#As you can see I made a colouring page to mark the occasion! the final image should be transparent and is sized for standard printer paper!

[whathasangramainyudonewrong]

Wrong #500

He printed out a few hundred of these colouring sheets of himself for some reason

I don’t know if he meant to print that many, but black printer ink isn’t cheap, so I guess it’s time to get back into colouring pages

That goes for the rest of you too, I wanna see as many of these colouring pages used as possible!

Take some and go!

[bey0nd-1he-stars]

You're a mess - Kaz Brekker

𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Reader

Wordcount: 1015

Warnings: English is not my first language, mentions of Kaz’s trauma, vomiting and his panic attacks

Summary: During the fall in Ketterdam when it’s way too bad weather for going on a heist, the crows stay inside at the slat. Although, Kaz buries himself in work and at last, it eventually gets to him.

The autumn had arrived to Kerch. The leafs had started to turn colourful, all in different shades of orange. Rain covered the streets of Ketterdam more often than ever and the cobblestones was sparkling of the water under the dull city lights. Because of the rain, it was hard to pull off as many heists as usual because the roofs and the roads got way too slippery. The crows busied themselves in the slat among the dregs, on a few occasions they would take a trip to the crow club and spend the evening there, drinking, talking, gambling. Well, Jesper took care of the gambling while the rest of you hung around the bar or in Kaz's office upstairs.

But today you all hung around in the slat. Kaz was seated at his desk in his room. Inej, Nina, Matthias, Jesper and Wylan had taken a table on the ground floor to enjoy lunch and talk. You were in your room, trying to read but found yourself distracted by the sound downstairs. With a sight, you mark the page and put the book on the small, elegant table beside the bed.

You decided to make your way downstairs to see if there was anything to eat and to your luck, Nina had made a whole stack of waffles that your were more than welcome to eat from. Nina always made the best waffles. To be fair, she had have her many occasions to train to get better, considering how many times Nina ate waffles.

"Can I take some to Kaz, I'm not sure he've eaten anything since... god knows when."

Nina nodded and responded with something that sounded like a "sure thing", but it was hard to tell when she had her mouth full with the sweet dish. You smiled and stacked some on a clean plate. Then you thanked her once again and thanked the others for letting you join them.

The many stairs up to Kaz's room finally came to an end and you carefully knocked on his door. A quiet "come in" was heard from the inside so you pushed the door open and stepped inside. Kaz was sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on a paper in front of him and he didn’t even glance your way when you stepped in. He looked tired. Dark circles had taken place under his eyes, his pale skin had lost its usual discreet glow, eyes glossy and lips dry. And in some twisted way, he looked lost. Confused, lost and exhausted.

The plate made a soft, clinking sound as you placed it on the desk. Kaz looked up from his work and gave you a thankful nod. Slowly, he pulled his gloves off. His pale, slender hands looked like porcelain. Kaz broke of a pice of the waffles and began eating it as he picked up the paper again.

“Kaz,” you started and he looked up from his work to meet your eyes, “how long has it been since you slept? Or at least rested?” Kaz didn’t answer. He gave you a weary shrug and returned to reading his paper. You sighted and fell back in the chair you sat in. You stretched your legs out in front of you and accidentally nudged Kaz’s. He stopped in his motions for just a second. Quickly you pulled your feet back and sat up straighter. Your eyes rested on Kaz as he continued working.

“Okay, don’t get me wrong, Kaz, but you look terrible,” you said and Kaz rolled his eyes but looked up from what he was doing. It was true though. His hair was a mess, he had been reading the same paper over and over again, not being able to concentrate.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he mumbled and pulled a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.

“Don’t. It wasn’t meant as one. It was meant as a reminder that maybe you should look after yourself a little.”

“I’m fine,” Kaz hissed. A sharp pain shot up in his leg after being still for so long. He made a grimace and Y/N’s eyes softened.

“Stop telling me you’re okay when you’re clearly not. Please. I want to help you, all off us wants to help you. It’s okay to be human, you know. It’s okay to be vulnerable, to get help and to be cared for. Please, I’m honestly begging you, get out of that chair and get some sleep. We both know you need it,” you spoke softly and Kaz seemed to give up trying to fight. He pulled a hand through his hair once again, looked up towards the ceiling to try to stop the tears from gathering in his eyes. Then he nodded. You smiled, thankful that he gave in. Kaz grabbed his cane and hoped around the table.

“Do you need anything?” You asked. Kaz stood silent for a while. Then he carefully, with a shaking hand, reached out took your hand in his. He gave it a quick squeeze and then he let go again.

“Stay here. Just in the room. You don’t have to do anything, just please. Stay with me,” he talked quietly. Just above a whisper. You have him a quick nod and a ghost of a smile made it’s way to his lips. He didn’t tell you that he didn’t sleep because of the nightmares. Flashbacks that haunted him, the way the corpse’s cold and clammy hands pulled at him, trying to get him under the water. He didn’t tell you that almost every time he tried to sleep he woke up in the dead of the night, panicking and almost every night ending up in the bathroom, vomiting. He didn’t want you to know that. But he asked you to stay. Maybe if you were there with him, the nightmares wouldn’t come. And if they did, he’d have your warm and comforting presence there when he woke up.

You pulled the curtains down to block out the afternoon’s sunbeams. The room fell into darkness. Kaz had crawled in bed and you carefully smothered out the comforters before you sat down at the end of the bed. You found some empty papers and a pencil at a desk, deciding that you could spend some time drawing as Kaz rested.

“Thank you,” Kaz whisper. You smiled softly.

“You’re a mess, Kaz,” you laughed softly, “but you deserve so much more than how you treat yourself.”

[sukiglycerin]

birds (not) of a feather || keigo takami.

* pairing: hawks x fem pro-hero!reader

* genre: canonverse(???), terribly indulgent smut, pwp, enemies w benefits

* words: 3,111

* warnings: i just packed a shitload of kinks into this, dom!hawks, sub!reader, daddy kink, dirty talk, semi-public sex (a bathroom), quirk play aka feather play (not tickling), reader is kiNda a brat, fingering, orgasm denial, cum eating, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (pls.,., wrap it before you tap it irl), degradation, breeding kink, humiliation, dumbification, creampie, aftercare (duh), i’m so sorry for this i’ll finish my sfw angst thing now

* a/n: inspired by this text post... oh god, this is filthy. apologies for the slightly late update, but here it finally is!! @toishi is an absolute angel for proofreading this at like 1 in the morning. i hope you enjoy this! if you liked this, feel free to request anything you’d like to see from me <3

there was something about hawks that was infuriating. you couldn't tell exactly what was the breaking point; his messy hair, his plush smirk, or his eyes. his eyes, typically glazed over with a mixture of cockiness and devil-may-care hawtiness, were perhaps the most charming part to him, if you asked any fangirl. the markings around them only made him prettier, but infuriatingly so; and when you put together the entire package of 'hawks,' you got an extremely punchable person. 

yet sometimes, during extremely rare instances - perhaps when the light hits him just right or when one of his feathers is placed just perfectly - the word 'punchable' is replaced with 'fuckable.' and when you say fuckable, you mean him fucking you. it only aggravates you more.

you can't recall exactly when you started hating him or exactly when you became fuckbuddies (well, more like fuckenemies), but what you can recall is that the closets at hawks' agency are unreasonably large. not that they can't be used to your advantage, on multiple occasions (especially when hawks ruts). you're sitting next to hawks as some entrepreneur attempts to sell his ideas to market heroes and gain more profit. none of the pro-heroes sitting in the room seem particularly engaged. you're practically falling asleep; hawks' doodles on your notepad keeping you awake. you can't exactly complain, though the doodles take up space on an otherwise blank page, it's entertaining. you're far past gone being alert, however; your eyelids droop one last time before you see an oddly phallic shaped doodle behind your eyelashes. goddamn hawks.

"really?" you hiss at him, pushing his hand away.

he shrugged, lazily smiling. "you like it."

"like what? lewd imagery in my work notepad?"

"no." his voice drops an octave, fatally gravelly, "my cock."

you flush at his obscene language. "don't-" you whisper, but you're cut off by hawks' muffled giggles as he points to another one of his doodles. a rooster. you purse your lips. ever-so immature, hawks.

"yeah, but i bet you like the first one a lot more, don'tcha, chickadee?" his pet name has your brain stuttering. "you like my cock so much, hm?"

"fuck you, hawks," you breathe.

"you can try, feather." his voice is dripping with cockiness. "i bet, even in professional times like these, you think about my cock. in business meetings, you look so professional, so serious, but little does everyone know - you're dreaming about my cock stretching your tight little cunt out, making you scream my goddamn name. i bet you salivate just thinking about my cock fucking you good, hm? isn't that right, chickadee?"

you huff, not meeting his eyes as you search for a witty comeback. your silence gives hawks' ego a boost; he smirks wider.

"you know it's true, huh?" he purrs. "you think of me wherever you go. in public, filing paperwork, when you touch yourself in bed... you just like it so much, you're my slut. who knew the nation's favorite pro-hero would drop to her knees to the sight of anyone's cock?"

"yeah, i touch myself whenever i think of you," you mutter saltily under your breath. you ignore the growing arousal in your panties at his provocative words. hawks goes quiet, eyes wide.

"more specifically, i rub my temples because i get a headache because you're so damn awful."

"well fuck, dove," he chuckles. he leans in close to your ear. "maybe i'll give you something to think about."

a shiver curls itself down your spine. "hawks-"

he hushes you, jotting something in your notepad. he excuses himself from the room, leaving a feather laying on his seat in place of him. you read the note. "women's bathroom, down the hall to the left. no one uses it."

a pump of adrenaline fills you; your heart skips a beat.

once you slip out, your heart plays a game of jump rope, the rhythm filling your ears. down the hall, to the left... you wonder what hawks has in store for you. your brain recreates images of past escapades you engaged in with the man; a quickie in his office, another in an alley, and once, him fucking you just before a meeting. your panties grow damper, unable to mask the anticipation you feel within yourself.

"hi, sweetpea," hawks cooes as soon as you enter the restroom. "fancy seeing you here."

"you invited-"

"hush, i didn't give you permission to speak, did i?" he snaps. "good girls who behave are rewarded."

a whimper slips out of you, and you nod.

"safeword, birdie?"

"sunflower."

"good girl." he hums. "so obedient, once disciplined... maybe i should do this more. i bet you'd like that... being such a slut when anyone could walk in." "hawks..." you start, but he doesn't have it.

the hero stalks toward you. if eyes could kill, you'd be murdered within seconds; his irises are dark, pupils blown, and a shadow has fallen over his face. he looks predatory like this - truly living up to his name. it's graceful, the self-control he assumes whence walking toward you. 

said self-control is completely abandoned as soon as your bodies meet. you're completely enraptured in his shadow as the man loomed over you, his wings contributing greatly to the effect. he's the predator, and you're the prey. 

his arm separates your neck from the wall, his hand clutching the back of your head. the free hand moves itself to caress your jaw in a strangely gentle manner, while his knee pushes its way in between your legs, making your upper thighs into a home. his hand nudges your head forward towards his, and then you're kissing him with such ferocity it's animalistic. tongues clash and you're no longer sure whose spit is whose; it dribbles down your chin the way blood drips from the thirsty lips of a vampire.

hawks growls - he actually growls - while he hastily unbuttons your top and slips his tongue into your mouth. you shamelessly grind down against his clothed pant leg, careless that your wetness will leave a stain. 

he pulls away, a string of saliva snapping between you and leaving you two gasping for breath. 

"fuck, fuck, baby bird," hawks wipes his mouth with his sleeve. his lips are swollen, their colour resembling a cherry lollipop with a sheen of gloss. damn, he's pretty. you never realized how good-looking a guy in a suit could be. his eyes are darker than a raven's, and it looks as though he'll devour you whole. 

"come." hawks gestures for you, walking towards the sinks and large mirror above them. as soon as you near a foot from hawks, he grabs you, one hand on your waist and the other on your throat. 

"look at you..." he tsks, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. you're completely disheveled, hair a mess and eyes blown dark. your top is wrinkled slightly, your breasts peaking out through the unbuttoned gap and your skirt pushed up.

"so messy already..." the hand on your waist moves up and squeezes your breast, tweaking a nipple through your bra.

"you just fucking melt for me, like a good whore," he says.

oh, how you hate how easily hawks can win you over.

"fuck you," you scoff half-heartedly. "are you gonna fuck me, or not? we don't have all day."

"won't be a problem, lovebird," he says breezily. "judging by how much you fucking soaked my pant leg, i could have you coming undone without my cock even touching your dirty cunt.

you glance at his thigh, which has a blatant dark spot on it, and feel your heart race in humiliation. you can only stay silent, knowing he's right. the sensation in your core is painfully obvious to you, as if taunting you more.

"obeying now?" he teases, a wicked smile gracing his face. "bend over the counter, sweetpea."

you huff, obliging. hawks deftly moves his fingers, unbuttoning your shirt. you shiver, your hot skin colliding with the cold, unforgiving marble. 

"spread your legs - good, good, like that..." his breath tickles your ear, "you like how the air touches your sopping pussy? how exposed you fucking feel, all spread out for me when anyone could walk in? me, the number 2 pro-hero..." god, he was so cocky it was infuriating.

"shut up," you grumble.

"what?" his voice is sharp, cutting clean through the air. "is that anyway to treat your daddy?"

you fucking hate the title. you hate how hawks harnesses it as his own, how he so personifies the word - how good it fits him, sounding like sugar off his lips.

two of his fingers meet your clothed folds. "answer me, birdie."

"n-no," you squeak out. 

"no, who?" he spits.

"no, daddy." 

you inch your head up to look in the mirror, and hawks is smiling. 

"what to do with you, what to do with you..." he sounds gleeful, sadistic undertones tinting his words with a faded rose red. so pretty, yet so painful. your head goes back down onto the counter, your cheek pressed against it.

"naughty birds deserve punishment, don'tcha think?" 

you can't find it in yourself to form a coherent word; instead, a clumsy moan falls from your lips. hawks' fingers press harder against your cunt; you're sure they've gotten at least a little damp.

compromised in such a position, your senses make you suddenly aware of your surroundings; the way the counter digs into your hips, how the coolness is starting to fade under your body. you're aware of your every breath, the fluttering in your stomach every time hawks presses your clit. you're aware of the inherent eroticism of your acts, and how you don't really hate hawks; no, no, no - how he just infuriates you.

he's the ideal hero, in your eyes - laidback, charming, and yet so skilled at his work. it amazes you. one can only strive to be so multifaceted, and it explains his status as number 2 hero. you work so hard, yet he can achieve all the things you dream in half a heartbeat.

"let's get these out of the way." hawks, hooking a digit into the band of your panties, forces them down in an instant. you instinctively clench at the air which meets your nether lips, your juices leaking out of them like a honeyed nectar.

"so messy," hawks comments. "can't even control yourself without your panties. you like being such a slut for daddy, huh?"

you grumble in protest.

"huh?" his index and ring finger plunge into your pussy, making a loud squelching sound.

"d-daddy," you blurt a moan out, falling apart on his fingers.

"that's more like it, feather." hawks sets a moderate pace on your pussy, curling to hit your sweet spot. the noises from your cunt and mouth fail to cease, and you throw a hand over the latter to muffle your whimpers.

you start to feel a burning sensation rise in your stomach; a toe-curling, warm feeling like sunlight shining in the morning.

"daddy, daddy, hngg- i'm so close."

you're so close to the sunlight, to being showered in the blissful heat. just one more stroke and-

you're suddenly empty, and the light starts to slowly recede.

"daddy!" you complain, shifting your legs and rubbing your thighs together. "bad birds get punishment," he shrugs. "though i must say... you like it when i bend you over the counter, huh? your little pussy is dripping all over it for me, and i've barely touched you... i bet you're getting off to this right now; when anyone could walk in, huh? filthy slut. you're already begging for more... hm, maybe i should make you lick up the mess you've made..."

"d-addy, no, i've taken my punishment, please let me cum..."

hawks sounded indifferent, as if he were merely studying his nails. "beg for it."

"wh-" you clench your hands in your skirt. you do not particularly enjoy begging - for anything or anyone. despite the pulsing in your cunt, and how hard it is not to give in, you don't want to give hawks the satisfaction of winning. "p-psh, didn't really need your cock anyway..." you grumble. you exhale quietly, calming the adrenaline pumping in your blood from the loss of your orgasm.

something in him changes, and a scarlet feather tickles your lips. you're confused; what does hawks want you to do?

"suck."

you exhale in confusion, blowing the feather away. "suck?"

you crane your neck up at the mirror to catch a glimpse of hawks. he looks deadly - there's no other way to put it. his eyes are sharply trained on you, his wings buff and towering over him. you think you see a bulge in his pants, straining for freedom.

"well?" the feather dusts your lips once again, teasing you to trap it in between your lips. your head drops, falling against the counter. you open your mouth, and the tip of the feather rests on your tongue. your lips close around it, and you hesitantly suck. you're not sure what you were expecting; it's a feather, soft and flimsy in your mouth.

you jolt at an indistinct tickling feeling against your clit. you look back, feather hanging out of your mouth, to see hawks leaning back on a stall. he's not within reach to touch you, so...

"hng!" the foreign object presses your clit. the pressure strengthens against your tight bundle of nerves, and you can feel your slick drip out of you even more. a feather; though hawks made the consistency a bit more solid. the feather pushes against your pussy like a seesaw, making you reach for your high. you shut your eyes tight, lost in the feeling and desperate for release. the feather drags up and down your cunt, eliciting lewd noises, while your lips are clamped shut around the feather in your mouth. saliva pools in your mouth the more the feather teases your wet sex, and the familiar build of tension starts in your stomach. you yearn for the heat returned in full, to be so fulfilled in pleasure, and you rut against the feather in an attempt to reach your climax faster. the stimulation is suddenly gone, leaving you crying out.

"look at this," hawks sneers. a single, wet feather, dripping in a substance far thicker than water hovers in front of you. "open your mouth."

the feather slips out, and is replaced with a salty tasting one.

the taste of your arousal fills your tongue, and before you're given time to dwell on it, you feel warmth pressing against the back of your thighs. there's a clanking of metal, a shuffle of fabric, and you feel the tip of hawks' cock pressing against you.

"look at you, baby, so desperate for a fuckin' feather," he rasps in your ear. "should i show you how much better my cock is? hmm?"

you nod dumbly, the feather bobbing with you. 

"fuck," he groans, pushing himself into your depths. "so wet, so- slick- goddamn baby bird, you like it when i stuff you full of this cock?"

you hum a noise against the feather in your mouth, agreeing. he slipped into your pussy smoothly, lubricated by the abundance of your slick. once in, snuggled in deep, something in the man's composure snaps; he thrusts mercilessly, pounding deep in you. his fingers hold your hips, bruising them, you're sure - and the pain is sweet, a sick lolly against your tongue. 

"fuck, fuck, daddy's gonna fuck his babies into you, betcha'd like that, huh?"  you can't articulate your words properly with the feather in your mouth, but you attempt to agree. he doesn't care, continuing with his degradation.

"you're gonna give me my chicks, huh? be my bitch," he pants heavily. god, you can just imagine how he looks; hair falling onto his sweat-matted forehead, his eyes completely lascivious. a wanton moan spills from your mouth, and the feather falls, but hawks doesn't make notice of this. he continues to slam into you, pace unforgiving, burying himself to the hilt inside of you. squelching noises fill the bathroom, echoing off the walls.

you can only moan and clench around him unintelligently. 

"look at you... all fuckin' stupid and obedient, all for daddy, hm? so willing to let daddy use you as a cumdump, daddy's personal- fucking- cumslut- but you like that, huh? your pretty pussy's clenching around me. you like being talked down to, don'tcha? such a dirty slut. look at that, you're drooling."

two of hawks' fingers shove themselves into your mouth, and you salivate around them. it's messy, you know, and spit trails down your chin.

"look at me, chickadee," he commands. you crane your neck to look at him, eyes wide. "fuck, so slutty," he grunts. "you really like this, don't you? fuck- exposing your fucking cunt to every guy, huh? being used as nothing but a filthy fucktoy?"

you shake your head rapidly in disagreement, cheeks heating up. 

"no?" he chuckles darkly. "just my fucktoy, then?"

you reluctantly nod. 

"my stupid lil baby... so pretty with daddy's fingers shoved in her mouth..." he coos, and a surprising, fuzzy feeling emerges from the praise.

his unoccupied hand reaches down in between your thighs to stimulate your clit, rubbing fast circles against the bud. warmth pools and ties a knot in your stomach. the sugared indulgence of release that you'd so craved comes into view; the knot tightening and tightening and you feel fit to burst.

"c-cum for me, baby bird, cum for me, y/n," he stutters, making a guttural sound in the back of his throat. the fingers in your mouth pull out, falling onto your hips. the tight knot bursts into violent fireworks of ecstasy; your cunt gushes around hawks' cock, convulsing madly. the pleasure shatters you, and everything becomes a haze. you go limp against the counter, thighs shaking. you're not sure how much time has passed - hawks had been fucking you through orgasm, and, at one point, came as well.

"hey, feather," he whispers gently to you. "you did so well for me..." he strokes your back, making a plethora of calming coos and humming sounds

"did so well," you mumble. 

"don't worry about anything, dove, i've got it all handled."

your thoughts are all fog, and you allow yourself to lean into hawks. this is one of the rare times you're vulnerable completely to him; at his mercy, after a particularly hard session. rather, it's one of the rare moments that your true feelings are revealed; how your hatred is baseless, built on jealousy and attraction you deny.

not that you'll admit it.

[icollectyoursins]

Kishibe Rohan x Reader SFW + NSFW

Anon said: “Consider Rohan sfw and nsfw hcs? And in nsfw Rohan could be a top,,? Prrtty pleade hhh, since there is only one work of Rohan ;;”

I hope these are good, not too familiar with Rohan, so I hope you like it!

Wanna know what I’m willing to write? Rules here!

Have a character, but no idea? Prompt list here!

Looking for more? Master post here!

WARNINGS: Making out, stands used in inappropriate ways, fingering, voyeurism, dildos, fucking machines, spanking, hand jobs, blow jobs, oral, face fucking, cock warming, nipple play, nude modelling. 

Word Counts: 2201

SFW

Rohan is a jackass who cares. In the beginning, he’s very private and stand-offish, but he does warm up to you eventually, though he’s still nicer in private than he is in public. He claims this is because he’s a “celebrity” and can’t have his fans see you too close together yada, yada. It’s bullshit and you know it, but you have the feeling it’s because he’s not used to people being close to him. 

Yes, he does have a binder dedicated to paintings, drawings, sketches, etc. all for you. Some are a little on the artistically lewd side, but most of them are of your hands holding something or your smile, your face and shoulders. Some of them he asked you to model for, others he quickly sketched down while you weren’t paying attention and then finished later.

When he’s not holed up inside, he enjoys walking down to either parts of Morioh where he can people watch or down to the park where he can study wildlife (and maybe draw you playing with ducks). 

You are literally never bored in his house. He has every book under the earth and so many loose painting supplies that he painfully lets you use to fool around. (Though let’s be honest, He likes that you take an interest in his job and would be more than happy to give you tips.)

You know what? Rohan is a backseat artist. He watches every stroke you make over your shoulder and tells you maybe you should move the hand this way to make it more natural or add some light shading here to make it dynamic. It may come off as a little pretentious at first, but if you keep with it, he’ll notice the improvement and (occasionally) tell you how good you’re doing while being a total blushing mess.

    You sat in the window seat, knees up with your back against the wall. Resting on your thighs was a sketchbook. Currently, you were just idly drawing lines of shading onto a face. Rohan himself was also busy colouring in his most recent page, though every now and then he would catch himself looking up at your silhouette, lit up by the light in some kind of halo effect.

     Finally, he caved in to his curiosity. Setting down his pencils, he strode over to you. You didn’t notice until his face manifested itself over your shoulder. Startled, you jumped, causing your pencil to make a long line on your artwork. 

     “Jesus, warn me next time.” You said, grabbing your eraser.

     “Have you been struggling with the nose?” He completely ignores you, still staring at your drawing. The paper was clearly marked up by the eraser with deeper marks from where the pencil was.

     “Yeah, actually. It’s either too big or too small. Kind of just gave up.” You carefully tried to erase the long line but wound up taking away parts that you were actually happy with.

     “Be more gentle with the pencil, it’ll make it easier to erase.” He suggested with a monotone.

     “I tried-”

     “And then you got frustrated and pushed harder. I admire your persistence, however, if something isn’t to your liking, walk away and come back. Remember to look at the picture as a whole, not just the nose.” You rolled your eyes, gently tossing your pencil onto the window seat. As much as you wanted to appreciate the advice, you had heard it all before. You were getting sick of it, frankly.

     Rohan took note of your agitation, studying your face carefully. “You’ve improved, though!” You looked up, a little shocked. What? “The eyes are well done and your shading is very even. Good job.” 

     What? Your cheeks grew hot. That was the first bit of praise you had heard from him. About your drawing, at least. He looked down into your eyes, then felt his own face getting hot. He turned away. “Go take a break. I’ll help you when you get back in an hour. I’ll be timing you, don’t be late.”

Like I have said, he’s not overly fond of affection in public (in the beginning), but he can’t deny that holding your hand or feeling you on his arm makes him feel pretty good. The first few times, he’s internally a mess, though he won’t show anything other than a light tint of blush on his cheeks. But when he’s relaxing at home, he enjoys having you under his arm, leaning against him or with one of your heads in the other’s lap. He’s not used to people and even less so used to affection, but can be worked up to being more comfortable with stuff like kissing in front of the Morioh gang and the like.

When he’s comfortable, he is so cocky. Like, boarder line makes out with you in front of literally anyone just to prove you’re his S/O. This always makes you blush so much (unless you’re into that.) More often than not, he’ll have an arm around your shoulders, hand in pocket, looking so smug and proud and cool. 

Pet names? He can either go one of two ways, depending on his mood. Either it’s just your name or babe OR it is every teasing name under the sun. Oh, darling can you do this for me? Oh, baby, oh, honey, oh, my love, oh, my flower. It’s usually used to get something from you or to get you to do something a little out of the box.

I can see Rohan as being the kind of person who is very strict about his bath time and hates when people interrupt him. On the rare occasion, he’ll let you in with him with the promise of either massaging him or something else *wink, wink*

NSFW (Dominant specifically)

Rohan literally does not shut up during sex. Praise, degradation, mocking, you name it! As a writer and an artist, he knows how to stitch words together in a masterful way that never fails to make you hot in the face.

Uh, yeah. He’s used Heaven’s Door on you before. Did he do it to learn your kinks? Maybe to put some kind of loose control over you in certain situations? Looking for people you find attractive for potential erm... art inspiration (voyeurism)? The world will never know.

Staying-on brand with HD, he absolutely uses it to learn everything that you enjoy in the bedroom. He knows how to make you squirm, where to push to make you scream, how to make you beg. He knows everything.

Particularly enjoys using this “power” to finger you, pressing into every sweet spot (that he made more sensitive with HD), licking over the edges of your hole in a way that just makes you dumb (either hole, not picky!)

     A delicate finger was trailed up your twitching hole, making you shiver. Rohan had already stretched you open enough for it to easily slip in again. You were so sensitive from being teased over and over again, but with no relief that you cried out, tears threatening to burst forward.

     He curled his finger up into a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves, slowly pushing into it more. You groaned and whined, blabbering out his name along with various ways to beg. He shushed you carelessly, sounding annoyed by your desperation. God, you wish you could move! You would give anything to be impaled by him right now. Or anything for that matter.

     He removed the digit quickly, then promptly smacked your ass with a flat hand.

     “Quiet.” You had no choice but to listen to him, involuntarily shutting your mouth and stifling your whimpers. “If you want something, be polite about it. Do you know how to be polite?”

     You nodded your head, a single tear trailed down your cheek. Your hole was teased again, repeating the same process as before. Rohan was such an asshole, but god if you didn’t love it.

If you have established a relationship where he has complete control over everything you say or do, he will abuse it so much. Just, tells you to sit still, turns on a wand or vibrator and just tortures you to the point of tears. You can talk, he didn’t take that away (mostly because he wants to hear you beg), but the position he put you in on top of the order. It’s too much for you. 

He’ll do the same with a dildo, a fucking machine, his own dick, does not matter! Once you give him that power, RIP to your organs.

Alright, now. Voyeurism. This man is a freak and does not try to hide it when it’s under the guise of “art.” Again, if established, he will hire random people to do whatever he wants to you. If you’re okay with it, he’ll record it for later research. 

Rohan is a weird jealous type, so he checks out every person you meet and makes sure they’re perfect (ie. not competition and someone you’ll enjoy). Very rarely does he let you pick out the people. Like I said, he’s a weird jealous type. Likes to see you with other people, but not with other people, you know?

There is only one person who he considers competition that he wants you to fuck at least once and it’s Jotaro. Are we surprised? No. Dude is built like a god and has the goods to match. Even Rohan can’t deny it. He would probably want to join in as well, but Jotaro would never do anything like that.

Mmmm, punishments for being bratty? Ooooh, yes. Smack my ass like a drum! Makes you count, absolutely. If he’s in a bitchy, lazy mood he’ll use a paddle or something like that, other than that, he uses his hands. 

As you’ve probably surmised, he likes having control over you in the bedroom, so it’s no surprise he also enjoys tying you up and has a particular fondness for swings where he’ll hang you up and tease you until you can barely walk. 

I mentioned baths in the SFW section, now let me elaborate. Doesn’t like sex in the bath, he hates when the water gets everywhere, but loves when you worship him while scrubbing him down and will allow you to work him up with a light hand job. This usually leads to a blowjob of some kind whether it’s gentle or rough.

Speaking of! His favourite part of sex is probably oral. From sucking bruises into each other’s necks, rough kissing, right down to holding you against the wall and choking you with his dick. Or a dildo, if he wants something a little more adventurous like mirror sex with him taking you from behind and making you watch yourself choke over and over again.

Cock warming is only ever used as punishment for being too needy, but he will keep you in his lap until you’re in tears. He is absurdly patient when it comes to sex.

     You whined, grinding yourself onto Rohan’s dick. He chuckled before letting out a theatrical sigh. Your grip on his shoulders got harder and you buried your face into his neck more.

     “What’s wrong, (Y/N)?” He trailed a soft, teasing hand up your thigh. “You wanted attention, yes? Then, why are you complaining? Now, up, I need another look at my reference.”

     You sighed, tired and riled up at the same time. With new vigour, you sat up, leaning back to show your artist his latest obsession. He hummed in appreciation, taking a minute to admire his muse before licking a warm stripe up your sternum making you gasp. He stopped, giving you a look of warning.

     “Don’t move.” You gave him a curt nod, trying your best to follow your command while he returned his tongue to your chest, exploring your skin’s taste. He flicked over your nipple with the tip, testing your resolve before wrapping his lips around it, sucking harshly. A moan fought its way through your throat as he became more feverous with his suckling. 

     Rohan hummed with you, theatrically mulling over the saltiness, then switching to the next one. Satisfied with the redness around your nipples, he pulls back, looking you over once again. A lightbulb seems to go off in his head and he reaches for his sketchbook which only made his cock shift inside you, rubbing against your walls in a delightfully painful way.

     “Rohan-sensei,” you moaned out. Admittedly, you didn’t like calling him that, but he insisted you call him sensei during times like this. 

     “Stop moving, you’re ruining the picture,” he chided. “Go back to the way you were, darling.” He leaned back, rolling his hips into you to punctuate his words as well as tease you. 

Model nude for him. Whether you like it or not, he will ask you to do it and, if he’s in a sexy mood, you will be asked to do uncomfortable positions that will definitely leave you sore the next day. “It highlights how the muscles work for a new character I’m drawing” or so he says. Other than that, he’ll just let you pick somewhere comfortable and sexy to lie down. 

[sugasugawarau]

Synopsis: You knew that Kageyama Tobio was not your soulmate - and that was why you could not help but succumb to the waves that lulled you away from the shores of fate + semi inspired by Eyes Blue like the Atlantic by sistaprod ft. Subvrbs. Also part of @yacoka‘s collab <3 (2.4k words)

Warnings/notes: Some angst near the end, soulmate red string au, gender neutral reader. No beta we die like Rex Lapis so if I ever feel like it this may be edited at some point asdahdhj idk LMAO

— Prologue

There are as many reasons to fall in love with Kageyama Tobio as there are fractals made by the ocean’s breath as the world inhales and exhales, flourishes and wilts, conquers and surrenders. It would not even be a hyperbole to say that in number, they remain unrivalled to the plethora of stars that stain the waves with their reflection and run deeper than the scars of lightyears that paint lines from Cassiopeia to Aquila.

After all, he is the darkest hue of navy blue.

Determination that moves in an orchestra of thundering waves, brandishing on its crest an admirable recklessness, heeding not for the need to call upon courage or confidence; polished instinct that endued one with the same awestruck feeling when facing the beautifully suffocating obscurity of their life in this world, a mixture of raw fear and the need to impart a piece of their soul in everything they do despite how fragile the skin shielding their heart is.

But the best part of loving Kageyama was that you were not - or will ever become - destined to be.

— Shoreline

Red.

It was a word that was always thrown about in conversations, the fuel to the catastrophes that were high school gossip chains, and the colour that held the mangled passion of the string of fate. Garishly predestined and easily tangled by unnecessary complications of jealousy and confusion, it is needless to say that you hated red with more passion than the love it emptily promises with a title as shallow as soulmates.

That was not to say you despised love. There was nothing wrong with love itself, a fact which you had decided firmly since the spry age of four years old. What was wrong was its combination with soulmates: a rigid formula, nothing like the walks with your grandmother on the bright summer roads littered with flowers as her calloused palm gently guided you, or the laughter you shared with your friends after a long run in the rain, hugging each other goodbye at the end of the day despite the muddy battle scars covering your arms and legs from falling countless times.

Your mind could have kept you engaged in your internal debate for longer if you were left to your own devices, but an awkward cough and the sound of a desk shifting towards your right brought you out of your reverie, bringing your drifting thoughts back to the classroom surrounding you.

Perhaps your look of confusion came off as hostile, for the dark-haired boy now sitting next to you looked at you with a slight glare that felt forced, an automatic effort to defend himself.

His tone of voice only confirmed your unconsciously off-putting expression as he gruffly stated, “Group project.” to explain his sudden presence.

“Oh. What’s the topic on?”

An awkward silence had ensued while you tried to calmly collect yourself by gathering a handful of pens from your pencil case after being caught in your heinous crime of not paying attention to your English teacher.

“You don’t know?” Came his reply, causing you to occupy yourself by finding extreme interest in a lime green highlighter you did not have any recollection of ever buying.

“Well, I clearly wasn’t paying attention.”

“You… weren’t?” The slight intonation in his tone was a stark contrast to your initial impression of him and caused you to look up at him, almost letting out an amused snort at his befuddled frown to which he furrowed his brows and shot a challenging “What?” in return. Realizing that he was genuine in believing that you were deep in thought over the lesson, a burst of laughter blossomed past your lips, attracting a few odd looks from your nearby peers and an abashed glare from him.

You paused to take a breath, a repetition of sorries stumbling their way out to appease the onslaught of nagging you thought would follow shortly. Instead, all the boy muttered was a simple, “You’re weird.”

“Sure, but that’s beside the point - were you paying any attention?”

“No.”

Seeing your face contorted to stop yet another bout of laughter to roam its way into the world as a result of his bluntness, he shot out of his seat and announced that he would go ask the teacher, unable to hide his puzzlement as he walked away. He would come to regret this decision when the teacher began to lecture him, earning more heads to turn his way as she scolded him before sending him off dismissively with a sticky note that you assumed had your now long-awaited topic.

Before you could thank him for enduring what could only be one of the worst things to experience as a high school student, he wordlessly handed the piece of paper to you and sat down.

“Kageyama, right? With this project, you’ll have me to thank for the A we’ll get,” you promised confidently, to which he responded with a halfhearted “Good luck.”

If he had been a close friend, you would have taken the small textbook on his desk and gently hit his head at his evident lack of belief in his capabilities, but settled for a clipped sigh instead. After all, you did not want to further contribute to the premature wrinkles Kageyama was making himself prone to with all of the brow-furrowing he did.

This is going to be one long month.

— Largo

Like how the ocean reluctantly caresses the sleeping shore as it wakes from its slumber during low tide, your lives slowly flowed together.

During the first week of your group project with him, he would greet you curtly, and on a few occasions, you would have short conversations about the outline of your book review.

And this singular week was enough to show that there was some (okay, maybe a lot) of backing behind the teacher’s warning about Kageyama’s dismal grade.

While you flipped through A Midsummer Night’s Dream, you would catch the all-too-familiar confusion on his face - it was written on his features so blatantly that it was almost comical, as if taken straight out of a shonen manga.

“You know if you’re stuck you can ask me for help.”

A slight scowl greeted you over the hedge of pages he had been burying himself in, followed by a biting, “Who said I need help?”

You could only roll your eyes in return.

“Please drop the prideful act. You've been glazing over the same page for about twenty minutes now."

After a few seconds of grumbling did he finally comply, and with your explanations, his bookmark was now comfortably sandwiched between the double-digit page numbers right as the bell rang. You hummed in satisfaction before returning your desk to your original spot, expecting him to rush out along with everyone else - so to turn around and see him still standing there was a bit of a surprise.

“Did you still need help with the last few lines?” You settled on asking, not really wanting to plague your break with work but offering nonetheless. Thankfully, he shot a look of disdain at the play as he stuffed it away haphazardly in his bag.

“No, I just wanted to,” he trailed off a bit, the tinge of red on his ears an out-of-character detail you decided not to comment on, “to say thanks, I guess.”

You smiled softly at the unexpected gesture of appreciation before giving him a teasing nudge which he stiffened slightly at.

“Well, I can’t have you bringing down my mark now can I?”

“Nevermind, I take it back.”

“Too bad, I have those words of gratitude stored nicely in my hippocampus already.”

From there, tutoring sessions with Kageyama became the norm, with you sometimes asking about his volleyball team after he had let slip that you were a better teacher than Tsukishima (something you would be sure to smugly share if you ever met the infamous middle blocker).

By the end of the month, all of the hard work - and a couple of all-nighters due to procrastination - brought forth an A as you had promised.

Even your relentless teasing, varying between “I told you so!” to “You owe me at least three meat buns now” which were all met with an annoyed “Shut up”was not enough to dim the smile he tried to hide.

— High tide

With the force of nature, the tide rose without warning; from goodnight texts to confessing to the first “I love you” uttered shyly between shameless souls, neither of you was sure where things began, but found comfort in such liberating chaos.

In times where he needed to be held, you were there, and the insecurities you would hide, he would turn beautiful. And today happened to be a day for both as you stared absentmindedly at his bedroom ceiling.

“Hey Tobio, what’s your take on soulmates?”

“We’ve been together for almost a year now, what do you think?” he put his phone down and turned towards you, “I could care less about soulmates or whatever else is worrying you enough to make your overthinking go into overdrive.”

“Rude, have some respect, it’s my profession after all,” you shoved him playfully as he snorted in reply, “It’s just... If your string ever appeared, wouldn't you rather-”

“Listen Y/n, did you know that I’m scared of dying but I’m even more terrified of the thought of living without you? I could never and don’t ever want to replace you. People can talk all they want, if I could find a love like ours without something as stupid as a piece of string then I don’t need a soulmate.”

“Really?”

With a flick to your forehead, he huffed in fake exasperation. “Really.”

“Huh, who knew you could be so romantic.”

“It's not romantic, I'm just being honest, idiot.”

“You sure could make do with some more lessons on manners and social tact. It's too bad you can't pick up on those as well as volleyball drills.”

Before he could retaliate, you enveloped him in a familiar embrace, burrowing your face into the large hoodie he donned.

It was effortless, his company.

— Ebbing away

But it wasn’t all romantic.

You fiddled with your phone as you waited for any sign that Kageyama had seen your messages, the pack of meat buns you had bought on a whim no longer letting off their fragrant steam. You knew he had an important match coming up against Seijoh, that he had to prove himself, that he lives hungrily and foolishly like no other. But his missing presence went beyond volleyball practice, keeping his distance from you even when he was right by your side.

Why am I stuck reminiscing about the past when we still have each other?

Why does every step I take towards him feel as if I’m only drawing myself farther away from him?

A carousel of rhetorical questions spun around your head as you stopped your slow pace towards Karasuno. You were not blind; you knew the rumours and dirty looks from your classmates were not something anyone could be immune to, that he tried his best to spend less time around you at school. The only conclusion you could reach was that he was ashamed: either of you, or the fact that he had begun to see his red string and could not bring himself to face you.

Ignoring the urge to let yourself cry, you glanced down at your phone once more, 8:30PM flashed across your eyes, followed by your empty notifications. There was no way he’d still be practicing at the school now and even if he was, you doubted he would be happy to see you. Maybe - no, definitely - it would be better to head home, and maybe stop by the convenience store you had bought the now misshapen meat buns from to get some tea and call it a night.

If only fate did not reciprocate your hatred towards it.

Stepping into the small store, the first person you are greeted with is none other than Kageyama Tobio. The whole situation was like a fever dream, and you would do anything to be able to let out a laugh and have him call you weird all over again. But all you could bring yourself to do was blearily stare at him.

He turned around quickly, as if not wanting to be caught before ushering you outside. “Y/n? Why are you here?” he hissed, a stiffness that he had recently adopted to his body language that you were now all too familiar with.

“What? Am I not allowed to go into any and all convenience stores I please?” You challenged, a part of you waiting for him to care enough to see how tired you were, to actually look you in the eyes for the first time in weeks.

He did not, opting to turn his head towards the door again.

“It’s not that, it’s just-”

“Just what? Tobio, what is up with you lately?” A pause ensued, broken by a small hiccup as your eyes dampened - God, how much more pathetic could you get than crying in front of some dingy convenience store - “Do you even love me anymore?”

How odd. You thought that by finally uttering the final question that had been dancing around your mind free to the world, you would feel better. That he would reassure you, as he always had.

Not that he would at last meet your gaze, grabbing your hand to look at the red string wrapped around your ring finger.

The taste of tears and Kageyama’s eyes as blue as the Atlantic all felt miles away from you as an orange-haired boy stepped out of the store, his mouth dropping into an o-shape when he saw that his string led to you, a disheveled mess arguing with his teammate.

“Kageyama…You knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to face the reality of it all. Because I was afraid of losing you.”

“But I wouldn’t leave you-”

“I know you wouldn’t but you should!” Kageyama’s furrowed brows, once a quirk of his that you were fond of, now elicited a sick turmoil in your stomach, “You have to. Please.”

You wanted to yell at him, let the blood pour out of any and all raw words of anger and hurt.

Who was he to decide what was good for you, to throw you at some boy you never met before, to give up?

Then again, you could never say you would not have done the same for him if you knew he had found his soulmate despite the sweet words he had told you so long ago.

So you let yourself go. For his sake.

[kirishwima]

Don’t worry about us, please try not to stress out. I am only sending in this request merely due to it not leaving me alone. RFA+V, Unknown (cannot remember how to spell his name) reactions to MC in their wedding dress, what type of wedding will they have? Please do not mind and please study wisely.

ahh this is a cute and light-hearted idea :’) You speak of a wedding dress but refer to MC as they/them, so I’ll be writing for them as non-binary! 

I’ll also add photos of what I think their wedding dress/suit would be bc....I have to, and because I have a whole pinterest board of wedding dresses saved from last summer when I was helping my sister plan her wedding orz :’)

YOOSUNG:

* When speaking of weddings, Yoosung’s always imagined the beautiful classics; standing at the altar, seeing the love of his life walk down the aisle dressed in the most gorgeous gown, his smile broadening at the sight of them.

* He himself wore a humble black suit, but with a baby blue bow-tie; reminiscing of his own innocence.

* He absoloutely had Zen help him pick out his suit; they took Seven along too but he kept insisting Yoosung should just wear a onesie instead lmao

* He did discuss with MC what they’d like to wear; when they said they wanted to wear a dress, he immediatly thought of classic puffy white dresses with lace and toule. 

* Seeing MC walk towards him though, he couldn’t help how his jaw hung open, how his eyes widened. “Lucky you”, he heard Seven whisper, standing besides him as his best man. 

* MC was like a princess, and he, their soon-to be prince. He took their hand as they reached the altar, kissing their knuckles with a wide smile. He’d ditched his glasses for the wedding, finally able to see better with the help of surgery, and he blessed each of his doctors for being able to witness the sight that was MC.

*Overall he’s just a tearful happy nugget, and 10/10 will choke with tears whilst saying his vows

ZEN:

* Despite what you may be thinking, he actually doesn’t dream of big fancy weddings and expensive venues. His ideal wedding would be something simple; a gathering of friends and loved ones, perhaps even by the beach, being able to stand besides the one he loves comfortably and proudly.

* He’s glad that he and MC are on the same page about that; even if he’s a celebrity, his humble approach to life never changed, and he wants their wedding to reflect that. So a wedding by the beach it is!

* It’s Zen we’re talking about, so even a potato sack would look flattering on him, so his choice of suits is endless. He’s classy but doesn’t like the plain old black suit, so instead he goes for something more summery, given their venue. 

* I can really imagine him in a linen suit, ditching the tie for a more laid-back look, his hair tied into an intricate braid, even wearing one or two little white flowers at its end.

* He’d be just as awe-struck with how MC looks no matter what they’d wear, suit or dress, casual or formal. He’ll love them just as much if he sees them every morning in their pyjamas and bed hair, or in a gown and heels. 

* Simple and elegant, and nicer than the summer breeze blowing through Zen’s hair, he had to bite his lip, blinking back tears threatening to fall at the thought he’s about to spend the rest of his life with his beloved. (Also he has to fight the Beast until later tonight and hoo boy is that a hassle or WHAT)

* All in all-he’s one happy hecking groom, and he can’t wait to tear that dress off of them the moment they’re in their private quarters lol

JAEHEE:

* Honestly...she didn’t see the point of holding a wedding at first. Did she fantasize about it as a little girl? Sure, she did. But as she got older and the thought of dating and family got further and further away from her, that childhood dream was put aside, stored in the repressed part of her brain.

* It’d been MC who proposed, and MC who began the planning for the wedding-they didn’t want Jaehee to feel burdened with organizing, but the more Jaehee worked to plan their wedding, the more she fell in love with the idea of this special day just for the two of them, and the more she fell in love with MC, seeing their hard work and adoration towards her.

* They didn’t want to have an all-out wedding like many couples do; just them, their families and the RFA, a little get together to celebrate a milestep of their life together. 

* They had arrived at the dillema of; will we both wear suits? Dresses? Should one of us wear a suit and the other a dress? In the ned MC suggested they each decide on a look without telling the other, so it’ll be just as much of a surprise for each of them to see the other on their wedding day!

* Jaehee is a practical woman, yes, but we know that she’s not the strict short-haired lady she was whilst working with Jumin-she allows herself to explore femiminity more and more in her route, and I feel that’d be evident in her choice of a wedding gown-simple, yet elegant and chic.

* With her hair in a gorgeous loose bun, flowers adorning her head, her ring-finger soon to be decorated with a delicate ring she and MC chose together-she almost can’t believe the person looking back at her in the mirror is herself.

* Less so can she believe that the person she’s about to marry is soon walking towards her, a smile on their face as if they’re the lucky one to be marrying Jaehee when Jaehee stares wide-eyed at the beautiful person she’s eagerly waiting to spend the rest of her life with;

* Of course they’d choose a dress with pockets, she thinks with a roll of her eyes, if only to tease Jaehee about her own lack of pockets later on. 

* They both can’t help but stare at each other as they meet at the altar, wide eyed with incredulous smiles. The preacher even has to cough politely to get their attention back to well, their wedding lmao

* It’s everything Jaehee could’ve wanted and then some.

JUMIN:

* Yeah yeah, it’s Jumin Han, the handsome man in a suit, and yeah he’s gonna have an all-out wedding alright-but only if that’s what MC wants. 

* He honestly...doesn’t care what the ceremony will be like, who will be there or what they’ll say. He only cares about seeing MC’s ring finger adorned with a rind that has his surname engraved in it, a mark on them that says MC’s his, his and no one elses.

* Even if he wears suits on the daily, his wedding is no exception; he’ll wear a suit tialored to perfection, classic black and sleek, matching his raven-dark hair, slicked back for the occasion-he’d go to the ceremony in his pyjamas if he had to, so long as he’s able to call MC his spouse once the day’s over.

* He had given MC the absoloute liberty of choosing what to wear, with the only condition being they have the best tailors across the world work on their outfit, wanting it to be as unique and wonderful as MC themself. 

* It was jarring at first, to have 5 or 6 professionals tug and probe at MC whilst working on their measurements and meeting up to discuss their style, but they figure that’s just how life with Jumin as their husband will be-extreme, sometimes awkward, but full of love and care; they could see it in his smile when they came home from their fitting, tired but happy as they snuggled up in his arms, him stroking their hair until they fell asleep.

* It’s hard to find a dress picture that I feel captures what MC’s dress would be, but I think the closest to it would be something like this;

* “The most befitting dress for royal beauty such as yours”, Jumin whispers to MC’s ear as they approach him at the altar, his smile small and private, for MC’s eyes only.

* Yet as he leans down to kiss them, completely ignoring the preacher waiting to start the ceremony, he whispers on their lips ‘I love you’, and MC knows from the bottom of their soul, that no matter what they wore, how they looked, Jumin would love them just as much. And they’re forevel grateful for that.

* p.s: Elizabeth the 3d is ABSOLOUTELY going to be the ring bearer, and she’ll have her own little dress appropriate for the occasion, fight me on this.

SEVEN/LUCIEL/SAEYOUNG:

* Y’all....tease him about the ‘let’s get married at the space station’ bit all you want, but this boy DREAMS of a wedding, a family and happy life for so long, you can never convince me he doesn’t go all out for his wedding.

* A beautiful, flower-covered venue? Check. Tailored, custom-made suit? Check. Planning everything to the most minute detail? YES. He’ll run himself dry working on creating the perfect wedding, it’ll take some convincing from MC to tone it down lmao.

* He’ll still insist on inviting absurd guests just like he did with the RFA parties, but in all honesty, he just wants MC besides him, Saeran and Yoosung next to him as hie best men (yes he can have both of them shush), the rest of the RFA there to congratulate him and MC on their special day; the people he loves, to celebrate the day of uniting with his one true love, that’s all Saeyoung wants.

* To be able to say ‘I love you MC’, and to have MC tell him ‘I love you, Saeyoung’-to formally and completely leave the life of 707 behind, to have his brother hug him, congratulate him on his wedding-this is all more than enough to make Saeyoung cry happy tears, pushing his palms on his eyes as he laughs and cries at the same time, letting MC hug him to help him calm down.

* While he does dream of a classic classy wedding, he loves the colour red a little too much, so he’d try and sneak it in there, be it in a vest or bow tie lol (he’d absoloutely wear a bow tie instead of a tie, and he’d be allowed one (1) doctor who joke for the duration of the ceremony lmao)

* ((also....not relevant to the wedding itself, but his marriage proposal would absoloutely be at a planetarium, js))

* As for MC...they’d spent nights on the couch together, eating chips and wondering what they’d each wear on the day of their wedding. They ended up taking Jaehee and some more of their friends with them when looking for a dress, as much as Saeyoung pouted and asked to tag along.

* It was worth it to keep him in the dark though; his big wide eyes as MC walked towards him, how he had to bite his lip to stop giggling like a fool, he was jumping up and down at the altar, giggling behind his hands as he mumbled ‘oh my god oh my god oh my god allah and buddha!’. 

* “Holy shit” he whispered to himself, earning a stern gaze from the preacher, his brother groaning in the background. MC took it as a compliment though, smiling up at him as they stood across him.

* This boy....will cry real ugly snort filled tears at his wedding vows, I guarantee it.

V/JIHYUN:

* BOHO WEDDING BOHO WEDDING BOHO WEDDING

* Like hello??? Have you seen this hippie-ass man at the end of his route?? He’ll be so happy with a marriage ceremony in the forest, in a little church that looks almost abandoned in its little spot at the edge of the woods, in a little city no one knew before V brought it up.

* He’d love to help decorate and renovate the church for their wedding, using funds taken from a painting collection he did featuring the very forest the church sits besides. 

* (I can also totally picture their wedding taking place in a botanical garden/greenhouse, if you’d rather skip the church option! Just surrounded by plants and nature :D)

* Even if it’s not a boho wedding though-just being able to spend the rest of his life besides MC, the person that truly taught him what love is, that’s all handsome mint boy needs.

* Honestly...he’s extra enough to be the kind of guy that ditches the shirt, so I can imagine him wearing something like the following, but in a darker colour; 

* As for MC....yeah I’m gonna add my personal favorite here bc bOHO WEDDING DRESSES ARE GORGEOUS AND MC WOULD LOOK LIKE A FAE APPEARING THROUGH THE WOODS AND JIHYUN WOULD ABSOLOUTELY GASP AT THE SIGHT OF THEM, WIPING AWAY A STRAY TEAR AS HE KISSES THEIR FOREHEAD WHEN THEY REACH HIM AT THE ALTAR, SAYING A QUIET ‘THANK YOU, I LOVE YOU’ ONLY MC CAN HEAR.

((something with a little simpler bust, but the puffy sleeves,,,flowy dress,,,the line cut that’s honestly so charming on any figure,,,fight me this is the cutest kind of dress))

UNKNOWN/SAERAN:

* He’d really want a small, closed wedding just for him, MC, and the RFA sure, why not (he’s kidding, he’s grown really fond of them all but he refuses to openly admit it)

* If MC suggests they hold their ceremony at a greenhouse he’ll be over the moon; he’ll personally visit the greenhouse and make sure all the flowers are in tip top condition for their wedding.

* For his own suit, he’d like to keep things simple, maybe even ditching the whole suit and tie thing; 

* I really imagine him with a suit similar to this, but ditching the vest , with flowers pinned to his blazer that he looks fondly at, knowing MC will be holding a bouquet just like these, ones he himself picked out with all his love and care, removing each thorn to make sure nothing can harm their hands as they hold the bouquet.

* As MC walks towards him through the greenhouse his breath shudders, any words he may have had dying in his throat; MC looks ethereally beautiful and he’s out of words as they come to stand in front of him, his lips trembling.

* Is this person really his? The one he’ll be able to hold, to love for as long as he lives? He shakingly takes MC’s hand in his, giving them a tight squeeze as he smiles.

* “In sickness and in health” he whispers, smiles as MC says it back.

* In sickness and in health.

-Send me mystic messenger headcanons for character reactions-

[t-o-m-hollands]

California Dreaming Harry Styles x y/n

Summary: Harry is having a bad morning, and you try to cheer him up.

Themes: Super fluffy, dreamy one shot.

Warnings: None, except maybe mentions of alcohol?

Word count: 1,7 k

A/N: First of, this is based on this post . It’s also inspired by a dream I had and somewhat similar to my story Happy Place. Also, the house is slightly inspired by Dakota Johnson's house. I listened to honeymoon by lana del rey and fine line by harry styles while writing this. Please leave feedback if you can. Not proof read as of yet

In a hotel room somewhere far away from home Harry wakes up that morning to a wave of inexplicable and unavoidable sadness. Blinking slowly, he lays unmoving, and stares out the window. The view is one of a dark sky, and seemingly never ceasing rain. It’s like the whole world has been painted grey.

He wakes that morning and there is a heaviness in his chest, slowly spreading its way through his body. He doesn’t want to move out of bed. Doesn’t want to face the day. Nor does he particularly want to stay in bed, but it seems like the better option.  

The only glimmer of light, the speck of colour on an otherwise grey canvas, is the woman lying next to him, still asleep. He draws her closer to him, finding comfort in her warm body, the familiar scent of her and he listens to her soft breathing; trying to make order of his own thoughts.  

When you wake you smile up at him, and gently you press a kiss to the tip of his nose, and he can’t help but smile. Eventually you get up, but he stays in bed, and the places your body touched burn when you leave. So, he turns to the window and he observes the rain again. If anything, it’s increased. You don’t mind the rain, you never have. In fact, the sound of raindrops against the window has a soothing effect on you.  

He stays in bed while you order room service and only when it arrives does he sits up. He leaves for the bathroom and when he comes back he crashed down on the bed again, seemingly drained of energy. You get him to eat his breakfast as the news show on the TV in the background. After having eaten he gets you both to lay down on the bed again, and god, he feels exhausted already.  

“You know” you say, touching the frown between his eyes with a gentle finger, as if you’re trying to erase it. “One day we’ll buy a house somewhere in California, up by the mountains. And I’ll plant a garden.”

“Yeah?”  

“Yes, right outside the French doors leading to the kitchen I'll plant a lemon three and each year we’ll watch it grow taller. And I’ll plant some herbs too. Basil, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. And lavender of course. I’ll plant tomatoes too, and peppers and squash and spinach and radishes as well. All the good stuff”.

A smile tugs the corner of his mouth and something close to hope shines in his eyes.  

“And have you seen our living room? It’s got big windows to let in the never-ending Californian sunshine. And in an antique cabinet, that by the way; we’ll find some Wednesday afternoon as we’re strolling through a Fleamarket. We’ll see it and we’ll share a glance and we’ll both know that we have to have it. We’ll store our records there, but even though I'll constantly collect new ones, only the good ones get to stay in the antique cabinet. We’ll listen to a new one every night as we cook dinner. I can see it in front of me right now, clear as day; you chopping vegetables and me drinking wine, some obscure band from the 70’s playing in the background that I'll dance along to, even though I claim to help you with the food.”

He smiles for real then, beginning small before it spreads all across his face, eyes twinkling with love.

“Only the good ones will end up in the antique cabinet. Therefor we’ll call it heaven.” You’re smiling too now and he caresses your arm, gently touching you as you speak. You’re lying next to each other in bed, almost nose to nose.

“Sometimes when we cook dinner together, I'll tell you about my day as I pour us some wine and you’ll tell me about yours while you chop the garlic. Some nights we’ll slow dance in the kitchen, just because we want to and because it feels good to be close to you and I've missed you.”  

He leans in even closer and presses a soft kiss against your forehead. You’re so warm and the warmth spreads through him.

You continue.  

“On cold evening we’ll light the fire in the living room, and I'll play you some music and we’ll read or talk, but never about the weather. Or maybe we’ll argue over a game of scrabble but we always make peace before we go to bed. And on some nights, we’ll have friends and family over and we’ll drink tequila and talk and play music and someone’ll end up dancing on the table and we will all laugh until our stomach's hurts. And you’ll feel loved. On other nights we’ll sit on the porch, just the two of us, sharing a jug of sangria and we’ll watch the sun set over the horizon, while I read through my scripts and you play on your guitar.”

He can see it so clearly in front of him and he wants it all so badly it hurts.  

“Oh, and you know what?” you laugh and he shakes his head, still looking at you with stars in his eyes, still slowly touching your skin; as if he’s unable not to. “Our neighbour will be an old retired priest, but he’s now dedicated beekeeper. And I’ll pick some sunflowers and lemons from our garden and I’ll exchange them for little pots of honey and I'll bake us a honey and lavender cake. We’ll eat it sprawled out on blankets on the grass under the beaming sun”.

“You’re amazing” he breaths out. He didn’t mean to say it, doesn’t want to interrupt your storytelling, but you’ve replaced the heaviness in his stomach with the same warm feeling whiskey or chamomile tea leaves behind and he needs you to know how miraculous you are.  

You laugh in response and kiss the tip of his nose again before you continue.  

“There won’t be a single white wall inside our home. We’ll paint our hallway a sunshine yellow, I can see it now, how we’ll argue and laugh, and sing and dance and bicker as we stand there, both of us with a paint roller in each hand, colouring the white walls yellow; over time filling the space with coats and hats and odd shoes. Art hanging on the walls. In fact, all around the house art work we’ve collected over the years will hang. And in my office a gigantic bookshelf will be overflowing with books. Inherited books, borrowed books, bought books and odd books found in flea markets were the previous owner has already covered the work in dog ears and scribbles. And sometimes I'll buy books in languages I don’t understand. I'll sit with you out on the veranda, soaking up sunshine, and I’ll try to guess the meaning behind each word. And I'll guess what the book is about based on odd words here and there that I'll understand and we’ll laugh about it and you’ll call me silly but really, you want to kiss me”.

He leans in and kisses you and for a while every thought escapes you both and it’s like the sun has finally come out, even to the steady beat of the rain still drum on in the background. In the end he pulls away and asks you to continue your story.

“We’ll have a blue tiled kitchen and copper pots and wicker baskets everywhere. And all the plates will be in different vibrant colours, bought on different occasions at different places. When family or friends come over for dinner they’ll all have a favourite plate and they’ll shout ‘I want the yellow one!’ or ‘the red one is mine!’ My personal favourite will be sunflower yellow, yours will be sea blue. And somewhere in the house we’ll have a pink bathroom or powder room. At first, you’ll say no to this idea but in the end, you’ll give way because you’ll know it’ll make me happy. Just like I’ll make way because I know that it makes you happy that the dog sleeps in our bed in the morning”.  

He cups your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb and Christ, how did he ever get so lucky?

“There will be no plywood in our home. The walls will be of stone or wood, build endure. Built to last” you say with a serious tone. “And on the days where you feel especially burdened or sad, I'll play all your favourite songs on our old piano. I’ll sing them until you’ll beg me to stop. But you can’t help but smile too, especially when I’ll play you Here Comes the Sun, or California Dreamin’. And on those rare rainy California days we’ll stay inside and watch movies, even though we never agree on what to watch. In the end we’ll settle for something badly made and ridiculous and I'll lay on the sofa, my legs in your lap and a blanket draped over us, and we’ll laugh at all the bad jokes. Because we feel loved and laughter comes easy with you.”

He can’t quite describe the feeling in his chest then except it feels like his heart is imploding. This is what love is.  

“And I'll collect ceramic works, little pots and pieces made by friends and artists alike, and I'll place them all over the house and I'll pick flowers from the garden and I’ll put them in. Sunflowers and jasmines to be exact. And when the jasmine dies, I'll press the flowers in my books and I’ll use them as book marks. And when you’ll borrow one of my books and you travel far away, you’ll find that when you open up the first page the scent of jasmine will hit you and it’ll remind you of me, of the fact that you’re never alone. It’ll remind you of home”.

*

So when i first wrote this late at night and i felt rather proud of it but clearly that was just tiredness. Not proud of this one now but i’ve been promising a harry styles one shot for some time now so here it is.

Please leave feedback

[alfiejeffreys]

FMP Evaluation

Disorder/Order

I found myself favouring this theme because I felt so much connection to everything with it. I felt it having the most inside it rather than the other themes, like I could link any and everything through it. Wondering why I chose it, maybe the idea of order or disorder was on my mind at the time, maybe I visualised my project and what it could be, before it was.

Ive always loved something wrong, something without structure from someone else, the idea of distorted art work always was with me. I don’t like realism as much as imagination coming to life with something new, something your unsure of where it comes from. I watched a Joe rogan podcast and he spoke about how when your hammering a nail, you know your hammering it and can recognise that you did it after. But when it came to creativity and more expressive work it’s like you’ve tapped into something else, like your not fully there, that the art is using you to make the work not the other way around. You don’t know where it came from, the work is being sieved through your psychical motion, like it’s someone else who designed it, or a deep self.

Loui Jover very much intrigued and affected my work. His detached forms work really was part of my idea generation.

I wanted to do something with distortion, and his work instantly connected to my artistic wants. An artist who I’m unsure of who they are, wether they were an artist we researched in class or a past student who we researched I don’t know. But their work very much was good for my work, it helped me to understand how I wanted my distorted faces to come across and how i wanted them to look, since their work was of the same style.

I believe the movie Joker 2019 starring Joaquin Phoenix affected me a lot with this distortion sort of theme.

Psychological disorders interest me in a weird way. As well as Shutter Island 2010 starring Leanardo Di Caprio also affected me, his character and his story through out. So amazing. Really made me want to express myself through it.

What you see when you look into someone’s eye, what do you see? What do you think about them as a person, without knowing them. Now question why you think that, where did that idea come from? That judgement came from you, but where did you get it from. That concept, that sort of theme. Really. Really intrigues me.

Thecollinson. An artist I found on Instagram. I’ve been following his work for a while, 2 years almost. I would call his paintings slightly distorted, almost like their unfinished. He has a very interesting way of using the paint, using various different colours and shades with a large range of differential amounts of paint.

Mostly working in painting faces, though it may not actually have a face, or at least a normal one. Leaving splurges of paint at different points to represent the features of a face or even just having it all blank. Possibly painting only around the face.

In fact. I contacted him and asked him a few questions. Let’s see what he has to say.

Alfie: Do you have a plan to make this or an idea in your head?

Or does it just come together as you go along

TheCollinson: Something like that I have an idea of just an eye then build around it. That piece was for a client. They just wanted one eye and had some colours they like so I just went with the flow bringing it together. I just love working with thick oil paint. The outcome feels great.

Alfie: Amazing! And would you say their are any other artists that inspire your work or your mark making. What got you into this style? X

TheCollinson: My favourite artist is Van Gogh his use of thick impasto, the way he applied brush strokes and his use of colour is just mind blowing. I always look at Bram bogarts work and the way he Created texture . Also incredible Contemporary artist like Joseph Lee & Elena Gual really inspire me with their subject matter, mark making and use of thick paint.

Alfie: That is great, Van Goghs colour making is incredible! I agree. And if you could describe your paintings or a painting of yours in 4 words, what would they be?

TheCollinson: I’d probably say;

thought-provoking, abstract, colorful and unconventional.

Lino print, woodblock print, plastic board print, fabric painting, spray paint, developing ink photos, Photoshop and more, everything I’ve worked with in the FMP I’m grateful for, I think I’ve definitely enjoyed digital work and spray paint most.

Since I’m going into Graphics Design in the next year of the course I’d say it’s been my best. I’ve learnt how to make frame animation and gifs, understanding the software and how to work all I can on it.

Pushing my creativity through it with outcomes I’ve posted on my tumblr and Instagram pages.

I wanted to test what sort of faces or distortion I wanted to create for my outcomes. Looking at my artists and how they made them, I wanted to make collage a part of my work. So using collaging with faces from magazines and papers was quite perfect. Experimenting with paper collaging on many other occasions got me used it. Making it nice when piecing together the faces and which I wanted to use.

The 12 A5 collages we made on our first week back from lockdown was gorgeous.

That work definitely made me want to keep collaging as a part of my work. Using my collaging on my vinyl record, CD, and pizza box just pushed me even more to keep wanting to use objects. I find it so much more valuable when it’s on an object or with an object rather than paper or a canvas. All these factors came through to my project naturally from this experimentation.

Presenting my outcomes at the end of year show would be an interesting one. I think I’m going to turn all my outcomes into a single sculpture and would present as so for the show. Sticking them together with very serious super glue. I’d present my outcomes in their habitat.

The plate and mug in a supermarket or China store, alongside regular kitchenware. The golf club would be in a golfing store or course next to regular clubs. Are you seeing a pattern? The frame I’d like in a gallery on the wall. The plunger I’d like in a household. The taps would be on a sink, connected. And the pan finally I’d like to be used to cook with. Though I’m not sure what I want to do with my future sculpture yet so maybe I will be using it.

Ten words to describe my overall outcomes.

Relatable

Empty

Individual

Free

Usual

Full

Useable

Colourful

Comfortable

Warm

Songs In The Key Of Life by Stevie Wonder would be my soundtrack.

I listened to it a lot through this time and listening to it whilst viewing my work just feels right. As well as i was listening to it whilst creating and designing my work. Three hours. Three hours a week I spent working on my project outside of college, wether it was designing final outcomes, sourcing objects or experimenting with medias. It was all enjoyable. My bedroom, living room and garden is where I’ve worked on my project.

I can’t fit in the photos for the four picture descriptions below so! I will number the three words to describe the image then then post the image after this with the corresponding number.

1

New

Pulling

Development

2

Helpful

Relatable

Attaching

3

Personal

Connecting

Mine

4

Thankful

Beautiful

Valuable

[makeitquietly]

A quick recap of what criticism I remember reading about this Blu-ray set: nobody agrees about the picture quality, or on which films it’s best/worst, but it’s on the waxy/soft side mostly because of too much digital cleaning or whatever, the sound is said to be good, some hissing, out of sync in the 1936 version of Berth Marks, extras are good too, no Blu-ray logo on the case, no booklet, awkward menu always reverts back to beginning, no play-all possibility, the films are not in the order of making/release.

But a lot of people worked very hard for a long time to make this set available. Which is why nothing negative should be said about it? Eh. Next time go for quality instead. Or don’t sell your product. Make it a fanwork.

Anyhow, if I was all powerful and had commissioned someone to restore these films, I’d make them go back and do it again if this set was presented to my ruling eyes.

OTOH, I paid 99 euros for this package and have had lots of fun with it and if there’d been Stan’s scrapbook (pages) amongst the galleries, I’d happily paid double. It’s not about the money spent except when people imply that negative reviews aren’t allowed. I’d paid 99 euros for the galleries alone.

It’s about the fact that the films aren’t as well restored as they should/could be. Beyond me, why it’s so difficult to admit. And it’s clearly not only an issue of getting waxified during some final cleanup or somehow being ruined when transferred to Blu-ray disks.

Any idiot (me) knowing nothing about the processes involved can easily confirm this by watching how different films on the same disk have different quality, likewise first reel can be almost okay, the second much worse, scenes and cuts have often annoyingly varying quality, even single frames look like they came from different prints and nothing was done to make them fit more seamlessly in their surroundings. And I’m not talking about that one wandering frame in Scram!, which must be some person’s idea of a joke, how else could it be so out of place?

Or didn’t anyone watch these that one last important time since it wasn’t removed, nor were the countless spots still there in most of the films? I know, when things get cleaned up that one remaining crumb is much easier to spot... er... see my point?

There are also jumpy frames, which I imagine would’ve been easy to adjust, and to prevent those ubiquitous flashy cuts, you’d only needed to adjust the brightness of that single frame causing the flashing. Even I have done that on GIMP when making gifs. I’m guessing too much contrast on, say, Me and My Pal isn’t a problem created by the wax people either.

The ridiculously softly glowing Brats might be, there’s an awful lot of glowing in One Good Turn too, and in parts of Sons of the Desert, for example, where faces are dangerously close to have that overly scrubbed look, which is a big problem in The Chimp and Come Clean.

When it comes to wax, Helpmates and County Hospital are the most hideous, the latter must be the worst looking of all the films in this set, being also awfully spotty as well as too dark. It’s got other faults too, like wonky frames. The Music Box has a pretty decent first reel (except for the opening scene), and despite not being able to see the stripes on Stan’s and Ollie’s pants because of too much contrast, Me and My Pal is also clearly better wax-wise in the first reel.

It’s interesting to watch some of these films for the first time, thinking that this is crap quality picture, but then the second reel is even worse and suddenly there’s a whole new level of crappiness.

I think the sound is ever so slightly out of sync for a bit in Way Out West and One Good Turn. At least it is compared to those same films on my 21 DVD set. In addition to being very clearly out of sync in that Berth Marks reissue like others have noticed. Berth Marks also has a weird stripey “cover” over the actual film. I suppose it was impossible to remove.

Even with some sync problems, if I had to choose the best restorations from this new collection, Way Out West would be on my list, together with Busy Bodies, Hog Wild and Towed in a Hole. Some parts of Sons of the Desert look gorgeous. With grain and all. Pretty much like Atoll K but unfortunately not as consistently. (Atoll K was restored by different people, I gather.)

The much anticipated but already online for free since 2019 The Battle of the Century then? Well, the first reel is quite good, or would be if it wasn’t a weird blend of an ugly greenish yellow or yellowish green. Sepia isn’t what it used to be. And I would’ve thought they’d made sure to get all those black spots removed at least from this one what with it being one of the “new” things on this set. The second reel is worse except colour-wise. But at least it’s there complete with Charlie Hall and the “what pie fight” ending.

Haven’t mentioned The Midnight Patrol, Their First Mistake or Twice Two yet. The last two are pretty evenly waxy, and comparing The Midnight Patrol to Come Clean and The Chimp makes it not that bad. There’s no actual need to bleach faces or an excuse for Billy Gilbert’s patternless shirt, is there?

For me the treasures from this set can be found on each disk under galleries. Even for those not interested in scripts, press material, posters and assorted documents, there are circa 1,400 photos, many of which really are rare, or at least I’d never seen them before. One of the gems are the about 140 photos from Babe’s Vim days. Awesome! Nothing as gemmy from Stan’s past before Laurel and Hardy, and someone put wrong names on the photos where he appears with the Hurleys, not the Cookes. Yes, there’s a short, handy description for most of the photos. 

So many of them and I must peruse more, of course, but I’m going give a special mention to Stan with both Loises on the set of Brats for adorableness and likewise to Thelma Todd for previously unseen (by me) variations from her photoshoot on that bathroom set. Love the six new-to-me photos of Stan and Babe together on the 1932 British tour especially. Great stuff. Oh, and Mae Busch, Dorothy Christy and Charley Chase in their Sons of the Desert portraits look fabulous.

Another treasure are the interviews with only a couple of slightly dubious moments. Joe Rock made me grin. George Marshall made me cry. Walter Woolf King made me laugh. Most wonderful. Short introduction by Randy Skretvedt for each interview. He’s the one who did the interviewing too. There’s 15 of them altogether. Plus a chance to hear composer Marvin Hatley perform Honolulu Baby and Will You Be My Lovey-Dovey. The audio only interviews come with some more great photos.

I kind of adore how Richard W. Bann casually debunks Anita Garvin’s The Battle of the Century story with one dry line during his commentary of the film. Hurts so good. Let’s have more debunking!

Speaking of the commentaries, and maybe more about them on some other occasion, Bann only comments The Battle and The Music Box, all the rest, including That’s That and The Tree in a Test Tube have commentaries by Randy Skretvedt.

I was expecting Bann to tell the whole story of why it took so long to get The Battle on video but he didn’t; fair enough, I thought, but then in his other commentary he goes on about his grudge with a dead guy, so I guess it was not his, um, politeness that stopped him from dishing on the much more recent and therefore interesting stuff. What then?

Perhaps a third person sharing the commentary duties would’ve been a good idea. That was my thought when Skretvedt obsessed over Stan’s smoking for the third time. By obsessed I mean he listed all the films where, according to him, Stan smokes. What for, you may wonder. I did. No answer. I remember reading somewhere that Stan not smoking in the movies means he’s a child. (Yes, some Laurel and Hardy fans are somewhat weird sometimes. Aren’t we all?) Maybe Skretvedt was trying to debunk that theory? Hehe, okay, I know he wasn’t, because he did the “they’re children, Hal Roach said so” routine in his Their First Mistake commentary, complete with Charles Barr quotes to prove there’s nothing gay about Ollie liking Stan more than his own wife. Made me fume. I don’t know why. Nothing new.

I don’t know why it doesn’t occur to him that if Ollie didn’t spend so much time with Stan, Mae wouldn’t be the lonely, disappointed wife who ends up wanting a divorce after one too many lies from Ollie and accuses Stan of alienation of Ollie’s affections. But no, apparently it’s no wonder that Ollie likes Stan more than his wife because she hits him with the broom. So the hitting came first and then too much time spent with Stan? I don’t think so.

Anyhow, third person, more variety, something newer, or at least an explanation for Stan’s smoking being of particular importance. Ollie’s smoking isn’t mentioned. Also, to digress even more, I always found the claim that Stan doesn’t smoke because he is a child odd, not only because he does, but also because he drinks alcohol too and manages to be married in several films. But the Laurel & Hardy child squad of course thinks the wives are actually their mothers. (Yes & again, weird.)

I did and do also wonder if there would’ve been anyone available and even if there had been, if these old school fans had accepted someone with different views. Probably not.

Still waiting for Skretvedt to notice Stan’s camera looks. Maybe he just hasn’t been a fan for long enough yet... 😛

I’m out of steam now. Need to rehydrate.

One more thing: No booklet, so maybe nobody involved wanted to spread about their name more than absolutely necessary knowing the restoration work was, shall we say, uneven?

Tl;dr: Uneven restoration work. Great extras. Mostly interesting commentaries.

[daybreakrising]

@crackuzu​ asked: five times kissed // we haven't actually done anything yet but our zombois pls and thank from this meme

Under a cut bc these will all get long.

You get six bc I couldn’t decide which pov to write them from so each zomboi gets three. you almost got ten tbh but I restrained myself

ONE

It was an itch under his skin, a frustrating niggle that wouldn't go away. It had been over a week since their last opportunity to let off some steam and shed a little blood. A week! A week of endless, pointless travel, for a cause he didn't even care about.

Frustrating.

He was craving a good fight, something to get his blood pumping, anything to settle that craving he couldn't shake. Violence was his lifeblood. He was starving without it. All he asked for was a little bit of chaos, something to take the edge off, but so far, he was being denied.

Hidan eyed the broad shoulders of the man stalking ahead of him, face currently buried in a map. He still didn't really know what to make of his partner. He was, by all appearances, possibly the most antisocial man he'd ever known. His only redeeming factor, in his opinion, was his own taste for violence.

A sly smile spread across Hidan's face.

If he couldn't seek out violence elsewhere, he'd just have to seek it here. Kakuzu had a short and violent temper. He'd already poked and prodded at it a few times, but it never seemed to go further than a brief altercation – and that wasn't going to be enough. He needed to do something to really piss him off.

He moved fast, knowing he had a limited window before he was sussed out. He appeared directly in front of the other man, fisted a hand in the collar of his cloak, and dragged him in. His lips met the fabric of Kakuzu's mask for a fleeting second before he was flung backwards, his back hitting a nearby tree hard enough to shake loose a whole heap of leaves and dead branches.

Hidan grinned, rubbing a hand to the ache in his jaw where a fist had struck it. It hurt like a bitch, but it was worth the fury in the other man's eyes. Maybe now the bastard would fight him.

TWO

When he wasn't whining or prattling on about his god, Hidan wasn't so bad, really.

Either that or he was finally going mad after his many long years of life. That was also a possibility. Sure, he got under his skin from time to time and he had definitely considered all the ways he would like to kill him – he was starting to get creative with ideas, too – but… he had his pros to combat some of the cons. Some.

He didn't probe him with questions he didn't want to answer, but he listened when he did reveal even the faintest personal information. He filled silences without pressuring him for a response – mostly – and did, upon occasion, have interesting things to say. He had a sense of humour, which, albeit a little more morbid, aligned with his own.

And, possibly the most important of them all, they were a team.

That had been forced on them, of course, but that was irrelevant. Pushing two people together didn't automatically mean they would work, and they worked. For all their bickering and bitching, they were a flawless team. It had been a long time since Kakuzu could rely on someone quite like he relied on Hidan. That meant something to him.

Damnit. He might as well admit it. He didn't hate Hidan.

He stopped dead, cutting off Hidan's idle rambling about who-knows-what as the other man promptly walked straight into his back. In the midst of the bitching that immediately ensued, Kakuzu turned, grasped Hidan by the chin, and silenced him with a kiss. It was brief, distinctly not traditionally romantic, and possibly quite awkward.

"Shut up, Hidan."

THREE

The blood was like iron in his mouth, in his nose, the stench of it drenching the air around him in a way that couldn't be matched away from the slaughter of a battlefield. His fingers trembled as his skin returned to its regular colour, the curse markings fading as the last of the life drained from his unsuspecting victim.

Oh, and it felt good.

Violet eyes searched the rubble and ruin around him, bodies littered in all directions, the aftermath of their rampage a beautiful sight to behold. At last, he found him, rising over the slumped form of the target they had come for. No doubt, Hidan mused, checking he was in a suitable condition for the exchange. Him and his bloody money.

He watched Kakuzu nod to himself, swiping a hand through the loose strands of hair that had fallen free from his head covering during the battle. The mask hung open, revealing the dark line of stitching that split his face in two. Just looking at it, Hidan could feel the raised threads beneath his fingertips, the ridged edges where they met skin.

It was a curious thing, the way his fingers itched to touch every time he saw them.

Riding on the high of battle, he crossed the distance between them, teeth flashing in a grin as he stepped over the corpse and into Kakuzu's eyeline. Blood streaked the other man's face, a single spray of crimson. His heavy breaths matched Hidan's, the fire in those curious eyes mirrored in his own. This, Hidan knew, was as much a high for Kakuzu as it was for him.

Their gazes met – one beat, two.

Their lips met next, and Kakuzu tasted blood.

FOUR

Hidan was being particularly annoying today.

If he'd stopped talking at all since that morning, it had only been to eat, and even then, that didn't stop him for long. He really had no manners when he chose. To make matters worse, he had even adopted that really irritating whine that he knew drove him mad. Which, of course, is why he did it. Kakuzu wasn't stupid. He knew Hidan was trying to get under his skin.

Annoyingly, it was working.

Not for the first time, he cursed his own foolish self for being weak enough to feel for the idiot. It would be far less complicated if he could still honestly say he despised the little shit and didn't care what happened to him. Although if he kept this up, he might change his mind after all.

It took about another hour before he reached his breaking point.

A hand closed around Hidan's throat, the not-quite-flat rock of the valley wall providing a perfect surface upon which to slam him. He hoped there were some particularly pointy edges at his back. His eyes narrowed as Hidan flashed a wicked grin, a silver brow quirking suggestively only moments before a hand pulled him flush to the leaner figure, and a quick finger hooked the mask down from his face.

Sneaky bastard.

Hidan had barely enough time to whisper out a "Gotcha" before lips closed over his own in a bruising kiss.

FIVE

It was cold, dank and dark.

He had long ago stopped smelling the moist earth, the rot, stopped feeling the tickle of insects crawling over his skin. He couldn't even feel the pain any longer, which was a blessing in itself. In its place was… nothing. Just endless nothing. Endless darkness. Endless silence.

That, in itself, was agony, like a searing light behind closed lids, burning, burning, b-

Light.

An eye cracked open, blinded at once by the shafts of daylight streaming down from above. It hurt after so long in the dark, but for once his pain was wonderful. Pain meant he was alive, still alive, still able to feel. But how-

As his eye adjusted to the light, shapes and colours became distinct from one another. He saw chunks of earth rising, revealing more and more light. It took longer to access the finer details, to see the threads curled around each piece of his earthen prison. Kakuzu.

If his mouth weren't full of earth, he would have laughed. Of course. Of course he'd find him. Was it possible to feel your heart constrict – race – when it wasn't attached to your brain? He closed his eye, basked in the heat of the sun he could feel once again, and waited to be saved.

He felt the brush of threads against his cheek, felt a breeze ripple through his tangled hair. He felt the grass against his skin, felt the familiar sting of the stitches working their way through his flesh. Though his mouth was clear, there were no complaints this time. He would never complain about pain again. Well… maybe.

Fingertips brushed against his cheek, framed his face. Hair tickled against his forehead and, even before he opened his eyes, he could see the face above his own. That darker skin, so contrasting against his, those curiously coloured eyes he had always found fascinating, the raised black threads across the cheeks… Kakuzu. Lips pressed to his own and Hidan felt life surge through him, warming his cold, cold body. He was saved. Kakuzu had come back for him.

Something shifted by his ear, and he stirred with a jolt.

A single eye opened.

It was cold, dank and dark.

And he was alone.

Alone.

SIX

"Oi, Kakuzu…"

A page turned.

"What are you reading?"

He didn't lift his gaze from the page, didn't even falter in his reading. In his head, he counted down from five, and made it to three before a weight leaned on his shoulder and a face appeared in his periphery.

"A book." He muttered, doing his best to ignore what was almost certainly a pout on the idiot's face. "You should try it sometime. You might learn something."

Kakuzu didn't have much experience with cats, but he knew enough to correctly liken Hidan to one – particularly when the zealot deliberately nudged beneath his arm and slid defiantly into his lap, disrupting his vision of the book and, therefore, forcing him to finally pay attention to his partner.

"You're annoying, you're aware?" Hidan merely gave him a shit-eating grin, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. With a roll of the eyes that was almost fond, Kakuzu marked his page and set the book aside. "If I pay attention to you for the next five minutes, can I get back to my book in peace?"

"I don't know." Hidan shrugged. "You'll have to find out, hm?" There was a barely audible murmur of 'idiot' in a tone that was definitely affectionate. Because he knew the little shit would gloat if given the chance, Kakuzu opted to keep him silent in the only way that worked.

-

It was just a discarded page, torn at the edges and trapped in a bush, angrily fluttering in the wind as it clung on for its life. He didn't quite know what had made him think of that moment in particular. Perhaps it was the smear of dried blood, like rust upon the parchment, that had made him think of Hidan. Perhaps it was his freshly awakened mind searching for some familiarity to hold onto, unearthing a memory at random.

Or, perhaps, it was simply because Hidan was the first thing on his mind.

He wasn't with them. He'd noticed because he had looked, because he had searched for the partner who had always been at his side from the day they met. It had been his first thought, even before he acknowledged that he had, apparently, been resurrected from the dead. Where is Hidan?

The wind finally won the battle, the page tearing in two, the separate pieces whisked away in different directions. Kakuzu had never put much stock in symbolism, but even he couldn't deny there might have been something in that.

He smiled. He might have been killed by those brats, but Hidan… Hidan was alive.

And now, so was he.

[agentdagonet]

Echoes, Ch. 27

Find it here on AO3

Find it here on tumblr:  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Fic Summary: Feet dangling off the edge of the bed, hands still resting on the earpieces of his glasses, Eggsy opened his eyes.

And promptly shut them again, screwing them shut like a child who had the distinct misfortune of biting into a raw lemon. Breathing harshly in his nose and out his mouth, trying to stave off whatever delusional panic had befallen him, Eggsy reopened his eyes.

‘Harry?’

Or: The Hologram Story Nobody Asked For

          ‘So, Michelle, I’ve been tasked with a special delivery.’ Harry Hart hadn’t dared to open the bag Eggsy had shoved into his arms on his way out the door. It wasn’t very heavy, which was lucky as he’d likely have dropped it if it were, but he’d fumbled it anyway much to Eggsy’s bemusement.

           ‘Dare I ask?’ Michelle held the door open, stifling a chuckle at the garishly wrapped item in Harry’s grip. Eggsy’s idea, then.

           ‘You’re free to ask but I can assure you that I would not be able to answer as I’ve no idea what it is.’ Harry placed it on the table, setting his regular contribution of chocolate biscuits beside it before pulling a chair out for Michelle. When they’d begun this odd adventure into friendship she’d protest, citing the fact they it was her house and she was a fully-grown adult. Harry had refused to sit unless she had acquiesced, and repeated the process until she had simply rolled her eyes before taking her seat and allowing him to settle her proper.

           Harry Hart was nothing if not a stubborn man, and Michelle had learned that it was something he had impressed upon Eggsy as an important skill.

           ‘Well, let’s have a look, then.’ Michelle reached forward, surprised when it moved so easily, and picked delicately at the tape.

           ‘I was of the impression that wrapping was made to be ripped apart, but don’t allow me to tell you how to unwrap a present.’ Harry lifted a brow as he poured his tea, smiling around the words, and Michelle thought to herself that she was grateful to have someone who could and would poke fun at her without it being malicious. It was still a shiny and new experience, and she wasn’t sure if it would ever become the norm in her head.

           ‘Well on Christmas and birthdays, perhaps, but this hasn’t got an occasion attached. This is just cos, an’ that don’t happen very often where I’m from- so I’m gonna savour it.’ She tucked her tongue behind her teeth as she carefully peeled at the tape and opened one edge without ripping even the edges.

           ‘Well, colour me impressed; I’ve no finesse with paper or anything that could be thought of as delicate.’

           ‘I’m sure that ain’t true, Hart- you’re certainly doin’ well with Eggsy.’ It was amused, and maybe she was pushing a bit, but any friendship had boundaries and she had yet to learn what they were with the gentleman before her.

           ‘I’m more than a bit confused by your framing him as delicate- Eggsy has certainly weathered and adapted around many things that would break lesser people.’ Harry knew he was purposefully ignoring a jab of some kind, but allowed it to pass through with little analysation. There would be time for that later. 

           There was nothing less than immense pride in his voice, and Michelle couldn’t help but be warmed by the fact that someone else saw that in her son. She may not have been able to show it at the time, or even all that much now, but she felt like every mother felt an irrational amount of pride in their child’s accomplishments- and Harry’s pride just made her feel vindicated.

           So there, society- her boy was something after all.

           ‘Time and shit wears at stone, Harry- just cos someone can figure their way out and about and through things don’t mean they ain’t delicate in other ways.’ Michelle wasn’t one to talk, she was learning, but she was a mum and was more than entitled to trying to protect her kid- even when he obviously didn’t need it. And, anyway, it wasn’t like he’d ever find out- it seemed like Harry was as oblivious as Eggsy was.

           Why were spies so blind?

           Her nail slipped at the next bit of tape and snagged the edge of the paper, tearing it. The two of them froze, Michelle’s lips slightly downturned, and Harry prepared himself for a self-deprecating comment that he would diffuse because Michelle needed to learn that she had value- but it never came.

           ‘Fuck it.’ She tore violently into the wrapping, only to reveal more wrapping underneath- this time stuck together with duct tape. Harry couldn’t hold in his laughter, amused beyond all reason that Eggsy had gone through the trouble of making the wrapping impossible to remove without destroying it after having watched Michelle make the attempt for several minutes on the previous layer. ‘Yeah, yeah, laugh it up- you wait ‘til your birthday and see what shit he pulls on you.’ That shut him up, and Michelle grinned to herself as she fully gave in to her desire to reveal what was hidden inside.

           Harry was able to see it first, given that Michelle had somehow managed to unwrap it upside-down and was immediately faced with the back-end of a picture frame, and his breath caught in his chest.

           Eggsy had made a copy of the photo from their mantle, of Lee laughing. Harry kicked himself for not having realised that the distinct lack of evidence of Lee in Michelle’s house was due to her not having anything to display far more than her not desiring to. But, the frame was in two parts, and in the other section sat a photo of Eggsy from his training, curled in his siren suit with a book and JB beside him. He was smiling softly, and with the two side-by-side Harry was easily able to pick out Lee in Eggsy’s face.

           Michelle turned the frame about, finally seeing the photos, and dropped the frame to the tabletop to cover her mouth with both hands. Harry struggled with himself, unwilling to cross a boundary he wasn’t sure existed but wishing desperately to provide comfort, before placing a hand on her shoulder. She leant into the touch, and Harry sighed softly at not having read the situation wrong; he could feel the hitch in her breathing as her eyes darted from photo to photo, fingers trembling slightly against her lips. He noticed a glint from the discarded wrapping, and reached his other hand to examine it, pulling out a thin gold chain. It looked old, a style he’d likely see in an antiques shop more than a proper jewellers, and there was a pendant at the end, shaped like a book. 

           He placed it beside the frame, unwilling to pry further, and when Michelle realised it was there she began to cry in earnest. Her shaking hands picked it up, looking but not really seeing it based on the glazed look in her eyes, and opened the pendant. There were a couple of older photographs inside, but she turned a page and there were Eggsy and Daisy across from herself and Lee. Harry recognised the photo with Daisy from their last outing, when Eggsy’d demanded a selfie from the swings.

           ‘How did he find this?’ Michelle whispered it, obviously not expecting an answer, and Harry wondered at the significance. ‘It was my mum’s,’ she said suddenly, not looking away from her hands but speaking at a tone that showed she was speaking to him and not the air, ‘I had to pawn it off when Daisy was born, Dean’d never intended on having a kid and we couldn’t afford much in the way of nappies and such at the beginning. So I went down and gave 'way what little I’d inherited for enough to get by for a bit- it’s been years. I gave up on havin’ anything of them after that. They’d never been big on photos or stuff.’ She flipped back to the first set of photos, and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle.

           ‘Well, now I know where he got his ears from. And, goodness, there’s that mole- it’s surprising to see what all isn’t entirely unique.’ Michelle tucked away the knowledge that Harry’s knowledge of her son extended to beauty marks on his neck and leant further into him to show the photos more fully. ‘He certainly got his grandmother’s eyes.’ 

           ‘Yeah; my mum was a heartbreaker and Eggsy’s no better. Between his jaw and his confidence I bet there’s loads of people falling all over themselves for a chance with him, if he’d take notice.’

           ‘Well if not then they ought to be.’ Harry stated it matter of factly, as if anything else were unthinkable, and Michelle wondered if he knew he’d spoken aloud at all. But, if she brought attention to it he’d likely pull himself back into his shell- so she’d let it be. 

           He’d figure it out in his own time.

           ‘I never thanked you, Harry.’

           ‘Pardon?’ What was it with Unwins and throwing him entirely off-kilter in as few words as possible?

           ‘For the part you played in Eggsy’s confidence. And loads else besides; you’ve single-handedly turned the Unwin legacy around.’ She nudged him with the shoulder that was closest, and put the locket down before patting him with a hand.

           ‘A full 360, perhaps, over the course of twenty years. You’re back where you ought to have been from the start.’ Harry refused to meet her gaze, a flush pulling its way up his neck, and Michelle snickered to herself before impulsively ruffling his hair. Harry’s head snapped in her direction, eyebrows at his hairline, and Michelle couldn’t have stopped the cackle that escaped from her if she’d bothered to try.

           ‘You hold yourself to too high a standard, Hart. Let yourself have a bit of fun, love.’ It’s huffed out between bouts of laughter, but Harry couldn’t help but be charmed by her efforts. ‘If I told you once I’ve told you a dozen times that you didn’t fuck our lives up, you did the best you could with what you had and I just… didn’t.’ She shrugged, seemingly careless but her eyes reflected a deep-seated sorrow that Harry wished weren’t present. ‘But you’ve gone above and beyond whatever perceived call of duty you was actin’ for. Just… let yourself be. Can’t move ahead if you’ve got your head in the past.’

           He had no idea of how to respond to that, so he hummed low and casually lifted a hand to fix his hair whilst avoiding eye contact. Michelle stood from the dining table, taking the framed photograph to a small table by the door and propping it up before nodding to herself.

           ‘It’ll do, for now. And now, Harry, you’re gonna spend the next twenty minutes catching me up on the stupid shit Eggsy’s done since I saw you last.’

[pheenick]

TITLE: paper trail SUMMARY:

The older ones have more paper still clinging to the spine. Scrawled all over with initial concepts and outlines from before the time he stopped writing drafts altogether and simply wrote what was on his mind.

It had taken him a while to finally give into the truth that no one was ever going to read them. After that, it had been liberating. He wrote more. Filled too many books to count and emptied his heart over and over until he could breathe again.

Or, a look into the boy who was left behind.

Written for Narumitsu Week 2019, Day 1: Beginnings.

AO3 mirror

It’s simply a whim at first. Another attempt in a long line of many that persist long after the dial tone that finally cracks Phoenix’s patience and sends his phone careening straight into the floor.

It's dark outside. Cold and vast. Phoenix stares. Shaking ever so slightly, looking blankly on with a downward lip and shiny eyes.

Thankfully, the phone is unharmed. Not a trace of carnage on its slick outer shell.

He turns to other avenues as quickly as possible. Scrubs away the scuff mark on the floor and puts the phone back where it belongs.

It’s as if it had never happened. Which, if he doesn’t talk about it, becomes the new truth of the world.

 · · ·

 It starts off small. Dear Miles, every letter would begin before ending with Your friend, Nick. He inquires about where Miles is now and how he’s doing. If he’s alright and if his dog is too—safe things like that. Things he’s expected to ask when a friend has gone away so suddenly. 

I want to see you again, he writes out before scratching it out violently. After he’s calmed down, he tries Why did you leave?, but even that gets torn to pieces and tossed into the trash. This isn’t about him, after all. He knows what happened to Miles and his father. He can’t be insistent about something that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

And if Miles wants him to stop, he will. He’ll settle for anything—even a curt notice telling him to Cease and desist written out in Times New Roman.

(He’ll preserve that reply. Keep it safe, keep it secret. Hope it’s enough to settle that coarse ache that’s taken up residence in the spaces between his ribs. It's something Phoenix can feel growing stronger with every dawning day. Just below his collarbone and slightly to the left, pulsing alongside his heart.)

In the meantime, he keeps writing.

The thing about writing letters is that it takes time. He has to save up for stamps. Write out the addresses with a steady, clear hand. By the time he finishes one, there’s another waiting on the wings of his ink-smudged fingertips. Just one more, he promises. One more already half-written out in the lines of salt curving down his cheeks and the scrunched up pages from where he made fists.

He ends up staying awake long after the sun has dripped below the horizon, pouring everything he can’t say out loud into the paper below.

(Catharsis. It's a smart word. One Miles would have known. He writes out the definition in his next letter and hopes Miles can understand.)

Of course, it takes even more time waiting for a response.

“Larry, what happens when they keep sending your letters back to you?” he asks later. There’s this frantic energy in his stomach. Hot and roiling with an uncomfortable pain so he bounces it from one foot to the other in hopes of quieting the noise.

Larry stares at him. “Why don’t you just call?”

“I don’t know his phone number.” Phoenix pauses and clarifies, fiddling with the string of his hoodie, “His new number.”

“Do you know his address?”

“His old one.”

A snort. “Then how do you plan on sending him letters? No wonder they don’t go anywhere.”

Oh.

Well, he supposes Larry has a point there. He can’t exactly send letters without somewhere to send it to and Miles is all but gone from the face of their small world.

Miles would have caught that, he thinks. Miles would know what to do next.

“He’s not coming back,” Larry scoffs, crossing his arms. He turns away, fingernails digging into his skin. “I’m sure he’s forgotten all about us already.”

Phoenix bites his lips and goes quiet after that. Something claws at his mouth, but he swallows back the bird and follows after Larry. They resume their play, enjoying the last few minutes of recess before they have to head back inside. Playing Samurai Swordsman is different from what they used to play. It’s still fun, he supposes.

They’re fine like this. Just like they always were, Larry tells him. Phoenix isn’t sure, but he tries to be. Maybe Miles is happy wherever he is. Maybe he’s moved on to better things and greener pastures. Maybe they don’t have to worry about him at all. They shouldn't, really. It's Miles.

He crumples the clean-cut envelopes and tosses them into his bag. They sit buried by all his school supplies until he stops taking them to school altogether when the teacher confiscates the third letter.

You need to focus on your studies, they sigh at him. He’s not trying hard enough, everyone keeps saying. Head too high in the clouds and gaze always tilted towards the windows. Not enough focus, not enough drive, not enough.

"Nick?" Larry asks, looking at him with wide eyes. As if he's just seen him for the first time.

"I'm fine," his voice wavers, but he scrubs at his eyes and tries to smile. "It's nothing."

(That night, Larry taps on his window grinning like a firecracker exploding against the sun. He slides Phoenix a shoebox full of paper balls and jumps off from the highest branch before Phoenix can say another word.

Wait for me, he whispers to himself in the hospital’s waiting room, dwarfed by the rows of plastic chairs. I don’t know how long it will take, but I’ll get there, I promise. I'll meet you again no matter what it takes.)

 · · ·

 Summers pass. Larry ends up pursuing art. He finds his stride with sculptures and illustrations. Even tries his hand at dating, fluttering to every girl he sees and leaning against the lockers as smoothly as he can like they do in the movies.

Phoenix finds himself on stage.

He doesn’t know how that happens either.

One moment Phoenix is packing up his bag to go home and the the next he's high tailing it down the hallway with Larry close behind.

They throw the doors open leading into the auditorium. The lights are on. The stage is set. All Phoenix can think to do is blend into the crowd—to disappear in the confusion as everything grinds to a halt at the intruders. He grabs Larry’s jacket and spins him into position. He takes in the scenery and grabs the first Shakespearean play he can think of with a forest in it, hoping he gets it right. Hoping against all odds that it's the right play.

It's not.

It’s so painfully not the right play, but people are leaping in anyway. It becomes an entire production as everyone glide to their places and plays off of what Phoenix has already started. They block Larry from sight and Phoenix takes centre stage.

The doors slam open again. The director makes a call and they shuffle, replaying the only scene Phoenix know once more, but with feeling.

The jealous boyfriend du jour stomps around, looking at each and every one of them with a critical eye. There is sweat melting off of their brows, breaths caught in their throat. Larry wobbles. Phoenix keeps true, solidifying into another person on the wooden boards and refusing to allow his eyes to wander.

Eventually, the boyfriend stomps off, angry that his quarry has gotten away from him yet again.

They all fall still. Phoenix’s eyes keep focused on his partner, bathed in the stage light’s heat until finally, Larry collapses onto the ground with a giant Whoop! No one else relaxes until the light shuts off with a definite sound.

“Nick!” Larry beams, grinning fiercely. “Nick that was amazing!”

The stage director is staring. Everyone is. Every eye is on them, on him. Phoenix pulls at the collar of his shirt and tries to scamper off before he’s being stopped by a few people and a form to join is shoved into his hands.

Amazing, he thinks, a little dizzy. His heart is beating triple fast, skin hot and stones rolling in his stomach. He lays the form flat on top of his notebook, staring blankly at the empty boxes. That was amazing. 

 · · ·

 Quickly, his life begins to expand. He makes friends again. They make friends with him. He's invited to occasions outside of school and being a little desperate, he accepts them and tucks himself under their arms. He talks to his fellow actors and stagehands about whatever happens to be popular with them. Learns what they like and plays to it every chance he gets.

Every night he’s staggering back home, barely remembering to turn the lights off before he’s sleeping the hours away. He wakes up bright and early the next morning with a vibrant energy that carries him all the way through secondary school and well into Ivy University. 

There’s no time for anything else.

He feels like he could continue living like this. Make something out of it that he could be proud of and have the crowd adore him instead of pointing their fingers—

The make-up comes on and he slips into his costume. As soon as he’s out there, he’s a different person. A better person. Someone warm and real, flourishing underneath the spotlight until the curtain comes down and everyone is rushing together for a hug to the sound of applause.

He gets squished into the middle. Surrounded on all sides by arms and warm bodies shining with pride. Their voices swell and the crest of their joy chases the shadows and aches away. Phoenix finds himself getting dragged to the after parties, unable to refuse. Laughing underneath the multi-coloured beams, smiling cheek-to-cheek.

"Dance with us," they say, and he does. "Stay with us," they say, and he does that too.

He practices his signature on a napkin and flushes when they have to take a moment to squint at his writing.

“This definitely says Phoenix Wrong.”

“Wright.”

“Exactly,” A friend smiles, pointing at him. “You should have been a writer, Nick. Then you could have been a playwright.”

“That's a nice thought,” he smiles, feeling how solidly it sits on its face. Never moving even with the snapshots of light and dark playing over him in blue, green and red. “But I don't exactly write. Never been much of a writer.”

“I guess not," they agree. "No one would be able to read anything you wrote anyway." Then they're perking up, leaning forwards. "Wait a minute. Then explain why you're studying law because as far as I know, you're not much of a lawyer either."

“I have my reasons,” he says. Something strange grapples him and forces him to take another drink to swallow something stronger. He hasn’t thought about it in a while. He thought he buried it long ago, but apparently it still lingers. Lurking underneath the water when he drags his ankles through the tide and wrapping around him with slimy twine.

“But it’s so—” They make a few non-committal hand motions, “I mean, isn't it boring?”

“I’m not doing it because it’s fun,” Phoenix defends, shrinking back.

They look at him. Quietly and intensely, leaning in the same, cold eyes. “Then why are you doing it?” they ask, heavy and certain that he has nothing to rebuke them with.

He doesn’t.

"This isn't something you should just throw away, Nick," they say, softly. Concern painted on.

They're all going places—some of them aiming high and looking back to see if he'll rise with them. On stage, he's larger than life and burns like a cobalt star. There's a future for him across the pond. Pamphlets and brochures stacked on top of a dusty notebook.

It seems like an obvious choice. He should just go. Just run off now onto a plane headed for London. Far, far away from the wisps still clinging to his clothes and sliding into his dreams. Colouring them a rotted gold, sunset neverending and classroom crushing in with the jeers of children and co-stars alike.

That something squirms inside him again, awful and alive. He downs the rest of his drink and stands up. Wind kicks up underneath his feet and he bids a rushed farewell before he's taking off into the night, running under the streetlights that bleed yellow and white everywhere he goes.

On a whim, he ends up grabbing a newspaper while he waits for the train. Something to keep his mind busy. Something to do. Exert his excess energy and the violent prickles flashing hot across his palms. His hands start trembling even more and they crush the cheap paper with every word he reads.

 · · ·

 Later, his phone rings. Shrill and piercing.

Phoenix jumps. He doesn't move for a long time before he forces himself to start forwards and answer the call

"Nick?"

"Larry!?"

He hasn't talked to Larry in—months. Hasn't actually seen him around in a few years. Not since he left for university, at least.

“No need to act so surprised, Nick,” Larry says, crisp and sharp over the line. Too crisp, really. “I just wanted to call and talk. You know, like old times.” 

“Are you okay?” Phoenix asks, tossing the newspaper onto the floor.

“Me?” Larry squawks, incredulous. “What about you?”

Phoenix walks backwards, hitting a wall and sliding down. "What about me?" he says in what he hopes is an even tone. "I'm not the one who gets caught in some trouble every other day. What did you do this time?"

Silence. And then a sigh. Something that sounds vaguely like You never make it easy, huh, Nick? before Larry’s conceding, “Fine, fine. You got me."

"So what's all this about?"

"I just don’t think I’m cut out for the artist life, Nick,” Larry tells him, slowly. Like he has to consider what he’s saying. “It’s not going how I expected.”

“I thought you liked art,” Phoenix says, stomach twisting. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have right now, but he promised. He promised. “Wasn’t that the only class you got an A in?”

“I do, but…” Larry frowns over the line. There's a shuffling, static sound. Like someone's rubbing the back of their neck. “None of them really appreciate my sculptures and I don't think I can handle the pressure, you know?”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Dunno.” Larry shrugs loud enough to be heard. “Follow my heart?”

Phoenix pauses. “So you don’t have a plan.”

“Well, I’ve got one pretty cool dude on speed dial who will always help me out when I need him,” Larry voice twinkles, holding it aloft for a moment, hoping it’ll stick until he drops the shine and sighs. “Jeez, Nick. Since when did you turn into such a worrywart?”

Since January in fourth grade. But he can’t say that. He doesn't say anything.

A small thump sounds over the phone and Phoenix imagines Larry for a second. Sitting down, knees lazily spread and head against the wall. Shameless and entirely Larry in everything he does. Phoenix tugs his legs closer to his chest.

“Alright, Mr. Responsible, what are you up to?” Larry asks, drumming his fingers.

“University,” Phoenix says simply. It’s the easiest answer. The one that shuts down most avenues of inquiry depending on how curt he is. He hesitates again. Something burns on his tongue, tasting of fog and mildew. It refuses to be washed down by the conversation on hand so he continues, voice small, “Actually…there is one thing.”

“Yeah?”

Phoenix takes in a deep breath. “I’ve been offered an opportunity, to, ah.” He runs his hand through his hair, examining the carpet underneath him. He's never said it out loud. Read it plenty of times and even replied to a few of their emails, but never like this. Never so out in the open and never with the full intention of making it real. 

"They want me to go to England," he manages to claw out out, tongue thick and heavy. "For acting."

“That’s my Nick!” Larry laughs. “I knew you’d be going places! Haven’t I always told you that?” 

“You’ve never told me that in your life.” Phoenix smiles briefly, but it falls just as quickly. “But thanks for your faith in me, I guess.”

“So?”

“…So?”

“When’s the big date? When do I have to bid adieu to my best friend?”

“Bid…” Phoenix’s brow furrows. “Oh, no. No. I-I haven’t accepted it yet.”

“What!?” Larry shrieks, loud enough for someone in the background to tell him off. “Why not!?”

“I-I don’t know!” he stammers. A knot tightens in his gut, chest filled with the cold night air. “It’s just—a big change and all. I don’t know if I want to go through with it.”

Larry sounds stricken. “But Nick…you love acting.”

“I know,” he says, nearly in a whisper. ”I—I know. It’s complicated, alright?”

For a moment, he thinks that’s it. That maybe Larry might have finally developed a sense for reading the room and decided to let the issue drop.

Then: “How’s Edgey doing?”

Phoenix goes still.

“I’m sorry?”

Larry repeats himself. “Edgey. You know—Miles Edgeworth. Signal Red. How is he?”

“Why…” Phoenix trails off, swallowing thickly. He takes in a deep breath and starts again. “How would I know?”

“You’re still writing to him, right?” There’s an oddity in his voice. A strange quality like it’s coming from far away through an old radio. Static fills Larry’s tongue, pulsing alongside the beats of his heart that are loud and familiar inside his skull. "So you know what’s going on with him and stuff?”

Phoenix’s jaw creaks when he finally moves it. His voice is a harsh rasp, sticking to the walls of his throat. "What?”

“Didn't you see the news?” Larry doesn’t let him run. “You’d never leave a friend behind if you knew they needed help. That’s why you’re hesitating, right? Because of him.”

There’s a lot of things he can say to that. What do you mean? It’s not because of him—but none of them make it out of his mouth. 

“I didn’t see anything,” he says shakily, trying not to betray the rocks starting to crash and fall inside him. Sparks begin to buzz just beneath the first layer of his skin. “Besides, how would I know anything about what Edgeworth’s doing?”

“What? But I thought you’d be—your letters—”

“I didn’t even have an address!”

It’s almost a scream. Very close to screeching out of him like the tires below or the babbling chatter of late-night partiers drunkenly singing to themselves in a shrill falsetto. Phoenix startles, hand flying up to his mouth in surprise.

“He’s—” he chokes out. “It’s been twelve years, Larry.”

“You…you never sent them?” 

“Of course I sent them,” Phoenix repeats, quieter. Angrier. Pyres of smoke, black as soot, scorching the insides of his throat. “I sent all of them.” 

He wrote down everything. Every little dream and fancy he had, feverously writing them down on lined paper without restriction. He crafted a world so close to their own that it didn't matter if he changed a few things and added his own asides. A triumphant return and the reunion of three keychain charms. It fills his lungs with shame and guilt to think of it now.

“And nothing?” Larry asks, voice trembling. “Not even a postcard?”

“Nothing,” Phoenix breathes. Finality. “Just…nothing. I stopped after a while.”

“How long is a while?”

Silence.

Larry lets out a long breath. They don’t bring him up again though Larry tries. The vacuum inside of him throbbing painfully.

It’s bigger than before. Acting slowly like a poison that takes years to settle and crawl through the capillaries. Phoenix doesn’t know quite what to do about it so he stumbles back to his bed, setting his phone on silent and collapses into an uneasy sleep.

 · · ·

 Later. Much, much later, Phoenix digs through his closet and memories. He has to use a flashlight to see, careful to not disturb his roommate.

It’s not the reason why his heart is beating fast against his ribs. 

He places the odd knickknack aside and excavates every journal and notebook he’s never quite managed to finish or fill out completely. Somehow, he's managed to keep most of them. They all close awkwardly, most of their contents having been ripped out or cut clean from the binding.

He rubs his thumb against the empty spaces left behind and flips through the few pages that remained.

It’s an uncomfortable history. He doesn’t remember most of what he wrote though perhaps it’s better that way. Less evidence. Less reason to confront the mounting pressure inside his chest.

“Christ, Phoenix,” he mutters to himself, pulling more books out. “Just how much did you write?”

The older ones have more paper still clinging to the spine. Scrawled all over with initial concepts and outlines from before the time he stopped writing drafts altogether and simply wrote what was on his mind.

It had taken him a while to finally give into the truth that no one was ever going to read them. After that, it had been liberating. He wrote more. Filled too many books to count and emptied his heart over and over until he could breathe again.

Dear Miles,

I miss you.

Your friend, Nick

He lingers on that one. Traces through his old cursive back before everything decayed into simpler letterforms crammed into illegibility.

It’s been twelve years since Phoenix last saw Edgeworth. Twelve years for all of them to change and grow. For even Phoenix to move on and let those old memories of their halcyon youth lie six feet below. 

After being rejected by the postal service, the letters made their way to the only mailbox he knew of that Edgeworth knew about too. Once a week, he would take them over, slide them in the box and raise the flag. Mysteriously, they would disappear the next day.

Phoenix never saw another soul wandering the premises the entire time he wrote.

(Well, perhaps there was one man. A man with a hat and a sad expression Phoenix felt uncomfortable enough seeing on another person’s face. He strikes him from the records and doesn't think about him again.)

He would wait for days by the community mailboxes for any sign of the postman. For anything addressed to him from a place very far away.

Nothing ever came. Nothing ever will.

It has been exhausting waiting for a ghost who will never answer. Even he can’t do it forever. Even he has promises that he cannot deliver. Weaknesses that he needs to break in order to set the bone.

He should burn them, really. Put an end to this.

Almost as if in a trance, Phoenix starts gathering everything into a few boxes and starts to carry one towards the door. Towards the bins outside where he can finally be done with it all.

Phoenix hesitates. Time crawls forwards. His roommate shifts from one side of the bed to the other. The sun creeps across the sky, poking above the clouds and fills the room with light.

He can’t do it. Fingers tighten on the box in his hands and he grits his teeth, forcing another steep from his feet, but—

He can’t. He can’t. He shakes, falling to the ground, flashlight long since winked out.

“Shit,” he croaks, burying his head in his hands and clawing at his hair. “Shit. Why the hell did you have to come back now? Why now of all the times to— argh!”

Perhaps it’s his own ghosts surrounding him. The younger versions of himself that still boasted innocence and sweet naivety that hadn’t yet been blinded by industry-grade spotlights. Perhaps it’s the single newspaper that he had gotten on a whim. The vision rendered in black print, austere eyes carved straight from cheerless stone and the words Demon Prosecutor following after every instance of that man's name.

Perhaps it’s his heart. His stupid, pitiful heart that refuses to let go even though he wants to. Continuing to beat long after he wants it to stop.

 · · ·

 Phoenix makes his way over to the courthouse library. His heart shrivels with something erratic when he ascends the steps. He has never once pictured himself to ever walk these halls. Even when he first decided his majors, he never thought he’d fit in here. Not like him…

Phoenix shakes his head. He takes the elevator down to the basement. As he’s browsing through the aisle, eyes glazing over the titles on the spine, someone bumps into him.

“Oh!” she squeaks, skittering back. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“No, it’s alright,” he says, shaking his head and getting his bearings. “It’s—fine.”

She looks away when he looks at her. A girl, maybe around his age. Bright hair, as red as the twine of destiny itself and a necklace in the shape of a heart. He blinks.

“Um,” he says, rather dumbly. Something is trying to slot together his brain, but it refuses to fit. Clicking awkwardly and leaving him rather stricken as he stares, trying to place her face.

It makes her laugh. She giggles, hiding it with her fingers and her cheeks seem to flush on command. Or it could be the slight reddish tinge of the basement lights that flicker ever so often above them.

“You’re…” she starts, trailing off. To his wonder, she tilts her head, hair draping down her shoulders like a waterfall. “Do I have something on my face?”

“…uh.” For a moment, Phoenix is embarrassed. Then he’s mortified. “Oh! I was staring! I’m sorry! I’msosorry!”

She laughs again, fainter this time. The same sound played again, but from a distance. She looks at him though, which distracts him. Wide, crystalline eyes reflecting his own flustered face like the gem resting above her heart. Swaying slightly, back and forth on her heels.

“It’s okay,” she forgives softly and Phoenix isn’t sure why that makes his heart start racing. “I…I didn’t mind.”

What on earth could that possibly mean?

“Oh, um.” He laughs, the awkward sound bubbling up before he can control it. “M-My name’s Phoenix. Phoenix Wright.”

“Phoenix—like the flying brothers?” she asks. His name on her lips—like a cuckoo’s song. “I’m Dahlia Hawthrone.”

She extends her hand and he extends his own. Their fingers brush and she jolts. He jolts too, a second after. 

Suddenly, it’s quiet. Focused and sharp; the world falls away until it’s just them and Phoenix feels himself being pulled into her eyes. She’s looking at him, straight through him. Through his walls, through the water—through everything and slipping inside the ribs to the dense little star he carries inside.

He knows her. She knows him. Glass reflections made from different grains of sand.

“I…did you feel that?” she says in a whisper, loud enough to hear, but soft enough to count. She looks around as if what she’s about to say will shake apart the world. “That spark?” 

“I felt it,” he breathes. Dares to, even with something so delicate as this. “It felt like—”

“—fate?”

“Yes.”

She takes off the necklace. Talks about love at first sight into his ears with sonnets, slipping her play over his head and letting it settle on his chest. A literature student. A poet.

It’s like fate, she says. It has to be salvation. The answer he's been looking for to finally quell the monster in his chest. She smiles and Phoenix smiles with her. The hum of the fluorescent bulbs overhead spurs him on to metamorphosize and perform.

Is this love? he thinks, madly. It must be. There’s nothing else it can be.

“Art and law?” she croons. “Now isn’t that ambitious!”

“W-well, I’m studying law on the side, see.” He flushes. “I’m mainly an art student.”

Dahlia cants her head, curious. “Oh, you have to tell me all about it,” she says, leaning in to slide her arm through his and Phoenix’s heart does a flip. Dahlia tugs him towards the door, away from all the tomes. “Maybe over a cup of coffee?”

“Yeah! That sounds great.” He laughs, feeling his lungs swelter with molten red joy. Fluttering, always fluttering. Stoppered with enchanted songs. “That sounds really great, actually. It’s just what I need.”

The curtains open on a butterfly's beat. Eight months later, there is a storm and Phoenix very nearly chokes on the shards of blue sea and glass.

 · · ·

 In the hospital, Phoenix stays alive on a miracle. On a promise made very long ago when he was a child. He thinks back, wondering who he was speaking to at the time. Whether it was to Miles, to Larry, or really to himself as he sat in that chair entirely too small for the burden he tried to take on. Wonders if he can make it again. Rewrite the cage he spun himself into desperately trying to cling onto something he thought was stable ground. But there's nothing around him this time. No one. Not even a phone to throw against the wall.

Here is something he never tells anyone: it hurts.

What hurts and where it came from, what caused it and who—none of it really matters. Not when all he has to show for it is an ache where his heart should be and a bottle crushed between his teeth. He has not allowed himself to cry real tears since the parting, but now that there is nothing. Phoenix has lost the reason holding him back. 

It just hurts. Mercilessly, simply and absolutely. And now that he's completely alone with no one at his side, Phoenix allows it to. The black hole opens up and Phoenix sinks underneath the void and letting himself be subsumed by flames.

And then—there is water. The beast from underneath the well bubbling up and washing over the scorched lands until Phoenix can breathe again. See again. The glimmer of a grey-haired spectre watching him stitched together with mail and ink that disappears as soon as Phoenix lays his eyes on him.

Dear Phoenix, an echo writes to him in a fever. Sprawling forth with hopes written by desperation, fashioned after the heart he's kept all these years. Your friend, Miles.

Phoenix wakes up with a gasp, a second life clutched firmly in his hands.

 · · ·

 After everything, Mia takes him out for drinks. Larry comes along at first, but after a few rounds, they send him home in a cab to sleep off what happened to Cindy.

“So why did you want to become a defence attorney?” Mia asks with chin on her hand, eyes seeming to glow green in the dim light. It’s a comfortable atmosphere, though. Quiet and low. Private, but not blocked by any walls or locked doors.

Just a night out between friends.

“I made a promise,” Phoenix says simply, slightly nauseous over the word, but he’s stronger than before. 

“To Harry?” she guesses. “Was he that friend you desperately wanted to help?”

“Partly,” he repeats from before. Her lips purse, but she lets it be. They’re not in court and the room is dark. It wouldn’t be fair—she’s the only one who manages to understand that.

(Though, it makes sense. She’s the only one who’s seen him between acts. She had to, considering she was the one who broke the entire façade.)

“It must be important,” she says. “Becoming a defence attorney isn’t something people choose lightly. Especially here.”

“He saved me." Twice over now, he thinks.

"Oh, that's all?" Mia repeats, a hint of amusement. "And now you want to save him back."

"That's the gist of it," Phoenix says. He laughs a little, cheeks flushing. “I made that promise when I was nine. It's a bit ridiculous, thinking about it now”

“I think these courts need a little bit of ridiculous.” Mia muses. She looks at him, expression unfathomable, but still so very kind. More than what he deserves after everything he’s put her through and everything she’s already done for him. 

“I’m sure the judge was really happy to get a taste of that today.”

“It’s not the weirdest trial I’ve been to.” And that’s probably true. “And it was your first one. There’s plenty more to go.”

“You make it sound like they’re levels I have to beat in a game.”

“It can feel like that.” A deceptively jovial tone. It’s been three years since her own disaster of a first trial, though Phoenix has no idea how long it’s actually been. It never begins with just a badge. “Sometimes all we can do is keep going.”

After a moment, Mia finally gets up and stretches. She puts some bills on the bar and smiles at him, hand on his shoulder. “Whatever you promised, I’m sure you’ll be able to make good on it.”

“You really think that, Chief?”

“Of course,” and because it’s Mia, he believes her. “You proved that today, didn’t you? You saved Larry.” 

“Didn’t you save Larry? You’re the one who really won the case. If you hadn’t jumped in about the clock being three hours slow, we would’ve been toast and Larry…” The rest of it gets caught in his throat. Phoenix tips his glass and washes it down with beer. 

Mia squeezes his shoulder. “Didn’t it turn out that it was nine hours fast?”

“Well…yes.”

“And who proved that?”

He falls silent. She smiles at him again, gentler than before. “Things change depending on how you look at them, Phoenix. Maybe instead of dwelling on what you couldn’t and haven’t done—think about what you can and have accomplished. You did good work today. I’m proud of you.” 

“Even though I forgot the victim’s name in the beginning?”

At that, she does wince. “Well…”

He laughs. And it feels good.

“But I do mean it. You’re going to be amazing, Phoenix.” Amazing. There that word is again. Mia takes a step forward, as if to leave, before pausing. She twists, looking at him once more. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think there’s a statute of limitations on promises.”

Phoenix smiles and now it feels right on his face. Proper. Settled. Entirely his. Hard-won and scavenged together from disparate parts that are only just starting to realize they had been methodically cut away from the whole. “Thank-you,” he says quietly and something very old and very sad inside his chest finally lays its head down to sleep. "Thank-you."

When Phoenix leaves the bar, he does so with his head tipped towards the sky, walking under the warm grey light of the stars.

[isidar-mithrim]

{Once again, Albus Dumbledore changed the course of Remus Lupin’s life when he tracked him down to a tumbledown, semi-derelict cottage in Yorkshire. Delighted to see the Headmaster, Remus was amazed when Dumbledore offered him the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. He was only persuaded to accept when Dumbledore explained that there would be a limitless supply of Wolfsbane Potion, courtesy of the Potions master, Severus Snape. – Pottermore}

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Note on the story: I was planning to translate other works before this one, but then the amazing FloreatCastellum wrote a piece about Remus meeting Harry on the Hogwarts Express and I felt eager to share this story first ^^ The last bit is an addition to the translation that was inspired by her work! 

Ps: a little heads up – if you’re expecting a fluffy, sappy meeting, you’ll probably be disappointed ^^’ I guess this is a slightly ‘unorthodox’ version of the moment, but there’s a reason for it: I started writing it before Remus biography was released on Pottermore, and I didn’t feel that I could give up on certain aspects of the story that I had grown fond of. I’d still say it’s enough pottermore-canon-compliant, and I promise it’s books-canon-compliants ^^

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Bounty hunter

It was a chill summer evening when Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Appeared before the gate of a tumbledown cottage that stood out in Yorkshire open country.

Only the rays of the waning moon enlightened the cobble path which led to the door of the shack, but it was enough to step forward with sure-footedness.

Albus Dumbledore pushed the rusty gate inward, making it screech at his touch, then he walked the short path and lowered his fist on the worn wooden door.

A few minutes later he had received no answer, so he knocked again, this time amplifying the noise with a bit of magic.

He had to wait only a bunch of seconds before the door slammed open.

On the threshold there was a man as worn as his home – his eyes marked by dark circles, his clothes ratty and old, his breath short to betray the sudden sprint he must have made to dart at the door.

Yet, the hand that held the wand against Albus Dumbledore was steady, sure, ready.

The Headmaster smiled serenely, looking at him with his piercing blue eyes.

“Remus. What a pleasure to see you,” he said, his gaze shifting to the still raised wand. “I suppose you weren’t expecting my visit.”

The man kept glaring at him. “I thought I’d done a better job with the defenses around the house,” he said sharply. “I haven’t heard you coming.”

“Oh, they are excellent defenses, but I still remember some old tricks, despite the advancing years,” said the Headmaster with glee. “Now, I’m desolate to bother you at this late hour, but there are several topics I would like to discuss with you, if you would be so kind as to invite me in.”

“You know perfectly well I won’t let you in until you’ve proven to me it’s really you, Dumbledore, even if I really wish you’re the only person capable of getting past my defenses without leaving a single trace.”

“Very well, very well,” nodded Albus Dumbledore, smiling gently. “I am pleased to see you haven’t lost your old and healthy habits toward prudence.”

The ancient wizard drew his wand, summoning his Patronus non verbally. A silver phoenix rose majestically in the night, then vanished in a burst of white flames. The Headmaster looked back at the younger man just in time to see a silver wolf running away and vanishing into thin air.

The man lowered his wand, stowing it behind his shabby robes, and he finally let a smile crease his lips.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here, considering the last news,” he said to the Headmaster, stepping aside to let him in.

The inside of the cottage was semi-derelict as the outside had promised.

Except for the bathroom, whose yellowish sink could be glimpsed behind the door left ajar, the house consisted in a single room.

The furniture was reduced to the essential – a bed, a small wardrobe, a table with two chairs – and eaten by woodworms, but overall the space would have seemed clean, if it weren’t for the chaos that ruled.

The table was doused in crumbled newspapers and tore magazines; in most of them Sirius Black’s moving picture stood out on the front page, while others  had been flipped through to highlight related news.

On the bed, frayed clothes laid messily near an old suitcase that just waited to be packed, and close by were stored several low-quality magical objects and ingredients, such as a Sneakoscope and potion ivy leaves.

On the shelf above the fireplace there was a small stock of food, a tiny pot half-filled with Floo Powder, and an old radio.

It was the house of a lonely, poor man – a man ready to leave.

*

The Headmaster looked around while he approached the chair he was offered. Dumbledore thanked amiably for the courtesy and sat down, but Remus stayed up and hastily collected the newspapers on a corner of the table. He then made the water in the kettle boil with a wave of his wand, poured the hot water in two mugs and put a teabag in each one.

When he sat down, Dumbledore simply stared at him through his half-moon spectacles for a while. Remus held his gaze, and eventually Dumbledore let his eyes wander again around the cottage. When he spoke, he did it with the cheerful tone of someone who is complimenting the colour of the curtains.

“I see you are about to leave, Remus.”

“It doesn’t take your keen intuition to guess that much.”

“Oh, it does not indeed,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “But I believe it is the where and the why the most intriguing part of the matter.”

Remus huffed. “As if it isn’t obvious as well.”

Dumbledore ignored the retort and serenely picked one of the magazines, which titled Sirius Black affected by Stockholm Syndrome?

“Obvious?” he asked, flicking through the pages of the Quibbler before looking Remus in the eyes yet again. “What it is obvious is that in front of me sits a capable, fair and talented wizard that in the past years had very few occasions to prove his worth. A wizard that has lived alone for too long, but has finally found the strength to get out and put his skills at use.”

Remus smiled coyly. He didn’t receive compliments very often, and they pleased him more than he was willing to admit.

“And yet, I wonder…” resumed Dumbledore, “is he truly driven by his noble ideals?”

The Headmaster rummaged around the newspapers, picked a front page with a big picture and stretched it out on the table: Sirius Black had a gaunt face and circled eyes, but he looked at them with a determinate gaze.

“I wonder… what lie convinced this talented wizard that it was right to track Sirius Black down?”

Remus frowned at him, clenching his jaw, but Dumbledore kept speaking, nonplussed.

“Has he told himself it is his moral obligation to capture Black because who, if not him, would be able to understand his moves – to anticipate them, even? Or has he told himself that becoming a bounty hunter he may finally be able to make a living?”

The Headmaster was perfectly calm, but Remus was fuming. How dared Dumbledore judging him?

“Do you doubt I’d be able to find him?” he asked with a harsh tone.

“Of course not, my dear Remus!” said Dumbledore with an amused smile that irritated Remus even more.

“Then you’ll see how catching him is my right and my responsibility,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not to mention that I’d finally have a purpose that would make my useless life a bit less useless, for a change.”

“That would be a very noble purpose indeed, but I believe that if you really felt obligated to help catch him, you would not be here making arrangements – no, you would have already used that bit of Floo Powder you have left to go to the Ministry and tell them everything you know.”

“Pity that the Ministry isn’t interested in tagging along with werewolves,” spat out Remus with resentment.

“I fear this is one of the several lies you are telling yourself, Remus,” said Dumbledore gravely, like if he was giving him an unpleasant diagnosis. “You know perfectly well they would be ready to cooperate with you, in order to put behind bars the first wizard that has ever escaped from Azkaban.”

“Well, let’s hear what this great truth would be, then, since I’m apparently full of rubbish!”

“Oh, the truth is very simple, I am afraid. You want to look for him on your own because you do not want to capture him.”

Remus couldn’t believe his own ears. “No, no, you’re right, I don’t want to catch the man who betrayed and killed my best friends, and who also happens to be Voldemort’s right hand and one of the most powerful and dangerous wizards around,” he said with bitter sarcasm.

“No, you don’t want to catch him.” Dumbledore took a deep breath. “You want to kill him. Stop lying to yourself, Remus. We know perfectly well it is not the moral obligation nor the money to drive you. It is a blind, insatiable desire for revenge.”

The Headmaster had struck a nerve, and Remus felt exposed in a way that put him on the defense. “And what if I do?” he asked harshly. “Not even you, with all your high-sounding names, can dare to come here and blame me. Especially not you, since you know perfectly well how deeply Black ruined my life, and not just mine.”

“I totally agree with you.”

Remus widened his eyes, dumbfounded. He had expected Dumbledore to try to dissuade him, to lecture him… not to cheerfully agree.

“It happens, in fact,” continued Dumbledore with a seraphic smile, “that I am not here to blame you. I am here to offer you an alternative, one that all things considered could… how did you put it? Make your useless life a bit less useless, I believe. One that, all things considered, only I and my high-sounding names can offer. And now, if you would be so kind as to listen to this old wizard a little longer, I will gladly discuss it in front of that cup of tea that I would serve before it gets cold, if I were you.”

Remus sent an inquisitive glance at Dumbledore, eager to find out what this was all about, but the Headmaster kept smiling seraphically, not giving anything away, so he stood up, brought the mugs to the table and grabbed a bowl of sugar from the shelf with the stocked food.

“I’ve got no milk,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “And only one teaspoon. How much sugar do you want?”

“Three, if you please. I’m afraid I can’t help indulging my sweet tooth, despite all Madam Pomfrey’s recommendations,” said Dumbledore with a wink.

They sat quietly for a bit, sipping their mildly warm and probably too strong tea.

It was Remus who broke the silence, too curious to wait much longer. “I’m listening.”

Dumbledore put his cup down and fixed him with his penetrating blue eyes. “You have to know, dear Remus, that for the last few decades two have been the worries that trouble me before the new term begins. The first is if someone will finally get me a pair of wool socks for my birthday, instead of the usual, overvalued books,” said Dumbledore with amusement. If Remus hadn’t known him well enough, he would have thought he was nuts. “The second is if this year I will finally have a Defence Against the Dark Art professor actually capable of teaching something to my students – provided that I have one in the first place. Now, I already know there is no hope about my first concern, but I am here to find out if I can sort out the second one.”

Remus’s hearts hammered at the Headmaster’s words, but he didn’t dare take them for granted. “You... are you offering me a job at Hogwarts?”

“Absolutely,” said Dumbledore with delight. “Between us, I am quite proud of my choice. I could have hardly thought of a more fitting candidate.”

“Are you kidding?”

The Headmaster smiled brightly. “Not at all. Of course that would mean you will have to give up your little... hunt, to move at Hogwarts on a permanent basis.”

“Teaching at Hogwarts…” murmured Remus, all the arrangements to leave suddenly meaningless. Could he really do that? It seemed crazy and too good to be true at the same time… It would be the best thing that happened to him in more than a decade… It would be a dream...

“I promise the castle is as welcoming as it has always been, at least until you run into Peeves,” said the Headmaster, clearly enjoying himself.

But Remus couldn’t share Dumbledore’s amusement, because he had just remembered the reason he had always struggled so much to find or keep a decent job – or any job at all, actually.

Was he supposed to transform in the Shrieking Shack? He felt an unpleasant lurch at the mere idea… The last time it had happened, he had had his friends beside him, and the idea of being there without them was painful and terrifying at the same time.

And there was the fact that when he had been a student not everybody had noticed his absences, but as a teacher all the school would have: students were meant to find out, eventually, and the Shack wasn’t even that safe, was it? He had been followed once, so it could happen again…

He swallowed. “What about the full moon?”

“Oh, I am very glad you brought it up, my dear Remus,” said Dumbledore with a pleased smile. “I should have mentioned right away that one of our teachers happens to be able to brew a perfect Wolfsbane Potion, and the school is willing to bear all the costs.”

Remus felt his eyes prickling at the unbelievable news; he blinked hastily, trying to maintain his composure. The Wolfsbane Potion… Merlin, he would be willing to work for free in exchange for a hot meal per day, a proper roof upon his head and a painless transformation.

A moment later he realised which teacher Dumbledore was referring to, and he almost choked on his tea.

“Snape?” he asked, loudlier than he intended. “You want me to drink a potion brewed by Snape?”

“I have complete faith in the goodwill of all my teachers and absolute trust in the talent of some. Severus is among them,” stated Dumbledore, looking truly serious for the first time.

Remus wasn’t very convinced by those words, and from Dumbledore’s look, he knew he wasn’t doing a great job of hiding it.

The Headmaster sighed. “Dark times await us,” he said, concerned. “With Voldemort who I am afraid soon or later will be back and Sirius on the run, Merlin knows how much Harry needs a professor capable of actually teaching him how to defend himself…”

Remus’s eyes widened upon hearing Harry’s name, his heart beating fast yet again. “Do you think… do you think Sirius will look for him?”

“As a matter of fact, I would be surprised if he will not, and I am quite baffled that you had not thought of it, being so determined to catch him.”

Remus could see how silly he had been, now. “I thought he’d be on the track of what’s left of Voldemort,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Oh, I do not doubt that this is one of his next goals, but I will not deny that I would sleep more peacefully knowing I have a trusted man at Hogwarts – one that knows the castle as well as Black, and Black better than anybody else.”

“What’s he like?”

“I should be the one asking you that,” said Dumbledore with amusement.

“I meant… Harry,” specified Remus, despite being sure that Dumbledore knew perfectly well who he was referring to.

“Why ask me when you have the chance to see it with your own eyes?”

Dumbledore put his mug down and smiled kindly before checking his unintelligible watch. “It is running quite late, I am afraid. I am sorry for taking so much of your time. If you are not interested, I will look for another candidate, but it has been a pleasure to s–”

“All right.”

“All right, what?” asked Dumbledore with a knowing smile.

Remus rolled his eyes. “All right, I’ll teach at Hogwarts. But only for this year, giving the circumstances,” he added on a second though. He would love to teach there forever, but he didn’t want to delude himself about it – he had been burned too often to fall in that trap once more.

“Wonderful!” Dumbledore exclaimed cheerfully, clapping his hands. “I will see you on the first of September, then.”

“Yeah… see you on the first.”

Dumbledore had already stood when Remus gave in to the temptation of asking for more. “Hagrid says he looks exactly like James.”

The Headmaster smiled softly. “He does… except for his eyes.”

Remus nodded. He remembered that. “He has Lily’s eyes.”

“He does indeed.”

Finally, Remus was smiling as well.

[dowagerintraining]

Fanfiction: The Auction (Tomb Raider/Uncharted/Indiana Jones)

At a a private auction of the goods pertaining to the estate of Mr Henry Williams, son of the late Dr Henry Walton Jones (Indiana to his friends), Nathan Drake and Victor Sullivan make a new acquaintance, Lady Lara Croft, who is wearing a striking and eye catching piece of jewellery...

“Feels kinda strange to be attending one of these fancy affairs with an actual invitation.”

Victor tugged uncomfortably at his unaccustomed necktie, as his hair stuck to the back of his neck, a trickle of sweat leaked uncomfortably beneath his colour down his back.

Nate, however, wore his suit well. A little older, a little more filled out perhaps, but with a gloss and polish that only some years as a respectable businessman had been able to bestow. He still drew admiring looks from many of the women thronging around the event, but unlike ten years ago, he barely noticed. Contentment and relative prosperity suited him as well as a few years of not being shot at or dangled from clifftops.

“Yeah, well … just keep hoping that nobody takes too close of a look at yours.”

“But you said you were…”

“Yeah, I was invited. You were … kind of an unofficial plus one.”

Nate’s grin was infectious. For a second, Victor couldn’t decide whether he was joking or not. Once he laughed, Victor knew for sure.

“Nate! Seriously, you should know better than to mess with the stress levels of an old man like me.”

“Ptff … old man. Yeah right. If you want to know what an old man in our line or work looks like, take a look at this guy…”

The portrait, one of the lots on offer at the exclusive and invitation only auction, was impressive. An oil painting, one that should have hung in an academic’s office at a prestigious university. Nate reminded himself that it had done just that, for some years, at Marshall College. The subject was sedate but luxurious in colour palette, wearing a rich brown and green tweed jacket and trousers, neat polished shoes, horn rimmed glasses, his grey hair neatly barbered, a hand resting on a leather book set to one side, with a tantalizing pile of notes, covered in sigils…

“Yeah, he was something alright. How did you find out about this event anyway, Nate? I thought you were out of this game now...”

“Contacts, Sully. Contacts. There are some names that just can’t be ignored.”

Nate glanced at the unassuming invitation he carried, to the private auction of the personal effects of the late Mr Henry Williams, proprietor of Williams and Sons Automobile Services. Nothing to suggest he had been anything special during his lifetime. But the watermark, hologrammed logo and microchip hidden in the ticket’s thick paper betrayed this first impression of banality. As did the slick suited security guards who hovered around every entrance and exit.

For anyone with an interest in archaeology, antiquities or any form of treasure, this was definitely the hottest ticket in town. Not because of Mr Henry Williams, himself, but because he had been the sole beneficiary of his father’s estate. The late Doctor Henry Walton Jones of Mashall College, Conneticut. Indiana to his friends, and at twenty five years deceased still the keeper of some of the most speculated upon secrets in the field of Ancient History.

“Quite magnificent, wasn’t he…”

The cool, assured, feminine voice behind them made both Victor and Nate jump. As they turned to the sound of a throaty, female giggle, it was only years of practice that prevented their jaws from dropping.

Tall, willowy, wearing an exquisitely cut white dress with killer heels, long white gloves and a white broad brimmed hat, their new companion could have stepped from the pages of any glossy magazine. She removed her sun glasses, revealing eyes that were dark and wicked; intelligence sparkled among the smokey makeup. Her sleek smile hinted at a filthy sense of humour. A few dark tendrils of curling hair deliberately escaped from beneath the brim of the hat, which alone surely cost more than Nathan Drake’s honest annual income.

“Absolutely, they broke the mold with him,” Victor recovered that fraction of a second faster than Nate, extending his hand smoothly. “Victor Sullivan. And this is my business associate, Nathan Drake, miss…?”

“Croft. Lady Croft.” The hand that shook Victor’s in return might have seemed delicate and feminine, but there were muscles of steel and unexpected callouses apparent beneath the thin gloves. “Lara.”

“A pleasure to meet you Lady Croft. Lara.”

Nate finally recovered his powers of speech having sternly reminded his hind brain that he was a Happily Married Man, with a wife who was blessed with both mind reading powers and the ability to break him with her little finger.

“Speaking of magnificent, that’s a beautiful necklace, Lady Croft…”

Lara’s hand strayed to the pendant which hung artlessly around her slender throat. Heavy, golden, the size of an old sovereign, it was intricately carved, the design resembling an old compass.

“Oh this? Something I picked up on my last trip to Peru.”

“Travel a lot, do you?”

“Oh here and there … South America, the Caribbean, South East Asia… wherever business takes me.”

“Business, eh? Well, perhaps our paths will cross again on a future business trip.”

Her eyes lightened, sparkled with interest.

“Perhaps they will, Mr Drake. Perhaps they will, “ she replacing her dark glasses. “Until then…”

Nathan and Victor couldn’t quite help themselves watch her walk away through the crowd, the sway of her hips was hypnotic. Once she vanished from view, Nate give himself a little shake. Happily Married Man, she thought to himself firmly and smiled inwardly at the thought of picking up Elena at the airport later.

The ever single Victor had no such need for self control. He whistled softly to himself. “Man … I tell ya Nate, it I was 30 years younger…”

“... You’d still have no chance, Sully. So stop the day dreaming and let’s get back to business. Did you see what she was wearing?”

“Oh yes … sharp of you to spot it, not so sharp to draw attention to it! Show off. That will be back in her handbag in no time.”

“Business Trip to Peru my ass, that must have taken years of work to unearth...”

“And now she’s here hunting for the matching set.”

Nate pulled out his pocket book and turned to the page which showed a sketch of the jewellery Lara had been wearing. The next page showed a set of earrings with similar markings, with a whole set of notes scribbled around the notches on the outside. In the glossy catalogue, lot number 428 featured photograph of a remarkably similar set, a gift from Dr Jones to his late wife, Marion Jones, on the occasion of their thirtieth wedding anniversary.

“If we’re bidding against her, we’re out of luck. She could buy and sell the whole catalogue for pocket money.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re only bidding for fun.”

The two men smiled at each other. It was good to be back in business together again.

“Ladies, gentlemen, honoured guests, please take your seats, so that the auction can commence…”

“C’mon Sully. Let’s go see if we can get seats with a good view.”

“Of the pieces? Or your new lady friend?”

“Both…”

[khaelisfics]

Short Soumate AU - the concept was “your soulmark is a reference to what your soulmate likes the most”, and I rather liked it!

Tagging @doctorroseprompts, in case this can fit into a prompt!

I hope you’ll like it! :-)

He had scoured every modern art museum, every ephemeral exhibition throughout the country, combed through thousands of websites about painting, drawing, sculpting, bought hundreds of magazines and books about the subject. No name, no face he had encountered had caused that spark he was desperately looking for.

He tossed his ticket in a nearby bin, annoyed and disappointed he hadn’t found her in that tedious expo in a dark corner of London. Listening to wrinkled man on the verge of falling asleep each time he stopped talking in that monotonous crow had put his patience to the test. Looking at depressing paintings about death and phantasmagorical creatures made by an artist who obviously didn’t know black and grey weren’t the only colours that existed hadn’t helped. Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing he hadn’t found her there, actually. He didn’t know what he would feel if his soulmate happened to be a deranged woman fascinated by necromancia and festering cadavers.

A liquid shiver rolled down his spine at the thought, and he hurried to take out his list of current exhibitions he needed to go to.

“Nope to Nighthorses 66, then,” he mumbled under his breath, crossing the name of the exhibition with the pencil he always kept in his pocket. “Next is… S.C.M. Just hope this doesn’t stand for super creepy monsters."

He shoved his quickly shortening list back into his pocket and headed for the nearest underground station. It was already quite late in the afternoon, and he knew he should call it a day, head back home and get a full night of sleep if he didn’t want to doze off over his desk the morning later. But he also knew the disappointment and frustration of not making any progress, the longing he felt to finally find her growing into some kind of unhealthy obsession only predicted long hours spent tossing and turning in his sheets without finding Morpheus’ comforting embrace.

He took a quick look at his watch, ignoring the soulmark on his arm as if it’d just been a cheap tattoo he would forever regret, and made his decision. He hopped out of the train a few stations later, didn’t look twice at the large mural on the wall he had learnt a few years back had been painted by a foreign young artist, and made his way up the stairs. He was getting tired to try and see her where she wasn’t. A sticker on lamp post with a cartoonish drawing. Crass tags in back alleys, elaborated frescos on iron curtains. Street traders who sold ridiculously expensive prints of artworks stolen on the Internet. Everywhere he looked, he was tempted to believe it was her, and every time, he was a tad more disillusioned when he found out it wasn’t.

His worn chucks squished on the wet pavement as he made his way to one of his favorite places. It was a cramped bookshop in the corner of an ever-deserted street he had discovered the first time he had moved in this part of the city, rather by accident than real intention, and he came back to it every week, some weeks every day. It wasn’t as much the books as the owner that always brought his steps back to that small shop that smelled of yellowed paper and dust. Rose, was her name. A young woman with honey-eyes and wheat-hair, full lips and round nose. He knew she was just his friend, but sometimes, he wished his soulmark could be a small pile of books, or a meaningful quote from her favorite author - not that odd-shaped moon that belonged in a Van Gogh painting. His soulmate was an artist, not a bookworm. Not the woman he had dreamt of so often he believed he must have broken a hundred rules and, though unwillingly, cheated on his real soulmate on several occasions. Not Rose. Never Rose.

The small bell chimed when he pushed the ancient door open and the sound of his steps died on the heavy carpet. She was nowhere in sight - probably in the cellar she called a storage room, or in the broom cupboard she called an office. She would eventually pop out, like she usually did whenever the bell rang. His feet took him to the only alley he was interested in, and he picked up an old encyclopedia that had lost a bit of its varnish. He had always wanted to buy this book, but it almost was a relic, and not only did it look like it, it was also worth it. He sifted through random pages, smiling at the centuries-old mathematical formulas and theorems that had long been replaced by more precise, and especially more valid ones.

“You should buy it before it’s gone.”

He hurried to slide the heavy book back in its space at the sound of her smiling voice and twirled on his feet to greet her with a smile of his own.

“Rose, hi, how…” he started before his mouth gaped open and his voice died in his throat.

He first noticed the dark blue apron she was wearing over her eternal oversized jumper. Then he spotted the pencil she had stuck behind an ear. And he finally understood the multicoloured stains dotting and streaking the apron were paint. That wasn’t right. Rose loved books. She was a bookseller. Not an artist. He would know if she were, after so much time spent sharing coffees and pointless conversations. So much time spent wishing she could be the one.

“Fine, if your question was how are you,” she giggled, wiping her hands on her apron so she could give his shoulder a friendly slap without harming his pinstriped jacket. “How are you?”

“I, uh, yeah, good, I suppose,” he nodded - he found his voice again when he managed to ame his heart hammering against his ribs. “What are you doing with all that equipment?”

“What does it look like I’m doing, John?” she taunted as she motioned for him to follow her through the maze of crammed corridors. “I was about to close, I didn’t think anyone would come so I just started working on a little something. D’you wanna sneak a peek?”

“You never told me you liked painting,” he said, almost reproachful.

“You never asked.”

She led him to the door that was plastered with a large sticker that read storage, offered him a shy smile and pushed the door open with a finger.

He couldn’t move. Instead of a dark, small room filled to the brim with rows of old books, he saw a bright, large space void of anything. Anything but paintings, hanging on the walls, haphazardly propped up against the walls. Colours bursting out of the canvas like fireworks, fiery landscapes and smooth still-lives, abstract shapes that made him feel so many things at once his heart flew to his throat, meticulous portraits of people she probably knew given the depth and the familiariaty that oozed from the faces. She was painter. A very talented painter. An artist. Rose was an artist.

“I wanted to show you the one I’m working on,” she said as she strutted towards her easel that was directed towards the window, unaware he was staring a her as if she’d just turned into one of the monsters he’d seen at the weird exhibition. “I think… You’re the expert, maybe you can tell me if I did it right?”

He could only nod even though he barely heard her words and watched, speechless and on the verge of collapsing under the weight of the unexpected revelation. Rose was an artist. She turned her easel towards him, and what he saw made his stomach twist into tight and uncomfortable knots.

“That’s a golden spiral,” he said, running a feverish hand through his spikes of hair. “Logarithmic spiral, it’s… Maths.”

“Yeah, I know,” she smiled, a quivering smile that lacked its usual enthusiasm. “Does it look… Dunno, accurate?”

“Accurate isn’t the first word that came to my mind,” he said softly, taking a few steps towards the painting to let his fingers hover over the snake of yellow and soft orange. “This looks beautiful, Rose.  Why did you paint this?”

“‘Cause I found out…’ she started, sheepishly rocking on the ball of her feet. “What my soulmark is. I didn’t want to know, because I’ve always thought I would meet my soulmate whether I knew or not. But then… I mean, you came along and you made it really hard to resist the temptation.”

“What’s your soulmark, Rose? Please, show me.”

He held his breath as she slowly rolled her sleeve up her arm, stared at her pale skin covered with lines and lines of tiny numbers from her wrist to the crook of her elbow. He wanted to scream his joy, cry his relief, he wanted to hug her and kiss her and let his whole body and soul finally love her. But he simply blinked and swallowed it all down. She had never told him about her mark. She had never wanted him to know, and she probably had a hundred good reasons not to tell him.

“That’s the Fibonacci sequence,” he told her, unconsciously tugging on his own sleeve to make sure she wouldn’t see his mark. “It’s… My favorite sequence, actually.”

“I know,” she shrugged with an embarrassed twist of her lips. “I mean, I figured. You’ve bought several books about that sequence from me, you know. Doctor Smith, clever scientist and mathematician and all.”

He noticed the dejection in her voice, the way she gently kicked the foot of her easel and lowered her eyes to the carpet. He was hurt, deep and violent, that she didn’t seem to want any of what he had to offer, but that didn’t make him any less indifferent to her own pain. He slipped a finger under her chin to catch her eyes and give her a gentle look she didn’t want.

“Talk to me, Rose,” he said softly, fully cupping her cheek when she started to bow her head again. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I know you’ve got a bit of Starry Night on your arm,” she answered with a sharp nibble on her lip. “I know that… You would have found out I like painting, sooner or later.”

“Why wait until now, then?” he asked, befuddled by the tears that started to roll down her cheeks. “Rose, I don’t understand, what’s wrong?”

“Look at me, John,” she sighed, swatting his hand away from her face. “Look at me and tell me I’m the soulmate you’ve always wanted. Tell me I was made for you. Tell me you can ever love me. I don’t want you to think I’m the one is all. There has to be someone else for you, John.”

They matched. He didn’t understand why she refused to see it, refused to believe it, refused to accept she could be his soulmate. They matched. That’s all he understood. Her mark was a mathematical sequence. His mark was actually borrowed from a Van Gogh painting. They matched. And he had fallen for that woman so long ago, To know he had already learnt everything he loved about her, to know she was the one. That left no room for tears or unhappiness.

Despite her protests, he cupped bot her cheeks again and hurried to press a soft, lingering on her lips before she could draw back. Rose was an artist. Rose was the one.

“You’re the one I’ve always wanted,” he whispered, catching her lips between his again to steal her answer. “You were made for me, like I was made for you.”

“John…” she tried to complain, though she was slowly melting into his arms, little by little, a little more each time his hot breath caressed her chin and his lips danced against her own. “I’m not…”

“There’s no one else for me. You, just you. God, why did you have to wait so long, Rose, we’ve lost so much time. All that time spent looking for you when I had already found you. All that time spent pretending I didn’t love you when I could have shown you how much I do. “

“You do?” she breathed out, pulling away to see that truth in his eyes.

He only sat on her stool and pulled her sitting over his lap, his mouth hungrily looking for those lips he wanted to devour, his chest pressing hard against that body he wanted to touch, his heart reaching out for that shared loved he wanted to drown into. Rose wasn’t just an artist. She was his soulmate.

[trip-downtheriverstyx]

BDRPWRIMO: A mock application- disclaimer that I did this as an exercise for my OC story aha but it’s still connected enough to Swynlake so!! 

OPAL ACHERON;; 

ABOUT THE CHARACTER; NAME: Opal FACE CLAIM: Mackenzie Foy PRONOUNS: She/her AGE: 18! SEXUALITY: Straight-ish. True Generation Z Straight, aka she mostly likes boys but won’t rule out ever liking a girl lmao sexuality is fluid JOB/SCHOOL: Pride U—Theatre! Scriptwriting at this moment. RESIDENCE: Belle’s house! WHY YOU’RE APPLYING FOR THIS CHARACTER (5 SENTENCES MINIMUM):

I’m just gonna use this space to talk about why I love Opal. She’s such a bright, upbeat, artistic character who has lots of dimensions to her. She’s driven first and foremost by an intense love and delight for life—for making each day unique and figuring out how to express herself or “make her mark.” She’s had a happy childhood with parents who love each other and are very passionate themselves, and that passion rubbed off on her and onto everything she touches and does. Because she was taught early on to never give up and to tackle problems head on (very Hades and Belle truly), she isn’t a pessimist or a cynic. She wants to find solutions to her problems. She wants to succeed and triumph. And so when her illness strikes, it never really occurs to her to be depressed about it. I mean, sure, that’s part denial right there but it also speaks to the iron of her will. She’s resilient and why wouldn’t she be? She grew up in Swynlake.

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR CHARACTER CAN ADD TO SWYNLAKE (5 sentences minimum): She is the kind of girl to get into trouble and bring people along with her! She hears about something mysterious in the forest? Absolutely she wants to check that out. Student body elections? You betcha Opal wants to run. She’s more of a ‘leader’ than a follower, though at the same time, I think she operates in this middle space between “mom friend” and like, I dunno, cool aunt friend—like, part of Opal getting into trouble will be on behalf of some of her closest friends sometimes. (If you’re thinking to yourself, is Opal a Gryffindor??? I don’t know. I’m between Raven v Gryff v a very friendly Slytherin because I think she gets attached to persons over groups but I’ll let u know where she lands lmao.)

LIST THREE GOALS THAT YOU WANT TO ACCOMPLISH WITH  THIS CHARACTER/THAT THIS CHARACTER WANTS TO ACCOMPLISH:

None of these are gonna make sense to you guys here we go— 1. Come to terms with her chronic illness—her ghostliness is sort of a metaphor for this. Opal desperately wants to be normal but she isn’t normal. She needs to accept she has certain limitations…but those limitations don’t have to necessarily LIMIT her “life” experience. 2. Have a YA-worthy romance probably—Opal is definitely too romantic for her own good, while simultaneously being pretty sensible about it and probably a little persnickety. She’s definitely had boyfriends in the past, but does fear true commitment in a way because of how much she values independence and doing things her way. She’s like her mum in that sense ahah. And I’d love for her to really learn how to be in a relationship. 3. Hijinks with her brothers related to “fixing” her condition—which maybe culminates in a visit to the underworld?! Mostly because I need a fucking plot for this thing. But it would be funny if Hades is still Lord of the Underworld and this is like the equivalent of going out to a 21+ strip club or something lmfao.

WHAT IS YOUR CHARACTER’S VIEW ON MAGIC? (3 SENTENCES MINIMUM):

Opal grew up around magic so naturally she loves it. She also depends on magic to make her life livable. While magic is vilified by others, magic lifts up Opal’s own life—and so she sees lots of good with it and is a true magic advocate. She also realizes she’s in a really unique position (like a lot of white upper-class kids with a chronic illness) in that the nature of her family’s magic means she GETS the care she needs, even if that care is through magic. BIOGRAPHY (300 WORDS MINIMUM, 3RD PERSON):

Opal Acheron is not dead yet. Opal Acheron is a lot of things besides dead (ish.) She is the daughter of Belle Acheron, a very successful Magick Rights Lawyer, and Hades, the ambassador to the Underworld. She’s an artist. She’s an actress. She’s a big sister who takes that job very seriously, even when her twin brothers annoy her. She’s a wicked horse rider and she also plays a mean game of chess, taught by the Lord of the Dead himself. And when she was just 12 years old, she scripted her first petition with the help of her mother, advocating for an Undead Appreciation Day. She is a Swynlake Native and it’s in her very blood. She wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. And yes. She’s just a touch dead. Soon after Opal’s eighteenth birthday, she developed a very inconvenient heart tumor that would certainly lead to her untimely end. But her father intervened before her soul could pass through the veil. He bargained with the Fates—Opal would live frozen in time, a ghost during the day, and a girl at night, for as long as she wanted…or at least, until the Acherons found some kind of solution, magic or medical, that might give Opal more time. Now, Opal has to learn a different way of living, a life between things, and just in time for her first semester of university. But Opal considers herself a very optimistic girl, even if she’s a ghost one. She’s determined not to let her condition get in the way of her dreams. Why should she— Opal Acheron is not dead yet.

ROLEPLAYING SAMPLE (500 WORDS MINIMUM, 3RD PERSON): 

Opal sees a cute boy.

He sits in the back of Hatter’s café, trousers the colour of mustard and rolled up so she can see his ankles. She likes his ankles best of all, or at least, she likes them best from where she stands next to her brother who is waiting for his peppermint mocha. She wants to get closer to decide about those ankles. And whether or not those glasses he wears—the thick, clear plastic kind—are real or just a fashion statement, and what she thinks about that, too. Either way, she knows he is cute enough to ask.

Unfortunately, she’s a ghost, which makes these things slightly more complicated.

If she were still alive, Opal would not hesitate to go over and introduce herself. If she were alive, she’d already have made eye contact with him across the room-- like in her favorite classic movies, with women in splendid pin-up skirts and perfect curls, who flirted over the tops of books, speaking whole poems with a flutter of their eyelashes. If she were alive, maybe she’d even entice the skinny-ankled stranger to buy her a coffee too. But because she is not alive, she should turn away and mind her business-- her flirting days behind her now.

But that sounds terrible. So instead, she informs her brother, who is a medium: “Bell, I see a cute boy.”

Bellamy is reading and not paying attention to cute boys. He doesn’t look up from Frank Herbert’s Dune, only turns a page and says, “Good for you.”

She presses her lips together. “Bell, you’re not even looking. I need you to go over and talk to him for me.”

“No thank you.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

 “Ah, well, then you should say please.”

 “I said it wasn’t a request.” Opal stares owlishly at her brother, who has officially started ignoring her, as though she is little more than a gnat buzzing around his ear. Well, she can buzz much louder if she really wants to. Opal has no qualms about being an annoying older sister. In her opinion, being annoying is in the job description of an Older Sister, and especially an Older Sister Who Is Also A Ghost.

And so she reaches out with those ghosty hands of hers and levitates Dune right out of Bell’s hands. A few eyes in the queue slide their way and follow the book as it floats above her brother’s head. Bell stares at his hands still, like nothing happened.

“This is rude,” states Bell with his eyes on his empty hands.

She wiggles the book in the air, pages fluttering. “Please,” she says.

He finally looks up and regards her with a blank face. “You’re so immature.”

“I’m a ghost—emotionally stunted by nature,” says Opal. “Now, please, talk to Cute Boy for me.”

PLEASE ANSWER THE FOLLOWING ABOUT THE CHARACTER (MINIMUM OF THREE WITH 2-3 SENTENCE EXPLANATIONS): FAVORITE (OR LEAST FAVORITE)… COLOR(S): “It’s not fair to the other colors to have a favorite.” WEATHER: She loves thunderstorms. They’re so dramatic and she likes to pretend to be scared or like it’s gonna blow the house down. MUSIC: Musicals of course! Lots of classics and old jazz singers. She does like pop music too but only a tune here and there. MOVIE(S): oh OLDIES again! Musicals! Black and white classics! Got really into silent films at one point. She also loves old historical dramas and she wants to start in an Austen revival. Loves Shakespeare theatre. Sexual awakening when she saw DiCaprio in Romeo + Juliet SCENT(S): Um…flowers. Understated scents, probably doesn’t wear perfume unless for special occasions. BEVERAGE: is she an ice coffee bitch—Yes also flavored lattes and herbal teas. FOOD(S): vegetarian :3 She really loves coconut in things. Her favorite meal is probably like a vegetarian coconut curry or something—kinda sweet n spicy at the same time. She loves Indian food for that kinda reason too. Oh and vegetarian sushi like with avocado and mango and stuff. ANIMAL(S): Horses! Belle would have Opal start riding as soon as she can walk (despite Hades probably being overprotective.) Opal would be a true blue horse girl. She’d read all the horse books and goes to feed Philippe with her mum and probably wants her very own horse too! Horses are the best! 100 percent horses! Also, the humble caterpillar. OR 3 HEADCANONS (3 sentence mimimum): -Opal has one of those weird girly phobias about cutting her hair. She only ever trims it and she loves it as long as it can go. She also taught herself how to do extravagant braids and updos—definitely self-taught when it comes to that and also make-up, all through Youtube tutorials, since Belle isn’t exactly savvy herself. (I bet she’s done Belle’s hair tho isn’t that cute.) - Despite absolutely loving to dress up, her day to day look is pretty practical. She likes boots because they can be cute but she can still go trudging through Enchantra and they don’t get too uncomfortable.