#this was my first time working with gold leaf!! and my last time drawing a fucking tree <3 (/j)

[tradingjack]

citrus trees are odd. like why are they allowed to happen?? wild

[gingernut1314]

Little Game Pt. 2

Dracule Mihawk x F!Reader

Summary: Mihawk has found you once more after a month of hunting after you--a month of playing your little games. Found you in yet another poor excuse for a bar, except it seems you have forgotten all about your game. Forgotten and were dulling your usually sharp sense away with drink after drink. But Mihawk hasn't forgotten. Your game is still on and he plans on winning.

Tags: angst, fluff

Word Count: 4.9K

Setlist:

Emotions

I Wanted to Leave

A/N: I'm soooo sorry it's been such a long time! I'm in my last year of college and it's absolute hell on earth and the work is insane. Anyywway, there's no spice again, but I'm slowly getting there! I hope you all enjoy! 🩷

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Mihawk had traveled thousands of miles from his Marine-ravaged home. Had smuggled himself onto cargo ships and luxury vessels to get to island after island. Had begged to join the first pirate crew he could find so he might learn to sail and build his strength. Had begged on his knees, forehead bowed so low it had touched the ground with anger-fueled tears in his eyes to the first swordsman he could find to teach him the delicate art of the blade. 

Had begged on hand and knee to every swords master he came across to teach him. To help him draw closer and closer to that end goal he would do anything to achieve. 

He would become strong. Become the greatest swordsman the world had ever known and then he would lay waste to the Marines. He would spare them no mercy, just as they had spared his home no mercy. Just as they had spared his mother no mercy. 

It was a goal--no, a vow bound by blood and death herself that led him here to this small island. An island covered in ancient, towering trees. An island home to a secluded and unknown people. Home to the greatest swordsman of a long-ago era. A swordsmen who had lived 180 years and had never lost a fight. 

His yellow eyes scanned the dark wood he had been warned was full of monsters--devils waiting to tear any traveler brave enough to enter its thick, fog-filled brush. His last master had warned him many men had gone in looking for the great swordsman to learn from him, just as Mihawk, but they never reached his log cabin at its center. They had hardly stepped foot into the wood before its guardian attacked. 

Mihawk calmly stated he would be the first to make it. Would face this Guardian of the Wood and all its devilish monsters and win. He would find the great swordsman and prove to him he was worth his teachings.

The forest hardly looked dangerous. Especially when he spotted the yellow-gold petals of marigolds that he could see littered the leaf-covered floor. 

No monster in sight. No devil. No Guardian. 

Mihawk placed his hand over the hilt of his sword at his side and started into the dark forest. Had just passed a rather large bunch of marigolds when someone landed on the ground before him, having hopped down from their spot amongst the treetops. 

Mihawk scolded himself for not having spotted the figure, knowing he would have seen them had he not been so preoccupied thinking about devils. The tip of a naginata pressed into his chest.

“Are you a pirate?” The voice that came from the figure was silky and calm, yet held dark danger within its melody. It was a voice unlike any other Mihawk had heard and its wielder was just as rare. You looked like some wood nymph. Like the mystical yet deadly creatures Mihawk had heard sung on the lips of pirates and sailors alike come to life. 

“I am here for Rivers Achilles.” You frowned deeply, that sharp blade never leaving Mihawk's chest. He looked you over carefully. Looked over your well-trained stance, one only gained from practice and patience Mihawk knew all too well. Took in the fact you must be around Mihawk’s own age of fourteen. No. He could tell you were older. A year--maybe two. 

“Do all you pirates have a monthly meeting to discuss such originality?” Mihawk narrowed his eyes the slightest bit. Watched your eyes spark like you enjoyed his small reaction. 

“I do not have time to waste on some dirt-smug girl.” Mihawk saw you were hardly dirt smugged. You were pertinently clean as if you had washed before climbing up into that tree. He said it to snuff out that spark of enjoyment you had gotten from baiting his temper. An anger he was slowly training himself to wrangle away. “Now. Move before I move you.” 

You laughed. A small thing that grew into an all-out bellow. It was a laugh that matched your darkness. Your rareness. It had Mihawk blinking, as if stunned at its sound.

“You step another inch in my wood, pirate, and I will break your nose.” You threatened, that dangerous tone laying in the background of your voice pooling thick like venom to its forefront. It was--intoxicating to hear. A sound Mihawk wanted to drag from you again and again. 

“Are you the Guardian of the Wood?” Your shoulders rose and pride swelled in your eyes.

“If you have heard of me then you have heard of what I have done to many a pirate such as yourself. I make them disappear--vanish them from the face of the earth.” Mihawk watched you slowly. A slowness that sparked anger in your eyes. 

It was an anger that Mihawk knew too well. An anger that matched his own in intensity and fury like some twin flame. Someone had hurt you--had taken someone from you, just as those Marines had taken his mother. Had left you feeling so weak and empty it left that anger to fester and grow out of control in you, just as it had in him. It was an anger he wanted to lash out at. One he wanted to direct his own anger at. 

“I thought you would be--” He paused, letting his eyes roam over your body again in a bored manner. “--more.” That fiery anger flared brightly. Had your knuckles going white wrapped as tightly as they were around the staff of your naginata. “How disappointing to find you are just some feral, dirt-covered girl.” Oh yes--yes there it was. Such anger. Anger to match his own. Anger that would rival him like none other ever could.

Mihawk had hardly seen you move before you were bringing the staff of our naginata to ram into his nose. A sickening crunch sounded in Mihawk's ears as pain flared in his face, nearly blinding him. 

A pain that blinded him from seeing you move to kick him hard in the chest, sending him flying out of the woods and back onto the black sand of the beach he had just landed on near minutes ago. 

His anger flared then, but he could only blame himself. He had been distracted by your own anger. By your dangerous voice and your rare beauty. Stupid, idiotic distractions on his part. 

“A runt such as yourself should know his place.” You hissed as Mihawk shoved himself to his knees, wiping the blood from under his broken nose as he laid his yellow eyes on you once more. Found you had left the darkness of your wood and stopped before him looking like some vengeful goddess fallen straight from the heavens. “My father does not wish to waste his time training the likes of pirates. Weak pirates such as yourself, runt.” 

Your father was Rivers Achilles--yes, it made sense now. Your rarity made sense. Your strength and skill. Your father was no ordinary man, therefor his offspring would be just as inordinary--spectacular. 

“I am no runt and I am not weak. I will pass you. I will bow before Achilles and he will train me.” Mihawk declared, cold sea water spraying at his dark leather boot-covered feet. “Your little game will do nothing to stop me from becoming the greatest swordsman this world has ever seen.” 

That excited spark flashed in your icy eyes again. A spark that flickered and twirled with your anger. A wicked, cat-like grin crossed your face--a grin that was so stunning it nearly stole Mihawk's breath away--did steal it.

“Game on.” 

Mihawk had been tracking you for a month now. A month longer than he liked, but you never gave up the chase. Never slowed or stopped long enough for Mihawk to grab hold of you. All he ever saw of you was the trail of perfect chaos you left behind. 

He had followed you through the North, South, East, and West Blues. Had followed you into the Grand Line, full of all its dangers, and back, only to follow you right back into its mysterious waters. And just when he thought he had caught up to you, would have you within his grasp, you had disappeared like smoke between his fingers. 

Despite how long his pursuit of you had taken, he found it excited him. Had him looking forward to the coming dawn, something he had long ago started to dread. 

He assumed it was because you excited him--had always kept him on his toes. You were a rare woman. One that had always challenged him in skill and wit--that matched him as perfectly as one could match another. 

Part of him wished you would just give in. Come with him back to Kuraigana Island and let him indulge you in every luxury he had ever wanted to give you. It was a foolish wish, but one he held regardless. One he knew would never come true unless he won this little game of yours. 

A game you seemed to have forgotten for the night, because here you were, in another run-down, dirty, overcrowded bar on some backwater island in the Grand Line, drunk out of your mind. It was unlike you, to be this careless. Not when it came to your games--when Mihawk was playing them just as you had wanted. 

But there you were, downing the last of your beer, hardly grimacing at the taste as he knew you usually would, too drunk to even taste it. There you were, looking so--exhausted. It was an exhaustion Mihawk knew too well--that weight heavy on his shoulders as it seemed to do you. An exhaustion that had Mihawk pausing. Almost had him leaving this too-small bar and all its too-drunk inhabitants. 

Almost. 

A drunk man bumped into Mihawk with a slurred apology, but he hardly heard it. Hardly even felt the pathetic man running into him. Not when he was so close to you. Not when he was so close to winning the game you had started. 

“Why is it you continue to frequent such nightmarish establishments?” Mihawk's voice should have had you sobering up. Should have had you scrambling to escape back out to sea and leave him and this island far behind. But his voice--so smooth and calm and utterly bored had you tingling in excitement. 

You had missed his all-too-calm dementor. Had missed him, his face, and his stupid hat. 

On a small hiccup, you turned to look up into those piercing yellow-gold eyes you had missed the most. Eyes you wished you could look into forever.

With your thoughts fogged nicely thanks to the copious amounts of alcohol you had consumed, you had no embarrassment or strength for good decision-making when you placed your palm over top of his hard-earned abs. The warmth of his skin seeped into your freezing fingers as you ran them over his skin. 

“Mi-hic-hawk.” You purred up at the unamused man, all but fighting against your hiccups. You flashed him a sly grin. “How’d you find me?” You slurred horribly. 

“You are being sloppy.” You hummed as you brought your other hand to run along his skin, taking in his warmth and power that all but radiated off of him in dangerous waves.

“You always know just how to--hic-- sweet talk a girl.” You said, running your hands around his waist, where they disappeared under his dark jacket. Where they felt the equally as strong muscles lining his lower back. “Say something mean to me again, Mihawk. Pretty--hic--please.” 

Mihawk blinked down at you for a single moment before swiftly removing your hands from his body. You pouted, going to grab for him again, but he brushed you off once more. “Stop.” You whined pathetically, “You’re being mean.” 

“You asked me to mean,” Mihawk said the fact simply in that overly bored manner he hid behind. With a huff, you stopped your attempts at touching him and crossed your arms over your chest. 

“I didn’t say sh-hic-oo me away.” 

“You are drunk, Y/N.” You rolled your eyes dramatically, turning back around on the bar stool you sat on to find the bartender again. 

“And you’re not. It’s --hic-- boring.” You hissed as the bartender came over. “I will have your finest beer and my --hic-- best friend will have your oldest wine.” The woman’s eyes darted to Mihawk making you fix her with an icy glare. Her eyes looked a little too long in Mihawk's direction. Had looked over his face and body for too long. “Don’t look at him. I can only look at him.” She was quick to snap her eyes away, her face going pale in utter fear.

“Y-yes ma’am. We-we only have a red blend from a year ago.” You sighed.

“He will deal with it.” 

“Y/N, we are leaving,” Mihawk said as the woman rushed off. You gave another dramatic sigh, turning back to face him. Those yellow-gold eyes had never once left you and you couldn’t help but enjoy being in their sights. 

“Mihawk, we are--hic--not. I just ordered.” He continued to look unamused. Continued to fix you with his own sharp stare. One that never quite seemed to overpower your own. “Is it because I ordered you bad wine?” 

“Bad wine or not we are leaving.” You narrowed your eyes up at him. Narrowed them so sharp you willed them to cut him open. 

“It’s my--hic--day off. If you are going to be a party pooper then you should --hic-- leave.” It was the exact opposite of what you wanted him to do, but you had landed on this island to get drunk. So drunk you would hopefully wake up with dark spots in your memory.

“I will. With you.” He insisted. You rubbed your eyes roughly, that exhaustion you had come here to escape returning with a vengeance. 

“You are such an --hic--asshole.” 

“Poetic.” Mihawk monotoned. You hissed, yanking your hands away from your face and flinging them up in the air.

“I’m drunk, Mr. Smarty-Pants. Leave me be.” Your beer was placed before you and you were quick to scoop it up. The bad glass of wine went untouched by Mihawk. “Do you want to know --hic-- something?” You asked the bartender who hesitated. Hesitated and stayed after you fix her with your icy glare once more. “This--hic-- guy acts all tough but really --hic-- he wants to leave because all these people are making him--hic--itchy. He’d rather just sit on his pert little ass in the dark.” You said, a giggle leaving your lips. 

The bartender’s eyes darted back to Mihawk and you slammed your fist on the countertop, making the glasses rattle and the bartender nearly jump out of her skin. “I said don’t look at him.” You watched her chest heave up and down in fear as you took a long sip from your beer. “Talking about pert little asses. Mihawk once ran naked--”

“Enough, Y/N.” Mihawk all but commanded you, making you tense. It was a command you bristled at--made your anger begin to heat in your chest rather quickly. Too quick for you to grab hold of and control, especially when you were this drunk. “We’re leaving.” 

“Fuck you! Fuck you and fuck the Marines and --hic--fuck you again.” You hissed, standing from your stool only to nearly fall off it in the process. Mihawk stayed planted in his place, even when you ran into him during your oh-so-graceful fall. “You can’t tell me what to--hic--do.” 

“You are stumbling around like a no-good drunkard. Collect yourself.” You stomped your foot and pushed Mihawk with another hiss like some child. The swordsman hardly seemed to even feel your attack. A fact that had you seething and going to do it again, but he grabbed your wrists in a tight hold. “Enough.” He commanded again. You yanked against his grip but it stayed strong. 

“Let me go.” You hissed at him, yanking again. 

“We are leaving. Whether you do so on your own two feet or I carry you out makes no difference to me.” Your anger surged in your chest. Surged in defiance at his orders. You were not one to be ordered around. Especially by him. 

“You will unhand me this instant or I will--hic--break your nose.” Something flashed in Mihawk's golden eyes. Something--sad. A sad that called to your own sadness which had been welling and pooling within your chest for years now. Pooling to the point of near flooding. A flood you resorted to drinking to dam it up. 

Mihawk’s grip around your wrists fell, but he made no sign of leaving. Made no sign of moving a single muscle from his spot before you. Made no sign of giving up on his declaration of leaving this bar with you in tow.

In your drunken state, you thought this was a perfect opportunity to draw your black blade, which you had left uncovered at your hip. You swung, your muscles moving on near memory, at the frustrating swordsman before you, causing the bartender and a few people around you to scream out in fear. 

Mihawk sidestepped your attack and before you could blink, your sword was skillfully pulled from your grasp and you stumbled forward with a roar. “Give it--” Your words were cut off by a yelp as Mihawk grabbed you up in his strong arms, throwing you over his shoulder. 

Your right shoulder hit Yoru’s hilt painfully and you had to quickly throw your hands out to stop your face from colliding with the black blade strapped to his back. Mihawk wrapped an iron-like arm around your thighs to keep you in place before starting for the exit.

Your vision blurred from the sudden movement, but it didn’t stop you from pounding on Mihawk’s powerful back and kicking your feet as best you could in your weak attempt to escape. His hold on you never lessened, only seeming to tighten in your struggle. 

“Let me go, Mihawk!” You shouted, pulling yourself up enough to try to catch of glimpse of his face, only for his stupid hat to hit you in the face. You gave a frustrated little growl. “This is not fair! I’m drunk!”

“Drunk or not, you started the game. I plan on finishing it.” You huffed in frustration, punching his back once more to no avail. 

The bar fell away and soon you were being carried through the night-filled streets of the backwater village you had found. You continued to fight against his hold until your stomach stirred nauseously and your vision blurred to the point you could hardly see. 

With a pathetic moan, you let your body go limp against his back, your body bouncing with every graceful step he took. It only made your nausea grow, but you were too dizzy to do anything about it. 

“Tire yourself out?” Mihawk asked something like amusement finally filling his smooth voice. 

“I’m going to vomit all over your fancy little sword.” You murmured, making the man sigh deeply through his nose. 

“Are you serious?” You moaned, feeling bile rise in your throat. Your world spun and blurred around you as Mihawk dragged you off his shoulder, a movement that only had that bile rising sharply and your mouth filling with hot spit. You were placed on your feet, but your knees gave out with little warning. Tiny rocks dug into the flesh of your palms and into your kneecaps. 

You cursed, taking deep breaths of the chill night air, hoping to settle your upset stomach. Maybe you had overdone it on the drinks--but unfortunately for you, this is what you had set out to accomplish, and sober you knew she wouldn’t have to deal with all of this nastiness. 

You had just opened your mouth to relieve your aching stomach when strong hands collected your hair away from your face. Hands that held your hair in a manner so soft you hardly felt it. You vomited before you could think much more on whose hands were holding your hair up. 

“Why were you in that bar, Y/N?” Mihawk asked, voice low and so--gentle. As gentle as the man could make it seem. You huffed in and out deeply, catching your breath.

“Why do most people go to --hic -- bars? To get drunk.” You hissed as best you could between breaths. Bile rose in your throat and your stomach rolled once more. Gods--

“Yes,” He sighed, annoyed at your comment. “But you don’t go to bars to get drunk. Not when you are set on a task. Not ever.” You huffed a moan before throwing up once more. 

“I’ve changed.” You huff out, catching your breath once more. Mihawk was quiet behind you. A quiet that ate at you more than you wished to admit. Your vision blurred again. But it was a blur that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the tears welling in your eyes. 

You had drunk too much. Way too much if it was bring you to tears. Tears you could do nothing about to control, not in the state you were currently in. Not when the man making you cry was behind you, holding your hair like there was nothing wrong between the two of you. Like you were back on your home island, stealing alcohol from your father and sneaking off to the only bar on the whole island. 

Your home. Your father. Your forest. All gone. Just like that in the blink of an eye. How had it happened? How had you let it happen? You had been your home's Guardian, just as your mother before you, and her mother before her. It had been your job, your responsibility to protect it from such dangers. 

It had been your life's purpose and you had failed. Failed and lived. Lived when you should have died protecting it.

“Y/N--” Mihawk started, but you swatted his hands away as you turned your body away from your puke. You buried your face in your hands to keep the swordsman from seeing your tears. From seeing your weakened and broken state. 

“Leave me be. Please.” You all but begged. Gods you were pathetic. So far from the proud and strong person you had once been in your youth. So old and angry and tired.

“I’ve seen you at your lowest. Some sick and a few drunken tears are hardly going to deter me.” He said on a sigh like you should have already known that. 

You pulled your face from your hands to glare at him where he knelt behind you. To tell him to leave on a venomous hiss--to throw insults his way, but his hand disappearing into his jacket pocket caught your eye. It reappears with a golden hair clip, diamonds sparkling in the lamp lights as he showed it to you. 

“That’s my--” You started in disbelief. 

“You forgot it on my ship when you left.” He said, handing it to you. You took in gently in your hands and before you could even begin to process everything, his hands were in your hair once more. He gently pulled and twisted it, mimicking how you had done your hair a million and one times before without so much as a thought of his ever-watchful gaze. His free hand plucked the golden clip from your hand and nestled it securely in your hair. 

He had kept it. Had not only kept it, but had kept it on his person. Kept it close and ready to use if you ever needed it once more. 

When he was done, you turned to stare bug-eyed up at him, tears still refusing to halt their endless fall. Calm. He was always so calm. A calm that frustrated you and grated on your nerves to no end, but was such a familiar, comforting presence. A presence you had yearned to be around more than you yearned to hunt down every last Marine you came across. 

Hesitantly, he reached for you. So hesitantly he gave you enough to slap him away, but you made no move to do so. Made no move to stop him as he brushed your tears away with his thumb. 

His touch sent your eyes watering all over again. His touch and his actions were so gentle and kind and so utterly unfair. So unfair because you couldn’t give in. Not now. Not for a long, long time. 

Gods how you wanted to give in. 

“I can’t--I can’t go with you.” You said in a low, grave tone. Mihawk brushed his thumb over your cheek once more before pulling away, making you feel that cold aloneness you had been trying to chase away with drink. He gave the slightest of nods. 

“I know.” He said just as lowly, his face seeming to harden further. You watched him grab your black blade, which he had placed on the ground beside him. He resheathed it at your side skillfully and reached for you again, grabbing you under your arms and lifting you to your feet. You swayed like a great gust of wind had blown into you, your drunkenness having yet to wear off. 

Mihawk hardly made a single sound before he was lifting you off the ground once more. Made no sound as he prompted you to wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. You did so without much thought, the action having been memorized by your body.

It was something the two of you had done many times over the years, whether it be you clinging to his back or front. Whether it be because you were too drunk or injured to walk, you would cling to him and he would hold you tight. It was something he had grumbled endlessly about the first few times you’d insisted upon it, but had slowly grown used to it to the point he would pick you up as such without your prompting. 

Your eyes catch his own briefly. Eyes so bright they were like the sun. A sun your soul begged to orbit one more, but your pride beat it down. Had you looking away and placing your cheek on his shoulder, taking his rose and expensive cologne scent deep into your nose so that you might hold on to it for that much longer.

Mihawk felt like a teenager again, holding you like this. It was--refreshing, though if anyone of importance saw him in such a way, there was sure to be trouble. But for now, in this small village in the middle of the Grand Line, he could get away with it. Could hold you close and keep your seemingly ever-cold body warm. 

He had marked where your ship was docked before he had ever docked his own, so finding it again was hardly a chore. 

Your ship was just a tab bit larger than his own, still designed for a single crew member to sail, but large enough for a much more spacious sleeping quarters and kitchen. That had been something you had complained about endlessly when having sailed with him on his own ship. 

He readjusted his hold on you so he might open the door that led to the inner workings of your ship. It was neat and tidy, just as his own was, though the walls covered in numbers and markings were unlike anything on his own ship. 

They were Marine branch numbers, ones you had come across during your journeys. Underneath each number were tally marks which he assumed represented how many ships you had destroyed flying those same numbered flags. The branches you had completely whipped off the face of the earth he found were crossed out. 

It was impressive how many Marines you had wielded your perfect chaos against. Impressive and worrisome because he knew as the number grew, the more you would be noticed. And the more you are noticed, the more likely it was they would send another one of the Warlords to slaughter you. 

Garp had warned him of this the last time they spoke. Had commanded Mihawk to get you under control or you would be spared no mercy. It was Mihawk's first and final warning to stop you before you got yourself killed. 

And as much as Mihawk wanted to take you away to his new home, to keep you out of the prying eye of every last Marine and pirate that sailed the seas, he knew he needed to wait. To play your game and win it, or there would be no victory. No having you back by his side. 

You had fallen asleep sometime during the walk, so you made no fuss as Mihawk placed you in bed. You merely grumbled something in your sleeping state as he pulled your boots off and took your sword from your side, propping it against the wall.

He watched you for a long moment. Watched your softened features as you slept. 

So rare. You were too rare to let go. To give up on and allow to die. You were Mihawk’s twin flame. A flame he would fight and die for if given the chance. You were the only person alive he would truly bend to. 

And bend he did by letting you go. By playing your little game. A game he vowed to win the right way.

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[snek-panini]

At long last, it is Post Stuff I Made Time again. The last time I had a book to show off was in May and that's just too long. Not a fic (this time. I have them, they're coming) but a journal:

I made this as a dnd journal for my husband, and it was originally supposed to be a Christmas present, then a birthday present (in March), and finally it has reached its true potential as a Labor Day Week present. But it's gorgeous, he loves it and I'm proud of it. The cover is Allure book cloth (the color's called skylight), with the strip at the bottom in chiyogami (from ChibiJay; I got it in one of their assorted strip packs), and the flower is gold foil htv. The campaign is pirate/high seas themed, and his character's background has a distinct Fantasy Japan element, so a lot of the design choices followed from that.

More photos under the cut!

Close up on the cover. I thought I had a close up of the flower icon but I must not have taken it. Love how close the color match is between the blue in the waves and the book cloth. The gold htv came out a bit less smooth than I'd have liked, but it has a kind of gold leaf look to it that we both ended up really liking.

He requested a Coptic bind so it would lay flat when opened, and I did Coptic end bands for stability and because they look cool, especially with the exposed link stitches. I find the link stitches also add a bit of stability when you've got fewer Coptic stitches. I special ordered the pink thread (again, his choice) from Hollander's, and it was expensive and totally not worth the hassle. The only way to get this color was pre-waxed and there is SO MUCH WAX on it, it's ludicrous. I scraped a lot of it off on a blade and it was still too waxy, like handling a candle. It's also very stiff and thicker than I'm used to, to the extent that it was hard to thread the needle with it. I've ordered their unwaxed thread before and would do it again, but this is the last time I buy the waxed stuff. Embroidery floss is cheaper, easier to work with, and comes in more colors.

Please ignore the blurriness in the second photo; I have never claimed to be a photographer and didn't notice it till now. This is the doublure on the inside of the front cover, and it's more chiyogami from Chibijay. The wave pattern wraps around from the front to finish up under this paste-down; I wanted to do the same in the back but didn't have enough of the wave print, so the back is plain.

I thought I'd taken a photo of the pages but I guess I didn't because I can't find it now. Being a journal there was no typeset for this. I actually bought a pre-cut and pre-folded unsewn book block from Hollander's for this. They come in a couple of colors and you can get them blank, with lines, or with graph print for drawing, and Husband chose the graph paper for ease of drawing and making charts.

As a rule I don't normally make journals; books only become interesting to me after there is something in them. So I just skipped the part of the "learning to make books" process where most people make a bunch of sketchbooks. This is actually the first one I've ever made. I'm pleased with how it turned out, and Husband loves it, but I can't see them becoming a regular part of my output unless it's requests like this. However, I've got six finished fic binds to post, so stay tuned for those.

[botanikos]

Today was Stolas's special day, and Blitz aimed to fill it with love.

A trail of blood, lovingly and artistically dripped down the stairs and out towards one of the gardens, ended in a ring of tiny heart-slices, arranged in a semi-circle as one might arrange artwork of the moon in all her phases. In the middle was a large heart, freshly harvested, cleaned, and lovingly rolled in gold leaf. Tiny vines were already growing out of it, with little ruby-red flowers just beginning to bloom. Hartsblood Blossoms, a natural and wholly unethical love spell: to drink the wine from a cup with even one within it was said to ensure the victim would fall deeply for the one who placed the blossom. They were thankfully rare, their seeds found only in the heart of a stag who died nobly, and of course, such things were not easily come by.

There was no note, but Blitz suspected his message would be clear: he would give himself to Stolas, wholly and willingly, by magic and by choice, every day. For every day, he loved him more than the last. And if Stolas ever felt the need to enchant him, to be sure he could always have him close? Blitz would drink the wine to its dregs, look him in the eyes, and ask for more.

Engrossed in his charting and the imprisonment of a new member of court, Stolas gives pause at the sudden flurry in the palace. Head cants as he turns his attention towards the open doorway of their study. Tiny feet skitter across the floor, servants in quiet uproar of puzzlement, a few peeking in at him in alarm. The prince relinquishes his post, stalking towards the door. Query dies on his lips the moments they witness the trail of blood. The deliberate and preciseness of it draws an easy smile upon dark lips.

❝ Leave it. ❞ Soft command is issued as talons click across the floor. He descends the stairs, following the path marked for him.

This was the work of someone precious. It was no ordinary mess, but a vivid and passionate message. Messy and artistic, of the highest value. They understood it perfectly for what it was: a confession, a reminder. Devotion, passion, loyalty, adoration. Without disrupting the beautiful phases of the heart, Stolas steps within the circle to appraise the heart. Unlike Blitz's other gifts, this one was powerful. . . . It held the same, if not more, value as the very first one brought to them. Carefully, Stolas takes it into their hands. A gentle fingertip brushes one of the brilliant blooming flowers.

❝ My beloved fiend, full of life and volatile promise. . . . You have outdone yourself this time. ❞ A heavy ache blooms within their own chest as it heaves with heavy breath. Stolas will have to keep the Hartsblood well under enchantment and hidden from prying fingers or eyes. Not only was it now a masterpiece, a treasure added to the very things he covets most, but its existence posed a danger in and of itself. He could not allow it to come into idle hands, or deliberate ones for that matter. Still, fondness and warmth flood him. He would never ask Blitz for such a sacrifice, and yet, here it was. The imp regarded it as something more: a promise.

❝ What ever am I to do with you? ❞ Bed him sweetly, cherish him deeply, and remind him of the risks he takes. All of which, sounds like the perfect start.

[sweetandglovelyart]

I decided to try designing a Metadede child and a Taransusie child, this is Meta Knight and Dedede’s daughter Cintia and Taranza and Susie’s daughter Clover. Before anyone asks how they exist, my lore for them is that both of them are clones, but instead of being cloned from one person they’re cloned from a combination of two people. I have more backstory about them and explanations for their names under the cut.

I wanted to give Cintia a moon-themed name (because of the moon theme in the final battle against Meta Knight and Dedede in Kirby Fighters 2), and I also wanted her to have a Spanish name because of Meta Knight’s accent in the anime. However, I didn’t want to call her Luna since she’s a princess and I didn’t want anyone to confuse her with the My Little Pony character Princess Luna. Cintia is the Spanish version of Cynthia, which means moon/is related to the moon goddess Artemis, so I called her that instead of Luna. The little gold and black design on her crown is supposed to be a crescent moon to further convey the moon theme. I feel like Meta Knight would call her by her full name most of the time but he might call her “mija” (“my daughter” in Spanish) or “pingüinita” (“little penguin” in Spanish) as a little affectionate nickname lmao, Dedede and most of the other characters would just call her Cindee.

For Clover, I wanted to give her a floral/plant themed name since she’s the princess of Floralia (in my AU of things Taranza becomes the king of Floralia after the events of Triple Deluxe, so that makes Clover a princess). Four leaf clovers are also symbols of good luck, and each leaf of a four leaf clover represents luck, faith, hope, and love, so I thought that it would be a nice meaningful name for her. Her full name is Clover Maxine Haltmann, she has Susie’s last name since Taranza doesn’t have one and her middle name is Maxine in honor of her grandfather Max.

Clover is the first one to be cloned, when Taranza and Susie are engaged and are preparing for their wedding. They go visit another planet to establish diplomatic relations between Floralia and the aliens on that planet, and after they mention that they’re getting married soon the aliens ask them if they’re planning to have kids. Taranza and Susie explain that they can’t have kids the usual way since they’re different species and that wouldn’t work, but the aliens are experts at cloning and have technology that allows them to clone children for couples who are different species. The aliens clone Clover as a wedding gift for Taranza and Susie, not realizing that the two of them saying that they couldn’t have kids didn’t necessarily mean that they wanted to have kids lmao… it all works out though, Taranza and Susie didn’t expect to get Clover but they’re still happy to have her and they return to Popstar with her. After seeing Clover, Dedede and Meta Knight decide that they want to have a kid, so they go visit the aliens and ask them to clone one for them, and that’s where Cindee comes from. I drew Cindee and Clover as little kids here so I could give them some outfits and convey their personalities a bit, but I’ll have to draw them again as babies.

[conjuremanj]

Traditional Road Opener with Rituals

In traditional Hoodoo life is one long road from Birth to the Grave, that's when we'll to become ancestors ourselves. The term Road Opening is not used in hoodoo back in the day it was called Blockbusting. So if you go to a spiritual shop and see a road opener and a blockage candle it's the same thing. It gets rid of blockages, and do away with the obstacles in your or your clients life.

There also is a Blockbuster (read my post in that up top)

Now in the Spanish version like Santeria they may use a herb like Abre Camino which means "opens road, where the plant may be used.

Now think of it as a road where our blessings come one way and our gifts our free will comes the other way. ☝��� Sometimes we can get side-tracked that ends up with a blockage in our way. It may be from pursuing a person we should not be pursuing or a job we should pursue or a life path. Now I'm not saying you can't have those things just that it may not be the right time for those yet there are many reasons we can get blocked.

So when we pursue those blessings that comes towards us and don't received them it's because we put blockages in front of ourselves then we ask why. Why am I not receiving my blessings. That why... Your Blocked.

So when you use a blockbuster your undoing the blockages so that the blessings can start flowing towards you again. And it's does not matter if your blocked in love or money or even employment this will help you to receive those blessings and have them flow back to you again. Now if it's yourself that is blocked see my last post there's another spell for your self to stop blockages. Do both if you feel you need to.

Candles: We know that road opening colors are green, yellow, gold some are red. But you can used a color base on the type of opening you're doing. [Example of it's money that is blocked green is a good choice if it's love use that color if it's spiritual use white] So for this spell color can help if you don't have one white is fine.

Ritual: You will need a Bay leaf. Charcoal frankincense and myrrh and Incense burner. Write on a bay leaf the things that are holding you back.

We use the bay leaf because the leaf is a carrier it invokes spirits and ancestors to walk with you to identify the problem and to help get rid of the burdens and we use the frankincense and myrrh help cleanse the road and give them that extra push to get it out of your way.

Pray the 23rd psalms and walk around with it your going to walk because these are your burdens and you must carry it. This isn't a working where you can just let it burn and walk away NO. Just continue to pray the 23 psalms while you walk around (just like if your sageing) untill the bay leaf is completely burned out. It's important.

Now once you finish your road opening take those opportunities that come up even if it's not what you really want it's a opportunity to get where you need and want to be so take those opportunities when they present themselves.

Full Spell: If needed.

Road Opener Candle Spell: First you'll make a name paper. Take 4" x 4" piece of paper and write "Open Roads" on it stacked 3 times. Turn the paper 1/4 turn clockwise and write your name across it stacked 3 times. Dab a bit of Road Opener Oil on the four corners and center of the paper and set it aside.

Get a Yellow jumbo candle glass is ok, and dab a bit of Road Opener Oil on it. Stroke the oil on the candle toward you saying "Open my roads to me unblock health, love, money and opportunities unblock this________ I have so I may receive the blessings I deserve!" Set the candle in a candle holder.

Place the name paper on a plate then sprinkle a bit of Road Opener powder on top of the name paper in the shape of a large "+" (making a little crossroad on the plate)

(if you decide to go outside draw this symbol on the ground same way. Pour a little rum or whisky on top then place the candle in the center)

Place the candle in the center of the "+" of the herbal powder on the plate. Use your rattle and bell to bring spirit and or ancestors to you for help blow your cigar on the altar.

Now pray to God in your own words for the obstacles in your life to be cleared away and release the blockages so you can move toward your goals and the blessings in your life to be open and easy.

Next writ your problems on a bay leaf and follow the prayer and ritual instructions I mentioned at the top.

After your done with the bay leaf other instructions mention at the top. Hold the candle, take a moment to think and picture all of the goals you would like to accomplish in life as if you already had them. Once you've pictured all of your goals and desires, say "Amen" Let the candle burn all the way down.

Candle Read: Once the candle is done burning you can interpret the way the wax drippings are shaped for signs as to the success of your spell. (this is a very subjective and interpretive art - please if you need help interpreting your candle contact me for free)

Finishing Up: by taking the wax remains, the paper etc, wrapped it up and leave it in the trash. You don't need to go to a crossroads if you don't want to. Throw it away with all your problems.

Let me know how this goes if you try these.

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Stymied!

Xiao Xingchen would have caught Xue Yang long before the Chang Manor massacre...if only he'd stopped getting distracted by doing good deeds.

Read on AO3 - T - xuexiao cracklette

* * * * * * * *  *

“After, you madam. I insist.”

The old woman smiles up at Xiao Xingchen. She’s entering the inn as he leaves it, her arms laden with bags of fresh produce. “Thank you, young man.”

Xiao Xingchen steps back inside the inn, graciously holding the door open. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a flash of black and gold.

Xue Yang, escaping out the back window.

One leg over the sill, Xue Yang stops to wave at him before dropping out of sight.

If Xingchen hurries around the building, he can still catch him—

But, “The rain isn’t easy on these old bones,” sighs the old woman, and suddenly he’s offering to carry her heavy bags of vegetables to the kitchen.

“You remind me of my grandson,” she says as he sets the bags on the table. “Such a lovely young man. Just last week he brought me a new hat, and the week before, my granddaughter, A-Ling, came over and had—”

Ten minutes later, Xingchen manages to politely excuse himself.

The rainwashed street is empty, Xue Yang gone.

Stymied!

This is the tenth time Xue Yang has gotten away this month. But what was Xiao Xingchen supposed to do, _ not _offer to help the old lady with her bags? Shove her out of the way and race into the inn when he first caught sight of Xue Yang through the window?

Impossible!

They next cross paths three days later in Yitang.

Xiao Xingchen is drinking tea when he glimpses a familiar gold-leaf hairpiece through the teahouse door.

He quickly searches his coin purse for the appropriate change (including a tip for the busboy, after carefully searching his robes for extra coins), neatly arranges his cup in the exact center of the tray (like a well-mannered gentleman), wipes up a spot of tea the waiter spilled on the table (the poor busboy works hard enough!), and hastens out of the teahouse.

Xue Yang is nowhere to be seen.

Xiao Xingchen is looking around, hoping for a hint of black and gold, when he hears a hair-raising cry in the distance, the heart-rending sound of a strong man in torment:

_ “My cabbages!” _

Blood turning to ice, he flies off towards the sound. A man kneels in the dirt, his cart overturned, surrounded by loose cabbages.

Xue Yang must have been here! This has all the hallmarks of one of the many devastating scenes of tragedy the delinquent has left scattered in his wake.

“Sir, what happened?” he asks, righting the cabbage cart. “Did you see where the culprit went?”

“He came out of nowhere!” the man whimpers.  “He said—he said—” A fresh burst of sobs wracks him. Xiao Xingchen hands him a cabbage and the man cradles it against his chest, drawing strength from the soft green ball. “He said, ‘Sorry, grandpa, but I don’t have all day to wait around for him.’ What does that _ mean _ ? And then—and then—” He draws a long, shuddering breath. _ “And then he kicked over my cart and flew off!” _

A familiar giggle.

Xiao Xingchen looks up. Xue Yang stands on the roof, grinning down at him.

“Took you long enough,” he says.

Xiao Xingchen is about to fly up and arrest him when he’s distracted by a fresh whimper from the man at his feet.

“The cabbages will be trampled—trampled—”

“Don’t go anywhere!” Xingchen calls up at Xue Yang. “Consider yourself under arrest—” Quickly he starts gathering cabbages and piling them into the cart. “Just stay put for two minutes—”

Laughing, Xue Yang flies off.

Xiao Xingchen works faster, but it’s too late. By the time all the cabbages are back in the cart, Xue Yang has long since disappeared.

Stymied again!

“He’s simply too devious,” he complains to Song Lan when they meet later that day. Song Lan hunts ghosts and demons while Xingchen hunts Xue Yang, but Song Lan keeps in the same general radius and meets Xingchen as often as possible. “I’ve never met anyone so crafty. Just when I have him in my grasp, he slips through my fingers!”

Song Lan nods sympathetically. He’s heard this before, and would help Xingchen if only he too had a spare month to faff around tracking a single half-trained hooligan across the jianghu.

“Do you remember last week, when he slaughtered that caravan?” Xingchen continued. “I was just about to nab him when he released a puppy that exactly matched the description of that lost puppy in Hujindian! I had no choice but to return her to her owner, and by the time I returned, Xue Yang had vanished like smoke on the gentle breeze!”

Song Lan shakes his head. The depth of Xue Yang’s depraved ingenuity never fails to shock and appall him. He still has chilling flashbacks to the time when, just as the righteous net of justice was descending upon the signature-color-stealing miscreant, Xue Yang somehow got Xingchen roped into judging a local poetry contest, allowing him to evade punishment for yet another day.

“And that time is always!” Xingchen had protested when Song Lan suggested that there was perhaps a time and place for poetry contests. “Education is important, and how could I refuse my services after the villagers had been so gracious and hospitable?”

Song Lan had just shaken his head, but perhaps Xingchen is right. Song Lan has been questioning himself ever since he’d been struck by the idea that, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think that Xingchen is _enjoying _ the chase. A ridiculous thought. Song Lan has simply spent too many late nights hunting ghosts, perhaps, or there hasn’t been enough time spent in silent meditation, or perhaps too _ much _time spent in silent meditation.

Whatever the reasons, his judgment has obviously been a bit skewed lately.

_ Obviously_. 

Xue Yang trails Xiao Xingchen from afar until Song Lan leaves to go investigate a nearby haunting. He's more than a little bored. It’s been days since he’s crossed anyone off his revenge list, but when it comes to outright murder he likes to get far enough ahead of Xiao Xingchen to make sure he’s not interrupted, and being days ahead of Xiao Xingchen means he'll have to sit around waiting for him to catch up, and sitting around, even in anticipation of seeing Xiao Xingchen, is dull.

It’s not that it’s not fun to draw Xiao Xingchen after him. He wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t. He stays up nights planning the little clues he leaves for Xiao Xingchen, trying to be as creative as possible to impress the cultivator in white. After all, he’s sure Xiao Xingchen has many other people he can be chasing through Yunmeng, and Xue Yang needs to make sure he doesn’t regret choosing him.

Perhaps he’s been _ too _ creative lately, though. Or not creative enough. Or not obvious enough. Or _ too _ obvious. After all, last week, while distracted by replacing the tanghulu he had knocked out of a child’s hand, Xiao Xingchen missed the embarrassingly pedestrian clue he’d left after disemboweling a farmer who had refused to feed him as a child—a headpiece-shaped leaf he’d painted on the side of a building in blood. He'd anticipated righteous fury and perhaps a footchase, but Xue Yang had to spend three days waiting for Xiao Xingchen to pick up his trail after _ that _one. 

All this stopping and waiting, stopping and waiting, is ruining his flow. He needs something to really spur Xiao Xingchen to action, make him put a bit more effort into the hunt, get the blood pounding. Perhaps an actual swordfight instead of all this cat-and-mousing around. Impress the self-righteous cultivator in white with his swordsmanship, show him that you don’t need a fancy education to succeed.

Perhaps if he tripped a little old lady trying to cross the street—?

No. Enraged as Xiao Xingchen would be, he’d still take too long helping her to feet and escorting her home. He might even stop at a food cart and buy her lunch, and Xue Yang would need to send him an anonymous letter tipping him off as to his whereabouts again.

Sneak into Xiao Xingchen’s room at night and write “kick me” on the back of his pristine white robes?

Naw. He’d probably think that was funny, if he even noticed. Xiao Xingchen would hear a crying child five blocks away, could detect a butterfly landing on a blade of grass six feet behind him, but he tended to miss the obvious. Xue Yang would never forget the time he spent two hours sitting three tables away from Xiao Xingchen, forced to listen to endless teahouse poetry about moons and swans and cherry blossoms, fruitlessly waiting to be noticed beneath his false mustache.

Song Lan had been there too, but the unnecessarily tall hanger-on in black had never actually seen Xue Yang and hadn't noticed him. Xue Yang is glad he’s not the one after him. He doubts Song Lan would find him half as charming, intriguing, and attention-worthy as Xiao Xingchen must, to chase him for so long. He can’t remember the last time anyone who didn’t want something from him has given him this kind of attention. 

Still, just in case, Xue Yang always avoids showing himself while Song Lan is around. No point in risking that attention-hogging priest becoming too fascinated by Xue Yang and following Xiao Xingchen around even more than he already does, which is an annoying amount.

Xue Yang is finishing a bowl of honey-fried dumplings when he realizes that he has the perfect thing right there in his qiankun sleeve. He’s been saving it for a special occasion, but fertilizing a budding relationship is just as important as adding spice to it later.

Besides, it’s always best to be direct with what you want from a relationship. Communication is key. This, he thinks to himself, is the perfect way to up the ante. 

He changes into one of his better outfits before heading out to intercept Xiao Xingchen. If they’re going to swordfight, he wants to make sure his robes will have the maximum dramatic spin. He still doesn’t go for those long, flowy, I'm-so-aristocratic-sleeves—too easy to get them caught on things as you’re fleeing the scene of a crime—but he appreciates a good dramatic robe swirl.

Perched on a rooftop, he waits for an hour before Xiao Xingchen steps out of his inn, looking radiant in the bright morning sunlight.

_ This is it! _

“Catch!” Xue Yang tosses him a severed hand.

“Ugh!” Xiao Xingchen bobbles the hand like a hot potato. “Xue Yang!”

“Good morning, daozhang!” Xue Yang grins at him. Xiao Xingchen’s hand looks even more delicate and dove-like against the mottled purple of the bloated hand. “Race you to Yunping!”

He flies off towards the city gates, letting a trail of wadded-up papers, apple cores, and tanghulu sticks spill from his qiankun sleeve.

“Stymied!” he hears Xiao Xingchen saying from far below him as the white-clad cultivator stops to pick up the scattered litter. “Stymied yet again!”

Shaking his head, Xue Yang lands atop the city gate.

After all, some things are worth the wait.

[unlimitedhorsepower]

Tagged by: @thevoiceofthanatos​

Favorite color: warm bright yellow, mustard yellow & old gold, and just yellow in general. its a good colour. it makes me happy

Currently reading: idk, probably star trek fanfic my friend @rubbertplant​ was writing to give my opinion on it. i often read through my own stuff too lol, like whoah i wrote that??? ADHD has taken everything from me including my capability to read though, for real. ive been thinking of trying to listen to some audiobooks recently though, this cannot continue... its just that i also have no ears disease so idk how well that would go. determined to try though

Last song you listened to: havent been listening to music so much bc ive been playing videos instead but my last.fm has all my spotify listens so itll stay up to date on whatever i listened to last. currently seems to be “please play-bite” by pinocchioP. i often just let spotify play me whatever it recommends anyhow so theres variance. and i only started this account like a few months ago max so its not really a full picture of my music-listening

Last movie (in theaters): its not really a movie, but if it counts, the first ginga nagareboshi gin stageplay (recorded and released in finland in theaters with subs)

ginga was always huge in finland for some reason. idk. the anime is so violent though that i got really afraid of bears for some reason. theres so much blood... i never read the manga either i just knew of the anime and partook in my share of wolf roleplays (dogs were uncool! so i didnt do dog roleplays. iirc that really was my reason).

heres some funny wolves from my wolf rp days

2010. one of the first things i coloured digitally... i painstakingly cleaned the scanned pencil lineart with a mouse

2011. i had gotten my first drawing tablet as a birthday/xmas gift and practiced a ton around this time (more than just wolves lol)

Last series I watched: trigun stampede. even changed my phone bg into vash... but millions knives is probably my favourite. he just does everything wrong and makes his life worse. and everyone elses life too bc he sucks. but hes multifaceted so hes also my meow meow and whatever. i hope a ford explorer drives over him

if it counts though, ive seen some star trek TOS episodes and movies because my friends have been watching them. im not super into it but its always fun to hang. i also dont watch a lot of stuff. i dont even know what i do. guy who doesnt read or watch things but listens to jerma videos on youtube without actually looking at them while i “draw” and “write”

Craving: food honestly. i should cook something lmfao. i also want soda so bad but i dont have any. id make some tea but its disgustingly warm in my house so i only want cool drinks. could kill for a nice milkshake or a smoothie rn i think

Tea or coffee: tea... im the only finnish person who doesnt drink coffee for real. also got really into loose leaf tea bc i befriended a chinese lady who is really into tea and has a tea shop in the city near where i live

Currently working on: drawing this and trying to think how i want to do it. somehow want to incorporate flat colours and maybe shade his body naturally, and make the blood look realistic instead of flat colours... hmm not sure yet what i want to do

other than that im trying to proofread the chapter of my ryanyuri fanfic i already published because theres a lot of typos and strange sentences in there but its been a chore bc my body breaks down when it gets too warm smfh... not looking forward to when my apt goes over 30 degrees celsius it is unlivable. im also trying to complete a “lookbook” of my tnb sims. but i always start huge projects that take three million years to complete and im really slow lmfao

Tag people you’d like to get to know better: i could just ask these questions from everyone i talk on discord with. fuck my friends i know irl or otherwise, only asking people who r my friends through tumblr. no need to do this though. also this isnt probably meant to be answered so long-windedly... thats just me. i cant answer with one word i gotta write an essay. heres three tags though @basslinegrave​ @vita-divata​

(record scratch before 3rd tag) and @rubbertplant​ bc they were streaming a game in discord when i started typing this and i was like hey wanna do it and they were like yeah

i expect replies on my desk by 5pm TOMORROW!!!!get to work!!!! no i jest, do it or dont, i dont mind either way, just if you feel like doing this. if you see this and want to do it feel free to consider yourself tagged. godspeed

[mylightsatnight]

It was a chapter on sleep...

and she packed up slowly beside me. The sun rays fell upon the north side of her face, as the glass door opened inches, and then a foot, and then departure was the only word left in my vault, near-empty. Her black sweater, and blue jeans, stylistically appropriate for damn near any region of this city. Her book-bag, phone case, headphones, all connection and disconnection conjoined like a bonsai's roots in an apartment building overlooking the everglades.

I see not a reason to not chase. But I also cannot convince myself to follow such open ended puzzles... Maybe my bad habits are conquerable in a much shorter time frame than I give myself credit for, but regardless, My tea is half-empty, the jazz song dancing overhead is half-time, and my heart is half-cold, waiting for the Fall to arsonize the kindling of this swampy tinder. Age-old Ent inside this erroneous error of soul-searching seraphim.

Eleven minutes passed, and I am still not getting where I am going. Is the sun a bastard? Did he get his father's approval? Is the synecdoche of this summer gonna turn tables until fall comes? Waitressing has never been my labour's goal, but if it pay's the bill, then cut me a piece of that Apple pie, that Blueberry cruller, and let's get to work mopping floors and bussing tables, because tomorrow is infinity and it's coming quicker than horizons dragged by Apollo on Speed.

Do things ever turn back into what they once were? I'll spare you the list of things that could, just ask yourself. What won't? What will refuse all else, and be what it is because it can and is destined to?

Springsteen once wrote lyrics that set my soul afire.

And that was enough.

She once kissed me in a way that made me believe in god.

After I woke up again, drool stains on the pew, and Captain demoted to just Morgan as the empty glass bottle lay on the Church floor, I realized that false idols are just as scary as real Imago's meant to Immolate.

I once looked out over the scenic river with a feeling in my bones knowing one day what might happen. I'd like to think that there's a chance things may change, and if I stop believing that they will that'll be the day my Opto, my Pessi, and my Realistism makes way for the waves that called my name after the boat wreckage was salvaged, yet no survivors were saved. Just gold and galley remaining...

And the chapter on sleep went on and on and on about different states of sleep, the one where you almost drift away, wondering where we all go anyways, how much different it can even be than death in the first place, and the last place, when will the last human sleep, when the first human slept, did it know it might not reawake? These are questions we don't know, and were never meant to, so here's a final soliloquouy:

I lost something that mattered to me a long time ago, and it was not a person or a moment, it was the memory of every memory that could ever become and did, and since that was lost it became increasingly harder to make meaning matter, so I've been a searcher with a hole in his sandbag, drawing the picture of my life through the places I've been, and now that I've been still for so long the sand is up to my neck, so movement is not just a must, but a necessity, before the stars fall, the dreams become awakened, and the god of sleep who's name I've forgotten decides I'm the successor because I see eyes in the burning leaves of the 3rd season that no one else can seem to mourn these days in the same way I do.

Another leaf fallen

Another grain of sand lost.

And I drift, drift away,

Daring the Sun to rise first.

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

The word love struck Adam and yeah, guess he did love the guy. The baby thing didn't even occur to him about it being more about his quick feelings for the priest rather than fulfilling something he thought Lucifer wanted.

Weird how that works out.

Adam: Well, guess I won't be needing this anymore then.

Adam removed his headdress and Lucifer saw his horns for the first time. They were long, black and gold like his wings. With a shake of his head they were gone. Couldn't go around walking with horns on his head now could he? Draws too much attention.

Adam: We should find a place to sleep.

Lucifer: Agreed.

They drove into a nearby town and stayed in a motel for the night and shared a room and bed.

In the morning when Lucifer woke up, he was nuzzled into Adams chest. He smiled up at his sleeping face, he looked so peaceful.

Lucifer wasn't sure if he believed in love at first sight, but if it was something that could be true he knew he fell for Adam the moment he saw him that morning getting coffee.

He tucked some hair behind Adams ear, apparently he drooled in his sleep from the string of drool running down his chin and pooled onto the pillow.

Adam opened his eyes: Watching me sleep?

Lucifer: Only for a moment, nothing weird I promise.

Adam giggled and they shared a kiss before getting up and getting back on the road.

Within another hour they were in Rome and Lucifer took Adam to his place.

Adam hummed: How quant. It's very you. Oh look a garden.

Lucifer: Please don't kill my plants it took me forever.

Adam laughed: The garden at the Hazbin was already on its last leaf when I got there. I actually love nature.

Devil and the Priest!au

(Feel free to change the name- it's 1am where I am, so my brain is starting to fry lol)

@things-arent-what-they-seem66 @fanofstuff01

---

Lucifer drove through the country side, he's been behind the wheel for nearly 5 hours. He didn't realize how much of a drive getting to this monastery. He knew it was remote but this is getting ridiculous- he should have brought snacks.

He glanced out his window every now and then to take in the scenery. He's currently driving past a large body of water, where he spotted a small island. He wishes he was over there, with no worries or expectations. With no one but himself. The Vatican has been on his ass lately about making this trip. Apparently, there was something 'dark- and 'unsettling' at this monastery. If any of the priests he knew were anything to go by, it was probably just them. He swore they refused to die, they had more wrinkles than brain cells.

Lucifer turned his radio up, some type of rock song was one, it was a big no no to be listening to music like this, it's his car. Driver picks the music, and the Vatican shuts their cake hole.

Finally, as the sun was setting, Lucifer arrived at the monastery. The large stone building loomed over him, maybe the Vatican was right, this place was unsettling. He felt like he was being watched, the multiple colours in the sky masking how decrepit this place actually is. Pulling out a brochure from his pocket, Lucifer couldn't help but smirk, they're really trying to market this place like it's a holiday retreat.

Lucifer: "Welcome to the Hazbin. Find not only sanctuary and enlightenment but also beaches and the best crab around!" ...right, definitely staying away from the crab then...

After an exhausted sign, Lucifer licked his car and picked up his bags. Making his way towards the large wooden doors, Lucifer couldn't help but dread the next two or three hours, all he wanted was to hop into bed and close the world off foe a few hours but he'd probably have to take the whole tour and- ew- meeting people.

He shuddered at the thought.

Lucifer: I wonder if I could convince them to leave the formalities till tomorrow...

Lucifer gripped a huge, iron door knocker and banged it three times. He knew this could take a while so he prepared to get comfortable- until the door was pulled open.

Priest: Hello! And welcome to the Hazbin! How can I assist you this fine evening!

Lucifer: uh- yeah- hi, my name Luicfer, I've been told to come here by the Vatican- I've been told you're expecting me...?

Priest: hm... Lucifer...

The man flicked through a small book, humming every so often. What's the point in having glasses if you still can't read a damn book.

Lucifer: look man- sir- it's been a long drive, I'd really like to just get to sleep-

Priest: ah! Yes! Here you are, Lucifer! Please, come right in! We've been expecting you for hours, your overseer said you would be here this morning- but better late than never I suppose!

The man moved aside to let Lucifer in. He really didn't like this guy, but that's not new, priest are pretty... eccentric.

The man shit the door behind him, using at least six locks to secure it.

Priest: pardon my manners, Lucifer! My name is Alastor- Father Alastor. And I'll be your superior while you're here

Ah, great. He has to answer to this... lovely man. Forcing a smile, Lucifer did what he did best: lie.

Lucifer: that's very exciting Father Alastor, look forward to working with you and getting to know this place more personally!

Alastor: oh, I could imagine! I'm sure you've heard a lot about me! I've been in charge of five other monasteries before this one! All saw a raise in volunteers and profits.

Lucifer: that's fantastic, Father. It's a real honor to be working on this project with you-

Alastor: "project", yes, that's one word to describe it.

Alastor lead Lucifer down a long hall, hebcouldbt believe how quiet it was. He was told there were at least 60-70 nuns and other workers here but it just seemed abandoned.

Thankfully, Alastor showed Lucifer to his room, it was large with a queen bed in the middle. It didn't have much furniture, just a set of draws and a desk out looking the garden. It was dead and overgrown, but the air was fresh, he'll have to start taking up writing again.

Alastor: well! Lucifer, it is a real pleasure to have you here! Tomorrow I'll show you around and I introduce you to some of the other occupants here- there are quite a few so I do expect you to introduce yourself to some of them in your own time.

Lucifer dumped his bags on his bed, and turned to face Alastor.

Lucifer: that understandable. Thank you for this Alastor, I'll see you in the morning-

Alastor: bright and early Mr Lucifer. I like to get the day started as the break of dawn

Of course he does.

Lucifer: great! I better get some sleep then

Alastor: yes, you should. Goodnight Lucifer

Finally, Lucifer was alone. Or at least he hoped. He still hasn't shaking that feeling from earlier. Except this time, he was certain nothing was watching him, Alastor seemed to be the only other living thing here. And that's giving the bastard a lot of credit. Not once did he stop smiling- Lucifer already wants to wipe that look off his face.

All Lucifer wanted to do was sleep, so he got comfortable and started to drift off.

[piduai]

Interview with Noda Satoru from Shueisha Online

big interview from here (first 4 articles)

sharing anywhere is fine, but please credit me.

Q: Congratulations on finishing almost 8 years of serialization. As a way to welcome the last chapter, all previous volumes went into heavy reprint, and the first publishing of the last volume was suddenly increased by 100.000 copies. We are told that the total number of copies sold has exceeded 23 million. With the release of the last volume, I understand that your work on Golden Kamuy has reached it's end for the time being. Please share your current feelings with us.

Noda: What you said just now is further confirmation for me that so many readers have acknowledged this work.

Making all chapters, including the last one, free to read, countdown to the last chapter, the announcement of the live action, the exhibition - I feel like this information warfare strategy we designed with my editor, Ookuma Hakkou, has worked out very well. Ultimately all of our efforts have paid off.

Q: You also got the Japan Cartoonists Society Award.

Noda: The award has such a long history, I wanted to win it in the end in order to be able to display it as proof of my efforts.

I am happy to have received not only the Cartoonist Society award but other manga awards as well, and also about being invited to work on the anime and the live action projects. I believe it's a form of recognition from both casual readers and professionals.

Q: With the serialization over, what kind of lifestyle are you leading now?

Noda: I have to check settings and storyboards for the anime, and they also send me the scripts for the live action. Live actions work differently in terms of logic and script than manga and anime.

For example, although we strive to respect the original work, expressing the feelings of various characters who are not the main ones through internal monologue can only work until the stage of anime. I think I, being the original creator, am the only one who can organically convert that internal monologue into proper spoken lines or imagery, so it's not like I can divorce myself from this work entirely.

Q: Seems like a lot.

Noda: I feel like, during serialization, all I could do was run and run, panting and completely out of breath. But now I'm moving forward at a brisk walking pace. I also feel like if I relax too much my drawing skills will go to rust, so I'm thinking about proceeding with my next work as soon as I can. I've already started buying ice hockey equipment and my house is littered with boxes.

Q: So you've already started preparations for the full release of your previous manga, Supinamarada?

Noda: Indeed. I went to Tomakomai immediately after the serialization of Golden Kamuy ended, to take photos. I wanted to get to shoot them in spring, since nature changes colors with the passing of seasons. I've walked in the woods to the point of exhaustion. There's still the anime and the live action, but in my heart I made preparations to turn a new leaf and start everything from scratch.

Q: Now, looking back at the main story of Golden Kamuy, I wanted to ask you about the events of the last volume. Personally, Usgiyama-san's death came as a shock. Back when the official fanbook was released, you stated that you have no regrets about killing off any of the characters. Is that the case for Ushiyama-san as well?

Noda: Truth be told, he is the only one who made me go back and forth on this issue. Emotionally speaking, I didn't want him to die.

But he got to pass at his peak, so I think it was a good death. The actor River Phoenix passed away from an overdose when he was young and beautiful, but, before dying, he said that he wants to be the coolest corpse in the morgue.

From a storytelling point of view, watching the people that she loved die one after another is what gave Asirpa the resolve to end the gold hunt by herself. In other words, it lead her to the choice of pretending that the gold never existed.

The only way to make that choice a compelling one was to let the characters that both the readers and me, personally, grew to love.

Q: In other words, you made the decision for the remaining half of the gold to be abandoned a long time ago?

Noda: Yes. It was a non-negotiatible matter from the very beginning. Right off the bat my editor and I have agreed that the ending should be consistent with real history.

We agreed that we shall not use the land deed or the gold into granting the Ainu their lands restored, or creating an autonomous Ainu region in Hokkaido, or utilizing them in a way that would grant the Ainu a little more rights than what is historically true. If we did go there, the message would have been, "because the real world Ainu have not fought hard enough and didn't invest enough effort, their real history is different".

As was the case in the final chapter of the original story, the efforts of many people were behind the Ainu culture still remaining in the modern world. I wanted to convey that maybe Asirpa was one of the many whose efforts should be credited. Since there are still breeding grounds for the animals in the national parks that Asirpa helped protect, there are still Kamuy around, and therefore a way for the Ainu culture to survive; that was the idea.

Q: Indeed, some say that some ancient civilizations perished due to depletion of forest resources.

Noda: Exactly. The Hokkaido wolf and the Japanese otter are already extinct. The number of sea otters is progressively dwindling, and the tufted puffin is on the line of extinction. If it weren't for the park's protection, the Blakiston's fish owl and the Ezo brown bear, the two animals used in the highest order religious Ainu ceremony, Iomante, may have also gone extinct. I believe that the best possible fallback of this story is that Asirpa used the land deed in a way that could have staved off the extinction of Kamuy to the present day.

Q: The depictions of the Ainu in the last chapter are much more detailed in the volume than the magazine version. Are the new images referenced off your own collection?

Noda: That's part of what I personally own. Authors include Sunazawa Kura, Dr. Nakagawa Yutaka, our Ainu language supervisor, Shigeru Kayano, who became the first Ainu member of the Diet...

For example, Sunazawa Kura's autobiography was written when she was around the same age as Asirpa, so it gives us an insight on the Ainu of that time. She told stories of hunting in the woods with her family, of eating salted brains, and of not wanting her mouth tattooed.

Incidentally, Mrs Kura wrote about the discrimination of the Ainu as follows:

"For some reason, the people who bullied the Ainu predominantly happened to lack education, to work menial jobs, and a lot of them were illiterate. School teachers, doctors, forestry and coal miners, and other educated people respected and cherished the Ainu as true Japanese without a bit of arrogance."

In the end, a weak mind that seeks for a way to look down on someone is the one that will create discrimination.

Q: Any other important materials that you would recommend?

Noda: All of them are important, but if I had to pick one, it would be Makiri Research Newsletter.

It is a book by people who study makiri in museums and private collections, and I have had the privilege of interacting with one of the authors, Tobe Chiharu. Although a Wajin, Tobe has tremendous knowledge of Ainu carving patterns. Each small fragment of the pattern has a specific meaning, and so on.

I couldn't go as far as including this kind of details in the story, therefore the book is not included in the list of references, but it left us with valuable research regardless. Reading it makes looking at makiri in museums even more exciting.

Q: You also touched upon on the role the museums had in the preservation of the culture.

Noda: There is a person who is a hunter and craftsman aged over 80, his name is Urakawa Taihachi, he made the makiri of Kirawus and Cikapasi for us. We still keep in touch. When he was young and just started his craft, he used to go to museums and look at the collections. He has donated countless of his own works to museums later, believing that the Ainu that will come after will try to imitate his work after looking at it.

Other Ainu craftspeople have also been inspired by visiting the museums, or so I have been told. This is one example of how museums have a very important role to play in the preservation of Ainu culture. Another example could be Asirpa's summer footwear. Stukere are made from grape vines, and there are almost no people familiar with the craft left.

So we asked the National Museum of Ethnology in Osaka to photograph the shoes that had been stored there in the presence of Dr. Saito Reiko, a researcher of Ainu culture, and Dr. Kitahara Jirota, an associate professor at Hokkaido University. They put them on mannequins to make them look three-dimensional.

It was the first time Dr. Kitahara has observed them in this way, so he approached the task enthusiastically. We couldn't have done it without the help of the museum, and we have received a lot of help from museum curators all over Japan. I'd like to add that Dr. Saito is Wajin, while Dr. Kitahara has Ainu roots. This was the meaning behind the narration in the last chapter addressing that history was able to be passed down due to the cooperation between Ainu and Wajin.

Books by Kindaichi Kyosuke, the founder of Ainu language studies, are also included in the drawing. Dr. Nakagawa Yutaka, professor emeritus at Chiba University stated that at the least no serious Ainu language researcher would ever deny Kindaichi's achievements, and we wanted to convey that. Sunazawa Kura also mentioned her encounter with him in her book, commenting on his gentle personality and on how he shed tears when it was time to say goodbye.

For my research, I tried going places myself as much as possible. Reading through books convinced me that researching anything on the internet tells you very little of the real world. Not only about the Ainu but also the Matagi, the ethnical minorities in the Russian far east such as Nivkh and Uilta, and Hokkaido during Meiji. Infomation about any of that is very scarce online.

When I'd draw stories during serialization, sometimes Dr. Nakagawa or other researches would quip about what I based them off, and it would have been so embarrassing to say that I read about it online, so I'd rather reference books.

Q: I heard that Dr. Nakagawa has quipped that nobody actually says "Citatap" aloud while making citatap.

Noda: He has. That was intended as a character quirk and as a joke. A special rule particular to Asirpa-san's household. In fact, when it was just published, none of the supervisors even commented on it, because it was understood as a character quirk. A few years later, in an interview in I forgot which publication, he ended up commenting that it was an occurrence in Asirpa-san's house only. I guess it ended up way catchier than expected, and people started believing that it was historically factual for real Ainu.

That being said, "hinna hinna" has been used as an expression of gratitude many times in the course of the story. Despite it being explained directly in the text, maybe because it's also very catchy, people have seen to come to the misunderstanding that it means "delicious". As many of the readers may have noticed, Sugimoto, being a Wajin not used to the Ainu language, can't actually pronounce "citatap" correctly, he was saying "chitatapu", on the Japanese manner. He used "hinna hinna" in a frank manner, I thought that by doing so I could express his earnestness as a person well, but it may have been the cause of the misunderstanding.

And since you've been so kind as to give me this quip, I'll try making things clear in this interview.

We have asked that they take this kind of misunderstandings into account when making the live action. My stance has always been that I will not depict things that weren't based off historical materials.

Q: Let's go back to the last chapter. It seemed to me that the positive aspects of the Ainu were further reinforced in the volume version. What were your convictions?

Noda: Of course. I received a letter from Fujiya Rumiko, a lady with Ainu roots, who is one of the craftspeople of the Ainu folk tools on display at the current Golden Kamuy exhibition. It had been several years since I had received news from her. I thought that letter was a straightforward expression of the intent behind the convictions I have portrayed, so I would like to share it with you below:

"Back in 1997, when Kayano Shigeru-san helped repel the Hokkaido Former Aborigines Protection Act and it stopped going by that name, I was so happy. I am happy about Golden Kamuy to the same amount.

I have a friend, a grandma who is over 90, and it seems that up until now she has kept it a secret even from her grand children that she has Ainu blood in her.

But thanks to Golden Kamuy she started teaching her grand children simple Ainu words that she knows, and she was so so so so happy when telling me this. Thanks to Golden Kamuy, it has become easier for Ainu to say that they're Ainu.

I am thankful to you for spreading word of Ainu in such a good way".

Q: It is an example of how artwork has a very positive impact on the real world.

Noda: I feel that if I focused on the negative, on the harshness of discrimination that Ainu people face, the happiness of these two women would have come to naught. Though of course I understand that Fujiya Rumiko's words are not a general consensus. All individuals have their own opinions and ideologies they believe in, be it Ainu or Wajin. I know for a fact that there are many Ainu who just want a fair relationship with Wajin. That in consideration, I drew the last chapter hoping for a world in which Ainu and Wajin can live side by side. I'm satisfied knowing that there were people who were helped by that.

Even recently, however, I had the opportunity to talk with a young woman who has Ainu roots, and she told me, "Since this work began, there have been three people around me who have confided in me that they, in fact, have Ainu blood. I don't think Fujiya-san's story is just one small isolated incident.

Q: Do you think there was a possibility that, by emphasizing the discrimination aspect, many Ainu would have gone back to refusing to admit that they are Ainu?

Noda: I do. Before the series began, I visited the Hokkaido Ainu Association for an interview. What they told me was, "Don't write about miserable Ainu. Nobody wants to read about that anymore. We want something fresh. We want to see strong, bold Ainu. Don't be afraid to draw whatever you want, Satoru-kun".

I was convinced that there must be a role that this manga could play if it portrayed Ainu culture in an upbeat and fun way, rather than just them being shown as dry research material, and I took what I believed to be the right approach to this work. Of course, many people might disagree with me. There are many different approaches when it comes to fighting. If you want to take action, I think it’s only fitting to start from scratch and convey what you consider is right using your own name.

Q: But nobody can say that you avoided depicted discrimination in your work altogether, either.

Noda: It's true. It's present from the first chapter onwards.

Of course, I took my own approach to depicting the discriminatory terms and the ethnic minorities who are at the mercy of Japan and Russia without brutality. At the end of the day, the bottom point of this story is the pursuit of the gold that was supposed to be used as military funds against persecution from Wajin. My priorities were depicting aspects of the Ainu culture that I thought of as wonderful in a positive way as it is, and showing that both Ainu and Wajin are just humans, with the bad and the good in-between. What would have been the point if the serialization was cut short due to the feedback that this story is way too severe, way too serious, way too negative for an adventure manga in a mainstream magazine? How could it have served Ainu people?

What I did was make something that I, myself had interest in and thought was fun.

Q: This work is both an adventure manga and a gateway to Ainu culture, but it was not a manga that you started for human rights activities or Ainu cultural awareness.

Noda: You're right. If that was the case, I would have never mentioned any filthy nipples in such a respectable publication.

Q: Oh, you did include the filthy nipples. Also the dick-swinging onsen, the semen detective... You had such noble intentions behind all of that! (laughs)

Noda: Of course. It's all because I'm a very sophisticated fellow, you see. But I will stop giving out tasteless explanations, because I'm sure that 99.9999% of the readers have their eyes set on the "secrets" of the beautiful men that appear in Golden Kamuy.

q&a corner here, it was in-between the actual interview

Q: You once mentioned that while Golden Kamuy references a lot of movie and art through parodies and homages, there are almost no other manga references. Why is that?

Noda: Because it's a little limited as far as parodies go. During our meetings, my editor would at times reference huge manga hits, but since I haven't read them it would go nowhere. Even though there is no huge age difference between us, it seems that the manga we were into are entirely different. That's doubly true for readers in their teens or their twenties. Sooner or later, even huge well-known movies will become obscure. The difference in generations makes entertainment fragmented, we can't all know the same things anymore. I decided that I will stop referencing other works altogether from now on.

Q: I have heard that only a small portion of your materials are on display at the Golden Kamuy exhibition. I would like to ask specifically what other items you own.

Noda: There's a big model of 28cm howitzer and lightning type destroyer. The destroyer is one meter long. All was custom made of brass by a models artist.

I didn't want to yield it to the exhibition because it is really delicate and I didn't want to risk it being broken.

However, I felt that since the Golden Kamuy exhibition was such a big success, I should have put it out. There were a lot of old makiri, and I could have added them to the exhibition if they had been in the works.

Q: Hasn't most of it been bought by yourself? That's a considerable amount of money. Noda: It was all an investment. The Ainu materials alone I have purchased with my own funds from many craftspeople, totaling several million yen. Since I was allowed to depict Ainu culture, I wanted to be able to compensate and give back to those people in some way. I value the economic aspect a lot in the creation of my work. Of course, there was always the possibility of the manga never taking off and me being left empty-handed, as was the case with the previous one. I had to go to many places for interviews at my own expense, buy ice hockey gear at my own expense, rent a work place, set up desks and other equipment, get assistants, and then it got cancelled. When the serialization of Golden Kamuy has started, my savings were exhausted. Survival of the fittest is a universal rule.

Q: Tell us more about your new project.

Noda: Supinamarada! was cancelled mid-publication, and there were so many more things I wanted to show. I spent precious years of my young life on this work, and I want to keep it in this world as a finished product. I know how selfish it is. If i attempt redoing something that didn't sell once, there's a big chance it won't sell again.

But I am very grateful to Young Jump for letting me do it. I think I improved a little, with Golden Kamuy under my belt. I'm sure this time it will be more interesting, and I'm looking forward to it as well. Golden Kamuy has its fanbase, not Noda Satoru, the author. So I always try to do my best as a newcomer, with the intention of gathering new readers for each new work.

Q: At last, please leave a message for the people who love Golden Kamuy.

Noda: I am very thankful to everyone who bought Golden Kamuy until the very last volume. I wish for you to never forget it. I'd be happy if you had it as comics, kept it by the side of your bed and reread some of it from time to time. This is how I kept the manga that I loved, and my ideal was for my work to be kept this way as well.

I wish the people who liked Golden Kamuy would read my next work as well. I'm sure you'll like it, too.

Thank you very much.

[mandoalorian]

I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader] — Twelve: Family

Summary: When you find your calling to leave Themyscira, you venture out to the World of Man with intentions of helping and healing a very specific person’s relationship with his son. You’ve heard his voice before, but only in dreams. You’ve felt his pain and anguish and you’ve never been able to relate to anything more. But things don’t come easy for you, and they certainly don’t come easy for him either. [This series contains spoilers for WW84 and is my interpretation of what happens after the movie ends].

Warnings: THE FINAL CHAPTER! very emotional, new beginnings, bullying mention, poverty mention, abuse mention, allusions to pregnancy.

Word count: 3000>

REBLOGS APPRECIATED.

Masterlist 

Previous - Chapter Twelve - Epilogue [coming soon!]

“I don’t know if I could do it,” Maxwell sighed, pacing around in anxious circles. He looked different, in his denim jeans and khaki-green cable knit sweater. It made a change from the oversized powersuits he once donned. Alistair was sat at the dining room table, colouring in, and Max was having a nervous breakdown about getting his haircut. “I’ve had the blonde in for so long.”

You smiled, running your fingers through his shaggy and unstyled hair. When it wasn’t perfectly coiffed, it was wavy and glossy, and smelled distinctly like the freshest green apples. “It’ll be okay. Think of it as washing away all the terrible things that went on in the past and starting anew. Like… turning over a new leaf.” 

You made a very good point. Maxwell knew he had to suck it up and just do it. It would be okay. He didn’t have to be Max Lord anymore, and he didn’t have this television persona to live up to. His main focus now was just being a father, and that’s all that mattered. All he needed to be, was himself. Maxwell Lorenzano.

“Daddy look!” Alistair smiled, waving around the piece of paper he’d spent the morning drawing on. It was stained slightly from his breakfast, and crinkled in the corners for where he’d applied slightly too much pressure when colouring, but all-in-all, it was perfect. Maxwell took the artwork and looked closely at it. Another typical family portrait of you, Alistair and Max. But this time, Maxwell was doting brown hair, and it reminded him of his younger days when he was first starting out as a businessman. “This is how you’ll look when you come home from the salon!”

“Wow Alistair, I love it!” Maxwell praised, unable to contain his grin. He held the portrait to his face and showed it off. “What do you think?” he asked you. “Do you think I’ll look good with the brown hair?” 

You giggled and nodded your head, before pressing the palm of your hand flat against Maxwell’s chest and brushing your lips against his. “You’ll look so handsome, I’m sure.”

“Ew!” Alistair cried, pulling the paper from his father’s hand as you kissed him softly on the lips. The curve of Max’s nose nudged against yours and he laughed at his son’s reaction.

“Alright,” you said, pointing your finger. “You better go. Don’t want to miss your appointment.”

Maxwell nodded and took a deep breath. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” he announced.

The second Maxwell left the house, your stomach began to twist. You’d been living at Lord manor for a month now but truthfully, it felt like a lifetime. It felt like you had always been there. You were adjusting to your new life pretty well, but this morning sickness that you had started to get was an unwelcome experience. Amazon’s never got ill, so this was brand new to you, and you weren’t enjoying it one bit.

You rubbed your stomach and took a sip of the glass of water that you’d been nursing. Sliding down to sit next to Alistair, you watched as he finished his drawing, adding a few final perfections. Once it was done, you hung it to the refrigerator and praised him for his hard work.

“Ali, why don’t you grab your shoes and we’ll have a walk down to the Smithsonian?” you smiled, grabbing your jacket that was hanging over the kitchen door.

“Ooh! Is there a new exhibition?” He enquired curiously, hopping onto his feet and fastening his shoe laces.

“I don’t think so,” you admitted sheepishly. “I have to go meet with some friends.”

Taking the bus was a new experience for both you and Alistair. Joe, Maxwell’s driver, would normally drive Alistair around to and from places. But not today. The bus was slightly smelly and the seats were sticky, but by the looks of it, Alistair was having the time of his life. He pointed out the window, grinning, and talked to you about all the different D.C. landmarks the both of you passed as you were driven into the city centre. He might have only been six years old, but that was six years of living in the world of man. You’d only been here for a month, and so Alistair could teach you a lot. 

Driving past the park, Alistair gasped, and shuffled into your body. “That’s the park where we first met,” Alistair pointed. You narrowed your eyes as you took in the sight of tall green trees and shrubbery. He was right. “Do you remember that day? You were wearing an awesome superhero costume like something out of my comic books. And you wore a tiara, and I asked if you were a princess. And you scared my bullies away, and helped me look for dad.”

“I remember.” you smiled, ruffling Alistair’s dark hair.

You remembered asking Alistair what his father looked like, and the only thing the boy could say was ‘strong, cool, and the best dad in the world’. Counting your lucky stars, you were so thankful you had found your forever family. You had come so far from that moment.

“Did you ever tell daddy… about those bullies in the park?” Alistair asked you hesitantly, his voice suddenly small and timid.

You pulled off him and looked him in the eyes. “No. Why?”

Alistair paused for a moment and glanced back out the window. “I was afraid he’d be disappointed in me.”

Your heart shattered in your chest. “Ali,” you said quietly, tears threatening to prick your eyes. “Your father could never, ever be disappointed in you. You know that, yes?”

Alistair nodded his head silently.

“He loves you so much,” you continued. “And the whole bullying thing… I think he’d understand better than anyone else.”

You remembered all the visions you had of Maxwell, even seeing him as a child at one point. You remembered him wearing rugged clothes that were too small for him and how he was picked on for his broken shoes. 

“Really? You think so?” Alistair asked.

“I know so,” you confirmed, pressing a kiss into Alistair’s hair. “Those bullies will never amount to anything if they continue doing what they’re doing. But you are so much better than them. Stronger. Your power lies in your heart, and in the truth, and in love.”

Alistair smiled. “You’re a real hero, aren’t you?”

“We’re all heroes.”

————

Yourself, Maxwell and Alistair loved trips to the Smithsonian. Diana always organised special access for the three of you, to go after hours when the entire museum was empty. Alistair was admiring the fish in the aquarium, when you noticed Barbara and Diana, and waved them over.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you today.” Diana smiled.  

“It was sort of an impulse thing,” you explained. “Uhm, actually, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

You pulled Diana to one side and left Barbara with Alistair. “Remember how you said ‘I owe you one’, since I like… got your girlfriend to renounce her wish and kinda helped you save the world by destroying the second dreamstone?” you grinned, trying to hold back a laugh.

Diana rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. “What are you plotting?”

“Max has been… worried, to say the least. We’re going to have to sell Black Gold and it’s a real shame because-- he worked so hard on it. We have some money and well, I haven’t exactly ran this by him yet but I was thinking about investing what we do have into the Smithsonian. Just like what Maxwell promised to do in the first place.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Diana sighed. “The gemology department is doing just fine.”

You shook your head, your smile only growing. “No Di, that’s not what I was getting at. How would you feel about… expanding the gemology department?”

“I’m not quite sure I follow…”

“I’ve heard Barbara talk about how there’s a lack of space to facilitate all the rocks and stones the Smithsonian keeps bringing in. She has a real fear that the entire paleontology department could be shut down and replaced with something else.” You sighed, running your fingers through your hair.

“That’s true…”

“So what if we use the Black Gold building as an extension for the Smithsonian, and have it specialise in all these fancy rocks and gems and stones. We could transport everything over and then we could utilize the leftover funds that Maxwell has, to keep all the palaeontologists and geologists employed. Hell, with a whole new building, we could even create more jobs for people. It would also mean that we wouldn’t have to fire Max’s old employees and-- Oh Di, I just know Max would love it. He really does have a passion for gemology. And his son, Ali… he has an interest too.”

“So I heard,” Diana rolled her eyes, but, to be frank, she liked what you were getting at. An expansion wouldn’t exactly be a bad thing… “It’s a big responsibility though, and it seems you haven’t even spoken to Maxwell about it. You would get funding from the Smithsonian as an institution, yes, but… it would still be Max’s business. Do you really think he could handle that? After what happened to his last business?”

“He’s smart,” you assured her. “And he’s a good businessman. He knows all these things I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Last time he just got unlucky. But this, this could really be something great. We have the building, and the passion, and enough money to get started. Please Diana… I know you could make this happen. Please.”

Diana spent a moment pondering the possibilities before shrugging her shoulders in defeat. “Alright,” She sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

You grinned and squealed excitedly, wrapping your arms around your half sister and squeezing her tight. “Thank you Di!” She laughed and rubbed your back before you pulled off her. “Oh, and Di… there’s one more thing.”

Diana tilted her head and gazed at you with fresh bewilderment. Looking around the museum to make sure no one was around to hear what you had to say, you leaned into the Amazon and whispered a confession you’d been keeping to yourself for the past month. 

————

Maxwell sat in the chair and frowned upon seeing his reflection in the mirror. “What can I do for you?” asked the stylist as she smacked her lips on a piece of gum. Max wasn’t sure if he could really bring himself to do this, until he remembered your words. This was ‘turning over a new leaf’-- a new start and fresh beginnings. 

“Uh, a trim please,” Maxwell requested before taking a shaky exhale. It was now or never, he just had to take the leap. “No, that’s not everything,” he sighed. “Could you perhaps take the blonde… out of my hair?” The question left his lips with an air of unsurity. Could one even do that? Take the colour out of hair?

“You want the colour stripped?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. Maxwell supposed that was one way of putting it.

“Yes, I do.” he confirmed.

The stylist processed Maxwell’s words for a moment before shrugging her shoulders. “As you wish.”

As the stylist wrapped Max’s shaggy golden locks into foil, he closed his eyes. He’d come so far since the whole dreamstone debacle. His whole life had been a rollercoaster of up and down events but now, finally, things were evening out for him -- in the best way possible. He’d fallen in love and secured his family and home. The only thing he was mildly worried about, was the issue with Black Gold. But he knew that he’d somehow figure it out, especially now that he had you by his side to help him.

He’d always seen himself as an independent man. He fought hard to be as successful. He escaped his hometown, his abusive father, he ran away from poverty and was discriminated against by upper class white businessmen who told him he could never amount to anything. He proved all of them wrong. Because now, he had everything he could ever want. He didn’t need stacks of money or material possessions when he had you and Alistair. Maybe he wasn’t as independent as he once thought he was. Maybe, just maybe, he liked the company of others. He liked having you and his son around.

In his fight for wealth and success, he’d lost everything that mattered the most. But most importantly, he had lost himself. Maxwell swore that he’d never let that happen again.

As the stylist removed the silver foil from his hair, Maxwell nervously anticipated the result. His once bottle blonde hair was now a chocolate brown colour, and it reminded him distinctly of his youth. Max couldn’t help but feel like he looked younger, and he wasn’t going to complain about that. 

He just hoped you liked it as much as he did.

————

“I just don’t understand why mommy is taking so long,” Alistair grumbled as he and Barbara waited outside the ladies restroom. “And why did auntie Diana have to go into the toilet with her?”

Barbara stifled a laugh. “You’re inpatient, just like your dad.”

Impatience must’ve run in the family because you were sitting on the toilet seat, tapping your food as anxiety flooded your body. You didn’t expect to be this nervous. You’d wanted a child for so long -- in fact, your whole life to be exact. But now that there was a chance of it actually happening, you were beyond terrified. Maybe it was the fact Maxwell didn’t know about your symptoms, but you knew better than to feel alone. You were never going to be alone.

“How long left?” you asked Diana, who checked her wristwatch. It was an antique from the early 1900’s, something very special and something she kept very close to her heart.

“It should be ready now.” she told you, handing you the stick you had just peed on.

“I don’t want to look.” you squirmed, covering your face with your hands.

“Wow,” Diana hummed, her jaw parting slightly when she took in the results. 

“Wh-- what is it?” you asked, nervously.

“You’re pregnant.”

————

When Maxwell came home, you were shocked to say the least. His brown hair was absolutely gorgeous, and it suited him better than you’d expected. The deep shade was identical to the colour in his sparkling eyes. Jokingly, he tossed his hair and you let out a laugh.

“I was right,” you giggled, running your fingers through his locks. “So handsome.”

“I love it daddy!” Alistair cheered.

“Thanks buddy,” Maxwell grinned. “I like it too.”

Taking a deep breath, you took Max’s hand and pulled him into the living room, shutting the door behind you. It was quiet in there -- the perfect place to tell Maxwell your news. It had been a nostalgic day, and even standing in the living room reminded you of the time Max first brought you home. 

“Is everything alright?” he asked you, slightly concerned. But your warm smile soon eased him. You felt the need to wrap your arms around him and envelop him into a hug. Max had taken a big step today, and you were proud of him, but now it was your moment. It was now or never.

Harnessing every ounce of confidence within you, you took his hands and looked him in the eye. “Max, I’m pregnant.”

Max’s brown eyes widened and he was completely lost for words. “I-- you-- you’re--”

“Yes.” you smiled, taking his hands and placing them on your stomach.

His shocked expression turned into an elated grin as he processed the good news. “You’re really--”

“I am.” you confirmed.

You didn’t think you’d ever seen Maxwell so happy in your life. He wrapped his arms around you and held you so tight, like he was afraid to let you go. He swore in that moment he would never leave you, or his growing family, ever again.

This was it for him.

This was the start of Maxwell Lorenzano’s new life.

————

THE END.

————

Author’s Note: “I won’t cry” she says while sobbing into her Google Docs document. Thank you all for reading I Believe In Love. It’s a story I have wanted to share with you since I saw WW84 in the theatre, and I just can’t believe it’s finally over. This fic will always have a special place in my heart. The themes and plot points mean so much to me, but not only that, I’ve had the most amazing feedback on this fic and I will honestly cherish that for the rest of my life. I poured my heart and soul into writing I Believe In Love and it honestly one of my biggest comforts. I want you all to know that an epilogue is coming and if you have any requests for these characters I have created, feel free to send them my way. I adore my Amazon Goddess!Reader and I would absolutely love to continue their story at some point in the future. If you’ve followed me on this journey over the past four months, all I can really say is thank you. I love you so so much.

————

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[critrolesideblog]

Evening falls in the Pearlbow Wilderness with the last of the autumn leaves. A bitter wind heralds the coming of winter as it rattles its way through the skeletal trees, and the veil of gray that has been pulled across the sky all day awaits its cue to blanket the world beneath with snow. So, when a golden-amber light shines briefly in the wilderness, halfway between Erdeloch and Kaltenloch, there is no mistaking it for dying sunlight, which has not been seen by these tree trunks for some time, and it is little surprise at all, when a man with hair the color of a hearthfire appears out of the light with the soft crunch and thump of sturdy boots meeting forest floor.

The man looks north briefly, and then turns in a slow, clockwise circle, his azure eyes, bruised from lack of sleep, searching for any sign of his quarry. He hears the familiar, chittering call of an elf owl, and watches it take to the sky in a flutter of feathers and rustle of tree branches. A smile pulls on one side of his lips, and he hopes the bird is a good omen as he turns the slow circle again, but he finds only trees, trees, and more trees. The wind, delighted to have a new orange toy at its disposal, tugs excitedly at his hair. "Go where the wind blows, I suppose," he says with a sigh, and the leaves on the ground agree quietly that it is really the only sensible way to be getting along.

As he sets off west-northwest, he reaches into one of his coat's many pockets to touch the trinket housed there. It is a small thing, barely larger than a gold coin. He stole it over a year prior from a place far east of here. He turns it over in his pocket four times, before methodically tracing the design on its face with his thumb, a new habit he has picked up in recent weeks as he has searched for the woman it reminds him of.

Night arrives quickly in the autumnal wilderness, and cold quickly follows suit. Luckily, the man knows a thing or two about light and heat. He produces a flame in his unpocketed hand as quickly and easily as most people breathe. Most trees would be perturbed at the sudden appearance of fire in their midst, but the trees of this forest are old and delight in the man's bright magic. You are so close, they whisper as the wind glides across their branches. She is just there. The snow, sensing its cue, begins to fall then, kissing the man on the top of his head, shoulders, and cheeks, melting against his skin like a lover. Come, come, the flurries beckon. You are very close. He does not hear them, but he feels a renewed determination, or perhaps stubbornness, as he sets his shoulders and forges ahead.

It is the light he notices first. He extinguishes the flame in his hand, thinking it a possible trick of eye, but no, he can definitely glimpse a glimmer of light up ahead. He notices the trees next, the way they have created a path for him, their branches curling elegantly overhead like living archways. Finally, pace quickening, he catches the scent of woodsmoke and food on the air. As he gets closer, the glimmer coalesces into a series of arcane lights, like too-still fireflies, leading a path up to the door of a home, now visible in the clearing, and wreathing it in gold. He feels a pang of nostalgia as he is reminded of a tree, far away, glowing with daylight in a city of eternal night.

He blames this rush of sentimentality for his lack of caution as he steps through the final archway. He does not sense the arcane wire until he has already tripped it. He hisses in pain, flinching backward, as bright, white light sears his retinas. Old habit brings his hands instinctively level with his face, palms outward, a position of readiness disguised as surrender. He hears what can only be the door ahead opening with a groan, and a woman's voice calls out from the light, full-throated and wary.

"Who's there?"

"My name is Caleb, Caleb Widogast." He replies, trying his best to keep his voice level and calm, despite his mounting discomfort at the fact that he cannot see. "I mean you no harm. I am looking for someone. I believe her name is Torvi. I met her once, some years ago, and I wish to speak with her, if I may." He pauses to allow a reply, but all he hears is the wind in the branches and the faint crackle of a fire. He can feel his pulse thumping nervously in his throat. He ventures to speak again. "I," he pauses, considering how direct he should be. "I met her in-- in a place called--"

"I know what the place is called." The woman's voice is not soft exactly, but it is no longer quite so sharp. The lights dim back to their firefly glow. "You are not the first person from Vergessen to find their way here." He thinks it might be sadness he hears in her voice and ventures to open his eyes slowly.

As the black splotches on his vision reduce, the woman comes slowly into focus. He notices first the book in a sling on her hip, dark leather stark against the golden yellow of her dress. Next, the dishcloth in her hands, giving the impression of being caught in the middle of a chore and undoubtedly hiding any number of spell components. It is not Torvi. Torvi's face is the first clear memory he has after ... after. He thinks he sees a resemblance, in the shape of her eyes, the sweet-apple roundness of her cheekbones, the broad curve of her nose, the pointed slope of her ears. Her jaw is different, though, more square, her shoulders more broad, her stature just a bit too tall. "May I ask who you are?"

"I'm Maeve, Torvi's sister." She beckons him with a tilt of her head. "Come on in."

Caleb approaches with greater caution this time, as Maeve steps back, opening the door further. He casts Detect Magic with a practiced twist of his hand and spots no further traps on the path ahead of him -- at least, none that are currently activated. There are, however, a dozen different wards that he can see around the perimeter of the clearing and a dozen more traps besides. It is some of the most intricately woven Abjuration magic he has had the pleasure of witnessing, and he regrets, for just an instant before he steps through the doorway, that he does not have time right now to investigate it further.

His beleaguered eyes adjust to the candle and firelight of the interior to take in a simple but well-appointed home. There are cabinets and a large work bench along the far wall. Herbs of all varieties hang from the rafters. There is a bookcase filled to bursting with books of all sizes, some of which glow with magic. There is a large dining table, crowned with a steaming cauldron of stew, and there, in a chair by the hearthfire, is Torvi. She has a blanket pulled around her, and she is leaning against one side of the armchair, her arm curled beneath her chin as a pillow, gazing into the hearthfire, seemingly lost in thought, or perhaps, just lost. She gives no indication that she has noticed him enter.

He has had weeks to get used to the idea of her being alive and not dead, as he had assumed her to be from the moment Ikithon took posession of her holy symbol all those years ago, but no amount of mental preparation could have prepared him for the experience of seeing her there exactly as he remembered her.

"This will hurt." The first words to cut through the clouds in a decade, as the heart-shaped face of a half-Elven woman, with dark-brown skin and sunlight-on-honey eyes, comes into focus, her warm hands caressing his face. "Like saltwater on a wound, it is necessary. There is so much you may yet do." Her expression shifts, then, from an apologetic smile to slack-jawed awe. Her eyes are bright as they rove across his face. "I see the face of Corellon in you."

Now that he is within the warmth of the home, Caleb cannot attribute the tingling numbness in his face and hands to the cold. His heart pounds against his ribcage, as desperate to escape as he suddenly is, but he manages to draw in a deep, shaky breath. Breathe, he reminds himself. He  grips the charm in his pocket with all his strength, such as it is, and takes a deep breath again. Eins, swei, drei... It takes him a moment to realize that Maeve is looking at him expectantly. "Sorry?" He croaks.

"I said, if you want to speak with her, you'll have to wait, but if you're not in a hurry, she'll come around soon enough."

"Ah, ja, I can wait." He picks a point on Maeve's cheek, just below her eyes, to fix his gaze upon. Stay on task, Widogast. "I had hoped to speak with you as well. Perhaps, we can do that first." One of her eyebrows quirks upward.

"Alright," she says, after a moment. "We can do that over dinner. You can set your coat and things there" Though her words are phrased as suggestions, her voice rings with the authority of someone used to being listened to, as she motions to a coat rack by the door. Her eyes flick to his pocketed hand. There is still a wariness in the set of her shoulders, and the dishcloth still partly obscures one of her hands. Ah.

Caleb nods in acquiescence and acknowledgment, one paranoid arcanist to another, and removes the hand from his pocket slowly, palming the trinket as he does so. He turns away from her and divests himself of his scarf and coat, keeping the trinket in hand all the while. He keeps his eyes on the wood floor, the cob wall, the curling leaf design of the wooden coat hooks. When he turns back, Maeve has set three places at the dining table. "Ah, none for me, please," he says, waving a staying hand as he crosses to the table. She pauses, ladle suspended in midair, and her eyes pass over his thin form, even thinner now that he no longer has his coat, in frank, skeptical appraisal. Judging by the unimpressed look on her face, she finds him wanting.

"We feed our guests around here," she says, in the same authoritative tone, and ladles soup into each of the three bowls. Caleb's lips form a thin line, briefly, the only outward indication of his inward prickling at this insistence, but he quickly clears the frown from his face. He wants her amenable to his request, and if he has to eat a little, in spite of the knotted nerves residing where his stomach should be, so be it. He notices that his bowl, at least, is more broth than vegetable as Maeve retrieves a large loaf of crusty bread from a cupboard, tears off a large piece for each of them, and settles into the seat across the table from him. "So," she says, before digging into her bowl. "What did you wish to speak to me about?"

Caleb takes a deep breath. "Are you familiar with a man by the name of Trent Ikithon?"

Maeve stills. Her eyes meet Caleb's, wary and discerning. "I know of him -- he is one of the members of the Cerberus Assembly -- but I have never met him."

"Count yourself lucky," Caleb says, forcing his face into a wry smile. He launches into a monologue he has rehearsed many times over the past few weeks, detailing some of the crimes of his former mentor, how Ikithon used Vergessen as a base of operations, the ordeal of his trial and imprisonment, the nigh certainty of the involvement of other Assembly members in Ikithon's crimes, and the painstaking, fruitless search to find anyone willing to testify against them. Maeve's eyes stay on him all the while as she takes in every word with a quiet, steadfast focus that reminds him of another wizard he knows. "So," he says at last, after pausing to eat a small bite of broth-soaked bread. "If there is any evidence you can offer, any testimony of anything you or your sister might have witnessed --"

"No."

Caleb blinks once, twice, three times. "No?"

"No," she repeats, softly. "I admire what you are doing, but we cannot help you."

"If you are afraid of reprisals, I can assure you--"

"I'm fairly certain you can assure nothing where the Assembly is involved," she says, with a cynical smile, "no matter how powerful you or your friends with the Cobalt Soul are. But, nevertheless, I have no evidence to offer. I witnessed nothing, aside from my sister's declining health, which is too circumstantial to be helpful, and any evidence she might offer would not stand up in court of law."

Caleb's shoulders and head curl forward as her words hit him like a blow to the chest. He hazards a glance at the woman by the fire, who has not moved over the course of their conversation. "Is she so unwell?"

". . . No." Maeve drags the word out into two syllables. "She is much better than she was, but..." She taps a quick staccato rhythm against the side of her bowl with her spoon, before gazing across the room at her sister. "Torvi was not insane before she went to Vergessen, only inconvenient. When she was a teenager, she began performing miracles and wonders around our village, and she was not shy about declaring their provenance. She was always blessing people that they may 'walk in Corellon's beauty' or 'may the light of the Archeart guide them.'" Caleb's heart sinks as he guesses where this story is going. Maeve shrugs, her gaze dropping back to her bowl. "We got fined every time the Reapers came to town. The villagers didn't care, so long as their kid was healed or their shop brought in coin -- a blessing was a blessing. But she didn't stop there. She also went after the priest to the All-Hammer that kept the shrine in our village. She said he worshiped the Empire, not the Gods."

"I bet that made her a lot of friends in high places."

Maeve gives a snort of humorless laughter at this, her cynical smile returning. "No kidding. My parents made a deal with the lawmaster: instead of sending her to jail, they agreed that her worship of "false gods"--" she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers "-- was a sign of her obvious madness, and sent her to Vergessen instead." She pushes her soup around the bowl with her spoon. "They thought they were doing her a kindness. But, regardless," her eyes flash up to catch his, hard with grim certainty. "Even if she was completely well, I think we both know the word of a convicted heretic and idolator is worth very little in the eyes of the law."

Caleb rubs his tired eyes with a sigh, as his left hand worries at the charm. He has so much work yet to do. Da'leth, Margolin, Tversky -- they were all too close to the Volstrucker program not to have been involved. They had to be removed from power for any real change to take place, and his search for concrete evidence and testimony had been so fruitless. When he had found record of Torvi's discharge from Vergessen, it ... it had felt like a sign, he admits to himself, cringing a little at the irrationality of it. A sign that perhaps he was on the verge of a breakthrough. He unfurls his hand to reveal the trinket: a small disc of silver engraved with two moons backed by a four-pointed star.

Maeve, glimpsing the symbol, tilts her head curiously. "Are you a devotee of Corellon?"

The idea that someone could mistake him for a devotee of any god is strange enough to make him fumble the charm as he turns it over again in his hand. "Ah, I cannot say so, no. I have never been much for religion."

Maeve's gestures with her chin toward the book holstered at his side. "Why bother with the fickle will of Gods when us mortals can achieve so much on our own?" It is not really a question. There is a book on her own hip after all.

Caleb nods. "That is part of it." He turns the charm over in his hand again, and a memory rises to the surface of his mind: the soft, rhythmic clack-clack of wooden prayer beads as they sift through his mother's clever fingers. She kneels before the shrine of Pelor, eyes closed, the dawn light shining off her burnished copper hair, prayers whispering earnestly through her lips. Much good that it did her. "For a long time, it seemed to me the supposed benevolence of the gods was nothing but a cruel joke." Bless my son that he may live always in Your light. "My view is a bit softer now, but ..." Bless our Empire that we may bring light to the dark corners of the world.

Maeve nods. Her eyes gleam with a cold anger. "I rage at that one, sometimes," she says, her eyes darting toward the moonlit star in his hand. "And argue -- one-sided." A wry smile twists her lips.

The sudden scrape of metal on metal makes both of their heads turn at once toward the front window. It opens with a creak and in hops a tiny elf owl.

Maeve rises and crosses quickly to the window. "You've been eavesdropping, haven't you?" She asks, as she closes the window with a sharp snap. "It's very rude to keep your guest waiting." The owl's head swivels to gaze at Caleb, and he recognizes immediately the familiar glow of Fey magic in the bird's eyes. With another little hop, it takes flight from the window sill and lands on the table a foot from him. There is a long moment of silence as the bird looks him over, this way and that, and -- pip, pip, pip-- hops a little closer, faerie fire still burning its eyes.

Caleb remembers well the safe, comforting distance of viewing the world through a familiar's eyes. "I had a little owl like you once," he says, softly. A smile tugs at his lips as he remembers Frumpkin perched on Beau's shoulder, his tiny feathers ruffled by the ocean breeze. "Well, he was a cat really, but he was an owl for a little while."

"She is a bigger owl really," says the first voice he remembers from Vergessen. "But she is small for right now."

Caleb takes a deep breath. Eins, swei, drei... He forces himself to tear his eyes from the safe visage of the little bird and face her. She is not quite looking at him, but she is facing his direction now. He can see clearly now that the light reflected in her upturned eyes is not fire but Fey. "Do-- do you remember me, Schwester?"

"Of course, I do," she says, voice soft and warm.

Caleb rubs his thumb over the design on the charm one last time. "I brought this for you," he says, holding it out for the owl to inspect. "To replace the one that was taken." The owl bobs its head this way and that in a circular motion, and then snaps up the trinket so quickly that Caleb barely has time to worry for his fingers before the bird is midair again. She lands on the back of the chair, dropping the charm onto Torvi's waiting palm. Her hand closes around it, and as it does, the light in her eyes grows and brightens until they shine like twin stars from her face. They are bright enough that Caleb is not able to look at her long without needing to avert his weary eyes. It is not unlike the ways he has seen Jester and Caduceus' magic manifest at times, and he wonders what visions her deity is granting her, as Maeve resumes her seat across from him.

The room is quiet for a long while, save for the crackle of the hearthfire and the occasional scrape of Maeve's spoon against her bowl. The tiny owl is beginning to doze on the back of the chair, when the light disappears from Torvi's eyes with a blink, and she looks down at the trinket with her own eyes for the first time. "Beautiful," she whispers, as errant tears spill down her cheeks.

"Schwester..." It feels cruel to ask, another sin to add to the pile, but she is here now. Really here, and he has traveled all this way. He has to ask. "Schwester, is there anything you remember about your time at Vergessen, any evidence you can offer, any direction you can point me in, to help me bring down those who used that place for evil?"

Still gazing at the talisman, she tilts her head in a way that reminds Caleb of a curious bird and seems to consider his question for a moment. "You were the first one I restored in that place," she says at last. "Half mad and half cursed, so young and so full of Corellon's beauty and magic." The ghost of a smile curls around her lips as she rubs her thumb over the design on the charm in much the same way Caleb had a moment before. "And now you have done so many beautiful and important things." And ugly and terrible things, Caleb thinks wryly. The scales are not yet balanced.

"I just need to do a little more, Schwester." A phantom, stinging itch starts up in his forearms, and his fingers worry against each other for lack of the charm to turn between them.

Torvi's eyes meet his without warning, and he is caught like a startled creature in the sudden glimpse of sunlight.

"Fuck, if I ever have to sit in a courtroom again, it'll be too fuckin' soon," Beau says, stretching in the dim lamplight outside the tavern. He makes a noise of agreement, and she glances at him. "Y'know, Yasha's got some unfinished business in Xhorhas. We've been talking about taking off for a few weeks, few months maybe, to go back to her old stomping grounds..." She looks at Caleb sidelong, and he can read the concern in the slight shift in the pitch of her voice, the rising of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, though she plays it off well. He knows he looks like shit. It turned out listening to weeks of testimony against his abuser was not a great aid to his already-fitful sleep.

"Gut." He says, and he means it. "It will be good for her to get some closure. She deserves it, and you both deserve some time to yourselves." He offers her a smile he hopes is reassuring.

She nods, and between one breath and the next, her arms are around him. He allows himself to lean into her vice-like grip, hugging her back as hard as he can. "Take it easy, while we're gone, alright, man? We'll kick some more Assembly ass when we get back." She releases him at last and gives him a pat on the cheek. "Get some rest, man. You deserve it."

Caleb feels the heavy weight of his allotment of Trent Ikithon's platinum and gold in his coat pocket and knows that he does not. "Ja," he says. "I will. There's just a little more to do."

"And then what?" The question snaps Caleb's attention back to the present. Torvi is peering at him, her eyes seeming to search in his for an answer. "A little more, and then what? After you find this evidence you need, will it be a little more still, or will you rest?"

If he found evidence against Da'leth and the others, there would be more trials. The web would unravel further still, and he would have new threads to follow. Not to mention, the problem of the ex-Volstrucker scattered to the winds. "Well, you know what they say," he says with a sardonic grin. "There is no rest for the wicked." Torvi does not return his grin.

"You are not wicked." She says this with such certainty that it sparks a small flame of anger in his chest.

"How do you know?" He asks, more than a little petulantly.

"I know." And there is something in the compassionate depths of her sunlit eyes that makes Caleb think, inexplicably, that she does know. She knows what transpired before Vergessen and since. The flame in his chest is quenched thoroughly. He tears his gaze from hers at last, eins, swei, drei... "Alas," she continues, once his breathing has evened out again. "My memories from Vergessen are... muddled." She concludes quietly. "But if I think of anything helpful, I can contact you." He nods, his eyes on the floorboards, as disappointment washes over him.

"I suppose I'll be on my way then." He says, quietly, and rises from his seat. Maeve rises with him.

"I'd like a favor from you before you go," says Torvi, as he turns from the table. He looks up, in surprise.

"Name it."

"I'd like you to hold onto this for me," she says, holding the talisman out with a smile. "I'm always losing mine."

"It's true," mutters Maeve. "I'm always finding them in strange places."

"This one means a lot to me," Torvi says. "I don't want to lose it." She holds the charm out toward him insistently. "Keep it safe for me."

Maeve looks at him sidelong and sighs. "If you don't, she'll just find some way of sneaking it into your pocket as you leave."

"It's true," Torvi agrees, and there is mischief twinkling amidst the warm affection in her eyes, a particular mix that reminds him strongly of Jester. He crosses to her to take the trinket back, and as he does so, her fingers catch his. He feels a familiar warmth settle over him. "May you walk in Corellon's beauty, Bruder." When Maeve had said the words earlier, they had sounded trite to Caleb's ears, but Torvi's benediction was infused with such sincerity.

Caleb bends forward slightly, brushing his lips against her knuckles. "Danke, Schwester." She smiles at him warmly, as he releases her grasp and pockets the trinket.

Maeve opens the door for him as he hastily dons his scarf and coat and steps out into the frigid air. To Caleb's surprise, she follows him out onto the step, closing the door behind her. The clearing is now covered in a thin layer of snow, and their breaths create little puffs of fog in the dim glow of the arcane lights. Maeve leans out past the eave of the house for a moment to look up at the sky, but the stars are veiled with clouds. She frowns and straightens, crossing her arms. "Can I give you a little advice?" She asks, her voice pitched low, eyes following the meandering descent of a snowflake.

Caleb watches the snowflake, also, watches it spiral and drift, until it is lost in a sea of shadow. He is not sure he wants advice. He wants evidence, a direction to go in. He has lost his only lead, and now, he is back at square one.

"When I'm stuck on a spell," Maeve continues. "I find the best thing to do is take a break. Then, when I'm doing laundry or gardening or whatever, the solution will come to me." She reaches out a hand past the eave to catch some of the falling snow. "Even the Wildmother can't bloom all the time." A strong gust of wind swirls around them then, trying its best to push Caleb northward. Caleb adjusts his scarf and coat to stop its icy fingers from trailing down his neck, and Maeve shrugs. "Take it or leave it."

"Thank you," Caleb says with a nod. Maeve nods back and turns to re-enter the house, closing the door behind her with a soft thud.

Caleb steps off of the porch, re-casting detect magic with a twist of his hand. He wants to be well clear of the Abjuration magic before he attempts to teleport. The snow crunches under his boots as he makes his way down the row of lights, and the wind whistles in the tree branches and tries, once again, to tug him northward, pulling at his hair this time, loosening it from its tie.

The sharp, clean smell of the fresh snow reminds Caleb of Eiselcross... of Essek. The thought of reuniting with Essek had been a light at the end of the tunnel, during Ikithon's trial. He had even spent time crafting his own Sending spell, so he could contact Essek once the trial was over. When the day came, it had felt too selfish to use it. There was still so much to do.

And Essek isn't the only thing awaiting him in Eiselcross. In the underworld of Aeor lies a crucible, a final test of his tentative, hard-won, untrustworthy goodness.

Caleb walks much further than he needs to. The snowflakes try to kiss his worries away. When this doesn't work, they stop falling, leaving only the wind carding its fingers through his hair with alternating sweetness and frustration. It whistles some more to catch his attention, but he is too lost in his spiraling thoughts to hear it.

He does hear another noise, though, or thinks he does. He cannot find the little owl when he looks up to the tree branches, but he does see a star. A single star, bright enough to shine through a thinning in the veil, twinkling, safe and familiar...

Caleb swears under his breath and yanks a copper wire out of his pocket, before he can think better of it. He shapes it much like he has seen Jester do numerous times and takes a deep breath. He visualizes Essek, his lilac eyes, his high cheekbones, the iridescent freckles dusted across his twilight skin, the elegant curve of his jaw, the small dimples that appear on his cheeks when he smiles, really smiles, and speaks the magic word. "Hallo, Freund, I--" It occurs to him suddenly that, although it is a very reasonable 6:13 in the evening in this part of the Pearlbow Wilderness, it is much deeper into the night at Vurmas Outpost. "I apologize I didn't think of the time. I hope I'm not disturbing you." Nine words left. "Thinking I'll travel to you soon... to exchange theories?" The words leave his lips with the ghost of a smile, and he thinks he hears a smile in Essek's voice as well, when he responds:

"Caleb Widogast, it is good to hear your voice no matter the time of night. I can think of nothing else I would rather do."

.

.

.

Notes: I rather extended the limits of Read Object and Read Mind from the Knowledge Domain descriptions, because.

[pizzazz-party]

Part 3: Ring’s Biology and Possible Origins

In the world of Ring Fit Adventure, there exist monsters, ghosts, cyborgs, robots, gods, a curious array of animals, human beings of enormous size…and Ring. Ring—a creature so entirely unique, he fails to fit into any of those categories.

Everyone has their own idea as to what Ring is, and as to where he came from. So here’s mine.

(Spoilers for the end of the main storyline. Various postgame dialogue spoilers beyond that.)

If we’re going to talk about where Ring might have come from, it makes sense to look for clues in what he’s presented as. Physically, and subtextually. So let’s take it from the top.

Stepping away from the confines of the game, Ring’s shape is based off a Pilates ring, a piece of exercise equipment who’s history dates back to nearly a century ago, as of the game’s release. It was invented to help rehabilitate wounded soldiers through physical therapy following World War I. Design-wise, though…Ring’s face draws heavy inspiration from depictions of Ancient Inca art. Specifically, he looks a lot like the figure atop this ceremonial tumi knife.

The prominent nose. The familiar jawline. A headpiece bisecting the brow. The blue commonly set into the eyes of the art. The ears—heavy earrings were unisex among the Inca nobility, resulting in long, stretched lobes. But most importantly—the statue is gold. And in the ancient Inca Empire, gold was revered as being sweat from the very sun itself. Metal nowadays is often associated with machinery, with invention. But raw metal has always been a fruit of the earth, as natural as any wood or leaf. The Inca took it a step further. They thought of gold as mystical.

Likewise, Ring’s design is meant to invoke these traits. Despite being made of metal, Ring visibly lacks gears or wiring or nozzles or hatches. His mouth may have a hinge and his flaming little hair piece may spin around. But in terms of “build,” Ring (the magical metal donut) has more in common with Pinocchio (the magical wooden puppet), than with an actual machine.

On a surface level, Ring really is best described as a “magical creature.” He’s obviously not made of flesh and blood. But he’s alive in a way that the closest comparison—sentient robots—just aren’t. Ring sweats, breathes, sleeps, eats. He ages. His metal face flexes and grows and shrinks as he speaks. Ring wields exercise energy, much in the same way that humans do, and more. He crafts, enhances, and stores things with it. Its raw essence flows through him like a fiery kind of lifeblood.

Ring’s not a human or a cyborg. He’s not a monster or a ghost or an animal. He’s made of metal like a robot, and that’s about it. And while Ring may (presumably) have the long life of a god, he lacks everything else. Right down to the proper shape and abilities. Ring, whatever the specifics, is a “magical creature” that exists in a class of his own. We never ever meet another being quite like him.

…At least. That’s what I used to think.

———

The thing with Ring is, it’s hard to tell whether he’s actively omitting facts or just forgetting them. He’s got a terrible memory. But he also as good as lies to us in the beginning, pretending as though Dragaux’s just some enemy to him.

So here is what I understand.

We meet Ring, and he and Dragaux are positioned as these perfect opposites, as perfect enemies. Ring builds others up, and Dragaux tears them down. Dragaux is flashy, an eyesore, the purple to Ring’s yellow, and yet he steals the stage every time. He’s a jerk, but he’s Ring’s jerk. We show up to every boss fight because we are invested in his story, his opinions, his downward spiral.

And that’s our first mistake, really. Because Dragaux’s accent color isn’t purple, it’s pink. Because Dragaux’s opposite isn’t Ring, it’s Trainee. And Ring’s real foil was never Dragaux, but Dark Influence itself.

———

Have you ever thought about how strange it is, this particular parasite. From a narrative standpoint, I mean. As much as it’s referred to as “Dragaux’s influence” or “Dragaux’s aura,” Dragaux is only its latest meal, not its source. And that meal has been lasting anywhere from decades to a century, at least. Dark Influence is, by nature, negativity incarnate. It could be as old as the hills. Older, maybe.

Dark Influence is voiceless, faceless. A parasite composed of pure negative exercise energy, it can theoretically exist on its own. But it thrives best when entrenched in the heart of a host. Its host—a physical creature that, once ensnared, starts exhibiting traits that belong to the Influence: like great swathes of flame in its signature color.

Does that not sound. Familiar.

Because Ring and Dark Influence? Fulfill eerily similar roles, in regards to their syncing partners.

Both of them harness their partner’s exercise energy. Both of them augment the abilities of their partner. But unlike Ring, who’s always actively helping Trainee in precise and creative ways…Dark Influence doesn’t care. I’m not sure if it can give a care about anything that doesn’t include “amassing power” and “spreading itself.” (And I think those are just instincts. I’ve yet to see proof that this thing has anything approaching a complex personality.) But whether or not it cares about Dragaux, it’s fully anchored within his body. It shares its strength with him because there’s nowhere else to store it.

Because unlike Ring, Dark Influence lacks a physical body of its own.

And that thought. How it “lacks” a body. Just sort of stuck around in my head. Because it’s funny, isn’t it? That Ring speaks and this thing doesn’t. That Dark Influence, this wildfire, is so strong and potent and infectious while Ring’s inner flames are so small and orderly and self-contained.

And then I started thinking about coins. Isn’t it funny, that they’re shaped like little rings. Isn’t it funny, that they sometimes just. Spring out of the ground.

How does a free-to-play gym turn a profit. How do all of these gyms, turn a profit.

If NPCs canonically collect coins on their travels just like Trainee… If someone isn’t just throwing away buckets of money into the mountains and rivers and skies… if golden little rings can just spring into existence alongside someone as they’re jogging…

What if it’s not a quirk. What if it’s not just a game mechanic.

What if everything—the coins, the EXP medals, the treasure chests with Ring’s face on them—what if they’re all byproducts that occur when a physical place is saturated with high amounts of foot traffic. With high amounts of exercise energy. People in Ring Fit Adventure constantly expel this stuff as they jog or work out or engage in fit battles. They don’t really direct it anywhere after its release. It just kind of gets absorbed into their surroundings. I always assumed that it helped make the land so lush and pretty, but what if it doesn’t stop there. What if, when large quantities of it gather, exercise energy naturally builds up and condenses itself into permanent, physical solids.

And I thought of Ring. Of the coins that are shaped like him. Of the medals that eerily share his face. Of the treasure chests especially, the way they scream and run and flex as though alive. (And I thought about Dragaux, who’s canonically brilliant, and how even his best statues fell short of capturing that same quality of animation.) I thought about how all three of these byproducts are golden. Just. Like. Ring.

Something like “dark” influence should have a natural counterpart. It’s a tale as old as time; perfect opposites, perfect enemies. But we never meet the Influence’s other half, do we? Just Ring.

Ring, our buddy, our pal. Ring, who’s a person in every way that matters, with hope and dreams and insecurities. Ring the “magical creature,” who, despite all of this, has more in common with Dark Influence than with any other creature in all of Ring Fit.

———

So here is the heart of my crazy theory.

Ring isn’t “partially” made of energy. He’s all energy, all the way down to his every last piece, whether it flows like a river or shines like a stone. And it could be that a long, long time ago, he existed much in the same way as the Dark Influence we fight in the game: as an unrestrained and formless entity. Not as a ring, but as a bright and brainless swathe of flames.

(Because if Dark Influence is insecurity and self-destruction and decay, balance would dictate its opposite be positivity, self-improvement, rebirth. A dangerously Bright Influence.)

And maybe it was just a natural process that got triggered when the conditions were right. But either way, somehow, someway, this particular Influence reincarnated into a shape that could better interact with people, without overwhelming or eating them. And that most natural shape condensed itself into Ring.

A baby Ring.

———

Even if you don’t buy into the existence of “Bright” Influence, Ring fully being some sort of life energy incarnate answers too many questions. It would explain why Ring is so good at manipulating exercise energy; it’s the most natural extension of himself. It would explain why Ring has the unique ability to sync with people; it’s how he originally used to exist, as life energy drifting in and out of living creatures. It would explain the aging. It would explain why Ring never mentions a parent or creator watching over him during childhood; because he came into this world totally alone. (Baby Ring belonged to no one before he belonged with Baby Drags.)

But Ring’s theoretical past life answers a few more questions. It could explain parts of Ring’s personality, his interests. (His dream of spreading positivity across the land.) It explains why there aren’t ten million Rings floating about, when coins and medals and chests are so relatively common. (Because there’s a key ingredient missing). It actually explains his five special powers. (Because I’m betting Influences have human-related origins. It’s either that, or “live humans being consumed” was part of the “perfect” conditions surrounding Ring’s birth. Which, cringe.) But more than anything, it addresses the sheer power imbalance happening between Ring and Dark Influence right now.

Dark Influence lacks boundaries and spreads itself like a virus, thoughtless and instinctive. Ring’s natural weapon against this thing should be to “infect” it right back. (I would expect some sort of sick light show to dance across Dragaux’s body during battle; yellow flames squaring off against purple.) But it doesn’t work that way. Ring the Person no longer works this way.

If Dark influence is a forest fire, then Ring is a fireplace set behind glass. At their core, these two are both energy. But the modes in which they exist divide them into separate skill sets entirely.

Dark Influence is wildfire of brute strength. It’s got range—in the spatial sense. It can spread to as many secondary hosts as Dragaux directs it to, so long as it’s fed well enough to reach for them. Compared to Ring’s measly one syncing partner, Dark Influence can sink itself into whole regions, can simultaneously feed off of so many people. It doesn’t have outright mind control powers; it’s more subtle than that. But its presence as negativity incarnate naturally works like a magnet to draw out the worst in people. There is nothing it enhances in a person that wasn’t already there, no matter how small the weakness. Coupled with the rush of power it imparts in its vessels, it makes bad decisions feel right. Even to good people. It’s, quite simply, a bad influence. (And then it consumes them.)

But other than that, Dark Influence doesn’t really do much.

Our bud Ring may only be able to light one house at a time, so to speak. But as contained as he is—Ring’s powers are more varied and nuanced, because Ring is more varied and nuanced. He’s always actively (and thoughtfully) applying energy to construct, convert, and amplify. For all its fearsome strength, the only thing Dark Influence can seemingly do on purpose, is feed.

———

(If Ring was once a being like Dark Influence, then that solves the final mystery of synchronization. If Dark Influence “infects” its host by sinking into the body, then Ring syncs with a partner by “planting” a piece of his essence inside them. This is why Trainee’s energy signature changes to mimic Ring’s; because she now carries a part of him in her beating heart. This is why Ring can freely access her energy; because this makes her a part of him now, too.)

———

So. Let’s pretend I’m not crazy. Say that all of these little details I’ve collected were intentionally laid out by the game developers. Say I’m correct, and that Ring really is, essentially, the child of Dark Influence’s greatest natural enemy.

The real question is: how self aware is Ring about all of this.

Because unfortunately, Ring not knowing his own backstory could be pretty on-brand for him. I love Ring, but from his point of view, it really could be that he just appeared one day, somehow—as an entirely clean slate. “Dark” or “bright,” these entities are brainless. Literally. No body means no brain. They can’t store memories, so they don’t have memories. Just energy.

Ring must know that he’s made from energy, too. He might even think of himself as one very lucky byproduct. But if this is really what Ring used to be (if there’s even a shadow of a chance that his predecessor used to eat people), then he might not know the full extent of his own story.

And maybe that’s for the best. I can’t imagine him choosing to get close to people otherwise. He loves people, cares so much about every single silly soul that he meets.

This would hurt him.

———

Whatever Ring’s origins may be, whatever he might have once been (if he’s ever been anything else at all)… I do know one thing. And it’s that I prefer him prefer him just the way he is.

Weird comments about my sweat aside, I wouldn’t have him any other way.

———

TL;DR: Our bud Ring has more in common with Dark Influence than with any other creature in all of Ring Fit.

If a flaming entity of negative energy can exist, then why not one made of positive energy? If positive energy condenses into permanent solids naturally and often…if Ring is made of positive energy…if Ring has more in common with Dark Influence than with anything else in this game…

Who’s to say that Ring himself, wasn’t once a flaming yellow mass of energy.

———

This marks the end. I could run wild with all the implications this theory leaves in its wake. But I’ve made my point. I’ve found every answer I was looking for. And they may not have been the answers I was expecting (or even wanting), but they’ve satisfied me all the same.

I’m done. Believe what you will.

Thanks for reading, and for sticking with me all this way. It’s been real.

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DISCLAIMER: My name is Pizzazz and I take this game way too seriously. This is all for fun! At the time of this post, I am on World 36 of the post game. I feel pretty strongly about my conclusions, but I’ll go back and edit this if/when/where applicable.

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RING ANALYSIS

Part 1: Synchronizing—How it Works and What It Tells Us About Ring

Part 2: Ring’s Powers—And What They All Have In Common

Part 3: Ring’s Biology and Possible Origins

[yaku-soba]

all roads lead home

༶•┈┈ general m.list 

༶•┈┈ tsukishima kei x gn!reader | angst with a hopeful ending :”)

tags/warnings: language, childhood friends, they’re exes but it gets better i promise, almost all the karasuno boys stay on in miyagi

word count: 3.7k

a/n: the edited version of an old fic i wrote for a followers event on my old blog :”) the prompt was i’ll name this city after you :D i hope yall enjoy this!! 

synopsis: You want (an apology, an explanation) to forget, and to get on the next train back to Tokyo, never mind that this is your first time visiting Miyagi in two years. Tsukishima wants to quit his shitty job as an overworked barista (at your favourite cafe, as if the night shifts weren’t tormenting enough). Tadashi just wants the three of you to have lunch together again. 

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

The sun is setting when you step off the train and onto a platform that you haven’t laid your eyes on in nearly two years. 

(It’s been a lifetime.)

The vending machine that you used to rap your knuckles against in the hopes of knocking free an extra drink is still in the corner, as dirty and forlorn as you remember. It’s oddly reassuring - in a liminal, jarring sort of way - like you’ve stepped off the train and into the past, like you’re eighteen again.  

“Y/n!” Tadashi looks much the same as he had when you’d graduated high school - smile maybe a little brighter, hands a little larger. Heart still as huge as it had been when you’d left. 

He holds his arms out and you jump, throwing yours around his neck. Tadashi wheezes at the sudden weight, and you laugh as his hands wrap around your waist to crush you to him by the small of your back, barely managing to keep the both of you upright.

“It’s nice to see you again, Y/n.” He smiles earnestly, and you let go of his shoulders to pull at his cheeks, cooing. “Hey, stop that,” he whines, and when you refuse, he eyes you warningly, “I’ll drop you!”

You stick your tongue out at him childishly, but relent. He sets you back on the ground gently, and you turn back to pick up the bag you’d dropped. 

“Come on,” he says, “let’s go home.”

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

The peace doesn’t last. 

You really should have known, with the way Tadashi has been sneaking glances at you on the way out of the station. You’ve known him long enough to know what that expression means - he looks at you like he has something to say, but isn’t sure if he should, and that’s perfectly fine with you. 

You’re starting to think you just might make it all the way home when a corner of the night sky chips and falls away, cracking right down the middle as your best friend says softly, “You should go home.” 

You freeze. You know, instantly, what - who - he’s talking about. 

The betrayal stings the back of your throat like bile. 

You look away, fixing your eyes angrily - you can’t help it, Tadashi knows that you hate talking about this, about him, but he’d asked anyway - on the dried leaf skittering across the abandoned playground, at the mercy of the wind. 

“I am home,” you point out uncooperatively, feeling childish, “that’s why I’m back in this shithole.”

“That’s not what I meant,” your best friend says into the night air, still in that annoyingly gentle way of his that makes you want to scream into the empty streets of this empty town. You wait, an open heart raw in the world, but he says nothing more. 

(Two years later, and Tadashi still reads you as easily as he had when the two of you were six and tracing the lines on your palms. Dancing on the edge of a cliff but stopping just short of falling over.)

“Y/n?” Shit, of course you’d wander into him on your first night back, the universe has a personal vendetta against you, how could you have forgotten. 

Next to you, Tadashi has gone very, very silent. And still. A little like a mouse stuck between a cat and a snake; relieved to have been momentarily saved from the clutches of one, newly worried about both, and too afraid of drawing attention to run away. 

You’d laugh, if it weren’t for the rage rising in the back of your throat like bile, jagged like a broken promise. 

“Y/n,” the bastard behind you repeats, and the sound of your name leaving his tongue is nothing short of heartbreak, “I didn’t know you were back.”

Slowly, you turn. Tsukishima looks just as you remember - stupid glasses on a stupid face, his hair longer but no less beautiful. As aggravating as he is breathtaking. 

(Something in your chest - no, not your heart - aches. You reach down and crush it between your fingers the way you used to crumple the torn pages of your notebook into little balls, to throw them at Tadashi, or-)

“Tsukishima,” your voice is even, good, “I don’t see why it’s any of your business.” 

He flinches, a minute action you would have missed if you didn’t already know him better than the old callouses on your palm. Good, you think again more vindictively - except his eyes are widening just slightly in shock, two gold pools like shadowed streetlamps, and suddenly you’re eighteen again.

You’re eighteen, and in love, and you’re blind enough to say, I would do anything for you, I would scrape my knees on metaphorical sidewalks everyday for the rest of my life if I had to, just to make you smile. 

You’re eighteen, and you’re foolish enough to think, I would give you the world if you asked, surely you’d let me have your heart; your tiny hometown, your little safehouse. 

You're eighteen, and you’re in love - and then you realize he’s not, not the way you are, and you fall on your empty sidewalks because it hurts and it tears you apart, but most of all you hate that you still care. 

You hated being eighteen.

“If that’s all you wanted to say,” you continue coldly, “I’m leaving.”

You turn on your heel, avoiding Tadashi’s eyes. You won’t make him choose - you can’t do that to him.

Tsukishima says nothing as you stalk away down the empty streets and towards the house you grew up in. 

(Somehow, you’re disappointed.

You tell yourself it’s because it’s been a long day.)

“Y/n, wait!” Tadashi calls, and you lengthen your strides angrily even as you hear him puffing up the slight incline behind you. “Y/n!”

“What,” you hiss, stopping short. You don’t turn - you don’t want to check if Tsukishima’s still there. 

(You’ve seen enough of his back to last you a lifetime.)

“Are you okay?” Your best friend asks, and you look at him in disbelief.

“I thought you were on his side,” you say dumbly, before realizing that that’s a road that leads to ugly places. 

“I’m not on anyone’s side,” Tadashi says diplomatically before you can try to apologize, “I just want us - the three of us - to have lunch together again.”

You scoff, and start walking, adjusting your bag. “Sure, I’ll text Hinata, I’m sure he won’t mind as long as we agree to volleyball practice with him first.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tadashi says for the second time tonight, this time with a hint of frustration, “and you know it.”

“I do,” you acknowledge, “the same way you know that I want nothing to do with the four-eyed bastard.”

“You liked his glasses,” he tells you indignantly, catching up with you easily, “you used to steal them-”

“Liked, used to,” you snarl as the taut string of your patience finally snaps, “as in past tense. Leave if you’re just going to torment me. We both know I’ll get enough of it once I’m back home.”

Tadashi falls silent at that. A small part of you feels guilty, till you remember that it’s not your fault that he’d chosen to drag up old, unpleasant memories from beyond the grave, where you’d buried them. 

“Do you want me to stay for dinner?” He asks finally. An olive branch. 

You throw him a tense smile. “If you’d like.”

“Okay,” he breathes, and it’s like you’re looking at six year-old Tadashi again - young, painfully innocent, apologetic. “Okay, I’d like to. It’s been two years, after all.”

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

(You still think of him.

You could be baking in your kitchen in your apartment in Tokyo and all you can see is the curling steam of buns he bought at Sakanoshita store after practice. You could be walking past an electronics store and you’d find yourself looking at the TV screens, half-wondering if they replay the matches from a no-name high school in a far-away part of Japan.

They never do. 

It doesn’t stop you from seeing in your mind’s eye the surge of a block, the curve of taped fingers.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

Because the universe hates you, you run into Tsukishima again, just a day into your brief return to Miyagi.

Walking through the glass doors of what had once been your favourite cafe and not paying attention to anything beyond one feet of you as you text Hinata that you’re there early, you don’t immediately notice that the barista has frozen in place. 

You look up.

Tsukishima is staring at you, a carton of milk in one hand, the other resting on the blender. Even against the battered machine, his fingers are painfully elegant. 

(Bandaged fingers against red and green and white. Pale fingers entwined with your own. A flash of memory, too painful to be anything but a curse.)

“Y/n?” He says, and it’s too much, it sounds so much like the way he’d said your name when you were seventeen, when you were eighteen, that your heart stutters and does a few flips on its way up your throat. A bad habit you never quite managed to get rid of. 

You turn around, and walk back the way you’d came. 

The bell tinkles mockingly as the door swings shut behind you. 

“Y/n?” You flinch, but it’s just Hinata. “I knew it! It really is you, Y/n!” Hinata, bless him, beams. Then, as his eyes fall to your white-knuckled grip on your phone, he asks, “Is something wrong?”

Nothing, you want to say, let’s go for brunch, shall we? Instead, what comes out is, “You didn’t tell me he worked here.” It ends up sounding a tad accusatory. You only regret it a little. 

“Oh, Tsukishima?” He asks casually, and you barely resist the urge to flinch at the name, “Sorry, I forgot.” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, and - it looks genuine. Hinata’s a terrible liar; you’d know if he was pulling a fast one on you. 

You sigh. It’s not even eleven in the morning, and you want to go home. “It’s fine,” you reassure him, even though it’s very much not, “let’s just find somewhere else to eat.”

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

“Do you have to leave?” He’s leaning against the door to your room, but there’s no relaxation in his posture. With his arms crossed and his brows furrowed, his face shut like a window screen, all Tsukishima looks is aggressive.

Something about the way he says have to, like it’s something unreasonable and selfish that you can’t let go of, grates on your nerves.

(Sometimes, when Tsukishima gets like this, he makes you feel small. More childish than child-like.)

“It’s a good opportunity for me,” you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve said those six words, in that order, “and it’s a scholarship, too.” You can’t quite keep the irritation out of your voice. 

This is good for you, why can’t he just see that?

“Oh, so you’re one of those,” your boyfriend says, and there’s something ugly in his sneer that has you recoiling, “just going to-to up and leave, aren’t you? Build a new life for yourself in the fancy city now that you’re too good for this nowhere town in a no-name prefecture?”

You frown, properly frustrated now. “I’m not severing ties,” you say, “I know being in different prefectures will be tough, but it’s something that we can work around.” 

You hate that it almost sounds like you’re pleading. You shouldn’t have to. 

“We’re still in the same country - it’ll be easier to visit and call each other, with no time-zone differences in the way.”

Tsukishima laughs. It’s as sharp as the broken glass of a shattered photo frame. “Yeah, like I don’t know how these stories go.”

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

Tsukishima sighs as eight p.m finally hits and he can turn the open sign on the door to closed. 

He goes through the routine that comes with working the last shift mindlessly - wiping down the tables and counters, pushing the chairs back into their neat places. 

(He wonders how long you’ll be in Miyagi.)

The trash bag crinkles as he ties it up, dragging it behind him to the back door. 

He’s only just hefted it into the dumpster specifically for un-recyclables when someone punches him in the face. Hard.

His glasses go flying, his annoyance skyrockets, and he barks, “What the hell?”

“I should be saying that!” His assaulter yells right back at him, “What the heck, Tsukishima?”

At the familiar voice, he stops, a retort on his tongue. 

Tsukishima squints, and the person who’d punched him shifts, hair glowing orange in the flickering light of a half-dead streetlamp. 

Ah, it’s the annoying, tiny boy. 

“What do you want,” Tsukishima says as flatly as he can muster, even as his stomach sinks and he knows, he knows what Hinata is here to talk about. “Hinata.” 

Hinata only grows more upset. Then he squares his shoulders and says, cold and unforgiving, “You didn’t tell Y/n.”

Tsukishima’s blood freezes in his veins. Suddenly, it’s the last set and the last point against Shiratorizawa, and the air is so thick and the eyes so cutting that he can’t move. 

“You didn’t apologize.” Hinata steps forward till they’re chest-to-chest, and Tsukishima doesn’t need his glasses to know that Hinata’s eyes are accusatory and angry. “Y/n came back and you still didn’t apologize.” 

I know, he thinks, I know I fucked up. Tsukishima isn’t dumb; even if Hinata hadn’t said it, he knows he should have gone after you last night. 

(He should have gone after you two years ago.)

He thinks Hinata already knows what he’s feeling. It’s not a pleasant thought. 

Tsukishima deals with this the only way he knows how, even as a voice that sounds like yours, small and heartbroken, says, don’t do it, not again. 

“It’s not your business,” he snaps, tone disdainful enough to cover his regret, and it reminds him of your words; it sinks into his flesh like a knife cutting into pliant bread, it tugs him apart like a million tiny hooks, “don’t stick your nose into things you don’t understand.”

“I understand enough,” Hinata hisses right back, “to know that you hurt Y/n and that you never bothered to apologize.” 

He pauses before going in for the kill. “And I know that you know that Y/n knows that it was complete bullshit. All you’ve managed to do is hurt the both of you.” Cocking his head slightly, he adds, the edge to his voice mostly gone, “And Tadashi-kun. All of us, really.”

Tsukishima opens his mouth to argue, but - he doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what he can say, because nothing Hinata has said is wrong. 

It’s not surprising - Tsukishima has known all of this for a very long time. He’d been deliberately ignoring it in the hopes that it would gather dust and fade into some distant corner of his mind. 

I’m just as much of a coward as I was two years ago, he thinks, and he still remembers the way your tears had caught the sun that terrible day in your bedroom, he remembers turning away so he didn’t have to look at the promise he’d broken. 

Hinata sighs, and trudges in the direction Tsukishima’s glasses had flown in, bending to rummage about on the ground. 

Tsukishima takes this brief moment of quiet to get his feelings under control before his body decides to do something uncooperative and ridiculous. Like leaking tears.

“Don’t break things you don’t intend to fix,” Hinata says into the silence as he hands Tsukishima his glasses. The barbed words he’d been trying to find die on his tongue. He slips his glasses on just to have something to do with his hands, and immediately wishes he’d just stayed half-blind instead.

Hinata’s eyes aren’t angry, or even disgusted. They’re disappointed, and that makes everything so much worse. 

Tsukishima loses control of his body. He opens his mouth, closes it. 

What could he even say? It’s not Hinata that he owes an apology to. 

“Thanks,” he says instead. Hinata nods and smiles. 

(“Y/n misses you,” Hinata says later, as they’re walking down the street. He offers no elaboration, but it’s enough.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

“I’m sorry,” Tadashi says as the last whistle for your train blows and Tsukishima still isn’t here, “you know how Tsukki is on the weekends, he might have slept in-”

“Till four in the afternoon?” You raise a brow. Tadashi’s mouth snaps shut, his face stuttering, and you sigh. He shouldn’t be apologizing. 

“It’s fine,” you say, as you step onto the train. You take your heart into your hands and rip it apart like a party favour. 

Tadashi, and the rest of the Karasuno team, waves at you long after the doors have shut and the train departed. 

You watch them through the window till they fade into shadows into specks into sky, and you know that you won’t be coming back for a long time. 

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

You’re only in Miyagi for the weekend. 

It’s been nice, seeing everyone again. You’d even had dinner with the rest of the team. 

(Tsukishima hadn’t been there.)

But the weekend has come to a close, and now it’s just you and Tadashi on the platform again. You experience a dizzying sense of deja vu. 

“Will you visit again?” Your best friend asks, and you tear your gaze from the tracks to meet his eyes. 

(You know what Tadashi is really asking.)

“Maybe,” you answer after a pause, “you’re my friend, after all. And I won’t put it past Hinata to get lost in Tokyo.”

Tadashi smiles in understanding. 

You feel terrible. All you’ve been giving him is compromises. 

“I’m sorry,” you say finally, glancing to the old vending machine on the opposite platform out of habit, “but I just-”

“He misses you,” Tadashi cuts in, “and I think he wants to apologize.”

His words take you aback. Then, “He wants to apologize,” you repeat, and it’s like you’re eighteen again, “but Tsukishima’s too proud for it, isn’t he?” 

“Tsukki’s changed,” Tadashi mumbles, “maybe next time-”

“Y/n!” The both of you turn at the voice.

The breath rushes out of your lungs. A boy with hair like sunlight and eyes like gold coins catches his, bent over with his hands on his knees, a glowing figure in the middle of a dreary platform.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

For you, Tsukishima has always been synonymous with Miyagi. 

Miyagi with the pork buns, with the school full of crows. The prefecture with the hills and the mountains, the small stores and marts run by ex-volleyball players. 

Miyagi, your hometown, where the sky above and the grass below and the people beside you had witnessed you asking a boy for the second button of his gakuran at graduation. Your little safehouse of dreams dreamt of flight. 

Tsukishima was the boy with the gakuran whose second button you had wanted. He’d been the boy with the glasses you’d hated on anyone else but him, the boy who had dreamt of the endless blue with his feet still on the ground. 

He’s the boy you see in every empty, half-lit street at midnight, and behind every fading sign. The lamps in every lit house become his eyes, golden like the light of a possibly-dead star, and every window reflects the shine of his glasses. Like a haunting - a boy becomes a town becomes a memory. 

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

“What do you want?” You ask when it becomes clear that Tsukishima isn’t going to break the silence. “My train’s coming soon.”

(Tsukishima has always been Miyagi to you.

You don’t really want the train to come. Not when you’re finally about to get a goodbye two years overdue.)

“I’m sorry,” the boy with the glasses that you had liked, the boy with the gakuran whose second button you had held in your palm like he’d held your heart, says finally. “I was afraid.”

He doesn’t say what of. You already know, and for now, it’s enough that he’s here at all. 

“You were too proud,” you tell him softly, “I was willing to be afraid together.” 

This isn’t anything new either. Tsukishima isn’t dumb. He must have known.

“Did you regret it?” You ask as the train pulls into the station. 

The boy who is Miyagi to you smiles. “I’m glad you got the scholarship.” His eyes are bright. His hair is a little longer, now. 

You step forward as the last whistle blows in warning, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

You turn, getting onto the train with a backwards wave.

The doors close. 

The boy who is pork buns and dimly lit streets holds up a hand even as he fades into the distance, joined by a shorter silhouette. 

They get smaller and smaller until they’re shadows, then specks, then nothing but sky. 

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

For you, Miyagi has always been a boy.

Maybe it shouldn’t have been - there’s Tadashi, after all, and your senpais.

You tear your safehouse down brick by brick. You hand one to everyone you’ve ever talked to in Miyagi, to everyone you’ve ever loved. 

Tsukishima is joined by Tadashi, and the homeroom teacher who’d confiscated most of the balled-up notes passed between the three of you in class. You add Hinata, Tanaka, Nishinoya, Sugawara; you build a volleyball court and see crows in the sky. 

Miyagi is Tsukishima is Karasuno is volleyballs is the sting of skinned knees on dimly-lit streets. 

(Tsukishima’s contact is still saved in your phone. You had never been able to bring yourself to delete it.

You think about your next holiday break. You think about the extra shifts at your part-time job you’ll have to take in order to afford the train tickets.)

You miss Miyagi. You’re relieved that you’re allowed to admit to yourself that you miss Miyagi, now. 

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :D

[palimpsessed]

Medieval History AU

for @carryonthroughtheages

For my piece for the medieval era, I took inspiration from illuminated manuscripts.

(Please click the image for better quality.)

Read more about the piece below the break.

I want to first say a huge thank you to @bazzybelle​ for organizing this event and also for just being a really great human. ILY! Despite the fact that I of course left everything to the last minute, I have had a blast working on my two posts and can’t wait until I have time to actually look at what everyone else has done.

About the artwork:

This is a haphazardly researched piece at best.

I initially planned to simply do a group drawing, showing the gang dressed appropriately for their places in my medieval AU. I had that sketch sitting around for months and never felt inspired. Then I started to think about how I could adapt my arsenal of art supplies to give the effect of something more suited to the time periods. And then I thought about a lovely comment that someone made on one of my drawings, that it reminded them of an illuminated manuscript. And then the book art nerd in me was activated. Thus, I spent the next week pulling references from various illuminated manuscripts that have made it online in some form or another over the years. Next came the design. I wanted to find a way to still include the whole group, but a simple line-up no longer made sense. I wanted to make SnowBaz the focal point, for obvious reasons, but I found a way to include the others in insets, as some full page illuminated manuscripts depicted smaller scenes around a central idea.

I knew that I had to include at least one dragon for Simon and somehow reference Baz's vampirism. Monsters appear all over illuminated manuscripts, after all, and I saw no reason why they shouldn't be in mine. Vampires in medieval folklore were different to the way we think of them now; they weren't living people who turned into blood drinking creatures, but rather reanimated corpses. These revenants are usually depicted as some variation on a rotting corpse or skeleton. I decided to stick with our modern understanding of vampirism, because I'm not wholly sold on the zombie thing. A skull and some rats chilling around it probably gets the point across, and ties in Baz's years in the Catacombs, which definitely still exist in this AU. Also, I see medieval Baz as a minor feudal lord of some kind, which plays into the classic vampire metaphor. Simon is a former knight errant who gave up his questing days once he faced the reality that perhaps he wasn't all that different from the monsters he hunted.

The vessel at their feet, which sits over flames, is a crucible. Because of course I was going to include a crucible in my medieval AU. The crucible is an ongoing metaphor in Simon and Baz's story, and I wanted to carry that motif into my piece, too. I based the shape off a couple different depictions I found that related specifically to alchemy. Alchemy is all about transmutation, rather fitting for two half monsters who continuously challenge the roles they've been assigned. (One of the crucible drawings I found even had a tiny dragon looking down the spout and blowing fire into the vessel!)

The alchemy theme continues to the top right corner, with a green lion eating the sun. This is a very common image in alchemical texts, a metaphor for vitriol purifying matter, which would then leave behind gold. Next to the green lion is Agatha, who finds far more to interest her in making friends with unicorns than in the attentions of any courtly suitors. The larger panel in the center shows the castle, the hub of medieval life, inspired by the look of Watford as depicted in the map at the end of Carry On. This version of Watford is also protected by a moat filled with merwolves, because they are exactly the sort of unholy beast that would appear in the marginalia of an illuminated manuscript. (Maybe the Mage got the idea of the merwolves from one of the "four-hundred-year-old texts" he dripped gravy on.) Stars fill the sky, because we all know how important those are. On the castle's other side is Penelope, bent over a parchment in a room filled with thick books, living her best scholarly life, now that she's retired from life as Simon's shield bearer. She and Shepard are both modeling the latest trend in eyeglasses, which is to say, the only trend, because that was cutting edge technology back in the day. (Would either one of them have had access to that kind of fancy tech in their respective positions? Idk, but they have unicorns, and flying sheep, and merwolves, and dragons, so let them see is all I'm saying.) Shepard is, if you couldn't guess, a shepherd, because I had to. But he's still a nomad at heart, and this new flock was acquired in a rather secretive deal during his last adventure. Lastly, the slogans on either side of Simon and Baz are the Google Translate Latin equivalents of: "Magic separates us from the world. Let nothing separate us from each other" and "Light a match inside your heart, then blow on the tinder." (If you can actually read my writing, and you actually know Latin, and these aren't correct, just pretend that they are.)

Illuminated manuscripts were usually embellished with gold leaf, and my budget version is metallic gold marker, which I used sparingly throughout the piece for fire and other objects of note (though it's probably hard to see in the scan).

That's all, I think. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk!

Bonus! Process shots;