#noticed i forgot the stripes on almost every sketch

[moron-cream]

Gegege no kitaro sketch dump❗❗❗.

Also!!! If anyone is confused there are two Getakichi, given the name just belongs to older Kitaro. One is the i guess canon ver and the other is older hakaba ver, and the last sketch is technically of hakaba kitaro's father but drawn similar to his nazo design

[tulsa-trash]

Book Swap

Request: could you do a modern!pony x reader imagine where you're both in 9th grade and meet at the library, and one day you finally have the guts to ask for his number, so you guys start texting and then you start crushing on him and then you have to figure out how to tell him, so u ask two-bit and johnny for advice

WARNING(S): N/A

You sighed deeply as you began to reread the same sentence in your book for what felt like the twentieth time. It seemed as though you were reading but not even comprehending the words. To be fair, it was impossible to get lost in a book when a familiar cute boy was sitting a table over from you.

Ponyboy Curtis. How does one even begin to describe the amazing human you had the honor of being within five feet of? Unlike most guys in high school, Pony was something special. He was kind and very smart, you knew this because you have English with him. You've never seen someone so into a class before, he also appeared to have an interest in literature, like you. The both of you were nothing but mere acquaintances, and you secretly wished you could change that.

It didn't help that you found him absolutely dreamy. His brown hair was always a little messy, but it still managed to make him even cuter. You always feel your heart skip a beat whenever your eyes would meet his sparkling green ones in the hallways. You'd smile whenever you'd see him laughing with his friends, it showed off his dimples that sunk into his cheeks. Ponyboy Curtis was the boy of your dreams, and the young man was completely oblivious.

Your phone vibrated on the desk you were sitting at. Glancing up from your book, you seen that it was a text from one of your friends. After placing your bookmark in between the pages you unlocked your phone.

Evie: So? Did you talk to him yet?

You rolled your eyes after reading the message, your fingers quickly tapped at the screen as you typed your response.

Y/N: No obviously not. Now leave me alone.

Kathy: Girl go for it! He's a nice kid you said so yourself.

Y/N: Uh nope. Much rather stare at him from afar and not make a fool of myself attempting to talk to him.

Kathy: Well if you don't not only will I embarrass you in front of lover boy, everyone in this library will see me screaming at you and we'll both probably get kicked out.

Y/N: Wait what? How do you know I'm at the library?? Are you here right now???

Kathy: Look over at the fantasy section you nerd. You being you I obviously knew where YOU would be on a Saturday afternoon.

You looked up, eyes widening in shock as you saw your friend hiding behind a bookshelf watching you with a sly grin.

Kathy: Make a move now or I'm coming over there.

With already shaking hands you put your phone in your pocket and grabbed your book. You sent Kathy a pleading look, but all she did was shake her head and point towards Ponyboy violently. Taking in a deep breath, you got up. The chair scraped against the floor, creating a loud noise which made at least five people look up at you... including him.

"Oh god." You mumbled under your breath.

In your peripheral vision you could see Ponyboy's gaze return to his book, taking that as your cue to move you slowly crept to his table. You had made it to the chair directly across from him, he was so caught up in his book he didn't even notice your presence. You smiled softly, his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration while his eyes scanned the pages back and forth. You awkwardly cleared your throat, not too loud to disturb others but just enough for him to tear his attention from his book to notice you.

"Oh, hey." Ponyboy said, "Can I help you with somethin'?"

"Um..." Jesus this was going to be way harder than you thought. "W-Would you mind if I sat with ya?"

"Not at all. Go ahead." He sent you a friendly smile as he gestured to the chair you were at.

His smile. Your legs already feel like jello, you could've sworn you were going to collapse right then in there.

"Y/N, right?" He asked as you sat down.

"That's me. And you're Ponyboy."

"Yep, couldn't forget a name like that if you tried." He joked.

You giggled as you opened your book, Ponyboy returned to his. Curiosity got the better of you when you looked back up to see what he was reading.

"Gone With the Wind." You read aloud.

"Have you read it before?" He asked.

You shook your head, "I haven't, but I've heard only good things about it. I saw the movie about a year ago and thought it was great."

"The book is amazing!" He gushed, only to be shushed by the librarian walking by. "This is my fifth time reading it." He told you in a more hushed tone.

You snickered, "Must be really great."

"What ya got there?"

You lifted up your book from the table to reveal the cover to him, his bright eyes scanned the cover.

"The Boy in Striped Pajamas?"

"I know the title seems a bit odd, but trust me this is a good read." You told him, "This being my third time reading it."

"Well what's it about?" He asked.

You went on to tell him about your book, and he went on to tell you all about his. The both of you began to talk about anything and everything, you were beyond happy that things were going well. You were having so much fun you completely forgot about Kathy spying on you, before either of you could realize it two hours had gone by.

You peaked at your phone and cursed under your breath, the lock screen had a reminder that your shift at work was starting in less than thirty minutes.

"I really hate to end this... but I gotta go." You said.

"That sucks." He said disappointedly.

You couldn't help feeling a little giddy inside to see that he was upset you were leaving. While you got up and gathered your things, you remembered that you wanted to get his phone number badly. You just had to figure out a way to get it without making things awkward.

"Hey, Pone?"

He hummed in response.

"What do ya say we swap books... and numbers? Thats only if you want to. I just figured since we read them already and it was cool talk--"

"I'd like that." He stopped your rambling, only to send you a warm smile while doing so.

You blushed as the both of you swapped phones to put in each others information along with handing each other your books. With a final wave goodbye you left the library, your best friend of course followed after you. She interrogated you with thousands of questions and the both of you walked to work, you gladly answered them all in an almost dazed state. You felt as if you were walking on air for the rest of the day, and you couldn't wait to text him later on.

-

Two weeks had gone by, and let's just say those two weeks have been the best ones of your life. You and Ponyboy had been texting every single day. At first you just talked about each other's books, but then your conversations started evolve to anything and everything. You knew you had liked him before, but your feelings for him have grown drastically. It was beginning to get unbearable holding in how you truly felt, and you weren't sure if you wanted to tell him.

The fear of rejection was one of the main reasons why you've been thinking of just repressing your feelings. Sure, he seemed to like you, but it felt as though he only liked you simply as a friend. Another reason being you were afraid that it would ruin things between the both of you. You had finally become good friends, the last thing you wanted was for everything to end up being awkward all because of you and your silly crush.

After a lot of thinking you decided you needed some advice, and by advice you mean advice thats not only from Kathy. She keeps telling you to go for it, but she doesn't really know Ponyboy well. That's why you got the idea to ask one of his buddies on their opinion. Luckily Pony invited you to watch him and his friends play football. You ceased the opportunity, not only would you be able to watch the boy of your dreams get all sweaty and tuff looking, you could also get one of his friends alone to talk about how you felt.

It was a warm, Sunday morning in Tulsa. The sun was high in the sky and beat down harshly on the group of boys tackling each other in the giant field. You sat under a tree with a notebook in your lap, a cool breeze would rush by every now and then, cooling you off the slightest. You doodled randomness on the blank pages, sketching pictures and honing your writing skills. Every now and then you would glance up and watch the game for a few, sometimes cheering the boys on or laughing when they began to goof off and wrestle each other on the ground.

There was a particular drawing you found yourself enthralled in, as the pencil in your hand smoothly ran across the paper you found yourself sketching a picture of Ponyboy's face. You were so focused you didn't even notice someone come over and take a seat right beside you.

"Nice drawin' you got there." A quiet voice spoke.

You quickly slammed the notebook closed and snapped you head to the right, it was Ponyboy's best friend, Johnny. A tiny smirk was tugging at his lips as he looked at you with one eyebrow raised.

"T-Thanks." You stuttered nervously.

"You like him, huh?" He asked you.

You stood silent as you played with the grass below you, pulling it from the Earth and rubbing it between your fingers. Your gaze was straight ahead watching the game, you were afraid to meet Johnny's gaze that was burning holes into the side of your head.

"Yes..." You hesitated a bit, "I do."

"Does he know?"

"No!" You said hopelessly, "And I'm not sure if I even want him to know."

"Why not?"

"Because he probably doesn't feel the same..." You trailed off.

"Hey now, ya never know." Johnny said.

"What are you two kiddies doin' over here?" A loud voice bellowed.

It was none other than Two-Bit, he staggered over to the both of you before plopping down to your left. He was breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his forehead and trickling down his neck.

"You tryin' to make moves on Pony's girl or somethin', John?" Two asked playfully.

Your heart fluttered, 'Pony's girl.'

"No way, man. Trust me." Johnny chuckled.

"Pony's girl?" You repeated to him questioningly.

"Oh yeah! I see the way y'all look at each other I ain't blind."

You let Two's words sink in, was it that obvious that you liked him? He even said that Pony looks at you a certain way as well. Maybe there was a chance he shared your feelings after all.

"You think he likes me or somethin'?" You asked casually.

"Oh I don't think, I know."

You smiled softly, butterflies erupting in your stomach. In the back of your mind you worried that you were getting your hopes up a little too high, but you couldn't help it.

"I like him too." You admitted.

Two-Bit scoffed, "Tell me somethin' I don't know."

"Well... what should I do?"

"Tell him." Two replied.

"I agree." Johnny piped up.

Both nerves and excitement began to bubble up inside you as you got up and gathered your things.

"Where are you off to?" Johnny asked as you began to jog away from them.

"Gotta head home. Tell Ponyboy I'm sorry I had to leave but I'll text him later!"

"See ya later lover girl!" Two-Bit hollered after you while preceding to make kissing noises.

You laughed to yourself and shook your head, "Idiot."

-

Y/N: Whats up Pone-bone?

Ponyboy: Nothing much lil lady, and yourself?

Y/N: Same. Btw sorry for leaving so soon today, had some things to do.

Ponyboy: It's alright.

Hey what were you, Johnny and Two talking about? They didn't try to tease you or nothin right?

Y/N: Nooo ofc not they were just chattin

But thats actually what I wanted to talk to you about...

Ponyboy: Well... Go on then

Y/N: Okay I'm just gonna say it

I like you

like a lot

Ponyboy: As a friend or?

Y/N: No silly, like more than friends...

Ponyboy: Wait actually?

Y/N: Yes Pony

Ponyboy: Seriously??

Y/N: OMG YES!!

I LIKE YOU A LOT!

... im sorry if it weirds you out

Ponyboy: NO! NO IT DOESN'T.

SORRY

... Just wanted to make sure this isn't a prank or whatever.

But in all seriousness yes, I like you a whole lot.

Y/N: Are you sure?

Ponyboy: Positive doll

Do you wanna grab some milkshakes at the Dingo next weekend?

Y/N: Are you asking me out onna date Curtis?

Ponyboy: Yes, I am ;)

Y/N: Well I would love to :)

[nerdypanda3126]

The Snowball Effect

Happy holidays @tazil-writes! I'm your LO Discord Secret Santa! 😁

You asked for adrinette and ladynoir being blushy dorks in love and I figured what better way to answer that call than with a Card Captor Sakura episode rewrite? This is part one of three. 

Huge thanks to @chanceuseladynoire for the inspiration and the beta read!!

Read on Ao3 | First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Marinette careened down the bunny slope, her skis out of control beneath her, the poles in her hands flailing along with her arms as she tried to stop before—

She hit something rather solid, but soft at the same time—something that made a rather pronounced “oof” as she collided with it. Something—someone—whose arms wrapped around her as if by instinct. 

When she dared to glance up to see who had come to her rescue, she was staring at colored stripes on a white ski jacket. Her stomach started fluttering as her eyes followed the zipper up to a familiar face. Adrien was giving her a kind, patient smile, and his emerald eyes caught a reflection of the sun off the snow around them. 

“A-Adrien!” She pushed off him harder than she meant to and slid backwards, flailing again as she tried to find her balance. Adrien reached out to grab one of her hands and pull her back to center. 

“Are you all right, Marinette?” 

A dreamy smile spread across her face before she could help it. “Yeah, you’re perfect...” Her eyes widened when she realized what she said and Adrien raised his eyebrows. “I mean! You’re fine—I mean, I’m fine, thanks to you, because you’re amazing—but! not like in a way other than friends, because we’re… friends. Yeah. Good friends.” She blinked as she realized she was rambling. Adrien chuckled softly and let go of her hand.

“I’m glad you’re okay.” He smiled at her and her knees were melting out from under her. 

“Adrien!” Nathalie called and waved him over. He shrugged and waved at Marinette before he turned to push away and ski over to her. Marinette couldn’t help but admire his athleticism. Fencing undoubtedly helped him understand how to move and balance his lean frame, even with the six-foot fiberglass appendages strapped to his feet. 

They’d come to the Alps for a class field trip and they were supposed to stay overnight at the ski lodge. They’d had a beginner’s lesson earlier in the day where they were shown how to use the rope tow and chair lifts and how to stop and turn before they were all released onto the slope. 

As Marinette looked back up to the top of the hill, a lot of her classmates had already mastered this new skill. Kim was bragging that he could win a race against anyone, and a few had dared to take him up on it—mainly Alix, who had rolled her eyes at the concept of the “bunny slope”—and Max was refereeing as only Max could. Rose looked like a frosted cream puff bundled up in her bright pink jacket with white faux fur trim, especially when she stood next to Juleka, who was a dark violet tower against the snow. 

There were a few of her classmates who hadn’t been terribly interested in the sport. Nathaniel, for one, seemed more content to sit and sketch the mountain landscape. Chloe and Sabrina had disappeared into the warmth of the lodge soon after they’d arrived, Chloe complaining loudly about the cold air being terrible for her complexion. 

Marinette glanced down at herself—at the snow clinging to her light pink winter coat from every time she’d fallen, or nearly fallen and managed to catch herself. Ladybug might’ve had a chance on skis, but Marinette was another story. The snow was starting to make everything feel slightly damp and the chill of the mountain air was biting at every unguarded sliver of skin. She shivered. Well, at least she'd tried. She sighed and used her poles to scoot herself over to the hot chocolate stand that was waiting nearby for skiers like her who were already capitulating to the cold. 

“Hey, Marinette,” Alya said as Marinette slid up. “Throwing in the towel already?” 

“I’m not cut out for anything requiring balance.” Marinette grumbled. “And I crashed right into Adrien!” She groaned and leaned over to rest her head on Alya’s shoulder, who patted her head fondly.

“What about Adrien?” Nino turned away from the stand with a hot chocolate in each hand for him and Alya. He raised his eyebrows as he took a sip, handing Alya’s to her nonchalantly. When he brought his cup back down, he had a splotch of whipped cream clinging to his nose. Alya giggled as she swiped it away. Marinette couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit jealous of Alya as she watched Nino’s golden eyes go soft when they turned on her to watch her scoop the bit of cream into her mouth.  

“Oh, nothing,” Alya said with a wink. “Marinette’s just trying to bowl him over with her skiing skills.” 

“Alya…” 

“And look, here he comes now.” Alya grinned and straightened Marinette up with her free hand and spun her before she grabbed Nino’s hand and pulled him away. How she did all that on skis was an absolute mystery to Marinette. But she didn’t have much time to wonder because Adrien was actually skiing right towards her—or at least towards the hot chocolate stand that she happened to be standing next to. She pasted a smile on her face and tried to remember to breathe. 

“How’s the hot chocolate? Any good?” he asked. 

She nodded, although she didn’t know why because she hadn’t gotten herself any yet. Adrien seemed to notice at the same time she did and he reached up to rub the nape of his neck. 

“Sorry, I didn’t notice you hadn’t gotten any yet. Can I get you one?” 

Another nod. Good, nodding was good. She hadn’t stammered yet, she hadn’t slipped into him yet, and she also hadn’t changed her expression at all the entire time he was watching. She blushed when she realized, and he quirked his head to the side. 

“Marinette? Are you okay?” 

“Hot chocolate, yes, I would love you…..I mean! I would love for you to get me a hot chocolate.” She tapped her pointer fingers together and chuckled nervously. That was a close one. But Adrien just smiled and pushed forward to get to the stand. Marinette sighed in relief when his back was turned. 

Her pocket at her hip unzipped and Tikki poked her head out. “Remember to breathe, Marinette,” she said with a tiny giggle. 

“Tikki!” Marinette hissed at her kwami and shooed her back down. “What if Adrien sees you?” 

After another tiny giggle, Tikki snuggled back down, and Marinette zipped her pocket shut. 

“Here you go,” Adrien said behind her. She turned slowly on her skis to face him, focusing on making teeny steps and planting the poles at her sides firmly. 

“I’m not sure you should hand me anything, hot stuff,” she muttered down at her skis. Her head snapped up and her eyes widened again when she realized what she’d said. “I mean! You shouldn’t hand me anything hot right now because—” She flailed as she tried to explain. One of her skis slipped forward and tipped her into him again. She sighed and dropped her head on his chest. “Because I’m a disaster zone…” she said with a groan. When she managed to straighten back up, he smiled again and gave her one of the hot chocolates. Then he looped his arm through hers, pulled her easily over to a bench, and helped her sit down. 

“You’ll get the hang of it. You’re already doing great for your first time.” He settled onto the bench next to her and took a sip from his cup. “Wow, this hot chocolate is good!” He grinned at her, and her heart did a little flip. 

She remembered Tikki’s advice and took a deep breath in and let it out slowly before she took a sip from her own cup. The warmth of the liquid spread through her and felt like it thawed her from the inside out. She sighed and watched a cloud of condensation leave her mouth with a strange sense of wonder before she turned to look at Adrien. 

When she caught his eyes, he chuckled and reached out, hesitating once before he swiped a finger at the tip of her nose. It came away with a small dollop of whipped cream on it. Marinette rubbed at her nose self-consciously. Adrien laughed again and casually swiped the cream into his mouth, just like Alya had, before he took another sip of his own. 

“I haven’t been skiing in so long,” he started, “I almost forgot how much fun it was.” 

“I’m glad you got to come with us.”

He nodded and glanced over to Nathalie. “I’m surprised Nathalie agreed to chaperone. It was the only condition my father set.” 

Marinette snuck a glance over at her, too. She seemed out of place among the students and teachers, with her hair pulled back tightly, her shoulders tall with her arms crossed behind her back, and in a basic black windbreaker. She wasn’t even on skis. She was just standing off to the side, barely interacting with anyone, and she seemed a bit bored as she watched everyone else skiing back and forth. 

“She doesn’t seem to be having much fun,” Marinette noted quietly. 

“I’m sure she is. That’s just Nathalie.” Adrien shrugged and took another sip. “Besides, she’s probably just worried about my father back home. She helps him with everything and I bet he’s feeling a bit lost without her.” 

She dared to glance over at him. He was watching the other skiers with a content smile. 

“You don’t have to sit here with me, you know,” she ventured, “I’m sure you’d rather be out there.” 

He turned towards her and his eyebrows knitted together as his head tilted to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I mean just because I’m a disaster on skis doesn’t mean you should miss out on all the fun.” Her voice came out a lot more glum than she intended as she contemplated the steam rising from her hot chocolate to avoid looking at him again. 

Surprisingly, he chuckled. “I always have fun when you’re around, Marinette.” 

Her head snapped up and he was looking right at her, his bright green eyes tinged with concern for her, and something else. She would almost call it fondness. 

“Besides, I’m sure you’re a lot better at this than you give yourself credit for.” He downed the rest of his drink and tossed the cup like a basketball into the nearest trash can before he stood and offered her a hand. “All you have to do is relax and trust yourself.” He grinned at her lopsidedly, and Marinette was surprised she wasn’t a puddle on the ground. 

She stood with him and finished her hot chocolate, too, although she shuffled over to the trash can to throw her cup away instead of trying to toss it, planting her poles firmly each time and feeling like a fish flopping its fins on land. 

When she turned back to him, he reached out and took her hand to lead her to the rope tow. She caught Alya’s eye on the way over, and Alya gave her a toothy grin and a thumbs up. Nino waved to them both as the rope pulled them up towards the top of the bunny slope.

***

Back at the lodge that night, they were all relaxing in front of the fireplace and warming up after an entire day of being out in the snow. 

And Adrien had taken the seat right next to Marinette, his thigh pressed against hers as they all crammed onto the sectional, everyone jostling to try to get a little closer to the fire. 

She was still amazed she’d spent most of the day with him. He’d helped her gain confidence on her skis, and by the time Mme. Bustier had called everyone into the lodge for the day, Marinette could slide smoothly down the hill and even managed a little jump over a snowbank. And the way Adrien had cheered for her when she got it. That was going to be replaying in her dreams tonight, for sure. 

Her stomach lurched into her throat as Adrien adjusted next to her and she caught a waft of his cologne mixed with a musty smell she couldn’t quite place, although she had a strong association to it. But before she could figure it out, her attention was stolen by Kim calling for scary stories, and a shiver ran down her spine.

“Aw, come on, it’s the perfect setting for one!” Kim complained loudly. “We’ve got the fireplace, the lodge to ourselves... doesn’t anyone know a single good ghost story?” 

Marinette prayed that no one would answer Kim’s request, but of course Alix rose to the challenge. Marinette whimpered and Adrien’s head turned a fraction of an inch towards her as she sank into her seat and brought her knees up to her chin. 

“Has anyone ever heard of the Pale Lady?” 

Murmurs of confusion echoed around the circle. No one had. Alix grinned.

“Well, there was this group of kids, staying at this very lodge.” She looked around dramatically and some of the other kids rolled their eyes, but Marinette had to shiver again. “So they all went to bed that night, and one of them gets up for a glass of water. And there… in the hallway… is this pale, white lady. Covered in snow, her lips blue and her eyes black. She looks at the kid. And she points… to an open window. The curtains fluttering in the breeze.” Alix had everyone’s rapt attention now as she mimicked a windy night on the mountain, not unlike the one tonight. 

“The night was clear, but as the kid watched, clouds started forming over the mountain, gathering at the top, creating a storm of epic proportions.” She pointed out the window of their own lodge, towards the mountaintop, and Marinette whimpered again before she hid her eyes behind her hands. 

“And out of nowhere… a deep rumble started growing, and growing. But it wasn’t the mountain. No.” Alix paused for effect. “It was the Pale Lady. Groaning.” The sound effect she made was unearthly, a whining, grumbling groan. Marinette wished she had extra hands. She couldn’t cover her eyes and her ears all at once. 

An arm fell across Marinette’s shoulders and squeezed as she started shaking uncontrollably. When she peeked out from underneath her fingers, Adrien was gripping her tightly, his green eyes straight ahead.

“And the mountain groaned with her,” Alix continued. “Until a ledge of snow broke off the top, and crumbled on its way down. Right. Towards. The lodge.” 

There was a breathless pause in the room. “What happened?” Mylène asked. 

Marinette peeked between her fingers, incredulous that Mylène wasn’t scared stiff like she was. But Mylène was cuddled into Ivan’s side, his arm dwarfing her as it wrapped around her waist, and she was listening to the story intently, just like everyone else. 

“There wasn’t any time,” Alix said in a hushed voice, “and everyone was asleep. The avalanche crashed into the lodge and buried everyone in an icy grave. They say that the Pale Lady still haunts these mountains, joined by her victims, and anyone who looks into her eyes is Never. Seen. Again.” 

Alix’s story faded into the silence of the lodge and Adrien tensed against her. Bracing for—

A deep, rumbling groan filled the space. Not from Alix this time. It didn’t even sound human. Everyone’s eyes widened. It was just like Alix’s story. The sound echoed around the room and sent a collective shiver through the group. 

Marinette didn’t care anymore. She hid her face in Adrien’s shoulder and gripped at his shirt, shaking, as his arm wrapped all the way around her to hold her close. 

The sound repeated, closer, louder. 

“It’s her! It’s the Pale Lady!” Alix whisper-shouted. 

The group gasped, and Marinette knew they had all turned to face whatever Alix was pointing at. Adrien rubbed at her arm before she felt him turn his head, too. 

“Nothing’s there,” Rose whispered with a nervous tremor.

“I see her! I see her! Don’t you?” Alix's voice trembled and Marinette heard the group move over to the window to follow her. 

“It’s okay, Marinette,” Adrien whispered when the group was away. “It’s just a story. There’s nothing there. Alix is playing a prank on everyone.” 

Marinette heard the screams of her classmates and gripped Adrien’s shirt tighter, squeezing her eyes shut tight. 

He craned his neck to look and chuckled. “It’s Markov. They put a sheet and a wig on him and gave him the soundbyte to play.” 

“I hate scary stories,” she whimpered. 

“I know. I remember.” 

She dared to pull away and look up at him, realizing suddenly that she was practically in his lap. But she couldn’t bring herself to move as he smiled down at her. In the background, she heard Alix cackling and Kim congratulating Max. Mme. Bustier stuck her head in to call for everyone to turn in. As everyone else groaned, Marinette sighed in relief. 

“See, you made it through.” Adrien’s thumb rubbed against her shoulder, comforting her and thrilling her at the same time. 

“Thanks to you,” she whispered back. She glanced up and saw the group heading back towards them, and straightened up to stand abruptly. Adrien stood with her and they both fell into the group as they all trooped back to their respective rooms for the night.

***

Marinette tossed in her bed and pulled her blanket up over her head. All the other girls were fast asleep, but the bright moonlight pouring into the window of the room threw the mountain outside into a deep shadow and all she could think about was Alix’s ghost story. She shivered and curled into herself. This was so stupid. 

With a groan, she threw the blanket off and padded over to the door, grabbing her coat on the way out. “Thanks a bunch, Alix,” she muttered under her breath.  

As she made her way down the hall, intending to go back to the fire that was still roaring in the main area, she noticed the dark figure of a woman slipping down the hallway. She froze when Alix’s words came back to her. And there… in the hallway… is this pale, white lady. But the figure didn’t pay Marinette any mind, hurrying instead towards the main area with what could only be described as malicious intent. 

Marinette patted her coat pocket for Tikki. The kwami poked her head out, on alert just like Marinette. With another glance up, Marinette steeled herself and followed the shrinking figure outside into the snow.

[blacknovelist]

Half-Empty, Half-Full (FE3H Fic)

hey hi what’s up lads, so I like, 100% forgot I could post my piece for the @threehouseszine Beneath The Banner (also available on Twitter under the same name) and as such I’m like ten years late. :) But the zine has been sent out, and I finally noticed like the fool I am that others have posted their pieces, and thusly, I too will post mine! Because I can. And I want to.

My focus was on the Golden Deer post-skip, specifically in some nebulous point during the war. Being part of this zine was really, really cool -- I can’t wait for all the books and merch to arrive with everyone!

(will reblog with links because we all know tumblr likes to break things.)

A beat of something nice, amid the fragments of harder times.

In the spaces between war — between scattered supply checks and ration distribution, bandit skirmishes and long watch nights — Hilda finds the time she needs to breathe.

It came easier, back in the academy. She could simply step back and let the world move around her, steadfast in her belief that it would still be standing when she returned. Nowadays she steals the air in her lungs from glances at the sky and quick delivery walks, from the chip of chisel and steel against stone and wood, from the sensation of gems and petals inlaid on clothes, chains and hooks when she can afford to lay down her axe. Infrequency makes the beats between battles all the more precious.

With the professor around she can afford more pauses still, but Hilda watches herself. She knows, all too well, just how young she is. Claude lies at one year her junior and the professor, with their five year hiatus, sits at two. It wouldn't do for her stubborn leaders to find someone they can’t believe in among their ranks, now.

She’s on the run for errands when she spots a hint of not-plant green and wood not far off the beaten path, and she wastes no time following that tried and true Deer instinct to take a peek. Ignatz is there, as expected, easel propped on a patch of flat land, what she can see of the canvas a tasteful blend of browns and golds. He leans in, fingers dabbed in the same off-white his paintbrush dusts onto his scene. 

Now, Hilda doesn’t paint, but she does understand the stress and struggle of art, different forms aside. Which is why she waits until he leans back before she steps forward and taps his shoulder. 

“Hey, Ignatz.”

Ignatz yelps, almost drops his brush and earns himself a stripe on his palm for his troubles. “Hilda! Hi. I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you there.” 

“Don't worry about it.” She clasps her hands together. “What’re you painting?"

"I wanted to capture the cathedral, while it's still under repair." He gestures to his piece — the white forms the glint of sunlight off patches of rubble, steel and glass, along with the robes of monks and priests as they shift and sweep aside what debris they can. "A lot of artists depict places in their prime, or utterly destroyed, or after they've been restored to their former glory. I thought it would be nice to show the in-between for once. People from every background imaginable, coming together to rebuild for the future. A little different from what I usually paint, but sometimes a little variety is nice." 

"And you're doing it all the way out here because…"

"I didn't want to be in anyone's way, and I come out here a lot. I've got plenty of references with me, so it's not a problem." Ignatz shifts and Hilda catches sight of a stack of sketchbooks, some more worn than others, half-spilled from a bag. The top one gets plucked up and held between them as he flips from page to page. Statue busts, the altar and rows of pews among pillars rendered in charcoal and sleek pigment lines. Sometimes, she catches glimpses of green and blue and other colors, or shapes that don't quite match the church art he focuses on, but Ignatz flips too fast for her to see. 

Or, almost. "Go back two pages," Hilda says. A grin tugs at her lips. "Was that Claude?"

"Oh! Uh, yes." Though Ignatz learned to leave embarrassment and nerves about his art behind, something in his chest still squirms, just a bit. An image of their leader in the library, face cast in candlelight and more at peace than he ever is during daylight, stares up at the duo. "It's easier when I’m with a person, but sometimes I'll do studies on my own. Practice makes perfect, after all." 

"It's beautiful." She reaches out, pauses. "May I…?"

He passes it over. "Here. You can look at the others, too. I don't mind." Then he turns back to the easel and reaches for his paint. "Anyway, I thought this was as good a spot to work as any. There's a field down that way you can see best in the spring, and I like the view of everything from here."

"You'll have to show me when it's in season." 

Her eyes flicker over thick paper. Statues. Flowers, trees, forest paths. Distance shots of people, strolling towards town. Swirls of filigree and patterns fill whole pages in patches, tiny stylized animals and the occasional dragon tucked into the empty space. Silhouettes crowd around the pews, and even if she recognizes clothes, many of these smaller figures are faceless. 

But she finds a loose sketch, hair popping blond against black ink, of Raphael and a young girl with the same square jaw and broad shoulders. Claude himself appears once more, this time in wireframe form, ordinary steel bow drawn all the way back and arrow pointed to the left. When she plucks one of his other books from the stack it follows a similar trend — renderings of the cathedral, inside and out, stuck in among horse-drawn carriages and sunlit grass patches and clothes and people, both familiar and unfamiliar, faceless and defined. A few drawings are from the past few months: Sylvain in his armor, Baltie with his open-chested shirt, Leonie and her long hair, the monastery scaffolding. 

Most of his drawings are from the academy days. 

Lindhardt, leaned against a tree, the shadow of leaves mottled on his lap. Herself and Marianne seated in the dining hall. Lysithea, with a book in one hand and a swirl of magic in the other. Claude and Lorenz mid-argument. Felix as he trains blade blurred and bent as he lunges. Dimitri and Dedue bent over a table in their classroom. Edelgard as she strides across the courtyard, Hubert one step behind. Busts of the professor and Jeralt, side by side, the faintest quirk in their lips. 

Hilda looks up and pauses. Ignatz presses so close to the canvas he’s peering over the wire frames of his glasses rather than through, brow furrowed and jaw set. She shuts an eye as the sun slips out from behind what’s left of Garreg Mach’s spires. Greyscale flowers peer up from the pages, a reflection of the few asters scattered around their feet. Mountain monastery air goes down sweet and full in her lungs.

"I gotta say, Ignatz,” she says, the edge of her thumb smudged in stray charcoal. "These are amazing. How long have you been doing art?"

"Since I was little." He leans back, considers his work, then leans in again. "My parents are merchants, so we delivered paintings and statuettes to a lot of noble houses in the Alliance. One day I found some extra supplies lying around so I just… picked it up and gave it a shot."

"Well, I'm glad you did. Even these plain sketches look much nicer than anything I could do, and don't even get me started on painting. No offense, Ignatz, but no thank you. Definitely not my wheelhouse."

Ignatz pauses. "None taken, and thank you. You draw?”

"Not much." She waves a hand. "My talents lie in accessories. I like to plan before I start working, figure out how it should come together and doodle in the margins a little sometimes, that's all."

"You're always wearing beautiful jewelry, but I didn't realize you made them yourself." A smile breaks out across his face. "That's amazing, Hilda!"

A blush rolls across her cheeks and she can't stop the tug of her lips into a matching grin. "Oh, stop it. Really?"

"Of course! The colors and shapes you use match your hair, complexion, and the clothes you tend to wear quite beautifully." His brush plunges into a cup of water by the foot of his easel and faces her fully. "When did you start?"

"A long time ago, now – I'm not even sure exactly how long, anymore. I used to make flower crowns and necklaces with my big brother, and it just spun out from there." The book lies closed in her hands now. Her finger runs up and down the paper, feels the grooves between unaligned pages. "I could make them as pretty or ugly as I wanted, so long as I was happy in the end. No one ever expected anything more or less. Not that I ever made something ugly, mind you."

Ignatz hummed. "Have you ever considered selling them?"

"Not really.” Hilda tilts her head. “Do you think it'd be a good idea?"

"Absolutely! You should consider it, once the war is over. I bet people would love them."

She taps her chin. “I’ll give it some thought. What about you, Ignatz? What do you plan on doing once this whole mess is behind us?” 

“Well… Ideally, I’ll keep painting,” he says. “Even if I have to do it between my duties as a knight. It might make it hard to find a household to serve, but I don’t want to just stop.”

“Why are you aiming to be a knight? How come you’re not just going off to be an artist or something like you want to?”

“My parents sent me to the academy since my brother’s taking over the business. They didn’t really approve of the whole artist thing.” Ignatz shrugs. “I don’t really think I’m all that cut out for it, to be honest. Fighting’s never been my strong suit.” 

“Well that’s a shame,” Hilda says. “Have you ever spoken to them about it?”

He shook his head. "Not much recently, at least."

“You should. Maybe you can convince them, after all this. And if you can’t, then just come to House Goneril, okay? I’ll let you paint as much as you want.”

“That would be nice.” He smiles, then bends to reach for his bag. “Thank you, Hilda.” 

“Any time.” She holds the sketchbook out. Ignatz takes it, tucks it gently alongside the others. Before he can put his brush away, he pauses. 

“If you have time,” he starts. "Would you like to join me out here again tomorrow? We could work on our projects together, if you have any."

Hilda smiles. "I'd love to, but I'm on stock duty tomorrow. No shuffling off the responsibility for that."

"I see. That's too bad. Maybe next time?" 

"... Sure. I'd like that."

[contrabbandiera-di-elia]

Doodles

I’m full of Elippo energy recently, so I did this thing on my phone. It may be full of mistakes because I’ll probably bother my beta only if I decide to post it on AO3, but I guess it’s still readable.

Based loosely on this thing which made me believe Elia can draw really well, at least in the cartoonish style, and some ‘different style challenges’ I’ve seen recently.

Happy Birthday, @azozzoni! I hope you’ll like it! 🎁

—

“What’s that?” Asked Filippo, picking up a piece of the paper lying on the floor among Eleonora’s papers. She was doing general cleaning, as she used to do always a few weeks after the end of the school year. She was organizing the notes and other kinds of papers, deciding which ones she wanted to keep because they may be useful in the future, and which were to be thrown away because they’re useless. This year Edoardo was helping her, as he was so called cleaning specialist, or at least he claimed to be.

At first glance, Filippo thought what he had picked up was just a piece of paper full of unimportant doodles. But then he took a closer look and realized these were quite interesting drawings. All of them presented one person but in different styles of drawing. All of them were cartoonish. Some of them he recognized, like Winx Club or Adventure Time, but most of them he didn’t. They were mostly black and white, but he knew precisely who they presented. That hairstyle, that striped shirt, and most importantly – red lips, the only thing in every drawing that was not black and white. It was obviously Eleonora.

“Oh, I completely forgot about it,” he heard over his shoulder, as the person in question studied the sketches. “It’s Elia’s. One time he was waiting for Martino at the radio’s room. He got a bit bored and asked if he can draw me. It was not quite what I expected to see, but I liked it, and he let me keep it.”

“It’s good, actually. But I’d never tell Elia could be an artist.”

“Right? I was surprised myself. But when I asked him, he said it’s just a hobby.”

“Who’s Elia?” Asked Edoardo. He didn’t even look at them from where he was putting the notes Eleonora decided to keep into a binder, but Filippo could hear this minimal jealousy in his voice. Well, it was quite understandable. He probably wasn’t too pleased to hear that some random guy spend some considerable amount of time drawing his girlfriend even if these were just cartoonish sketches.

“Martino’s friend. Oh, please, don’t tell me you don’t recognize him! You saw him multiple times!”

Edoardo frowned, but then suddenly he seemed to match the name with the right face. His girlfriend's irritation probably speeded up this process.

“Ah, this Elia! Okay, that changes everything.” Eleonora rolled her eyes at that but didn’t say anything.

Filippo was still looking at the drawings. He wasn’t sure why, but he liked them a lot. They were done with a black and red fineliners (Filippo’s guess, and he knew a thing or two about artistic tools) and in a very clear way. There was no single line made with a pencil, everything was put straight on the paper using only the fineliners. Nevertheless, there were almost no mistakes. Well, maybe there were some slight shortcomings here and there, but Filippo had to pay close attention to even notice them. And the longer he was looking, the more fascinated he was. As he counted, there were seven different drawings, and he inspected all of them acutely. He was never a fan of drawings, neither cartoons, but he found these few little figures interesting and funny. He started to be a bit jealous of his own sister having something like that made about her. Elia had surely put some work and consideration into that, even though it was just a thing he did out of boredom.

“Filippo?” Eleonora’s voice brought him back to the reality out of his thoughtfulness. “If you like it so much you can have it.”

“I don’t need a piece of paper full of your face. I have too much of it every day, darling,” he sighed, putting the drawings aside. “I just think it’s nice. I like how it's done, the style and everything, but also I think it's quite interesting someone took their time to do something like that for the person he barely knows. You know, gazing at you for long minutes and everything. Are you sure Elia doesn't have a thing for you?”

“Elia? No way. He was just bored, and we were the only two people in the room, so it’s not like he had a lot of models to choose from,” she said, not even slightly bothered. Edoardo, on the other hand, seemed to be bothered for the both of them.

“I hope so!” He announced from the other side of the room. Eleonora ignored him, focusing on her brother.

“Hey... Is it me, or you look a bit down? Is it about Dario? Maybe you should talk to him after all or...”

“No,” Filippo answered quickly, shaking his head. “Dario is a closed chapter. It doesn’t make sense anyway. He needs someone calmer and more mature, he said it himself. And I need someone who’d be able to keep up with me. Someone more spontaneous, more confident, more... you know.”

“I know,” she claimed. She did. She knew her brother long enough to know what kind of person he needed in his life. And she hoped he’d find this person someday.

-

Filippo was never into birthdays. Or rather, he was never into his birthdays. It was simply not a big deal. His parents never remembered, and he never fully got over it, so there was this dose of disappointment every year. He was trying to get rid of it by getting his friends, hitting some club and finding someone to spend the night with, but it was never his dreamed birthday. There was no special birthday parties, no singing ‘Happy Birthday’ over the birthday cake with a group of friends, no more than one present, so it was pretty sad.

The only thing that made everything better was the existence of Eleonora. She always remembered, she was singing ‘Happy Birthday’ over the birthday cake or at least suitable replacement of a one, she was coming up with a present. So every and each year Filippo was grateful for having her because he knew without her none of his birthdays would make any sense.

But that year Eleonora outdid herself. Completely.

Filippo came home from a university with a plan of getting together with his friends and going out, and the last thing he expected to see in the living room was Eleonora with Martino and their respective significant others singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in the most unsynchronized way he had ever heard.

“Look what we have for you! And no, you definitely didn't expect it,” said Martino, as he and Eleonora came up to him with something that was supposed to be Filippo’s present.

It was wrapped in a paper, but judging by the shape, it could be a painting. Or a large photo. Or maybe some framed poster. He looked at Eleonora and Martino suspiciously, but they only hurried him to unpack it, both seemingly impatient. That made Filippo unsure because Eleonora and Martino being excited over the same thing couldn't end up well.

Fortunately, he was wrong.

After he ripped off the paper, he saw a bunch of drawings drew on a framed bristol board. He quickly realized it was exactly what he saw among Eleonora’s papers some time ago – a bunch of drawings presenting one person in different cartoon styles. Except that there was no seven of them, but probably about twenty. And they were sighed, so he knew which drawing was made in which cartoon's style. Moreover, no black and white with small additions of red, but colorful, and made with much more care and precision. And they didn’t present Eleonora. They presented Filippo.

He carefully studied his own face in multiple cartoonish versions. Winx Club Filippo, Adventure Time Filippo, Simpsons Filippo, Flinstones Filippo, Sailor Moon Filippo... And in the middle of the frame, slightly bigger than every other drawing, was Filippo drew in unsigned style. Probably author’s own style. Elia’s style.

“And? What do you think?” Asked Martino, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. Filippo looked at him quickly before turning his eyes back to the drawings.

“It’s... wow, it’s great, seriously. I love it,” he said finally, his eyes tracing every drawing as if he couldn’t believe it was all him. It was a bit weird to look at his own face like that, but interesting nevertheless. “Did you get Elia to do that?”

“Well... yes. But we were helping."

“We just provided him with materials and occasionally some ideas,” commented Eleonora making Martino roll his eyes.

"Well, that's still some kind of help," he decided with a little shrug.

"I think we actually did him a favor, " Niccolò cut in, a mischievous look in his eyes. "He seemed to be quite eager to draw you. I'd say he enjoyed it definitely more than..."

"Oh, come on, Nico," Martino didn't let him finish, hitting his arm playfully. "The most important thing is that Filo enjoys it. Now let's get to the cake." That made Edoardo happy.

"Thank you! I went through a lot of effort to get a cake that has a rainbow both inside and outside. I want to see if it was worth it."

They all spent the whole afternoon eating and talking, but for some reason, Filippo couldn't get the author of his birthday present out of his head. He wanted to believe the reason for that was the gratefulness, but the truth was that Niccolò's words still lingered on the back of his head. He tried to ignore them, but they were coming back to him all the time. Finally, he decided it's pointless just to sit and think about it and decided to do something about it. He was feeling a bit stupid asking Martino for Elia's number to 'thank him for the effort and all,' but in the end, he got it, so he decided to at least try and see how the conversation will go.

After a third signal, Elia picked up with a simple “hello?” Filippo cleared his throat, suddenly feeling uneasy. He wasn’t even sure why exactly he wanted to call him in the first place. But there was no turning back. It’d be stupid to leave Elia hanging at the other end. Nobody liked dead calls.

“Hi, it's Filippo,” he said, but before he managed to add anything to that, Elia spoke up.

“Hi! How did you like the drawings?” He asked, seemingly excited to hear the answer. Filippo couldn’t help a smile forming at his lips.

“I love it, seriously. It’s amazing. Thank you so much for making it.”

“You’re welcome, I’m glad you like it. I’m not sure why Eleonora and Martino wanted so badly to have it as your birthday present, but I guess as long as you enjoy it it’s fine.”

“I’m thinking about hanging it on my wall, to be honest,” confessed Filippo, because he was, in fact, thinking about it. It'd be wasting art not to have it hanging on a wall.

“Woah, so much?”

“So much,” he nodded, even through Elia couldn’t see it. Then he decided to take the risk and try going a step further. It was his birthday, maybe he could get some birthday luck or something. “Listen... I thought maybe I could get you a coffee as a thank-you?”

“No way,” Elia said quickly, and Filippo wanted to punch himself for even asking that. Of course. But before he got to back off and say he was only joking or something, Elia continued. “That’s a present. You don’t need to get me anything in exchange. They asked me to do that, I had nothing better to do, I actually enjoyed doing it a lot, so I don’t need any sort of payment from you.”

“But still,” insisted Filippo, suddenly feeling brave again after those words, “I’d like to thank you in person. Don’t think about it as payment. Think about it as a... nice meeting with a receiver of your art.”

Elia’s laughter reverberated in his right ear and made him a little gooey inside. He closed his eyes to compose himself. That was interesting.

“Okay than. Let’s do that.”

-

When a week later Filippo was laying in his bed, Elia’s lips moving along his neck, Elia’s hand working on a zipper of his pants, Elia’s drawing hanging on his wall right above the desk, he vowed to himself he’ll never ever refuse Eleonora when she asks him to help her sorting her notes.

[squiddybeifong]

Retrieval, Chapter 6

Read on Ao3 here: 

And I send this off to @dyketectivecomics, go work your magic love ✨✨✨

--

Staring into Raven's room at Shadowcrest, Zatanna stayed rooted to the spot. Her sapphire eyes focused on her daughter, older than the previous memory but far, far more distressed. The mother’s throat dried up as she noted the sundress that her daughter donned, the stripes practically infamous in their little family.

And at the sight of that sugar-cookie colored dress, the magician felt true dread at the thought of where a memory would take her.

Hearing the quiet sniffles, she forced herself to take a deep breath, in through the nostrils, out through her mouth. Zee felt as the lingering heat on her back intensified and took a step forward, shutting the door behind her. The room dimmed as the light ceased, lit only by the dull gloom peeking in from the rain-filled clouds outside. The mystic took a step forward, quickly lifting her foot back up as a board creaked.

This version of her daughter didn’t seem to notice her intrusion.  

Instead, Raven softly tugged at her pockets and pulled out one of her handkerchiefs, a frayed cloth with carefully hand-stitched embroidery. She rubbed at her eyes and then replaced her fists with the fabric, sniffling as she hid her tears. Zatanna watched as her lips mouthed her mantra, the calming words eventually falling out in a near whisper, “Azarath. Mentrion. Zinthos.”

The magician reached out to put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, pulling back as Raven let out a shuddering breath right before they made contact. Zee licked her suddenly dry lips, silently admonishing herself for nearly disturbing the memory before it was ready.

At the near interruption, Raven seemed to pause for a moment, tilting her head until her hair fell away from her ears. Her fingers dug even further into the handkerchief, pulling it taut over her eyes. Her chapped lips trembled and a choking breath forced its way out of her lungs, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Zatanna furrowed her brows, her fingers digging into her pants. Certainly the memory wasn’t talking to her…

Before the mother could let her thoughts run away, Raven roughly swiped at her eyes. Another breath heaved out of her, this time morphing into a sob as the teenager dropped the cloth and desperately hugged herself, “You shouldn’t be here!” Her voice cracked as it raised, “You haven’t even apologized for this time!”

Her indigo eyes were still squeezed impossibly tight but Zee felt the whirlwind of emotions from her daughter’s memory. Anger, resentment, worry, the tiniest flicker of fear, and pain. So, so much pain.  

Suddenly, so fast that Zatanna could almost swear she felt her own chest constrict at the emotional whiplash, Raven's eyes snapped open and she calmed down, her face abruptly reverting to the precariously held stoicism that Zee had walked in on. Shaking hands wiped at her ruddy cheeks and the demoness softly began her memory, noisily sniffling as the tiniest flicker of light made its presence on the wall that she faced.

The very same wall that held a lipstick marked Wonder Woman poster, a permanent chip where her desk had scuffed the paint when she’d first decorated her rarely used room, and a printed snapshot of her parents, fast asleep on the couch and drooling in the least attractive of ways.

Something in the sorceress’ chest twisted at the picture, taken by the empath herself all those years ago; she and Constantine had been so exhausted after the whole Arkham exorcism ordeal, they’d practically fallen asleep standing up. But despite her own fatigue Raven knew that Mom and Dad were back together at least for the night and she… she hadn’t wanted to miss any peace between them.

Peace that seemed to be so rare when Raven was a teenager.

Peace that only happened after she and John had spent some time apart, with Raven switching between cities as they calmed down from whatever argument they had had.

Peace that couldn’t even make it past half of a family dinner.

And as such, any hope of peace was nonexistent here. It was obvious in Raven’s tear-stained face and her shaky breathing, in how her trembling hands clasped over her biceps in a hug, in how her fingernails dug into her skin, and so painfully obvious in the slightly stained sundress she wore, wrinkled near the hem from when she had clutched at the fabric as she listened to her parents’ fight for the umpteenth time.

Zee stayed crouched near the floor, watching as the demoness shakily stood and stumbled to her desk. The mother wearily followed her footsteps, peeking over her daughter’s shoulder as pale hands yanked open one of the drawers, pulling out an old journal. Exhausted, the teenager plopped down into her chair and rubbed at her eyes again, flipping to a yellowed sketch that had been taped onto the very last page.

A wave of sorrow crashed over the room, heavy and intense as Raven tenderly ran her fingers over a hand-drawn sketch of Giovanni Zatara, the pads of her fingers tracing from the lines of his suit to his mustache. Zee took an involuntary step back as her daughter softly greeted the illustration, “Hey, again. Uh-- Grandpa?”

The empath let out a humorless laugh, “Sorry, I forgot if we decided on Grandpa or not. But who knows,” Raven sat up and rested her elbows on the desk, every motion practically screaming of how tired she was, “You could’ve been a Pop-pop type of guy, huh?” Her lips curled as she failed to contain a snicker, “That might’ve messed with Dad, though.”

Raven smiled sadly at her grandfather’s grin, running her thumb over the long-dried inkstrokes that made up his bowtie, the gray streaks in his hair, the top hat that he proudly held in his hand, the blots of stars that made up the stage behind him. She bit her lip and sighed, “Sorry that I never come with good news.”

The picture was unaffected by her words and that seemed to open the floodgates. “They’ve been fighting,” Raven murmured.

Another chuckle, the sound somehow darkening the room and the specks of light that grew on its edges, “Again.” Zatanna wrung her hands together guiltily as her daughter practically whispered out, “I--I just don’t know anymore, Grandpa. I don’t even know what started this one!”

Unfortunately, memory or not Giovanni’s likeness did not speak; no condolences or advice were offered and the mother stubbornly blinked away the growing glassiness of her eyes. In the silence filled only with Raven’s trembling huffs, Zee allowed herself to wonder just where Raven had gotten a portrait of the mystic.

A bigger part of her wondered just how often her daughter had apparently visited Shadowcrest, just how many times she had confessed her worries to her only private connection to her grandfather, and just how long she had been internalizing her parents’ fighting.

As if on cue (so much so that Zatanna once again worried about how aware these memories were of her thoughts, let alone experiences that had already happened in the future) the empath spoke again, “Do you…” She paused and wet her lips, her fingers drumming against her arm as she brought the portrait up to eye level, “Do you think it’s me?”

Zee didn’t touch her daughter but leaned in closer, “Raven…”

The memory didn’t respond to her and kept going, “I know that a lot of their fights aren’t explicitly because of me, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder, Grandpa.”

Sapphire eyes slid shut and she let her head fall back onto the chair. Giovanni’s drawn eyes were somehow curious and she rambled, “You and Mom never got a chance to really know each other, I know… But do you think she ever,” Another pause as the teenager cleared her throat, letting words she had had fleeting thoughts about (but never, never allowed herself to even muse over) fall off her lips, “Do you think she ever regrets adopting me?”

A troublingly large splotch of light obliterated where half of the bed lay. Zatanna ignored the danger, wondering if she should interrupt the memory before it ended, lest her own heart be broken beyond repair.

“Do you think Dad does… at least sometimes?”

Too late.

Zatanna all but dropped onto one of the chair’s arms, her cheek resting on the memory’s temple. She touched Raven’s cheeks and wrapped her daughter in a hug the best she could, but the memory continued on, amending to her grandfather, “I… I don’t really think it’s true but sometimes with all the fighting…”

She sighed, the heavy breath making her shoulders slump, “It’s almost as if they’re staying together for me. Like… they need a proper time away but they don’t feel comfortable taking their hiatuses as long as I’m in the picture.”

The magician’s heart was practically dust at the passiveness that shrouded her daughter. No snarkiness of teenage years, no weariness of the weight she carried by being a superhero and a daughter split in two, no anger at the fact that she couldn’t confide in her parents about her insecurities as their daughter.

Just a lethargic acceptance of this particular aspect of her life, an emptiness that was extremely worrisome for a human, let alone an empath.

Hoping that the memory would address her, Zee admitted, “It’s not true, but I guess it does seem like that sometimes, doesn’t it?” Raven said nothing, even as her mother ran a hand through her hair, looking up at the room around them. When her daughter stayed silent she continued, “I thought you went to see Cass after this fight.”

“You like my outfit? I was gonna meet Cass after dinner but that plan’s shot,” Raven’s lips curled into a broken little smile as she ran her thumbs over her dress’ hem, tilting the journal so the portrait could take in her tear-stained ensemble. “Although, she probably would appreciate this dress better than you, Grandpa. She loves seeing me in spring colors.”

Zatanna’s fingertips laid on the empath’s stripe-covered shoulders, “I don’t understand; why won’t you talk to me? The other Ravens did.” Her sapphire eyes narrowed slightly as her daughter continued on, so casually that she wasn't certain the memory was improvising or of it had actually happened.

“I’ve told you about Cass, right? She’s great, Grandpa. I wish I could’ve introduced you two.” Raven licked her lips, her words hesitant, “She’s… she’s been talking to me, actually. About how I shouldn’t talk to you just yet.” Another pause and the teenager leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes as her mother’s cheek pressed against her own, “Not when you’re this close to the truth.”

Before the mystic could interrupt, Raven pivoted from the subject, “But, you know, Dad told me the truth a lot. When he was blackout drunk and it was just me and him.” She slowly bent the corner of Giovanni’s portrait, smoothing the paper half a second later.

Bending, smoothing. Bending, smoothing. Bend it again then smooth it over. Causing the mess and then having to fix it. Over and over and over again.

Her indigo gaze stayed fixed just under the Wonder Woman poster, not three inches from where a spot of light was slowly growing in size. “He talked in his sleep sometimes,” The demoness laughed, the sound terribly forced. More and more light ate away at the floorboards behind them and she dipped her pinky into one blinding splotch that consumed the drawer’s knob, uncaring as it burned her skin, “I didn’t like listening to him.”

No, burning wasn’t an adequate explanation. Not when the light seemed to pull the girl’s cells apart in near geometric blocks, as small as a clump of dirt. It reminded Zatanna of how characters disintegrated in superhero movies, nowhere near as real as the living memory that she now interacted with.

Uncaring of how the light sluggishly crawled up her finger and onto her hand, Raven mused to the picture, “It doesn’t count as eavesdropping if I’m just making sure my dad doesn’t die of alcohol poisoning, right?”

The sketch of Giovanni Zatara moved, its eyes crumbling white as the corners started to succumb to the blinding light. Raven smiled.

Zee pressed closer to her daughter’s shoulder as she turned to the opposite wall, her stomach dropping as the light completely consumed the other half of the room. Finally, as if aware of the magician’s growing concern, Raven turned to her mother. Her indigo eyes were shiny yet dull, containing a million emotions, accusing and pleading and guilty all at once.

Her chin tilted to the window and the untainted clouds that lingered beyond it. “That light’s already taken the door. The window’ll have do.”

She turned her attention back to her now-obliterated pinky and that white splotch of light, uncaring as more and more light crept up her arm and around the room. Zatanna rushed to the window, her steps hesitant and completely stopping as her daughter spoke to her back, “Even though it’s never happened, I always rationalized it to myself, you know?”

The memory cleared her throat, “That all the smoking and drinking would catch up to him before a broken heart could.” Raven laughed, the sound flat and devoid of all humor as she added, “You’re already so stable… and I figured if Dad could deal with all this fighting and lying then I could too.”

Zatanna ran her tongue over her teeth, “Your father’s strong, Blackbird.” She glanced over her shoulder at the teenager, worriedly noting how close the light was getting, even if its route was abnormally slow compared to before, “So are you.”

“Yeah, well,” Her eyes met Zatanna’s again, a spark of life that reminded the magician that despite all of this she was getting close, “You know I'm going to fix my family. You need to fix yours.”

Zee nodded and climbed onto the windowsill, blinking down at the endless expanse of dark rain clouds. Raven’s room at Shadowcrest wasn’t too high up, but this memory made Rapunzel’s view seem like child’s play. She couldn’t even pinpoint exactly where the clouds morphed from rainy gray to pure darkness. Her sapphire eyes flicked to her daughter then she immediately moved her face away, her mind racing as she immediately tried to forget the image of Raven slowly being consumed by white light.

Still, none of this made sense. Why was the light moving so slow? Did lingering, did having a conversation with her daughter really speed up the memory’s timer that much? Maybe the heart-to-hearts would have to wait until she found the lost memories after all.

Or maybe Raven was telling her to just watch for once.

But even if one of her ideas, even if all those theories were true, just how long did this memory last? Surely not as long as Raven’s conversation with Jason, right? The knot in her stomach wretched as she noted the light creeping up from the brick foundation of Shadowcrest. Not as fast as in the library, but enough to cause alarm. Especially with such an endless drop awaiting her.

Whether it was the panic that thoroughly spread through her chest or the thought of a past memory, this version of Raven decided to speak to her directly. Softly, even though she must have been burning from the light already, Raven (not the memory; her Raven) said the words to spur the sorceress out of her overthinking and into action:

“Please, Mom.”

Those words made that dark expanse beyond the clouds seemed familiar. Not true darkness, instead an inky shadow, the type that could come out from underneath a cloak in magic tendrils; something inherently dangerous, but nothing that would ever cause her harm.

A blackness that could very well host four red eyes if it truly needed to.

Her throat dry, Zee swallowed as Raven’s voice sounded in her head, “Fix this.” Sapphire eyes squeezed shut and the mystic let go of her grip on the ledge. Her daughter’s name on her lips, Zatanna took a deep breath and let herself fall.

[fictionadventurer]

Father Brown Reread: The Invisible Man

In the cool blue twilight of two steep streets in Camden Town, the shop at the corner, a confectioner’s, glowed like the butt of a cigar.

There are no colorless skies in Chesterton’s world. Never just twilight--it’s blue twilight.

Nowadays, you’d never see “butt of a cigar” used as a positive comparison.

Chesterton really loves London. I’m reasonably well-versed in English authors of this time period, and I can’t think of any who go into so much detail about the neighborhoods of London.

He was a tall, burly, red-haired young man, with a resolute face but a listless manner. He carried under his arm a flat, grey portfolio of black-and-white sketches, which he had sold with more or less success to publishers ever since his uncle (who was an admiral) had disinherited him for Socialism, because of a lecture which he had delivered against that economic theory.

This guy ticks a lot of boxes on the Chesterton Romantic Hero list. Red-haired, artist, involved in publishing, has Opinions about Socialism. (It’s the second story in a row involving a Young Socialist in Love).

His name was John Turnbull Angus.

And he almost deserved it. 

(Not a commentary on his character. I just can’t resist the reference.)

“...I mean, what is all that?” “A ceremonial meal, Miss Hope.” “And what is that?” she asked impatiently, pointing to the mountain of sugar. “The wedding-cake, Mrs. Angus,” he said.

Smooth, John Turnbull Angus.

No one writes engagement scenes like Chesterton does. I’ve been grinning like a lunatic through this whole scene. This rivals Michael Moon’s proposal to Rosamund.

“But after all, these freaks were my friends in a way; and I had a horror of their thinking I refused them for the real reason, which was that they were so impossibly ugly. So I made up some gas of another sort, about never meaning to marry anyone who hadn’t carved his way in the world. [...] The first thing I heard was that both of them had gone off to seek their fortunes, as if they were in some silly fairy tale.

I’m both slightly shocked and impressed by Laura. She admits that she’s shallow, but she’s horrified to think that anyone would think she’s shallow. Intriguing little paradox. At least she’s self-aware.

To be fair to her, I think she refused them for more than their looks. If these guys have nothing better to do than hang out in the bar all day, I don’t think they’re great husband material.

And once again, a Father Brown story has become a fairy tale. We’ve had fairy tale elements in all of the stories so far.  

You know the sort of thing: ‘Press a Button--A Butler who Never Drinks.’ ‘Turn a Handle--Ten Housemaids who Never Flirt.’

A fascinating look at a societal structure that’s very foreign to us today. It smacks of horrific classism--they rely on humans to do their work for them, but view them as vulgar, immoral, low-class people who are much better replaced by machines.

“Well, my dear,” said the young man, cheerfully, “if he were Satan himself, he is done for now you have told somebody. One goes mad all alone, old girl.”

This seems like good general life advice.

“Yes. Just when I had finished reading the second letter from Isidore Smythe announcing his success, just then, I heard Welkin say, ‘He shan’t have you, though.’ It was quite plain, as if he were in the room. It is awful. I think I must be mad.”

Shades of The Phantom of the Opera. I remained surprised by the heavy Gothic influences in the Father Brown stories.

“...I know an extremely clever fellow, who has set up in business five minutes from here in your car. His name’s Flambeau, and though his youth was a bit stormy, he’s strictly an honest man now, and his brains are worth money. He lives in Lucknow Mansions, Hampstead.”

Flambeau’s still using his criminal alias? That doesn’t seem like a smart plan for a reformed man who wants to live in peace.

His youth was ‘a bit stormy’? That’s a bit of an understatement, after several stories discussing his audacious crimes and legendary international status.

Also, is he living off of the profits of his crimes? He’s living around the corner from a millionaire. I can’t imagine that the detective business pays that well.

“I use them in my own flat,” said the little black-bearded man, laughing, “partly for advertisements, and partly for real convenience. Honestly, and all above board, those big clockwork dolls of mine do bring your coals or claret or a timetable quicker than any live servants I’ve ever known, if you know which knob to press.”

This story takes place in a weird steampunk version of London. As far as I know, real-life automatons never had practical purposes.

But of course, with Chesterton, even the sci-fi-like elements are only important for how they comment upon human nature. The automatons serve as the story’s important thematic symbol.

These were the only human shapes in that high suburban solitude; but he had an irrational sense that they expressed the speechless poetry of London. He felt as if they were figures in a story.

Fourth wall: shattered.

They had two great hooks like arms, for carrying trays; and they were painted pea-green, or vermilion, or black for convenience of distinction; in every other way they were only automatic machines and nobody would have looked twice at them. On this occasion, at least, nobody did.

Foreshadowing for the ending.

These servants are stripped of their humanity, mindless machines placed in the house to complete preset tasks. Their colors--like uniforms--are bright, but only serve as markers of their function.

Mr. Flambeau’s semi-official flat was on the ground floor, and presented in every way a marked contrast to the American machinery and cold hotel-like luxury of the flat of the Silent Service. Flambeau, who was a friend of Angus, received him in a rococo artistic den behind his office, of which the ornaments were sabres, harquebuses, Eastern curiosities, flasks of Italian wine, savage cooking-pots, a plumy Persian cat, and a small dusty-looking Roman Catholic priest, who looked particularly out of place.

This is exactly the sort of apartment that I’d expect Flambeau to have.

I LOVE how Father Brown is described as if he’s one of Flambeau’s decorations. Flambeau’s precisely the sort of person who’d hang out with a priest for the Aesthetic. Of course, it’s not the only reason, but I think he finds it a gratifying bonus.

“Yes, I think it will keep clear,” said Angus, sitting down on a violet-striped Eastern ottoman. “No,” said the priest quietly, “it has begun to snow.”

Already, Father Brown is showing that he’s more than just a piece of background scenery. We can’t even get through the small talk without him proving someone wrong.

“Father,” said Flambeau, after a pause, “upon my soul I believe it is more in your department than mine. No friend or foe has entered the house, but Smythe is gone, as if stolen by fairies. If that is not supernatural, I--”

Really, Flambeau? How did you make it as a detective? Five minutes of investigation and you already jump to a supernatural conclusion? You can’t think of any other explanation? Maybe someone climbed up to a window or something? Seriously. Put a little thought into it.

When those four quite honest men said that no man had gone into the Mansions, they did not really mean that no man had gone into them. They meant no man whom they could suspect of being your man. A man did go into the house, and did come out of it, but they never noticed him.”

See, Flambeau, these are the types of things you should be considering.

This theory is true enough. But once they noticed the footprints and started discussing the “Invisible Man”, wouldn’t someone have mentioned, “Oh, yeah, the postman walked up to the house”?

Then again, if they ignored the postman while he was there, they probably forgot all about him after he left, so the footprints would still be puzzling.

“Nobody ever notices postmen somehow,” he said thoughtfully; “yet they have passions like other men, and even carry large bags where a small corpse can be stowed quite easily.

And here’s where the themes of the story come together. It’s a commentary on class.

We have Smythe with his mechanical servants that replace living, breathing people with machines--literally dehumanizing the work that they do.

And then there’s the postman--completely invisible and stripped of his humanity, so long as he’s running on his track and completing his assigned task.

But the postman's humanity drives him to torment a woman and murder a man, and his working class role makes them overlook him as no more than a machine who couldn’t possibly do anything outside his assigned task.

But Father Brown walked those snow-covered hills under the stars for many hours with a murderer, and what they said to each other will never be known.

I have chills.

Rather than giving us the expected ending--handing the murderer over to the police and securing justice--the mystery story ends with another mystery.

This is what I love about Father Brown--he doesn’t dehumanize anyone, not even murderers. Even murderers have souls, and they need saving.

[asabaijan-blog]

Last week I had to finish up this little skybison baby in a rush, as the friend of mine who requested this had a birthday party on Saturday. I’ve been sort of putting this up but the birthday was such a good opportunity to give it to her that I decided to hurry it along. I’m glad I did, she was really happy, as handing in the commission was totally on a whim for her and she kind of forgot about it, so it was even more of a surprise than I anticipated :)

I actually spent a lot of time hunting for the perfect fabric for this project and hence have a kinda big stack of it lying about now. It had to be a really fluffy one and I wanted to have it a really soft off-white that had to go with the brown I wanted to go with so I was kind off limited in my options which didn’t work very well with the very limited colour range off plush where I live :P Luckily I could use up some of my fabrics from my stash for the belly and the face, as I had a really nice soft nicky from my totoro sweater, a metallic jersey from an old platypus project and random alcantara which I’ve used for the first jacket I’ve sewn (wonder if that still fits me...)

The pattern I basically eyeballed. I knew I wanted to be really close to the reference, but it varied a lot depending on the picture you looked at, so I took a few artistic liberties, especially concerning the amounts of stripes on his back. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better for me to work off a good pattern I’ve really thought through all the way then improvise it on the go. I have a pretty good feelings for geometry and patterns, but when it comes to the executing projects, I usually power through a lot so I have to have a solid base to work from and have to have a plan, otherwise I tend to make rush decisions that don’t work out as well as I’d like to. It worked out fairly well for this one except for the muzzle, which did turn out slightly more ruffled than I intended, and the eyes which aren’t perfectly symmetrical because I sewed them on in the subway to the party :P. I first sketched out the pattern, which actually was done month ago and then I tranferred it onto paper in the right measurements (again eyeballing them in about the size I needed) carefully labelling every part with which part it was and how often I needed it in each fabric.

Then came the cutting. And admittedly, it was tedious to pay attention to the direction of the hair in every single piece I cut, cutting it out in a way that I wouldn’t cut away any of the hair I might possibly need  later on and then lie it out on my kitchen table so I wouldn’t confuse any of the pieces. This I think really saved a lot of time and frustration for me (and made for really nice pictures too :))

When I had everything cut up and ready, it came to deciding the order of sewing. Luckily I had thought this out before too, so it was just a matter of pinning it together (again paying attention to tucking in all the fur) and then hand sewing it all together. There were so many individual little pieces that I figured hand-sewing would actually be faster and tidier than doing it on the sewing machine. The only exception to this were the panels on the belly, which were made from alcantara and hand-stitching them would not have looked as tidy as I’d have liked it to (my machine didn’t like the fabric though and decided to skip stitches ever so often so I had to redo parts of it by hand anyways).

Making the arrow on the back was definitely the most rewarding part of the sewing process. I’ve never made anything like it and was so happy how it turned out! And I was really really hesitant to move on to the face as I feared it would mess everything up (Which ALWAYS happens, when I haven’t prepared everything beforehand...). At that point I hadn’t fully decided how to approach it and it was a bit tricky as there were different fabrics which all had a different stretch so in the end I opted for keeping the eye part and sewing the rest of the face in fake fur as the shape would be much more consistent and puffing the muzzled up would actually be easier when I would just sew it on top. So then I had a solid base to work from. At Friday way past midnight. And Saturday was a working day.

On the morning in the subway I decided to take things easy; there were only the (already premade) feet to be sewn on, the muzzle, the nose and the (already premade) eyes. So I spent my lunchbreak doing that. But I only managed the feet and the upper lip and as I really wanted the pieces to sit exactly where I wanted to, I opted to stay in a bit after work and finish up as much as I could there. So I sat there with all the colleagues who were already in weekend mode, sitting around with their beer stitching away in a frantic hurry, because I was already late for the party XD and turns out the colleague of mine who set next to me was a massive avatar fan XD He kept stealing glances at the little skybison and when someone asked what i was actually making, he chimed in “it’s appa!” almost in awe! XD And when I was leaving I gave the toy to him to hold for a bit and he was very happy about that too :)

So when I left, I had the nose and the eyes left to sew on. Good amount of sewing for a subway trip. XD The elderly man who sat across from me was a bit buffled I attempted it though tbh. Maybe also due to the military pocket knife I used to do the cutting XD Due to my stress the eyes, as I’ve already mentioned came out a bit wonky, but I think it’s not too noticeable and he still looks really adorable! I had opted to paint the eyes too and had also brought the colours with me but unfortunately I completely ran out of time for that too XD

All in all I’m absolutely happy with how this one turned out! And my friend is absolutely over the moon about it too, which is the most important thing!