before but

i pick up the pieces you left me with

i put on my glasses and i look back and

i still love you despite all this

after all, broken rose colored lenses are still rose colored

and i still love you.

——————

So I wrote this today while I was at work because my brain has been super active and I dropped a hard line while I was writing in my head - after that, this piece was born.

I found out a few days ago that my uncle is going into hospice and I’ve just been …really sad? This is obviously not about that and it isn’t about anyone specific either.

I’ve just been thinking a lot the nature of human relationships and longing. About how funny we really are. About all the people I have loved that I still do but I don’t talk to them anymore, I don’t even remember where they are.

And I’ll admit,it felt really good to write.

I wrote this by hand on some loose leaf I have at my desk.

There is something so beautiful about us, about how temporary we are, about the process of art.

I just love humans. I love our nature and our desire to love despite it all. And I am so grateful I have allowed myself to love despite the possibility of pain or betrayal. Because the people that still love me are so special to me and I love them with all of my heart and I am eternally grateful I exist at the same time as they do.

[lauriemarch]

life, recently

[vveakfish]

started reading the Iliad. its like a bedtime story

[velvees-archive]

At 20 years old, Miles Edgeworth’s only mentor tells him never to step foot into his opponent’s territory lest he fail to crush them in court. 4 years later, Edgeworth enters Defendant Lobby No. 1 to warn opposing counsel Phoenix Wright about Redd White’s decisive testimony.

Some post-AAI1 reflections + how Phoenix unravels Miles from the very moment they meet again.

After playing through the original trilogy, up to 4-2 on Apollo Justice, and all of Ace Attorney Investigations 1, I couldn’t help but jot down my (admittedly incomplete) thoughts about Phoenix and Edgeworth’s relationship, especially as it pertains to Miles’ ��unraveling,” or his departure from von Karma’s teachings.

We already know von Karma had no love for Edgeworth. Crushing the late Gregory Edgeworth’s legacy under the guise of mentoring his son (and eventually ruining his career at its peak) was von Karma’s last act of hatred towards the departed.

From Miles’ perspective, however, von Karma was an accomplished teacher to whom he owed his gratitude and career’s success. This is important because Edgeworth’s actions are fundamentally motivated by his desire to express his “gratitude,” repay debts, and honor legacies.

His debt to von Karma compels him to strive for the perfection his mentor obsesses over. Achieving perfection takes the form of absorbing von Karma’s teachings, among them the AAI1 screenshot from earlier: only face your opponent in court, and make sure you crush them when you do it.

We know for a fact that the “demon prosecutor” internalizes von Karma’s teachings. He follows them to a T.

So, following 15 years of indoctrination, 4 years of putting the von Karma creed into practice, and an entire childhood AND early adulthood’s worth of gratitude, you’d THINK Edgeworth wouldn’t dare dishonor him…

Until he does, by coming to the defendant lobby to speak to his “enemy.”

Prior to playing AAI1, I thought the impetus for Edgeworth’s character development was 1-3, wherein he reevaluated the facts of the case and helped Phoenix get Dee Vasquez a guilty verdict. I still think 1-3 was the first time he consciously acknowledged the possibility (keyword: possibility) that his prosecutorial upbringing wasn’t..sound…(lmao!)

But with this AAI1 von Karma and Bratworth interaction, I now believe it was 1-2—with Edgeworth subconsciously disregarding his mentor’s teachings and Phoenix acting as the catalyst—that shows us when he first strayed from the path of a Von Karma.

An aside: Do I think AAI1 Bratworth was perfectly characterized? Not at all; he’s much too noble for that era of his life, though I don’t think it affects my case.

Edgeworth is a man full of contradictions. He comes to the defendant lobby to tell Phoenix his case is hopeless, though he has no obligation to disclose—nor has he ever set a precedent of disclosing—decisive witnesses’ information to his opponents.

He tells Phoenix he’ll do anything to get a guilty verdict, yet he warns the defense that his witness’s testimony will be considered infallible, prompting the player (Phoenix) to dissect the following testimonies with more care.

He tells Phoenix not to expect any special treatment from him, yet his very presence in the defendant’s lobby is in direct opposition to his respected mentor’s wishes.

It takes just one appearance from Phoenix for the filaments of von Karma’s indoctrination to unravel. 4 years into his career, Edgeworth has met many attorneys—most notably, Mia Fey—who embody Phoenix’s faith in his clients, yet none could shake his foundations like Phoenix Wright.

Edgeworth may have not been ready to turn a new leaf upon his first encounter with Phoenix, but the fact that a loose thread from his childhood (that’s emblematic of his innocence, his dreams, and dare I say his father’s drive) ultimately leads to his unraveling is poetry if I’ve ever seen it.

TL;DR Phoenix deconstructs Edgeworth like he was born to do so. The moment Phoenix decided to chase after him, Edgeworth had already lost.

[apoemaday]

Mushrooms

by Margaret Atwood

In this moist season, mist on the lake and thunder afternoons in the distance they ooze up through the earth during the night, like bubbles, like tiny bright red balloons filling with water; a sound below sound, the thumbs of rubber gloves turned softly inside out. In the mornings, there is the leaf mold starred with nipples, with cool white fishgills, leathery purple brains, fist-sized suns dulled to the colors of embers, poisonous moons, pale yellow. Where do they come from? For each thunderstorm that travels overhead there’s another storm that moves parallel in the ground. Struck lightning is where they meet. Underfoot there’s a cloud of rootlets, shed hairs or a bundle of loose threads blown slowly through the midsoil. These are their flowers, these fingers reaching through darkness to the sky, these eyeblinks that burst and powder the air with spores. They feed in shade, on halfleaves as they return to water, on slowly melting logs, deadwood. They glow in the dark sometimes. They taste of rotten meat or cloves or cooking steak or bruised lips or new snow. It isn’t only for food I hunt them but for the hunt and because they smell of death and the waxy skins of the newborn, flesh into earth into flesh. Here is the handful of shadow I have brought back to you: this decay, this hope, this mouth -- full of dirt, this poetry.

[syneilesis]

[fic] if only for a moment

if only for a moment

Love and Deepspace | Rafayel (Qi Yu) x Main-Character!Reader | T | 3.6k words | ao3 link (with correct formatting)

Rafayel waits. And waits. And waits.

A/N: Another LaD fic!! This time it's Rafayel. Several elements of this fic are inspired by and loosely based on his story anecdotes and bond story, plus that Deep Sea card line backdrop. So more spoilers in this one, I'm afraid. I think you need to be aware of them in order to follow the flow of the fic. But if not, here's what you need to know: basically Rafayel accepts a visiting professorship at the University of Linkon to reunite with the MC/you. And the prose poetry interspersed are loosely situated in the Deep Sea card lineup setting (you can search in YouTube for the scenes. This one is a brief glimpse of the scene). That princess/knight(??) dynamic is yum yum.

If possible, please read the version on AO3. I formatted the prose poems there as if they're really prose poetry, so I'd appreciate it if you check that out. (Though there isn't too much difference between the formatting here and there, I did make the effort of coding a little 🥺)

Anyhoo, hope you enjoy, and I am sO STOKED FOR THE OFFICIAL RELEASE. rip my wallet 💸😭

JUST LOOK AT THIS MAN AND BELIEVE

There’s a type of berry in a distant land that produces a rare shade of ink that matches the color of your eyes. It takes a hundred of them to create the right hue and volume for the art that he wants to make. It comes to him in a dream: endless desert, then fireworks of verdant sparks that coalesce into stem, leaf, and, finally, fruit. Rafayel remembers that land, so much different from the iridescent blue of ocean underwater, and the acrid gold of the barren desert. His mouth filled with the succulent sweetness of the dream, the lingering sandpaper roughness of the berries on his fingers. He already knows the name of the artwork even before he’s begun—Waiting, Missing. The ache in his bones gaining form, an intangible thing taking flesh.

+

Under the ocean surface, time is muted, a deafening thickness that surrounds you with its ambiguity. On land, however, it is linear, and fast, and in a matter of blinks, Rafayel’s visiting professorship nearly wraps up.

He’s only glimpsed you once or twice. Thrice at most. The university is big, but not big enough to warrant a dearth of fateful encounters. The first time he saw you it was at a coffee shop: walking along with your friends outside, your voice mellifluous and festive wafting through the trellis of the café entrance. You were talking about him—well, about Lemuria to be specific, but these days any talk of Lemuria inevitably draws in his name.

He’s committed your schedule to memory, and yet it just seems impossible to capture a moment with you. Even just a brush of shoulders, or of sleeves—an asymptote of contact. Just navigating around your orbit, but never truly meeting.

What would it be like—finally talking to you? You in front of him, face to face? Rafayel imagines the ache of waiting fading into the background until it’s completely gone. He yearns for that feeling, the release of it. A conclusion—or maybe even a beginning.

+

i. take my hand, he told you under the glow of the lustrous moon, the only source of light that contoured the secretive valleys of his face. i want to show your highness something. there was a country, he said, beyond the undulating monochrome of the desert, blanketed by lush trees and shrubberies and flowers that buildings were made in betwixt and around them—a nation of trailing and winding architecture, a marriage of the natural and the manmade. you wanted to ask why he’d planned on taking you there, and the only answer you got was a curt turn of his head and the profile of a masked man layered by shadows and distance. it would have been nice, you thought, if the moon poured light upon his hooded gaze.

+

Eventually he begins to frequent the café. Twice a week at first—he doesn’t want to come off strong right away, of course—and then making his way up until he’s hanging out there more than his own studio. He schedules his visits around your classes, always during the ones when the probability of you dropping by the café is high and he can ‘coincidentally’ be around the same area. It’s gotten to a point that Thomas calls him out on it, and nags at him to focus more on his painting. The next exhibit is immediately after his visiting professorship after all.

“From where I’m standing,” Thomas says, “you’re not painting at all.”

Rafayel ignores him.

Five minutes later, he says, “Not painting is part of the painting process.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, but he leaves him to it.

At the café, Rafayel attracts curious looks. A few attempt to approach him, but he pretends not to see them. They linger around the periphery, like moths to flame.

And then something happens: the entrance door chimes, and you swan into the coffee shop, earphones and denim overall skirt, the kind of rosy-cheeked image Rafayel finds on teen magazines, wide-eyed and earnest. You fall in line and order when it’s your turn, and your eyes sweep across the packed café searching for a vacant seat until they finally land on him.

Rafayel’s heart stumbles.

Up close, the baby fat on your cheeks still gives you the appearance of being younger than you actually look. You turn a polite smile his way, and his heart stutters again—but this time it is taken as a warning.

“Hi,” you say, tentative. Any hint of recognition absent. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

+

ii. you're counting the steps of your inevitable parting. you're at the edge of the desert, far away from your home and its familiar scents, oriented towards a direction that promised a future sad memory, the gentle warmth of his hand, the downward denial of his gaze. this longing that grew out of your bones, aching during cold, aching during heat, aching when he looked at you with such tenderness he had to hide it through the sharp tug of your joined hands, the long strides that opened up a lonely distance. intimacy was dangerous, knowing was dangerous, the bowels of his heart like a solitary flower on a high peak. what would you do to such loneliness?

+

Memory isn't always an infallible thing. The human brain cannot hang on to every moment of your life, though Rafayel wishes it were so. But still—to think that you would forget him, and it hasn’t even been a century. You were like a phantom thief stealing his heart in the night—no recourse, no resolution.

To wait is to be in agony, the burn of yearning locked within the heart. Rafayel has been waiting for a long time, and the only memory scorched in his heart is fire, the blaze and its blinding, all-consuming want.

What would you do to such want?

+

You have a blurry childhood, Rafayel discovers. After the first Wanderer descended on Earth, the incident strummed your memories like a stringed instrument that tired of the same chord, over and over. It had bothered you at first—not being in control of your own memories—but eventually you had learned to live with it.

“Grandma and Caleb—my childhood friend—helped me through the process,” you tell him, stirring your iced mocha with its straw. “I owe them a lot.”

Eyes cast down, but still the melancholy shadows remain in your expression. Rafayel folds his arms on the table, and leans closer.

Around them only a few people occupy the coffee shop at this time. How fortunate for Rafayel to catch you during your break while every other student is trapped in class lectures.

“There’s no use in dwelling upon what's already happened. Even sharks have to give up when their prey escapes. When you remember, it will be all the more joyous, no?”

The smile you give him is crooked, disbelieving.

“If I remember.”

“You’ll remember.” Because there’s no other choice, for you and for him. Rafayel cannot bear being shelved in the history of your smile and happiness. Waiting can only be endurable if there’s an endpoint.

+

In his studio, Rafayel begins his next painting.

+

iii. the berries tasted sweet, with an edge of sourness that clung to the bottom of the tongue. it had the exact shade of your eyes, a detail that rafayel brought up the moment he plucked it from the shrub. raising it to align with your eyes, comparing them with his artist's meticulous gaze. maybe when this is all over, i'll go back here again to extract ink from these berries, and paint a portrait of your highness using these to color your eyes. he never showed you any of his paintings, merely mentioned them in passing, and you constructed a dream of him from the throwaway words that left his covered lips. i'm not used to sitting for so long, you reminded him, and he glanced at you, then at the berry between his fingers. my memory is enough, then handed you the fruit.

+

In the few weeks of meeting with you Rafayel forgets that his visiting professorship is ending soon and he has to give out his last lecture. Thomas had asked him what his topic would be. At that point Rafayel had no answer. But now he has.

“I’ve been hearing you talk about Lemuria every now and then with your friends.” He props his cheek on his hand, tilting his head slightly and giving you a charming smile. “Interested?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I’ve seen you a couple of times here, and I happened to hear your friends chat about my lecture. Your points were almost accurate, I’m in awe.”

“The visiting professor—that’s you?!”

Rafayel pauses, the slosh of his drink nearly spilling on his frozen hand.

“You didn’t know?”

Sheepish, you say, “Honestly, I didn’t make the connection. Is that why plenty of people have been glaring at me as of late?”

He releases a frustrated sigh, eyes rolling heavenward.

“In any case, my final lecture is on Friday next week. It’s titled “Memory and Meaning in Lemurian Art”. Why don’t you drop by and listen, and you can tell me what you think afterwards.”

You retrieve your bullet journal to check your schedule. It’s colorful, filled with stickers and doodles that Rafayel finds endearing. Then the excited moue on your face drops into a frown, and Rafayel can foresee the next words that will come out of your downturned lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say guiltily, “but I have a major test that day, and I need to get a high score in order to pass the course.”

Rafayel exhales, long and weary, but ultimately shrugs off the apology. “What a shame, but I forgive you. Just don’t fail your exam or else my magnanimity would be all for nothing.”

+

He calls Thomas that night.

“I’ll disappear for a while once the professorship is over.”

“Hey, wait, what do you me—”

“You’ll be happy to know that this is for my next painting.”

A beat. “Okay … but for how long?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Then he hangs up.

+

He’s trying, he really does. The lecture ends to a resounding applause, and it’s mechanical how he answers the questions posed by the audience. But he’s trying, he’s trying. There’s no specter of you in the sea of faces in the auditorium. You’re at the other end of the university compound, sweating your way through your exam. He genuinely hopes you’d pass, for your sake.

Thomas had booked his flight to another country, where he’ll traverse to a land that he’d visited many times in his dreams and had woken up with a filmy, sweet-sour tang at the roof of his mouth. He’ll leave the morning after the closing dinner party the faculty has prepared for him. There isn’t time to pack much, and no time to tell you goodbye.

Rafayel guesses that it’s only fair: how would you feel waiting for him at that café, the chair across you empty, only the sunlight pooling from the window as your companion?

+

iv. parting, somebody once said, is such a sweet sorrow. much like those berries in that ever-green nation, a lingering sourness remained underneath, the sting of it reminding you every now and then. he was already mourned for even before he left. tell me what it's like—the ocean. he was elusive, untouchable in his grief. you'd heard through whispers, the story of his migration, the drowning before the drying, the unwanted journey. grief brought him to you and grief would steal him away from you, you knew, down to the cells of your body and the hopelessness in your blood. —and yet. and yet you wanted to have a taste of it, anyway.

+

The ever-green land is no longer green, or lush, or alive. Time corroded it into memory, sepia-faded, wizened. Past. The berries he’s searching for don’t grow here anymore. Everything here is empty, barren, helplessly so.

Rafayel hasn’t accounted for such development, but he should have known. Disappointment stings at his chest, and bitterly he turns away and stays at the next town over. At a family-run restaurant situated near the outskirts, he looks over the wide windows, across the highway road, beyond the jagged horizon. The painting won’t be finished, then. Another tragedy, pressed flat next to the forgetting, to the waiting, and his home.

The chef personally serves him his order and, after a shuffle of hesitation, brings up a question.

“Young man, you came from the direction of the old country, yeah?”

Rafayel meets his inquisitive gaze. “Yes, why?”

“It’s been a while since we had someone visiting that place. There’s nothing in there anymore, it’s been that way for years. Why did you go there?”

Rafayel is reluctant to say, but at the guileless set of the older man’s face, he concedes.

“I was looking for berries. The ones native there. They produce a shade that I need for my painting.”

At the mention of the fruit, the chef’s expression lights up. “Oh! I see, I see. You’re in luck, son. We grow them here at the farm. Plenty of those for everyone. How about I give you some? It’s rare meeting someone who still remembers the old country, it’s almost fate. How many did you say you need?”

Fate. Just like the time of your first meeting, as if the universe had gifted you to him. Just like the time of your parting, of your forgetting, of his waiting. Fate as a connection from you to him, red and burning brightly.

He doesn’t want to seem eager, but he knows he’s failed from the way the chef toothily grins at him.

“A hundred or so.”

The chef falters at that, jerking slightly back. But he accepts it with a nod, an avuncular smile making its way across his kind, powdery features.

“That sure is a huge number, but I think we can work something out.”

+

His painting takes a month to complete, inclusive of the time spent making the ink from the acquired berries. Sometimes, Thomas watches him paint, quiet in the background. His stays usually don’t last—a quick flash that Rafayel nearly misses, or deliberately ignores. But during the final stages of the painting process, Thomas hands him the exhibit details.

“I’m just thankful you’re on time for this one.” He sighs, relieved, then leaves.

Alone, Rafayel creates. Brushstroke after careful brushstroke, each varying by pressure and angle. He lets each layer of paint dry before moving onto the next. The berry ink—the color of your eyes—the solely different element of this painting. Center, central. The focal point. The beating heart. The years and years of waiting and longing. The form and the flesh. Alive.

This, too, is an endpoint.

+

v. can i see your face, just this once? your hands grazed his mask like a ghost wanting to touch. rafayel stayed still beneath your desirous fingers, observing, waiting, his own fingers twitching towards his dagger. even in the parting he could not let go of this distance. hopeless, hopeless. your highness would get nothing out of seeing my face. he's wrong, his eyes never left your face, and he's wrong. he didn't stop you from your grasping of his mask, and him—finally—bare and beautiful yet a little sad. you're wrong, you said, tracing his slightly parted lips with a trembling finger, you're wrong. it is everything to me.

+

The gallery is packed. No surprise there. It’s almost boring, in a way. Waiting, Missing hangs at the farthest hall in the floor, special and intimate as it should be. Thomas knows him well; otherwise, Rafayel would have whined at him to hell and back just so he could be granted this demand that is in reality a mandate.

He’s hiding from the throngs of journalists and art critics alike and sequesters himself in a corner that has a clear view of the painting. Loosening his collar and tie, Rafayel breathes and closes his eyes, leans tiredly against the wall. A few more minutes, and he’ll slink out of the building, reputation be damned.

He melts into the shadows whenever somebody passes by. He has neither time nor energy interacting with people today. Watching them through half-mast eyes, Rafayel stays in his secret place and studies with weightless detachment the people looking at the painting.

He’s made a bet with himself about the opinions of his followers and admirers. Who thinks what and why. It makes for great entertainment. The last time, a fresh-faced critic praised Rafayel’s technique as “innovative and a soul-rending reflection of the prodigy’s character.” He had laughed and laughed for hours until he couldn’t breathe any longer.

Another walks by, and before Rafayel retreats further into the corner, he glimpses a familiar gait and a familiar face.

His heartbeat races. He’s never told you that he’s holding an exhibit today. After the professorship Rafayel failed to maintain communication with you, convincing himself that it’s for the best that he protect you from afar that day onwards. It didn’t help that he had to leave as well. At the same time, you never made an effort of reaching out, and Rafayel thought that it was back to square one again, that waiting, that yearning.

But here you are right now, elegantly dressed, like someone gliding out of a dream. Rafayel swallows, his hands shake. You do not have someone else with you, and your eyes are brightly focused on Waiting, Missing, and for a fleeting moment your expression flickers into longing, strange and old and battered and sad, that it compels Rafayel to take a step forward—to you.

“Hey.”

The curious look vanishes; left no traces in your delighted face, as if it wasn’t there in the first place. “Rafayel!” you exclaim. “Long time no see! Congratulations on the exhibit; these are all beautiful.”

Outwardly he smirks, belying the torrential emotions he’s currently going through. He cants his head a little, works his charm on you. “Impressed? No need to hold back your compliments.”

Laughter, prismatic and crystalline. “Yes, yes. Especially this one—Waiting, Missing. What an interesting title. At the center, what paint did you use?”

Ah. Rafayel inhales before answering. “It’s actually ink. I had to make it from a hundred berries. It was a tedious process, but I wouldn’t use anything else. It has to be this, you see.”

“Whoa, no wonder you’d been radio silent all this time. You were creating this masterpiece.”

He hums, afraid that, if he speaks, he’d reveal too much.

“Well …” You throw a playful glance at him. “Shouldn’t we celebrate your success?”

His breath catches. “I—”

Before he manages to finish the sentence, a journalist calls out to him and that summons plenty more, swarming him with no chance of escape. It pushes you out of his peripheral vision, and Rafayel wants to shout your name, but you smile and gesture at him to entertain them first. You mouth, I’ll be back, and wander around other paintings some more.

When he finally succeeds in shaking the journalists off, he seeks you out and stumbles upon you near the exit, where there’s fewer people to pile on him.

“Excellent,” he says, sidling up beside you. You turn to him and smile, and there’s that lightning-flash of something again. For one unbelievably surreal instant, Rafayel thinks that despite your hazy memories, maybe you’d been waiting for him all this time, too.

And that thought emboldens him, moving closer and closer until your bodies almost touch. An asymptote of contact. But this time, he has mustered the courage to close that unbridgeable gap.

Rafayel offers you his hand. “Let’s get out of here?”

You stare at his hand then at his face, his eyes, and a meaningful moment stretches between you and him. But even before the idea of retracting enters his mind, you grab his hand joyfully, grinning ear to ear. His heart warms, full with everything.

You squeeze his hand, ready to go. “Lead the way, then!”

+

vi. a kiss is a greeting and a goodbye, and rafayel tasted of ferocious tides even if you'd seen them only in dreams. his eyes closed, as though savoring his last moments with you, guarded till the bitter end. would that i could ask you to stay—with me. but he shook his head—a final rejection. maybe in another life. there was nobody to watch you cry, in the after.

+

Rafayel is working on a new painting—a portrait this time. The model squirms on his couch, obvious about the discomfort of posing for too long. He huffs a laugh to himself, hidden by the canvas strategically placed between them.

“I heard that,” you grumble.

“Shush, you’re breaking my concentration.”

“If that already breaks your focus then I pity the rest of the art community.” A beat, then: “Is it done?”

“Patience, my dear muse. You need endure it a little more.”

“Hmph, fine. But after this you’re treating me to an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“All right, all right.” He shakes his head, fond. “My muse, so demanding.”

Something sweet touches the edge of his tongue, succulent with a hint of tartness. Like longing. Except now, it’s layered with something new and exciting. Something like a new beginning.

In the far distance, the sea murmurs, lit fire by the setting sun.

[rainintheevening]

The day 19-year-old Peter Pevensie ships out for the Mediterranean, lieutenant's commission and a COs commendation in hand, he's all tall, golden boy in British khaki with a soft smile and a merry laugh and oddly old eyes.

His socks are hand-knitted, with his initials PWP worked in around the top. He wears a small golden lion on a leather string around his neck, tucked under his shirt alongside his dogtags.

In his kit bag he carries a Bible, new, brown leather, not too big to be jammed in a pocket. The writing on the first page is tidy, a little squared off, no blots: June 1943, Peter, my brother, my captain, my king. We are all held safe between the paws of the Lion. Ephesians 6:10-18.

Tucked in beside that is a small, chunky book of Spurgeon's sermons, with Prof. Digory Kirke in the corner of the flyleaf, and a loose-leaf of paper that Peter uses for a bookmark, precious though it is, covered in his father's barely legible scratch.

There's a hand-bound book of poems, copied by Lucy and collected with several of Susan's watercolours, all trees like old friends and flowers like stars and rolling English hills. It will take months for those pages to stop smelling like home.

Next to that is tucked a sturdy little journal, pencil attached and fat with empty cream-coloured pages. It will take only a week for it to lose its clean smell, and the many words scribbled there will make it fatter still.

Three others are piled in around those—a beat-up hardback novel stripped of its dust jacket and stamped as White Fang, a bright new George MacDonald novel with Be brave, my son, and may the adventure always bring you safely home. Mother penned inside, and another naked hardback identified along its spine as The Aeneid.

Some eyebrows get raised at the extra weight of that library, but Peter is charming and humble, and he'll be the only one to suffer from it anyway.

A little more than two years later Peter Pevensie will return with a captain’s epaulets on his shoulders, and the same soft smile on a leaner, browner face.

He will be wearing an entirely different pair of socks, but still ones that have PWP worked into the stripes along the top.

The leather string will be gone, and so will the little gold lion, folded into a shaking hand, given with a murmured prayer and a kiss pressed to salty fevered forehead, somewhere on the side of an Italian mountain.

The books will be nearly all there. The Bible, wrinkled with water damage, fingerprinted with little dark smears, it's cover scored with a smokey black streak. The poetry, cared for so carefully; the sermons, well earmarked and notated; the MacDonald novel now sans dust jacket, spine cracked, and with grit worked into its creases.

The Aeneid will still be there, though greatly altered thanks to the bullet buried in the upper half of it.

White Fang will be missing, left in the hands of a wildly curious, dream-eyed Arab boy, who will pick up English like a starving man picks up food, and will cry when the Fighting Fifth gets shipped back to Italy. There will be a black and white photograph tucked into its pages— four soldiers surrounding a tall, fair-haired one with a thin dark-headed boy standing high atop his shoulders, arms raised as if he would fall forward into flight, all smiling.

Peter will carry the journal home in his pocket, all muddy and smoky, all smeared with pencil lead and sweat, bloody fingerprints on a few pages, heavy with a thousand and one thoughts, the unburdening of his heart, all ready to be placed in his brother’s hands.

Peter Pevensie will return like his books, with dirt in the creases, a little worn, a little tattered, a little scarred. But his wise old (kingly) eyes... they shine the same way when he smiles, sun in his golden hair.

[kingofthe-egirls]

SUN GOD AU: LUFFY x Y/N (part 3)

part 1 part 2

originally requested by @braini-wiz

(cw: fully lore about what characters would be gods of what, slight asl trio setup, slight zolu, poetry as always)

(a/n: idk idk i can't get to the smut im so sorry)

Songs: "Unknown / Nth" by Hozier

words: 1.1k

****

It stings,

becoming a

goddess.

****

Sun god—dess ?

¿ ..,

* *

I—

heat—

squirm

_ ,

in place

¿

where am i?

, !

. ,

wings.

****

“She’s alive!!!”

Luffy shouts, from somewhere overhead. Speaking of, your head is killing you. You scrunch your face against the bright sunshine searing orange onto your eyelids. You sit up, woozy. Are you…are you drunk?

No, worse.

Celestial.

“Shit…,” you mutter, swinging your legs off the bench you’ve been laying on. Something rocks the world sideways, and you gasp.

“Nyoop!” Luffy says as he catches you, midfall. You thunk your head against his chest. You’re so loose, and…heavy. You scrub a fist into your eyes. And then,

you stop.

Oh!

Oh.

“Oh, shit,” you say again, staring at the hottest person you’ve seen in your fucking life. This has been Nika the whole time?!

You stumble to your feet, your weight supported by the sun god of your dreams. “S-sorry!” You say, but the word is sour on your tongue. It doesn’t…fit, anymore.

After all, what have you to be sorry for?

And just like that, it’s gone.

Shame.

Shackles.

A skeleton that is made of bone instead of gold, blood that is not ichor, courage that is human and only ever human, melts away.

You are powerful.

You are strong.

You are as radiant as the sun.

Sun incarnate stands beside you, smiling at your newfound face. It’s the same, but it’s…shinier. Faster.

If that makes sense?

It doesn’t,

but

(that’s okay).

****

The sun goddess has wings.

Gold leaf and elaborate, they stretch out behind you like a monarch butterfly’s. You flap them experimentally, and find yourself floating several inches off the ground. You realight back onto the deck of the ship—for that’s where you are—and suddenly find yourself surrounded by people.

“So…what happens now?”

The sun god beside you laughs, squeezing your warmth into his side. You’re warmer, somehow.

“Now…,” he smiles dazzlingly, two inches from your face. “We say hi!”

The people (gods) gathered around the two of you smile and introduce themselves. Luffy whispers his relationship to them as they speak.

“Nami,” a slender, orange-haired goddess smiles at you. She has a logpose on her wrist. Her skin is smattered in flecks of constellational gold. Navigation, currency, stars.

Sister.

“Nico Robin!” Luffy says, smiling as he gestures toward the mysterious, dark-haired woman in a blue dress. Archeology, historical scriptures, stones.

Sister.

“Ace,” someone who smiles almost as wide as Luffy, shakes your hand with a warm fist. He’s even warmer than you are, now. “Fire, fistfights, and protecting your elders,” he grins.

He smells like cinnamon, too.

“He’s my brother!” Luffy says proudly. “And so is Sabo!”

Another handsome, blond man steps up to shake your hand. His is strong, tough yet flexible. He’s wearing a blue suit, with a strange hat atop his head. He bows, slightly. His lips brush the backs of your knuckles.

“Revolutions, secrets, obsessions,” he introduces his godly dominions with a strange smile on his wide face.

You trust him,

but also

don’t.

“Usopp’s here too! And Sanji, my friends,” Luffy leads you over to a charming male with dark skin and a kerchief around his hair. He’s toying with a slingshot in between dexterous hands. The god of snipers smiles at you sweetly.

Sanji (pale skin, yellow hair, swirly brows) is a chef god, someone who loves the sea and seafood and making girls cum. Oh, he says it with such a blush. Your wings flutter, stardust sparkling off them.

You are the goddess of springtime.

Of dawns and new beginnings.

Of song.

Sweetheart.

“I always did like ya singin’,” Luffy says quietly as he leads you away from the group. There’s another god: a strong, stoic man sitting with his back against the mast, his hands behind his mossy green head.

“Swordsman,” you say, curtsying slightly. This god is like a sleeping tiger. You are afraid of getting bit.

“Zoro,” he says his own name without opening his eyes, or barely even moving his face.

Luffy is undeterred, or else doesn’t care, because he lands in Zoro’s lap to place a kiss on his face. “Zoro’s my first mate!”

He stares cheekily up at you, capuchin smile plastered across his squishy face. You wrap a lock of hair around your finger, twirling it nervously. “S-so nice to meet you,” you stutter out, suddenly cowed by this samurai’s presence.

Swords, sacrifice.

Promises.

First mate.

Luffy squeezes your hands in both of his. “Lemme show ya my room,” he says, scanning your face as your anxiety grows.

Silently, you nod.

****

Luffy leads you across the deck of his sunshine ship, with the figurehead of a sunflower, no—lion.

He opens his captain’s quarters for you, letting you step inside first.

“So…,” he starts, suddenly shy as he watches you twirl around his room. “Whaddya think?”

“I think it’s lovely,” you smile at him, all floaty with your newfound goddess-ness.

“Springtime suits ya,” he says, stepping forward to skim his knuckles down your arms. “Sing for us sometime too, yeah?” He smiles dazzlingly down at you, his face suddenly mere inches from your own.

“Kiss me, sweetheart?”

He asks, raspy.

Luffy’s lips taste like sunlight.

He groans into the kiss, his hands tightening around your waist. Your chiton is gold now, it seems.

His body is strong, lithe, and muscular as he pushes you backwards onto the bed. He slides between your knees, standing in front of you as he cradles your head.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, stroking his thumbs along your cheeks, “Stay with me for a while, yeah? Let’s have some adventures, mhm? Say you’ll stay…,” he leans forward to press his forehead against yours. His cloud-like hair squishes against your face.

“Say you’ll protect me first,” you counter, “Say you’ll stay with me.”

He snickers,

and then

he laughs.

“Of course I’ll stay with you!” He shouts, sweeping you up in his arms. He spins you around, and you’re dizzy. From the circles or his scent, you’re not sure. But he sets you down and nuzzles your face, kissing at your cheeks and then your chin.

“I was scared ya wouldn’t stick around,” he scratches the back of his fluffy white head.

“Why wouldn’t I?” You tilt your own godly head, butterfly wings slowly opening and closing behind you.

He scuffs his heel against the floor, sheepish. “Sometimes the priestesses just wanna have sex with me ‘n leave.”

He says it so simply, his heartbreak apparent in every syllable.

“Sorry,” you say, wrapping your hands around his. “Those stupid girls didn’t know what they were missing.”

He stops, stunned.

“Even though m’clumsy and break stuff?” He asks, rosy eyes wide.

You shake your head.

“Who cares? I’m clumsy too,” you smile, tugging his arms so he falls into bed beside you. He lies on his back, so you climb over him.

“So…you’re not gonna leave?” He asks hopefully, flush spreading across his cheeks. You shake your head, straddling his hips. He smiles: a truly bright, delighted smile. Full of pearly, square teeth. “Say you’re my sweetheart, y/n.”

“I’m your sweetheart, sun god.”

“And I’m your captain, spring goddess!”

****

[waters-and-the-wilde]

so the thing I love about that bit in Shadows on the Ship. the fact that Jet clocks their couples' therapy as 'the poetry you write for each other' totally makes sense considering. juno 'broody monologues' steel, and peter 'i am most comfortable expressing myself by being dramatic’ ransom glass ‘my Wound still Throbs when’t Rains you Brute‘ nureyev dipping into some rhythmic if not straight up iambic cadence when he's Doing A Bit

RELATEDLY. i think they're talking about their feelings significantly more than they're having sex. are they doing it effectively? dEBAtabLE but they are trynig. (nothing particularly explicit here this is mostly cut for length but that's the general theme of it)

the fact that Juno gets flustered and Nureyev is like 'lol damn right' whenever the their relationship comes up suggests (to me! because i think it would be funny!) that everyone else thinks they're going at it every chance they get when it's really more like 50 percent cuddling and naps and 40 percent making stupid jokes and heckling each other's poor breakfast decisions and getting distracted by talking about their special interests and whatever else passes for their couple's therapy/poetry sessions and they're only going at it in the remaining 10 percent that they get the time and energy and privacy for it

so post Cyberbots when they've got the ship back up and Juno's like 'uh hey. so the big guy recently said something about how we've been 'inconsiderate neighbors' and he wants us to keep it down', Nureyev is. genuinely baffled??

because first of all Nureyev does actually possess at least one (1) situational awareness, he also values his own privacy and is overall fairly conflict avoidant with their family, and he recognizes that Juno is very flustered by the whole 'having housemates who tease him about his boyfriend' thing. so Nureyev might not feel shy about their relationship but he's perfectly capable of being discreet, with the result being that he at least has thought this through

and then Juno's like 'he said something about poetry. and I'm uh pretty sure he meant the. um. you know. talkingaboutfeelingsstuff'

'ohhhh well that makes more sense. oh and we did have that one conversation before the Blade job that went until three in the morning. you'd had an awful lot of coffee that day.'

'yeah and you got really excited about Venusian opera traditions'

'it's not my fault the president of Venus is apparently a walking pastiche. oh well i'm glad jet said something. we'll get him some of that loose-leaf tea for his stash as an apology. and keep a closer eye on quiet hours shall we'

'UGH fine i GUESS'

- the thing is when they're not an item, juno's not exactly getting flustered about his sex life considering he's touchy about fuckety everything else. mick and sasha have no qualms about heckling him about his taste in guys and he doesn't get pissy about it. alessandra punches him for trying to pull a humphrey bogart and he's like 'not my usual thing but hey', he and valles vicky wake up in the same bed and make icky faces at each other and move on, ramses is like 'did i say your apartment' and juno's like 'ughh it's too early for your bullshit'

- he gets flustered about Nureyev bc he has actual feelings about nureyev

- in embrace of ice he does say they spent a lot of that year being busy and tired and traumatized and in their heads a lot after rebuilding from that extremely fraught reunion, but those comments in Shadows did indicate that they were putting the work in and i think it left plenty of room for 'hashing out their communication styles and figuring out How They Work in the present' while still acknowledging that they hadn't really worked their way up to talking about their pasts

- and it just seems like every time someone alludes to their sex life, the incident in question is both more innocuous and considerably more private, and if anything Juno getting Weird and Pitchy over an innuendo would make a really convenient smokescreen to hide something he actually Feels Weird About

'you two are going to be very busy tonight' [what NO we do Not Need This Right Now oh my god Buddy he's upset with me leave him alone] *gets defensive, coffee everywhere* meanwhile Nureyev's like *be cool act smug yes Captain very droll*

'we already delayed for your private celebration' [jeez we only talked! and there was crying involved! and then we were tired and fell asleep!] *gets defensive* meanwhile Nureyev's like *be cool act smug we were definitely doing what you think we were doing and not crying at all*

'this is true i have heard it many times' [like hell you have? we haven't even been at it that much? and i'm pretty sure he only makes a move when he knows you're in the garage and going to be there for a while?] 'okay NOT what I MEANT' okay honey Jet doesn't even do innuendo (although he absolutely would mess with juno by setting him up for thinking it is one while still intending the straightforward meaning)

- but otherwise the complaints/comments they get about their pda are about being mushy and kissy but in a 'urgh they're mushy and kissy' not 'send them to horny jail' way

- further headcanons not necessarily bothering with citations in the text:

- the carte blanche has a rule about private activities in private spaces. juno and nureyev have never actually broken that rule. buddy and vespa definitely have.

- i'm pretty here for some flavor of demi/grey-ace nureyev. his attraction to Juno hinging inherently on feelings of trust. catching feelings right off the fucking bat because those prerequisites for attraction were revealed and fulfilled really fast. being really really into Juno but liking sex as an expression of that intimacy and a way of showing how he cares for him, no more or less than being mushy and kissy or giving him little enrichment puzzles to get out of bed and spend time with their family

- he's not above illicit smooch cruises for thrills and giggles but given a preference doesn’t really go in for actually getting off in places that aren’t beds in rooms with locking doors

- also they made out in the garage one (1) time and then jet showed up and stealth-checked them, startled juno into headbutting nureyev in the chin and giving him a split lip. which nureyev thought was funny and took completely in stride but juno felt bad about it and reminded him every time nureyev tried to egg him into smooching in places they shouldn’t.

- and eventually he pulled the ‘what if we get carried away and I say your real name in a part of the ship where somebody could overhear it’ card and nureyev went ‘alright point taken’ (and he does think it's sweet that juno's trying to look after him like that)

- i don't think juno inherently has hang-ups about being caught in flagrante but somebody and i cannot for the life of me remember whomst now recently made a post to the effect of 'if rita found out he was kissing boys she would scream and he already has a headache' and you know what. yeah i think that about sums it up

- but never mind finding out Nureyev's name because Juno yelled it in bed, it's a goddamn miracle that Jet didn't overhear it on any of the numerous occasions that Juno yelled it in frustration because Nureyev was winding him up during their couples' therapy

- anyway tune in next time for 'also i think Buddy and Vespa are having significantly more sex than everybody else is aware of and you know what good for them'

[thehangetomylevi]

Hey Liv :)

Apart from your impeccable taste in Levihan fanworks 😅… I definitely feel you’re cottagecore in terms of aesthetics.

Floral print, bouquets, ribbons and intricate china patterns. These are just some of the things I think of, as well as loose leaf tea, poetry books, countryside walks, baking, quiet evenings, fireplaces and the sound of rain upon the window 🤎

Hey dear Terra 🤎

Sorry for the late reply! I don't know how long this has been in my ask box, because Tumblr wouldn't let me see it.

Thank you for the compliment about my tastes in fanart and fanfiction, I am always happy to share fanworks about our dear LeviHan!

Cottagecore is indeed my aesthetic and, except for the tea leaves (I am sorry to tell you, of all people, that I don't like tea) and maybe the intricate patterns, you captured me pretty well!

I hope you are doing well and I send you warm hugs 🤎

[floralpunkbarton]

can't stop thinking about that post about not being able to write poetry anymore because it's too obvious bc my father got me a teapot for christmas. he got me a teapot and two tins of his favorite loose leaf teas and now every morning i heat my water and pour it over the leaves and set my timer and wait and contemplate my father, this careful, conscious man, my father the early riser, who does so much with quiet surety in his actions, and i sit and wait for the the timer to go off before the sun has even come up and consider all the ways he's passed so much of himself on to me.

[invinciblerodent]

Modern AU- what’s the best Christmas/Holiday gift for your Veilguard blorbos?

Ooh, fun!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️ Let's see....

I think Ver, despite her deep aversion to dealing with- and talking about her emotions, would most likely want something sentimental... but wouldn't ask for it, and would probably lightly make fun of the person gifting it, before displaying it as one of her most prized possessions.

As she lost her family and her home when she was very young, Ver doesn't have many physical reminders of her childhood: not many toys or trinkets (I think the Mercars thought her a bit too old to get her any), and no family heirlooms, so I think there is a part of her that always seeks that sort of meaning.

Which is why her apartment in Minrathous is quite messy and cluttered with all sorts of things that she didn't have the heart to toss littering most surfaces.

So, I think what she'd value very much would be things that are symbolic of the relationship she and the gifter share.... and is preferably either handmade, or refers back to an inside joke or something. (Oh, she'd go WILD for a homemade gag gift. ....And maybe crack a joke about the person being just obsessed with her in a voice that sounds like her throat is closing up with emotion.)

In her playthrough, I kept a large nug statuette displayed in her room, and headcanoned that she jokingly commented on it as Davrin was working on it (something like "Wow, what a wild, vicious beast- I'm sure that one was a hell of a challenging hunt!"), so once it was done, he just sort of left it on the console in her room without a word, and it became her favorite thing in the world very, very quickly.

I think that's rather in-character for them, and very sweet, too. ❤️ (She named it Piglet. It also ended up in a prized spot in the home they eventually started sharing. Soon there was a huge cabinet full of his creations, but Piglet will always be the most special to her.)

I wanna say that Marcus is not much for murkier symbols, and prefers words over other items.

As someone on the Mourn Watch, who's been studying and working with death and grief most of his life, he's seen a fair number of people crumble under the weight of words unsaid or misunderstood, so he doesn't really want to leave room for that in his own life. (Consequently, if he had his way, he'd probably like to live in a box of bookshelves with just a hole cut in one wall for a door.)

I think a perfect gift for him would be a copy of a book the gifter likes (doesn't matter what genre or topic) with bonus points for annotations, or a piece of poetry written in the person's own hand- though not necessarily by them.

I think this meshes really nicely with both his relationship with Varric, AND Bellara- like I quite like to headcanon that once, rather early on, she left a book (something like, idk, Compendium of the Marauding Magus - Studies on Artifacts of the Ancient Elvhen across the Fair'st Lands of Thedas and Their Contemp'rary Applications, by Sister Gaelya of Cumberland) with an excited note about something interesting on page 257 on the cover, and his first thought was "weird way to propose, but I accept".

As for Tristan, I don't think many people in his life have thought to give him more than like, buying him a pint in the nearest dive, so I'm not sure if even he knows what he'd like.

My thought right now is that as someone who is used to traveling around (and lived with very little prior to that), he doesn't really like a lot of clutter. When left to his own devices, he's pretty austere, doesn't care a lot about things lacking purpose, and is not super into the idea of being given things he'll then have to lug around or find a place to keep- but he has a quite deep, if hidden appreciation for beauty, and ephemerality (though he wouldn't use that word probably).

I think he'd like.... consumables, for the most part. Things that are special in their way, but finite. A box of sweets tied up with a little bow. A nicer loose-leaf tea in a satchel. Something that just smells nice, like a piece of soap or a candle. A moment of indulgence.

Hell, wine and dine him, or buy that man flowers. He'll probably scoff and tell you he's not some dithering maiden who needs wooed, but his ears would flush a little, and I'm sure he'd be thinking about it for years to come. (Which is partly why he and Emmrich are going to work so well, imo.)

... I also had this silly little idea that he and Harding would be fast friends- she'll be the first to see the kindness beneath his terseness, and he'll soon grow to think of her as, like, a niece or something. Which makes them sharing embroidery as a hobby really cute, since Tristan doesn't keep his pieces afterwards (because they amount to basically just hand-exercises to him).

When she finds out that after working however many hours on a piece, he just sort of gets rid of them, she'll be utterly scandalized, and forbid him from ever throwing them away again, and I think he'll secretly really enjoy seeing her cherish something so silly so much. (I also like to think that he'll keep a handkerchief with a wonky griffon crest on it in his breast pocket for many, many years.)

+Ray; honestly? A day off and a blowjob.

I don't yet have a shot of him in Veilguard that I like, but god he's so fucking tired, what he deserves is rest and many an orgasm and nothing less

[ikemenomegas]

Any thoughts to shake loose on any of your Naruto guys, Io? I like your mun-name!! 💕

From the notebook

Loose leaf ideas:

I'm so sorry, I have no idea what a mun-name is but thank you anyways 😅. Also sorry it's taken so long, I was trying to do the Make a Wish prompts, which I've finally gotten mostly bullet pointed out. Lucky thing because I all but finished one of the last two and then lost it due to my own stupidity... so I've been sadly trying to rewrite it /sigh. I decided to finally shake free those ideas in the mean time, since I haven't posted any writing in a while

Yamato (Tenzo, but this name is for private use)

Because he was raised in Root, he mostly emotes via micro expressions so his Alpha has learned to be really good at reading those looks. His Alpha can literally stare at his face for hours while they talk. Yamato stares right back. Please ask for a booth if you go to a restaurant with him. Everyone thinks you're making bedroom eyes at each other when you're figuring out your next week's meal prep. Actual bedroom eyes are near lethal levels.

He's a pretty tall guy so when you first started spending time at his place, all the cups and plates and things are also really high up. He barely used any of his lower cupboards. When you first move in together, he asks you where all of your stuff is and you think he's joking until you realize he genuinely doesn't check any of those cabinets or drawers that he doesn't use...

All of his furniture is handmade, as in through the wood style. It's all very functional, lots of squares, but elegant. If want different shapes he's really willing and eager to learn how intricate he can get with his jutsu. He's got a remarkably artistic streak, despite his serious demeanor. You'll never have to buy a new bookshelf again, he'll just make them.

Yamato likes quality time and gifts as his receiving love languages. He works really hard for the village and having someone focused on him and appreciative of his hard work and attentive to his needs is key to being a good partner for him

You can't go wrong if you show your appreciation by making him things that he likes, ie a craft, homemade item, or really involved food. He's also not opposed to an evening of pampering where he has your full undivided attention after a day spent sight seeing.

Gaara

He doesn't make the first move in a relationship, which leaves him in a fun lil' stalemate for a while with his eventual mate, because you can't make moves on the Kazekage and he's thinking "I'm the Kazekage, it would be an unfair power dynamic to tell them I think about them every time I write poetry lately..." On a trip back to Suna, Temari takes one look at him and you and then scolds Kankuro because "I can't be the one to manage both kinds of diplomatic relations. Please do something to make my life a little easier." Kankuro then attempts to organize scenarios for you and Gaara to meet. These go poorly in the way of all comedic anime interludes but do result in the two of you bonding more closely.

Gaara was raised to be the leader of a military nation, but he winds down by engaging in more traditional artistic pursuits. All three of the siblings actually have a talent in at least one area of the more refined arts. Gaara is very accomplished at calligraphy, and I'm not kidding about the poetry, he really does compose different works and a lot of them are very good. He even worked hard at some point during his courtship to create a public stone garden in the village which he sometimes alters during festivals so it has different designs.

He is very responsible when it comes to Kazekage duties. He's also been performing them since before he turned 15, and has almost no penchant for mischief. However, he can be easily coaxed away from his office in the name of training his children/students, where he can be further tricked into simply enjoying himself. He's actually a really patient, insightful teacher.

He has an unfortunate habit, only slightly curbed by age, of being willing to drag everyone into a goal he decides is worthwhile. While he mostly used credible threats to get what he wanted as a child, he's since become very adept at manipulation. Mostly, he's genuine and persistent, but he also knows how to get other people to want to follow him. This includes knowing the exact Look to give his mate whenever he wants something.

I think you could easily write him as demiromantic/aromantic. He isn't romantically attracted to anyone right away, and if he does develop those feelings they aren't all-consuming, but there are certain people he can see himself partnering with for the rest of his life, and certain triggers for kicking those feelings off with his alpha.

Nagato

The more I research him, the more it is clear his canon outcome is the bad-end version of the shonen trio trope. Yahiko and Konan were in love with one another, and Nagato was the one who loved them both enough to follow them to the ends of the earth. Nothing in any world was ever going to deter him from that, so his Alpha needs to be pointed in the same direction, ideally devoted to Yahiko and his original Akatsuki as well.

Nagato is the one who guides his Alpha in believing in the ideals of Akatsuki. Before the original trio falls apart, this is done without any ultimatum or ulterior motive. Nagato genuinely believes in the dream Yahiko has, and felt very motivated to bring that hope to his Alpha. It was only afterwards that he truly started to fall in love with them, although that was the original spark.

He likes to read, although he seldom has the time or opportunity to do so. Jiraiya's taught all of the Ame orphans to read and write. He truly enjoys ready philosophical treatises and dialogues. He is a fan of fiction but very slow when reading these because he prefers to experience the world himself first hand, interacting with people and places. He once dreamed of traveling throughout Amegakure and the surrounding nations as a kind of pilgrim.

Nagato nearly died after he fought Hanzo for the first time, not because of his injuries, but because chakra depletion left him unable to sense his Alpha. Believing them dead while he was near delirious, he himself nearly died from the grief of losing Yahiko, and them on top of this loss, despite Yahiko's final wish.

In a version of the world where his Alpha does not survive Obito's slaughter of the original Akatsuki members, Nagato recovers their body and turns it into the Preta Path of Pain, appropriate given the path's callback to possessiveness and desire, and representation of the Hungry Ghost Realm. In the version where his Alpha survives, Nagato becomes very possessive over them, only willing to let them take missions for the Akatsuki alongside Konan, alone, or preferably not at all as you three nurse your grief within Amegakure.

Shisui

You know I love those Uchiha men. They just have a vibe... Shisui in particular. His appearances never make me think first of his death, but of his kindness and his protectiveness over the people he cares for; he dies smiling. Unfortunately, Shisui's path really only works in a non-massacre scenario, since he is approximately sixteen when he dies, which is too young for him to have a mating bond, although I do HC him as considering courting someone at the time the coup starts to take over his life. The with-massacre scenario is one in which Itachi is able to get Shisui out of the village, possibly that he secretly survives the fall thanks to his summons.

Shisui's parents were either not ninjas, or are individuals who have had to retire for the corp for some reason. What we know about him says he was the family breadwinner after he was made a jounin, which leads me to lean towards non-ninja parents. This is particularly interesting for Uchiha clan members, since we don't get to see what the civilian members of clan families do in the Naruto world and most assume the Uchiha clan is shinobi-dominated. It's doubly intriguing when we also know the famous Kagami Uchiha was his ancestor (likely grandfather > great grandfather if we base off other known generations). Since we don't have canon confirmation of this stuff, I guess it counts as a HC?

Given the above, he's the most likely of the Uchiha on my list to willingly and happily take on a civilian Alpha. While I haven't totally fleshed out the background for this pairing, I have toyed around with the idea of an acid-tongued relative of someone from the Daimyo's court whom Shisui met on a mission catching his attention. This oc is a bit of a tsundere with an infamous temper who only Shisui with his notable empathetic and pleasant demeanor is immune to. They become one of the Land of Fire ambassadors and Shisui travels with them on a sort of long-term assignment before they eventually settle together in the village.

The reason they settle in the village is that Shisui decides he wants to have kids and knows that the Uchiha will never risk the sharingan passing into the control of another family or political body. His alpha has to sign a bunch of paperwork relinquishing their ability to inherit anything that might give their family power over their and Shisui's children, but enjoys arguing enough that they remain an ambassador even after settling in Konoha so they can wipe the floor with anyone who has anything to say about Shisui being the reason for their departure.

In the survive-the-fall scenario, Shisui remains blind, retires from being a ninja, and lives with his Alpha in a civilian city, where they help hide his identity and spoil him as much as he will allow. There's potential in this scenario for a path which probably fixes Sasuke btw. There's a lot of options here.

Sai

He intentionally emotes more than Yamato, however while Yamato mostly keeps his facial expressions hidden, his reactions to his Alpha are almost always honest. Sai explicitly cultivates his ability to make facial expressions because he was trying to fit in with normal people, throw them off guard, and do his job as a spy better. This makes it more difficult for his Alpha to tell whether Sai is actually showing that he likes something or not. It takes a long time to figure it out. Eventually, his reactions naturally start to correspond with his emotions around family and friends so it's easier on everyone.

His Alpha thinks that Sai really doesn't like them at the beginning. Although he doesn't necessarily understand why, he picks up on this very quickly and tries to fix the situation throughout the next few months, to varying degrees of success. Eventually, he decides to show you how he feels by painting a portrait of you as he sees you. It's exactly as intimate as you'd think it would be. For better or worse, Sai eventually has to come out and say he can't come up with any courting gift more genuine than the portrait to show you how he feels about you personally, which will tip his Alpha off that he is interested in them.

Because he has difficulties showing his emotions, and also in understanding the nuances behind others' reactions, he likes straightforward methods of communication. He trusts his Alpha implicitly and is incredibly perceptive so he is able to read their responses to him. He enjoys words of affirmation the most and appreciates when his Alpha takes the time to talk through things with him. He also likes physical contact, craves it even, but can quickly become overstimulated depending on the situation. He genuinely wants people to like him and to have sincere connections with the people he meets by acting like himself. Although Sai works hard to "earn" his place among the other people in his generation, it takes him a long time to see that everyone has already accepted him, and to understand that relationships take time and hard work.

For many years, he believes he physically can't have children because Root made all of its operatives starting about 5 years before Sai joined infertile. This insights conflicting feelings in him. On the one hand he never has to worry about accidentally becoming pregnant, which is very nice when he starts navigating his physical desires with his mate. On the other hand, he will never have the option and that hurts, because so much was taken from him in the way of choice and this is another one of those things. The procedure may be reversible in some members because I can see Root forcing long-term operatives to have families with their targets to get closer to them, or being gross enough to try and breed operatives, but Sai doesn't know this.

He likes swimming. He has a favorite swimming spot on the Konoha river. It's the kind of activity that sincerely has no purpose, and he finds a serenity in it, in a similar way that lots of people find a zone of focus when running.

[imjustheretoseetheprivateblogs]

AxZ Week Day 5: Poetry

@senshixshitennouweeks

In Silver Millennium, Serenity hands her a slip of parchment, claiming she found it tucked into the hollow of a tree where she had met with her beloved Endymion (she suspects that she was simply playing matchmaker).

The words compare her to a pool of water on a hot day, keeping refreshing, serene, and reflective in pleasing rhyme and meter.

Though it’s short, it’s words stir something in the princess of Mercury and she wishes to know who made such lovely phrases on the tiny blue planet that Serenity is so fond of.

Soon, Serenity brings her more messages that flatter her about her mind and her ambitions, mentioning her beauty to punctuate the writer’s fascination with her.

She never finds out who it is, though. The Silver Millennium falls soon after.

He’s in the library, looking for inspiration for a new energy gathering scheme for their great ruler. His last plan had backfired spectacularly (Video rental stores were not an antiquated idea; it was novel and retro!) and he was going to find something full proof. Beryl was getting impatient.

He pulled a book from the shelf and opened it. A piece of loose-leaf paper, folded into eighths fell from between.

Curious, he picked it up and unfolded it.

I wish to share my words, read the lines of text, to let others know my dreams.

The words stir something in Zoisite and, against his better judgement, pulls out a pen and scrawls a reply, trying to match the number of syllables and give it some kind of rhyme scheme.

Your words have found me now, and filled my heart to the seams.

It’s a simple poem, nothing he’d want to show anyone, but at least he got it out of his system. Putting the paper in between the pages of the book, Zoisite puts the book back and heads for the music section. He’d always been interested in that, so maybe something would inspire him.

Just as he turned the corner, a girl with short dark hair and blue eyes turned the corner and took the book he had just replaced.

The two of them stand awkwardly a week after their second (really third) meeting. They could sit down in one of Crown Arcade’s many booths, especially since it was a slow day, but that would mean sitting across from one another or, God forbid, beside one another.

She’s still not sure trusting him is a logical decision.

He’s still not sure if she even wants to talk to him.

The tension is thick and cloying, a sensation like wearing an old frayed sweater by a campfire.

“So… um… you like to read?”

It’s a dumb question. Between the three books she’s carrying and the reading glasses in her pocket, anyone could see that.

“Yes,” she answers simply. There’s no malice in her voice, but no feeling either. It’s a simple fact.

He retreats to his room when he returns home, trying to write his heart out on a yellow legal pad and trying to take his mind off how Mizuno could even tolerate him ever again.

It’s all chicken scratch though. Even simple fluff poems about flowers being pretty seem to be hard for him to write.

A call from his prince draws him out of his stupor and into battle against a leftover creature.

It’s a bulky, bulbous monster called a Daimon that was apparently made by science.

“Are we winning?” Nephrite calls after his sneak attack completely fails.

“Do you want the truth or one of those little white lies to make you feel better?”

Jadeite’s frustration is understandable, if the improvised bandage on his leg is anything to go on. Mars’s fire seems to have no effect on the creature, Tuxedo Kamen and Sailor Moon are pinned by the Daimon’s onslaught with Nephrite and the other senshi are still trying to make their way across town.

“Mercury Aqua Rhapsody!”

Glittering streams of water streak at the creature, enveloping it in ice and suddenly, Zoisite’s mind fills with descriptions for the attack and for the trickling otherworldly harp strings that accompany it.

Even when Sailor Moon purifies the creature in a dazzling display, Zoisite’s attention is still on the Senshi of Water.

The muse has struck him hard and maybe he can work up the nerve to thank her.

She recognizes his words when he submits to her, on a sheet of green paper, a poem about Hermes.

He recognizes her’s when he sees her handwriting in her little blue notebook.

Soon, little notes are passed between them. Verses plucked out of the ether to make little compliments.

Soon, they’re talking at length of wordsmiths and writers; who they like, who has the best descriptions, which would fit with music, which writer sounds like they would have voted for Shinzo Abe. Soon, it grows more intimate. Love poems, shared between the two of them, games that become heated the more passionate the poetry.

And the two of them begin to wonder when their games will be played to a work of their own composition.

[thesacrifice1986]

what has brought you joy recently

i read Jealousy by Alain Robbe-Grillet. despite its dry and pedantic style i enjoyed it quite a bit. I haven't finished a book in about 3 months because work is so fucking hard and exhausting so that was nice

a customer at work said i reminded her of a poet that she got her MFA with. it was really unexpected and i think of it as flattering to be compared to a poet—one day i'd like to get really serious and sit down to write some poetry. I have much research to do before then. she said it was my kindness and patience that was so similar to his

i've been seeing a lot of good movies and i tried a new vegetarian restaurant that i quite liked :-) they even had loose leaf tea which is kind of unheard of for a restaurant

[rviner]

AMBROSE LANE

Quirks, Habits and Tidbits

Has a habit of flicking his wrist when summoning an illusion, as if he's casting a spell.

Often pauses dramatically before delivering punchlines or plot twists, relishing in the suspense.

Speaks in a precise voice and projects each word as if performing for a grand hall, no matter the size of his audience. Or one on one conversation.

Known to tip his hat to people when leaving a conversation, a nod to his former aristocratic manners.

Can seamlessly switch between accents, often mixing them up mid-sentence for dramatic effect.

Has an array of antique pocket watches, each with a different story; sometimes pretends to check the time even when they're broken.

Occasionally writes poetry, but is scatterbrained. Many are unfinished and scraps of it are lost throughout the circus.

His nails are always perfectly manicured, a small luxury he insists on maintaining.

Has an almost uncanny ability to sense when someone is lying or keeping a secret.

A master at disguising emotions. He can appear perfectly calm while internally stressed or weary.

Has an odd superstition about always stepping onto the stage with his left foot first.

Often references classic British literature in his monologues, particularly Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare.

Dislikes modern technology; keeps a quill pen on hand and insists on writing letters over using phones.

Loves tea, particularly Earl Grey; he keeps a tin of loose-leaf in his trailer.

Is rarely seen without a waistcoat and pocket square or part of his showman look.

Has a refined palate but a deep affection for simple foods like bread and cheese, calling it "sustenance fit for the wanderer."

Knows how to disappear in a crowd, despite his flamboyant style. An art he perfected while on the run.

When nervous, he subtly rubs his thumb against the side of his ring finger. Though he has never mentioned if he has been married previously or not.

In the same token as above, has many stories of 'lovers' which he simply refers to as "my lover in..." despite never clarifying their gender.

Has a low tolerance for dull conversation, often redirects people toward stories or riddles.

Finds solace in open spaces and sometimes practices his monologues in empty fields near the circus grounds.

Has the ability to recall people’s names, no matter how briefly they’ve met.

Enjoys old-fashioned games like chess and often challenges circus members to matches.

Will sometimes perform impromptu readings of dark, suspenseful poetry in the middle of the night.

Though he entertains with dramatic storytelling, he's haunted by his own past, especially during quiet, solitary moments.

Tends to give people nicknames based on his perception of their character. "Nervy" "Flighty" "Angry" etc.

Never shares a meal without offering a toast, always theatrical and poetically worded.

Can improvise a tale from nearly anything, creating stories on the fly just to entertain passersby.

Always wears cologne with notes of cedarwood and bergamot, reminiscent of the forests and quiet elegance.

Sometimes is not around without explanation, returning as if nothing happened.

Has a habit of keeping his left hand in his pocket when in deep thought.

Has a slight, almost unnoticeable limp in his left leg from an old injury. Uses a cane which he can do tricks with, and uses it as a prop.

Avoids bright colors in his clothing, preferring black, midnight blue, or deep maroon.

Has an extensive collection of cufflinks and is meticulous about matching them to his mood.

Never tells anyone his real age and enjoys speculating about others' guesses.

Is fascinated by old magic tricks, especially sleight of hand, though he insists it’s “beneath him.”

Often quotes an imaginary “old friend” in his advice, though no one knows if this person exists.

Has a peculiar way of ending conversations with a cryptic phrase, leaving others wondering what he meant.