arosenamedevan-blog - Tumblr blog

[arosenamedevan-blog]

I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.

Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath     (via adrasteiax)

@bartyisms, @xxdolohov

[arosenamedevan-blog]

🌹 luxury asks. 🌹

bubble bath: do you have any routines before bedtime? like skin care, etc. what are they?

champagne: what topic could you talk about for hours?

crushed velvet: have you ever used your charm to get something you want?

diamonds: how do you feel about excessively spending money?

faux fur: describe your wardrobe.

glitter: describe someone special to you.

gold: describe what you would call the most perfect meal.

jazz: name a song that resonates with you and your emotions. explain the reason why.

lace: what is something in your life completely different from last year?

lingerie: do you consider yourself a promiscuous person?

lipstick: do you enjoy talking to strangers?

pearls: what's something about your personality that surprises others?

penthouse: what would you consider your dream home? describe it.

perfume: if you could make your own signature fragrance, what would it smell like?

robe: how do you prepare for an evening alone with a loved one/date?

roses: If it had to be winter, autumn, spring or summer for the rest of your life, which would you choose?

satin: what is your most favorite article of clothing?

sheet mask: what's your favorite lazy activity?

silk: do you have more inner or outer beauty?

silver: do you have any obscure hobbies? what are they?

sparkling water: what are your top three songs for the summer?

wine: what kind of drunk are you (happy/affectionate, angry, sad, fun/wild)? if you don't drink, what kind do you think you WOULD be?

[arosenamedevan-blog]

How can we be whole together if you are not empty in the place that I am to fill?

Robert Olen Butler, Jealous Husband Returns in Form of Parrot (via xxdolohov)

[arosenamedevan-blog]

xxdolohov:

Another blast of light emitted from his wand—this time a full-body bind curse. The thud of Evan’s body hitting the ground was drowned out by the screaming in Antonin’s head. Antonin was barely in his body, the lights were flicker around him, spots clouding his vision; why him. Of all the people who could have possibly discovered him in this state, Evan was the best and worst person to find him.

The best, because there was some sort of restraint on Antonin whenever the Slytherin was around. Antonin would not have been quite so mellow if anyone else had discovered him in this state, not even Nikolai or Selene. There was something calming about Evan’s presence. Something that made Antonin less unhinged, even if his body and brain were no longer connected and everything that was said and done around him was in an echo chamber or a muffled swimming pool. The best, because Evan knew how to handle this. He had been there before: pale, shaking hands clutching thick envelopes. Tears that neither of them would acknowledge in the morning. Firm hands wrapping in the back of his robe, pulling them closer together as his smell enveloped him and instantly calmed him.

The worst, because this wasn’t what was expected. This letter was too early, and Antonin couldn’t stop himself this time from hooking his index finger under the seal and ripping the letter open. The worst, because Evan was his brother and because his brother was contained in this thick envelope, thick ink detailing twenty years of would have’s, could have’s, and should have’s. The worst, because Antonin recognized the scrawl and he knew his father had snuck his own business into this vessel as well. Betrothals, what else. The worst, because Antonin knew Evan had been getting the same talks, except worse. Because Evan would never love the person he was with. They both knew that. Neither would Antonin. Antonin didn’t think he was capable of loving anyone. Flo, quite close, but too weak, too impressionable; never on the same side. Evan, practically carved out of the same bones, made of the same blood. It would almost be easier if one of them was a girl, because they were so in-sync that Evan is the only person Antonin could ever imagine spending the rest of his life with and not completely hating it.

Evan somehow freed himself from the bind, because he was edging closer. Antonin could see his frame through edges of black and blue; Antonin was trying to breathe, trying to grasp onto something. He grasped onto the blanket with his right hand, clawing at the fabric and hoping maybe he could rip through it. He clutched a shaking hand around his wand, breathing in deeply as the intended spell coursed through his veins. His eyes were fire, fingertips fire, toes, heart, everything fire. He wanted to burn down this whole castle, encase everything he loved and everything he hated—and was there even a difference anymore—in the purple flame and melt it to the ground.

It was only a spark of course, and it caused him to be pulled back to this world, because even when the letters filled him with rage, he could never produce more than a dull flame. And it was tantalizing really, that he could feel the tongues of the flames burning in the back of his throat, and yet they’d never go where he needed them to.

The room is more in focus now, a few stray items had been knocked to the ground by curses and hexes he barely recalls casting. Evan is a safe distance away from the bed and Antonin can’t breathe. Get away from me. You’re only going to get hurt. You’ll fucking deserve it too. You pick the worst people to be around. Barty. Nikolai. Me. We’ll tear you to shreds and laugh while doing it. These words, both in his head and out loud. A few sentences in English, others in Russian, all leaping off his tongue like untamed fire.

Antonin dropped the wand and let it fall to the floor. He collapses, like an extinguished flame, bring his head into the sheets and letting out a shaking sob. He only cried once at Hogwarts, and at least he was keeping up with his record by having it be the same person.

Don’t come near me. He’s not sure if those words are said out loud or in his head. English or Russian he can’t tell the difference anymore; everything burns the same way. And then, most definitely out loud, Please hold me. Don’t let go. And he’s not sure who he’s even speaking to at this point; he’s no longer able to separate the man in front of him from the memory of the bright nine year old ripped from his life.

Mikhail is running. Mikhail is falling. The gap toothed grin and the sing song laugh. Evan is drunk, trying to carry on a tune his father taught him when he was young. The grin is too similar, the laughs fit together in a harmony. Antonin destroyed one, why not the other? Please don’t leave.

The next curse wrenches his arms to his side, cramping up all his muscels until he is rigíd like a wooden plank and falls to the floor, unable to move or speak. Helpless and vulnerable while his friend is losing every last shred of control. He knows then that this is different, more important than the other times. He knows that this time, it's worse.

Evan has never been afraid of Antonin. Not when he'd witnessed one of his episodes for the very first time, not when he'd cornered him during another in their fourth year, not when his hands once gripped too tight by accident and left purple marks on his wrists. It isn't his fault, none if this is. What Antonin has is a disease, a cruel, crippling disease of the mind that lets him lose control until he doesn't recognise his best friends anymore. Antonin is not his disease. Antonin is Evan's clever, witty, hilarious friend and what he has to endure during his episodes is a hundred times worse than anything he could ever do to him.

But Antonin has never hexed him before, not like this and for the first time, Evan doubts. The storm he knows. It is grey and blue, forceful and unstoppable but so hauntingly beautiful to him. The storm he can outlast, pick up the pieces of Antonin afterwards and put them back together.

This is no storm, this is a hurricane, black and hungry and all-consuming and Evan fears that it will leave nothing but destruction in its wake, that the shards he will be left with will cut them both. That this time, it won't just be Antonin who's left in pieces.

Antonin needs him. Evan can see it in his glassy eyes, in the way his hands are shaking. He is muttering, words Evan can't quite make out, some in English, some in his mother-tongue. Evan had never quite understood the beauty of Russian, not until he'd met Antonin and what had sounded hard and edgy before suddenly turned soft and gentle between those pale lips.

It is a stroke of luck that Antonin had been too far gone already when he'd hit Evan with the curse and much sooner than expected he notices the invisible ropes that kept his body in place loosen. “Antonin!“ he tries, as soon as he can move his jaw again, fighting tooth and nail to free his hands and legs as well. “Antonin, listen to me! Tony!” The loathsome nickname that usually never fails to draw a reaction falls on dead ears today. Too caught up in his rage and pain, his friend doesn't hear him. He is still trembling and the irregular bursts of magic shooting from his wand only miss Evan by a hair's breadth several times.

Then, finally, his body is his again and he gets to his feet, still unsteady and a little weak from the spell but determined. He creeps closer, slowly hands raised in surrender, like when he is trying to calm a spooked horse. “Please, Antonin, give me your wand. I promise, you are safe here.” Still, his friend hears nothing what he says, but his eyes are just a little clearer. He can see him now and Evan steps closer. Another string of words, incoherent but half of it he understands. Barty. Nikolai. 'We’ll tear you to shreds and laugh while doing it.' And for just a moment, Evan freezes. Bartemius. How can he know? He never told him. He shakes his head. Another time he will ask, maybe after he's had some of that vodka Antonin hides underneath his bed, some liquid courage. It can wait.

Antoin's wand drops to the floor with a clatter and he takes the last few steps towards him and kicks it underneath the bed and out of reach. “You are not going to rip me to shreds.” A whisper, but full of certainty. Slowly he kneels down and lifts his hand to card his finger through silky, blond locks as his friend cries. “I trust you,” he whispers once more, “I believe in you.”

'Please hold me. Don’t let go' And Evan's foolish heart breaks. Antonin's pain is his pain and his eyes fill with tears as he clambers onto the bed and pulls his head into his chest, wrapping himself around his body, a desperate attempt to hold the pieces together, to keep everything from falling apart completely. “I am right here, darling.” Evan promises through his own tears and buries his face in Antonin's hair. “I won't go anywhere. I won't leave you alone.”

Here’s a Letter for You|Evan&Antonin

[arosenamedevan-blog]

This does not concern me, he thinks, and yet, it does. It concerns all of them with pure blood in their veins. It concerns him because he still has not declared a position and that puts him on display more than anything else he could do. He feels the fear searing through his veins but nothing of that shows on his face. 

He forces himself to move slowly, purposefully. He cannot afford to look weak now, to run screaming like everyone else, like cattle. Too much is at stake, too many people could see him. ‘Back straight, boy’, his father’s voice sneers in his head, ‘are you a man or not? If you want to be a Rosier, act like one!’ So he does. He walks tall, against the stream of people, and tells himself  that he is safe.

It lasts until he spots her, alone in the crowd like him and he feels parts of his mask slipping. Relief floods through him. What a mercy to have found her in all this. He reaches out for her and the next thing he knows is that the world is spinning as he is flung through the air before he crashes into a wall. The collision, albeit not too hard, still knocks the air out of his lungs. Evan coughs when he gets up, but smiles at his attacker nonetheless. “I believe I deserved this for startling you like that. Please forgive me.”

N a t h a n i e l, even the voice in side of her head hisses his name, and yet even amidst the pandemonium her first thought is of her brother. She’d last seen him in the company of Cassius, which terrified her even more in the present moment than it had when she had reluctantly lost sight of them to pop into Tomes and Scrolls–where she’d been when she first heard the screams. 

They won’t hurt me, they wouldn’t dare, she thought, though she clutched her wand tighter anyway as the faces around her grew less and less familiar. While bodies ran for safety, Selene fought against them, moving in the opposite direction toward The Hog’s Head where she had convinced herself she would find the Terrible Triad. Another, more intrusive thought crossing taunting her as she moved: what if he is a part of this?

Arms grabbing her from behind startled her but not more than they angered her, not knowing whether they belong to a student or snatcher. “Get your filthy hands off of me,” she hisses, struggling in their grasp. She needed to find Nathaniel. She needed to save him or stop him–she wasn’t sure which. Without looking the flung herself around, throwing a hex at her captor. “Expulso!” 

[arosenamedevan-blog]

Top 5 people you'd kiss at Hogwarts

Bartemius Crouch Jr

Antonin Dolohov

Amycus Carrow

Amos Diggory

Lucius Malfoy

Fabian Prewett

Rodolphus Lestrange

@bartyisms, @xxdolohov, @amxs-dxggxry, @fabxprxwett, @rodolphxsheir

[arosenamedevan-blog]

Top five people you trust

Nikolai Selwyn

Selene Avery

Antonin Dolohov

Rosalie Selwyn 

himself

@ofselwyns, @queenselenex, @xxdolohov, @selwynx

[arosenamedevan-blog]

put “top 5” anything in my ask and i will answer ok go

[arosenamedevan-blog]

[arosenamedevan-blog]

We can go weeks without speaking, and then, when my blue moods threaten to turn black, he will show up and tel me my moods are azure indigo cerulean cobalt periwinkle and suddenly the blue will not seem so dark, more like the color of a noon-bright sky. He brings the sun.

The Realm of Possibility - David Levithan (via miscrave)

@arosenamedevan

(via xxdolohov)

[arosenamedevan-blog]

I’m gonna need you to love me a little harder sometimes. Most days, I’ll act like I’m just fine. I’ll paint my smile across my face and wear it proudly. I’ll laugh loudly like I’ve never tasted sadness in my life. But other days, I will not be so strong. I will not walk boldly into the room, I will collapse into it. My vision of life will be clouded by darkness, and I will make my walls extra thick in hopes that you don’t notice. Please, notice. And when you do, pull me close. Hold me until we’re both too warm for anything else to matter. Let me breathe you in. Tell me that you love me, don’t stop until I respond, and then tell me again. I know this could be inconvenient for you, and I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a bother, but sometimes I need to be told that I’m worth it.

NaPoWriMo Day 6 - Love // Maxwell Diawuoh (via maxwelldpoetry)

@arosenamedevan

(via xxdolohov)

[arosenamedevan-blog]

♡ OC ask meme ♡

--answer these however you like! some parts have multiple questions, you don't have to answer them all. you can answer for one OC or many, or askers can ask about a specific OC. approach them however you like. you can use these for character development exercises too. just have fun with it!--

#squad: who's friends with who? what are the squad dynamics like?

microscope: zoom in -- describe the little, insignificant details about an OC.

fragrance: what do your OCs smell like?

photo album: describe one of your OCs' favorite memories.

mixtape: 5 songs that describe your OC(s) or songs they themselves would like.

wardrobe: what's your OC(s) style like?

lightning: who's the most impulsive character? and who is their impulse control?

ufo: identity! what are some key identifying qualities or traits of your OC(s)? how to they identify in regards to gender/sexuality?

love note: who likes who? crushes? relationships? are they mutual or unrequited?

poison: vices/bad habits? what are they? how do they affect your OC?

compass: who's the moral compass? in general: what are your OCs' morality like? do they have high morals, or not? are their morals self imposed, or do they base their morals on religion/family/influence of others?

track & field: which (if any) of your OCs are athletic? what sports to they play? which of your OCs would go HARD in P.E.?

parachute: who does your OC(s) trust the most? who makes them feel safe? who would they do absolutely anything for?

conspiracy theory: what are your OC's beliefs? are they skeptics or do they believe easily? who acts on blind faith? who needs to see to believe?

zodiac: what's their sign? does it influence their personality? do they care about astrology?

spellbook: are any of your OC(s) supernatural? if so, what are they/what are their abilities?

contact: how does your OC(s) feel about touch/physical contact? are they affectionate? if so, how do they display affection to others?

interiors: describe your OC(s) bedroom/home/or a place they consider "theirs". what's in it? do certain items have a special significance to your OC?

hobby: what do they love? what captivates them? what are their passions?

psyche: what's their head space like? do they have any mental illnesses? how do they process difficult or emotional situations? what are their coping mechanisms?

chess board: who is the most logical? or the schemer/planner?

shooting star: if your OC(s) could have one wish what would it be?

wild card: talk about any OC! anything you want!

[arosenamedevan-blog]

✌

[ ✌ ] my muse reaches out to yours after months of no communication.

[in response to this which was not okay]

burning

He rages. As if now thatthe storm, his storm, has passed, he must become thestorm to fill the hole. He rages and screams and fights until thereis no more fight left in him and he collapses on the cold hardwoodfloor, battered and bruised and broken. This is how they find him,unconscious, with dried blood on his hands and fresh tears on hischeeks, crying even in his sleep.

The bruises fade after afew days and he hates it. They’re his marks, a dark,twisted love letter right there on Evan’s skin and they are all hehas left. It’s like the love fades with them, the love that heclaimed was never real. Evan refuses to believe him. As long as thebruises are there he has proof. As long as he can see them, touchthem and feel the subtle echo of pain he is still Barty’s, he stillbelongs.

When the one on his neckhas almost vanished completely he wraps his own fingers around histhroat and squeezes, a cheap attempt to replicate the master. Gentlehands pull them away. Don’t. Please. Selene. He’s hurting her,more than he hurts himself. He finds that he doesn’t care.

One morning he looks intothe mirror and his marks are gone. Evan feels numb.

Everything is the samenow. There is no night or day where Evan has gone, no heat, no cold,no time, no war. Most of all, there is no pain and ifthere’s no pain, he must already be dead. A dead soul in a body thatrefuses to die.

The voices are constant,soft, kind, sometimes harsh. Trying to break through the glass wallhe’s built around himself and unable to leave much more than shallowscratches. But hey are persistent and somehow that’s a comfort.

Yet, no wall can holdforever. His doesn’t break down suddenly but one day there’s a crackand through it slips a word, a soft curse in Russian. And with it,slyly and silently, hopeslips in as well.

The little crack grows andspreads until it’s a spiderweb and his glass wall is fragile like thebones of a newborn. The words become a waterfall and cracked glasscannot withstand the water. His wall shatters and Evan is pulledunder only to be dragged up again by large hands and strong arms andthe scent of wood and spices. His soul. Nikolai is his rock and hisshackles, solid and powerful he is the only thing that keeps him fromcrumbling and stepping into the whispering darkness.

Time matters again, ifonly to count the moments since.Since the last time he kissed a cocky smile off those lips. The lasttime he twirled thick strands of feather-soft hair around his indexfinger in the morning. The last time slender hands painted his skinpurple all over, agonisingly mapping and marking their territory forthe hundredth time. Evan yearns for that pain now, for how it madehim feel everything.What would he give to feel it just one more time? To be controlled,to be possessedagain? Anything.

Sinceis drifting further away. Some images are still sharp, with brightcolours and clear contours. Others are fading and blurred, like miston a mirror and he cannot revive them, no matter how hard he tries.But while his pictures fade, life slowly creeps back into him, too.

When the rage returns itis no storm, but a fire. Fuelled by doubt and denial and sheerstubbornness itconsumes him until he burns hotter than the sun itself. And he mustbe the sun now, brighter even, if he wishes to challenge a blackhole.

He nurtures his flames,feeds them all his agony until one day, finally,they’re strong enough to scorch away the last of his weakness andfrom the ashes of his devastation rises not a phoenix, but a wolf,savage and starving. And yet, even the wolf is nothing more than adog, desperate to please its master. He is after all still entirelyBartemius’ creature.

It is not much more than ahole where hefinds him, grey and bare, like a cruel metaphor for the weeks thathave passed. And there he is, a beacon in the midst of all thatbleakness, so devastatingly beautiful all Evan wants is to fall tohis knees and beg for permission to be his again. But he doesn’t, notthis time. This time hemust be the fire.

Neither of them speaks,the shock of the reunion too apparent on both their faces and Evandrinks in the sight before him, the downward curve of Barty’s lips,the little crease between his eyes that he smoothed out so many timeswith the pad of his thumb, those beloved hands that know the mostsecret parts of his body better than Evan does himself and that arenow clenched into tight fists at Bartemius’ sides.

They stand like this for along time, the air heavy between them and invisible strings pullingat their chests. Their own personal gravity, that only exists for theother. In the end it is not Evanwho caves and takes the first step but it ishim who takes the last three.

“I don’t believe you.”Silence. His flames, though fierce, are softer now, warm and bright enough forthe both of them. An offer and a promise. “I don’t believe you, andyou are coming home!”

And Bartemius burns.

[arosenamedevan-blog]

Selene Avery.

“I have no reason to fear her. You, however, would be wise to.”

Zero. 

@queenselenex

[arosenamedevan-blog]

Antonin

“This is ridiculous.”

“Nothing that Antonin could do could ever make me uncomfortable. My love for him does not end with his episodes. He could hurt me, break me and yet I’d stand by him. This disease is not Antonin. What he does or says when it consumes him is out of his control and he is not to blame for any of it. He is my friend and I could never fear him.”

@xxdolohov

[arosenamedevan-blog]

Barty Crouch

“Bartemius? Why would he make me uncomfortable? He is actually one of the more tolerable people in this castle. That would be a one.”

Barty is in fact, a one. And also a ten.

@bartyisms

[arosenamedevan-blog]

There are entirely too many people in this castle and they all seem to be assembling in the Transfiguration hallway today, how absolutely lovely. Evan tries to navigate through the crowd without touching any more people than absolutely necessary which is a near impossible task and his patience is wearing thin. He classes are over for the day, he has nowhere to be and yet, it bothers him. The elbow landing in his chest is almost expected. Any other day he would regard the person attached to the elbow with a snappy comment and then forget about it, but today, that elbow is followed by a comment that catches his attention.

“That hardly seems advisable.” It is obvious the boy did not think before he spoke and Evan cannot pass up an opportunity to tease. “Not with all these people around, who could accidentally walk into you and spoil the experience. And most definitely not on this floor.”

“shit,” a mutter under his breath, eyes squinting and blinking spasmodically before he’s practically blind to the world –– there’s little mercy in an itch that cannot be scratched; or in his case, rubbed. ( frankly what good are charms if they’re out of reach in times of need. ) of all times, of course it has had to happen when he has his arms decked out with stacks of books and loose papers and right here in the middle of a hallway in between classes. out of desperation, he nudges for the nearest option with an elbow, half assuming ( hoping ) it’ll be sirius who’s supposed to meet him after this class anyway and half assuming it’ll be someone amiable and more importantly helpful. 

except his mouth moves quicker than the brain does and thoughts are translated loosely and vaguely into words that evidently don’t quite convey his initial intentions. “quick, blow me.”