#than the one i'm drawing from; it's very likely you'll be confused by at least some of the characterization

[medicinemane]

It does make me wonder about... about people's comprehension as a whole, where it's just like... somehow you've failed to understand the basic premise of the question and by going off on an unrelated tangent you've done nothing

It's like if someone asked "I'm allergic to beets and I don't really like yams, was there another option I could use for that recipe?"

And the person responded "I agree, I don't really like yams either, that's why I usually use beets"

Or it's like the post where the person was lamenting not having disposable income enough to even afford an impulse buy of something like a mug, and everyone gets hung up on giving them tips to buy mugs, when... the mug was clearly an example, the problem they're complaining about is too tight of a budget

It's not just reading comprehension either, because I'll experience this in face to face conversations too, even with very intelligent well educated people like therapists (my really good fit therapist I could say "that's not what I want to talk about", and she'd just be like "cool", and we could get to what was really the problem on my mind that week)

I'm sure I do this too, but like... I at least think I do it relatively rarely at least compared to the times where I've just taken a stab at inferring what someone's feeling based on what they said and having them go "exactly", and at least I usually am willing to just stop in my tracks if someone says "no, I'm talking about this"

Then you've got the question of why people do it, and the easy answer is just "oh, something something intelligence", but... lets say for a second that the majority of people are just plain stupid... well then that's how it is and you have to work with it anyway, but I really don't think that's it

Maybe it's just that we all get so fixated on our own lives and our own values that it's hard for people to stop viewing things through their own personal lens, and that makes it hard to engage with what's actually being said

Maybe it's something totally different... I don't know... there's just a huge communicating issue these days and... and I don't like it

[moonsaver]

Almost a kiss, Always a breath

How close life is unto death. Almost a kiss, but always a breath.

With only about a month left to live – your previous guardian angel, Robin, has been replaced, as The Family decide to assign you one that's more "suitable" to your need. Guardian Angel!Sunday x gn!reader CW/TW: reader is chronically ill, and there's descriptions of how painful it is (a little gruesome) but the actual illness is left vague for self insert purposes. Mentions + implications of childhood abuse, death (reader), lesbians because i just wanted it A/n: As much as I'd have loved to make it Seraphin x reader, Sunday is just a guardian angel who has a more biblically accurate appearance. also it's about just a bit over 11k words. sorry for the delays! ______

"You can stay out here."

You turn halfway to face Sunday, the pair of wings over his eyes firmly shut, the other two pairs slightly bristling at your words.

“I have been assigned to you for a reason.”

You glance at the bright entryway of the boutique in front of you. People would definitely notice something was off. No one can ignore someone like him. At least, they’d sense something would be off.

You turn back to face him. Your hesitant silence seems to spur him to continue,

“I shan't interfere.”

He smiles. You don't think it's genuine. You look up at the various eyes embedded across his halo and wings like jewels. They stare back.

Have they ever blinked?

You shake your head,

“No. Stay out here. You'll scare people.”

You stand your ground firmly, your body facing him entirely now. He hums, his smile vanishing from his face.

“Is that so?”

“It is so.”

You reply, and it's followed by silence.

The corners of his mouth perk up slightly, before it's met with lesser and lesser resistance, eventually letting out a wholehearted chuckle.

“I can promise, truly, I won't interfere, nor draw attention. Nothing like the scene at the hospital.”

You sigh.

—

“Sweet mother of..”

You keep Xipe's name out of your mouth, sitting up on your hospital bed as fast as you can, ignoring the jolt of pain in your body from the sudden movement, as your eyes train on the figure in front of you.

The man is clad in white – a suit, to be specific – and seems to have started his day much earlier than you.

“I thought Robin was..”

“The Family has decided otherwise.”

You stare at his covered eyes, only to glance over at the plethora of his.. other eyes blink at you; wide and all-seeing, surrounded by clusters of feathers. A pair of them bristle as you continue to stare, and he clears his throat, drawing your attention back to his (wing-covered) eyes. His halo is golden - just like Robin’s, except.. Bigger. And sharper.

“I'm– I think my intentions were very specific, so why on Earth do I have a Seraphim looking after me?”

“The Family decided the timely course of your fate required an assistance of much.. higher capability.”

You scoff, the covers crumpled under your hands as they clench.

“Robin was adequate– no, more than adequate.”

“I would be aware. I expect nothing less of my sister.”

“Your–?!”

This day couldn't get any more confusing in the mere 15 minutes of it's starting, really. A Seraphim. Sent to be your guardian angel. And he has a sister by some biological miracle.

As if he senses the question you are about to ask, he says,

“Let's focus on a more dire topic.”

He neatly sets down his cup of finished tea on a surface – you don't care enough to check; too busy glaring daggers at the man – a few of his other eyes peeking over at the cup in your stead.

“ugh, great.”

 You groan and plop onto the bed on your back with an ‘umpf', then cringe as the pain shoots up from a plethora of nerve endings on your back.

Sunday continues, regardless of your pained expression, an artificial smile plastered on his too human-like features,

“Roughly 2 weeks. That is all.”

He gets up, and walks with measured steps to the side of your hospital bed, his eyes (in multitudes) staring down at your not-so intimidating glare.

You click your tongue, your eyes zoning out for a moment before they settle back on the teacup he'd just placed down.

“Since when did Seraphims like..?”

“Coffee. It helps, I've found.”

“Found?”

He opens his hand towards you. You awkwardly look at his gloved palm before he speaks to clear your hesitance again,

“Let us continue to whichever place you wish to visit.”

You look at his hand again, now with a dull glaze over your eyes, a plethora of thoughts glooming over your mind before another one of his (unsettling, you may add) eyes catch your attention, breaking you out of your saddened trance.

You breathe out, taking his hand,

“Fine.”

—–

And so, that led you here.

You pick out a dress, then shuffle through the stacked hangers to find your size, as Sunday patiently stands beside you, his obnoxiously white suit out of your vision by your request as to “not blind you.” But you can't necessarily explain about that to someone who covers their eyes for.. 90% of the time, you assume. Regardless, he obliges.

You turn to hand him a few of your clothes to hold, but watch as he stares at a distant baby. Their face is red and swollen, presumably from having cried for a while. The tears in their eyes confirm the suspicion. You look back at him, curious as to what he could possibly find fascinating about a red-faced baby.

..what the fuck?

You observed his eyes – the conglomerate of them making a weird sensation bubble under your skin as you watch all of them blink in succession.

You sigh, for the umpteenth time, making him turn to you. You look at Sunday with a strangely confused expression, as Sunday’s cautious hands pry the clothes from yours. You shift your eyes to see the baby look at you two once again with a face as confused and perturbed as yours.

“You’re lucky not many can see you.”

“Yes, it is fortunate.”

You continue browsing through the selection of clothes, politely waving off any staff member that seem to force themselves to help you regardless of the strange aura they felt around you.

“I’m trying these on. You stay right..”

You reposition him, hands on the sides of his arms as he complies.

“Here.”

He stands, in all his glory, in front of a kids’ indoor playground.

“The changing room is too far from here.” Inquisitively, that seems to be the only trouble Sunday faces, and not the curious glances from a few children making weird faces at his eyes on his back.

“It isn’t. It’s just a few picks, I’ll be back soon.”

He seems to stay silent, although his (unsettling) smile is no longer on his face, which reads him as more intimidating instead.

You shake your head, and then turn to walk over to the changing room.

——

A scream.

It rips through the chill, calm atmosphere of the store, warranting concern from a few employees situated around the changing room,

“I-Is everything okay-?”

“Yes-! Sorry, sorry, Im just–”

You hurry, and shuffle the floating eye into your bag, your hands fumbling with the buckles and buttons.

Why was there an eye in your bag in the first place?

Turns out Sunday sent one to stand right dab in front of your stall to ensure your safety in, probably only his opinion – a minimal way. You screamed the moment you opened your door and found a floating eyeball in front of your stall, before realising only that Seraphim was capable of doing such a thing.

You internally let out a beautiful, colourful string of curses, presumably to beat some sense into him, as you wrestle with the bag that's flailing in your bag like an animal caught in a potato sack.

“Stop, stop, Xipe damn it-!”

You bring the bag up to your face, glaring down as the singular eye looks up at you with an unreadable glint from the soft fabrics of your bag,

“If we get caught I swear I will–”

“Uh.. is everything okay?”

You jolt watching the door slightly move ajar as one of the employees gently signal their presence,

Shit, you forgot to lock it!

It wasn't your fault - you were about to step out when you were delightfully greeted by an eyeball, and in your hurry you must have forgotten to lock it.

You throw a sheepish smile towards the door, hiding your bag behind you. You're aware it looks like you've stolen something, so you take a deep breath and pat your bag, careful around the bulge of the eye inside.

“I'm okay, I- I just uh.. saw a cockroach.”

“A cockroach-?!”

The employee gasps, immediate words of apology on the tip of their tongue, but you stop them before they can continue. You swing open the door, having only grabbed a single item as you rush past the employee sputtering on their words, politely dismissing yourself as you beeline to Sunday.

––

You did, thankfully, find Sunday where you left him.

You stood a bit of distance away as he came into your vision, making sure to count the number of his eyes, blinking a few times and recounting to really make sure – who knew staring at his eyes for so long would make you dizzy?

By then, the eye in your bag only nudged a few times, but nothing more than that. On the way you realised there might have been no need for the commotion, considering people can barely see Sunday as is, let alone (one of) his eyes. You sigh tiredly at the thought, but brush it off.

You walked over to the small barricade surrounding the children's indoor playground and observed.

Sunday is crouched down, watching intently as two young girls clack their (very distressed) barbies together, making up drama on a whim. Sunday seems deep in thought, occasionally piping up to add his own additions.

Ookay. You need to stop this.

You sigh, running your hand over your face before calling out,

“Sunday!”

His head turns to look at you, then gets up, unassumingly as though he'd not been getting in on local gossip from girls.

—–

You sigh, pushing off the shoes from your feet as you sit back down on your familiar hospital bed, the door of your room clicking as Sunday ensures your privacy.

“Do you plan on going somewhere?”

“Tomorrow, actually. Since we have enough time, I'll take it easy.”

He hums, merely in acceptance, as he sets down the small bag your recent purchase was in.

“Oh, also, c'mere.”

You motion him to come closer.

“Closer.”

He steps closer, your knee almost grazing against his thigh,

“Closer.”

“Any closer and I-”

You grab his tie and yank him down eye level,

“Do you know what happened in the dressing room-?!”

You sputter out, the embarrassment returning to you as you recall the flustered employee's voice,

“I.. cannot say I do.”

You grab your bag, and out comes bursting an eye.

Ah. He felt something was amiss.

“I was fine on my own! Seriously, if you wanted to check in you could have just walked over! Which guardian angel just casually sends an eyeball of theirs-?!”

“Ah, but I did not want to overbear—”

“I would have preferred that, instead of your eye hanging in front of my stall like a Christmas tree decor!”

…

“Noted.”

You sigh, watching the eye float and join the conglomerate of his, wink at you, making you blink, unimpressed.

——

“I wanna be buried…”

You hum, looking over the green, slightly bumpy landscape, and point to under a tree.

“There. That's perfect.”

Mei seems to take your words in stride, despite the depravity of your humor. She chuckles softly, and turns to you,

“I'm sure it's possible.”

“D'you think I can get one of those colored, glass tombstones?”

“Hm, slightly difficult..”

“Oh please.”

You nudge her shoulder, making her softly chuckle again. Both of you gaze over to the distance, the plot of land sparsely filled with tombstones of other strangers you've yet to know about from Mei.

If the purple haired woman knew anything about you – it was that you adored stories. She never considered herself the best storyteller, but you'd convinced her enough to tell you anyway. Occasionally her companion would join in, greatly elevating the storytelling atmosphere, but for the most part, it was just you two.

Mei, who would tell you of each person she'd buried. Carol, 98, a lovely grandmother. She'd always smell of pie and something herbal – always sure to drop off tea wherever she went, the dull packets that rattled whenever she'd placed them down with her shaky fingers. Only her daughter's side of the family visited. 

Nico, 17. His father comes every weekend to clean his tombstone. He had a green thumb. His gravestone had the most beautiful flowers around him.

Razalina, a mysterious woman who you'd been waiting to hear about from Mei, before Robin was shortly replaced. Your health got worse and Mei urged you to take a break. You miss the flavour of the tea Mei would serve for you two. You wonder how it would feel to drink it for the rest of your life until you'd grow to be 98.

There was a morbid comfort in having a friend as Mei. Acheron – the term suited her. A gentle, sorrowful, but greatly respectful and polite woman who took care of the dead. A mortician you'd gotten familiar with on a whim when you'd bumped into her somewhere. She was going to bury you, and you'd let her with delight. You imagine there was a sort of trust and intimacy in that. She would clean your organs, and lay you to sleep on the naked Earth. There was certainly intimacy in that.

“A wardrobe change, hm?”

She quirks an eyebrow, her words still slightly hushed in caution to not even possibly offend you.

“Thought I'd try something new.”

You kicked a stray rock, looking down at your newly bought clothes, then back up at Mei.

“Went shopping with someone yesterday.”

“Finally let you out of your enclosure?”

“Ugh, for once, thankfully.”

She hums, walking alongside you with a leisurely pace, her gaze drifting over the cloudy sky,

“I'd expected Robin to come with you. I don't think I was able to continue onto the next story with her.”

“Yeah, I did too..”

You look back at Sunday – still following you two a few ways behind, waving as you and Mei observe him for a second.

“quite a character.”

You nod, simply, continuing to look at him as Mei's steady eyes train on you for a moment.

“Scared?”

“No. Never have been.”

…

“Good.”

Mei's assurance was quiet, almost relieved. She turned ahead and continued, and you followed her.

——

The cloudy weather only seemed to thicken with humidity and the threat of rain as the sky dimmed with time, and Mei was kind enough to end the story on a reasonable cliffhanger, making you giggle in your seat.

“There's never enough time, really..”

You say, between your soft chuckling. It always felt like time passed by unfairly fast when you sat with Mei as you used to.

She hums, smiling, her finger circling the rim of her cup,

“Tomorrow will come, so have faith.”

Have faith in a tomorrow. It would have left you breathless had you not heard it from Robin before. You glance back at the Seraphim behind you as if to confirm Robin really wasn't looking after you anymore.

You bit your lip for a moment at the agitation as the thought bubbled in you, before looking back up at Mei and returning her gentle smile.

“Alright. I'll get going. Take care, Mei.”

She nods, getting up with you, as you gather your items and walk up ahead a bit.

Mei turns to Sunday, and mutters something out of earshot.

——

You're tired of this.

You get up once again, in pain. It shoots through you, and pulses in your body. It continues to ebb and intensify with passing moments.

You stifle a groan, biting down on your chapped lips and swallow thickly, a bead of sweat forming over your eyebrow as you clutch yourself in pain. 

No one else is awake.

You zone out in pain, the only sound in your ears of the heart rate monitor beside you picking up slightly. The pain renders you almost still. 

This pain. This all too familiar ache. You despise it, and yet you don't. How many events have you had to skip or leave because of it? How many times have you turned down hanging out with your friends over it? It angers you. It's as though inhabiting a scrawny animal who claws at your insides for nothing. How many hobbies, pastimes, hell even careers, have you missed out on because of this? The all to familiar sight of your friends’ slightly pitiful gazes burns your mind, almost making the pain in your body worse as you squeeze your eyes shut–

A hand.

Your eyes open, suddenly aware of the cold sweat forming on your back as you turn your head to look at the hand on your shoulder.

Sunday. He doesn't seem to be donning any gloves this time.

His hands are pretty. The thought floats through the top of your mind like oil on water, the pain pulsing in you barely letting you cling to the present.

“Are you in pain?”

You lick your lips, shallow breathing carrying the response you wish to say. He hums, the noise almost soothing.

His hand moves and rests on your back, the warmth of his palm more comforting than the sweat making your skin shiver. He doesn't seem to mind the fluid sticking to his own skin.

For a moment, you feel the warmth increase, before it dims. Everything dims. The pain ebbs away, making you breathe out shakily, your tense muscles eventually relaxing. His hand slides to your wrist as you lay back down, fatigued from the midnight bout of pain.

“Better?”

You blink a few times, a futile attempt to appear more alert and less affected from the episode. There's a bit of water in your eyes – you didn't notice, but it's nothing you're concerned about.

You turn your head slightly to him, your eyes looking up at him as you ask with a hoarse voice

“How did you do that?”

Sunday hums, his fingers moving from your wrist to your palm, drawing soothing circles in the middle of it as a comforting gesture.

“We are equipped to absolve a bit of your pain. This is our duty. This is how we become pure.”

“Pure?”

His head isn't turned to you, instead a bit low, as he leans back in his seat. He breathes out.

“Purification happens through only a few means. Absolving you of your pain is a major way to do it.”

“But it hurts.”

“It hurts.”

His hand gently squeezes your hand.

“But you are feeling better.”

“It's not fair.”

His head turns slightly to see you. Your watery eyes only become more teary. Frustration, hurt, sadness, anger. There's a scripture in your face as he scans the furrow of your brows, the tears in your eyes and the chapped, dry blood on your lips.

And the silence settles between you two. A tender sort of hurt in the night air as he folds his fingers around your hand. Your eyes trail to his plethora of wings. Pairs of 3. They're beautiful. You watch the conglomerate of his eyes closing and gently blinking, almost lulled to sleep. His golden halo hangs a little lower than usual – sharp, yet elegantly prudent. The ones on his wings covering his actual eyes stare back at you.

You're beautiful. The words stay choked on your tongue like a regretful prayer. Your eyebrows relax, and your jaw unclenches.

Sunday smiles, watching your tear filled eyes close with sleep.

–—

Your shoes click as you circle around the fountain, watching the carved figure in the middle pour out water from various sources. 

Your padded shoes come to a slow halt, followed by Sunday's polished shoes right behind.

“Do you believe in wishes?’

“Hm..”

You shuffle through your bag, picking out something silvery. A coin.

“Yeah. Like.. a wishbone. A shooting star. An eyelash.”

You hold up the delicate coin, but Sunday's attention is trained on your face.

“We find wishes and stories everywhere. If you could.. what would you wish for?”

You gently grab one of his hands, and press a coin in the middle of his palm. He seems to have forgone his gloves once again.

“I am incapable of–”

“It's hypothetical. Come on.”

He hums, glancing at the coin, and then at the fountain.

“I'd like more coffee. One that is flavorful, deep and complex.”

You chuckle and shake your head,

“Be a little more creative. Just coffee?”

You pick out your own coin.

You suppose you were a bit unfair to him. What would you explain about walking to a whale in it's depths? About flying to a mammal accustomed to it's faithful footing? About crawling to feathery or scaled wings?

You throw your coin.

I wish for freedom.

Sunday hums again, pondering deeply.

“Ah, but if I say it out loud, it won't come true.”

“Aww..”

He chuckles, pocketing the coin.

“Let us proceed.”

He holds out his hand to you, and you eagerly accept, intertwining your fingers around his as you walk alongside and make small talk

“They've been struggling to walk and do basic tasks. Look after them.”

Mei's voice rung out in his head for a while, like a record playing over and over in an empty ballroom.

“You can see me.” He says matter-of-factly, instead of a question, after a moment of contemplative silence.

“I'm intimately familiar with death.”

He stares at her distant look for a moment.

“..I have my duties.”

“Sure. Take care of them. Please.”

–—

“Sunday, it's okay–”

A small gasp escapes you as he yanks you a bit closer,

“Watch out for the pothole.”

“The cover?” You look up at him almost in disbelief. 

What on Earth has gotten into him?

“Careful.”

He pulls you aside again, ‘assisting’ you to dodge a very obvious, very blaringly red fire hydrant.

“Ugh, okay, wait.”

You halt, Sunday stopping in his tracks ahead of you as your limp hand refuses to move with his in grasp.

“you don't have to babysit me. I'm not going to keel over if I step on a rock or something.”

“Nonsense, I'm simply fulfilling my duty.”

He turns to you completely, your hand still firmly grasped in his, as he looks down at your troubled face.

“You weren't this.. protective.”

“Hm, something must have messed with your memories. Here, let me–”

You gently swat away his hand that reaches out to you,

“Sunday, relax.”

You both stay silent for a moment. You breathe out,

“Okay, here,”

You step closer, and shake your hand out of his firm grasp, but loop your arm around his, and gently pat his bicep with your other hand.

“Better?”

He stays silent for a moment,possibly surprised for a moment.

“Better.”

He smiles at you, and you return it, both of you continuing forward.

——

“I want a garden. As big as possible.”

“Is that so?”

You kick around a small pebble, stepping on a slightly raised stone platform before looking up to gawk once again at the priceless view – the field of tulips making you stop for a moment.

“Mhm. I want to grow as big of a garden as I can. I've always wanted to.”

He chuckles softly, following your gaze out into the vast tulip field, before returning back to you.

You almost belonged here.

The entire gorgeous tapestry of you. Blending into the delicate backdrop like a painting. He's seen a few portraits in museums that could at least come close to the vision.

“I want to paint.”

You turn and look at him, Inquisitively, as he says so, almost surprising you.

“Really?”

He fully turns to you, and holds out a flower for you to see.

A carnation.

“What do you want to paint?”

You glance back up at his covered face. He steps a bit closer, and places the flower in your hair, moving a few stray strands from your face as he does so.

“A garden.”

You giggle, and the sound blooms in his heart.

“What kind?”

“A big one. With as many flowers as there can be.”

“Sounds pretty.”

He hums. You are, He thinks.

——

Sunday hates the rain.

There are many things he hates.

Overrun schedules, late appointments, rushed deaths, overbearing contracts, unruly protectees, a bad cup of coffee, bright lights.

And the rain.

Both of you pant and huff – you especially – running to hunt for any cover, the pattering of your feet almost matching the rain's rhythm.

Sunday's hand is tightly grasped around yours as he leads you to a small cover; a small awning, the grip so firm you notice the middle of your palm is still dry when he lets go to check you over.

“Are you alright?”

Sunday scans you over, stepping to the side to examine you more, a supportive hand on your back as you continue to catch your breath. You can predict the next bout of pain is gonna be worse. But you shove that thought aside as you nod, turning to face him, wiping away some of the rainwater dripping from his chin.

“You're soaked.”

He hums, disregarding the obvious nature of your remark, his fingers wrapping around your wrist as he counters,

“You'll get sick.”

He raises his head slightly to glance over you, gauging something.

“We're closeby, let's just run–”

“No.”

Sunday shuts you down firmly. His tone doesn't allow more room for argument.

He sighs, running a hand through his own wet hair as he contemplates on what to do. You try to scrunch up a bit of your clothing to squeeze out the water, and do the same with your hair as you wait for him to continue.

“I'll be fine–”

You try to softly negotiate, but Sunday takes off his blazer, swiftly putting it over your shivering shoulders, before wrapping his arms around you and–

“Ah- Sunday-?”

You breathed out, almost a gasp, as he pulls you in. His shirt is thinner from the water still soaking it, but the warmth of his body (of which you become too aware about) relaxes you almost immediately. You hesitate for a moment, until Sunday quietly sighs into your shoulder. Your arms hesitantly wrap around his waist, tucking your face into his neck as well. Your bodies exchange warmth, and the water seems to help hold the heat better than before.

“I despise the rain.”

Sunday's muffled voice resounds into your clothes and skin, and you giggle at the ticklish sensation of his lips.

“Really?”

He nods

“Why?”

“Alters too many things in the schedule.”

“Ah. I see..”

He sighs again; a puff of breath warming– almost burning your shoulder.

You stay that way for a few moments longer, before you speak again;

“Sunday?”

“Yes?”

“I want to do something.”

He stays silent, as though waiting for your initiative. You loosen your grip, and he pulls away at the indication. You take a moment as you scan his appearance – nothing resembling the once pristine, well kept man you'd seen the first day in your hospital room. Bits of his blue hair stuck to his skin like waves latching onto the shore, the feathers of his wings adorned with raindrops, the blurred effect of his halo under the rain. Your eyes travel a bit lower; his tie is slightly crooked, and his shirt is see through and..

You clear your throat, blinking and turning your gaze away to the pattering rain.

“I've wanted to.. um..”

Sunday's fingers brush against the side of your face, turning your attention back to him.

He brushes away a few strands sticking to your wet skin. His fingers are cold.

Your hands gently grasp his, encasing it, your thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

You slowly turn, and walk backwards, his hand still encased in yours as you step into the rain, watching his hesitant steps follow you.

You both stand under the rain, the water cradling your skin and washing away your previous efforts to dry off. Your hand intertwines with his, and your other hand rests on his shoulder. He places his other hand on your waist.

You smile, but he still seems hesitant. For a moment, you both stand, simply looking at each other. 

As if to reassure himself, Sunday leans down, and gently presses his forehead to yours.

Your smile falters for a moment, your expression replaced by that of surprise, but when Sunday grins, your confusion floats away. His hand squeezes yours as both of you sway and dance in the rain.

–––

“Is everything okay?”

Or at least – that's what the curious look on your face might say.

Sunday retracts his hand from the water of the fountain, gently flicks it, before wiping it with a handkerchief, drying it off. He sits half turned to you on the fountain's edge.

You stand with an umbrella and a (familiar) floating eye in tow, changed into warmer clothes and dried hair, washed of the rain's scent. 

Sunday had temporarily stepped away while you were showering to visit a smaller fountain closer to where you stayed. He was acutely aware the coin you'd tossed wouldn't be here. 

Always standing. Never approaching. That was how he'd describe Gopher Wood.

Right where you are.

Dressed in black like a curse that followed him – ravens in corners of buildings and lurking from above muddied puddles. Always in the distance, fog following him like a haunting widow, the backdrop of the mist etching him further into Sunday's mind. A hollow that spasms like a missing organ.

“These are necessary measures” he'd say. “Are you afraid?” He took delight.

He took delight in it.

“Sunday?”

Your voice, soft and grounding, snapped him out of the small trance he was in.

“My apologies.”

He says, picking up his folded blazer as he stands and walks to you,

“I have to check your temperature and–”

“Stop, stop, stop. Hold on.”

You hand over the umbrella to him, and shuffled through your bag to pull out a warm and fuzzy towel.

Sunday simply observes you for a moment as you hold the towel in your hand. He tries to reach out to take it with his other, but you pull away. He looks at you hesitant and confused, as you motion for him to lean down.

Carefully, your hands bring the towel to his head, and cautious of his wings, you gently dry his damp, blue hair. He hums, his wings shifting and bristling from the contact at first, before relaxing. 

“You could have told me.”

“You wouldn't let me.”

“I wouldn't?”

You huff,

“You talk too much.”

“You're the one who cuts me off quite often.”

“Touchè.”

Your hands stop for a moment, looking over at his ruffled hair half dried by the towel. One of your hands brushes away some of the hair that sticks up onto his face.

You wish he'd let you see his eyes.

“What colour are your eyes?”

His throat tightened a bit. He'd hate to deny you if you asked to see them.

“..gold.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

You stayed quiet, simply looking at the soft feathers of his wings, your hand moving from his face to hover around the pairs behind his ear, you look at him, and he nods, giving you silent permission.

Your hand gently cards through one of the wings’ feathers, careful to not poke any of the eyes, wiping away any wet edges of his feathers.

“..You're pretty.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.”

You back away, your hand retracting and pulling away the towel but Sunday is a bit faster, his hand grabbing your wrist and immediately stilling you. You both stand for a moment, breathless, and silent.

…

“I.. I'll wash the towel.”

“Ah, it's okay..”

He insists, silently, although his originally urgent grip on your wrist loosens a bit.

You end up obliging, letting him take the towel.

He could feel your pulse. Do humans have normally quick heartbeats?

–—

“Brother!”

Robin grins, ear to ear, proud of her handiwork as she holds up her fingers, sticky from the dampness of the water and the sweat of her small, clammy hands. The water dips into the chubby curve of her elbow, threatening to go up further but dripping down into the water instead, rejoining the gentle flow. 

“Robin, that could be dangerous! We don't know what those plants are..”

Sunday cautions his sister, voice untethered but soft with naivety and youth. His feet remain hesitantly restless on the muddy edge of the small river bank.

She only offers him a closed eye grin, before trudging her short, stubby legs in the water, walking back to the soil where she descended from, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth in concentration as she was cautious not to slip.

“It's for you!”

“M-Me?”

Robin's wet hand reaches out to Sunday's, gently prying his soft palm open and placing a soaked flower, making the water drip from his rounded knuckles. Some of the water seeps into the edges of his sleeves, but not more than a few centimetres.

“It's the flower! From the book!”

“But it's not real..”

“It is! That's why it's white!”

Sunday looks down at the flower again. It looked dreadful, in a way. Like a drowned rat – if he knew he could describe it that way. But from the rambunctious effort of Robin's chubby little fingers having wrestled it out of the water, it looked..

perfect.

It was beautiful in a sense. The white petals were (almost) unmarred, the stamens gently swayed with the soft draft that carried with cloudy weather, and the stem was still slightly rigid.

Robin's handiwork was pretty.

“You mustn't run off like that.”

Robin flinches, and clings to Sunday's back, as he turns to the source of the voice.

His eyes first see shoes. Black, polished, unmarred. Never touched by filth. Then crisply ironed pant legs. Then up, up, and up, until his little neck strained.

Father.

Or what was left of him.

Gold rimmed glasses. A rosemary always adorning his neck.

Sunday's original thoughts, back then, had been none of these incriminating feelings. They'd been quiet. So silent and afraid, as though his father would hear if he thought too loudly.

“What do we have here?”

The man leans down, but it does less to make him non-imposing. He might prefer it, that way. Sunday notices the gentle tinker of his rosemary as it moves forward with his father.

Robin's clammy hands now clenched the soft fabrics draped over Sunday's small back, cowering behind him. His loud, messy sister. His determined, bright sister. Dimmed by the clouds and fear his father brought.

If only he reached out to choke his father with his rosemary right then and there.

—–

“I wish u could have made it ://”

You stare at an old text – probably even forgotten by the sender. The tears make the digital screen a bit hard to read momentarily as it fills up your vision, but it gets easier after they settle on your waterline. 

It's these quiet nights you realise how much company you're missing. Like an artist painting the negative spaces in blotches to carve out the image – texts and hidden whispers like these carved out the loneliness you'd fester in yourself.

Something stirred you awake. Maybe it was the constant lingering pain that threatened to push it's usual threshold. Maybe the constant beeping of the heartbeat monitor.

Or that Sunday wasn't here.

Not even his eye. As unsettling as it was – you missed it a little. You sigh, pushing yourself up and sitting on the edge of your familiar hospital bed, careful to not agitate the pain more by accident. You push off the bed, and walk a bit hunched, pulling a shawl over yourself and deciding to go out and search for him for whatever reason.

At least, it's a better way to pass your restlessness than going through old texts. Walking at night didn't seem as bad of an idea – at least within hospital grounds.

––

Sunday remembers the world.

Or what he wishes to remember it as.

Cold, stony alleyways. Unforgiving nights. Merciless fog. A sun that never shines.

Not upon those like him anyway.

His Father – always standing. Never approaching. The fog surrounding him was the same. Always at a standstill.

Until something broke that.

There it was. Blood, seeping through cracks in the broken pavement of the ground. Almost inky from the murkiness and filt that seeped into it.

That was the first time he saw his Father's shoes marred.

“This is necessary, child.”

The Raven perched on his shoulder would bristle a bit, but not more.

No, it wasn't.

“This is our duty.”

It isn't.

“You will have to do what it takes.”

Sunday felt impossibly small that day. Like a fawn's leg caught in a bear trap. As if his surroundings grew a size too big and left him behind like a borrowed sweater. He was always more frailer than the other kids.

He wonders if that's why his father broke him so easily.

His little, golden eyes peered down, lost in thought and terror. He learnt how to ground himself at a tender age.

There was grime under his shoes.

Grime in the cracks of the pavement.

Grime in his father's affections.

He was never pure.

——

You couldn't find Sunday.

Forget that – you couldn't even walk.

Pain shot through you the moment you stood up, making you gasp and breathlessly sit back down onto your bed. Your throat constricted – you couldn't tell if it was from the pain or the frustration.

The frustration that had been ebbing and chipping away at you; second by second, hour by hour.

“I can't make it”, “I'm not feeling well”, “The doctor said..”, “I probably won't.”,..

“It hurts.”

Your lungs tremble, before sucking in a breath. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you hunch forward, glaring through the blur of your festering emotions at the sterile tiles of your hospital room.

The tapered off conversations, friendships fizzled out, disappointed looks.

You weren't blessed. By some being, or some cruel fate, or so on and so forth; it felt like if anything, you were created to be tortured. Like flimsy, rotting meat on a metal rod. Pain was more familiar to you than the crevices of your hand, weak with the trembling in your bones from all the feelings you couldn't even name.

“I wish you could have made it.”

That pulls a sob out of you like a hooked wire piercing and pulling through a fish's throat, making you double over as more continue to bubble past.

You were meant to be tortured; you choke on your spit, and sob past the coughing.

Why? God, just why? Fall to your side and curl up,

Why couldn't you be blessed? What did everyone else have that you didn't? Why weren't you blessed? Why couldn't you be free? What godforsaken sin had your soul committed? What did your fate have in store? What did you do?

Why you?

Burying your screams into the pillow, the ugliness of your reality was softened by it like an interrupted fall from a height.

You cry until your vessel is empty.

Until you feel you've carved a hole out of yourself from the middle.

What it would take to be blessed, you wonder. Your hands clench to your chest, and your heart throbs to live despite.

–

Sunday returns late.

And he returns quietly.

You look up, puffy and tired eyes meeting the wings where his are supposed to be.

He stands idly at the opened door. Blood stains his visage. 

You breathe out, your face warm from your previous bout of sobbing, and don't utter a word. Sunday walks– limps to your side, almost paddling his way, before slumping down into the chair beside you. Some of the eyes besotted on his halo look tiredly at you.

You sniffle. He stays still. You presume he's looking down at the tiled floor.

Your hand comes up to rub away at your sticky face, and soon Sunday's own hand comes up to cup your face when yours retracts.

You lean into his gloved hand, disregarding the grime and the strong, metallic scent. He leans forward, and presses his forehead against yours.

His hair are soft against your forehead. You peer into the deft feathers of the wings that firmly shut over his eyes. Your own hands gently cup his face, closing your eyes. After a moment, he shifts, his face moving to bury itself into your neck, his arms moving to wrap around you, a bit too tightly. He stays tense for a minute, then relaxes into your hold.

You both stay like that for a while.

—–

You woke up feeling under the weather the next day. Which was ironic, because the Dawn has never looked as beautiful as it did that morning.

In fact, you don’t even remember how you managed to sleep. 

You look down emptily at your hand – as though you awoke from a coma induced dream, reminiscent of the warmth that was under it just a night ago.

Just then, your door creaks open. Sunday enters with a small box, and stills for a moment before his face breaks into a gentle smile.

“Ah, you're already awake.”

He says, softly, careful to not disturb the peaceful atmosphere the morning sunlight had casted in your room with you two. He walks over and sets the box on your bedside table.

“What is that..?”

“Paint.”

“Oh. Wait, what?”

He leaves, and a few moments later, you hear a soft grunt in the distance, followed by some wood creaking. Finally, Sunday seems to be able to maneuver whatever he'd been handling and it comes into view as he brings it in;

An easel, and a canvas already set on it.

You smile, at his struggled and awkward movements as he carefully handles the easel inside.

“You wanted to paint.” You recall, propping up your pillows and lazily leaning back onto them.

“I did.” He says, his smile returning to his face after the slightly troubling task. He pulls a chair and sits in front of the canvas, adjusting and pondering over the position of it until he was satisfied.

“What are you going to paint?”

“You.”

“Something more original please.”

“With lots of care.”

“Hm? What?”

You chuckle a bit, Sunday puffing a smile at your seemingly lightened mood.

“You should rest for today. We have a few necessary tasks to look into, aswell.”

You yawn, turning your head to look at the morning sunlight brightening up your room.

“Sure. What are they?”

You hear a clack – the lid of the box having been pried open with a bit of difficulty, as Sunday rustles with the paintbrushes and paints.

“A few things regarding your previous experiences with The Family, reviews, feedback and complaints..”

Ugh. They wanted you to drop a review?

You sigh, stifling a groan as a hand runs down your face. Sunday chuckles, softly,

“I'll take care of the writing part, just answer the questions.”

——

“Hm, how curious.”

The lavender-haired woman stirs her tea with dainty, carefree rhythm, the spoon clicking against the ceramic of the cup as she peers down at the cards on the table.

Mei sighs, her hands folded on her lap as she stares at the golden liquid, occasional vibrations making it ebb the slightest bit.

“He doesn't seem.. angelic, does he?”

Black Swan ponders out loud, her hand picking up and flicking a few tarot cards,

“There's something about him. It feels off.”

“Relative to his sister, even I'd think so.”

The woman smiles lazily, her dawn colored eyes looking up at the purple haired woman in front of her.

“You're quite worried.”

“..I suppose, it's obvious.”

Mei's eyes flit up as she hears movement, followed by a lazy sigh from the woman across her.

Thin, manicured nails faintly brush against her skin as Black Swan holds her hand, her lithe fingers feeling the ridges of her engagement ring,

“And here I’d have thought you’d been more excited to see me back.”

Mei puffs out a prudent chuckle, her hands manoeuvring to hold her lover’s.

“Alright. Care to give me a reading?”

The dawn-eyed woman flicks up a card.

The Hanged Man.

Acheron’s eyes follow the swift movement.

“Let’s see what’s in store.”

——

Sunday thinks he's cursed.

Dirtied, marred. Absolution is in store for the sinners, and exorcism for the cursed like him.

Who dirties the divine? Who damns the dirtied? Whose hands marr purity?

Gopher Wood was not a man of purity. Grime-stricken hands that crawled up from the depths of hell to pull fragile minds into an abyss.

He inlaid a curse upon Sunday – that must have been it.

Why else would he not be able to look at him?

Head down, child.

Sunday's little feet would shuffle together, sweat would stick to the small flicks of his short hair on the back of his neck, eyes fixated on the grimy, cobblestone path under his polished shoes.

Follow my lead. Do not go astray.

His hand would tightly grasp onto a few fingers, barely gripping onto the firmness of the man's hand with his little, clammy ones.

Do not look.

Sunday stops. His heart beats a bit too fast for his tiny body.

Do not ask.

A bead of sweat tickles his skin as it rushes down the side of his temple.

Do not speak.

Tears would bubble at the corners of his eyes, hands red and swollen from being hit for every verse he got wrong. For every word he could not muster out from his throat that was raw from childish blubbering through cries.

He would not speak of him.

“Sunday?”

He holds his breath.

You scrutinize at the pamphlet in your hands, before aiming it towards him and pointing at a word on it.

His hand remains stiffly held in the air, the tip of the brush barely grazing against the painted canvas.

“What does this mean?”

His chair creaks as he leans aside the canvas to take a look at the word you pointed at.

“Ah. Exorbitant. Something unreasonably pricey.”

You make a small ‘o’ shape with your mouth, looking over the sentence again in better understanding.

“How's the painting coming along?”

“It's..”

Sunday takes a moment to glance over the painting.

The sky is barely painted in – it’s embarrassing how much detail he's put into your figure standing among the flowery field, however. The looser ends of your outfit billow among the sunlit garden, a wide smile etched upon your face, flowers adorning your arms in bunches as you try to hold the huge bundle.

“It'll take some more time.”

“Can I see?”

He hesitates. You smile.

“You.. can, however.. I'd like to keep it a surprise.”

You nod, softly,

“Okay. I'll see it when it's done.”

Sunday returns your smile. You continue reading the pamphlet. Sunday takes the time to admire the curve of your lips against the backdrop of sunlight through the window.

–——

You suppose you should have seen this fever coming.

You curl up further on your side, tapping away at a laptop on your hospital bed, putting on a show and huddling further into your additional blankets provided by the hospital. It helps provide background noise in case you want to zone out.

“Hm.. fever of.. 38°C.”

Sunday plucks out the thermometer from your mouth, before placing it on your bedside. His methodical hands mess with various sachets of medicine before neatly presenting a few of them on his open palm.

“You'll need these.”

He hands them over to you, along with a bottle of water. You eat your pills and settle back into your bed with a forlorn, disappointed sigh. Sunday only fixes your covers and tucks you more into bed.

Your eyes trail over to the canvas behind him, covered by a cloth, as Sunday dabs your sweaty forehead with his handkerchief.

“When can I see it?”

He hums, a bit in thought, as his hands continue to gently dab away the sweat on your skin.

“In a bit. I have to add a few details.”

“Okay.”

You close your eyes, your weakened body pulling you into sleep as you feel the sensation of Sunday's lips press on the corner of your brow.

And that was the last you'd seen from Sunday.

Not that you're upset – of course not. He's a Seraphim. He surely has much better things to be doing, really. You can't imagine it must have been easy gaining such a status in the first place. And then having to look after a sickly human in the last days of their life? Work must be drab to him.

That being said, you do wish he'd at least tell you where he is.

Your eyes drift over to the overcast weather outside your window.

You hope he took an umbrella with him.

——

“Sunday.”

“Mr. Wood.”

Sunday's voice is sharp – he doesn't bother coveting the offensive edge.

“You've been astray for too long.”

…

Silence.

His gloves creak in protest as his fingers dig into his palm, curled fists at his side.

His smile remains stiffly on his face as one of his gloved hands pushes up his glasses.

“Surely, do you think such blasphemy is tolerable within the Family?”

“I–”

“Im asking, child.”

Sunday breathes out, strained.

“I didn't mean to–”

“Such excuses do not work–”

“Stop cutting me off.”

Sunday's voice wavers at the end. He feels his heart pushing into his throat. The raven on the man's shoulder only bristles, the smile on his face unwavering under the shadow of his black umbrella.

“..You haven't changed, little sparrow.”

Sunday's jaw clenches more. But before he can speak, thunder cracks in the background. His head snaps to look at the distant skies covered by heavy clouds.

It smells like rain.

––

“Take responsibility. Take responsibility for all you have done!”

Sunday's voice cracks through the strain on it. 

To respond is to acknowledge. He knows that filth won't respond. But he tries anyway.

He and his sister – they weren't sinful. They were children. They weren't filthy, they were confused. They weren't sinners, they were hurt.

They were children.

Through countless tortures and rotting, had Sunday realised his training was nothing but an escapist projection of his Father's own fears.

The fears his Father could not absolve in himself – he would, through the raw, blistered hands of a child that did not know better.

Or perhaps it was enjoyment. Or to fulfill his ego. To bolster his position as the shoe that grinded on dirt like him.

Perhaps all of those reasons.

Children with clammy hands, who plucked flowers and grabbed too tightly onto the swing, with scraped knees and a face that basked in the innocence of an eternal Sun.

Children, who were perfect to hurt, for monsters like him. Monsters like him who revelled in the pain of the innocent in lieu of unproven salvation. 

By the time Sunday yells his throat raw, thunder bellows in the background in equal magnitude, the rushing rain doing little to calm his heated face and drowning out the pattering of your feet as you rush to find him in front of the fountain where you both had made a wish.

“Sunday!”

Your voice calls out in the distance, his head snapping to you.

You shouldn't be out here.

He turns to embrace your approaching figure in the distance, his feet thrumming and moving to meet you in the middle, but before he takes a step–

“Do not move.”

The words still his bones. He breathes out, watching your slowing figure, swaying from the fever. Water sloshes lazily along his polished shoes that leaks out from the overfilled fountain. You'd wished for freedom here.

“Do not defy.”

He bites his lip, his teeth gnawing the flesh and drawing blood. He kept his wish in his pocket.

“I have commanded you, child.”

He will always be a sinner.

A sinner who is undeserving of a salvation as beautiful as yours.

“Your thrall is fizzling out.”

He smiles, and Sunday wishes he could rip his teeth out.

You sway, stopping to catch your breath, feeling yourself almost lose balance before steady arms wrap around your body.

“You're soaked!”

You whisper, feeling the dampness of his suit as he pulls you into a hug.

“We need to leave.”

Sunday leads you back, ignoring the weakening tether of his divinity.

Sunday looks back for the final time – a lonely, black umbrella in front of the fountain, it's owner seemingly vanished.

——

You heave, as Sunday helps you back onto the bed. Somewhere along the way, your body only grew weaker. You feared something worse when you could barely feel your pulse, but the way your legs seemed to almost stop working by the time you reached your room, it was already true.

Your figures shuffle as Sunday paces around the room, trying to find extra blankets and covers provided by the hospital, cursing under his breath as he knocks over a few items, some getting caught in his leg. You try not to pay attention to your failing body, but its hard to ignore how much deja vu you're getting right about now. Only this time – the pain is worse. The chill running up your spine at your spike in fever is nothing compared to the cold that's slowly chipping away at your fingers, and the pain in your body is reaching an all time high, making your breaths come out in labored gasps. It feels like a scrawny animal trying to rip out of your body.

He hurries over to you, swaddling you in blankets and sheets in layers, furiously rubbing your arms as he tries to warm up your body from the biting cold of the rain. Thunder strikes through outside your window, and in your fever haze, you catch a glimpse of the painting Sunday had meticulously made. He must have accidentally pulled the cover while pacing around.

Sunday calls out to you, snapping you momentarily out of your haze, but not completely. You were losing consciousness, and fast. His voice is shaking, despite how much he tries to appear calm. 

He knows.

But you can't bring yourself to pay attention. Things float over your mind like an ephemeral dream, your eyes only focused on the golden sunlight of the painting.

There's Sunday. And you. The garden is beautiful, and the sun illuminates your hands, reaching out to each other.

The gold is beautiful.

“Hey..”

You call out, making his panicked actions stop abruptly. His hand cups the side of your face, so gently, as if you're porcelain under his hand.

“What is it?”

“Sunday..”

Your hands tremble, moving up to hold his face, your fingers brushing away stray droplets from the edges of the wings over his face. The pain ebbs in you, and you recognize the familiar action as you sense it dimming, coupled with the sweat forming above Sunday's scrunched up eyebrows. He's trying to salvage this pain.

“Can I see your eyes?”

Sunday breathes out, leaning more into your hands. His hands move from supporting your back to your shoulders, gently pushing you back onto the bed, but his forehead presses against yours. 

You can feel his trembling, cool breath fan the lower half of your face, his own hands clasping over yours. The pain starts decreasing terrifyingly fast, making you afraid of just how much Sunday is trying to take it from you and into himself.

“Sun..”

Your voice whispers out,

“You don't have to–”

“I love you.”

The words hang between you two. You hear the faint sound of him swallow. There's dried blood on his lips.

“I love you too. The painting is beautiful.”

Sunday sucks in a breath, his wings bristling at your words. You feel your hands slowly lose strength.

His wings move. You see his eyes.

And they hold the most beautiful, striking golden Sun.

You're caught breathless for a moment.

Sunday's hands are still clasped over yours as they loosen and threaten to fall away from his face. You sense the trembling in them as he fosters your pain.

“I'm scared.”

His eyes close, eyebrows scrunched in worry and uncertainty.

“I'm here. I always have been.”

“I don't want to die.”

Sunday shifts, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead,

“Wherever you go, I'll follow you. There is nowhere you will go that I won't reach you.”

You close your eyes, tears roll down the sides, and Sunday kisses them away, continuing to whisper against your skin,

“I promise. I'll find you. In every universe you are painted into.”

You smile, laughing bitterly through your tears, your voice cracking a bit,

“You didn't make a wish, you know..”

Sunday presses his forehead to yours, his hand fishing out the coin he'd kept from his pocket in a hasty manner. He holds your hand, and gently places the coin in the centre of your palm.

“Because this will be a promise. I will follow you unto the borders of fate. Wherever you will lead I shall look to.”

You smile, through your tears,

“It's not fair. It's not your wish.”

“It's mine. And I am yours.”

He kisses you. His lips are soft against yours. You can taste his blood.

“I will always be yours. In death, if not in life.”

His hands encase yours. You feel the ridges of the coin press against the inside of your closed hands. 

You die in love.

He is a curse; a man rotten by the grime of his humanity, and thus he turns to you for the salvation of his divinity. But how insignificant such a thing is to him  – He cannot bless you, so he curses you. You who were never blessed now face the miracle of an angel like him. A miracle crafted by the defiling hands of a sinner that cursed you for love.

And he shall follow you unto death like one.

——

Acheron thrums her fingers against the cool counter of her desk, her eyes trained on the register in front of her.

She doesn't know how to tell a story.

Not yours, anyway.

Black Swan hums in the background, fixing the frame over the wall,

“You doubt yourself too much.”

Mei stays silent for a moment, then sighs. Her office chair creaks as she leans back in it. A few moments of silence, followed by a soft peck on the bridge of her nose. She opens her eyes to see her wife's, the woman slightly leaned over her.

“I'll be home late. I promise I'll spend more time with you soon. I just..”

Black Swan hushes her, her fingers lazily tangling themselves in the woman's violet hair. 

“I know. You have a long day ahead, isn't it?”

Acheron sighs again, closing her eyes, remembering your body in the morgue. Just about a few hours ago, when the rain was hitting it's hardest, she and her wife had taken a relaxed break. Black Swan had drawn some predictions for her, and the sounds of thunder had soothed her troubled mind back to a still pond. 

She opens her eyes again, and watches the precipitation on the window, the gentle sunlight peeking through the breaking clouds, the sound of rain coming to a slow halt. She watched a raindrop sliding off of the leaf of a plant right outside her window. Black Swan has already returned to her own devices behind her.

In just a few hours, you'd been alive. By the time the clouds broke apart and the rain stopped, so had your heart.

And here you were – back with a story of your own, instead. Acheron wishes she was better at storytelling. She hopes her wife can do it justice.

She turns halfway in her seat, looking back at her wife.

“..do you mind.. lending me a hand?”

The lavender haired woman only hums in response, the clicking of her heels as she approaches her again. She places three cards on Mei's desk.

“Which one calls to you?”

Mei takes a minute, analysing the duplicate designs of each card's back. She taps on the one on the left. Black swan picks it up.

“that's good.” She hums, closing her eyes for a moment, before opening them and looking back at Mei,

“But I mean, you. Which one really calls to you?”

Acheron hesitates once again, before tapping the middle one.

“Perfect.”

——

“You were right.”

Mei says, before gently blowing on the hot liquid in her teacup,

Black swan hums, lighter at the end, questioning what Mei was mentioning.

“That painting looks better in the centre.”

At this, the lavender-haired woman's mouth makes an ‘o’ shape, before curling into a smile. She flicks a few cards before gathering and tapping the bundle on the table to even them out.

“It does. Aren't you pleased I'm looking after your office decor?”

Mei only hums in response, looking over to the said painting hanging above her office chair, her face hidden by the sunlight of early morning.

“Someone ought to have helped with such a..”

Black Swan trails off, perturbed by the sterile, clean look of Acheron's office where she has yet to make changes.

Mei only laughs under her breath at her words.

“You're right.”

Black Swan's gaze joins her lover's, as she looks to the painting aswell.

The golden sunlight peers through the tender reach of your hands with a certain, blue-haired angel. The same angel who was buried beside you.

“Ah, look.”

Mei looks down at the table, following her wife's fingers, as they tapped on the table.

“What do these cards mean?”

“Take a guess. Tell me what you feel from these.”

Her hand lands on Mei's – slightly coarse from her line of work. Her lithe fingers trace the band of her engagement ring.

“Something.. new. A fresh start.”

She smiles. Her dawn-colored eyes trail to the sidewalk just outside, watching a pair of lovers walk hand in hand under the newly uncovered Sun after the night's rain.

——

“Morning.”

You whisper, leaning down and gently kissing the corner of your husband's brow. He sighs, and shifts, burying his face further into the pillows. It's soon followed by arms that move under the covers to wrap around your waist, forcing you to stay seated beside him. You simply chuckle.

“Goodmorning.”

He replies, his voice soft with sleep. You ruffle the soft tufts of his blue hair.

“Sleep well?”

“Mm. I..”

He opens his eyes, half lidded and blurry with sleep, looking up at you. You both stay silent for a moment.

“I had a long dream.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

He sighs, before slowly sitting up, and burying his face into your neck, and then leaning his body weight onto yours, making you lay down on the bed.

Hm. So this is how it's going to be.

You know your husband too well to know this is going to turn into a drawn out cuddling session. Your hand raises and brushes through the soft, blue locks. You're giving in anyway, because who are you to deny your lover?

He only holds you impossibly closer at that.

“I made coffee. It'll get cold.”

He hums at that.

“It's 10 in the morning, you dork.”

“Ah, didn't notice.”

You roll your eyes playfully, leaning down to press a chaste kiss on the top of his head. He presses a kiss to your neck in return.

“You haven't shown me your painting yet.”

He stays silent. But then, he shifts, his arms hesitantly letting go of you.

That seems to have gotten him going.

He gets up, and shuffles out of the room. A few moments later, he returns with a small canvas wrapped in a cloth. He hands it to you, then returns to sit beside you, burying his face into your neck once again.

“Wrapped too, hm?”

“It's your birthday.”

You smile. He leans over and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your brow.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“You haven't even seen it yet.”

You unwrap the cloth from the canvas. Your smile only widens at the painting.

There you two are. Your house is behind you two, and there's your garden that you've painstakingly taken care of.

You chuckle, pointing to a few, scattered reds across the greenery,

“You included my carnations.”

His hand comes up to wrap around yours, before bringing it up to his lips, and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Of course I did.”

You set the painting aside, before getting up and stretching, popping a few joints.

“Come on, I'll make you some fresh coffee.”

You reach your hand out, and he takes it, getting up on his feet as he lets you lead to the kitchen.

———

There's a strange shop that you've recently discovered.

It pops up just about whenever, wherever. A strangely elusive personality culminated by the repeated disappearance and the mysterious purpose of the shop tends to pull you in.

You had visited the shop before – but the memory is fuzzy. You don't remember having anything you'd like to buy. Photo Albums, mirrors, tarot cards, polaroid cameras, antique equipment and trinkets, and strange candles. It was when you were on your way home from work that you decided to take such a detour. Perhaps.. that must've been what it was. Regardless, you decided you'd want to visit the shop again with your husband.

The opportunity was pretty perfect; your schedules aligned, the weather was considerably not so miserable, and you managed to find the shop in time.

It's a bit of a chance opportunity, considering how your husband has taken a liking to a bird that recently ended up in your backyard – the poor thing was scuffled. It's wings were broken and it barely survived through the night you two found him.

Ever since, he'd been collecting photos and capturing the little thing's recovery, bit by bit. 

You smiled to yourself, humming in contentment as your arm was looped around his snugly, basking in the warm glow of the early Sun, walking in a leisurely pace as your husband continued to flick through photos on his phone.

The weather was especially nice today – the rains had stopped a while ago and the time window was perfectly in between cold breezes and a warm atmosphere. You eyed the gentle swaying of newly sprouted weeds and grasses, a thicket of flowers and so on, at the edge of the sidewalk connecting to the wall of a barrier.

The wall would end a few ways ahead, replaced by (slightly worn) fences, as the rest of the land came into view the more you two walked ahead. Your husband would occasionally fill in the silence with little facts he would remember of, while you scanned the vast scenery of the green land behind the fence.

It was a cemetery. The tombstones were warmed by the Sun – or you at least think so, the way a cat seems to be lazily draped over one. There's a hugely amassed tree a few ways up the tombstones, and there lay two solitary ones, just enough distance from the tree for the light to reach under and illuminate them. 

You wonder if they're warm. You wonder if the grass is soft, and the dirt is coldly comforting. You wonder who they were – lovers, spouses, friends. Perhaps they were holding hands through their graves. Another cat sprung from behind one of the tombstones, gracefully approaching the one asleep sunbathing, stomping around the little flowers growing beside the specific tombstone.

You see them greet each other. You see the cat lovingly bathe the sun-kissed one. It's tail lazily draped over the tombstone flicks, drawing your attention to the name. Nico. Below it, reads, Have faith in a tomorrow.

The fence cut the sight a little short as you two walked ahead. 

You think for a moment, almost disregarding the smallness of the thought amongst other things in your head.

“Ah, I don't think I've shown you this one.”

Your husband speaks, leaning over to show you a spontaneous photo of you on one of your dates. You both had taken a detour and rested near the fountain. That must have been when, as you smiled, looking at the photo.

But the thought still lingered quietly in your head.

To be woven so delicately and strongly into someone else's tapestry, until the strings frayed long after your deaths.

What it would take, you wonder.

———

Akin to your habits of detours, and keenly aware of your likings, your husband politely guides you to a cafe you two had visited once (he, thankfully, does not mention the audible growling of your stomach. Coffee is not a good, neither a fulling breakfast.)

You two spend a handful of hours there, simply relishing the downtime you two have together. Hushed, soft conversations, hands held over the wooden table that stayed linked as you two finally made your ways to the strange shop.

It was small, but the arrangement of the trinkets (and perhaps the placement of the lighting) made it look more spacious inside. You two talked at the front where, you presume, the owner of the shop was. A lavender haired woman who spoke in a hushed, sweet tone. Nothing else was off about her except her hypnotizing gaze and the knowing look in her eyes. You two would take your time sorting through the shop, and eventually your husband would pick a photo album.

The woman offered to print a few select photos, and you hesitantly agreed. Although technically this was a strange shop in itself, something about it prickled your skin the wrong way.

So, you waited outside for him as he discussed the details, choosing to admire the carefree and relaxed atmosphere of the day outside.

After a moment, your phone buzzed, and that was your signal. You headed inside, and found your husband listening carefully to the lavender-haired woman instructing on how to take care of the album. As soon as you catch her eye, she smiles at you, and waves. You wave back.

“Good to go?” You ask, looking at your lover in blue.

“Sure is. Feel free to drop by anytime you need some more help.” The woman chimes in, smiling lazily at you, her chin cradled on her hands, her elbows propped up on the counter as your husband fiddles around with the album a bit more.

“Alright.” He says, after a moment, satisfied with his inspection. “We can leave.”

You smile at the woman again as a thanks, she simply waves you two off as you leave. The chiming of the little bell over the door resounds for only a moment as she watches you two with a fixed gaze leave and walk away.

“Hm..”

She hums, her fingers grazing over the plethora of cards sprawled in the pop up desk below. Her finger lands on a card.

The Hanged Man.

“Mei was right.” She smiles.

———

[writer-logbook]

How to get back into writing: a 5-steps guide

As someone who hasn't written anything in a decade, this is what I did to get back into writing seriously.

Identify which archetype of writer fits me better. You may have heard George R.R. Martin saying there are two types of writers: gardeners and architects. Whether you believe in that statement or not isn't relevant per se, but the actual meaning behind that point is that you need to get to know yourself as a writer, how you work, what you need, etc., so you can adapt your environment to achieve your goals. Speaking of which…Gentle reminder : you're a person not a robot. You are allowed to work the way you want to, and not to follow whatever pieces of advice that are linked to these archetypes.

Set a realistic word count/session I can stick to over the long term. When you're a 9-6 office employee, it's not always easy to find time to write and sometime our day at work got the very best of us. Having that in mind, I set my word count up to 200-500 words per session or 1 chapter per week (they're rather small in my case). Gentle reminder : babysteps are better than no-step at all.

If I'm not writing, fine, I'll do some research or anything else. Your story will always require something from you. When I'm not in the mood for writing, there are two options : forcing myself or doing what I call para-writing. For instance it's : reading articles or books about improving my writing style, improving my worldbuilding, drawing a map of my city etc. This are not things that would appear in the novel but it would guide me throughout the process the way a walking-stick would do for an injured man. Gentle reminder : you always find something useful to do but at the end of the day, you still have to write.

Have a general idea of what I want to tell. I won't lie, I've plotted my entire novel from the very beginning to the very end, which means I know exactly what to write and when. If you're against having a defined plot, I'm no one to judge, but having at least the key events or the major points will definitely help you. Like a lighthouse, it will help you navigate through the mists of confusion or hesitation. Gentle reminder : It's better to know where to go even if you end up losing yourself along the journey. Having the map doesn't mean you have to follow it, but rather when you can allow yourself to take a step to the side.

Write something I enjoy. A bit cliché I admit, but it's the best advice I could give. You'll spend hours, days, weeks - even years !- on that story so better buckle up to something you really want to write. Otherwise the risk is to abandon that hard-work you've done halfway through the process. No one needs that frustration and that self-doubting questionnings. No one. Not you. Not even me. Gentle reminder : it's okay to want readers and reviews but I promise you, your writing will be really different on something you trully want to share...Remember how pissful it was to write an essay for class you didn't want to ?

[nothorses]

You've made a lot of really great posts about transmasc experiences and struggles, and they really resonate with me! So I guess I want to in complete earnest ask: why the push for 'transandrophobia' when anti-transmasculinity as a term has been around for longer and faces little friction by comparison? I don't really *dislike* transandrophobia, but its meaning gets muddied everywhere from different directions, while ATM is pretty direct and succinct I feel. It's very clear that it's about TRANSmasculine oppression. I'm not against having a dedicated term at all, but the content of our struggles gets lost in the weeds of attaching kind of understandably divisive terms like misandry and androphobia in an attempt to mirror a phenomenon very specifically about misogyny; it seems more trouble than it's worth considering ATM is right there

I'll be honest, this ask is confusing to me for a few reasons.

When I started talking about transandrophobia around the summer of 2020, the conversations I was encountering were very much, like, a handful of people across Twitter and Tumblr (literally, a handfull!). I picked up "transandrophobia" because it was one of two words I saw in use, and the other- "transmisandry"- felt much less clear and much more contentious. It seemed super obvious to me that people would draw a line from "men's rights activists" trying to push this idea that "misandry", as a systemic oppression of men by women, to "transmisandry", and assume some ill intent where there was none. It's confusing!

"Transandrophobia" was the better of two options being floated at the time, at least in any conversation I saw. "Anti-transmasculinity" was not really a term I'd been made aware of, if anyone at all was talking about it at the time.

I have seen people pick up "anti-transmasculinity" more recently (maybe in the last year?), and this is definitely the first I've seen someone shorten it to "ATM". The people I've seen use that term have been mostly people who seem really new to the conversation, and the vibe I've gotten has been very, like, "we're the Good Transmascs, our word isn't dirty and gross like those other Bad Transmascs everyone hates. you'll listen to us now that our word is Good and Pure, right?"

Which is like... kind of frustrating, and kind of sad, honestly. I think these people honestly believe that if they just choose the right word, all the people who've been dragging me and every other transmasc talking about these issues through the mud for the last 4 years or so will really just stop & listen. If they can just say it right, these people- who have been relentlessly harassing and spreading lies about every single transmasc who came before them for years now- will care what they have to say, and will be willing to engage with them in earnest, compassionate dialogue.

If you just find the right word, all of these people will care about your hurt, your pain, and the suffering of your community.

It kind of breaks my heart. It's an incredibly hopeful, kind, loving way to view the world. It's compassion and patience and forgiveness that these folks are not being given, but that they so badly want to offer to others.

And at the same time, it sucks to be the Bad Transmasc. It sucks to have fought so hard for so long, and for the people I've been fighting for all this time to turn around and say, "you're gross, and dirty, and evil, and everything you've done is a mistake." It sucks to see the people I've been fighting for agree with the people I've been fighting against, and shove me under the bus in an effort to appeal to the people running me over with it. Knowing that the bus is going to aim for them once it's done with me just makes it sadder, yknow?

@saint-speaks wasn't the first person to ever speak the word "transandrophobia", but he is the one who coined and popularized it in its current form. And then he was dragged through the mud so hard and so brutally that some people think I coined it, just because when I defended him (too little and too late, imo) I withstood the mud-dragging better than he did (and gee, I wonder white.)

And now people take for granted that everything everyone said about hymn to justify that frankly fucking evil harassment campaign was true, actually, and we should abandon the word he coined and find one with purer origins.

If you honestly think "anti-transmasculinity" is just a more practical word, that's fine. I don't care what word we use. But they're going to cover it in mud, too. They're going to cover every one of you in mud.

Will you keep fighting for "ATM" once they make it the new dirty, gross, bad, evil word? Will you keep fighting when they drag you and everyone else through the mud for using it? Or will you agree with them, make up a new word, and never look back?

Please don't let us drown in the mud. We've been fighting for you, and we want to fight with you. Please.

[mydearlybeloathed]

𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐌𝐘 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: even as you grow older, you'll always be his baby sister

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: strawhats x sanjissister!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 ���𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: lowercase intentional, cursing, allusions to insecurities

𝐚/𝐧: this is basically just sanji curing my childhood wish for a big brother. i have more ideas about how sanji would be at his wits end with a reckless little sister so look out for those hehe

𝐎𝐏 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐉𝐈'𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

i imagine sanji is two years older than you, but it never felt like it. you and him were never apart for too long, more by obligation than choice.

so it was no surprise when sanji dragged confused little you with him as he hid from the pirates invading the ship, only outing your hiding place in the name of saving his food from oregano.

you'd hurried after him, of course; that's all you knew to do at such a young age.

and when zeff had sanji up against the wall, being so young meant you also knew only one thing to do in this situation: you bit zeff, latching your teeth around his arm and drawing blood from his broken skin.

zeff howled and very nearly threw you into the wall as well, before his eyes zeroed in on you, this little girl with wild eyes and a mighty strong jaw. he only jerked you off him, then, staring from you to sanji then back to you. "wha—? what kind of little gremlin just bites a man?!" your eyes were steely. "I'm not a gremlin." then, "bitch." though it was clear you didn't understand what it meant, probably catching it from the other chefs of the now sieged ship. gritting his teeth, zeff continued on his shouting. it made you and sanji angry, and zeff marveled at how your expressions were twin–like, despite your difference in appearance. then, the ship had wrecked, and it all went downhill from there.

sanji always made sure you’d eaten more than him on that damn rock, even when you fought him and scratched him as he forced a morsel of bread into your mouth.

he'd held your hand as you cried the first ten days, and he had mourned when on the eleventh, your eyes took on a dead sort of sheen, like you were now a decade older in the head.

it was unnerving, really.

sanji learned a lot on that rock. like what it meant to be the responsible one, or at least more responsible than you.

sanji just wanted you to listen, but it seemed like all his words went in one ear and out the other. you wouldn't eat despite all his begging, only staring at him with that horridly blank stare and pushing the food back toward him. tears started to form at the corners of his eyes as he held up the very last piece of bread. "please," he begged. "please just eat it." you shook you head, forcing the tears to stream down his cheeks. that broke through your indifference, your frown deepening as you inched closer to him. "we'll half it," you offered, taking his shaking hand and guiding him to split the bread, taking one half and waiting for him to calm down before you ate in silence. you really did feel older than him, and he didn't like it. only when that night fell did he realize you were simply a very, very good actor. your whimpers were like thunder in his ears as he sprang up from a featherlight sleep, his eyes locking on your quivering form just a hair's breadth away. "y/n?" he whispered, shaking your shoulder. you spooked awake, and in the reflection of moonlight he saw glinting tears traced down your face. "nightmare?" your nod and sniffle tore him up inside, and in seconds he was hugging you to his chest, telling you stories till he was sure you were at least sleeping better than him. "someday," he said, "we'll find a place where we'll never go hungry. where every flavor and ingredient can be found. the all blue. i'll take us there, and we'll never starve again." you were asleep by the time he started plotting to raid zeff's side of the rock in the morning. it had been sanji who guarded you from seeing the stump left of zeff's leg, ignoring you when you asked him to explain what was happening.

growing up on the baratie was an experience, for sure.

your only company were the crooks who worked in the kitchen alongside you and sanji, and you found them amusing company indeed.

especially when they started teaching you how to be a remarkable little con-artist. once in your late teens, it wasn't long before you'd abandoned your work in the kitchen to wait tables.

not only were the tips amazing to pocket away, but your charming smile and whimsical attitude made you a master of sympathy.

there isn't a customer you can't placate, a fight you can't break up; sanji would never admit it, but you'd save him from one too many brawls with just a single simper.

it was easy to hold that over his head, but for some reason, sanji never let it keep him from completely wrecking your social life.

to say sanji is protective of you is the understatement of the century; you'd be the first to attest to that.

it was growing to be annoying and just plain inconvenient, if you're being honest.

was it too much to ask for some time to yourself... with the company of a horny teenage boy... in your quarters... alone?

"sanji!" you hissed, face bright red as your brother dragged you and this young sailor boy--you hadn't caught his name--out of a broom cupboard, his grip on the boy's collar deathly. throwing the boy aside, sanji stormed back up to him. "did you touch my sister? you think you can just take advantage of her like tha'?" you ran your hands over your face and rushed to separate sanji, shaking in anger, from the boy, shaking in his boots. "stop! he wasn't takin' advantage of me, sanji. hell, i started it!" "y-yeah!" the sailor boy piped in, cowering behind you. "she was all over me and—" "shut up," you and sanji said in tandem, shooting the boy matching glares that sent the poor sailor darting for his crew's ship.

as the years dragged on, you and sanji couldn't deny that the idea of remaining on the baratie all your lives would be... well... sad.

you wanted more for yourselves—you specifically wanted to get sanji away from zeff's constant criticism, no matter how well–meaning it was.

but the years really were dragging, and could you ever really bare to leave the man you'd nearly called father on several occasions? could you leave the shit-hole restaurant that raised you in it's wooden arms?

probably not. you'd probably die washing dishes (snore) and burning water (whoops) and charming the pants off grumpy old men (yuck).

that is, it always seemed that way until a grand vessel with a goat for a masthead docked at the baratie.

the day had been it's usual level of boring, until two customers decided to have a little row which heated up with every word shot back at each other.

you, having a good track record, rushed forth to prevent the fight just itching to break out. but today was not your lucky day.

"gentlemen," you grinned. stepping between the two men, you held up your hands and settled each of them with batted eyes and a soft expression. "what's this about, hmm?" sanji loitered at a nearby table, refilling drinks with one eye on you. he was ripely kicked out of the kitchen, snug in his waiter's jacket. one of them huffed, "he's at my table!" "i don't see your name on it!" the other snapped. your patience wanned, your thoughts screaming man-child. "i'm sure we can work something out. just please, don't start anything in the restaurant." the first man seemed to consider you, his eyes dragging up and down your form, but any progress you might have made was destroyed by the next second. "i ain't movin', girl. he can go shit 'imself in the corner." that was how you winded up directly between them, your hands pushing against either chest to keep them separated, your heartrate accelerating as they pressed in on you as if you weren't even there. grunting, you called out, "brother?" in seconds, sanji had a grip on your sleeve in one hand and a fistful of the first man's collar in the other. he jerked you away from them and swiftly shoved the men away from each other. "sister," he said in turn, cracking his neck as the men continued to not learn their lesson. "take these rolls to table four, yeah?" you didn't need to be told twice, swiping the tray of bread from his arm and beelining for a booth housing a motley crew of people. behind you, grunts and winces and crashing could be heard, followed by the thick silence of your brother's victory. you set the tray down on the table, shooting a tight lipped smile up at the guests. a boy wearing a peculiar straw hat locked you in place with his bright eyes and wondered aloud, "he's a great fighter." "yep," you quipped. "a real hero. any drinks for the handsome crew?"

it turned out the boy with the straw hat was crazy: he intended to become king of the pirates.

you admired his tenacity, of course, but really? he had a death wish.

still, the more you spoke to luffy and the more you observed his character, being king of the pirates didn't seem so crazy. he had guts, that was for sure.

as crazy as it sounded, you started to believe he could do it.

so it was really no surprise you said yes when luffy asked you to join his crew.

he had already asked sanji the day before—before luffy's swordsman friend got obliterated by a warlord of the sea.

you didn't know him, but when you rushed onto the going merry after zeff an sanji, and you saw the bloodied man lying there, you could barely move a muscle.

you were never good around the air of death, and it was all around roronoa zoro, lingering like a knock you expected but never came. so you couldn't move, not even when they moved zoro to a bed, out of sight. not when zeff and sanji retreated back to the baratie.

you snapped back to life at the sound of luffy's voice, finding him leaning down to be directly eye level with you. he was still speaking, and it felt sort of like being under water, till finally, you surfaced. "sorry what?" "are you okay?" he asked, brows knit. you pondered your response while looking anywhere but his face. "yeah, sorry. i... i don't like feeling helpless, i guess." you vaguely gestured to where zoro's limp body had laid upon the nearby table. "being out of control makes me wig out." luffy tilted his head. "why're you out of control?" "because," you nearly laughed. "your friend is dying." immediately, you regretted your word choice, hating how the light fizzled from his eyes. "he's not dying," luffy snapped back. "he was injured and now he's healing. why does everyone insist he's dying?" you shuffled on your feet. "right, sorry." when you met his eyes again, there wasn't any frustration like you assumed there would be. instead, he settled you with a curious look. "you don't have to keep apologizing." luffy was an odd type of pirate, you thought with a forced little grin. "then how will people know i'm sorry?" he smiled. "fair point." taking a hold of your sleeve, luffy started to drag you deeper into the going merry, leading you right to where zoro was laid. his grip on you loosened as he passed into the room, but you stayed cemented in the doorway. nami was there, sullen looking. you watched as nami berated luffy and stormed away, shoulder checking you on the way out, leaving luffy smileless. that didn't sit well with you. walking up beside him, you took a kneel just as he did, and turned your eyes on zoro's pallid face. "hello," you murmured. silence was your reply. "i'm y/n. you don't know me... your friends care a lot about you. it'd be... sad, if you died." luffy stiffened at your side. "which you won't! i've heard of you. no way the demon pirate hunter will let—let a scratch get him..." as your rambling died down, luffy slowly shifted to look at you, all serious for a moment. unnerved, you chuckled nervously. "what?" a tiny grin worked its way onto his lips, a glimmer in his eyes. "will you join my crew?" you nearly laughed. "luffy, you don't want me." "yeah. i do. why else would i ask?" "i'm useless." "you're kind," he said, shutting you up as a flush bloomed in your cheeks. "not everyone can say that."

a long story short, you joined luffy's crew of strawhats right along sanji.

your parting from the baratie had been watery, to say the least. whilst sanji shouted curses at zeff and stormed out to luffy's ship, you stood shaky as zeff huffed, his eyes roaming toward you.

you very nearly tripped head over foot in your sprint to wrap him in a hug. he was the only father you'd ever had, really. leaving him was bittersweet.

the going merry was a very nice place to call home, in your opinion.

you were a jack of all trades amidst the crew, choosing to do odd jobs around the ship. most days, you found yourself asking around with a little list in your journal, taking note of everyone’s grocery needs and even keeping track of the ship’s supply inventory.

not only that, but you found your crewmates tended to lack the sense to take care of themselves in a timely manner. 

that is, none of them could be faster than your attentive eye, and no one was safe from your protective inclinations.

nami was attentive, but she tended to disassociate, and when she did it was very hard to get her back. she would go on for hours, working herself to the brink of exhaustion, not accepting even a sip of water. (she couldn't stop you, however, from forcing a cup of ice water down her throat. even she was intimidated by your determination to hydrate her).

then there was zoro, who absolutely refused to allow anyone to help him dress his wounds; and since he wasn't the best at it, you often stared at his haphazard bandages with fear of infection. he brushed you off enough times to invoke your wrath upon him. (zoro quit refusing after the first three times you ambushed him, wrapping your arm around his neck and blocking his airway).

you always listened to usopp's stories, but oftentimes you grew tired of the repetitive and clearly fake tall tales. you wanted to know his real stories, and you told him so. he'd laughed awkwardly and replied that he wasn't interesting enough for that. (he was fairly surprised at your insistence, and was warmed at your fascination with the silly story of how he met kaya).

luffy, your captain, was a walking migraine most days. he was smart, but just as brave, and jumped to action faster than you could process. it left you stressed beyond what you could handle, and this alone was enough to make luffy more cautious. (he never wanted to make you unhappy, so you'd inadvertently given him some of your common sense).

finally, sanji, who you'd been dealing with all your life. you knew all his tells, whether it was baking macarons when he was upset or going eerily silent for far too long. you always knew what he needed, and when he needed it. (more often than not all he needed was a compliment, and not just from some doe–eyed woman at a bar; a word of sentiment from his baby sister could drag him out of any stupor).

overtime, the crew took to calling you their boatswain. after all, you fit the job description, and you took the title with pride.

as time flew by with the strawhats, you began to listen to the dreams and aspirations of the others, and began to wonder what exactly you wanted out of life. the all blue was sanji’s dream… so what was yours?

the going merry was docked at a friendly port for the next few days, meaning the crew was free to explore and roam the city as they pleased. you, however, remained behind that very first night.

as far as you knew, the others had decided upon a bar for the night’s celebration. The quiet dwelling over the ship was calming, and from your sweat crisscrossed on the afterdeck you had a wide view of the stars. 

your notebook rested on your belly, pen tight between your fingers, thoughts moving a million miles an hour. there hadn’t been time to get shopping done that day, so you would rouse the ship early the next morning and assign them to fetch groceries in pairs of two—just to be safe. 

and though the heavy thinking could wait till the morning, you were stuck in a spiral of inventory and lists. it was… exhausting, and offered little to no fulfillment. still, it was what you did to help. 

A familiar patter of boots broke your reverie, and you peeked up to find sanji coming to loom over you, his hands shoved in his pockets. his suit jacket was draped over one shoulder and his hair was a mess—he wasn’t drunk though, which was a very good sign.

silently, he disposed of his jacket and laid down beside you, resting his hands behind his head. for a split second, you got a glimpse of the damn rock imbeedded in your memory for all time, and how sanji used to make up stories about the stars.

since then, you’d come to know their true stories. you knew every constellation by name, having memorized them upon the baratie and spoken to them every lonely night. the stars had been your friends in your youth, and though your conversations with them were few and far between now, they always shined for you. so as far as you knew, you were never alone.

sanji raised an arm and pointed in a random direction. “bet you can’t name that one.”

a grin worked its way up your face. “how much?”

he turned his head, eyes boring into you. “if you can’t, you tell me what’s on your mind.”

“that’s hardly fair.”

“take it or leave it.”

you huffed, but complied, glaring up at the sky. “cassiopeia. cursed to remain in the stars for claiming her daughter was more beautiful than the nerieds.” you kissed your teeth. “hardly a punishment. i’d love to be in the stars.”

there was a weight behind your words; a truth so deep you had to take a long breath to recover. wetting your lips, you asked your brother, “do you think, someday, i could study them?”

“why someday?”

“well, you need supplies. tools. there’s only so much our eyes can tell from down here.”

“tools,” he murmured. “so, you want to study the stars?”

the words flooded from your lips. “i want to know everything about them. i want to know why they shine, how far they are, what’s beyond them… can we get there?” you sighed into a smile. “there are some cities that have observatories dedicated to astronomy, but you’ve got to be some kind of noble scholar to get in.”

sanji listened, and he listened well. He laid by your side and listened to you tell him about the stars till nami and zoro came lugging a drunk usopp between them, luffy taking the lead. he remained in thought for most of the night, and sought out nami to ask about expenditures, and then set out to find luffy. 

it was safe to say you weren’t quite as upset at sanji and luffy for disappearing all evening when they returned at sunset, some beri short, with a gift in hand.

you stood slack jawed as they revealed a beautiful telescope, the metal polished and bright and shining. how they had managed to sneak it past you and set it up on the afterdeck was beyond you, but you hardly cared to ask.

you threw your arms around your brother, whispering your thank yous, and quickly turned to tackle your captain in a hug just as tight. the night to follow was marked by your awed sighs and the excited way you told the crew about ursa major and ursa minor, then about castor and pollux, and so on till you could barely keep your eyes open.

and sanji would never say it out loud, but he admired you. you turned out pretty damn good despite having him as your big brother. someday, you’d reach the stars. he knew that for certain. he could only hope you’d come visit once or twice.

“g’night,” he muttered to the crew as he stood, making his way over to where you’d drifted off against a barrel. he scooped you up in his arms and was veyr careful to not wake you as he made his way to your and nami’s quarters. 

sanji rested you down and moved to take off your boots and pull the blanket over you, and he found himself frozen all of a sudden. lips pursed, he patted your hair, and turned to go. at the door, he paused and looked back. you slept so soundly for once, something he was so very glad for. he wasn’t blind to how you’d been overworking yourself.

perhaps he would talk to you about that in the morning, but for now, he simply smiled. “good night, sister. love you.”

and whispered back to him, just in time for him to hear: “g’night, sanj. i love you.”

[nthspecialll]

We have all seen the edits and drawings of Dutch with "I'm your man" by Mitiski, more specifically with the lyrics "you believe me like a god, I betray you like a man," but it is not just those lyrics that fits Dutch and practically the entirety of the gang.

(Warning I am not a huge Mitiski fan so I will just take the lyrics as they are without any deeper meaning and compare them to red dead to give them a deeper meaning)

While the whole "you believe me like a god" might make it sound like the "me" also sees themselves as a god as well or at least superior to the other party, that is not the case.

"You're an angel, I'm a dog

Or you're a dog and I'm your man."

This part hints at confusion between standing of the two parties. The "I" isn't sure about what their position is with the other party, either the "you" is an angel and themselves a dog, someone lesser, something lesser, or the "I" is a man and the "you" a dog. The "I" never put themselves as something eternal, they never claim to be unworldly or godly, instead they willingly put themselves underneath the "you" and only above them in the same way a man would an animal, a dynamic that while it might hold love also is clear on who is in control.

Dutch and Arthur's dynamic is constantly changing. On one hand, Arthur is a workhorse, the one Dutch sends our for his dirty work, the one Dutch knows he can control and make him do anything, on the other hand we have their family dynamic of Dutch saying that Arthur means more to him than what a son would and acting as if he is the best thing ever.

"You believe me like a god

I'll destroy you like I am."

While the "I" never sees themselves superior, the "you" puts the "I" on a pedestal, making them their god and the "I" takes advantage of that and destroys the "you." This is similar to Dutch and Arthur. Dutch was not a good man ever, while he and the others did do their Robinhood act, they were never good men, they killed, they robbed and they ruined, but Arthur saw Dutch as a god or a father more than a mere mentor and Dutch ruined Arthur for that in the end.

"I'm sorry I'm the one you love

No one will ever love me like you again."

The "I" knows they are bad, they know they are ruining the other and they know that they will never get the loyalty that the "you" gave them again. While this might not seem like Dutch and Arthur, it very much is in the end.

Dutch in the end when Arthur is dying seems angry, frustrated and conflicted, because while he is seeing his son dying, he knows there is something he does not know. While he feels angry that Arthur did what he did, he never did think Arthur was a "betrayer", he thought John was, he thought John was talking to the Pinkertons and had convinced Arthur that Dutch was bad. He felt sad that Arthur was dying because of John and his manipulation and he knows he will never find the loyalty Arthur gave him again from anyone, and he is right, even in 1911, he has yet to find someone like Arthur.

"So when you leave me, I should die

I deserve it, don't I?"

I am of the firm belief that Dutch spent a long while alone after Arthur's death because the newspapers while talking of him, do not mention another gang, only the old one, and in red dead one they speak as if Dutch's gang is fairly new which would also explain why the Agents were suddenly able to locate him, because he became active again.

This could be to lay low, or it could be because he was thinking over what he had done and what had happened, and considering how much Arthur meant to him it wouldnt be strange to say he might have spent some years in self hatred or pity.

"I can feel it gettin' near

Like flashlights comin' down the way

One day you'll figure me out

I'll meet judgment by the hounds."

This is where it gets a bit more tricky because I believe the "you" changes here, where "you" were Arthur before, it can now be seen as John.

In 1911 John is hunting down Javier and Bill, something Dutch no doubt knew and heard about, while he might have hoped to be able to defeat John, he would have known that John would come for him and he would be able to "see him come near" as he kills off the two others. Dutch knows one day John will be his end, one day John will figure him out and he will have to face the consequences of his actions.

"People always gave me love

Others were never to blame after all."

This is quite obvious how it comes to Dutch, they gave Dutch everything, they gave him their lives to lay if he so wish and in the end it was not their fault that the gang split up. No it was not Micah's fault, while Micah did manipulate, he never forced Dutch's hand, even without Micah Dutch would have lost himself down the road, it was in the end Dutch's fault.

"You believe me like a god

I'll betray you like a man."

John loved Dutch, maybe even more than Arthur, after all John is often seen as Dutch's son while Arthur is seen as Hosea's, not just by the fandom but the characters as well. We see characters call John Dutch's golden boy and his pet. It was also Arthur who had to convince John and truly let him see what Dutch was doing, to let him know that the concerns he had were true.

Dutch removed the noose from John's neck when John was twelve, saving him like a miracle, yet Dutch shot at John in the end like he was no one special, just another man to be put in the ground.

[fantasy-anatomy-analyst]

monocular, binocular, and trinocular vision for vertebrates with regular complex eyes. Not going over simple or compound vision.

here is a video that breaks down how monocular and binocular visions fields work:

and here is an image showing how the location of the eyes can change the way the vision field works:

(image description: two diagrams showing the visions fields for a cat and a horse. the cat has a wide triangle of binocular vision where both of its eyes can overlap their view, while the horse has much wider ranges for each eye but a very small overlap between the two eyes. end description.)

Having one eye like a cyclops or being a two eyed creature missing one eye for some reason would only produce a monocular vision field, which lacks a lot of depth perception. monocular vision can only see things from one angle at a time, so it's harder to compare how far away things are, or how big around something might be. it's not impossible to perceive depth with only one eye though! if you test it yourself by closing one eye, you'll notice how much smaller your field of view is without the extra peripheral, but you probably won't have too much trouble judging the distance and location of things in your immediate area, though it might be harder in an unfamiliar location. The farther away something is, the more difficult it will be for monocular vision to judge that distance.

a lot of herbivores rely on monocular vision. they have two eyes, but only a small overlapping area between their vision fields, so for the most part they have two separate monocular vision fields. they prioritize being able to see as wide a field as possible and reacting to unusual shapes and movements.

many predatory animals rely on having more effective binocular vision, having better depth perception with a narrower field of view. it's a more precise way to see, very good for detecting and keeping track of motion, judging distances, etc. you can see objects from two angles at once, giving a better sense of how big they are and where exactly they're located.

so how would trinocular vision work? would it have any extra advantages? Well, it's hard to say if it would be an advantage or not, since different methods of vision serve different purposes. but adding a third eye to something like a cat would certainly alter its vision field, and it might be more useful for such a predatory creature. it would, at the very least, provide one more angle of view. seeing things from one slightly higher angle than the two other eyes. not drastically different, just a slight change. it's hard to draw fully 3d vision fields in a way that fully illustrates how they overlap on every angle, but i have done my best to show the trinocular vision field here.

(image description: a simple sketch of a cat with a third eye on its forehead. in front of each eye is a colored field like a slice out of a circle, showing where each eye's vision overlaps with the others. it does not look much different from the binocular vision field, having a wide range of overlap in front of the face. end description.)

I wasn't sure how wide to go with the center eye's vision. how much would the placement restrict its peripheral? does it have an equally wide, more narrow, or more wide field of vision compared to the other eyes? those are all questions I think you'd have to answer for yourself if you're creating a trinocular creature. the wider the field of vision is for the third eye, the more it overlaps with the other eyes. this would make the binocular vision fields much wider on each side, essentially giving the creature more precise side vision and then creating a triple layer of vision in the middle. whether this is more helpful or more confusing is up to you I guess! like having two regular screens on each side of your head and then a 3d screen in the very front. I imagine the third eye might have a broader range of peripheral vision above the head.

I'm sure someone who studies vision more professionally than me could say a lot more and go into some real detail about the matter! this is all I can manage. maybe it will spark more ideas for someone else!

[baldurs-gape]

You have been perceived.

Oh Nonnie, trust me, I know. I have spent the last couple of days alternating between the sheer panic of having been perceived and also the deepest desire to know why?! There's over 2000 Bloodweave fics out there. Just how and why did Shores end up being the one he picked?! Especially with those tags. I almost feel compelled to profusely apologise that he had to read those with his own eyes. But then I remember that while the story is my sin, I'm not to blame for him noodling around on AO3. And if he did have a sneaky read, I bloody hope he was polite and at least left kudos.

Anyway. More importantly. You sent an ask and so you shall have a ficlet of thanks for finding my little corner of the fandom and interacting.

Mortal Hands

The room at the Elfsong Tavern was the height of luxury compared to the road the party had been on for so long. Various exclamations of relief and gratitude mixed with sighs and grumbles about who gets which bed. Perhaps the one Astarion picked wasn't ideal but as least it was in the corner, he could see the entrance to the room and, if needed, could probably make an escape route through a window. Without any discussion or ever question, the bed next to his was left empty for Gale. It took a few minutes for their wizard to drag himself in, looking more haggard and tired than usual. Obviously the message from Elminster about seeing mystra hadn't gone down very well. He looked ready to crash face first into the pillow and not resurface for tenday or so.

"You're going to get the bed filthy," Astarion drawled as he watched Gale blink at the bed with confused longing. "Get cleaned up. You can thank me when you're awake again."

A pout. The great Wizard of Waterdeep, the Chosen of Mystra, an archmage of great renown was pouting at Astarion like he'd just told him he can't have a second helping of pie and custard. That was just rude. Being the more mature of the two of them, Astarion rolled his eyes in response.

"Must I do everything? Come along." For all his griping, Astarion was up and leading Gale towards the wooden tub he'd spied earlier. It didn't take long to arrange for it to get filled with steaming hot water and he barely had any time to grab Gale by the arm and hoist him back before the other got in. "Were you raised by boars? You get in there like this and you'll be sitting in your own much. I should call you a filth wizard."

"But-" Gale began and was cut off with a hand gesture.

"Sit."

Thankfully Gale sat and actually looked grateful for it. His eyes closed as Astarion went about drawing a couple of buckets of water from the tub. Towels, a bar of soap from his own pack (pilfered from Raphael's rather decadent bath) and Gale's shaving kit.

First things first, Astarion bullied Gale into stripping, frowning at the bruises that were revealed. Not to mention that his wizard looked more slender than before. They were going to have to pay more attention to supplies it seemed. Once naked, Astarion picked up a bucket.

"Close your eyes and hold your breath."

"Wha-" The word morphed into a splutter as Gale spat water out. He was dripping and glaring, and it really shouldn't have been such a good look on him.

Not missing a beat, Astarion set about washing him from top down. Working shampoo into Gale's hair, he listened to the soft exhales, watched as Gale's shoulders slumped, head tipping into the touch. Astarion used his fingers to find tangles and gentle teased them out. Half a bucket rinsed the suds out. Next was the unsightly scruff of beard. It had been much better maintained but the shadowcursed lands hadn't exactly afforded them much opportunity for personal care.

"Is this really necessary?" Gale asked even as his hands settled on Astarion's hips to steady him in his lap. "Surely it can wait."

"You'll feel better. We'll go see Mystra tomorrow and tell her where she can shove the crown."

"She doesn't care about looks."

Astarion raised an eyebrow. "I don't care about what she thinks. I want you to feel good about yourself."

As he spoke, his hands worked gently over the scruff, cleaning it and working up another nice lather. Reaching for the razor, Astarion waited a moment, knowing all too well that Gale would try and speak whether he had a sharp blade against his skin or not. Sure enough, he was right.

"She won't be impressed by a bit of grooming. Not even hunting down a bit of magic would impress her."

"Do you know how much effort I'm having to put into not making a comment about Mystra and grooming?"

Gale sighed. "She's a goddess. She doesn't need to worry about things like grooming or wind blowing a wisp of hair out of the way."

Rather than say anything, Astarion stared at him and shook his head before taking a gentle hold of Gale's chin. The aim wasn't to get rid of the beard, just to tame it and return it to its more usual look. He felt the moment Gale realised the meaning of his words and his jaw flexed. In response, Astarion tightened his grip a little to keep him quiet.

Once satisfied with his work, Astarion used a towel to wiped him clean before reaching for another lotion. Yet another thing he'd lifted from Sharess' Caress, it was something to keep a beard softer. Rubbing it into Gale's facial hair felt oddly meditative and Astarion got lost for a moment in the feel of the hairs against his palms. It was only when Gale's head fell forwards before jerking back up that he realised they were both drifting.

"Only a little longer," he murmured and got up.

The last bucket of now tepid water was used to wipe the worst of the grim off Gale. His arms and legs were lifted on command and Astarion did his best not to laugh too much when he worked on cleaning ticklish feet and Gale squirmed, nose scrunched up.

Finally satisfied, Astarion nodded to himself and gestured at the tub which was warm but no longer scaling.

"Get in."

The groan Gale let out as he sank into the water came from the soul. Knees bent, he sank in until his shoulders were under the water, eyes closed. Astarion flipped a bucket upside down and sat on it behind him. Starting without a word, he let himself play with Gale's hair, fingers digging into his scalp as it turned into a massage. Deftly he moved down to his jaw, knowing that Gale had a tendency to grind his teeth which left him aching and frustrated quite often. Once his mouth was slack, Astarion returned to playing with his freshly tidied up beard, touching for the sake of enjoyment.

Under his care, Gale all but melted. He sleepily nuzzled into Astarion's palm, resting comfortably against it like it was the world's most decadent pillow. The trust of it had Astarion's throat tight. Nobody before Gale had put so much faith into him. The assumption that he would hold Gale, keep him above water and allow him to rest was the purest form of love Astarion could imagine.

"Come along, before you become the Wizard of Watersleep."

Drying a half awake Gale off, Astarion led him to the bed where Gale happily burrowed under the blanket. There was just one problem. Sleepy brown eyes stared at him imploringly. Astarion found it almost impossible to resist.

"Let me quickly get cleaned up. Then I'll join you."

Never in his life had he washed himself quicker. It was still too long. By the time he returned to Gale's side, the wizard was already asleep, blanket clutched to his chest in lieu of another body to hold. Somewhat disappointed, Astarion sat on the edge of the bed to watch. The dip in the mattress didn't wake Gale fully but he did snuffled and shuffled towards the edge of the bed, making more room. Taking the invitation, Astarion curled up next to him, smiling to himself when the blanket was kicked away in favour of Gale wrapping around him more securely than a mindflayer's tentacles around a head at feeding time.

Rest was quick to draw Astarion into a trance. It had been a long road and they weren't anywhere close to being done just yet. But at least he had Gale and Gale had him. That was going to have to be enough when they faced the monsters of their past in the next couple of days.

[gamerbearmira]

Cryptid madrigals au-

I forgot to add, whether you get a gift or not, you're going to have some kind of ability no matter what, thanks to Alma's genetics.

So, what I've heard about the moth man, he can swipe people off their feet as he flies into the darkness.

Therefore, Mirabel is strong enough to lift people up without an issue while flying. She's not as strong as Luisa, but she can lift people up if need be. Only two at a time of course, maybe three if she's pushing it.

She's also really fast when it comes to flying. So, there's no point in running if you piss her off.

Mothman is described as being a human-bird hybrid larger than a normal man. So, Mirabel is taller than people her age without the amulet.

Canon Mirabel is 5'2, so in this au, without the amulet she's probably reaches her abuela's shoulders or a few inches above them.

Proximity to the Mothman causes confusion, extreme fear, and psychological distress that can last months and lead to death or insanity.

Mirabel can do that too but only with intent and so far, she hasn't been given a reason to kill anyone. She only needs to cause confusion, extreme fear, and phycological distress to villagers who need a humbling lesson. (I'm sure she probably gets this trait from Alma tho)

There's a movie called "Bodysnatchers" and basically these aliens take over people's bodies, and if these aliens know you aren't one of them, they'll point at you and scream.

Seeing as Dolores is a banshee, I can imagine her doing that. And from what I've read,

"Banshee, (“woman of the fairies”) supernatural being in Irish and other Celtic folklore who's mournful “keening,” or wailing screaming or lamentation, at night was believed to foretell the death of a member of the family of the person who heard the spirit."

So, give her a reason to scream if you want to, YOU are someone you care about is going to meet the maker in the clouds.

But let's be clear, no madrigal is a killer, if you don't prove as an actual physical threat to them, you'll just get "visits" at night to scare you into being a little nicer.

MORE STUFF YIPEEE❗❗

I'm not surprised that they get abilities. I mean Alma has some, so it's exoected that even without a gift, they have some kind of ability tied to whatever kind of cryptid they are. Her powers are pretty rad though, and you can obviously see where she gets her height from 💀💀

Dolores screaming is so real. I imagined she probably burst a couple ear drums, especially in her younger years when random grown people would just sneak into the house. Homegirl is trying to get sime water and some random dude is in Casita being tortured by Pedro 😭

Night visits, so real <\\33 ALSO. Is Mariano is in this au?? Or like the Guzmán's in general??? And are the cryptids too. Like. I need a reason 🙏🙏 silly idea where there are, albeit very, very few, cryptic families in the Encanto. Again, not many, and they aren't big families either. But they're at the very least known to the Madrigals. Idk, I'm spitballing again 🦀🦀

Dolores and then random drawings. Mirabel can't wear shoes, just ribbons, and Antonio acts a lot like an animal given he's a chimera. I also read that most chimera's breath fire so. Do with that what you will 💀💀 and then Félix, cause why not 🧯

You'll have to pry this damn family tree out of my cold dead hands because I genuinely love editing it to fit other aus. Like any given chance I WILL do it, even if its low effort 🙏

[luniidae]

~ THE ~ DESILLUSIONMENT

Chapter III

TW: Violence, blood.

Note: I'm pretty happy with this drawing. I had to redraw it entirely last night because my software crashed 🤣 but this new version is far more better ! Anyway, this chapter is very long compared to the others, but I really enjoyed writing it, and I hope you'll enjoy reading it !

_________________________________________

It had been about two years now that Luvia had her horns regularly trimmed. It wasn't very pleasant, it was sometimes even painful, but she could handle it for the one who gave her everything, right ?

In the meantime, the little girl had noticed the presence of another child. A boy, older than her, with messy dark hair and clearly in an unenviable state, at the sight of the bruises he had on him. Raphael didn't wish to say more about him, except that he was "nothing important” and that she shouldn't pay any attention to him.

If the young girl always blindly followed her "father's" instructions, her curiosity pushed her to learn more about this mysterious resident.

Where did he come from ? Who was he ? Why didn't he wear nice clothes like her ? Where did these bruises come from ? And above all, how come she didn't notice him sooner ? Luvia wanted answers.

But it wasn't an easy task.... Because no one was willing to talk to her about him, not even Hope. As if Raphael had ordered them all not to say anything.

She could try to talk to him, but as surprising as it may seem, Luvia was too shy to attempt an approach. So she was content to observe him from afar when she had time and he was busy cleaning certain parts of the House. Besides, the poor boy was still in a bad condition.

Intrigued by his presence, Luvia also felt a certain sadness towards the young boy. She wanted to help him, to show him that he wasn't alone, if she couldn't stop him from getting hurt. Because yes, she ended up thinking that he was just very clumsy.

One day, while he was near the fireplace, Luvia plucked her courage and approached slowly, so much so that the boy only saw her at the last moment and jumped. At first, it was fear that could be read on his face, but he quickly frowned, as if he was trying to hide it as quickly as possible. He didn't immediately notice the apple that the little girl was holding in her hands.

His eyes were dark, tired. He was dressed in rags and had several bruises and scratches all over him.

The two children looked at each other for a few seconds. He looked up, examining her horns and visibly intrigued as to why one of them was shorter than the other.

Then he got back to himself and met her gaze again.

"What do you want ?", He finally asked in a tone that was both annoyed and worried.

Luvia felt like she was melting on the spot. She had never heard him speak and didn't expect him to. She had already made a big effort to come to him, and although her face displayed a friendly pout (at least she hoped), it was impossible for her to say a word.

So she just handed him the apple.

"What is ....."

The boy looked at the fruit with astonishment, he didn't understand why this girl about whom he knew almost nothing suddenly came to offer him... This. An Apple. Especially since she wore the colors of his tormentor, which didn't give him trust.

However, he had to admit that the fruit really appealed to him. Raphael had deprived him of food for almost five days and he was starving.

Then a worrying thought came to his mind..... What if she had been sent by the devil to test him ? No one would be suspicious of a child. From the looks of it, she seemed a little younger than him. He scanned the surroundings out of the corner of his eye, as if to check that no one was hiding somewhere, ready to pounce on him as soon as he touched that damn apple.

"Is that.... A trap... ?", He dared to ask without hoping for an honest answer.

Luvia shook her head, a little confused. Why would this be a trap ? Did he expect it to explode in his face ? She thought. The boy seemed to think for a few seconds before adding:

"No, it'll be fine, I don't want it...."

The girl frowned. It was not necessary to have exceptional hearing to hear the gurgling noises emanating from his stomach. So why did he refuse ? Why did he doubt her ? Because of the horns ? She only had one and a half after all, maybe that didn't make her very credible to him..... Which made her stress out more.

She was there, in front of him, her arm outstretched, holding an apple that he had just declined. Both upset and embarrassed, the little girl decided it was time for her to slip away.

So still without saying a word, she advanced towards the young boy, arm still outstretched, until the apple collided with his chest.

By reflex, he grabbed it with one hand and Luvia then took the opportunity to leave it to him and turn on her heel. She began to walk away at a rapid pace, her face as red as the fruit she had just given, but proud of her good deed. Luvia didn't have a friend of her age in the House of Hope, she hoped he would understand that she meant him no harm, so they could play together.

However, she had learned nothing about him. She didn't know his favorite color, where he lived before arriving here and why.... She also didn't dare ask him his name, in which case she would have learned that it was Enver.

But she never asked him and he always did the same. Failing to dare speak to him, Luvia regularly gives him food in secret. Mostly fruit or cakes. It was small and easy to carry.

Unfortunately, Raphael ended up learning about it and came to find Luvia. There was no way he was going to let his protégé get involved with this lesser person.

“Today you are going to learn a very important lesson,” he announced to Luvia, “Our classroom will be just slightly different from other days, but I hope there will not have a next time.”

Luvia nodded and didn't ask any questions. She never asked questions, not to Raphael. He said, she did. And she began to follow him to the prison.

There was Enver down there, on his knees, with a jailer standing beside him. The children looked at each other, one was confused, and the other knew perfectly well what was going to happen. It wouldn't be the first time for him... And it certainly wouldn't be the last.

"Luvia, my child, it is time for you to understand that in this world and on all plans of existence, there are two categories of individuals. The weak....", he looked at the boy with contempt, his voice borrowed from a certain disgust, ".... And us", he finished with a slightly more cheerful intonation and placing his hands on the young girl's shoulders.

“And we have no compassion for the weak. They are there to serve us, sometimes to entertain us, but above all to obey us”

The little girl wasn't sure to understand, or if she wanted to understand. She knew that Raphael wasn't thrilled with the idea of her spending time with his little prisoner, but she didn't know how much it had annoyed him.

The devil made a brief gesture with his hand towards the jailer who first punched the young boy in the face and he fell to the ground. Luvia took a step back which was interrupted by Raphael who was standing behind her, crouching at her height.

Luvia turned her head so she couldn't see anything, but he grabbed her chin to force her to look. Shocked, the young girl was unable to close her eyes, and tears soon began to flow down her cheeks, then onto Raphael's hand.

"He's not like you, Luvia. He's just a worm whose pathetic existence hangs by a thread. You must never have the slightest sympathy for these things."

The blows rained down on the poor boy who groaned in pain. He tried to protect himself with his arms but the jailer was so diligent in their task that it made no difference.

And this spectacle became more and more unbearable.

"S.... Stop..." she finally said, her voice trembling. But Raphael ignored her, visibly absorbed by the scene.

All this blood... She had never seen so much. And the seconds, which became minutes, seemed to last forever.

Luvia grabbed the devil's hand which was still holding her face with her two small hands. Was it to try to get rid of it ? To find comfort ? Both ? In any case her voice grew louder.

“I beg you, make it stop !” she cried desperately.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, then gave a brief nod towards the jailer who stopped. Their hands were bloody. Out of breath, they walked away from the boy who was lying on the ground still conscious, his face bloody and his nose broken. He looked at Luvia who was staring back at him, horrified.

“We’re done”, Raphael said. And with these words, he took the young girl in his arms to carry her, "Put him back to his cell", then they both left the prison.

Luvia didn't take her eyes off the boy until she lost sight of him. She no longer spoke, no longer reacted, she was feeling like numbed. She wasn't sure she understood what had just happened, but she was gripped by an inner conflict.

She felt terribly guilty. Her only "friend" had been molested because of her, but she had also disappointed her father. Her dear father...

She had interacted with this other child when he had forbidden her to do so, but she had not been able to handle his punishment either. While they were in the corridors of the House, she buried her head in his neck to hide her face there, ashamed.

“I’m sorry”, she whispered, her voice shaking again.

Raphael didn't answer her, he just placed his free hand behind her head and stroked her hair.

To be continued....

[destination-constellation-op]

Though I'm open to commissions, please don't ask me to draw anyone real. I feel like people who ignore the fact that I've mentioned on this account this I draw only OCS and characters people are choosing what they want to see, read, and hear.

I'm fine with people asking for anything but actual people, especially cause the last commission I did on a real person they didn't pay so I never gave them the full piece.

If you want a Commission please listen afollor the posts because they are basically rules. I have more on my main account at @arenabreadandbiscuits. If I have to make anymore post explaining and ESPECIALLY on this account I'm going to annoyed with you in DMS if you manage to be one of these people who can't read or follow my rules.

The account mentioned about is my main account, this account is a comic I'm working on, stop asking for commissions on here unless you have good funds cause they aren't cheap, you use my methods payment app, you understand I can do real people I just prefer not to and to do fictional characters and OCS more, then theres no reason for me to explain to you what your doing wrong with you ask and have none of this ready before doing so.

if you really are confused as to what I will draw the ask. I'm very picky on who I accept my money from. I only take Cashapp, Venmo, Chime, and One.

The next person who comes to me and asks me something on commissions that I never said was allowed or claimed I do is getting blocked. If you have questions ask them but most of my posts between both accounts have answered this over and over again and I'm tired of saying the same thing when the information is RIGHT THERE.

On another note since my last real life comm wasn't paid for by the person who called for it, no.. I wont draw your son, mother, father,dog.. if I can't confirm you'll pay I won't draw anything and payment is accepted before everything else so if you aren't capable of paying you're blocked. Plus I already stated here that I don't feel comfortable drawing real people so respect that and don't ask me to do so unless they have an oc of something that I can draw for them instead.

The whole point of commissions is for me to make money doing the things I can do. Realism isn't a big genre of mine so unless you want someone in my style then don't ask me for real people. I feel most comfortable this way and for me to even do your commission if you ask for one, I NEED to be comfortable or well both be upset. YOU because you didn't follow my rules, and ME because you didn't follow my rules.

I can of course work on anything but with everything I've been through the last two years alone. If you don't have the money immediately you're getting blocked. I'll try anything really but respect me if I turn down something. Don't make me tell you to find another artist more than one time. Also no one better DM me thinking IM the one looking for someone to commission.

I'm not, clearly I need money too digbat. Basically anyone who doesn't DM me like this is getting blocked:

"Hii, I'm looking for someone to draw my OC for me. Full lineart, full color, I'm willing to wait as you work, now rush and I at least have around 300$ on my with no background or home issues to worry about with my money so Merry Christmas OP! I can pay with Cash app/Chime/One/Venmo/Current." And that should be all... Something like that. It's not hard at all.

Thx.

Any questions ask, just make sure they are reasonable. Don't ask me something you wouldn't want anyone asking you. Like I said since this account was supposed to be for my comic idea don't ask for the commissions here but at my main account here: @arenabreadandbiscuits This is the final time I'll be making a post of commissions on this account, the other has all the information anyone could need. Please use it.

If you ask here I'll be ignoring you. Toodles!

[lookupthewordjokeinthedictionary]

Did you miss me? (your mum misses you)

I'm back with another Sanders Sides draw each other, this time, Patton!! And oh boy, prepare for some angst!! (personal favourite)

I wanna believe I've improved also, but I'd love to hear your comments on what I can do better.

First we have Virgil!! Bullet point time for details:

Like a controlling parent™, Virgil has no eyeshadow!

He also has no hair in his eyes (almost, I couldn't let our boy suffer)

Honestly, if without his hoodie and the banner of his name, would you recognise him?

Not because I'm a bad artist (true), but because Patton has devoided his dark strange son of his dark strangeness.

Unthreatening Virgil for the win?

Next we have sexy Logan.

I'm sorry!! I wanted to draw sexy Logan and I found an excuse, okay??

To be honest, Logan hasn't changed his behaviour towards Patton throughout the series.

He's always been dismissive, so why shouldh we change our logicality drawing style of him?

Kinda proud of this one, sorry for the lack of details though (I hope I can compensate with sexy Logan)

Ah, Roman, here at last. Can you feel your eyes filled with tears yet or shall I explain? Have to do everything around here myself:

Everything about this is so *chef's kiss*

From the fact that out of all Scenes, Patton decided to draw Christmas Carol Roman.

From the fact that he drew him in a happy (almost cocky) way.

From the fact Roman is holding the folder, smiling, ignorant as ever.

Or even that Patton really likes to drill in the mistakes of others, proving he's the (morally) better side.

But eh, you could also view it as a heartwarming declaration of support from a father figure.

Up to you, I suppose. Not as fun though.

The dark sides, everybody, have arrived. Janus! In the courtroom:

We haven't addressed that the most Patton has seen of Janus is in the svs episode.

But this man really knows how to draw him sassy

The episode was basically Patton fighting for his life (and losing??)

You may ask, omg why this one??

Plot points

Sassiness meter

You'll figure it out in the next couple drawings, you impatient buffoon

Seconds, anyone??

You can see how Patton rushed through with this drawing (not because I'm tired and it's three in the morning)

He's terrified of him, but drew him kinda cutsy

Patton officially doesn't know how many legs an octapus has

Remus is "smiling" because never in the entire dwit episode did Remus insult or offend Patton

Surely he said some things that were very out of pocket, but he never even hurt the little guy (or the giant frog)

Really, check back, he even gave him his creative liberties!!

Lastly but not least-ly (nailed it) Patton drawing "himself" :

I can already here the confusion (through my screen, yes)

This is indeed Janus! Patton and not the truthful representation

Why?? Hah! Naive naive fellow fander

Patton (in canon) is coming to the realisation that his moral compass is pointing south (towards hell).

Not all the time, ofc, he has some great attributes.

However he does need the help of a little sharp side

What better way to cry for help than to show the importance of cooperation/integration

Also,, moceit.

[isatswap]

(isat spoilers, full game just in case) tell me about typos because oops

Sussed out

TTOS version of Kinda Sus dialogue from ISAT

Bonnie: ...

Loop: "..."

Bonnie: ...Oh, do you want me to start? Bonnie: We did it, Loop! Our journey is over now. Bonnie: ...meh. Bonnie: Looking back, this part was kinda...short, compared to our whole journey.

(...Only short for your party. You don't even remember how long you've been trapped.)

Bonnie: But we saved Vaugarde, Loop! That's something to brag about, right? Bonnie: I bet my sister will be impressed when I finally go back home. Bonnie: It was fun travelling with you, but i still need to take care after her. Or at least make sure she is OK. She is probably VERY confused right now, haha! Bonnie: Although, I might need to continue my travels after this...

Loop: (Oh, you know why, teehee~)

"To find a birthday gift for her?"

"To find the rarest Vaugardian recipe?"

Bonnie: Oh, you managed to figure it out! Congratulations! Probably makes sense because we are a family of chefs... Bonnie: Don't tell the others. I like seeing Mira trying to guess, it's so cute. Bonnie: What's it gonna be next? A silverware set? A golden spatula?

Loop: (You wanna see them laugh again...) "Well, she isn't cooking with these gueses"

(Bonnie makes a pained expresion, but after a second lets out a long "pfffft")

Bonnie: Hahaha! Fine, you win. Bonnie: I'll miss you, Loop. Including your jokes. Bonnie: Even though I never knew too much about you, I know you are a good person. And that is what matters, right? But you shouldn't hide from us this much, okay? We'd love to listen to your problems! Bonnie: You can also visit me at Bambouche! You'll get to see my kick-crab sister!

(Bonnie smiles at you joyfully.)

(You fake a smile with your eyes.)

Bonnie: ...That isn't fooling anyone. What's-

Odile: HEY! WHY IS THERE A LEAF IN MY BOOK???

Isa: W-WHAT?

Bonnie: ...oops, that was me. Forgot to tell her I've used her book for herb drying, hehe. Bonnie: But really, you don't look...happy. Is everything good? Need a snack?

Loop: "...What do you mean? I'm fine, teehee..."

Bonnie: That "teehee" was even more fake than your smile. Bonnie: And I don't just mean now! You've felt off since yesterday! You've stopped being mysterious and sassy and cool like usual! Now it's just kinda...sad. Bonnie: What's wrong, Loop?

Loop: "Nothing!"

(Augh, you said it too quick! Now they will ask more questions...)

Bonnie: ....fine. You could've just said you don't want to talk about it. Bonnie: But don't pretend it isn't there. I notice it because I care.

Loop: *mumbling* "...what would you notice, anyway...."

(...Bonnie...closes their eyes and sighs.)

Bonnie: Oh, I notice a lot of things, Loop.

(...?! Did you say it too loudly?!)

Bonnie: ...I could brush off the fact that you don't pay attention to traps... Or the way you find keys like you already knew about them, especially that Crying Key...

Loop: (!!!) "Boniface, wai-"

Bonnie: You're the person who is supposed to do those things, after all. But I draw the line at the books you've read.

(!!!!!)

Bonnie: See... I might not be as smart as Isa or Dile... But I am the oldest in the group. I feel like I need to look after you all very carefully. Bonnie: ... Bonnie: I am also a chef.

(...?)

Bonnie: Even now I can feel it... This sickly sweet scent around you. You read a book about it here, right?

Loop: (OH NO) "Bonnie, please..."

(You feel your pupils shaking.)

Bonnie: ...That was when I started to connect the dots, as Dile would say. Your sudden change of attitude, the books, the smell... Bonnie: Now that I say it, it also explains why you were unfazed by the spikes in the Death Corridor.

(YOU NEED TO STOP THIS. YOU CAN'T LET THEM FIND OUT!!!)

Loop: "B-but how would I know?!" Loop: "It the first time I'm here, so there is no way I could've known, right? I'm just trying to be cool, haha!"

(Your small laughs are getting pathetic.)

Bonnie: Oh, there is one way. You should know by now, with all your "research".

(!!!)

Bonnie: I wanted you to say it yourself, but it seems like I have to. Bonnie: You have been here before. Just not on your travels. You have been repeating this part of our journey. I guess more than once, even. Bonnie: Did something happen? Did you wish to loop back, just to cancel-

Loop: "NO!"

Odile, Mirabelle, Isa: !

Loop: "SOMETHING DID HAPPEN! BUT I DIDNT WISH FOR IT!"

(Tears start running down your cloaked face.)

Loop: "And I don't even know what happened! We have won! We should have won many days ago!"

Bonnie: Loop, please-

Loop: "And you can't figure it out more than me! Because you can't remember! And I never have the courage to share it!"

(The taste of the sugar...)

(You drop to your knees.)

Mirabelle: Loop, why are you yelling?

Odile: What is going on?

(They all can feel it. You can see it on their faces. Especially Bonnie's.)

Loop: "BECAUSE I THINK LIKE IT'S ALL MY FAULT! AND IT IS, ISN'T IT! I AM THE ONE THAT CAUSED ALL OF THIS SOMEHOW!"

Bonnie: No, wait-

Loop: "And if you remembered all the things I tried to get out, you would abandon me! You would hate me! And, and-"

<Loopback.>

Bonnie: ....fine. You could've just said you don't want to talk about it. Bonnie: But don't pretend it isn't there. I notice it because I care.

(You barely manage not to continue yelling.)

Loop: ...Thank you, Bonnie. But I don't want to talk about it, yes.

(Bonnie smiles.)

Bonnie: See, that was easy! But do get a snack later, you look... pale.

(...yeah, it was easy...)

<Memory of Scent>

"Boniface cares about you. [Increases the effectiveness of healing skills of the wearer]"

[neverlearnedtoread]

Spinning Silver

⭐⭐⭐⭐; the staryk king and mirnatius with the word 'wife' on the board: there's only one thing more horrible than a wife.... *rips off paper* MY wife

Oh?? 👌😉😏

women are fucking amazing and wonderful and terrifying and unequivocal badasses. especially to their husbands. it's about the fantasy of a marriage you have no control over being perfectly suited to you in ways you didn't even know it could

inhuman fae creatures that actually have a separate culture and set of rules they are governed by. they're much more powerful than humans, of course, but they are bound to their laws, and if you're smart you can work with that

fairytale-esque magic system that relies heavily on (1) trickery (2) Having Audacity and (3) the rule of threes 😉. we love a soft magic system that rewards big swings and BDE!

not one, but TWO separate arranged marriages engaged in HEATED pvp AKA two people bound in hostile matrimony trying to kill each other while having 'wait, are they hot? fuck!' moments

you can be cold and practical and still be a good person. you can be strong enough to protect yourself without sacrificing others. with a good enough grasp of contracts you can force a demon to leave your kingdom AND husband unharmed in a 2-for-1 deal

No.. ❌🤢🤮

multiple POVs with no names for chapter titles so you have to figure out who it is from context clues - if you're like me and love a little puzzle to go with your reading time, you'll really enjoy it (Novik does it VERY well) but if you get confused easily or don't wanna put in the brainpower its annoying and overly complicated

if you don't like enemies-to-lovers where they actually argue and are ideologically opposed, you're not gonna enjoy the romance subplots. this is not a 'forbidden-lovers' kinda enemies-to-lovers. this is firmly in the 'my husband misses me a lot - but his aim is getting better!' zone

really quick wrap up - it gets tied up a little too fast after the final confrontation with the Big Bad. i wouldve liked at least to have irina POV at the end because her side of things just. gets left hanging

Summary: Miryem is a daughter and granddaughter of moneylenders, and though her father doesn't have the hardheartedness to be a good one, she'd rather be despised for what she's owed than starve. Her knack for the trade, coupled with her sharp tongue, draws the ire of her village, and even more alarmingly, the Staryk's attentions; faerie creatures who only covet gold, they take her offhanded boast that she can turn silver into gold quite literally, and show up at her door to hold her true to her careless words - which, honestly, kind of backfires on them when she rises to the challenge and upends their realm into complete disarray, so maybe there's a lesson there for the next group of nonhumans to learn: don't bet the house against a human girl whose Had Enough Of All This Bullshit. She might win.

Concept: 💭💭💭 I don't know Rumpelstiltskin's story very well, and Ice Kingdom aesthetics aren't my favourite (you can blame it on my residual dislike of Frozen), but I DID read Uprooted before this. I wasn't as into the book blurb as I was with Uprooted, but I'm an experienced (and opinionated) enough reader to know when to trust my gut - if I find an author's writing style easy to read, and I enjoy how they handle their themes, I'm not afraid of diving into deep waters. If it's that bad, I can always DNF

Execution: 💥💥💥💥 As I've come to expect with Novik's writing, a wonderfully easy read; the storytelling voice flows smoothly and makes me want to keep on reading. No slogging through difficult to understand passages and too slow pacing for me! I instantly wanted to collect every POV character like puppies in a basket, no matter how brief their sections were. I will say the ending does forget what it wants to say and simply ends on a happy note, instead of a complete thought. It doesn't tie in the POV characters together strongly enough - I would've loved to see an epilogue scenes with the 3 main female characters supporting each other, or at least being three distinct Bad Bitches!

Personal Enjoyment: ❤❤❤❤❤ Mostly because of Irina and Miryem (and Wanda)'s absolute BDE. They truly brought their stories to life and felt very dynamic, constantly driving the story forward through their actions, especially because their personalities and characteristics were so well-suited to the challenges they faced (Miryem rules-lawyering the Staryk, Irina taking to politics, Wanda keeping faith despite all the shit she's been through). Honorary shoutout to the complete hilarity of Mirnatius's POV (though ultimately it IS more indulgence than necessity, I respect Novik for it) - may he spend the rest of his life desperately drawing his wife in vain search of her bad angles!

Favourite Moment: the running gag of mirnatius losing his fucking mind trying to prove irina isn't hot. you know that post that's like 'find a blorbo to draw and your art skills will start improving so much faster'? irina is his blorbo. special mention of the scene he gets jealous realizing a random guard has a crush on his behated wife and immediately jumps to the conclusion that irina would want to fuck the guard for the sake of the kingdom. babygirl the hoops you are jumping........where is this gymnastics routine even going 😭 this man is not beating the meow meow allegations..

Favourite Character: It's really a tie between Miryem and Irina, who are both so similar yet different at the same time. Miryem's BDE was enjoyably explosive - she throws it in everyone's face, which is perfect to play off of the Staryk's otherworldly impassiveness. Irina's BDE was a lot more...steely. Quietly coming into her own as she realized how adept she was at politics, and how perfectly well-suited that made her to being tsarina - and when they finally met each other? it was so funny when were like 'hey...why dont we kill our husbands via pokemon battle??'

[spacestationvampire]

the way you color things makes me want to commit crimes. any coloring tips for a baby digital artist who doesn’t know how to do the computer things good?

AUGH apologies for taking so long, i was in the middle of writing this answer and the whole thing was deleted as soon as i switched to another tab on my phone, and then the draft didn't save the second time i tried to write it. jfc at least i had it written out in my notes app the second time. anyway, thank you thank you thank you!! this was very nice to recieve, i love getting asks ❤️

i'm not versed in the arts of drawing on a computer, either, so i can't give tips in regards to specific programs (said in chronic procreate user voice) but i can certainly give universal advice keep in mind that i'm not professionally taught in the slightest so i lack much of the vocabulary to describe my methods, and remember that my word is not law!

in case of confusion, everything has been explained. i've added a cut because it got needlessly long. i've also added visual guides for certain tips, and image descriptions for each one

to be honest, much of what i do when picking colors is done with the help of gradient maps (more on that later) but when choosing my base colors i follow these rules:

1. you don't have to cell shade with purple + multiply and an add layer. that's the voice of lavendertowne attempting to take control of your body. stamp it out. (/j i love her)

2. bright, vivid colors!

3. instead of shifting just the brightness and saturation when picking colors to shade, shift the hue, too! in the first image, we can see that the circle is dull and boring. in comparison, the second image pops!

4. so, how does this work?

without getting too much into color theory--because while i've studied it before, i don't trust myself to articulate it properly without making a fool of myself--it's all about how colors interact with each other. for example, a beige circle looks lighter when surrounded by a dark background rather than just plain white.

in the same vein, surrounding greys/desaturated colors with warm colors makes them look blue, and vice versa.

5. blue/grey shadows and warm lighting!! or the other way around. actually, you can use any color for shadows and lighting, depending on your light source. is it sunny outside, or are they beneath white light?

6. for color picking, i reccomend avoiding using the wheel, instead opting for the rgb sliders or the hue saturation brightness sliders if you're dumb like me. this allows for precision in the colors you pick, and accuracy when putting together color palettes.

7. and, finally, the actual computer stuff: gradient maps! i looove gradient maps.

as far as i'm aware, procreate and krita have the gradient map tool. ibispaint does not. i am not sure if firealpaca does.

i usually use gradient maps to make my coloring more cohesive, rather than just slapping them on a monochrome drawing (which is also a totally viable method for coloring, but you'll be less precise, as gmaps only recognize values). when using gradient maps, i prefer to duplicate my completed artwork, lower the opacity of the duplicate on top of it (usually between 25 and 50%, depending on how strong i want the effect to be), and use gradient maps on the duplicate.

this makes my colors all nice and pretty!

11. if you use krita, it can be hard to find the right colors to use for your gradient maps. never fear! i'm here to give you the default templates from procreate, as well as a couple of the ones i've made.

if you have any more questions, or you want me to get further into a specific topic, feel free to send me another ask

[dingochef]

Take Care

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x You (OFC)

Warnings: Swearing, Smut (MDNI 18+ Only), Angst with a Happy Ending, Stalking, P in V, oral (female and male receiving), Semi-public sex, light spanking,

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Jake takes of El, even if it's from afar and while their relationship hangs in peril.

This is a one shot to my series Stepping to You Toe-to-Toe. Best read after Chapter 12: Cliche.

Masterlist

The moment Jake hangs up with Wolfie about calling in a favor to get Elsa a security system today, he is still plagued by the need to do something, something more to protect Elsa.

He wryly notes that Elsa would be half annoyed because she's said on more than one occasion, "I'm a grown ass woman who can and has taken care of herself, thank you very much." The other half would be secretly touched but the gesture. That stranglehold of sadness of just how much he's fucked things up with her closes in around his heart and he tries to push it away and think of something to he can fix right now.

He recalls her story about letting Creepy Bill have it and Millie backing her up. He knows Millie, she's Phoenix's aunt or something and has been at a few celebrations. He calls Phoenix.

"Come on, come on, pick up, he mutters to himself as he paces around the small kitchen.

Finally, a groggy voice answers, "Hangman, what the fuck do you want on a Sunday morning?"

"Good morning to you too, I need your Aunt Millie's number. "

Jake hears the absolute confusion in her voice,

"Why on earth do you want her number? Trying to move on after Elsa? I'm pretty sure Millie's wife Candace is going to have a few issues with that."

Phoenix's razor sharp wit doesn't take long to come online in the morning.

He gives her the fastest recap of the whole situation he can and finishes with,

"Millie probably has Bill's address."

"Figures creepy old man is involved. One, you're going to promise me that you'll bring someone with you capable of preventing you from beating this dude into a pulp and getting you court martialed. Two, don't think this is going to be enough to get back with Elsa. You know you have a looooooot of shit fix," she says, drawing out the o in a lot to a long syllable.

"I know, I just want to be able to do something, even if she never wants to see my face again," he pauses, the thought creating a deep ache in his chest, "Can you help me out?"

She sighs, it almost sounds like sympathy, and says,

"Yeah, I'll text it to you. Give me a quick sec to call her and let her know what's up."

"Thank you, Phoenix."

"Later Hangman," and then she adds a little more softly, "Good Luck."

He paces around the small house for five minutes trying to wait long enough to call Millie.

A text comes in from Phoenix.

Phoenix: Millie is pissed so she just gave me Bill's address with the promise you won't do anything stupid, I gave her an 85% guarantee on that.

Phoenix: Bill Wilson

8585 Saturna Court

La Jolla

Phoenix: DON'T DO ANYTHING STUPID!

Jake: Thank you.

He gets dressed quickly throwing on some jeans, a white t-shirt, and his bomber jacket. His next stop is Rooster's room. Jake doesn't spare the door when he raps on it to wake Rooster up.

"What that fuck, who is it?" Rooster groans.

"It's me, Hangman, get up. I need a favor from you."

"Fuck off," he shouts back.

"Rooster, this is the least you could do after the shit you pulled last night. It's about Elsa, some guy is stalking her."

"Fine, fine, let me put some god damn clothes on."

"Try to look intimidating."

"Yeah, ok." Rooster snorts.

A few minutes later he emerges wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. They're out the door and walking towards Jake's car. Jake starts the car and pulls away, headed off the island and towards La Jolla.

"So what's the deal and why do you need me to go with you?" He asks.

Jake runs him through the situation and gets him up to speed.

"So, we're going to go beat up some old guy who can't take a hint, or in this case a giant fucking billboard?"

"No, just more of a come to Jesus talk and to scare him a little bit. Phoenix made me promise to bring someone so 'I wouldn't do anything stupid.'"

"Okay, what do you need me to do?"

"Basically just stand there and try to look intimidating, I'll do the talking."

"Okey dokey."

They find Creepy Bill's house and park at the curb. As they walk up to the house, Jake tells Rooster,

"Put your sunglasses on,"

Rooster snorts and points to the very overcast sky,

"It's for effect, dumbass."

Rooster rolls his eyes and complies.

As they stand on the small porch, Jake asks Rooster,

"Ready?"

He nods.

Jake gives three sharp raps on the door, not bothering with the doorbell.

There is a small amount of shuffling and then the door opens to a man in his 50s with slightly graying hair who is a couple of inches shorter than Jake or Rooster

"Are you Bill Wilson?" Jake asks.

The older man nods,

"Yes, that's me. What can I help you with?"

"You and I have a mutual acquaintance, Elsa Matthews."

He interrupts Jake and says,

"Oh yeah, Elsa, lovely girl."

He licks his lips subconsciously in a way that makes Jake's stomach turn. Jake takes a steadying breath and tamps down the overwhelming urge to grind this guy into a pulp.

"Here's the deal, Elsa is a friend of ours," he emphasizes the word friend and uses his thumb to point at himself and Rooster,

"And she made it known that despite giving a clear picture of how she sees you in her life, which is not at all, you keep pushing. We're not too happy with the stunt you pulled with the roses. Which by the way, she said were cliche as shit. So, Elsa has made it perfectly clear for you to stay away and you should be getting a piece of paper today from the police making that even more clear. I just want to add that Elsa has a lot of friends like us, especially a lot that live really close to her on Coronado Island and might not be as level headed next time you do something stupid. You got any questions, Billy boy?"

The old man has gone white in the face and manages to stutter out, "No, no. I get it."

"Good boy, you learn quick. I think we're done here." Jake turns around and motions to Rooster and he follows.

They get back in the car and Rooster speaks first as they pull away.

"I'm surprised, you actually held your shit together and didn't pummel him into the ground."

"Hah, he's a sad old man that thinks he bully his way into a woman's life, but when faced by any real man he's a total chicken shit."

"I gathered that, so now what? You going to go to Elsa and be her knight in shining armor to redeem yourself?"

"No, she doesn't need to know about this. I said I'd give her space and unlike that asshat back there I respect that. I just thought if I could do one last thing for her, I could feel a little better for being a giant asshole and ruining a good thing."

"Shit dude, you're in love with this girl. Huh, never thought I'd see the day Hangman fell in love. Can I buy a ski lift ticket in hell now?"

"First of all, fuck off, Rooster. Two, who wouldn't fall for Elsa, she's smart and funny as get out, a genuinely good person, hot as hell, and just gets me. Like me, Jake, not Hangman, just Jake."

Rooster let's put a low whistle,

"Oh shit, this is real," he pauses, "I'm starting to feel a little bit bad about telling her about the bet, a little bit," he holds his fingers a tiny bit apart. He continues, "What about her? Is the feeling mutual?"

"God, I hope so. I see these moments where she's unguarded about something and I can feel her being vulnerable and then it's gone. She's been hurt before, I can tell. I've got to earn her love.'

"Well good luck dude, just because we've had this little talk doesn't mean I like you any more and or I won't stop secretly hoping you crash. But you and I both know she deserved to know the truth."

"Fair, funny thing is that I was already planning to try again and then you laid down that stupid bet and I agreed it. A decision I hope won't haunt me for the rest of my life."

They arrive back at the house they're sharing and get out. Jake leans over the car roof and says to Rooster,

"Don't worry about us becoming bros, the dislike remains mutual."

"Whatever, dude," Rooster sniffs and walks into the house.

Jake heads to his room and flops down on the bed. He pulls out his phone to send Elsa one last text. His heart pangs at the photo of her I set as the background, it's her in front of the B-29 where they talked about the nose art. He set it as his background as soon as he took jt. She is mirroring the pin up girl's arms holding them up and has pulled up one of her legs with the knee bent in front of her. Her bright smile shining through. He scrubs his face as he sighs and unlocks his phone and pulls up the text app.

Jake: Bill won't be bothering you anymore.

He puts his phone aside and decides to go for a run just for something to do. The run around base is quiet as it's a Sunday with little activity. Running as far as he can to feel exhausted Jake makes his way back to the house.

Jake showers and grabs something to eat and sits on the couch turning the TV mostly for the noise, something to fill his brain other than the replay loop of Elsa's face from the bar last night, her saying "I do, Lieutenant" and the look in her eyes from yesterday in the car, and a quick succession of her laughing, the way she feels under his arm when they were cuddling on her couch, the feeling of waking up to her sleeping face, and what feels like a million more memories. He scrubs his face in frustration and keeps looking at his phone hoping that something will come through. Jake decides to read a book as a distraction, somewhere between the last murder and the brilliant detective monologue he must have fallen asleep.

Jake awakens to a gentle knock on our door, he gets up to open it and it's Lydia. He didn't realize he had gotten his hopes up in the five feet to the door that it would be Elsa. Rooster's room is dark, indicating he's not there.

"Hi Lydia, Rooster is out, but you're welcome to wait for him," Jake informs her.

"Yeah, he said he'd be about a half an hour but to just go on and meet him here," she replies.

Ever the polite host, Jake offers Lydia a drink. She chooses a beer and sits down on the armchair that makes up the second piece of the extravagant Navy issued living room set.

"So how's it hanging, Hangman?" she asks, knowing that he's heard that question a million times before. Jake decides to wave off a smooth response and replies,

"Not great and that's mostly your boy's doing."

"What'd he do? Short sheet your bed, put itching powder in your jockstrap," she pauses, "Wait do guys even really use those ever?"

"No nothing that juvenile, he talked his big mouth and told Elsa about I bet that I took and called off and she is understandably pissed off at me."

Lydia stops mid sip,

"Wait, what do you mean a bet you took and called off. Explain, and how does that involve Elsa?"

"Rooster bet me I couldn't get into Elsa's bed within a week from the night she blasted me at the Hard Deck. The thing was that I was already trying to figure out a way to contact her."

Lydia snorts,

"You're not the first one to become entranced by Elsa, but you might be the only one to get murdered by her and actually come back. So, the bet, you said you took it, why?"

He sighs,

"Because I am apparently a very stupid man who is easily goaded into doing stupid things by your boy, Rooster."

"I gathered that," she says dryly, sipping her beer.

"I didn't collect on it when Phoenix announced loudly that I'd woken up at a girl's house and Rooster confirmed it was Elsa's. I regretted taking the bet as soon as I said yes. I hope I don't regret it for the rest of my life."

Lydia sighs,

"I'll deal with Rooster, although this giant pile of dog shit you have to climb out of is entirely your doing." Jake nods in agreement.

"I'm more pissed Rooster fucked up something that good for Elsa, forget you, no offense." Jake shrugs the comment off.

She pauses for a long moment and looks off to her side, sucking in a deep breath she says,

"I'm going to tell you something about Elsa that she probably hasn't told you. She doesn't open her heart easily."

"I know that, there's these moments when I see these glimpses of her, really her, and then she shuts the door and changes the subject."

"Good, you're at least aware of that, that's a good start. Did you know that Elsa was engaged once?"

"No, she didn't talk about that."

"Yeah, it's not really something she likes to relive. She was engaged to this guy, Liam, who worked with her at SpaceX. She thought it was the real deal and they were living together. She came up with an amazing new design for getting satellites out of the rocket that made things way more efficient, like a solid make your career kind of innovation. The bastard beat her into work on Monday and presented the designs as his own. She only found out because she walked in on the end of the meeting. He didn't get why it was a big deal.''

Jake's eyes widen at that thought, to know Elsa was to know how proud she was of her work and the impact it has on the world. He couldn't think of a quicker way to kill off a relationship with her than to degrade, not value, not respect her work, her amazing brain, basically her. What a fucking idiot.

"She dumped his ass, told her boss everything, quit her job, packed up her shit from their apartment, left him his shitty ring, and drove back to Michigan that day."

"Holy shit, she doesn't mess around. Then she moved here."

"Yeah, and she's had a few relationships, but they've ended when guys get insecure because she's like a 1000 times smarter than them, or that fact she makes more money than them, stupid ego stuff. It just made her harder and she protects her heart."

"So, why are you telling me all this?" Jake asks.

Lydia sighs again,

"Because maybe I'm a hopeless romantic, but mostly because there's been a spark in Elsa and a joy I haven't seen in her for years. For some reason, you, perhaps one of the most egotistical guys on the planet, actually makes her happy. I thought if you knew some of her background you might be able to dig yourself out of this epic hole you've dug for yourself."

She goes on,

"I know you want to run to her and confess your soul to her, but let me repeat, give her space to think. You push too hard, you'll just push her away. If you get a second chance, don't fuck it up because if you break her heart again I will hunt you down and make your balls into earrings." The last sentence is said with such deadly seriousness, that Jake doesn't doubt Lydia's intent for a second.

"Thank you, Lydia. This helps, it helps a lot."

Rooster has chosen this moment to appear, his face lights up at the sight of Lydia and then turns to confusion as he sees the look on her face.

Jake takes that as his cue to leave and escape to his room, as soon as he shuts the door, Lydia says, in a deadly tone,

"Bradley Fucking Michael Bradshaw, you've got some shit to explain."

"Umm, babe what are you talking about?" The alarm in his voice is apparent and Jake is glad he is getting his ass chewed out.

"I heard about a bet you laid down about Elsa, my best friend for 15 fucking years, and then decided to tell her about last night."

There is a long pause as Rooster thinks up a battle plan. He says slowly,

"Yes, there was a bet that Hangman technically won, but that he called off."

"And that bet was?" Lydia asks him, waiting for him to answer.

"That he could get in Elsa's pants in a week."

"First of all, how gross. I get the stupid betting, but on that it's just disgusting. Second of all, Jake said he was already wanting to see Elsa again before the bet, but he let his ego lead him instead of his brain and he took it. He's got to clean up his mess, that's on him for that colossally terrible mistake. I'm more pissed at you that you would deliberately ruin what is or was turning into something good for Elsa. That girl has had some serious heartbreak and for some reason Hangman has been good for her."

Rooster has moved into full apology mode,

"Babe, I am so sorry. Let me make it up to you."

He is shuffling through the usual playlist of apologies trying to find something that sticks.

Lydia cuts him off,

"Rooster, you're a smart guy," Jake snorts where he is leaning against the door at that statement,

"You can't tell me you haven't seen a difference in Hangman. You can tell the boy is stupidly falling in love, why would you ruin that for anyone? You guys are supposed to have each other's backs up in the air, why would you do something that shitty down here?"

"I don't know."

Lydia sighs,

"Well, think about it, Rooster, I'm going home. Maybe we'll talk later."

The door opens and softly closes. Jake sprints to his bed and lays down like he hasn't been listening with his ear to the door. He expects Rooster to come barging in to start a fist fight, instead all Jake hears is the door to his room shutting quietly and the house is eerily silent.

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