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[trashmouthnick]

Emma To Bruce

Dear Bruce,

Oh, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. You don’t even know (because you are a diary and you never leave the house). I have spent the day among the mundanes. Not just mundanes. Tourists. All things considered, I’ll take the haunted cursed mansion, thanks.

When last I wrote we found out Ghost!Rupert thinks there’s a cursed object in this Herondale house on Curzon Street here in London. After that we have no idea, which is going to be a big problem because ley lines are, you know, lines, so objects could be anywhere along them. But one thing at a time.

It turns out the National Trust operates tours of the Curzon Street house—and I assume some Herondale in the past was smart enough to get rid of, or at least glamour the heck out of, anything too Shadowhuntery there. It’s advertised as being a recreation of a “typical Edwardian home,” which is close enough to the right time period for our purposes. So we got dressed up in mundane costumes—Jules found an excellent vintage Sex Pistols t-shirt in Arthur and Andrew Blackthorn’s Groovy Chambers of Love —and bought tickets for the 2:00 tour the next day.

What we learned from the house tour is that Edwardian décor mostly would look pretty okay in a modern house! It’s light and airy, lots of soft colors, cool patterned fabric, and so on. Oh, and we also learned the Edwardian movement missed Tatiana Blackthorn entirely, since everything about Blackthorn Hall is the very opposite of light and airy. Julian pointed out that she probably left it the way it was when her father died. Whereas I liked the feel of Curzon Street a lot, it was homey. I actually took a photo of some wallpaper and want to ask Tessa if she remembers who made it and, uh, whether they’re still in business I guess. What’s happened to us? We’re renovating a house. I feel so old.

The tour was fine, I guess, lots of detail about eras and maker’s marks and furniture. People asked ridiculous questions—one of the American couples demanded to know where the piano was and when the guide said sorry, no piano, they got angry and told her that all Edwardian homes had a piano so there must be one, and she had to kind of apologize and move on. It was awkward and I did not feel great about the people of my land.

But mostly I was tuned out of all that. The house was interesting enough. Persian carpets everywhere! An ivory chess set! A pewter-clad bathtub! Oh, there was a framed playbill from the time period that was obviously from some Downworlder nightclub, that was kind of cool. But most importantly, none of these were things enchanted by Tatiana.

I spent most of the time looking for anything that made it clear Shadowhunters lived here. The only thing I really saw was that there were a bunch of weapons used for decoration, which the tour guide noted was not appropriate to the period. Of course you and I know, Bruce, that weapons are always appropriate décor. But it’s like Julian always says, sometimes you don’t even need glamours, because mundanes don’t see what they don’t want to see. Like, the tour guide went on and on about a beautiful jadeite sculpture atop one of the mantels and said nobody knew what the shape was meant to represent. And it was obviously meant to be displaying a sword that is long gone.

Anyway we

Oh, wait.

It’s not long gone. I know where it went. It’s on the dressing table on the other side of the room. I can see it from where I’m writing this.

A real chill just went up my spine, thinking of that. At the house today I was thinking about the people who lived there, James Herondale and Cordelia Carstairs, but to be honest I didn’t really feel an emotional connection to them while I was there. Maybe it’s just that all the really personal stuff would have been taken out of the house before it became a museum. But also, just…I didn’t know them. Tessa and Jem did, of course, and Magnus, and heck, maybe some of the other warlocks, I don’t know. But I didn’t, and I never will.

But you know who else knew them? Cortana knew them. I wish I’d brought it with me to the house today. (But nooooo, Julian said only weapons that could be completely concealed. And what if the tour guide had turned out to be an Eidolon demon lying in wait for us? I would have faced it with a bootknife smaller than I’d use to peel an apple with. Though it would have been an Eidolon demon that knew a lot about turn of the century furniture. ANYWAY, we were there to find an object, so let me finish that story.)

We were in one of the spare bedrooms, looking at the scrollwork on the bed or whatever. The tour guide was showing off some of the objects on the bedside tables, and the Sensor went off like crazy.

The tour guide gave us an evil look. “Turn off that phone,” she said to me, and the whole tour group flounced off to another room while I pretended to be trying to find my phone in my extremely ugly waist pack. Jules grabbed the Sensor, and it led us to —  a music-box on the windowsill. A very ugly music box. Well, maybe not ugly. Very overdecorated, just covered in bits and bobs and, like, way too much for a music box. There was a monkey figurine involved. It was a lot. Anyway, it was an excellent example of the mid-Victorian etc etc but also it was an object Tatiana cursed and, I guess, someone liked it enough to find it and bring it back here???

After that it was just a matter of waiting till the tour moved on, glamouring up, grabbing the music box, sneaking back out of there, and hoping nobody who worked there had the Sight. Which they didn’t. So now we have a music box to show Rupert in the morning and ask Tessa about. I hope it wasn’t hers or anything like that. I think of her as having better taste.

Okay, that’s it for now, Bruce. I’m going to go get Cortana so I can reach out and touch it from the bed. Julian always teases me when I do that but tonight it feels right. Catch you later.

Emma

[trashmouthnick]

Emma to Bruce

Dear Bruce,

It’s been a quiet couple of days, and I’ve hated every single second. After I gave Jules the diary, he retreated to the half-painted ballroom to read it. When he’d come out, he’d look thoughtful, sometimes serious, but he didn’t want to talk about what he’d read. And Bruce — neither did I. Even though I knew Jules was upset with me for not telling him about the diary, I couldn’t explain why I hadn’t. And when I tried to think about why I hadn’t, my mind just skipped over the question, like a needle over a broken groove in a record.

We talked about other things. Round Tom, the curse on the house, a letter from Ty, a letter from Luke at the Academy about some trouble Dru got into with her roommate. (I feel like this is a good sign that she likes her roommate. It’s always good to have someone to be bad with.) But there was something faraway in Julian’s eyes, something distant and unapproachable.

I missed him.

It made me think of the bad times, when Julian and I couldn’t really talk, and every time I wanted to talk to him I couldn’t say what I felt, that I loved him, that I always would love him, because it was illegal and impossible. I had to fold the real meaning of what I wanted to say into ordinary conversation, so when I’d say How are you, or Are you using the car today, I’d really mean, I love you, I love you.

I was sitting on a stool in the kitchen this afternoon, marking boxes. Some of the old stuff in the manor we’re keeping to make a permanent part of the house. Some of it is getting packed up for the kids to go through, see if there’s anything they want to keep. There’s an old clock I think Ty will like, and some tin toy soldiers for Tavvy, and lots of creepy old lace for Dru to examine. I was kind of listlessly marking the contents of each box with a pen when Julian came into the kitchen, an odd expression on his face.

“Ask me about the diary, Emma,” he said.

I started a little. He looked so strange, and a little pale (maybe that’s just lack of sun . . . sorry, England!) So I put my pen down and asked him how reading the diary was going.

“I don’t remember,” he said, and then closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were blazing, like someone lit a fire behind that gorgeous blue-green color I love so much. “Except I do. I remember. But my mind doesn’t want me to say so. Mark texted me,” he added, and I nodded along, like I knew what this had to do with anything. “He said the diary was probably enchanted. And of course it is. Don’t you see? There’s a slippery sort of enchantment on it, one that makes you not want to talk about it after you’ve read it, or even think about it that much.”

Of course. It made so much sense — why I never seemed to remember to tell Jules about the diary, or anyone else; why I kept it hidden under the bed instead of in plain sight on the nightstand. I exhaled a shuddery breath. “I feel so stupid —“

“No.” Jules was across the room to me in a flash. He took my face between his hands, and a shiver went up my spine. He looked so serious, so intense. Jules had to grow up so fast, and in moments like this he almost scares me with how adult he seems — not that either of us are children, and we’ve been through a lot more than most people our age, but there’s something about his presence that he can summon up sometimes, something commanding.

It’s pretty hot, actually.

“No,” he said again. He gently stroked my cheekbone with his thumb. “Emma. It was a spell. It made you not think about the diary, it literally pulled the thoughts out of your mind — I know because it’s been happening to me, too. You can’t blame yourself. You can blame me — I should have guessed what was going on. I was too busy worrying that you were keeping something from me, when I should have known better.” His voice dropped, low and raspy. “Be angry at me,” he said. “I deserve it.”

I turned my head, kissed the palm of his hand. Felt the shiver that went through him. “There’s nothing to be angry about,” I whispered. “Just . . . “

“Take me to bed,” I said. I blushed, too. I don’t usually say that kind of thing but I didn’t care at the moment. His eyes widened and he pulled me right off the stool, lifted me up in his arms. I wrapped my legs around his waist, grabbed the lapels of his shirt, and kissed him. He groaned and kissed me back and then he was carrying me through the house, and we were kissing like we couldn’t breathe otherwise. He kicked open the door of the bedroom and we fell on the bed together . . .

And that’s it, Bruce. No more details for you. Suffice it to say that it was a while later and the sun had almost set when we started talking again, at least in words of more than one syllable. We were tangled up in the paisley sheets, and Jules was leaning over me, propped on one elbow. I was dancing my fingers up and down his arm, which was hard with muscle (thank you, Shadowhunter training.)

“Well,” I said. “That was nice, but I’m not sure it totally solved our problem.”

“Nice?” Julian looked outraged. “Puppies are nice. Fuzzy pajamas are nice. Kraig’s retirement party was nice. That was . . .”

“Spectacular,” I said. “There, are you happy?”

“Spectacular is a start.”

“Julian . . .”

He grinned. “No. It doesn’t solve the problem. The diary has a spell on it, and we shouldn’t mess with it until the spell is off. I think we should go to the Shadow Market. See if we can find someone willing to remove the enchantment.”

“You don’t want to ask Magnus?”

“We can’t keep bothering Magnus.” He sat up, which provided me with a nice view. I enjoyed it for a while while he rummaged in the drawer of his nightstand. He turned back to me, holding a gift-wrapped package. He was wearing a serious expression. “I meant to give you this for Valentine’s Day,” he said. “But I don’t want to wait. I know you said there’s nothing to be angry about, but I’m still so sorry, Emma. I trust you, entirely. There’s never been anyone I trusted more.”

He gave me the package, which was good because I thought otherwise I might cry. It had been an emotional day. The present turned out to be a gorgeously framed picture of the two of us on the London Eye; I couldn’t even figure out how he’d gotten it framed, or when.

“We look so happy,” I said, delighted.

“I always want you to be that happy,” Julian said. “I want to make you that happy. And I’ll spend my life doing it.”

Then I did cry, and he kissed me, and well, that’s all you need to know, Bruce. Maybe I’ll tell you about the Shadow Market when we go. Until then . . .

Emma

[trashmouthnick]

Julian to Mark

Mark Blackthorn

℅ Helen Blackthorn

Los Angeles Institute

Malibu, CA

Dear Mark,

Don’t worry about the parchment scroll yet, I’ll get to it at the end of the letter.

Hello from Chiswick! It’s pronounced like chizzick, it’s just outside central London, and it is a collapsing ruin. The house, I mean, not the neighborhood, which is cozy, a little suburban, lots of green space, quiet. You’d like it.

I should have been in touch before, I know that – and I’m sorry. We had to move fast to save this place and I knew a fire-message wouldn’t reach you. Blackthorn Hall may be a ruin, but it’s our family’s legacy, one of the very few things that we’ve inherited from Blackthorns past. I feel this sense of responsibility, a need to preserve the place for Tavvy and Dru, for Ty and Liv — well. You know.

It was us or the Clave, and they would have knocked it down and put something else in its place. It’s easily in bad enough shape that knocking it down would be the practical move. But it’s ours, and I kind of love it. I mean, if we don’t love it, who will? It can be truly beautiful again, I believe that. You should visit when you get a chance—all of you there are invited, of course—but be warned that if you come in the next couple of months you will be put to work.

This brings me to the parchment, which is the estimate and contract from the faerie builders for the renovation work on the house. I was hoping you and Kieran could look it over for faerie trickery, both in terms of whether their rates seem reasonable, and also to make sure they don’t get Tavvy if we’re late with payment, that kind of thing. They came highly recommended—they’re brownies? I think? They look like big garden gnomes. I mean, it’s probably the pointy hats. They could take them off, of course, but I guess they like them. They must know they look like garden gnomes. Anyway, they seem trustworthy and industrious and all that. But faeries do love tricking humans. Let me know what you think.

Oh, I should explain that there is one part of the house that is in all right shape and has all the “mod cons,” as they say here. It was redone in the Sixties and, well… it is groovy. The cons are Mod as well as mod. I am not sure you will get that joke but don’t worry about it, it was pretty stupid. The thing is, I’d never thought about it, but I realized this must have been fixed up by our grandparents. The timing works out. So this must be where Dad lived, once. And Uncle Arthur. It was where they grew up. And I realized: they, too, must have been groovy.

Arthur. Must have at one point. Been really groovy.

I just want you to sit with that for a moment, the way I did. It creates a feeling I believe to have never been felt before by any human being in the world.

You should see the clothes. I mean, really. You should see them. There’s a consignment shop’s worth of vintage stuff here and none of it suits me at all. You’re welcome to it but it is almost all synthetic fabrics and would not go over in Faerie itself.

Aaand I know I’m rambling. I was trying to avoid saying this, but there’s something about this house. It reminds me of some of the nights you and I used to ramble around the Institute back home. Which I know is weird, London couldn’t be more different than the Santa Monica Mountains — I miss the wildfire tang in the air, the smell of the chaparral and sage, the coarse dirt under our feet. (Do you miss it too? I feel like it has to be very different where you are in Faerie.) But there were plenty of times, especially when we were younger, when we’d tell ghost stories out there and scare ourselves that something was watching us. Maybe something was, though I’m inclined to think now that it was something friendly. Here in this house I get the same watched feeling, like there are eyes on me, shadows I see out of the corners of my own eyes that disappear when I turn around.

Anyway, I really wish you were here. I’d bring it up with Emma, but I don’t want to freak her out. She’s started the massive job of sorting through decades of papers and journals that used to belong to the people who lived here, and I’ve started painting the ballroom. I know Emma has been in touch with Cristina, please send my love to her and to K as well!

Your loving bro,

Julian

PS: I realize now I don’t know where this letter will find you, so let me clarify that “all of you are invited” from the LA Institute, not “all of you are invited” from the Unseelie Court.

[trashmouthnick]

Dearest Magnus,

Jem, Kit and I are so looking forward to your visit. In preparation, Kit has been attempting to teach Mina to say your name. She’s almost got it, but you may have to content yourself with being called “Agnes,” as she has trouble with the M — very trying for her as she is so advanced in her speech, just as you say Max was. You should have heard them in the kitchen this morning. “Who is coming to visit, Mina?” “Agnes!” I feel that your alter ego, Agnes, would wear sequins and be absolutely deadly at whist.

Thank you for your thoughts about the wards. I will look for labradorite at the gem store in Exeter. I tried what you suggested with the chickens—I was able to borrow a Blue Orpington from a neighbor on the last quarter moon. Since then chickens seem to be avoiding Kit, so maybe it will work on demons too? (Though can you really tell when a chicken is avoiding someone as opposed to just being a chicken?)

Jem and I are endeavoring to walk a narrow line, keeping Kit safe and hidden while also providing him with the most normal life we can. We don’t want to lock him away in a tower like a fairytale princess—he’d be miserable. And Mina would be miserable, she just adores him and rides everywhere on his back, clutching onto his shirt with her little hands. It reminds me of the way James and Lucie used to ride on Will’s shoulders. I suppose times change, but children never do.

We’re trying to allow Kit freedom wherever we can. He’s enrolled at the small school in the village, where a few of his friends know about the Shadow World and others don’t. There’s a local pack of werewolves who we’ve become friendly with, and some of their children go to school with him. I’ve begun to suspect that Kit has a girlfriend, but he’s secretive about it. (I guess that’s another thing that never changes about children—how secretive they are. I just hope he knows he can tell us anything. Especially related to demons, or in Kit’s case, the fey. A hundred and ten years later and I’m still edgy.)

He’s a puzzle, our Christopher Jonathan Herondale. About some things he’s opened up, and is willing to talk to Jem and me about them freely — his father, and what it was like growing up being able to see all sorts of peculiar things but not really understanding why. About being taught to fear Shadowhunters. About his concerns about his heritage — what it means, what kind of power he might have. I think it frustrates him, not knowing.

Other things he won’t talk about. We have asked him about Ty, as you and I discussed, but he’s like a brick wall about their friendship. Whatever happened he won’t speak of it. I think Livvy’s death hit him harder than we guessed, too. I’ve heard him call out her name in his sleep, always in this very despairing way. Sometimes he’ll say Not if you do this. Not if you do this, Ty. I feel like whatever they fought about, it must have been awful. But people can be terrible when they’re grieving; we both know that.

You can probably tell from everything I’ve said how much I — how much we — love Kit. I just love him, Magnus, like he was my own. He is my own. I’d kill anyone who wanted to hurt him, just as I would protect Mina or Jem with my life. I never thought I’d have this again, this perfect family I love so much it hurts. Strange after so many years to be so surprised by one’s own feelings — but I imagine it’s much the same for you, isn’t it? Speaking of which, I hope you and Alec and the kids are well. Please let Max know that we found his superhero cape—it was inside the piano.

I enclose a picture from your last visit here. How adorable they all are!

Love,📷

Tessa

[trashmouthnick]

Dear Cristina, from Emma

Dear Cristina,

I was going to try addressing this letter to Polyamorous Cottage In Faerieland, but I figured it might never be delivered. :) Ok, ok, I’m kidding. I’m sending it to the New York Institute—Clary says she’ll hold onto it for you. I know Jules and I have been popping around the globe like ping-pong balls, but we’ve finally settled here in London for at least a couple of months, so you can — and should — write me back at the London Institute — I’m not sure the place we’re staying even has an address.

(And sure, I could have just sent you a fire-message, but I have too much to tell you. Buckle up.)

So, a while ago Jules and I were in Manaus, in Brazil, studying Curupiras, when we got called into the Rio Institute. They had a message for Julian. His great-aunt — yeah, the one he was visiting when you first came to L.A. — had died. Really sad. And then, remember the beautiful house in Sussex where she lived? Well, she left that to some cousin nobody’s heard of, but she left Julian Blackthorn Hall. Which is a crumbling ruin in Chiswick (kind of a suburb of London). And then we had to come here, because of a codicil in the will (ahem, according to the dictionary, that’s “an addition or supplement that explains, modifies, or revokes a will or part of one”). Either Julian has to fix the place up, get it livable again, in five years, or he has to donate it to the Clave.

Anyway, you know how Julian is. He makes up his mind fast. We Portaled to London the next day after he got the news.

I was all set to eat scones, drink tea, and go on the Eye (all the things I didn’t get to do last time we came to London, due to being pursued by unkillable Faerie warriors.) But that was before we took a black cab from the Institute out to Chiswick and really saw the place.

From the outside it looks like a museum or an old library—you know, big marble columns, grand staircase, big metal dome on top that looks like it should have a telescope in it. (It doesn’t; I checked.) But inside it’s more like a fairytale. Not, like, something from Faerie. Or something from a kid’s movie. It’s like one of those fairytales where a crumbling palace sleeps for a thousand years. It was kind of romantic, for about five minutes. Then we spotted the first rat, nibbling on the tassel end of one of the drapes.

It’s a weird mix of interesting history, weird old art, and total ruin. There are cool portraits of old Blackthorn ancestors, mostly intact. Julian says he doesn’t recognize most of the faces. Some of them have names written on the back of the canvas or on the frame but other than “Blackthorn” none of the names mean anything to any of us. There are wooden chests full of ancient books and papers, and beautiful overgrown grounds that I’m sure were once gardens and are now England’s version of a jungle. There’s an old greenhouse and a weird little brick structure we can’t figure out. (Storage shed? Very small weapons room?) The whole place is just a mess, and most of the house isn’t habitable at all anymore. Someone built an apartment with “updates” off in one wing, probably in the sixties. (The apartment, by the way, reminds me of that vintage shop in Topanga I dragged you to. Remember?) Whoever lived in it left a closet of all kinds of vintage clothes and there’s crazy flower-patterned wallpaper and modern art everywhere. At least the apartment has electricity, running water, and heat, because the rest of the house definitely doesn’t —

I’m back now. Sorry, had to stop writing for a second. Julian was calling me. He was up in what was probably a ballroom? But anyway he took a wrong step and his foot went through the floor. (Not all the way through the floor, which is a relief. But it definitely made a hole.) The ballroom is big and dusty, but you can see how long ago it must have been beautiful, and very fancy. It has these huge French doors that open onto marble balconies, though most of the glass in the doors is gone now.

Once I freed Jules from the broken floor I figured it was my only chance to try to talk some sense into him, so I pointed out that this is a gigantic project for two people who have never fixed up a house before, and that we have a perfectly fine place to live already. And the weather is better there.

Jules, being Jules, took his time answering, really thinking about what I’d been saying. Then he said, “If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to do it. You’re more important to me than a house. Any house.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to do it,” I said. “I just don’t even know where to start.”

Jules calmly explained that he’d been in contact with some faerie builders of some kind, hobgoblins maybe? who would be here Monday to do “a walkthrough.” Then he put his arms around me and said, “I know we can always live in the L.A. Institute. I love it there, too. But as much as any Blackthorn legacy exists, this is it. All these old papers, whatever secrets the house is hiding, they’re our family history. I want to pass it on to Dru and Ty and Tavvy. I want to give them what I never had.”

Well, what could I say to that? I get it. I have Jem as my living family history. Jules doesn’t have anything like that. And while Aline and Helen run the L.A. Institute now, they might not always, and besides, it belongs to the Clave. I get that he feels like he can’t give away a big chunk of his family’s history without giving them a choice in the matter.

I said, “All right. We’ll see what we can do. If we ever decide it’s too much, we can hold a big family meeting and everyone can vote. Keep the place or not.”

He picked me up and swung me around. Then we started kissing. I’ll be merciful and not give you the details.

So I’ve decided to consider all this An Adventure. It’s like an archeological site, and we are intrepid historians. Later I’ll see if I can convince Jules to put on a tweed coat and a pith helmet while we sort through the debris. Because whoever lived here before had a lot of stuff. It’s a big house, and every room has furniture with drawers and cabinets, and inside every drawer and every cabinet is clutter. Rusty weapons, water-damaged books, little boxes with more clutter in them, costume jewelry, portraits of random people, broken teacups…And remember, we’ll be going through it without any light but witchlights.

Anyway. I wanted to let you know what I was up to, and where we were. Our travel year was basically over anyway, so this is a sort of way of extending it and spending more time together. I’m not sad about that part. I was actually doing pretty well psyching myself up for the excavation of Blackthorn History, until this morning.

I know I said the house seemed haunted, but I was joking. Mostly. I’m not Kit; I can’t see ghosts unless they want me to see them, and so far I haven’t come across any ectoplasmic spirits with messages from The Beyond. But the place does feel odd — I keep finding myself turning around at the end of long, spiderwebby hallways, as if expecting to see something in the shadows. Or imagining I glimpse something over my shoulder in the mirror. I chalked it all up to nerves until this morning, when I came into the dining room and saw that the words “GO AWAY” were written in the dust on the floor.

I literally jumped. I was actually reaching for Cortana before I got a hold of myself. Don’t be ridiculous, I thought. That message could have been written any time. Long before we got to the house. It could have been sitting here in the dust for years, undisturbed.

I have a confession to make, though. I rubbed the GO AWAY message away with my foot. I didn’t want Julian to see it. He worries too much as it is. I didn’t want him to have that same bad moment of shock that I did, especially over something unimportant.

I feel better getting the story off my chest to you, though. Oh dear, Julian is calling for me again, I can’t wait to see what he’s put his foot through this time. I will write again soon, and in the meantime pip pip cheerio from London!

Love to you and the boys,

Emma

[trashmouthnick]

Can’t stop thinking about how attack on titan is not a romance but how its narrative hinges upon the most devastating love stories I’ve encountered in fiction.

How Ymir and Historia cling to each other under the burden of a crown they didn’t ask for.

How Eren, the definition of an “attack” protagonist does anything and everything for Armin, who shrinks away from violence (despite having to become the embodiment of war).

How Erwin gave Levi the sky, and it is a debt that Levi knows he can never repay.

How subtly yet thoroughly they work Moblit into every scene, a step behind Hanji, cautioning them and supporting them, so that you don’t even notice him until he’s gone.

How Mikasa’s “Akerbond” to Eren goes so much further, so much deeper, because he exhibited such raw, unfettered inhumanity in the name of protecting her when she was a child, when he barely even knew her, and that is all she knows of love.

How Connie feels like he’s lost half of himself with Sasha gone.

How much Carla loved her son.

How much of an impact Marco made on Jean.

How Armin could eat Bertoldt’s love for Annie and have it latch onto his own admiration of her.

How Marlowe thought of Hitch as he was dying.

How Reiner keeps going for the kids he has to mentor.

How Falco put himself between Gabi and danger over and over again.

How violently Sasha’s family mourned but how reverent of her spirit they were to forgive her killer.

Idk man I just think for a show that started off as kids fighting giants and turned into “my war crime is worse than your war crime”, it is driven almost entirely by unique, poignant and thoroughly convincing love stories.

[trashmouthnick]

Who would know that illustrating a Little comic of Eruri family AU would give me so much joy and serotonin to my brain 😩💖

It took me a while to finish this idea but I'm so happy with the results. I hope to make more of this AU 🥺💖✨✨✨

If any of you wonder why Erwin and Armin a aren't at the tea party is just because they're reading books also... Erwin last time broke the chair trying to sit in it 🤷

Instagram

[trashmouthnick]

[trashmouthnick]

kageyama is trying. like he’s trying

[image is a diagram-like drawing of kageyama’s face in profile; a thought bubble on his head reads “this is the most radiant creature in the world. i have been searching for this boy my entire life. the person i am today only exists because i met him.” then an arrow leads to his mouth which is saying “oi hinata boke”]

[trashmouthnick]

i found the Haikyuu exhibit chibis in HD and tried to make them transparent ✨✨✨

[trashmouthnick]

are they..... ......... you know?

[trashmouthnick]

what ISN’T volleyball but FEELS like volleyball??

[images are two drawings of hinata and kageyama, wearing their away game karasuno jerseys and kissing. in the first, hinata is jumping up, and kageyama is hoisting up around the waist; in the second, hinata’s on his tiptoes and hauling kageyama in with an arm around his neck, while kageyama hunches slightly.]

[trashmouthnick]

catboys fight catboys sleep

[trashmouthnick]

*boyfriend noises*

[trashmouthnick]

Dawn

[trashmouthnick]

“We never use transfiguration as a punishment, we only do appropriate punishments, like sending students alone into the dangerous forest at night”

[trashmouthnick]

ferrets in hats mood bort