This is mainly an art and fanfic blog and meant to be for little sketches, doodles, full drawings or even just some funny rants about the fandoms I love.
Also to promote my little fanfics, which can be found here https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creo_Terative
The Fandoms in question being:
-Pokémon
-Diablo
-Warrior Cats
-The Walking Dead Game
-How to train your Dragon
-Drifting Dragons
-Kingdom Hearts
-Attack on Titan
-Red Dead Redemption
...and many more, but that would probably be too much here xD
The first time he saw light in it's rawest form, was when he crossed the line he never even new existed. Guided by her laughter, lead by her excitement, he followed slowly. Distant, quiet, attentive. Nothing had changed, it seemed. But as the turquoise sparkles finally hit his skin, something began to tuck at his insides. Unfamiliar and raw. At that moment, Paul understood what Dawn had tried to tell him all along - the world was vast, deep and full of wonders. And there was no greater gift than marvelling at it.
I'd planned to paint something for my other little story on AO3, Abyssal Rispetto.
Well, my exam on monday went well and I was motivated a lot to try something new. I usually don't delete the Sketch Layer, I've only done that... three times maybe? It's exciting though and since I love background paintings, I decided it was time, to try something more complicated now - bodies without sketches.
And now I'll go to bed.
Hope you're all well and I wish you a nice little holiday, if you celebrate it!
Part two of the three biiiig chapters featured in the current act :D
Still at home, Paul struggles with feelings of guilt and finds himself trapped between worlds.
Dawn on the other hand tries to grant him time for himself, time to calm down and remember happier times.
Eventually, Paul decides, that denial might be a good path for now. Or is it...?
Read for yourselves! :D
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
SNEEEAAAAK PEEEEEKKKK
Fluffy willow catkins drifted to the ground in undulating lines, followed by the wing-like seed heads of the maple tree, which rose from the warm summer soil just a few metres from the riverbank. It wouldn’t be long before the brown earth was barely visible beneath the fallen shoots of the surrounding trees. The wind carried a pleasant scent that made Paul think of various events whose origins he couldn't always quite piece together. They were fragments, snippets of images, nothing more, yet they were enough to direct his thoughts to those old, faded photographs, in the form of which he liked to store his memories.
That made it easier to sort and pull them out as if from an album. Above all, this scent had brought barbecues back to his mind. It smelled of thyme, strangely mixed with a hint of garlic and oil. Was it sunflower oil? Or perhaps rapeseed? Paul liked rapeseed. When, towards the start of summer, the many fields bloomed in brilliant yellow and exuded that typical, sweet-sour scent, he simply felt at home.
Back when he was just a little boy, his mother had led him by the hand through a vast field of rapeseed. The flowers towered a whole head above him and Paul couldn’t make out where she was actually taking him, but that didn’t matter in the slightest. He trusted his mother unconditionally, as only a child could, following her tall figure like a moth to the flame. Her smile had been seared into him as if a hot iron had been pressed to his forehead, yet Paul could barely remember her voice. Damn this weak, young memory for failing to retain this such an essential detail.
At the end of the rapeseed field there had been a small plot of land, perhaps 25 square metres in size. Nothing striking and certainly nothing special, yet his mother had always treated this place like an untouched sanctuary. On the north side it bordered an open deciduous forest, the west and south sides offered views of the surrounding fields, and to the east one could look down on the neighbouring village. A lovely spot for a picnic, stargazing or simply sitting. Like a tickling blade of grass on the back of his neck, the memory of his own childish laughter crept into his thoughts and Paul had to smile as an old wooden train came to mind he’d often played with there. Even though the wheels were constantly getting stuck on blades of grass caught in them.
It was lovely memories that this smell brought back, apart from those of the barbecues. Dawn had really had to persuade her husband for a long time to attend his first one, because even today Paul was still very reluctant to go out in public unless he absolutely had to. After the third one, however, he had taken an unusual fancy to trying his hand with the barbecue tongs. He would never have thought that barbecuing would be so much fun, even now, he skilfully concealed his enjoyment of it. Otherwise people might invited them over more often in the summer and Paul really didn't feel like a personal chef – except for Dawn, but he did that deliberately as well.
Paul picked up one of the slender willow catkins, twirled it back and forth between his fingers a few times before letting it drift into the water of the river flowing quietly before him. At this time of year, the current was calm and serene, as the river was not as full as it was back in spring. It did not roar as it flowed, but glided silently past his shoes, smoothly, as if it could sense his longing for absolute tranquillity and adapt to it.
The river, which had crept into his dreams uninvited, was well known to him. In the summer he’d gone swimming there with Reggie, but never again after the incident at the waterwheel. Now that he was considerably taller and could withstand the current, he might well try it again in the near future. Perhaps even with Dawn? Despite all his attempts to resist it, he couldn’t help but let an image take root in his mind that, whilst awake, would surely grant him a grin. A proud grin, proud of her, of her beauty, her free spirit, her zest for life. And... well. Something else, but before he could form the word in his mind, he pushed the image aside, so as not to get any sillier ideas. A soft snort expressed his dissatisfaction with himself, which vanished into amusement, a slight twitch of the right corner of his mouth. In fact, Paul was glad that in such absurd moments, he could finally laugh at himself a little. Even if only at night, avoiding the gaze of others.
He missed country life. The simple life. A life he’d only just found his feet in, which had settled into a long-awaited, peaceful rhythm before being destroyed again by people Paul didn’t even know by name. The wonderful idyll that Dawn and he had built together was history, no matter how hard they tried to fight to get it back. A few long letters couldn’t give him what he wanted most: her. Until the war came to an end, Paul’s life would never have the chance to be as it had been before. Perhaps it never would again.
At least here, in his deepest, rarest dreams, Paul could count himself lucky to find something that at least pretended to be peace. Not always, oh no. The nightmares were ever-present, even though Paul rarely dreamt at all. He had always put it down to his lack of creativity, which Dawn claimed was simply expressed differently, but Paul didn’t believe her. How often had he sat for hours in front of a blank sheet of paper, not even knowing exactly where to begin in order to offer his wife something worth reading? How often had he already drawn on lines from books he’d read in the past to give his letters an interesting, expressive tone? Too often to claim much creativity for himself.
Be that as it may. His dreams, when they were like this one, usually remained quite unimaginative and relaxed. That was how he liked it, and that was how he wanted it to stay. The relentless screech of artillery in his ears fell silent. No miserable wandering through unfamiliar woods, where death might lurk behind every tree, every bush, every ruin left standing. Mines, grenades, armadas. None of them here.
Training, as fun and exciting as it is, can be quite exhausting, even after all these years.
What started as a quick round of chess, turned out to be an intensive battle of the mind, which... doesn't help with the recovery. These two don't seem to mind though - their eyes are on the win.
A little break from all the training, all the fighting, all the getting stronger.
Paul and his best buddy Turtwig are playing a friendly game of Checkers in the living room to cool off from their journey and the hard climb to become the very best.
My (almost) two year old nephew, who I watch regularly for my younger sister, is a great fan of what I draw. Well, he is a great fan of most pictures anybody draws, but for some reason he really likes one drawing I made years ago and still keep as my phone background.
It's the drawing of Paul chilling on Torterra's back in a field of rose flowers.
I've had that as a background for as long as the drawing exists and now my nephew's old enough to understand different parts of images. So one day I told him about Paul and the picture, just a quick "Look, that's Paul, he's a sleepy guy."
From then on my nephew almost daily greets me with a "Paul macht heia!", which is the kids way of saying "Paul is sleeping!". For some reason it is quite facinating to see him smile full of joy whenever I open up my phone and Paul pops up, still chilling on Torterra, still being the funny sleepyhead my nephew seems to imagine.
Nowadays he even asks me randomly to show him my phone, only for him to point at Paul, say "Paul macht heia!" and repeat it over and over again.
It never changes, it's always the same, but something about the fact, that my favorite Pokémon character, who brought many great things into my life (the Fandom, going to Munich, meeting his german voice actor, the list goes on), sparks such joy in my little nephew... feels great.
Home once more, Dawn has to face her own insecurities and especially her own perception of self-worth.
Paul on the other hand has to learn how to f*cking relax again.
And, uh, that's it. In a nutshell.
If you want more, you can read the whole chapter riiight on AO3 :D
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
SNEAK PEEEEK
It was Good Friday, the first day of the Easter holidays. Two days to go, and then a whole year would have passed since Dawn had sent her first letter to the front. Back then, there had still been a week to go until Easter. And with it, the anticipation that Dawn had felt all those years before for this celebration of eternal life had faded.
The woods had turned greener, as had the meadows. Outside, the air smelled of fresh grass and the birds sang their familiar songs tirelessly; in many nests, the chicks were already hatching. Spring. Her favourite season, when the wind carried love through the sky and let it gently drift down onto the forest floor, covered in soft morning dew. When the joy of life returned to people and, in the villages and towns, the hectic pace of everyday life after those cold, harsh winter months.
The big change lay in the little things, just as the devil was proverbially in the detail. The villagers hung their washing out again, where the now stronger sun could dry it. They went for walks, alone, in pairs, in threes, chatting, singing songs, getting into a festive mood. And the cats returned. Some even with little kittens in tow, whose cute snub-noses were already eagerly exploring every corner of this vast, new environment.
Dawn didn’t have to go to work today; nobody did. As one of Christianity’s most cherished holidays, Good Friday offered workers time to rest, remember and mourn. At Easter, the cheerfulness that came with the festival of the Resurrection would return, but until then, people practised patience. They gathered leaves, painted eggs, and prepared their festive garments, just as tradition dictated. One of the few who had not yet been shaken by the impact of the war. As if life would hardly change, as long as there were still a few festivals to celebrate.
Dawn’s night had been restless. She had allowed herself to lie in bed a little longer today, in the hope of perhaps making up for the lost sleep with a little more rest, but this had done nothing to counter the nervousness that was always smouldering within her. Consequently, Dawn did not run a hot bath until eight o’clock in the morning. The water pipes to the washbasins were set to cold water only, and despite this, they were already more modern than most pipes that a mere mortal could afford. A gem she had recently treated herself to was a cast-iron bathtub, beneath which sat a small stove. So she could heat the water or let it run cold as she pleased.
Despite all her reservations, Dawn had spent part of her inheritance on the plumbing and the heated bathtub. Paul had tried to talk her out of it; after all, it had been agreed that neither he nor Dawn herself would ever touch their parents’ money unless it was an absolute emergency. Well, Dawn had considered this an emergency. A proper, modern, middle-class water supply made life so much easier for them – a great deal easier, in fact. And Paul hadn’t complained either, once the pipes had been fitted. But what would he say about this new bath? It would probably be the same as always. At first he’d be dismissive, calling it a wasteful investment, railing against the money and the desire for a life above the ordinary standard. But as soon as he sat down in a full bath of warm water for the first time, his nerves calmed and his breathing eased... Dawn would soon find out. She wanted it to remain a surprise so she could watch his face closely.
He wrote about it time and again, how cold and wet it was up there, how muddy and dirty. Just one warm bath and those dreadful trenches would seem, at least for the moment, as if from another life. Perhaps it would also help drive away the aches and pains that surely plagued him from the hard labour. Dawn wished for it with all her heart.
Thanks to the industrial progress of recent years, it had been possible to establish centralised water supplies that, particularly in the cities, already reached as far as the rented flats. In the countryside, as always, these developments were slow to materialise, and hot water remained something that only the upper classes could afford. Dawn certainly wouldn’t count herself among the upper classes just because she had inherited a fortune. But... now and then, it was quite nice to be able to sample the finer things in life. And on this special day, a bath served a purpose beyond mere personal hygiene.
Carefully, Dawn slid her legs into the lukewarm water. It took a while for her skin to get used to the unfamiliar sensation of warm water, given that she usually only had a quick, cold wash in the mornings and evenings. The rest of her body followed quickly, until the water reached just above her shoulders. Dawn had placed a towel on the backrest so she wouldn’t have to feel the cold metal directly. With a deep sigh, she let herself sink down to her chin, her eyes tightly closed.
Stimulated by the soothing, gentle movement of the water and the cosy warmth, the headaches that had plagued her throughout the night quickly faded away. Dawn often suffered from a stabbing pain in her temples, which sometimes even clouded her vision and left her almost incapacitated. The triggers for this could vary greatly, but this time it was the anticipation and excitement that had ruined her night.
An express telegram had arrived yesterday.
“I’m coming home – STOP – Just for a few days – STOP – I’m taking the first train from ******* – STOP – See you soon – STOP”
His last letter, which Dawn had received after some delay due to postal delivery problems, had no longer held out this possibility. At the time, Paul had assumed he would have to spend the Easter holidays at the front. Now this telegram. Dawn couldn’t have been happier than she already was. Yesterday she had already turned the whole house upside down, had cleaned, tidied up, and thought about a dish she could prepare for him. No potatoes and, by God, no rutabagas. Perhaps a vegetable broth? He liked soups and stews. But he was getting plenty of those at the front, and he was probably sick of them by now.
As her tense muscles gradually relaxed, Dawn began to scrub away the old skin with a stiffer sponge. In her mind, she was leafing through her cookbooks. What might he like? Something to make him feel at home, convinced that he was back? Something unusual? No, Paul didn’t like it when people went to too much trouble for him. He didn’t like celebrating birthdays, he disliked surprises even more, and what he really hated were gifts that were too extravagant. Gifts whose value he would never be able to repay. At least not without having to touch the money he had sworn would remain locked away forever. Another reason why he would certainly not like the surprise until he tried it out.
It was difficult, because Dawn didn’t want it to be too meagre under any circumstances, nor did she want him to feel unwelcome. Naturally, she didn’t want to come across as taking it for granted; Dawn could hardly imagine anything worse for someone who’d finally been released after months in hell, even if only for a few days. After minutes of frantic thinking, her head was spinning and she ran her fingers through her wet hair with an exasperated groan . “Arrrrgh, it can’t be that hard! ” This man was so straightforward, following clear rules and habits. Dawn knew pretty much everything about him. She knew how he styled his hair in the mornings, which shirt fabrics he preferred, which grasses made his nose run—damn it, she even knew at what speed he brushed his teeth. None of that helped, however, in finding a suitable dish for this morning.
The train would arrive shortly after ten, so she didn’t have much time left. Sighing, Dawn slid back into the water, finishing her bath by washing her hair and combing it neatly. As the fire in the bath stove died down and the water grew colder, she stepped out and quickly dried herself with a soft towel. It smelled of chamomile. Floral scents gave a feeling of freshness and cleanliness, which was why she had thrown a compressed tablet made from several meadow flowers into the water. These tablets hadn’t been on the market for long, but they served their purpose brilliantly. Dawn had heard about them from May and found them to be good.
So soon? Yeah, I'm trying to keep up with my old speed, at least for as long as I can. My last Semester finally started today and I gotta keep that under control too, so please don't expect me to update as regularly as I... planned to... I'll try!
For now, please enjoy Chapter 18 and as always, if you have questions or would just like to talk about the story, feel free to leave a comment, I'd be happy to engage in conversations anytime ;)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
My god... It took so long. Two months. And it was NOT worht the wait, not for this chapter xDDD
The next chapters I already prepared for the upcoming spring season though will make up for that though, hehe. Or... so I hope.
Anyway, here's the chapter, I hope you'll stick with me through the wait and as always, I'd love to engage in conversations with fellow Ikarishippers, so... comment, if you'd like to ;D
And they laugh at the fact that they shouldn't be here at all. They should be resting, hidden beneath the frost, some of them should even be dead. But he dreams, and so they exist. He's never dreamed like this before.
My first drawing for this year and of course it had to be something related to Pokémon, heh. No butterflies in the stomach, but dreams formed as curious little insects inspecting a world, they'd usually never be a part of this time of the year.
Make of that whatever you want ;)
I've drawn this specific one on paper back in August, when we got our new wintergarden. Sadly I only had time to properly put it into color digitally now, after my last exams, but oh well, better late than never, right?
The Streets to Whiterun was a soundtrack I enjoyed immensely while playing Skyrim back in the day and I rediscovered it recently. So naturally I put on the 10 hour version and on I went to finish this drawing :D
I hope you enjoy it and are having a good new year so far. I'll start writing again soon, had to take a break after my exams, but I'm back in business again, so stay tuned.
Hello, I'm back with another chapter for my historically inspired Ikarishipping Fanfic!
Sadly I'm still in a stressful phase and on top of that also sick with the flu now :') So until the 15.02., when my exam is over, I will probably not be able to write another chapter.
But no worries, I'm still planning, still throwing thoughts around, the sketchbook for this story is growing by the minute with ideas :D
Now, feast your eyes on a little snippet of the next chapter, which you can of course find on AO3.
Have a nice day!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
My dearest Paul,
It is so wonderful to hear from you again at last! I had already feared the worst, with the newspapers reporting fierce fighting at the front and calls for donations everywhere. I am therefore extremely pleased that you are well and neither injured nor... well, you know. I don't want to think about that at all right now, not when I have a letter from you in my hands! It's a little difficult to read this time, the letters are very close together – but I'll decipher it. If I have misunderstood anything, please correct me in your next letter, okay?
And first of all, I would like to congratulate you on your 26th birthday and wish you a happy new year! My handsome, charming, fluffy plum, all the best in the world and may you stay healthy and happy. I'm writing this letter a little early, but hopefully it will reach you in time so that you can hold it in your hands on the right day and enjoy it. I've sent you another parcel and I know Reggie wants to send you one too. Hopefully they'll both arrive safely so that you can enjoy your presents on your special day. I've packed some of the jam Zoey gave me in the summer, a loaf of brown bread with a few eggs and a sack of potatoes. I've also included a new hat, as you requested in your letter, and a warm scarf that I knitted myself. I hope you like it; I thought you could use it up there. You've always been a bit sensitive around your neck.
I've also packed two little surprises for you. I hope they'll bring you a little joy in these gloomy times. You mentioned one of these surprises when you were here on your short holiday, so I'm sure you can guess what it is. I made the other one myself with lots of love, so please don't lose it, like the photo in the snow, all right?
Well then, on to your lovely letter!
There was no fighting over Christmas? That's surprising and wonderful at the same time! I was so worried that you would have to spend Christmas in a hail of bullets and wouldn't even have the opportunity to rest, eat and celebrate on these special days. I would love to have you here, you know that. I think it's absurd that they didn't allow you all to come home for Christmas, but unfortunately that's just wishful thinking on my part. You can't just pack up all your things and go home when the guns are pointed at your own country, can you? Hopefully it will all be over soon; the forces on both sides must be exhausted by now, right?
Christmas is not only a celebration of joy and sharing, it is also a celebration of love. Surely all soldiers, no matter which side they are on, longed for a quiet moment in which they could relax and open their presents. And rightly so! You should be allowed to celebrate just as much as we who are stuck here at home, waiting for something to change. Although that's not entirely true. Not everyone can bear that risk... I'm not cut out for politics anyway; they'd probably put me in prison before I could even say anything. Or maybe...?
Is there actually a quota for how many shots you have to fire per day? I would almost believe that some officers would apply this quota to soldiers who are taking a break in the rear trenches. What a consumption of ammunition... Are you punished if an unpleasant officer catches you firing fewer cartridges? Or have your superiors already come to terms with the fact that orders from above cannot always be implemented in reality? You surely know yourself that such a requirement is quite difficult to comply with, given that so much shooting has to be done every day that the whole forest is emptied of its inhabitants in fright.
My last letter got me into quite a bit of trouble because I dared to complain about the duration of the war and how foolish it is not to be allowed to lay down our arms for even a few days. That is why I now intend to be a little more cautious. So, I hereby apologise once again for my inappropriate comments and hope that my next letter, this one, will reach you safely at the front. I am therefore all the more pleased to hear that my wish has been granted and that you were indeed able to spend the holidays without heavy fighting.
Perhaps I should write a letter to His Majesty. Complain to him that you have to endure such strange rules. It's not just the fact that you can be punished for firing too few cartridges, even though in real combat you have neither the time nor the nerves to get properly upset about such a thing. He was in the army himself, he is its highest member, its leader. Surely he will understand, don't you think? Would he even read a letter from a simple woman from the deepest forest...?
At least in the newspapers, he is still praised to the skies for his leadership qualities and his closeness to the people. Who knows. I'll inquire if there are any possibilities, even if it's just for fun. Then I can at least say that I wrote a letter to the king. Or I'll ask one of the newspapers if I could write an open letter...
Ah, these are just the kinds of thoughts that come to mind when I sit here at your desk. I know you don't mind, but I wanted to let you know that I'm using it again. Only for your letters, of course, otherwise I'll leave it alone, but it helps me to think when I have something tangible nearby that reminds me of you.
Ahaha, what a shame, I keep saying it, a beard would suit you so well! It doesn't have to be a full beard, a few well-groomed stubble would be enough for me! Or maybe a twirled moustache? I don't know, beards have always had something about them that radiates class. Not that you need it, you're in a class of your own. But it gives a man a whole different kind of elegance. If you can't stand it, I won't force you to grow one, of course. Your head is already itchy enough thanks to the lice, an itchy beard would just be another burden, especially since they can spread there too. Reggie said he sent you two new combs especially for the lice, hopefully they'll help you a little against those nasty creatures... In any case, it might even be a crime to hide your handsome face under a beard.
Now that you've had time to take care of your well-being, I'm reassured. You have often spoken of difficult conditions due to mud, cold and rain, and it breaks my heart every time I think of you sitting in the dirt, freezing and wet to the bone. It must have been liberating to be able to wash with soap again, right? They have collected a lot of things here in the village to send to you at the front for Christmas.
To answer your question again, of course I know about the charitable donations, they advertise them heavily here. I donate regularly, whatever I can. Is the soap usable? Hopefully they only packed fresh, unused soap... You know our specialists here.
Fortunately, I haven't heard from them in a long time. To be honest, I don't even know if they're still alive. Do you think anyone would go to their funeral? I think I would, purely out of politeness, but no one ever really liked the Gerlach brothers. They didn't make much of an effort to make friends here in the village. A matter for another day.
Thank you very much, my fluffy plum, that's really sweet of you. You're right, the train couldn't stop me this time. My mother came with me; she moved to ******** to support me until you can finally come home. So we travelled together on the train for the Christmas party, which I was very happy about. However, I hid behind the corner at the bakery as the train pulled in so I wouldn't have to see it. After that, it was okay, my knees were just very weak when I got into my compartment. The journey to ************* was very nice, though; it was quiet and pleasant, especially when the sea came into view.
We travelled on a through train, the kind where you can change carriages during the journey if you want to. They're not as noisy as I thought they would be; I like these trains. For some reason, I had long thought that the connecting parts between the different carriages would squeak incredibly loudly... I'm not quite sure why I imagined that, but I'm glad it's not really the case. We had good food throughout the journey; Mum had packed us sandwiches with sausage and cheese, as well as some fruit tea.
The visit to my grandparents was really nice, I can't deny that. I just couldn't stop thinking about how you picked a fight with my grandfather last time. You had fun throwing the meanest comments at each other, almost as if you'd been doing nothing else your whole lives! I know that my grandfather isn't the easiest person to get along with, so I had actually expected that you wouldn't like him at all. And vice versa, because you stubborn head are even less willing to listen than he is. But in some way that I can't explain, you found pleasure in it and turned it into a crazy game of trying to get each other's backs up.
Don't think he's forgotten your comment about his wooden leg. The old man still has a bone to pick with you about that, and when he heard that you wouldn't be able to join us for Christmas because of the war, he immediately started ranting that you were just trying to avoid him and that the next time you visited, he would, and I quote, stick his shotgun in your mouth as punishment. Well, beneath all the loud ranting that comes so easily to him, he really missed you, and so did my grandmother. Surely you can go duck hunting again when you're back; that would make him happy. Maybe his broken hip will get back into shape then, through sheer excitement. Even though I'm not a fan of you shooting birds out of the air again...
Grandmother actually made her wonderful dumplings again, they were perfect, as always. They were served with a delicious gravy and some red cabbage, as well as meat that had been cooked for a long time in the pot, so soft and tender. As always, it was delicious. I wish you could have been there, you would have enjoyed it. Unfortunately, I didn't ask for the recipe, but I can write to her and ask her to send it to me, then we can study it together and make our own dumplings, all right?
When we were up there, I was able to spend a little time on the beach. Now in winter it's even cooler and stormier up there than usual, but there was no snow and the sea was so beautifully churned up by the wind. The sky was overcast and the water so deep and dark that you could have believed it was trying to eat the beach out of some ancient grudge. You could hear it roaring loudly, even more imperious and angry than usual, in my opinion. When I looked into the steel-blue waves of the sea, a cold shiver ran down my spine, as if the concentrated wrath of nature itself were pouring down on me. It reminded me of you and your deep, jet-black eyes, which looked so seriously into the forest that morning when we met early in the kitchen. You had just been watching the birdhouse, something was bothering you a little, although I unfortunately missed the chance to ask what it was.
On those days, the sea seemed to me to be just as determined to express its mockery of the insane events in the realm of humans as you always are. And I can't even blame you anymore. Fortunately, Ekke Nekkepenn didn't come for me this time either. Maybe you scare him even more than he scares me.
I've been having trouble with school for quite some time now, my university is... giving me a hard time with some financial problems, but I hope they're gonna be settled soon.
To keep my head from hurting too much about it, I decided to add a funny idea I had for Dawn and Paul to my list of Ikarishipping stories.
Abyssal Rispetto is a story placed in the arctic ocean (mostly), more specifically the Greenlandsea. Paul and Dawn are humans adapted to survival in this harsh environment, but spend their lives in completely opposite directions of the ocean. While Dawn lives at the surface, breathing air, enjoying the aurora borealis and company of her friends, Paul lives alone, deep down in the abyss, where his only company is the vast emptiness of ... nothingness.
Through certain circumstances, Dawn and Paul meet and begin to form a deep disgust for each other. But for some reason, fate always drives them back into each other's way...
If you want to, you can check it out on AO3, like all my other stories.
Have a nice day!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I designed an advent calendar for my sister and this is gonna be the front :D
Yeah yeah, I know, it's wayyy too early, but I work slowly and I want to be ready for it, when Mariah Carey jumps out of the ice again.
So yeah, since I made my sister a Bendy and the Ink Machine fan and Boris is one of her favorite characters, I decided to make something special for her this year. We three always take turns who makes an advent calendar for who and I got the Mini Sister, so the Little Sister gets me one and the Mini Sister makes one for the Little Sister...
And, uhm...
Yes, I had a lot of fun making this, I'm excited for the final product, when it arrives next week :D
