#almost gave up on art altogether recently

[beatrix-quinn]

hi @blongus64! thank you for your question. and no apologies necessary; Very Long Posts are kind of my specialty. :B

i really appreciated the comparison you drew between making visual art and making music, and i want to bring your attention first to that piece, because you gave some very interesting examples:

"i want a harsh… almost parasitic implication, so i'll use lurid, sickly colors and haphazard lines." "i'll use soft, dull blues, because that's what winter looks like."

the question i want you to ask yourself is this: "where did i learn the idea that This emotion looks That way?"

your art comparison reminded me of a conversation i recently had with someone dear to me who illustrates. they brought up an idea they've picked up from various art instructors over the years, which i'll paraphrase to the best of my recollection:

when you try to draw an apple, you're not just thinking about the object that's right in front of you. you're thinking about the idea of An Apple. that idea is shaped by every apple you've ever seen or eaten—the places and people and feelings attached to those experiences. so when you're drawing from a reference, you have to set all those associations aside and learn how to look at what's in front of you so you can recreate it accurately.

as you mention drawing still life in your ask, no doubt you've practiced this skill already. but what about when you draw a scene from your imagination, or paint something wholly abstract? when it comes to representing certain ideas in your art, the reality is that how you depict them is a choice formed by association. you choose soft, dull blues for a melancholy winter, because those are the colors you see when you look with your mind's eye.

but for me, i associate melancholy winter most with dark greys, and rusty pinks from light pollution in the night sky. someone else might picture the dizzying white reflection of sunlight on snow. these can all be "correct" ways of evoking this feeling you've given as an example, so long as it's true to the artist's subjective experience.

my point is this: just as you can choose to represent one idea visually in a myriad of ways depending on how you look, you can choose to represent an emotion through music in a myriad of ways as well. and that means this:

if representing an image requires learning how to look, then representing a sound requires learning how to listen.

the simplest and most immediate way you can start doing this is to critically listen to the music that evokes the feelings you are trying to capture.

say you have a favorite song that really captures the feeling of melancholy for you. listen to it very carefully. what choices does it make musically? consider this an incomplete list of questions you might explore while listening:

what are the tempo and rhythm like? how do they contribute to the song's feel?

is the arrangement sparse or layered, bombastic or subtle?

what kinds of instruments are being played, and when? which ones take the lead and which ones stay in the background?

how would you describe the music's texture and atmosphere? dark, bright? spacious, intimate? electric, acoustic, synthetic? what elements contribute to that?

how does this song relate back to music history and tradition? can you identify any of its musical and cultural influences? does it fit firmly into a genre, or does it blend different genre elements? does it attempt to defy convention altogether? (does it succeed?)

what is notably absent? how does excluding certain elements serve the song's intended feeling? (after all, landslide would be a very different song if it had drums and bass.)

you might notice these questions are generally not rooted in music theory. make no mistake: music theory analysis is useful, and if you wish to build your musical vocabulary, it's worth practicing it when you can. but that kind of practice only gives you colors for your palette. it will not teach you how to paint what you feel.

if you want to learn how to use those colors, first you must really think about the music that embodies the feeling you want your music to embody. what about This song makes you feel That emotion? think about the sounds around you in everyday life. what sounds make you smile? what sounds evoke boredom, fear, anger, sorrow?

idiophones sound tender to me, so i might reach for a kalimba or music box when scoring an emotionally intimate scene. a I major chord followed by a bVII dominant is dripping with wistfulness to me, so i like using it for bittersweet moments. jagged synths and metallic noises make me uneasy, so i employ them liberally when i want to elicit dread or panic.

these are just a few colors from my own palette. just like my idea of An Apple, they are informed by my experiences, my culture, and all the music i've ever heard. these are the associations that the body forms over a lifetime; you've lived a different life, so you may have different associations for these sounds. and that's okay! what matters is that you pay attention to what sounds make you feel, and stay true in your attempts to represent those feelings.

i should also mention that i didn't figure out how to use my palette overnight. i rarely get it right on the first try. music, like any creative endeavor, is equal parts work and play, and it's the lessons learned from play that serve the work later on. with exploration and practice, you will get better.

so listen carefully. figure out which sounds correspond to different emotional responses for you. this will become your palette. as you experiment, you will learn which sounds are your melancholy blues and which are your haphazard lines. it simply takes mindfulness, a careful ear, and time.

i realize this is only a first step, but i hope you find it helpful. if it isn't, let me know, and maybe i'll do better next time. i'm still learning too. :)

with care, bee 🐦

[enriquemzn262]

Have you guys ever checked back on the webcomics you used to follow? Back in the day I had a ton I was actively following, when I was in deep denial about my weebness, and the other day I decided to look back on some of them.

Raccoon Girl: It’s still active, I actually ended up going back into it, a fun little comic about a bunch of idiots trying to be superheroes, lead by the titular RG. It’s been doing a slow but steady shift from just funny moments into a more serious story, with the art improving alongside the shift.

Miss Melee: It stayed on hiatus for almost 2 years, but it recently came back, a kickass story about a mom superhero and how her personal life starts to get mixed with her superhero one, in the form of her daughter.

Poppy Opposum: A once fun adventure comic about a mom living in a magic world where her possum race is heavily discriminated against. The world building proved too much for the author, and after a short sting at turning it into a sort of light novel to try and tackle the overly complex setting, he finally gave up and dropped it for good.

(He was always kind of a dick too)

The Meek: A once promising adventure story with three different perspectives, all apparently meant to come together eventually. Author was more focused on selling the shit out of the few chapters produced rather than actually working on the story, so it quickly stagnated with literal years between updated, today currently standing at 3 since the last update.

Skadi: One hell of a fun ride about a barbarian princess in a quest to eat from every animal, and the only webcomic in this list that actually had a proper ending. Sadly the webpage where it was hosted no longer works, so it seems to be lost media.

Endtown: A weird but interesting anthology comic about former humans living in a post-apocalyptic world. The current arc has been ongoing for years, and, at least for me, proved so convoluted I dropped it altogether. May return to it one day if said arc actually ends.

Paranatural: A coming of age story about kids fighting supernatural beings. It used to be really fun but then it suddenly began to focus less on the main cast in favor of these bully characters I never liked, and that plus a constant string of hiatuses made me drop it. It’s still being actively worked on, but now as a light novel. Author always seemed like a pretty cool guy.

Prequel Adventure: From the height of popularity of Homestuck came this interactive comic about the unluckiest cat lady that ever lived in the world of Morrowind(?). Used to be really creative, but the author’s refusal at ever breaking away from “now let’s make our hero fuck up again for no good reason” finally got to me so I dropped it. It seems to still be active, albeit at a very slow pace.

Fanboys Online: The only videogames webcomic I’ll ever admit to follow back in the day (the other one I’ll take to the grave), what started as another painfully unfunny (in hindsight) gamer humor webcomic slowly evolved into a witty character study on the three protagonists it had, not to mention the art kept improving as it went on. One day the author quit cold turkey, and now it seems every page that once hosted it is now gone.

Man, looking back, I honestly had a preference for webcomics with female leads.

[whoopsiexoxo]

1st story; I can’t

I can’t fall in love.

I have always tried to, I remember when I was younger I would look over my class to find whoever I thought was the “prettiest” there.

So, whenever any of my friends would have asked me “do you have a crush on anyone?” I would have something to respond with, I’d give them clues, I would giggle with them, give them code names but the feeling simply was not there.

I hoped that the feeling would grow one day. that I would find ‘the one’.

But, I couldn’t.

I prayed before, I thought this may have been some sort of punishment for something I may have done. So I punished myself. I went out with people that I tried to fall in love with or who had a crush on me but every time they sent me a text or tried to call me I would feel nothing but dread.

Dread that loomed over every conversation with them. Dread that would eat away at my happiness, dread that I could feel making a void inside of me. Dread that I knew I was causing myself. Yet, I still could not give up. Because if I did it would all be for nothing. I would accept defeat.

I became infatuated with each of these people. I would write all I knew about them in a notepad, almost making myself a list of reasons why I should love them. I thought I succeeded.

I would lay in my bed at night thinking how mesmerising they were, how I began to fantasise about melting into them and becoming one. After a while I realised that I was becoming almost psychotic about them; wanting to feel every inch of their skin, their hair, to look into their eyes and wish I could cradle them in my arms forever.

I eventually grew up and this habit stuck with me making notes about the people around me.

My desire for love started to fade. I was becoming content.

To fill that ever-expanding void I took up a hobby. Making wet specimens. If you don’t know what they are, it’s those snakes or lizards you see in jars in biology.

I grew a love for this art, it was something that took time and real love to do. You would have to take care of the animals first, of course. I would usually pick ones up from pet shops who were terminally ill, I would put them in the best cages I could have found for them. And I would feed them the richest possible diet.

Eventually, they would come to their demise, and I would mourn, each of them deserved to feel loved and I would always fail. To give them eternal life, I would preserve them. It was truly a beautiful process.

My favourite part of them was their eyes, sometimes I would take them from the specimens altogether and put them in separate jars. As they say, the eyes are the doors to the soul. Their colours and shapes could range from almond and brown to downturned and grey. Naturally, I would also keep notes on these specimens.

My most recent one was Cherry, her irises were fully black when you looked into her eyes it was like looking into a void that was ever so familiar.

I had to have them. You see, when you observe a specimen long enough you begin to see yourself in them, every time I’d come by her in the shop and she would have that longing in her eyes. The same one I felt. I know how to spot when something is unloved. So when I ended up bringing Cherry home and I could see that longing disappear, I knew what I was doing was right.

It was love.

The most loving action I could take. I felt empathy for the suffering she had endured so far and the most loving action was to talk to her. Make her feel at home. And put her to sleep to eternalise her happiness. When she asked for another drink I brought one to her. It gave her a swift and blessed ending. The most loving action. I soon laid beside her, I mourned her life, how much she had suffered before me. I carried her to my craft room and gazed into her cavernous eyes only to see love reflected back at me. I carefully took them out and preserved them so that they would not grey. She was unfortunately too large to fit into any jar . She was not to be wasted.

It would be unloving.

Disrespectful.

Ugly.

I fed her to my other specimens to give them the richest diet possible. The most loving action possible.

I always rip out the note page which contains everything I gathered about my specimens before their death and put it under each of their jars.

To my knowledge, she was of caramel skin. She had silky curly hair. And she stood tall whenever I came by to ask if any animals had been poorly.

as you can probably guess this is also a vent due to the fact that I am suspecting I am aroace which has messed with my perception of reality so I wanted to write a story about it. also being aroace is fine obvs

[bffsoobin]

Apartment 370

↳everything about your apartment was perfect. Aside from your neighbor. Choi Soobin has become the bane of your existence. You can’t go a single day without looking over your shoulder for your misleadingly handsome neighbor. Just how many petty pranks does he think he can get away with?

➤ enemies to lovers!au, neighbors!au, arguments, petty behavior, swearing, fluff

Word Count: 3,062

Requested?: yes

Warnings: none really other than swearing and Soobin kind of being an ass. I also didn’t proof read or edit this, as per usual.

A/N: To be honest I’m feeling a little unsure about this? I loved the concept and I’m very glad that a lovely follower requested it but I feel like lately all of my writing has started out really well and then just got progressively worse? Like all of the endings I write are just kind of lame? Just a weird insecurity I’ve been encountering lately. So please leave me some feedback on what you think about this!

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•

You loved your apartment. It was small, but just right for you to live in. The shower had hot water, your bedroom had a beautiful window for your plants to sit on and the wifi connection was always working well. You even only had to travel up two flights of stairs if your elevator stopped working. There were a lot of pros to living at your complex. But there was one, massive, glaring and obnoxiously loud con. Choi Soobin. When he had moved in next to you, you tried to be nice. You knocked on his door and introduced yourself; making some kind of lame joke about borrowing sugar. 

He didn’t laugh. He just introduced himself back and apologized for not having any sugar. Apologized? Had he really missed the joke that bad? Your delivery had been impeccable. Despite his charming face and annoyingly adorable style, you decided there was no way you could be friends with someone who didn’t understand a classic joke. 

Soobin must have decided there was a reason he didn’t like you either, because just about a week into being neighbors he began to wreak havoc. He played music as loud as it possibly could be at the weirdest times of the day and yelled at his television way too much no matter what he was watching. It seemed like every day you had to storm over and knock on his door to complain. This went on for weeks until he finally agreed to stop when you threatened to involve your burly landlord in the matter. 

For a few days, you enjoyed peace and quiet. You came and went from work without seeing him, took naps in silence and remembered how it felt to cook in your own kitchen without the sound of a twenty something year old man screaming at reruns of Survivor as background music. 

As they say, ignorance is bliss, because little did you know Soobin’s silence was about to erupt into a new, massive volcano of stupidity. One night you woke up around 4 am to the sound of scratching coming from the wall that connected your and Soobin’s bedrooms. You were already annoyed at the fact that you had to be up at 7am to pick up an early shift for your slacking coworker, so you didn’t have it in you to just roll over and go back to bed. You couldn’t have if you wanted to anyway because the scratching noises were only getting more and more persistent. You flung yourself out of bed with a groan. Pets were allowed here, and it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Soobin had gotten a cat who decided to be a little extra scratchy. 

You poured yourself a glass of water in the kitchen, hoping to clear your mind and sort your thoughts. In the silence of the night, you could hear Soobin’s panicked voice through the thin walls. It sounded like he was on the phone with someone, as you could hear pauses as if he were listening to someone else. What a weird fucking dude, you thought. With eyes still drooping you walked back to your bedroom. The cat would have to be done scratching at the wall by now, right?

Wrong. The same consistent noise that would surely haunt your dreams still persisted. Knowing Soobin was awake gave you enough grounds to throw on a sweatshirt over your sleep clothes and go knock on his door. 

When it swung open, you could see just how distraught he was. His usually fluffy hair was flat and knotted and his eyes were sporting huge dark circles that only made the panic in them amplified. Wait, panic?  

“Y/N, I’m really sorry but you need to leave,” he had the door open just far enough to stick his head and shoulders out, as if he were trying to hide something. 

“No, Soobin. I heard your cat scratching at the wall and it’s annoying the hell out of me. I can’t sleep. Can’t you lock it in the bathroom or something?” His face scrunched in confusion. 

“A cat? I don’t have a cat.” Your insides boiled with hatred at the idea of him trying to lie his way out of this. 

“Listen up Choi. Unless you have a dragon in your bedroom scratching the shit out of the walls, I don’t want to deal with your lies. Just take care of it! I need my beauty sleep and you and your noisy cat aren’t helping at all.” Soobin’s face paled and for a second you thought that you had finally won. And then Soobin said:

“It’s not a cat. It’s a racoon.” 

You almost fell onto your ass right in the hallway. Soobin’s eyes sparked with a type of mirth you never thought such an admittedly gorgeous face could possess. 

“I’m calling the landlord.” You snapped the door shut in his face and turned away.

That had apparently been the final straw for Soobin. The next day when you got back from work, you found a handwritten “RACOON HATER” sign taped to your door. What you found inside was somehow even more unsettling. Your whole living room and kitchen had been essentially trashed. Throw pillows and blankets were thrown haphazardly on the floor, many of your photos and art you had on the walls were switched around or taken down altogether. And the worst of it all; everything was covered in a fine dust of glitter. It was a struggle to find a single surface that wasn’t covered in glitter, really. 

A new type of dislike for Choi Soobin brewed in your stomach. Hatred. Your kitchen counter- also covered in a dust of chunky silver glitter- became the victim of your frustrations as you slammed your hands down. It would cost you so much time and money to get all the glitter out of your living spaces, let alone the fact that you'd inevitably be leaving some behind for the next poor soul to rent this apartment. Gritting your teeth, you went to work with your poor little vacuum. 

You had only managed to clean your coffee table and half of your couch before you heard a series of loud knocks on your door. You grumbled at the idea of having to take a pause in your work but you trudged over to the door anyway. 

To be honest, you had no idea who you were expecting to see behind your apartment door-which you belatedly realized was still decorated with Soobin’s handmade sign- but you didn’t think it would be the man himself. 

Soobin stood in the hallway, picture perfect as always. His face was tan and smooth and free from any possible blemishes. Had he plucked his eyebrows? They were groomed to neat perfection. His tall frame was dwarfed by a fuzzy blue sweatshirt that was easily a size too big. If you had met him by chance on the street, you would have fallen in love in an instant. But you knew better. You knew he was the one who reduced your once lovely apartment into the mess it was now.

“Oh, sorry,” he feigned innocence, “are you busy?” He didn’t even try to hide the smirk that blossomed on his face. A grumble of a curse fell from your lips before you responded. 

“Yeah. Some asshole decided to break into my apartment and spread glitter on everything. So yes, I’m sort of busy,” you laced your voice with enough venom to kill a horse, and it seemed as if Soobin had gotten the message as he shrunk back into the hallway a bit. His mouth opened and shut in rapid succession as he struggled to find the perfect retort. 

“I-” he cut himself off as his soft eyes became hyper focused on a spot on your face. Suddenly you were a new combination of concerned and offended. His hand hesitantly rose toward your face before the softness of his fingertips made contact with your cheek and brushed something away. You held your breath the entire time, unsure if you should be upset or worried or utterly lost in the way his skin felt against yours. The contact was brief but still made your skin burn bright red. When his hand left your cheek, you saw that he had brushed away a piece of glitter that was now resting delicately on his fingertip. 

“Sorry,” he hurried out, “I just wanted to get the glitter off of your face.” His whole demeanor had changed, and you were sure that whatever plan he had in mind when he knocked on your door had vanished. 

“Okay, weirdo,” you tried to ignore the way you were yearning to feel his touch again, “I’m still busy so can you like, go away?” Upon hearing your words he turned away to head for his apartment door with ears as red as you’d ever seen them. 

Although the glitter incident was now months behind you, you still often found pieces in random spots around your home. And Soobin was still a pain in your ass. He had been quiet for close to two weeks after your odd encounter and you were almost convinced that he had changed his ways. You were quickly proven wrong when he conned the man who works the front desk into hiding your mail for a week straight; making you subsequently late to paying some of your bills. 

More recently, a new person had moved into the apartment across the way. The first day you met him, you were busying yourself with taping up Soobin’s door with bright pink duct tape from the outside. Your new neighbor-who you learned to be named Yeonjun- had squatted down right next to you and offered to help tear pieces of the tape. 

You and Yeonjun had become fast friends. He was incredibly charming and willing to lend an ear every time you needed to complain about Soobin. For a while, you were almost able to forget the fact that the devil incarnate lived next door to you. While your work schedules tended to be a little crazy, the two of you managed to talk for at least a few minutes every day. He helped you gain some sanity back within your apartment hallway. 

Despite also being friends with Soobin, Yeonjun never took sides in your little feud; but you were always secretly worried that somehow Soobin would put a bug in his ear. One day, about two months after Yeonjun had moved in, he knocked on your door while you were in the middle of making dinner. You invited him in but he hesitated. 

“I just came to talk to you,” he bit into his bottom lip, “I really like you. But I don’t see us ever being more than friends. I hope you understand.” You scrunched your eyebrows. Where was this coming from? 

“Uh okay? I know that. I don’t like you...like that, Yeonjun. Did you hit your head or something?” You were seriously confused. Yeonjun’s eyes widened comically. 

“Well Soobin said that-“ as soon as the words fell out of his mouth Yeonjun put together the invisible puzzle pieces. His face morphed into extreme regret.  “I’m so sorry. I should have known it was part of your weird prank war. You should have seen how convincing his acting is though, he really had me thinking you had a crush on me.” You scoffed at the idea of Soobin beginning to spread rumors to one of your closest friends just for the hell of it. If Yeonjun hadn’t been mature enough to address it right away, you could have gone through weeks of confusion about why he was avoiding you.

You looked back at your kitchen, catching sight of the steaming bowl of ramen you’d just finished making. Sighing, you shut your door behind you to stand in the hall with Yeonjun. He looked sheepish in your presence as you laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m not mad at you, Yeonjun. I’m going to talk to the bane of my existence,” you gestured toward the door with the shiny ‘370’ plaque. “Just don’t bother calling the landlord if you hear yelling.” As soon as you heard the sound of Yeonjun’s door snapping shut, you laid into Soobin’s door with a heavy knock. As soon as it was opened far enough, you wedged your body inside and subsequently sent Soobin stumbling backwards. 

“How dare you?” You roared, throwing your hands in the air dramatically. “I’m fine with your petty pranks and all the other stupid shit you pull against me because that’s all between the two of us. At least it’s funny and gives me something to think about in my free time. But when you start to involve my friends? That’s way too far. There was no reason to rope Yeonjun into this. He’s your friend too, Choi.” Soobin seemed surprised that you had come in with so much to say right off the bat.

“Y/N it’s really not that big of a deal. I just wanted to see if you actually had the capacity to have a crush on someone. And you’ve been spending so much time with Yeonjun I figured he’d be the perfect person to test my theory with, plus the humiliation factor of him not liking you back would have kept me entertained for days” he sat down on his couch casually, “I guess he had to break it to you that you aren’t as flirty and irresistible as you think you are, huh?” The air crackled with tension as you gawked down at his sprawled form.

“What are you even saying? Yeonjun and I are just friends. And why does it matter to you if I have the capacity for a crush or not? You hate me. If you’re just waiting until I get a boyfriend so that you can come in and ruin it all with your shitty vendetta then you’re much worse of a person than I ever pegged you for!” Tears welled in your eyes but you wiped at them angrily. Out of all the fights and disagreements you’d ever had with Soobin, this was the first one that stirred an odd emotion in the pit of your stomach. You were tired of the back and forth. Soobin seemed oddly alarmed at the formation of your tears as he got up from the comfort of his couch and approached you like a wounded dog. 

“Trust me, I have no grand plan to ruin your life at every turn even though that’s what you think. You spend so much time with Yeonjun, I thought maybe you liked him. I knew he didn’t like you because when I told him that I-” Soobin actually clapped his own giant hand over his mouth as the words hung in the air between you. Anger shot through your mind at the idea that he didn’t even have the guts to relay the entire story. 

“You what? You’re so wrapped up in your own little world but you can’t even finish telling me what you said to someone else? I can’t believe you, honestly,” you turned and made your way toward his door, wanting nothing more than to go home and take a hot shower. Soobin’s hand clasped around your wrist as he gently yanked you away from the exit. His strong grip kept you standing right in front of him and although you struggled against him, there was no use. 

“I told him that I like you.” For a second, you thought that you had misheard him, but he continued. “I told Yeonjun that I like you. And he told me that I should go for it, because he doesn’t see you as more than a friend. But I freaked out so I told him that you liked him. I knew you probably actually didn’t.” 

Your brain was short circuiting at the confession. Choi Soobin, who had complicated your life beyond belief since the day he moved in months ago liked you? 

“But,” your eyebrows drew together as you tried to comprehend it all, “you hate me, Soobin. We have a whole...rivalry! There’s no way you actually have feelings for me. I swear if this is just another prank I’ll shove my hand so far down your throat-“ Soobin threw his hands up in front of his body in a form of defense. 

“No! I don’t hate you, Y/N. I’ve liked you since the day we met. I just thought the pranks and petty stuff was like...our way of hanging out? That’s why I kept doing them. I thought you were having fun with me.” It was ridiculous how much he sounded like a little boy explaining his side of the story to a teacher. It was even more ridiculous that the corner of your brain where you’d stuffed all your feelings for Soobin began to overflow. 

“Haven’t you ever heard that there’s much better ways to tell someone you like them? We could have spent the last 11 months not at each other’s throats if you would have just manned up and found out I like you too.” You saw the exact moment that the words finally processed and his entire face lit up with the recognition. 

A familiar, deeply dimpled smile grew across his face as his skin reddened. He clasped his hands in front of him and swayed back and forth on his feet. Before you could think to stop him, he leaned in close enough that you worried he could hear your heart thumping against your ribs. 

“You like me too?” 

“Yes, Soobin. I like you too. And I would like you even more if you stopped your stupid pranks,” you tapped his nose with your pointer finger twice. He nodded eagerly with his tongue sticking out from between his teeth slightly.

“Deal,” he stuck his hand out to you and you raised an eyebrow to silently ask if he was serious. His hand didn’t waver, so you grasped it firmly and pulled him toward your body until you could wrap him into a tight hug. It was an odd feeling, soaking in Soobin’s scent as he gently rocked the two of you back and forth in his apartment. Odd, but good. Perfect.

[isolaradiale]

The dark hues of the evening blended to lighter, softer blues of dawn. With every minute, the creatures of the museum began to slow until they stopped altogether, all at once. Whatever they were doing, they dropped it, and began to move their way to the places they had been before the museum took a turn for the lethal.

The artwork climbed back into their frames, stepped onto their pedestals, and walked back into their display cases. A light rain outside washed all the street paint away, color emptying into the drains in the city. Landscapes let their prisoners out, shutting the windows to their world.

Those unlucky enough to earn a spot on the Wall of Shame reappeared in the lobby, their wounds appearing as colorful splashes of paint, and nothing more.

As the oranges and golds of the sun trickled in through the ornate windows of the museum, a blaring voice interrupted the stillness as the intercom museum sparked to life.

"Goooood moooorning, my lovely little visitors! The door to the museum will be opening shortly. Please make your way back to the lobby in an orderly fashion, and be sure to grab all your belongings!"

As Capella promised, the large wooden doors opened once again, releasing all the prisoners of the museum.

"Thanks for visiting the Tempus Museum! Janus, did you want to say any parting words?" "I'm mortified enough as it is, thank you." Came a muffled voice from behind, sounding much less enthused.

"Aww, somebody's cranky... Well, suit yourself!"

As if to add *Extra Enthusiasm*, as everyone exit the doors, they passed by Capella's invulnerable form as she personally waved everyone goodbye, stickers glittering in the morning sunrise. Janus was still sitting at the reception booth, head in his hands and rubbing his temples.

"Bye bye! Goodbye now! Goodbye! Buh-bye! Bye now!" was the chorus that trailed off as she spoke, bidding farewell to the museum's visitors...

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

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Remember that for participating in the event, you can give yourself 100 stars to use in the marketplace!

A few things have changed as a result of this event, also:

The Tempus Museum has decided to make its home in the Archimedes ward, for now, not far from the Theater of Calliope. Its structure and function is largely the same, but the Optimized Tools won't be there. The artwork won't come to life and attack you, either... during the daytime, that is. You can check out its full description on Archimedes' page!

Janus still takes his place as the museum's curator, and does his best to accommodate guests of the museum. It's not uncommon to see him taking and teaching courses and workshops in the museum, either! He's still polite and eager to help with anything involving the museum and its activities, but if asked questions about the Stars or Spirale, he'll politely explain that he doesn't want to get anyone into trouble. As in the event, on the odd chance that someone is hostile and violent toward him, they'll instantly be killed, and will respawn back in their room.

Thanks again for participating in Canvas! We hope you had a great time!

Frequently Asked Questions:

"Do the things we made turn back to normal?"

Yup! If you didn't destroy it in Part 2 of the event, whatever you made will turn back to normal.

"Will our artwork try to kill us at night?"

Nope! If you took it with you, it's of no danger to you. If you kept it on display at the museum, it's also no danger to you (or anyone else for that matter.) Only the original stock monsters of the museum come to life at night. But unless your muse breaks into the museum, you have nothing to worry about.

The monsters still have their damage invulnerabilities, so unless your muse has a death wish, maybe don't break into the museum without some serious planning. Shady art theft rings will buy your stolen artwork for a hefty price, though, so whether it's worth the risk or not is up to you.

The more often your muse breaks into the museum, the more the monsters will recognize their patterns. Breaking into the museum more than two times is almost impossible, and should be reserved only for the most cunning of thieves.

"What if we made weapons or jewelry? Can we take those back home too?"

Sure! Just know that the weapons will go back to being fragile, and will shatter if used in combat. Any jewelry will look very convincing, but if you try to sell them to anyone, they'll identify it as a fake. Not that they won't buy what you have anyway, but it certainly won't be worth the price of actual precious stones and minerals.

"Can we go back to the museum?"

Yes! It's open to the public from sunrise to sundown, unless there's a nighttime gathering at the museum (which you're free to come up with on your own if you'd like to use it in a setting for a thread.) You could also theoretically break in or sneak in, or hide until the place closes, but you run the risk of running into the guard patrols... or worse.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ (Epilogue)

As the visitors left the building, Capella skipped over to the front desk. Caelum emerged from the darkened corner of the lobby to join her, with the rubber stopper on his cane making soft thumps on the elaborate stone tile.

"Well, that was fun! Thanks for letting us use your museum, Janus." "You're... welcome, I suppose." "Good good! I'll come back here when I make more pieces to show off to the lovely people of our Spirale."

Punctuating this, her hands went up to playfully pat his cheeks.

"Ooookay! Well, until next time! And as for you, Dr. Caelum, I'll see you at this afternoon's meeting or whatever, right?" "Aha, yes I'll be there."

Saluting the both of them, her form vanished into a series of pixels, leaving the other two at the desk. Now that she was gone, the AI turned to give a pointed look at his father.

"...Mmm. Still angry, eh?" Came a chuckle, but the other didn't look so amused.

"You know, at one point, I would have congratulated you for feeling slighted. And I would have celebrated you experiencing such a thing. But you've been around for so long that these things come naturally to you now, don't they? Feelings like being angry... Now I just feel bad when you're upset like any other human."

Another more cheery laugh, and he walked himself over to the doors, motioning the other to follow. With the crowd gone, he could finally step outside and stand on the steps.

"...I am sorry for causing you trouble." "I know." "Good, I'm glad that came across." "I'm still irritated, don't get me wrong." "Yes, yes. I don't doubt it." "And I'm not sure if anyone will come back after such a thing. I wouldn't blame them. I just wanted a place to contribute to this whole thing, and now it's all..."

Sighing, he sat on the first step, watching the rest of the street illuminate in the warm glow of the sunrise. He only realized the old man beside him was trying to sit down when he gave a little huff of effort, and immediately helped his father down beside him.

"Ahh. Much better, thank you." "I could have gotten you a chair..." "Haha, that's alright. If you can sit on the steps, so can I."

For a while, the two sat in silence, watching the streets of Archimedes begin to wake up. Cars stirring, cafes opening, people walking their dogs.

"...Are you doing alright over there?" Janus asked, not turning his head.

"About as well as I can, mmhm." "You still have your migraine medicines down there, right?" "Mmhm. Dr. Lyra has been taking good care of my health, don't worry." "She's the nice one, isn't she? That's a welcome change from the other facility..."

A hand went to the Ai's shoulder, patting it reassuringly.

"Instead of worrying about my health, you should direct that concern inward, Mortimer. You have a place where you can walk around, do all sorts of things humans do. Talk to people, make friends. Play games, read books, paint your lovely canvases. You're not confined to the life we lived three years ago."

Silence followed for a little until the young man leaned against the older one. He must be pushing 70 at this point, right?

"...Are you in a place where you can refer to me by my name? And not that Star code that they made?" "Well, no. Not really. But I don't think anyone's listening. So I don't care~" "Ha! Rebellion got you into this mess, didn't it?" The AI replied with a laugh, earning another from his father.

"Well. Messes that they were, I can still sit with you without you being stuck behind a screen. So even after all the hells we've been through, I'd call that a success. Wouldn't you?"

A smile cracked on his face. They have gone through a lot.

"A success... it's nice to finally call something a success again, father. It's very nice."

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

Non-Sequential [Ch. 25]

Pairing: Pre-Serum Steve Rogers/Steve Rogers x Reader

One night, Steve Rogers met a beautiful dame named Y/N. He hadn’t intended on letting her get away. But fate had other ideas. Y/N appeared and disappeared in his life so hauntingly that Steve started to wonder if she was an angel meant to watch over him.

Word Count: 2,100

Chapter 24

2 YEARS LATER - Wakanda

“Y/N, if you don’t stop fidgeting, we’re going to have to do another session.” Even though it was a warning, there was playfulness evident in his voice.

“Sorry…I–I’m just nervous,” Y/N admitted.

To prove the point even further, her chest was rising higher than usual, giving away her heavier and erratic breathing.

Steve did a double take and quickly put down his pencil.

He promptly walked over to the bed.

The bed where Y/N was completely naked and trying to hold the relaxed pose Steve had requested from her just 20 minutes ago.

Steve leaned over her, only looking into her eyes. “You know, you really don’t have to do this.”

It hadn’t even been him that had requested such a thing. 

Y/N had offered.

Steve had made a few mischievous and playful comments in the past about having her sit for him. But Y/N finally put together that he would never actually ask her to pose nude for him to draw. 

So, she finally just put the offer out there herself.

Despite the fact that Steve had seen her naked hundreds of times and had already memorized every inch of her body, he still blushed like a little schoolboy when she had offered.

“Steve, how many times have we had sex?!” Y/N had squealed, laughing hysterically at his bashfulness.  

Steve recovered quickly and didn’t take kindly to her teasing. He grabbed her roughly, pulling her into his lap and playfully biting her shoulder.

But now he sat on Y/N’s bed in Wakanda’s royal palace, her body completely open for his artistic interpretation.

“I know I don’t have to. But I wanted to do something nice for you…”

Steve tilted his head. “What for?”

She gave him a shy smile before saying, “Because I love you, obviously.”

Steve leaned down and kissed her then. He couldn’t help himself when she said stuff like that to him, and in such a way.

When they pulled apart, Y/N grinned at him. 

“I happen to know you’ve got quite a good memory. I’m sure you’d have no problem pulling countless images of my naked body from your consciousness.” Y/N added with a cheeky smirk. “But what’s the fun in that?”

Steve allowed his gaze to quickly flicker across her naked body.

A man born in this time would probably tell her how sexy she was or how hard it was for him to give up the drawing altogether and just have her.

Steve wished he could say those things to her.

But that wasn’t Steve at all.

He might have been dropped into the 21st century, pumped full of steroids, with women (and some men) throwing themselves at him any chance they got. But Steve would always been that scrawny, shy, and bashful kid that got beat up in the alleys of Brooklyn.

“You’re beautiful,” is what he said instead.

Now Y/N blushed.

“Just sit still for an hour or so, OK?” He asked gently.

The way he asked made it clear that Y/N was the one in control. If she changed her mind at any moment, Steve would happily stop.

He waited for her to give a shy, but insistent, nod. Then he moved back to his place across the room where his sketchpad and pencils waited for him.

“Have you drawn other women naked before?” Y/N asked.

If she had to sit still for this long, she should at least make him entertain her.

Steve coughed, clearly caught off guard by the question.

He cleared his throat. “N-No. Never.”

“Not even Peggy?” She asked innocently.

“Peggy and I were never…” he paused “…intimate.”

Y/N had always assumed that. It was a different time. They were in the middle of a war. Sex wasn’t tossed around as casually as it was today. Steve was a gentleman, and Peggy had her standards and expectations.

“Really?”

Steve just nodded.

“That’s too bad…” Y/N sighed. “For her.” She quickly clarified.

Steve’s gaze shot up to her. “What do you mean?”

Y/N looked him up and down as best she could with a sly smirk. “She never got to have the…I guess…full Steve Rogers experience.”

There was that famous Steve Rogers blush again.

“How are you the one blushing when I’m the one completely naked and at your disposal?” Y/N cried out in laughter.

Steve rolled his eyes but kept his focus on his sketchpad. “Always such a saucy little minx…” He muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. 

It earned him another giggle from her.

—————————————

“Steve, you promised!” Y/ whined.

“OK. OK. OK.” He finally gave in.

“I posed naked for you. Naked! It’s not like I’m asking you to take off your clothes…though I wouldn’t complain.” Y/N had her camera strapped around her neck.

Steve had never been one of her subjects. And she missed taking photos. Despite being in a new and one of the most beautiful countries in the world, she had no desire to blow the dust off of her DSLR.

But now she wanted to take photos. But more importantly, she wanted to take photos of her boyfriend, something he had never let her do before.

An idea suddenly popped into her head. “Wait!”

Then she shuffled around a suitcase that looked like it had exploded. She managed to find a mini-tripod.

Y/N started setting it up on the ground, attaching her camera to it.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked with an amused smirk.

“I’m going to take a picture of us!”

“Us?”

Y/N stopped what she was doing to look at him. “Have you ever realized that we don’t have a single photo together?”

Steve blinked and then his smirk instantly dropped.

He hadn’t realized that.

Y/N watched him, half expecting him to turn down the idea. But he opened his arms where he was sitting on the floor.

“Come here, you.”

She smiled and sat down beside him.

“Nope. That won’t do,” he told her before picking her up like she weighed nothing and sat her right in his lap.

Y/N giggled and shimmied so they were posed right for the camera.

“OK. It’s on a timer. 10 photos. One every 10 seconds,” she explained. “That light will start blinking fast right before it takes a photo.”

Steve nodded, already not paying attention to the blinking light.

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her shoulder right as the shutter went off.

“Steve! We’re not going to be able to see your face!” Y/N laughed.

“Don’t worry. I have 9 more to mess up.”

Nine photos later, Y/N was flipping through the SD card. Steve watched as she smiled at them.

Y/N slowly looked up at him with a shy smile. “We’re pretty cute.”

Steve chuckled. She was the cute one. 

Then she flipped her camera around and showed him a couple of them. The first one was of Steve kissing her shoulder. Y/N had her mouth half open, clearly about to yell at him for ruining the photo. But Steve liked that about it. Another was of them looking into each other’s eyes without even meaning to. Thankfully, there were a couple of them both just smiling at the camera. But those were Steve’s least favorite.

Things had been surprisingly good between them recently. It was almost like they were back in their honeymoon phase from when they’d first found each other in both of their presents.

Steve didn’t want to bring it to Y/N’s attention or ask questions, afraid that it would somehow ruin it or pop the bubble of bliss they were currently in.

“Sure you want to go to this thing tonight?” Steve asked her.

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know. Kind of wanted to just spend time alone with you,” Steve admitted.

“It’s the biggest celebration in Wakanda every year. Shuri and T’Challa sounded like they really wanted us to go. And after everything they’ve done for me – for us…”

“You’re right,” Steve said with sudden guilt.

Y/N kept forgetting the name but it was a festival in Wakanda that celebrated the coming of spring every year. There were food vendors, art, music, and peopled dancing in the streets.

Shuri had even given Y/N and Steve customary outfits to wear.

“Did you tell Bucky to meet us here?” Y/N asked him.

“Oh…umm…no. Should I have?”

Y/N titled her head. “Well, I figured we could all go together…”

“Right. I’ll give him a call. Tell him to meet us here in a few hours.”

——————————

Steve and Bucky walked slowly, keeping a few yards behind Y/N. 

Both men watched her as Shuri explained all of the things around them. Despite being the royal princess, everyone respected Shuri’s distance. It probably helped that she had six Dora Milaje surrounding her too.

“She seem different to you?” Steve asked Bucky as people danced and laughed around them.

Bucky followed his gaze on Y/N, who was throwing her head back and laughing at something Shuri whispered to her.

He couldn’t hold back the shy smirk that grew on his lips. 

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked.

“I don’t know. She seems…happier and – I don’t know – lighter.” Steve thought for a moment. “Like she’s not scared she’s going to travel at any moment.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Bucky challenged.

But in all honesty, he had noticed it too.

“Of course not,” Steve answered.

“Have you asked her?”

“No.” Steve admitted with a little guilt. “I’m scared I’m going to ruin it if I do.”

“Then maybe you should stop being so suspicious of everything and just enjoy it,” Bucky raised an eyebrow, daring Steve to fight him on it.

Y/N skipped over to them. “You guys, you have to try this food over here!”

Steve smiled at her excitement and immediately took her offered hand.

However, Bucky’s reaction wasn’t the same. “You two go on ahead,” Bucky mumbled, only really looked at Steve and not Y/N. But his expression proved there was no room for argument.

Y/N didn’t hide her disappointment, her smile immediately dropped and her brow furrowed. But she still pulled Steve away with her.

“Is he mad at me or something?” She asked Steve when they were a safe distance away.

“I don’t know so.”

“I feel like he’s been avoiding me. It’s been happening for awhile now. Did I do something wrong?”

Steve’s mouth went dry. Because he knew why Bucky would do such a thing. But now he was debating on whether it was appropriate to share that knowledge with Y/N or not.

What was a man supposed to do when he knew his best friend was in love with his girlfriend and the girlfriend didn’t know?

There was no guidebook to this.

“Y/N,” Steve turned to fully face her. “Bucky’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

She narrowed her gaze. “You know something.” Then she let go of his hand. “People don’t realize you’re a good liar. But you’ve never been good at lying to me.”

Then she turned around and started picking at the food she’d been telling him about. She was clearly irritated with him now. 

Steve watched her.

His heart was beating faster and he felt sick.

Was he really about to do this? What this even the right thing to do?

“He’s in love with you, Y/N.” Steve told her quietly.

But he knew she heard him because she completely stopped what she was doing and froze. Her entire body was filled with tension.

“You can’t  be all that surprised by it, right? You’ve really never noticed?” He tried to be almost joking about it, but it was the wrong move.

“He’s not mad at you,” Steve clarified. “He’s avoiding you because he doesn’t know what else to do. He thinks by keeping his distance, he’s doing good by me – or you – hell, I’m not even sure myself.”

Y/N finally looked at him. “Steve, he doesn’t – there’s no – just…no.”

Then she got lost in her head.

Steve could practically see it. She wasn’t with him anymore.

Then her eyes glazed over in tears and she kept shaking her head. “I didn’t – Steve, I didn’t…”

He rushed forward and gripped her face gently.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he calmed her. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Do you hear me? I’m not mad. Bucky’s not mad. You did nothing wrong.”

Then Y/N was looking around for Bucky. As if just finding him and looking into his eyes would be the final confirmation that Steve was telling the truth.

How could she be so stupid? 

Yes, she cared about Bucky. She loved him, as a friend and as someone who was so important to Steve.

Had she led him on? Could she have prevented all of this?

Bucky was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared, leaving Y/N and Steve alone.

Steve was about to comfort her further, but a kingsguard interrupted them.

“Captain Rogers, there was an urgent call for you,” he told Steve.

He nodded. “What is it about?”

The kingsguard passed him a tablet that had a message on it.

Steve’s eyes flickered across the text wildly.

“What? What is it?” Y/N asked.

“Wanda. Nat’s worried. Thinks she’s staying in one place for too long.”

“She’s with Vision?” Y/N asked.

Steve nodded. “I have to go.”

Y/N nodded. Suddenly her problems seemed silly and trivial.

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

Chapter 26

ughhhhhhhh. comment. don’t comment. i don’t even care anymore. i’m so over this series. 😂

[hilo--keahi]

Tuesday 05 January 2021; 03:00. Your dream stops. The beings and the scenery come to a standstill before gently fading into a comfortable office space that seems vaguely familiar. You are seated in a plush chair across from a being you do not recognize. He is more attractive than anyone you’ve ever laid eyes on, but when you wake you will never be able to describe him. When you move your eyes from his, you notice your bracers are gone, and you think you can feel your legs in this dreamscape.

Hilo couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming before, lost in the immediate forgetfulness of waking that ushered the details of dreams quickly away, leaving only the static afterburn of images and wisps of feeling in their wake. He thought that previous dream was pleasant. This one wasn’t... not pleasant, but it was strange. There was a weight to it that felt uncomfortably real in comparison, but the more he tried to focus on the man in front of him, the more his senses failed him -- like trying to look sidelong at the sun, squinting and using the shadow of your hand to dull the edges.

Wait.

He could feel the press of the chair against the back of his legs -- a stupid, thoroughly mundane thing for anyone else to notice, but for Hilo, it was something he hadn’t felt for half a century. Hilo’s breath stuttered in his throat, startled and confused. He hadn’t dreamt of walking for a long time, longer than a decade or two. Even his subconscious had given up on deluding itself. Fingers splayed wide, Hilo brought his hands to careful rest just above his knees. No metal barred their path, no leather straps. Hilo’s chest tightened, but the man -- clearly more than a simple man, and clearly more than Hilo’s bland imagination could come up with -- spoke.

“You have fallen far, Son of Kona. The curse that plagues your legs was not one I designed to be used in such a way: in the search for power. When I gave your realm my art, I assumed they would use it to punish wrong-doers as my kind do.” There is a long pause, the atmosphere so heavy it feels inappropriate to speak.

A God-designed curse. More than one Emitter had told him as much, when they’d failed to be able to do anything for him. At the time, Hilo had thought they were saying so simply to spare his anger, or their pride. Who had cared enough about his ascent to resort to a God-designed curse? It was a statement previously asked with scoffed dismissiveness, but now it was asked again with all due severity -- only within the jumbled swirl of his own sleeping thoughts. This was not a question for the God in front of him, because a God was what he so obviously was.

Even as the pause stretched between them, Hilo focused on the man in front of him with an attentiveness unfit for the clouded realm of dreams.

“I was wrong. Those of this world…. fight for the wrong things. I have watched you and your Iron Master work on an artifact to bring you closer to normalcy. This was clever.” Another pause as he studies you. “The curse has plagued you too long for me to remove it without side effects, nor do I trust what you would do with returned power, but if your heart continues to impress me, I may help you.”

Only now did Hilo try to open his mouth to form words, but none came -- whether they were actively prevented or he simply couldn’t find them, though, Hilo wasn’t sure. His heart hammered against his ribs even as his fingers dug into the meat of his thighs, and he nearly startled himself with the foreign feeling of the pressure. Fighting for the wrong things, fighting for power -- Hilo knew this, had known this, deep down, for years, but only recently had it started to come into the sharpest of contrast. He wasn’t sure if this man was alluding to the same things, or if Hilo was simply making the connection that was most convenient for him. He had so many questions, so many things he wanted to say, but every thought bumped up against three others before any could escape his throat.

He was losing this thread of the dream, he could tell, but not like before. Even as the man in front of him dissolved into obscurity, Hilo didn’t forget his words. He couldn’t forget his words, even if he wanted to.

The dream begins to fade back into what it was before. The man’s final parting words were this: “I am Fuku, deity of curses and hidden knowledge. Do not call my name in vain, Son of Kona.”

Hilo awoke to find his heart still hammering roughly at the inside of his ribs, adrenaline rushing through his veins. Pushing into the bed with his hands until he could rest his back against the cool wall, he let his shoulders sag as he tried to steady his breathing, staring down where the sheets pooled in his lap. He didn’t have to settle his hands on his thighs to know he wouldn’t feel the same pressure he had moments before.

As with so many things, it was easier without hope.

For decades it’d been easier for Hilo to adjust to the use of his bracers and how they gave him his mobility back without the hope he might, someday, be able to move without them again. It was easier to accept this as his new normal, gaze wandering to where the leather and new, fine metal glinted in the dying light of the hearth’s embers, turquoise mana swirling pensively within the crystals.

Hilo glanced away again, burying his face in his hands to rub furiously. Just because it was easier without hope didn’t mean it would be easy for him to forget what he’d been told. There was no ignoring this message; he already knew it would occupy far too many of his waking moments, even if it never came back to him in his sleep.

Sleep didn’t come back to Hilo, either, not in those early hours of the morning. He simply sat and let his mind whirl with what he’d been told, committing what he could to memory as if it wasn’t already burned into the back of his mind.

It didn’t take him long to decide what he wanted -- needed -- to do next.

The hour was barely five when he left a note with one of the Dwarves at the end of their shifts in the Forge to say he wouldn’t be in today. It was a simple, cryptic, ‘something’s come up’ -- with what he’d been put through lately, Hilo imagined there were few (if any) who would challenge it. He’d been lucky enough that most of his coworkers were also his friends, and the worst he’s had to suffer from them are lingering glances of something akin to pity. Hilo was early enough today to avoid that, a fact for which he was absently glad.

Even though the first daylight was only barely bleeding up from the horizon as Hilo rode towards the outskirts of the city, he knew his cousin would be awake. Alamea had always been an early riser, and now, in her advanced years, Hilo was aware that the aches and struggles of her body had a tendency to keep her from proper sleep. Even in light of this she didn’t greet him with any less sharpness and intelligence in her eyes when she opened the door, though her surprise quickly softened to concern. Hilo was welcomed in without question.

It hadn’t been long since they’d last seen each other for Yeon Nen, so the chatter was idle as Hilo prepared a battered tin kettle and two cheaply made mugs. Ultimately, there was no casual easing into the conversation he wanted to have; the question was eventually asked point-blank, Hilo’s attention focused on pouring the boiling water over dried leaves and herbs. “Alamea… there are still parts of our family that worship the Old Gods, aren’t there?”

“Mm.” Alamea gestured to what they could see of Hilo’s tattoos as he set the mugs on the table between them, sleeves pushed back to his elbows to display rows of neatly inked triangles. The white pointed inward, drawing positive energy towards his heart. The black bled negativity away. “You wouldn’t have those if the elders didn’t still believe.” She paused, then let out a short laugh that seemed altogether stronger than her narrow chest should’ve been able to produce. “I say, like I’m not one of the elders now myself.”

It was hard for Hilo to view her as such, even as Alamea and the rest of his family aged around him while he stood more static in time. She was only older than him by a handful of years, but by looks, it was more like a handful of decades.

Alamea held the roughly-made, misshapen ceramic with equally distorted fingers, joints swollen with arthritis and skin spotted with age. She was piled in blankets despite the roaring hearth he’d stoked. Hilo almost felt silly sitting across from her, barely fitting on the chair.

“We’ve never really believed in the old ways, you and I,” Alamea pointed out, and Hilo simply nodded. “But I know there are pockets of our family that still do. I wouldn’t be so exhausted from Yeon Nen if we didn’t,” she added with a glint in her milky eyes, and Hilo chuckled before nodding again. “Why do you ask?”

Hilo wondered if he should feel silly, asking what he was going to. As Alamea said, their generation of Keahis had always approached religion with a softer lens; the traditions were fun, and good excuses to gather family, but the proper meaning felt long lost to the depths of time. He knew one dream oughtn’t change his mind so thoroughly, and maybe something in his resolve would soften with the clarity of daylight, but that didn’t change what he felt in his bones now as the dream lingered within his periphery.

“I’m hoping there’s someone in our family who can tell me more about a deity named Fuku.”

[kiatheinsomniac]

Sooooo I know that we don't know each other that much but I had this thought and the first blog to come to my mind was yours, I was in Pinterest reading aus and found one that said you stop aging at 18 if u don't find ur soulmate and I thought about what if ur not from the same decade and that person lived all those years til now, imagine having a romantic dinner with the person and somehow when they were born comes up and damn I knew I was into older people but not that old and afagajhabwjahan

(Y/n) sat down hurriedly as she took her seat, already having missed the very opening of the play. She looked at her date who had new hope in his eyes at her sudden presence.

"I'm so sorry," She whispered to avoid disturbing anyone else in the café théâtre, "There was a delay at the Cité stop."

"It's alright, you're here now." He smiled, "I was worried that you weren't going to show up."

"I could never." She replied with a soft smile as he waved a waiter over.

"The usual and a (favourite coffee), s'il vous plaît, Victor." He spoke in a polite tone, proceeding to describe any other details of (Y/n)'s drink to the man, the employee nodded his head and went off to make them both.

(Y/n) had met Arno here at his café théâtre, she went in most mornings seeing as she worked at the florists just down the street. She was enchanted by the place when she first found it, often leaving the house earlier to enjoy a coffee and a chapter of her book there before her first shift of the day. There were often performers on the stage too and it was her favourite thing when a violinist or pianist was playing on the stage as she immersed herself in the pages of whichever novel she had been reading that month. Quite often, when she went in, Arno was the one working behind the counter. It wasn't uncommon for the two to flirt with each other at all either.

In fact, he didn't realise how much he liked seeing her in the mornings until she was put on an earlier shift at work and no longer had the time to visit his café in the mornings. When her shifts returned to normal, he asked her on a date the very first chance he got, and she readily accepted.

So, that's what brought them here.

"It's sweet to know that you remember my favourite drink." She smiled softly, feeling a slight heat on her cheeks.

"How could I not? You come in almost every morning." He teased, "But, I must admit, I usually take care to make sure I get it right for you." He watched her look down at her lap shyly, her smile tugging at her lips despite her trying to hide it. It was a small gesture but in a world full of so many thoughtless people, it meant a lot to her.

"So, (Y/n), what sorts of things do you like? Other than reading, I know plenty of Mary Shelley and Jane Austen by now." He replied. (Y/n) recalled to where he would often ask her how her book was going and she'd share her thoughts and favourite quotes with him.

"Well. . . I really like history and the arts. I think that there's always so much to learn from the people who came before us." At her choice of words, his face became painted with an amused smile, "And we have so many sources to look to now, to see the error in our past and current ways, to change things for the better. I'm particularly fond of the Renaissance and the French and American revolutions."

"The French revolution?" He raised a brow.

"Absolutely!" She replied with a grin and sparkling eyes, "I can understand why people aren't fond of it - it was bloody, ruthless, some instances were horrifyingly shocking and so many lives were lost. But how many lives would have continued to fall to poverty if that had not happened? I love the politics behind it, how easily Robespierre, the seemingly untouchable man, fell to corruption and, eventually, the guillotine. Also, movements like that are important became it gave many women the chance to show their worth - the women's march on Versailles, Charlotte Corday, Theroigne de Mericourt. . ."

"Ah, yes, I knew her."

"Oh, you've studied her?" (Y/n) replied, thanking the waiter as he placed their coffees down on the table before them. Arno laughed heartily, watching her confusion with amusement, the way she furrowed her brow and tilted her head, looking much more adorable in his eyes than she should.

"No, I met her. I helped her to get some food to the poor and get rid of some Jacobins too." He watched her face fall into shock, hardly able to drink his coffee with the smile on his face.

"How long have you been looking for your soulmate? When were you born?" She raised her brows. In this world, looks could be very deceiving: an eighteen-year-old could be a five-hundred-year-old. (Y/n) had even heard stories of people who kill their soulmates so that they never die.

"I looked for around two centuries, stopped after the first world war, then starting looking again," He hesitated, "recently." In truth, he had given up altogether until he met the (h/c)-haired woman sitting opposite him, "And I was born in 1768."

"Wow. . ." She breathed out, "You've lived through a good portion of history then, huh?"

"You could say that." He shrugged, "I take it that you're actually eighteen?"

"Twenty-six, actually." She replied, taking a sip of her favourite coffee, "So, I'm on a date with a two-hundred and fifty-two year old?" She tutted at him and shook her head teasingly, all in light-heartedness.

"All jokes I've heard before, chérie." He replied.

"Must be a lot of birthday candles." She continued to tease with a childish grin as he rolled his eyes playfully.

"Cut the old jokes and I’ll let you see some of my memorabilia from the revolution, how does that sound?" He cut her a deal. She lifted her hand to mimic zipping her lips and throwing the zip away.

"If it's not a sensitive subject, would you mind telling me if it's been difficult? Trying to find a soulmate, I mean." She spoke in a more serious tone.

"I always thought that my first love was my soulmate. Her name was Élise. My parents. . . weren't really in the picture when I was a boy so I was raised by Élise's father. We grew up together and we fell in love as teenagers. We both thought that we were perfect for each other but. . . neither of us aged after eighteen. It didn't make me love her any less, though. But, one day. . . She died in a fight." She could see that he was still upset by her death, though, the time passed since had clearly made him accept it and learn how to talk of it openly. "I've had a few lovers since then and many went the same way: three serious ones in the 19th century who left when they met their soulmates. One in the 1910s who died in prison-" He saw the look of shock on (Y/n)'s face "- she wasn't a criminal, she was a suffragette; as was I." He paused a moment more, "I gave up after that until recently."

"What made you change your mind?" She propped her chin on her hand, hanging onto each little detail of his stories. Was that the hint of a blush she could see on his cheeks?

"Not to be an old-fashioned romantic. . ." He joked, making (Y/n) smile at him joining in with her old jokes, "But it was you." Her back straightened a bit with surprise.

"Me?" He reached for her hand across the table, watching him nod his head as he idly twisted her fingers around his.

"You give me hope." He smiled simply.

♡♡♡

Quite a few months had passed since then - as had many more dates and Arno asking to ‘court’ her (that earned him both a ‘yes’ and many old jokes) - and (Y/n) was currently laid with Arno in his room, it was early in the morning and they were half-dressed, tangled in the bedsheets with half-drank coffee on the bedside table and a tray of various snacks laid by them: different cheeses, sweetmeats, cut fruits. Arno had his head laid on her stomach and she was propped against the wall, a pillow cushioning her back. One of her hands was running through his hair, his eyes closed as he listened to her voice and lavished in her gentle caresses. Her other hand was holding a copy of Frankenstein: they'd both read it before but shared a love for it.

" 'How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! - Great God! ' " She glanced down to her lover, lips pursing as she laid the book down.

"Have you been stressed lately, amour?" She furrowed her brows, making him open his eyes.

"Having to change suppliers for the café has been a bit difficult, yes." He sighed, "What makes you ask?"

"You have a silver hair." She commented. His hand went to his head rapidly as he sat up, finding the culprit hair with shock. His mouth fell agape and (Y/n) was confused for a moment before she realised what this meant for both of them. He turned to face her, watching the smile creep onto her lips as he lunged forward to cup her face, pulling her into a deep kiss and holding her body as close to his as possible, skimming his hands down her spine as hers went up to rest on his shoulders, the two of them having to pull apart from smiling too much. He held her tenderly and rested his forehead against hers, lips brushing featherly over hers when he said:

"You took your time, didn't you?"

[olliedollie1204]

everything fits (2/8)- the follow up

Single father Patton is utterly devoted to his son Virgil. Recently divorced Logan is utterly devoted to his twin sons Remus and Roman. The pieces come together.

Pairings: Romantic Logicality

Word Count: 4,795 words

Tags: Single dad Patton and kid Virgil, Divorced Dads Logan and Janus and kids Roman and Remus (their split was mutual and their relationship is good)

chapter 2 babey! this chapter features that past romantic Loceit-- just a reminder that there’s no drama or conflict regarding their divorce at all!

warnings for general discussion of divorce, siblings bickering, brief descriptions of injury, and arguments between ex-spouses!

(Read it on AO3!)

Logan mostly pushed the morning’s incident out of his mind, switching gears into what Janus lovingly referred to as his “Robo-Teacher” mode. After he relieved the substitute from her position watching his class, he wasted no time in getting the second graders back on schedule.

They were good kids, if a bit rambunctious, but Logan enjoyed the work. Children are so much brighter than society gives them credit for. All they want is what anybody would want: to be heard, and respected, and taken seriously. Logan could understand that; he remembered feeling exactly the same way when he was a child.

So even though he had a reputation as a stickler for rules, order, and schedules, he actually didn’t mind too much when a student would interrupt math time with an unrelated question like, “Mr. Croft, why can’t we drink hand sanitizer?”, or when one would come up to his desk during silent reading with a request of, “Mr. Croft, can you tell us about stars, please?”

He would simply nod and change the subject, giving an impromptu lecture about alcohol poisoning or Alpha Centauri, and within minutes his pupils were satisfied and engaged again.

This attitude was a little unorthodox among his peers, but made him a hit among the children. Every holiday would result in his desk being covered in candies and coffee mugs and handmade cards (which he saved in his bottom right desk drawer— every single one).

So the day was not wholly unenjoyable, even though it had gotten off to a rocky start. Truthfully, he really had never once been late to work, not even when the twins were little.

Logan sighed to himself as his work was once again interrupted by thoughts of his children. At least he didn’t have any reason to worry about them at the moment. They were happy, healthy, and safe— three things that were becoming harder and harder to maintain in his prepubescent sons.

In hindsight, babies are remarkably uncomplicated compared to the minefield that is nearly-teenage children. Babies simply have certain physical, mental, and emotional needs that must be met in order for them to grow up happy, healthy, and well developed. And Logan, not to brag, was very good with babies.

Especially cute little twin baby boys, with their gurgling coos and their sweet smiles and their tiny, pudgy hands, one for each of their daddies to hold—

Logan shook his head, attempting to read the words in front of him for the third time, but he still found his mind drifting to his sons.

That was the main problem, really: Logan was constantly thinking about the twins.

The thing is, there was really no reason for Logan to worry as much as he did. Roman could be a little self-absorbed, and Remus had no concept of a filter whatsoever, but they were generally kind, courageous, and so unbelievably creative, it made Logan wonder where on Earth they got it from. Certainly not him; the arts were admittedly not his forte, although he did know a great deal of trivia about art history. And although Janus was crafty and charming, even he had to admit that he had no idea where the boys got their innate sense of innovation and originality.

Logan hummed, tapping his pen against his desk as his mind drifted from his children to his ex.

His relationship with Janus was about as healthy as ex-husbands could be— you’d think that getting divorced from a lawyer would be hell on Earth, but Janus Sanders had gotten to be one of the top attorneys in the city for a reason. He was so furiously thorough at ensuring everything was fair and just in their divorce papers, Logan hadn’t doubted for a second that everything would end on equal terms.

He’s a good man, Logan thought, not for the first time. They still liked each other, but they weren’t in love, not really— not anymore. It had taken them so long to get to the point where they could make that distinction, and even though they knew it would’ve been easier to carry on in their marriage, neither could deny the somewhat sombering realization that their separation was for the best.

That was a year and a half ago. And things were good between them, sometimes better than they were when they were married, but if he was being honest, Logan just missed his kids.

He had stayed up all night last night thinking about them; their goodnight phone call had been cut short when Roman burst in on Remus’ time, begging his brother to help him add something to their current art project before they had to go to bed. And Logan understood how important their projects were to them, he really did, but he couldn’t deny the twinge of hurt when the line went dead, his sons on the other side of the city. They might as well have been a world apart.

So he had gotten very little sleep the night before, and this morning, he had overslept.

Logan knew, rationally, that it was not a big deal: he had immediately called the school, requesting a temporary sub to watch his class, and set about preparing for his day. He lived relatively close to the school, so despite the increase of morning traffic due to him leaving at a later time, Logan knew he would be there before a substantial amount of time had passed.

But still, it was the principle of the thing, to be on time for work. And then he had remembered that he needed to make those photocopies for his students, and he had been in such a rush to get to his class, until—

He paused, letting his mind drift to the interaction he had had with the man— with Patton— this morning. He found himself flushing a little, even hours after the conversation, as he thought back on the awkward way he had first invaded Patton’s personal space, then spoke to his child without his permission, and then proceeded to continue to converse with him when he and his son were very clearly in a hurry.

And Patton had been so polite, trying to let Logan know he didn’t need to walk them to the office, and he had replied, what? ‘It has nothing to do with you’? ‘I would be going this way regardless’?

He groaned internally. It was not a pleasant interaction to look back on. Normally, he would push it out of his mind altogether, but…

But Patton had been kind, not judging him for his somewhat stilted way of speaking. He had asked him about his kids, a topic of conversation which Logan could never possibly tire of. And he was clearly a doting father to Virgil, who was, in Logan’s professional dad opinion, objectively adorable.

He hadn’t meant to duck out right before the two of them had to leave; he had seen Virgil coming to rejoin his father, and Logan could tell that the boy was at least moderately uncomfortable around him. He had quickly stepped away to give them space, entering the break room and beginning the photocopying process, but when he heard Patton make a comment about getting Virgil to his classroom, he suddenly realized that he couldn’t let them go without saying something.

So when he saw that they were mere seconds away from stepping out the door, he acted without thinking, calling out Virgil’s name on a whim.

He remembered how the two had turned to him, identical looks of confusion on their faces, and how he had scrambled for something to say to the shy boy, something that would perhaps make up for all of the mistakes he had made earlier in the conversation.

So he took a swing, and complimented his hoodie.

In no way could he have predicted the reaction he got. Virgil, who up until this point had barely even looked at Logan, broke into a delighted smile, chirped “Thank you!” in a clear, sweet voice, and waved his free hand at Logan so hard that the hoodie sleeve flopped around in the air.

And Patton— Patton’s reaction was almost as good: the half-second as he registered that Virgil had spoken to Logan directly, and the uninhibited joy in his face as he looked at his smiling son made Logan feel… well. He didn’t know what exactly that smile made him feel. Maybe satisfaction, that he was able to help Virgil in a way that made Patton so happy? He pondered it for a moment more before shaking his head. Feelings were really not his area.

And right before they left, as Virgil practically skipped into the hallway with Patton in tow, the two men met eyes yet again, only this time there was something different in Patton’s gaze— not just friendliness, but like he was… exceedingly grateful. Yes, that was it. His gaze was full of gratitude for Logan, for the small act of kindness that apparently would leave a big impression on his son. Then he, too, raised his hand and waved at Logan, and Logan waved back, and then the door shut, and they were gone.

Logan stared into space for several seconds, picturing Patton’s smile in his mind’s eye, before straightening up in his chair. He would think about this interaction in greater detail after his work day ended. In the meantime, he picked up a pen, continuing to decipher the scrawled handwriting of his students.

He was glad his class had electives for the last section of the day; he had the classroom to himself for 45 minutes up until the final bell, which usually gave him plenty of time to finish his work before the school day officially ended. But today, his attention kept drifting to the clock on his desk, until he looked up as it read 2:03.

His fingers twitched slightly as he did the math in his head: school let out at 2:00 on the dot, his classroom was on the second floor of the main building, and it was approximately a five minute walk to here from the gymnasium; so if two little boys were to, hypothetically, sprint at full speed from the gym as soon as the bell rang, in order to come join Logan in his classroom, then they should be arriving right about—

“Dad!”

Logan dropped his pen, spinning haphazardly in his desk chair just in time to catch the child that was diving in to wrap his arms around his waist.

Immediately he felt himself break into a large smile. “Hello, Roman.”

The boy in his arms pulled back, grinning wildly. Both of his sons were on the scrawny side, but Roman was already building up a bit of muscle mass, while his brother seemed content with somehow becoming even more gangly and bony with each passing day.

“Where were you this morning?” Roman demanded, shifting to sit on Logan’s knee.

“We thought you got hit by a bus!” Remus interjected with glee, running in to give Logan a quick hug before hopping up to sit on a desk.

Roman frowned. “No, we didn’t,” he insisted. “I said you were probably running late, and— oh!”

He suddenly tugged on Logan’s shirtsleeve. “And Remus called me stupid! This morning! He called me stupid, Dad!”

Logan shifted his eyes to his other son.

“Remus?”

Remus shrugged, not looking sorry. “He said something stupid. You’re never late.”

“First of all, although it’s true one might say something which may be qualified as ‘stupid’,” Logan began, rubbing circles on Roman’s back as he lectured Remus, “it’s inappropriate to assume that a single statement is indicative of one’s intelligence. Second, don’t call your brother stupid, you both have big, beautiful brains,” he continued, planting a kiss on Roman’s temple, which the young boy attempted to duck away from.

“And third,” he finished, “Roman was correct. I was running late this morning, and I did not arrive until school had already started.”

“Ha!” Roman exclaimed in a gloating fashion. Remus seemed unbothered by being proven wrong, instead leaning forward to taunt, “I’m gonna tell Papa you were late for school!”

“Please do,” Logan replied dryly. “He’ll probably find it highly amusing.”

As he spoke, he reached into his desk drawer, pulling out two packs of fruit gummies. Both boys gasped as Logan passed one to each of them.

“Thanks, Dad!” they said simultaneously, ripping open the snacks. Logan grinned.

“Now, if my memory is correct, I believe it is Remus’ turn to tell me about his day first.”

Roman’s jaw dropped. “No, it’s not!”

“That was rhetorical,” Logan replied. “I am positive it is Remus’ turn. You went first yesterday, because you wanted to show me your paper mache project. Remember?”

Roman paused, then groaned. “But that’s not fair!”

“Yes, it is!” Remus jumped in, his mouth full of gummies.

“Not!”

“Is!

“Not!”

“Is!”

“Not!”

“Is!”

Logan sighed. The twins would literally keep this up for hours if he let them.

“Time out,” he interjected. The boys shut down immediately, turning to him with matching sheepish expressions, and Logan would have to remember to thank Emile again for suggesting he and Janus implement that technique back when the boys were first learning how to talk.

“Roman, will you please staple these papers for me while Remus talks about his day?”

Roman huffed and slid off of Logan’s lap, sticking his tongue out at his twin as he did so.

“What would happen if I stapled myself?” Remus asked Logan with idle curiosity. “Would it hurt?”

“Depends on where, exactly, you stapled yourself,” he replied as he passed Roman the stapler and stack of papers.

“My finger?”

Logan hummed. “It would hurt like a pinch, but as long as you pulled the staple out smoothly and made sure to disinfect and bandage the wound afterwards, you would be fine.”

“Can I try it?”

“If you feel like you need to experience the pain in order to learn why you shouldn’t staple yourself, go ahead, but I will not feel sympathy for you when you get a booboo.”

Remus wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Don’t call it that, I’m not a baby!”

Logan bit back a smirk. “Of course not.”

Roman cleared his throat.

“Excuse me,” he interjected. “Will you start talking about your day, so that I can talk about my day?”

Remus made a face at his brother, but he did turn to Logan and begin rambling about his day, from the bus ride to school to the food they had for lunch to the game he, Corbin, and Sloane played at recess. He was halfway through explaining the increasingly incomprehensible rules for the game (something about who could perform the most dangerous stunts on the playground equipment while simultaneously answering trivia questions about their favorite cartoons) when Logan caught sight of the clock, realizing almost fifteen minutes had gone by.

“Switch,” he interjected the next time Remus took a breath.

“Aw, what?” Remus protested as the two boys swapped places, Roman hopping onto the desk while Remus grabbed the stapler.

“Your bus arrives at 2:30, and I still need to hear about Roman’s day.”

“But I didn’t even get to tell you about the bee that got in the classroom,” Remus grumbled.

“Save it for tonight,” Logan commented absentmindedly. Silence followed for almost two full seconds, which was a clear sign of trouble with the twins.

Logan looked up from his gradebook to see the two having a silent conversation. Whether it was from growing up attached at the hip or a genuine case of twin telepathy, Logan couldn’t be sure, but very often the twins could convey rather convoluted ideas to each other using only their faces.

“What are you hiding?” he asked bluntly. Both children jumped.

“Nothing!” Roman insisted, turning and giving him what he probably thought was a winning smile (it was, but Logan would not be distracted).

He turned to his other son, who was suddenly very interested in sorting the papers into neat piles.

“Remus?”

“Hm?” he replied, looking up innocently. “Did you say something, Father?”

“Boys—”

“We’re going to a sleepover tonight!” Roman blurted out. Remus groaned.

“Why did you say it?” he asked accusingly. “You suck at lying.”

“Stop.” Logan held up a hand. “Explain, now.”

Roman took a deep breath. “It’s Sloane’s birthday today, and he invited all of us—”

“He invited me, and told me you could tag along—”

“Falsehood! The invitation had both of our names on it!” Roman shot back with a dirty look at his brother. He turned back to Logan, continuing, “He invited us and Elliott and Corbin to a sleepover at his house, and, um, he said we could come over at six, and we know we usually do our goodnight call at nine, but—”

“You will ideally be busy gorging on pizza and playing video games at that time,” Logan finished, giving them a measured look. “That’s why you didn’t want to tell me?”

The boys looked down in guilt, nodding.

Logan toyed with the pen in his hand.

“Come here,” he said suddenly, patting his lap.

Roman and Remus hesitated, glancing at each other for a moment, before Remus bound over and sat down on Logan’s left leg. He leaned his head on Logan’s shoulder, and Logan’s hand instinctively came up to stroke his hair. Roman soon followed, taking his spot on Logan’s right leg.

Logan gave an exaggerated groan. “You’re almost getting too big for this,” he said, bouncing his legs as much as he could under the boys’ weight. They both giggled at the movement, each clutching onto his shirtsleeves to avoid falling off.

Logan took a deep breath. “I love you.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “We know, Dad.”

Logan leaned forward to kiss Remus’ forehead, causing the young boy to squawk.

“I love you,” he said again. He turned his head, catching Roman with a kiss on the cheek.

“Ew, Dad!” Both boys were blushing at the display of parental affection, but they were smiling, too.

“I love you,” he repeated once more. “Nothing you can do will ever change that. Even missing our goodnight call.”

Both boys seemed to relax, and Logan felt his heart swell a little bit.

“Don’t lie to me again,” he finished sternly.

“We won’t!” the twins chimed in unison. Logan fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Falsehood,” he muttered, before asking out of pure curiosity, “What was going to be your excuse for when nine o’clock rolled around and I didn’t get a call from you?”

“Rats chewed the phone wires,” Roman and Remus replied instantly. Logan registered this for half a second before he let out a bark of laughter.

“That makes perfect sense.”

~

“So, the boys are at a sleepover tonight.”

“Yes, I walked them over to Sloane’s house about an hour ago,” Janus replied, his smooth voice losing its hypnotic effect over the phone.

“And when, exactly, was I going to be informed of the whereabouts of our children for approximately the next 18 hours?”

Silence came from the other end of the call before Janus gave a huff of annoyance. “They told me they told you about this days ago.”

Logan smirked, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear as he carried his dinner to the dining room table. “I’m beginning to see why we should not trust our children to act as go-betweens.”

Janus heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry, Croft. I don’t have any idea why they would lie about something so minute.”

“Falsehood, we both know they were doing it to protect my feelings,” Logan replied in a clipped tone.

“You know, I did think it was weird when they insisted they would be okay making their goodnight call from Sloane’s house,” Janus remarked idly. Logan could picture him sitting in his home office, his feet propped up on his desk as he spoke. “I had assumed they had reached some level of maturity where it’s not embarrassing to love their parents.”

“An obvious mistake on your part.”

Logan could also picture the smirk Janus was currently trying (and failing) to suppress. “Clearly.”

Logan resituated himself as he sat at the table, turning on speakerphone and placing the phone next to his plate.

“Speaking of our children being liars,” Janus continued, “Remus had this crazy story about you being late for work.”

Logan reached over to pour himself a glass of water from the pitcher. “Crazy indeed. I didn’t arrive until almost eight.”

“And the school descended into anarchy and chaos,” Janus deadpanned.

“My students were merely happy for a break,” Logan replied. “I should’ve slept in a little longer to give them the entire morning off.”

The conversation fell silent for long enough that Logan leaned over to check that the call hadn’t dropped.

“You overslept?”

Logan blinked in surprise at Janus’ incredulous tone. “Correct.”

“You. Logan Croft. Overslept.”

“Is our connection failing? Are you having trouble hearing me?”

“Logan,” Janus said with the air of someone who was explaining something very simple. “I have known you since you would bike to school on four hours of sleep and three energy drinks, stay awake in all eight classes, go to at least one extracurricular after school, work retail for a few more hours, do homework until you passed out, and then do it all over again the next day. You have never overslept in your life.”

“Falsehood,” Logan replied. “In fourth grade—”

“Why did you oversleep today, Croft?”

Logan paused. “I was… thinking,” he admitted.

Janus waited a few seconds before prompting, “About…”

“About the boys,” Logan confessed, suppressing a sigh.

Immediately Janus dropped his overcasual schtick. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing at all,” Logan rushed to reassure him. “I was merely reminiscing about some of their childhood antics, and it prevented me from going to sleep on time.”

“… Antics like when they accidentally ripped a book of stickers they’d been fighting over for an hour, and proceeded to scream like banshees in the middle of a crowded Walmart?”

Logan smirked. “Antics like when they ran around the house with pull-ups on their heads, calling themselves aliens and demanding we take them to our ‘leader-ers’.”

Janus snorted with laughter. “Oh, God. I’ll have to find those pictures for their next birthday party.”

“I’m sure they’ll thank you for bringing up such delightful memories in front of their friends.”

“Snarky today, aren’t you?”

“Only for you, Sanders.”

A companionable silence fell as Logan finished his dinner.

“Are you okay?” Janus asked, gentle in the way he only got when he spoke to Logan or the twins.

Logan hesitated for just a moment before answering, “Of course.”

“Because if you want to take the boys out somewhere tomorrow night, I’m sure they’d—”

“It’s important we stick to the schedule,” Logan interrupted, a touch more defensively than necessary. “It’s your weekend with them, and I don’t wish to complicate things.”

Janus paused, and then scoffed. “It’s not… complicating things if you want to spend time with our children, Logan.”

“You’re already sacrificing one of your nights together for the boys to attend this sleepover,” Logan insisted, feeling himself becoming increasingly irritated that Janus wouldn’t drop the subject. “I don’t want to take another night away from you.”

His ex-husband’s voice dripped in derision as he cooly remarked, “I love how it doesn’t even cross your mind to consider that the two of us could possibly spend an evening with our children together. So glad to know you would rather spend your night alone than have to be near me for even a sec—”

Logan hung up, his hands shaking as he attempted to hit the button to end the call. He hadn’t realized he was clenching his jaw until he forced himself to release the tension in his body. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth.

Logan had known Janus for over half his life. They had been married for almost as long— 18 and fresh out of high school, Janus insisting he was only doing it for the tax benefits right up until Logan had kissed him in the middle of city hall. They had spent the last decade raising their sons together.

Logan did love Janus. Which is why moments like this, moments that reminded him why they shouldn’t be together, were so particularly painful.

He continued to fume for a few moments, replaying his ex’s callous tone and harmful accusations, but his mind also drifted to how he had shut down Janus’ genuine attempt to be considerate of his feelings, how abruptly Logan himself had left the argument when he didn’t know what to say.

The anger seeped out of him, replaced with something akin to shame. Logan curled inwards, leaning his head on his hands.

It made sense that all of their worst fights in recent history had been over their children. Janus was an excellent father, Logan recognized, his thoughts turning somewhat bitter as he continued, a better father than me—

Suddenly he saw Patton’s face in his mind. Patton smiling at him kindly when Logan had slipped up and made his divorce obvious. His quiet voice, telling Logan, ‘I reckon you’re probably a really great dad’. Logan focused on the words, allowing himself to remember the sincerity in Patton’s voice.

It didn’t make sense how much comfort Logan found in the memory. Patton didn’t even know him, had never seen him interact with any children besides Virgil, and even that had started off poorly.

But for some reason, when Patton had reassured him, Logan wanted to believe him.

Logan realized he had been staring into space for a few minutes, finally shaking his head to bring himself back to reality.

He reached over to grab his phone, muscle memory taking over as he dialed the familiar number, but when it rang in his hand Logan remembered that his ex was just a little bit faster than him when it came to self-reflection.

“I’m sorry, Logan,” came Janus’ voice as soon as Logan answered. “I didn’t— I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

Logan sighed. “I apologize, as well. Ending the call in that manner wasn’t productive or healthy.”

Again Logan could visualize the way Janus was waving his hand in the air dismissively.

“Pobody’s nerfect.”

Logan’s lips quirked into an involuntary smile. “What a ridiculous statement. I had assumed an attorney would have a more advanced vocabulary than that.”

“Lawyer, shmawyer.”

Logan laughed lightly, and he swore he could hear Janus’ grin through the phone.

“While I do appreciate your offer,” Logan eventually continued, breezing past the topic of the previous argument, “I have plans tomorrow evening regardless.”

“Oh?” Janus questioned casually. “Hot date?”

Logan scoffed. “An all-day teaching seminar,” he replied with distaste, “in which a group of corporate-funded administrators are going to spend twelve hours lecturing the faculty of the top school in the state about how we need to be making them more money.”

Janus clicked his tongue in sympathy. “Plus on Monday, you’ve got that parent-teacher meet and greet thing at the school.”

Logan paused for one, two, three seconds, before letting out an unceremonious, “Fuck.”

He heard Janus laughing on the other end of the call. “Sorry I said anything.”

“No, it’s fine.” Logan heaved a sigh. “I had forgotten that was this week as well, and I still have to prepare packets for all of my students’ guardians—”

He froze midway through his sentence.

“Logan?” he faintly heard Janus ask. Patton’s smile flashed through his mind again.

“Yes,” he responded, a little too quickly. “I apologize. I just remembered I have more work to do than I thought, and I will need to hang up now to complete it.”

“Uh huh,” Janus replied slowly, sounding unconvinced. “Cough twice if you’re being held hostage.”

Logan coughed once, pointedly falling silent.

“... Oh, you’re funny, you know that? Just absolutely hilarious.” The sarcasm in Janus’ voice was palpable, making Logan grin.

“Goodnight, Janus,” he said with affection.

Logan could hear the fondness in his ex-husband’s voice as he responded with a quiet, “G’night, Croft”, before the line went dead.

Logan turned his phone over in his hands, his mind far away. The likelihood that Logan would see Patton again at this event was causing him to feel a strange sort of tension. He didn’t understand it. Why was he still thinking about this man, this stranger, really, who he had spoken to for less than five minutes?

Logan couldn’t answer that question. All he knew was that he would most likely have trouble falling asleep again tonight.

[the-book-reaper]

my @thewitchersecretsanta gift for @saltytransidiot!! I’m no IndigoDream, inexplicifics, round--robin, or any of the other amazing authors in this fandom, but I hope this makes you smile 💕💕

Jaskier absolutely loves wintering at Kaer Morhen. Geralt had finally worked up the nerve to invite him  to meet his family two years ago. They’d been together for thirteen years and together for a little over five.

Jaskier loves the winter because it’s really the only time Geralt gets to completely relax. With his father-figure (though none of them would ever admit it) and brothers there, isolated from a world that seems to wish them every harm.

read on ao3 here

Even after just two winters with them, Jaskier loves Lambert and Eskel. Not in the same way as he loves Geralt, of course, but as some mix of friend and brother. Eskel showed him around the library and Jaskier is teaching him how to craft his own lute, since every lute made for a human would be much too small. Lambert, while he loves his pranks, is quite clever and they can spend hours trading riddles and jokes.

He’d been expecting at least some animosity from Vesemir, considering he is the first “human” to enter Kaer Morhen since the raids. Geralt had blushed so adorably when Vesemir casually mentioned how often he talks about his bard. Jaskier likes doing food prep with him, though he’ll leave the actually cooking to the old wolf. The few times he tried… well, let’s just say those scorch marks in the stone of the kitchen weren’t completely intentional.

He loves cuddling up to Geralt in the evenings, all five of them around the crackling fireplace. He’d tried one sip of Lambert’s moonshine and started tearing up from the sheer amount of alcohol in it. The wolves would need a lot of human drinks to get drunk, so they usually only can during the winter. Every coin they make on the Path goes to food, shelter, supplies, and the occasional prostitute. Anyway, they don’t feel safe enough around humans to allow themselves to be in such a vulnerable state even if they did have the money.

Vesemir never gets terribly drunk. Actually, Jaskier has never seen him act even just the littlest bit intoxicated, even though the witchers drink from the same barrel and roughly the same amount. Eskel either stops after he feels tipsy or drinks until he falls asleep. Lambert usually has to be cut off once he starts suggesting things like going outside—during a blizzard—to spar. Naked.

And Geralt. Oh, how Jaskier loves his witcher. Completely sober, Geralt always maintains at least one point of contact with him if they’re in the same room. After one drink, he purrs easily and will grumble at Jaskier if he stops playing with his hair. At two, Geralt either pulls him into his lap, or is nearly in Jaskier's lap.

Somewhere between three and four is the adorable sweet-spot. When he hits this point, Geralt gets sad if Jaskier's attention strays from him too long. He demands many kisses, pouts if he only gets a peck, and whines adorably if Jaskier refuses him outright. Jaskier will herd him to their room at this point, where he cuddles his darling witcher until he falls asleep, secure in his arms.

This year, he is very much looking forward to exchanging their gifts. Geralt has been extremely secretive about his present, and the anticipation is killing him. This year, Jaskier’s gotten his love a couple new journals with some pencils, colored chalks, and a few paints.

Geralt recently shared that he initially had a lot of trouble with memorizing the bestiary. After the first couple beatings when he couldn’t answer the Masters’ questions, he learned that if he drew each monster, labeling as he went, he was able to retain the information much easier. Soon, he had a sketchbook completely filled with drawings and his only bruises were from training or roughhousing.

But once he’d memorized the bestiary completely, he didn’t want to stop drawing. So he started filling up notebooks with sketches of herbs and flowers, whether or not they had a use. Then he turned to anything he could think of, really.

Nothing is secret in Kaer Morhen though, and the other trainees mocked him mercilessly about it. Eventually he just stopped drawing altogether. Once he was on the Path, he didn’t exactly have much coin to spare on such frivolous things.

When the bard started improving his image, however… Geralt found his coin-purse to be not nearly as empty as it was before. Still, he worried that Jaskier would make fun of him about this hidden interest as well.

He honestly can’t even remember how, but Jaskier did find out and actually supported it, surprisingly. Jaskier had even been the one to buy his first notebook along with a few different pencils.

He never made fun of him, instead praising his art to a near ridiculous extent. Ridiculous to Geralt, that is. Jaskier insisted he was merely being honest.

Now Yule is coming up, and Jaskier has his gifts prepared. The art supplies for Geralt. A good set of strings for Eskel’s lute and some more sheet music. For Lambert he’s brought a book of 500 names since the idiot never calls his horses anything but “Horse” as well as more of that fancy soap he pretends to hate.

Vesemir is always the toughest. The old wolf doesn’t want for much, and it’s pretty bad form—in Jaskier's opinion—to give a person a gift they’ve already received in the past. Last year, Jaskier gave him an extremely old book of poetry written in Elder Speech he’d gotten for a steal at the market. The poor merchant had absolutely no idea about the true value of it!

That find had just been a fluke however, but he somehow got lucky again this year.

--

Now, four Wolves and one bard lounge by an open fire, safe and content. Jaskier takes another sip of his hot tea, the warmth spreading through his body. He can’t help but snuggle in closer to Geralt, who squeezes him gently with the arm around his waist. Finally, it’s time to open presents.

Jaskier insists they open their gifts from him first. He simply can’t take any more anticipation; he needs to know what they think. They’ll probably like them, but there’s always that little niggling voice telling him they’ll only say they like it to be polite.

“Oh, fuck you.” It seems Lambert has opened his gift the fastest. “And why do you keep getting me this fancy-pantsy soap?”

“Why do you keep using it?” Jaskier teases. Geralt chuckles at Lambert’s petulant grumble. Warmth completely unrelated to his tea blooms in Jaskier's chest. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being nice to yourself every once in a while, my little wolf.”

Lambert growls at him, but can’t protest because he is several decades younger than Jaskier.

Eskel and Vesemir love their gifts, which is good because Jaskier had no doubt whatsoever that they would. Absolutely none.

He turns to Geralt, who had been able to open his gift with only the one hand, and is staring down at the art supplies in his lap. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s breathing. His heart drops. “Darling? It’s okay if you don’t like-”

Geralt quickly sets the gift aside, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. His shoulders are shaking suspiciously. “Oh! Oh, my dear. I take it you do like your present, then?” Jaskier tries to add a teasing tone to his words, but he really was not expecting this kind of reaction.

“Thank you,” Geralt whispers emphatically into his neck.

Jaskier adjusts his grip on his—thankfully unsplit—tea and hugs him back just as fiercely. After a moment, Geralt releases him, kissing him softly.

There’s a gagging sound to their right and Jaskier has to pull away to laugh. Eskel cuffs Lambert on the back of the head—almost starting a spat—but Vesemir growls at them before it can go much further.

They move on to opening Vesemir’s gifts, no one mentioning the water in Geralt's eyes. Despite being crass and rough with each other, the Wolves know when not to make fun of something.

They open their gifts from Geralt last. Jaskier unties the meticulously wrapped string and unfolds the paper. Inside is something made from yarn, a light lavender that’s ever-so-slightly reflective. He runs a finger over the indescribably soft yarn, breathing in sharply. The fabric unfolds as he picks it up, revealing it to be a long scarf. Holding it closer, he can see the beautiful design woven along its entire length. There are a few breaks in the pattern, but they only make it more perfect.

Geralt spent gods know how long making this, either late at night or early in the morning, most likely frustratedly undoing his work half the time. That he spent so much time and effort, remembering how Jaskier is sensitive to the cold, and deciding to do something about it… His eyes prickle with an emotion he cannot name, he only knows that the word “love” is not strong enough.

He looks up at Geralt, who seems nervous. “Darling… You made this?” he whispers, just to be sure. Geralt nods and Jaskier mimics his love’s actions from earlier, throwing his arms around him—mindful of his drink, of course—and holding him close. “I love it so much. I can’t even imagine how difficult it must have been!” Jaskier releases him and holds the scarf up. “Will you put it on me?”

With reverent hands, Geralt wraps it loosely around his neck. Jaskier rubs a cheek against the yarn, breathing in Geralt's scent, etched into every fiber.

What happened after that, Jaskier honestly couldn’t tell you. The rest of the night passes in a sort of happy daze. Geralt gets all gooey with him and Vesemir herds them all off to bed.

He would have slept with the scarf on, but his dear witcher is much too fond of falling asleep with his nose buried in Jaskier's neck. They both relish in the little touches. Being able to hear the other’s heartbeat, feel their chest move as they breathe.

The undeniable truth of it gets to Jaskier sometimes. That scarf is just one more testament to their love. He really had been loathe to part with it so soon, but it would have just become tangled or stifling in the night. Besides, no item of clothing—even one made by Geralt—could ever amount to the man himself.

[serararku]

Dust to Dust

The magic and allure of seeing dragons had long vanished. The entire trip to Ishgard was spent fantasizing about the great scaled beasts, soaring low over the earth while they belched fire and fury. She wanted to bring back the head of a slain dragon she felled herself, and perhaps a pack filled with its scales; mount that skull on the wall in her apartment, and bedazzle R’zevi with her fancy dragonscale cloak. Now, S’era would be a happy woman if she never saw another flying lizard ever again. 

Maybe if she was lucky she could find a handful of scales on the bridge and make a cute necklace.

Worst still, Ishgardian Index was… smaller than S'era expected. She's heard tales of great labyrinthine libraries stuffed to the brim with forbidden and long forgotten knowledge, rows upon rows of aisles housing countless books, grimoires, and tomes, and terrifying guardians that would make short work of any intruders foolish enough to tempt fate with their damnable curiosity. Yet when she arrived at the Index, it was no more than one curved hallway and maybe half a dozen rooms; still, with her reading level, this alone would take her a lifetime to peruse. The Barghest would return to Ishgard to pick her up in just over a week, and frankly she had neither the time nor the desire to sit here and practice reading for much longer than that; she had a purpose to fulfill, questions that needed answers, and a Tia waiting for her return. Thankfully she had a way to narrow down her search to better accommodate her time frame. 

S’era was nodding off in front of her recent book on Ishgard history. Thanks to the lessons of R’zevi and Pherond she was able to actually read the words, which in itself was exciting, but these books were insufferably boring. Page after page of fighting the Dravanian Horde, recuperating after their retreat, storing up supplies for the next attack decades later, and one again, fighting the Dravanian Horde; if it were up to S’era, she would have packed up and abandoned Ishgard after the first attack. 

Scraaatch… scraaatch… scraaatch…

Her ears perked up to the faint sound of something scraping against wood. She followed the sound to the adjacent wall, where all the books of the Ishgardian Index gathered dust. When her gaze drifted to the fourth shelf, the peculiar scratching stopped. “Rats?” S’era thought, perking a brow. “Would Ishgard even have rats?” Just as she returned to perusing this dreadfully dull book, the scratching returned- with a vengeance.

That terrible noise scraped behind almost every book and on every shelf, traveling up and down the curved hallway until it was almost deafening. “Huh?!” The Samurai slowly rose to her feet once the books began to tremble and fall out onto the floor, and her heart skipped a beat at the rhythmic mumbling coming from the walls.

"Shol uun. Veshe uun. Saal aneem-othola uun."

The shelves burst open with a piercing shriek- black talons and scaled fingers ripped through the wreckage and pulled the wall apart! Red twinkling lights flickered in the dark before the faces emerged into the light, the dragonkin snouts and malformed Elezen heads grimacing and gnashing their snaggled jaws! "NO! AAAH! AAAAAGH!" S'era stumbled back out of her chair, but the monster's outstretched hands caught both arms and pulled her toward its many hungry mouths. The largest dragon head opened wide as a tormented Elezen face shouted with a bone-chilling voice.

"MAKE US WHOLE!"

"BWAH-!" S'era snapped up from her nightmare and nearly jumped out of her skin. Frantically she looked around for any sign of that aberration, but there was none; only the pool of drool soaking into the wooden table, and the array of books she had combed through caught her attention. That, and the Librarian.

"I'm sorry to disturb your nap." The Elezen gave her an apologetic and empathetic smile. "This is all I could find to help your research. There are no books on this artifact you described. However, the late Alfont Vauvois mentions a gold disc in his journal here." 

“Late?” S’era asked, running her hands along her bristling tail under the table. “What happened to him?”

The woman set the weathered leather bound journal beside her, before calmly saying, “He went to investigate Bleakpoint Village about a month ago. Since he hasn’t returned, we have to assume the worst.”

The Samurai swallowed dryly as the Librarian walked off. “If he left for Bleakpoint before us…” She thought, grinding her teeth together while she plucked the journal off the table. “Was he a thrall in robes? Did we kill him? Was he one of those fused to that monster?!” Thinking about it only made her skin crawl; she could speculate all week if she wanted to, but the only way to know for sure is to return to that demented village. That wasn’t going to happen.

Instead, she slowly opened the journal and quickly skimmed the pages. Most of it was unreadable- sloppy handwriting, smeared words, and more than a few stains- hopefully from coffee. It was only the last few pages that truly piqued her interest.

I- -ust as I feare-. A c-lt devo-t in wyrm wo--hip resides in the --- If my calculati--- are correct there is - signifi--nt aether shift s---where in the snowy hills. These ---lots must be plannin- someth--g huge. I must ---d out -hat th--’re up -- before it’s -oo lat-!

S’era gulped dryly again, vividly recalling what those freaks had conjured from the depths of hell. She slowly turned the page and continued reading.

The Dragons--g War is finally over! This was supposed to be a time for c---bration! But cultists managed to sn--k in durin- the Dravanian Horde’s final --sault on Ishgard to steal the remains of Halault?! What else did Ar--bishop Thordan VI- keep secret from his --ople?! If w--- gets out that a ---ter necromancer’s corpse is back in the clut--es of his f--lowers…

No. I can’t let this stand. I will not let another tragedy befall my kin after a millennium of suffering! Someone h-- to do s-meth--g!

The Samurai looked over her shoulder at the random passersby and their quiet conversations; could any of them secretly be a cultist? Her paranoia crept up her spine and made every hair on her neck stand. She didn't want to draw any suspicion by constantly looking around, so S'era instead kept her ears pointed to the open area behind her. 

Several pages were completely unreadable, like someone came in and smeared something to destroy the ink. Yet they didn't account for a Miqo'te to use her heightened sense of sight to bypass their schemes; why they didn't just tear out the pages or burn the whole journal altogether was another mystery for another time. 

Bl--kpoint! Hidden in plain sight! With a hand--- of seasoned adventurers at -- side I'm conf-dent we can --d this horror before it be---s! Must use discretion. Must r-turn ---ault's corpse to the pit it belongs. I w--l --way- lov- --- Amette. -f I d-n't -ake it ba-- I-

The message suddenly cut off from a brown stain, but when S'era reached the last page, her heart dropped into her stomach. 

Blessed blood! Blessed flesh! Drink and feast for thou art blessed! Blessed blood! Blessed flesh! Drink and feast for thou art blessed! Blessed blood! Blessed flesh! Drink and feast for thou art blessed!

S’era slammed the journal closed and shot up from her seat. “Oh gods- that’s what they were chanting…!” She whispered with the slightest breath. “They were going to…?!”

“Is everything alright?” The Librarian asked, reappearing on the other end of the hallway. The Samurai managed to stifle her shock at her sudden return, but only barely; a part of her wondered if this Elezen was a cultist too.

“Y-yeah… but this journal doesn’t mention anything about a golden disc…” 

“Ah, I think I have something to remedy that.” She gave S’era the most disconcerting smile she had ever received, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the darkness behind the door. Now S’era was certain something fishy was going on around here.

“It’s time to get the HELLS out of this place!” Her conscience tugged on her tail and hastened her steps. S’era didn’t even bother putting the books back where she found them- all she feared now was the Librarian returning with a handful of ‘helpers’ to escort her to a grisly end. Staying in Ishgard alone was a terrible mistake- and now she was too paranoid to be of any use to the Ashen Wolves.

Her only choice was clear- continue her research away from potential harm, somewhere she would feel much safer. Preferably surrounded by people that would protect her whilst she slept.

---

Brief mention: @rzevi-tia-ffxiv​

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

Awake, My Glory

"My heart is steadfast, O God, my heart is steadfast; I will sing and make music. Awake, my glory! Awake, harp and lyre! I will awaken the dawn!" - Psalm 57:7-8

The fifty-seventh Psalm is attributed to David. The time to which it is set down in the title is, "when he fled from Saul in the cave." The writer cries to God for refuge. His soul is among lions. His enemies have prepared a net for his steps. Then he cries as if to arouse himself to joy. "Awake, my glory! Awake, harp and lyre!" The verses of the Psalm which follow give us the music which flows forth from the awakened strings. "I will praise you, O Lord, among the people.. .. For your mercy is great unto the heavens."

Many of us need at times to make this same call upon ourselves to awake. The harps are hanging silent on the walls. The figure of instruments of music sleeping is very suggestive. They are capable of giving forth rich melodies - but not a note is heard from them. There are two thoughts suggested by this prayer. One is that life is meant to be glad, joyous. It is pictured as a harp. The other is, the splendor of life, "Awake, my glory!"

It is to a life of joy and song we are called to awake. Life is a harp. There is a legend of an instrument that hung on a castle wall. Its strings were broken. It was covered with dust. No one understood it, and no fingers could bring music from it. One day a strange visitor appeared at the castle. He saw this silent harp, took it into his hands, reverently brushed away the dust, tenderly reset the broken strings, and then played upon it, and the glad music filled all the castle. This is a parable of every life. Life is a harp, made to give out music - but broken and silent until Christ comes. Then the song awakes. We are called to awake to joy and joy-giving.

Christ's life was a perpetual song. He gave out only cheer. He even started to His cross singing a hymn. When He arose He started songs with His first words, "All hail!" "Peace be unto you." What music did you start yesterday, as you went about? What song is in your heart singing today? "Awake, harp and lyre!"

But there is something else. "Awake, my glory!" Glory is a great word. It has many synonyms and definitions. It means brightness, splendor, luster, honor, greatness, excellence. Every human life has glory in itself. Did you ever try to answer the question, "What is man?" It would take a whole library of books to describe the several parts of a life. Merely to tell of the mechanism of a human hand, to give a list of the marvelous things the hand has done, would fill a volume. Or the eye, with its wonderful structure; the ear, with its delicate functions; the brain, with its amazing processes; the heart, the lungs - each of the organs in a bodily organism is so wonderful, that a whole lifetime might be devoted to the study of anatomy alone - and the subject would not be exhausted!

Think, too, of the intellectual part, with all that the mind of man has achieved in literature, in invention, in science, in art. Think of the moral part, man's immortal nature, that in man which makes him like God, capable of holding communion with God, of belonging to the family of God. When we begin to think even most superficially of what man is, we see an almost infinite meaning in the word "glory" as defining life. "Awake, my glory!"

No one, even in the highest flights of his imagination, ever has begun to dream of the full content of his own life, what it is at present; then what it may become under the influence of divine grace and love. Even now, man redeemed is but "a little lower than God." Then, "it is not yet made manifest what we shall be." The full glory is hidden, unrevealed, as a marvelous rose is hidden in a little bud in springtime. All that we know about our future - is that we shall be like Christ. We are awed even by such a dim hint of what we shall be - when the work in us is completed.

The call to awake implies that the glory which is in us - is asleep. It is a call to all that is in us - of beauty, of power, of strength, of good, of love - to be quickened to reach its best. We are not aware of the grandeur of our own lives. We do not think of ourselves as infolding splendor, as having in us the beauty of immortal life. We travel over seas to look at scenes of grandeur, to wander through are galleries, to study the noble achievements of architecture; while we have in ourselves greater grandeur, rarer beauty, sublimer art - than any land under heaven has to show us. Let us pray to be made conscious of our own glory. "Awake, my glory!"

We are to call out these splendors. The harp is standing silent - when it might be pouring out entrancing music. The hand is folded and idle - when it might be doing beautiful things: painting a picture, that would add to the sum of the world's beauty; doing a deed of kindness, that would give gladness to a gentle heart; visiting a sick or suffering one and winning the commendation, "You did it unto Me!" The power of sympathy is sleeping in your heart - when it might be awakened and be adding strength to human weakness on some of life's battlefields, making struggling ones braver, inspiring them to victory.

Suppose, now, that all the capacity for helping others, lying unawakened in each one's heart and hand, were brought out for just one week and made to do their best - what a vast ministry of kindness would be performed! Suppose that all of each one's capacity, for praising God were called out, that every silent harp and every sleeping psaltery should be waked up and should begin to pour out praise - what a chorus of song would break upon the air! One of the Psalms begins with the call, "Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless his holy name!" That is what this call, "Awake, my glory! Awake, harp and lyre!" means. If we truly wish our glory to be awakened, we must seek to have the best in us called out to its fullest capacity of service.

This story comes from Japan and tells how only the Bible can prove itself true. A man had obtained a Bible and became much interested in it. After reading it, he said, "This is a fine thing in theory - but I wonder how it would work in practice ." On the train on which he was traveling was a lady, who, he was told, was a Christian. He watched her attentively to see how she would act, how her conduct would illustrate the Book in which she believed. He said, "If I can see anything in her conduct like this Book, I will believe it." Before the day was over he had seen in her so many little acts of unselfishness and kindness, so many examples of patience and thoughtfulness, so much consideration for the comfort of her fellow passengers, that he was deeply impressed and resolved to make the Bible the guide and inspirer of his whole life. Thus it is that the glory of our life should be awakened.

In one of Paul's letters to Timothy he gave this young man an earnest charge. Timothy was not living at his best. Paul bade him to stir up the gift of God that was in him. Timothy had abilities - but he was not using them worthily. God had put into his life spiritual gifts, capacities for great usefulness - but Timothy was not exercising His gifts to the full. The glory in him needed to be waked up. "Stir up the gift of God that is in you," bade Paul. The picture in his words, is that of a fire smoldering, covered up, not burning brightly, not giving out its heat. Timothy was bidden to stir up the fire that it might burn into a hot flame. Many Christians need the same exhortation. They have the fire in their hearts - but it needs stirring up. "Awake, my glory!"

Do you think you have been doing your best? Can you think of a day in the past week, which you made altogether as beautiful as you could have made it? Could not the artist's picture have been a little more beautiful, a little broader and nobler in its technique, a little finer in its sentiment? Could not the singer have sung her song a little better, with a little more heart, a little more sweetly! Could not the boys and girls at school have done a little better work and have been a little gentler among their schoolmates? Could not the men have been a little better Christians out in the world; and the women better, kindlier neighbors? The best day any of us ever lived - might we not have made it a little holier, a little fuller of divine love, a little more sacred in its memories? Must not every one of us confess that the glory in us needs awakening?

No doubt the body is a clog to the mind and the soul. Many of us have burning desires for holiness in our hearts - but somehow we have not the power to express the desires. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote to a friend, "You cannot sleep; well, I cannot keep awake." In the lethargic condition of his body, his magnificent intellectual powers were held as in a stupor. No doubt many men with great spiritual fervor are unable to express their earnestness of soul, because they are hampered by an unwholesome somnolence. We need to call upon our souls - to wake up! We need to call upon God - to wake us up.

"Awake, my glory!" The word gives dignity, splendor, honor, greatness, divineness to our life. It calls us to make our lives worthy of the name. The lowliest human life - is glorious in its character, in its possibility, in its destiny.

Recently a Sevres vase, some sixteen inches high, was put up at auction. It was dated 1763. No history of it was given. No one knew where it came from, who made it, or who its owners had been. But the vase was so exquisite in its beauty and so surely genuine, that it brought at auction twenty-one thousand dollars. Yet this rare and costly vase, was once only a mere lump of common clay and a few moist colors. The value was in the toil and skill of the artist who shaped and colored it with such delicate patience and such untiring effort. He did his best, and the vase today witnesses to his faithfulness.

If we would only always do our best in all our work, we would live worthily of the glory that is in us.

The Parthenon at Athens was encircled within by a sculptured frieze, five hundred and twenty feet in length. It was chiefly the work of Phidias. The figures on the frieze were life-size, and stood fifty feet above the floor of the temple. For nearly two thousand years the work remained undisturbed and nearly in its original state. By the explosion of a bomb-shell, the frieze was shattered about the close of the seventeenth century and fell upon the pavement. Then it was found that in every smallest detail the work was perfect. Phidias wrought, as he said, for the eyes of the gods - for no human eyes saw his work at its great height. It is in this spirit, that we should do all our work - not for men's eyes - but for God's. We should do perfect work, for no other work is worthy of the doer. "Awake, my glory!" Do your smallest task as beautifully as if you were doing a piece of heavenly ministry, and were working for the very eye of the Master Himself!

Let us set higher ideals for ourselves. We are not merely dust - we are immortal spirits. We are children of God - and this dignifies the smallest, lowliest things we do. Sweeping a room for Christ - is glorious work. Cobbling shoes may be made as radiant service in heaven's sight - as angel ministry before God's throne. The glory is in us - and we must live worthily of it. Let us call out our best skill, our rarest power, for everything we do. Our days should be ascending days in the scale, each one made more beautiful than the last. We never get to the best opportunity - tomorrow will bring us into a more heavenly atmosphere, than today's.

This is the call to us in all life. There is no end to life. There is always something beyond. Life is immortal. When our glory awakens and presses on, it will always find something beyond. Only heaven is the end.

"Awake, my glory!" Shall we not make this demand upon ourselves! We are asleep - and cannot wake up. Yet we must wake up - or we shall perish spiritually. The parable speaks of those whom their Lord had set to watch - but whom He warned against sleeping. "Lest when he comes and finds them sleeping ." We need to pray for nothing more earnestly, than for power to keep awake.

We must get awake first ourselves. "Awake, my glory!" Then it is a great thing to be an awakener of others. Some men have this power in large measure. Everyone who comes near them is quickened, becomes more widely awake, is inspired to live better. Christ awakened the glory of His disciples. They were plain men, without the education of the schools, without the art of eloquence; but they lived with their Master, and He taught them, put Himself into their lives, then sent them forth. Every particle of the glory in them - was awakened, and they went out and woke up the world. That is what God wants us to do. Get awakened yourself, and then wake up your friends.

Shall we be content to stay asleep any longer? Must our harps still hang silent on the wall, giving out no music? Must the glory in us continue to sleep? Shall we not rather call upon ourselves to awake and then call upon God to awake us? Then our lives shall open into beauty and into power. Then shall we be the people God wants us to be!

[bathunterofdevon]

Art/Animation/Video Update:

Good day everyone. 

You may or may not notice how quiet and inactive I've been lately - when I promised I would give regular updates about my renewed determination to practise art and learn to animate successfully. In the beginning, when I first started this new challenge, I was pumped up, and full of energy to start it. I made a promise that I would never give up no matter what, and always focus on getting better. And in the first 5-6 days, I did keep a level head and kept on going, with a clear goal at the end of it. But, over a relatively short time, -by day 5 I think- I became exhausted and couldn't carry on anymore. My own brain kept feeding and replaying bad memories over and over again, which left me feeling weak and spiritually broken. Eventually, I just burned out and collapsed. That was weeks ago now. Something I didn't expect to see again has returned suddenly, and with a vengeance. 

The past two weeks have been nothing short of hell for me. Realistically speaking, there is nothing wrong with me. I didn't have a rough or traumatic childhood. I haven't lost anyone close to me. I didn't break up with a long term girlfriend (never even had one to begin with). And yet, for some reasons which I feel are too complicated and awkward for me to discuss here, I've been feeling overwhelmingly cynical and bleak, like there is absolutely no point to me being alive. I feel like I have no future. And my brain is stuck in the past and I can't pull it out of there. 

 I remember feeling like this back when I was in Canada, and 3 years before that. It is strange. I don't think I have any legitimate reason to be depressed. There are so many people around the world who have really suffered terrible losses and come from real, hard and trying life circumstances. I know people who were sexually abused when they were children. I know someone who suffers from Schizophrenia, and regularly experiences headaches after being involved in an incident that gave them serious injuries in their childhood. I don't have either of those. I'm living with my family again - my Mum and Dad, and my family all love me and think the world of me. I recently started a new joj as a host and food busser for this new fancy restaurant in the town near where I live. And when people ask me what I'm feeling, I always tell them I'm fine. So everything should be okay. I'm doing all the things I ought to. I'm not old. I'm not ill. But for some reason, I'm just so sick and tired. Of virtually everything. 

I'm beginning to feel increasingly distant from my own life situation, like I'm on some kind of autopilot. Everything feels almost illusory and surreal. In a way, I wish I had some kind of real illness, like Coronavirus, or Cancer, with visible, manifest symptoms that everyone would notice. At least then there would be some kind of treatment for it. The past few days, my bedroom has slowly turned into a prison. I've become so lethargic, I haven't had breakfast in weeks. I've spent virtually entire days in my bed, and my dressing gown. I haven't even had the energy to take my dog for a walk. He is always sitting outside my bedroom door wagging his tail waiting for me to take care of him. I haven't spoken with my old school friends, or my extended family in ages, and I fear I'll never have the courage to break the mould and talk to them. And my bedroom is increasingly full of useless things that used to amuse me many years ago, but are now collecting dust. My piano is basically an ornament now - I haven't touched it in a very long time. My guitar's strings have long rusted and I haven't changed them in 7 years. I retrieved an old TV from the attic and hooked it to this laptop so I could use it as a second monitor to help with studying references while attempting digital art. But I've never even switched it on in months. My studio mic and audio interface - I suspect one or maybe both of them may be broken, but I can't even be bothered to investigate which - it just doesn't matter anymore. There are old songs from years ago that are half-finished that I wanted to finish and put on Soundcloud/maybe even Youtube, but music doesn't bring me enough joy anymore. Nothing does. 

You know–it's funny. My Gundham Tanaka video I released a year ago is becoming far more popular than I ever anticipated it would. I keep receiving new messages from newcomers telling me: 'My depression is cured' or 'this just made me feel so much better', etc etc. It's gratifying for me to hear people say things like that. But it's beginning to get a little tiring, all the same. It's a message that's just so out of tune with what I'm feeling.I just feel like a walking, rotting corpse. Even Kaede isn't making me feel happy anymore. Instead, I just feel lonely, and miss her. Speaking of which, a few weeks ago, I watched a video by Weebynewz about her execution, and I've discovered new information about it that I didn't notice before, which has made me feel a hundred times more uncomfortable. Now I feel quite sick, and even seeing the thumbnail for her execution video is enough to ruin my mood and break any focus and concentration I once had. 

I am lucky that I have online freerfs who I converse with regularly and who are always asking me if I'm okay. I'm grateful that they are there to make my daily experience marginally less shit. But these days, I rarely ever talk to them. I only respond now. I haven't got the energy to make small talk, or follow up on new developments or catch up with new memes. I know they're always looking out for me, but they are never going to get me out of this. The best they can do is stand well away from the event horizon and wait for me to force myself out of it.  

Fortunately though, for those of you who are worried about me, it's not completely bad. I have started taking medication again. You see, for a long time, I mistakenly believed you weren't supposed to take antidepressants while driving/learning to drive because they make you experience tiredness as a side-effect. Recently though, I learned that that's not technically true. You can take meds while you are driving, but the idea is that you are not supposed to drive if you feel tired, or your senses are impaired. In addition, I am looking to see if I can visit a counsellor and start having sessions. I'm kind of desperate for good news and a hope of recovery at the moment, but I guess it's still better than nothing. 

No matter what happens, I know this isn't really me. It's certainly a large part of me, but it's not all there is to my character. And frankly, I'm sick and tired of this, and I want it to stop. I want to keep entertaining all of you with silly videos. And maybe one day, I'd like to do a Q+A video/face+voice reveal, unprivate my old videos I made a decade ago, and introduce all of you to my real self. Then when that happens, I can finally move on, transcend my love of the Danganronpa franchise, and try something new. I'm not sure what that would entail. But it might be something that incorporates my love of music, anime, visual novels, and possibly writing/voice acting. 

Until that day finally comes, I'm going to remain stuck in this rut for who-knows-how-long. I won't know when the day will come, but I like to think I'll be fully aware when it has, since I'll feel totally different and refreshed. The only way I can come to terms with this long, dreary spell of melancholy is if it exists to serve some kind of purpose. And if this experience is to mean anything, then ultimately, my purpose is finally one day break free from it and discover a secret 'purpose' or 'why', or perhaps unlock a hidden potential I never knew I had all along. When that happens, then I can make my return and move on. Then my story could pick up from where I last left it. Or perhaps I can rewrite it altogether. 

I wish you all very well and sincerely hope NOBODY else in the world feels like this, 

 - Bat

[dayseternal-blog]

Dude.

Over 10,000 Hits 🎉

I am alarmed, I have been alarmed from the start.

This is still a celebration post, but unlike my unashamed Nightdreams celebration post, this one is an unashamed reflection celebration post 🌱.  On something I’ve spent quite a bit of effort and time on, whether I actually finish this story or not (lol I will), it’s a story to be proud of.  And it’s something I’d like to articulate my feelings on before I end it for good 🎀.

Below the cut is a very long trash love letter 💌 to myself and anyone who’d like a peek at my narcissism.  I am a slut for self-reflection.

Ahead of that, thank you for enjoying my stuffs everyone 💝. 

I often think to write for myself and for fun, that no one else will love my fic more than me or have more fun than me...  That’s idealistic.  That’s a mindset to keep.  Especially as a new fic writer when no one recognized my username, it was a way to keep myself from losing motivation.  May agitosgirl always be my inspiration and role model🙏🏼.

But I wonder how can I return to that mindset in its purest form?  When I wrote It’s No Secret, I was ecstatic to hit 500 views.  I had about 5 readers who motivated me with their comments, and it was all very precious.  And It’s No Secret continues to be my favorite fic even though it’s far from my tightest writing.  (Isn’t it because I actually wrote that one just for myself?  Comments and kudos were all just bonus points.)

White Lilies is probably one of my least favorite stories.  If I were to rank my fics in order of preference, it would be near the bottom.  If I were to rank my fics in order of “fics I’d like NarutoDays (DAYS8) to be remembered for,” White Lilies would not be at the top, either.  I almost dislike that White Lilies is the story that caught people’s attention.

The best entertainment to me is inconsequential shows like HGTV, Say Yes to the Dress, and sparkly shoujo manga.  How is it that people don’t feel the same way??? lol jk

But to persevere in a story, that is a part of growth as a fic writer, too.  And to write for others’ enjoyment more than my own, that’s not a bad thing, even though I felt more stress...

OH but those White Lilies arts are certainly my faves.  Gorgeous and very good.  Yes.  Amazing on all accounts.  I wonder if I would have kept writing without them.    No?  Probably no, right?  Yeah, I would have stopped.  Since I started the story to just scratch the itch “Medicine” gave me.  Once that mosquito bite faded around chapter 3, I was ready to move on.  But now, very tangibly, other people I admire very much in the fandom spent actual time and effort in creating lovely pieces for the story.  I was blessed and that’s not something to ignore.  I mean, I could have.  At the most, that would just be disappointing.  At the least, White Lilies would be another hiatus fic in my list.  

Jeez, but it would be even more hypocritical to not acknowledge that the attention was very nice.  I can go so far as to say that I expected someone to keep giving me the affirmation that this junk was good since I wasn’t giving myself any kick of enjoyment.  Is that still dishonest.  I think I told a reader of White Lilies that I don’t ask people for comments or kudos.  That’s true, I don’t ask.  But I’ve expected it for White Lilies for the past few chapters.  Ew.  That’s gross Days, I hate that.  What if I closed comments on the last chapter of White Lilies.  That might be good.  Well I don’t have a good enough reason to do that.

I wonder if that’s why I dislike White Lilies.  Not for its angst.  Not for its difficult feelings and its difficult romance...well, actually, no, I dislike White Lilies for those reasons.  But on top of those things, the story has altogether gone against my foundation and motivation in fic writing.  Did I have fun.  ?  The comment section at the beginning was very stressful.  OMG no I shall never forget that one reader who got way too emotional about the story and made my comment section such a mess!  Why didn’t that reader put their little comments into one big comment.  For real.  Plus, it was an anon reader.  Don’t anonymous readers need to put their email address in every time they comment?  How humbug is that?  My goodness.

Oh ho ho nooooo that one reader who freaking told me to fix my writing using Grammarly.  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.  AHHHHHHHHHH.  AHHHHHHHHHH

...

So after that when I moderated the comments, I actually started to enjoy reading comments again.  Huh.  SO ACTUALLY when did I finally not feel anxiety anymore about the comment section.  Not until Chapter 5?  But that was the chapter I wasn’t happy with and ended up revising the ending after I published it.

I mean to tell myself that it’s only this most recent Chapter 6 that I felt good and normal and 安心 and ホッとしている to update.  I’m not kidding myself, what I terrible thing to realize now.  No wonder I dislike White Lilies.  The overall experience has not been that great.

Well “great” is too general a way to describe writing this story.  There’s been many wonderful things.  The new attention and recognition and compliments and gratitude were amazing.  The art.  The playlist.  The funny reader impatience in the asks 👏🏼.

OOOOOOOh the Bookmark summaries!!!!  

Hilarious 😂😂😂😂😂.  I love these too much.  These summaries give me life.  White Lilies in a nutshell.

Ahh yeah.  So funny.  Those are so good.  gogohai been making me laugh since August.

Remember at the start, I was so confused by the hit count on chapter 1 🤔.  I thought it was a bunch of antis accidentally clicking in, or SasuNaru fans or something, so I made those notes at the top that clearly stated how I’m not anti-NH.  It turns out everyone’s masochists for angst lol.

Anyway, I know I’ll finish this story.  What a strange feeling.  I think it must be because I worked so hard through the slumps already between Chapter 3 & 4, and Chapter 4 & 5, and Chapter 5 & 6, I know Chapter 7 will certainly happen, too.  How nice.

You know, White Lilies, it is what it is.  I have desensitized from mean comments.  Like, I think comments can’t hurt me anymore.  I’ll just be like 🤷🏻‍♀️ in response.  The attention on this story boosted my ego so much that I now know without a doubt that my writing is good enough and anyone who tells me otherwise can go ahead bumbai get bachi.

That’s really good.  For how unenjoyable it has been at many times, I have definitely sacrificed “fun” for “the sense of accomplishment,” and it’s not wrong or less valuable to spend my free time seeking accomplishment and completion in something so inconsequential as fanfiction.

However this story flipped my sense of purpose in writing, where accomplishment became tied to reader feedback.  Accomplishment usually ties to my sense of fun and enjoyment.  Instead I’ve been seeking that sense of fun in the readers, whether through their own personal enjoyment or through the number of comments/kudos/likes/reblogs.  How boring is that?  Ah!  Very boring.  It’s not wrong to seek validation through the readers.  Many writers and artists want their work to be seen and enjoyed by many because the act of sharing is in itself joyful.  Fine.  Haven’t I just found this a very tiring way to go about posting my stuff.  

I am nostalgic for my mentality of two years ago.

It’ll be good to finish White Lilies.  The excitement will be done and over with certainly, and this same amount of attention will never happen again.  As one of the nerdiest nerds in one of the nerdiest corners of nerdy fandom called Fanfiction, it’s a privilege to have my imagination on so many other people’s browser, to transport so many people away from their real life problems to fake problems instead lol, and to participate in an exchange of ideas with other writers and artists in the Naruto fandom.  What a great thing!

It’ll be even better to focus completely on stuff that I actually like, though, won’t it 💖.

[lorei-writes]

Warlords & apathetic/depressed MC

Featuring: Masamune, Nobunaga, Ieyasu (in that order)

Notes: I chose “apathetic/depressed MC” for the title, as I think it varies between my hc for each character (in Masamune’s headcanons MC is rather just apathetic, while in Nobunaga’s she seems to be depressed). 

Masamune:

It started slowly, with less and less things filling his lover’s eyes with joy.

Initially, he thought she was just tired - after all, she was always pushing herself to work more. Yet, he changed his mind after her state didn’t improve in a couple of days.

Firstly, he tried to engage her in some rather exciting activities - he’d ride with her through the fields and show her the nearby villages and towns.

He suspected his lover might just miss her friends from Azuchi, yet when he asked her about that, she denied.

Finally, Masamune gave up on guessing games and decided to simply ask her during dinner, for which he prepared their favorite meals.

“ Lass, I need to know - what is wrong? You haven’t been acting like yourself recently. Is something bothering you?” “ No, everything is fine,” she answered, a blank smile on her face. “ Just tell me,” Masamune insisted eagerly. “ How do I... ,” she sighed. “ It’s not that I don’t want to. I just don’t know. I don’t even know when it started. I just... Everything seems pointless. No matter what I do, all I see are flaws. My sewing and my art seem joyless and empty. And those places you took me? They were beautiful and the food was tasty, but in the end, all I felt was numbness. I just want to sleep... Masamune, I don’t know how to fix that.” He moved closer to her and hugged her. “ This feels nice, though,” she admitted. “ We’ll figure it out together, kitten,” he promised.

Masamune would encourage her to keep trying. Although he couldn’t solve her problem by himself, he’d try to do his best - he’d remind her of how meaningful her art is, how people appreciate her sewing; he’d try to introduce some (more) novelty into their lives; he’d take her to the places they had felt most alive.

Masamune would definitely encourage to build a support network for herself - he’d encourage her to meet new people, to make friends and to maintain friendships.

Slowly, but surely, his lover would get better.

Nobunaga:

He started being concerned about his lover once she claimed she wasn’t hungry the third day in a row. 

He would want to talk with her in private as soon as it was possible, as something was clearly bothering her. 

Nobunaga would prioritize his fireball over the workload, or at the very least he’d try - he couldn’t find her anywhere. 

His dissatisfaction was only worsened by urgent reports - a small army was gathering near the borders of his territory. Most likely, it was just local rebellion, yet he had to plan for his troops to be sent out. 

As soon as he wrapped his work up, he’d rush to look for his lover. 

This time, he’d find her in her room.

“I demand you tell me what is wrong,” Nobunaga said, sitting next to her.  “ Nothing, really. I just feel a bit odd.” “ Are you ill?” “ No, it’s all in my head, I suppose”, she answered, playing with her fingers.  “ Then tell me. Now.” “ You see, I just... I can’t find the motivation. I’ve been forcing through the days for some time now and... And it’s hard,” she answered hesitantly, carefully looking for words to describe her state. “ It almost feels as if I should just give up and sleep all day.” Nobunaga would take her hands into his. “ Your life belongs to me. If you can’t find any other reason to keep living, live for me.” 

He wouldn’t know how to help her, but he’d try. He’d remind her to take care of herself. He’d drag her out of bed. He’d make sure she ate properly. He’d try to entertain her and show her her worth and just how important she is for him.

Ieyasu:

He would know right when she stopped trying altogether.

She wasn’t even trying to disprove him. Whenever he told her she wasn’t doing something right, she just seemed... To believe him? 

It didn’t sit right with him. Ieyasu knew he was bad - really bad - with words. Yet, never before she had actually given up when he told her to.

He’d observe her carefully, in hopes of figuring it out. He noticed how apologetic she became, how she didn’t even attempt to stick up for herself.

Ieyasu tried being more encouraging of her, but then she started putting herself down on her own.

Finally, he’d gather himself and initiate a conversation about his concerns.

It would be at the end of the day, when they were lying in the futon, ready to fall asleep.

“Hey. What is going on?”, he started, averting his gaze from her. “I think I don’t understand the question.” “You do. Why are you so apologetic? Why have you started to give up?” After a few minutes, she spoke: “ I’m sorry I worried you. It’s really nothing.” Ieyasu bit his tongue, looking frantically for words to articulate himself. He looked her in the eyes. “Just tell me already,” he uttered.  “ I... I think it’s better if I give up. I can’t do a single thing right. I can’t focus on anything, but I also can’t rest. Ieyasu, I... I feel worthless. I feel guilty.” He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he hugged her tightly. “ You are not. You are none of those things,” he mustered.

Ieyasu would definitely watch his language since that talk. He would try to praise her, he would encourage her to challenge herself and to express the “ugly feelings” that clouded her mind. He’d probably also recommend her to be open about the matter with her other friends too.

[mohartproductions]

Why Am I still Here?

Ever since I was in Middle School there were so many things I wanted to be; at first I wanted to be a zoologist or paleontologist, then I shifted my interests towards animation, comics, voice acting and music making and singing. I always had dreams of bringing back hand-drawn animation in theaters, or at least helping to create some new animated shows I could assist on as an additional animator, character designer, or a writer or producer. But my Middle-School and High School never truly taught me, and me specifically.

I thought maybe I'd have better luck in college, but college just expected me to do the work, and if I don't get passing grades I can't get the degree I need to find the job I'm looking for.

I spent the last ten years of my life in college, mainly focusing on trying to do assignments and making them as best as I possibly can while sacrificing time I could've invested in my own personal projects, and maintaining a healthy life because of my neurodeficiency. I've been diagnosed with Aspergers Syndome since I was 3, and I had a hard time performing well in school ever since. And I may or may not have ADD or ADHD, which could also explain why I have such a hard time focusing and performing tasks well; tasks like reading, writing, even riding a bike. I also can't seem to properly control some of my motor skills, including how I talk: a monotone, nasally voice with a limited range which hampers any attempts I have with singing or acting out loud.

All the while I was surrounded by kids, teens, and young adults who were almost always better than me in every way: They're all smart, talented, athletic, beautiful, and have plenty of friends and even some romantic partners, while I'm almost always behind. Turns out, as someone in real life proposed, some of my animation peers specifically turned out so well because they actually got involved in summer programs back in California, Florida, or Chicago, which gave them a head start. Meanwhile I'm at a disadvantage cause I have to learn one on one, but I hadn't gotten that until recently, and now I don't even have hands on tutors because of this global pandemic, so now I'm struggling at home trying to figure out how to do things right for classes I'm not even interested in because I need those points for my graduation plan just to find a job that does interest me.

But you know what... I honestly believe now that I'll never get the career I want. I always wanted to start a career in animation, comic book art, writing, singing or voice acting while I'm still young, at least in my early 20s; just like Alex Hirsch and Rebecca Sugar have, and all the time I look at people on youtube like Brian Hull and Markiplier who all have started successful careers online, and some of them have even started working in television themselves like Cristina Valenzuela has.

They're all smart, beautiful, healthy, and incredibly talented and people love them for their talents; and meanwhile I'm still an obscure artist on Deviantart who's own artwork is still subpar, has not finished any stories I wanted to write, not even a pilot for any of the shows I want to make, which I make not even make anyway because The Owl House exists now, which is already just like the Diary of Aviril, which was my idea I wanted to make.

I could've invested more into voice acting as an alternative, but my voice still sucks, I still lack the proper recording equipment or environment for it, and for the last 2 or three years my grandma moved into my house which made it hard for me to do any sessions, let alone move into the room where I could've turned into a studio.

It just seems like every year I'm thrown with more and more crap that makes it harder for me to achieve my dream; neurodeficiencies, time mismanagement, inadequate work environments and educational methods, family issues, traffic, politics, economics, urban environments, and now a pandemic.

I wasted ten years of my life, ten years of my youth trying to obtain something I possibly might not even have anyway. I feel like I've been working for nothing. I want to give up, but if I do then all that time, energy, and resources I spent would be for nothing anyway. I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't.

I want to go back in time, tell my younger self as a little kid about my future; and all the things I want him/me to do and not do so I could make life much better for me and my family now. I should already be proving myself useful, I should already be happy making a career with the things I love doing, but now I'm even starting to dislike drawing altogether because of just how mediocre I am and will never improve on anything.

Damnit if I can't have the life I want to live, why the hell am I still here?! I'm past 27 now, still unemployed, still thin as a twig with bags underneath my eyes, still trying to earn something. I'm a mad dog chasing cars.

I don't know what else to do, and I don't know if I can do it alone. I can't keep relying on my family to pay for me, I honestly feel like a burden to them, still living with my parents, doing most of my work in a messy living room I use for a studio, still feeling bad they work so hard while I'm leeching off of them, while nearly everyone else is fairing better and have careers going for them. I can't stop hating myself, the world I live, and the life I was born into.

I tried being positive, I even tried helping people myself, but more and more the effort I put keeps coming all for not, and every time I try to convince myself that life is good and so are people, the world finds new ways of proving me wrong. I feel like my life is controlled by a bunch of monkeys in a typewriter room, or Destiny of the Endless from Neil Gaiman's Sandman. I can't support myself, I can't focus, I can't do things most other people seem to do fine on their own. I'm lost, and I can never go back. I think wheezer said it best: I may as well enjoy my life and watch the stars play...