#and black pearl is his ex and they’re both bitter about it

[womenwithhugearms]

I drew the silly little cookies that I run with 🥰

[kanene-yaaay-o-retorno]

The Pink Pearl

Kanene’s Notes:

Soooo... I needed to improve my action scenes. And then this fanfic was born! :D)/ 

It has pirates and ghosts and pirate ghosts! :DD

Warnings, fun facts, random things and stuff:

* That fanfic was a bit inspired on that fabulous video  right here.

* Contains: Angst, Cursing, Hypnosis, Implied death, Clear description of bein hypnotized, clear description of a ship burning to the ground, Hur/Comfort, Mild Comfort, Mystical beings, Magic, Happy ending, Hopeful Ending.

* This characters do not belongs to me. They all belongs to Thomas Sanders.

* Something around 3.500 words. -w-)b.

* You can also find this fic on AO3.

* Sorry for any spelling, pontuation and grammar mistakes! Any advice is very very welcome!

* Tô com preguiça de postar a versão em português brasileiro aaaa! Thankys for reading! Eat a snack, rest, watch that favorite movie you have been wanting to see again, take care and drink water! Byeioo!~

                        [~*~]

“I need help.” He tried to not grimace with how the words dried even further his hurt throat as they left his lips, shivering when a sudden breeze from night’s cold froze the sweat on his skin. Remy - at least that was what he said his name was, but trusting in a pirate word could lead you to not so pleasant storms - snorted, moving his cuffs and pressing their backs closer.

 “Yeah, no shit.” His voice was raspy, tired, and not for the first time Emile wondered for how long he had been there, since his presence was already a constant when the amateur sailor’s boat had been plundered and he got captured, thrown on the darkest part of the ship and finding his company.

 “That makes two of us.” The last part came out as a bitter whisper.

 A peaceful wave hit the hull, making the ship stumble and rock under the moonlight that gazed pieces of their skin through a few cracks in the highest woods.

 “No. I mean, yes, but…” Emile sighed deeply, tired awareness washing over him as the sailor realized the full extent of his next words. He rested his head on Remy’s shoulder, a move which led the other to untense his muscles and be more open to conversations.

 They didn’t have much more time before the moon hit its highest spot in the sky and Emile wasn’t sure if they would make it to another full moon. Remy could only distract the crew so much. “I need your golden necklace.”

 The other stiffed, breath hitching, stiff pose. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 “Yes, you do.” Calm voice, free of any accusation, his brown eyes stared at the ‘ceiling’ picturing stars and constellations and the unstable clouds and how it feels when the salty breeze hit his skin freely. “I know it’s probably an important possession for you given how long you’ve been hiding it, and I’m really sorry I am asking for it but we really need a good offering.”

 “Are you going to beg Neptune to save us?” Sound of fabric being ripped, the metal’s clicking making itself known. “He has islands and ships of gold being given to him right now, goldenfish. This may be a preciosity, but isn’t that worth it.” 

 Goldenfish: Breakable; Pirates who didn’t experience the true nightmares of surviving in the ocean; Naive; Fragile;

 “If I’m going to go in a shit way, at least let a captain die with the last of his treasures.” His voice choked in the middle of the sentence, but both pretended to not notice it.

 Emile felt dread fill his stomach, tightly closing his eyes as tears pricked their corners. Their captors never held their tongue, always discussing all their possibilities to get rid of their prisoners during parties and meetings on the main deck, voices loud enough to be heard by them both. Besides, the sailor was sure the crew wouldn’t stop themselves from making morbid remarks whenever Remy was called to ‘amuse’ them, even though the other refused to say anything to him when he was back, playing it off with some sarcastic sentences and ironic expressions.

 (Emile attempted to be interesting one time, trying to pry their attention from Remy at all costs. His light-hearted efforts and humored puns were rewarded with nasty bruises and more chores to deal with. There were no sarcastic phrases that day.)

 Still… It was the first time they talked about it out loud. Ignoring their eventful end made things more forgettable, easier to look away. But, now Emile was sure he wasn’t the only one sensing the impatience clouding and suffocating the air around them as the days went by.

 Emile wished they had more time. “We’re not going to die and I’m not going to pray to Neptune. Not today.” Remy scoffed, yet listening. “I have a pink pearl with me, it can…” His sentence trailed off, his tired mind trying to find an easy way to explain his family situation. “Some spirits own me a favor.” 

 Emile had seen Remy’s eyes when he was dragged, barely conscious, to his prison for the first time. They were black and deep like the bottom of the Ocean, full of untold beauties and unseen mysteries. He could almost feel their glare on him.

 “Do your spirits happen to be friends with the sea nymphs? The Thunder Damsels? Because that is the only fucking way we’re getting out of this.”

 “They can help.” Emile stayed firm, trying to buckle their conversation out the way it was heading.

 “Because…?”

 “Remy, we don’t have much more time, please, give me the necklace.”

 “Oh, of course, I am sorry for trying to know who my last possession is going to. What a bitch, am I right? Wait! Thinking better about it, why don’t we go up there and ask for the crew to help us? They’re full of gold, too!” He hissed. Because he couldn’t even shout out his irritation. Because it has been days since he last slept due his haunting nightmares, but the possibility of this being a dream freezes his blood and tights his throat. Because Emile’s hope was beginning to make its way to his soul and he knew how dangerous that could be.

 “Ghosts, ok?! They are ghosts!”

 Remy stared the wall in disbelief, seconds passing by. Emile closed his eyes.

 “My stars, are you trusting our lives to haunting ghosts?” He barked a laugh, despair and astonishment dripping from his words. 

 But Emile didn’t laugh, seeming to shrink behind him.

 So, Remy stopped, convincing himself that it was because of the coughing fit that hit him, molesting his dry throat, and not the soft heart he so fiercely denied to have.

 Someone dropped a cup on the upper floor, curses immediately following suit. The sound made them both jump a few inches in the air, unable to stop the squirming, the shivering. The other’s whisper cut the silence.

 “If you can’t trust me now, I don’t know when you will.”

 Remy sighs, pressing their backs closer and lightly elbowing his ribs. 

 “Drop the pout, starfish.” As he got up, his chained hands maneuvered to grab his necklace from the hidden pocket on his boot, dropping it on the cold floor and carefully pushing it in Emile’s direction. “If this doesn’t work, I’m getting you back later.”

 “Thank you.” The sailor’s smile only increased as Remy scoffed. Although, he didn’t have too much time to rest in the warm feeling blooming on his chest, quickly getting the pearl from his own hidden place. He gathered the two objects on his hands before sitting in front of a small hole he opened on the lower part of their cell, a glimpse of the ocean shining behind it. 

 Deep breaths. Ok. He could do this.

 The well known chant sea flew from his mouth. It sounded like sunny afternoons and picnics, and nights embraced on the dimming dark, and soft hugs, and loud laughter with the feeling of freedom and dances around a wooden, crowned table. It was melodious, it was memories and his last shout of hope. His energy, his gratitude, his fear, his last chance, his last treasure, everything was offered.

 The objects fell from his palms and were engulfed by the deep, incessant waves. 

 For a moment nothing happened and Remy regretted all his life choices, a not new habit of his, however at least this time he had a different reason, especially as Emile continued the tunes of that old song, apparently unfazed by the clear failure of his attempt.

 Then Remy realized.

 Besides his voice there was…quiet.

 A life dedicated to explore and navigate the seven seas could be a lot of things. I could be dangerous, it could be difficult, lonely, adventurous, memorable, exhausting and even boring. But never quiet. There was always something. Always the melody of the waves carrying your ship, the wind slapping the sails, the mermaids whispering in your ears, a curse daunting your dreams… Silence could be present, but not for long and never as absolute.

 But now…?

 Now everything was quiet.

 And that made a run shiver run across his spine, muscles tenses, instincts shouting. “Emile?”

 The sailor didn’t respond, didn’t even stir as the temperature turned unbearably colder.

 “Emile,” His dark eyes widened as his breath became visible in the air. “Emile, stop singing!”

 “I already did.” He whispered, his stranger soft voice muffled, with something missing.

 The ex captain noticed the truth behind his words as he concentrated. His senses could notice the melody coming from nowhere specific, echoing on the walls in a steady, patient pace. 

 A soft high pitched giggle cut the song. And, no, Remy did not shriek. Shut up.

 “They’re here.” Emile’s voice was filled with something he couldn’t quite place, nor did have time as, in the middle of the room, a silhouette started to form, trembling and bending the light around it.

 [...]

 Aaron didn’t believe a lot of things, which, in itself, doesn’t mean that the amount of things he did believe was in any way whimsy. 

 Actually, he considered himself a very rational, plain figure. He believed in what he saw, touched and experienced. That is why he was on the nocturn security duty. His mind wasn’t easily fooled and his instincts were something he had plenty of capacity to control. 

 He prided himself on the moments of dinner and drinking, the hours of dawn when the crew would be a tad too drunk, playing and saying that, if any day Aaron stumbled on the feathered singer - because even on the fog of the rum, they knew best than say the name of the creatures out loud and pull bad luck onto their travel - he would be controlled enough to laugh at them, spit some curses and them navigate away while appreciating their nice melody in the background.

 That was the memory which clawed on him as the mist involved the masts, swirling in a calm manner to the wooden floor, a whispering beginning to take over his eardrums. It was a song that made his bones ache and muscles tremble. He closed his hands on fists, nails tearing the epidermis to stay firm. 

 Even when a not-quite red, not-quite translucid figure appeared four feet away from him. Sitting in front a mesmerizing pitfire, carefully rocking the silver liquid in the golden chalice held firmly by his fingers, his lips parted, the chant pouring from them.

 And the fire? The fire danced under his control, at each musical note it contorted and expanded, inch by inch, flame by flame. It got higher, vivid, swirling wound the translucid form who extended his hand and let the element run freely across his palm, petting it as if it was a domesticate, harmless animal.

 The calm melody hit its climax, the high, vibrant note was prolonged, taking over the air, stealing all the attention and all the oxygen from the viewer.

 He got up and the flames continued to travel from his hands through his body, burning his clothes which dissolved in brilliant ashes and left behind a gleaming trail of a completely new vestment being formed.

 Under Aaron’s – mesmerized – attentive gaze long crimson sleeves involved his arms, crawling across his shoulders and leading the way to his chest, a warm white fabric shining under the moonlight, the fervent grooves that cut it in the form of limpid waves flowed through the petticoat from the gorgeous dress from the figure that couldn’t be named as translucid, anymore.

 The song stopped.

 The flames, much higher, much larger, raised like curtains behind the mysterious being, and his scarlet screaming eyes focused on Aaron, stealing his oxygen, again, and demanding – commanding him to show - every slight drop of his attention. His lips parted, one more time.

 The song was back.

 And he began to dance.

 The fire accompanied the synchronized movements of his arms, also performing its own dance on the ship, spreading across the floor on the rhythm of his footsteps, sliding from the vestment’s veils and taking over all the space, climbing the ratlines, burning the masts, consuming the emergency boars and dancing together with the red figure and his frenetic melody, which overflowed and inundated everything around, attacking and drowning Aaron, who didn’t allowed his glare to deviated from the moves before him for one single second, all the others things being forgotten.

 Beautiful. Everything was beautiful.

 “And wouldn’t it be even more if you could dance with him?” A velvety voice – that wasn’t his – whispered on his mind in golden shades.

 “Yes…” Aaron answered, hoarse. When did his throat get so dried like this? Why didn’t he realize it sooner? Why wasn't the oxygen coming back?

 “Then go.” The gold thought was fast in cutting his line of thinking, leading him to focus one more time on the figure in front of him. “He will love to guide you through the steps.”

 And Aaron agreed quickly, wondering how the other’s hands would feel under his touch. If they would be cold for his previous translucent state or hot just as the fire that accompanied him. He questioned himself if the flames would follow his pace, dancing with him, as well. He wanted. He wanted to be so beautiful like this. Maybe if he controlled the fire, maybe if he showed himself so skilled like this the being before him, he would be the one mesmerized. He would be the one to bow and to ask him for a dance.

 He got closer and closer from the fire, extending his hand, about to pet it.

 Perhaps…

 A splitting pain spread like an explosion through the length of his arm and Aaron moved away with a scream, tears falling from his eyes with the painfully beat of his burned hand capturing all his senses, the song and dance disappearing from his mind.

 And suddenly the frightened screams filled his eardrums. Sounds of pleas for help, of kicks and punches and wood crackling smacking him in an only one hit that destabilize the pirate, leaving him coughing and gasping and loud, so LOUD-

 His eyes widened. Hot. Hot. Everything was burning. He was burning.

 He wanted to scream. His throat was dry, but he needed to scream, needed to warn everyone, needed to-

 “Rest.” The calm, velvety voice came back to his mind, offering peace, a safe space to where he could flee.

 (An illusion made especially for him.)

 However, he couldn’t. Everything was hot and burning and it shouldn’t be like that. He knew it shouldn’t be like that. This wasn’t normal. Wasn’t good. Screams.  He also needed to scream. Because he was hot and the ship was hot and he was-

 “-With a fever. You’re burning from sickness. Just a small fever isn’t something worth waking and alerting the others, right? You’re so clever, so strong, you sure can manage to ignore such futile, delirious dream alone. Maybe the rest of the crew wouldn’t be able to, but you’re braver. No one can ever fool you.”

 Yes. This was true. He was intelligent, reasonable. That is why they always choose him to be on the night duty, because no one could do a better job than him.

 A very known song begins to ask for his attention, one more time.

 He can do it. He knows how to take care of the danger, so-

 “-so there is no reason to worry, because there isn’t any danger here. It’s just a dream. A beautiful dream.”

 His eyes rise and meet again with the dancer. Beautiful. So beautiful.

 “Yes. That is true. Then why don’t you just relax and enjoy your wonderful, special dream?” The yellowish, velvet aura involves his body and suddenly the hotness stops to bother him, just like the ship dismantling in flames and the screams of help of the pirates locked on their rooms, terrified by the illusions taking form and life in the middle of the darkness.

The red eyes, for a second, focused on something behind Aaron, smiling, before finally sticking on his, the smile still on his expression as his hand went in his direction and rested on his forehead, a melodious tune following his acts.

 “Sleep and dance on your dreams.”

 And then everything disappeared in soot and ebano.

 [...]

 “Oh my stars!! Martin! It’s been so long!” Émile controlled himself to not laugh at Remy’s astonished expression – even if the shorter tried to hide it in a nonchalant behavior, - which proved itself to be simpler when the sky-blue ghost dashed until they were face to face, squeezing his cheeks and alternating between smiling at him and frowning at the number of old and new bruises that covered his skin. “You’re so tall now!! You kiddos grow up so fast!! Do these hurt? No worries! Roman, Remus and Janus are taking care of everything so we will be able to properly take care of you and your friend in a bit, okay? It’s been so much time since they saw you! I bet they also can’t wait to hear all the news!”

 Picani stared deep into that shiny gaze, couldn’t help himself but smile back at Patton, a faint, almost erased memory of the blue figure helping him and his grandpa to make cookies in one of the docks they used to visit, they all whistling happily the known melody shining on the back of his mind. The memory was blurred, mostly consisting in laughter, songs and a warm feeling.

 “Pat,” he gulped, mindless playing with the chains that locked his wrists on the walls of the cell, a frown in his face. Patton lightly hit the side of his own head, dislodging a bit his glasses’ frame, letting go of his face and heading to the keys poorly hanging on a rusty nail on the other side of the room.

 (A constant reminder from the others of the freedom they could achieve if they only would be able to research the keys…)

 “That is right, that is right!” He carried a happy aura on his steps, floating to them in a fast pace, unlocking their cell, kindly glancing at him and Remy, who eyed him for a few seconds before having his attention claimed by smoke descending from the cracks on their ceiling. “We should probably be heading out here just now!”

 “Pat,” Emile tried again, holding his hand when the ghost freed him, ignoring the goosebumps running across his arms in a protest about the coldness of the other’s skin. His tune was careful. “I am Emile. Emile Picani. My dad gave me the pearl.” Patton’s smile faltered, a glint of understanding and something else taking over the gleam on his eyes. “It’s been twenty three years.”

 “Oh,” he muttered, squeezing his hands back, eyes looking for something in his gaze. Something Emile couldn’t quite place. “oh, kiddo… I am sorry.”

 Emile gave him a kind, sad smile.

 “Me too.”

 “You really grew up fast, didn’t you, kiddo?” Remy deviated his eyes from the scene, partly because the feeling of twist on his guts meant that he was probably intruding on a private moment and partly because his attention was again held by the sudden, growing hotness which didn’t cease to expand across the entirety of the ship. Muffled screams coming from all the places and nowhere at the same time. His body started to get absurdly antsy with adrenaline, sweat dripping from his forehead.

 A flaming part of the ceiling fell in the middle of their cell, jolting the two from their conversation, the blue ghost blinking a few times at the flames.

 “Ah.” He speeded his pace to free them from their cell, smoke and soot starting to paint and took over the air. “Well, guess this is our clue to get going!! Come on, come on! This way!”

 “Fucking heck finally.” Remy only didn’t shout his displeasure due how hurt his throat was, however he made it sure his voice wasn’t low enough so the others wouldn’t be able to notice, even though none of them opted to point his reaction, deciding instead to nearly dash through the doors and stairs of the ship until finally arrive at the handrails, ignoring the way flames danced and deviated from them, a red figure smiling brightly at Patton’s direction when he waved, yellow eyes from another golden person staring them as if he could read their souls.

 Remy ignored both as another ship arrived, medium size, well conserved and barely noticeable, his eyes feeling the urge to look at everywhere except it every time he tried to concentrate his efforts to capture all the details, but he kept himself firm, noticing how it doesn’t own any visible treasure, the only thing more catching being the navy fog covering all its extent, flowing in abundance from the form in the main deck, his hands moving with precise, fast gestures.

 A dark purple ghost popped from absolutely nothing in front of them, inquisitive, wary glare.

 Remy narrowed his eyes back, his guts screaming to not trust the wooden board thrown at their current position, making a not very secure path from one ship to another. The purple being smirked at his expression.

 “V! We’re back.”

 “Good. The princey and the snake right there are almost over and Logan is growing restless. Remus is already on his room, resting.” His face lost its softness when he stared right back at the humans. “Get in. Fast.”

 Emile nodded, wanting nothing more than to leave this nightmare and maybe get a good night of sleep, but his arm was held in a warm, firm – yet gentle – grip.

 “Is that bitch even safe?”

 V’s smirk grew. “Define ‘safe’.”

 “Things that I can touch and embark without fucking dying.”

 “Death is inevitable,” the purple – V, as it seems, looked smug with his words, - any choice is just a pathway to this end.”

 “I’m going to fucking show him the pathway.”

 “Remy, please no.” Emile sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 “Think I can’t punch a motherfucker ghost? Fight me.”

 “I know you can’t. Bring it on.”

 “Virgil.”

 “Remy.”

 Patton and Emile said at the same time, with the same hard tone that made both of them deflate in a very similar way, still glaring dangerously at each other, but clearly putting more physical space between them. Emile patted the ex-captain hands, warm eyes.

 “Can you go first so I can hold on your cape? My balance is not very good.” Because he realized, somewhat, how he was trembling and that holding him was the one thing assuring Remy that none of this was just another crazy dream.

 He gulped, then nodded, his usual snarky remark already falling.

 “If I die, no offer will get me out of your back.”

 “Noted.” The sailor replied, chuckling lowly.

 And then they both walked to their first of many future nights, after so many tears and tears, of being able to watch the stars and feel the sea’s breeze.

 Safe.

[nvrcixv]

a narcissa black intro post

( milena tscharntke, eighteen, cis-female ) my goodness, is NARCISSA BLACK back? it’s been a while since the PUREBLOOD has been around the castle, but I’d recognize HER anywhere. rumor has it the FIFTH YEAR spent the years aligned with the NEUTRALS. but I hear they’re still DUTIFUL & ELEGANT and SEVERE & CONTRADICTORY. and the SLYTHERIN still reminds me of a mist of overwhelming perfume, the gentle clatter of fine dishes breaking a tense silence, the awed quiet that fills every corner of a museum, a lump catching in a dry throat, an ornate frame distracting from a dark themed painting, and lips plump with an unnatural red. well, then, I guess some things never change.

hey,  hey,  you guys! i’m alex and i’ll be bringing narcissa here. i’ve been rping on tumblr for a long time, marauders era has always been my favorite.  i have a lot of passion for strong, bad bitches, they’re my jam. so i’m excited to play ice queen narcissa. i’m down for all sorts of plots, especially stuff that springs up organically. mostly because i’m a terrible, disorganized mess of a planner. i’m a bartender, so weekends can get busy for me, but lbr i’m always lurking on mobile.

you can contact me on here in those dms, or my discord is @ alex //#7484

character inspiration: sansa stark (got), eleanor young / astrid leong-teo (crazy rich asians), amy march (little women)

check out her ( pinterest )

whelve: (v.) to bury something deep; to hide

the positive (+): dutiful, elegant, meticulous, thoughtful, subtle, self-assured, immovable, proud, practical

the negative (-): severe, contradictory, deceitful, vengeful, cold, bitter, haughty, petty, narcissitic

aesthetic inspiration: a mist of overwhelming perfume; the gentle clatter of fine dishes breaking a tense silence; the awed quiet that fills every corner of a museum; a lump catching in a dry throat; an ornate frame distracting from a dark themed painting; lips plump with an unnatural red; the gentle clink of pearls; lipstick smudged on the lip of a teacup; thickly gilded frames; delicate fingers brushing aside wisps of hair; pointed heels abandoned at the bottom of a staircase; forced laughter through painted lips; a paintbrush gliding over a crisp canvas; skirts skating over cream-colored thighs; half filled decanters; a thorn pricking an unsuspecting fingertip; the slow build of a concerto; hedges cut to blunt perfection

your girl’s eyeliner is sharp as knives, lips red as bluuud, nails filed to perfection, heart cold, and her smile sweet enough to eat.

you’ve heard it before, narcissa is stone cold. the world could be tumbling around her and this blonde would remain  unshaken.  she is a proud and stalwart figure in the face of chaos. she’s rather good in a crisis, she has to be with a family like her’s and in these dark days. many imagine her to be weak, a simple creature meant for beautiful things. the wilting flower of the black family tree. at one time she might have been, but those who know her properly know her to be someone to look towards in uncertainty.

but she is also a hopeless romantic gone to rot. she is distant, as untouchable as a masterpiece in the museum that is her picture perfect life. a thing more suitable for admiration than intimacy. she is cold, stoic, and strong, but also lonely.

there is a feeling that no matter your connection to narcissa, that no matter your efforts, there is always something hidden within that she is keeping to herself. and it’s true. there is nothing narcissa would willingly show that she didn’t want people to see.

she insecure and stressed about public image like that.

she is also haughty.  

if there’s anything her cousin has taught her, to bloom is to die. she pictures his  escape   and subsequent increase in happiness to be the height of abandonment, of betrayal. how dare he go one to enjoy things without her! how dare he leave. how dare he leave her wanting and missing and heartbroken. she truly misses him and yet goes to great lengths to never reveal her secrets, instead giving her true feelings the form of petty anger and feigned indifference.

the family she’d been proud to be a member of, is crumbling to ash with this war. but if anyone were to care enough to ask, she is grateful for her lot in life. a smile always quick to slide into place, polished and content for the pre-destined plan.

with her current family a shambles, she is afraid to even think of putting together a new family, the arranged marriage in her future is as terrifying as it is inevitable. she feels as though she will lose everything, her family name, the constant presence of her sisters, and her childhood.  it feels like a demotion in title and status after all the notoriety that comes with being a  black.  not to mention her own parents suffering remains fresh as a wound, she can’t imagine she shall ever be happy. why should she be?  indoctrinated as she is, she has eyes.  everything she has witnessed could never be called ideal, as much as it was framed that way. while hope is not her strong suit, narcissa is very capable of love

it’s not often used to describe her, but narcissa is rather selfless and giving towards her loved ones. it’s a redeeming quality that is almost enough to counteract her many failings as a more acceptable version of a kind person. she does, in fact, love and wants to be loved in return.

her removal from hogwarts had been a frightening prospect, as it put a big wrench in the plans that had been set out for her. she was too young and with her education incomplete all meant she was able to put off her marital duties off for the time being

with the last two years open to her, narcissa was quick to move to france to study abroad at beauxbatons. the move was good for her. freeing. the separation from her family allowed the growth of some independence and the fostering of her own interests. she was fully immersed in paris’ culture, language, food, and beauty.

as a lover of  all things immaculate, a seeker of perfection, narcissa is enamored with art. she already has amassed a collection that could rival the lourve, and often travels to find new additions. it’s a lifestyle only the sickeningly wealthy could afford. the high art, port wine and lavish hotels in distant locations are her own form of escape. the one bright spot in the dreariness that the war has driven all of london into. but “a golden cage is still a cage” and her happiness often fades the moment it comes

she’s an amateur painter herself, talented and content with the process of painting the perfect picture, figuratively and literally. but this is a secret ambition. the act unsuitable and beneath a lady such as herself. there is too much mess. stains, dyed fingertips and an acrid smell. as beautiful as the end result might be, her parents would surely disapprove of the mess she’d make to get there. so like everything else, she hides the messy parts away. it’s not much of a rebellion, but it’s as much as she’s capable of at the moment. her family just means more to her than what she sees as selfish wants rather than the productive creativity and voice to her thoughts that she really needs.

tw child abuse: her childhood was as fraught with abuse as the next black. intelligence was punishable, sharp wit was always met with a slap to rattle her teeth.

her worth was reduced to image and status from the beginning. the cruel parenting taught her to close her lips and open her eyes more. she is observant, and thoughtful. her taste impeccable and judgement rather quick.

narcissa is both good and bad in many ways. love to hate or hate to love her, she’s an anti-villian

tl;dr; narcissa a bitch but like?? the kind you would be begging to step on you

connections:

girl gang – give her all the best friends. the nicole to her paris. soul sisters. ovaries before brovaries. hymen heroines. those hoes she lives and breathes for. i think typically this would be fellow slytherins or ppl that she met through pureblood high society connections. OPEN  

ex-boyfriend/girlfriend – ew this makes me sad and emotions are hard to deAL. basically this will be all angst city. most likely narcissa would be the one to break things off since she usually caves to that familial pressure. depending on how their relationship was, she could regret it or be cold about it. or maybe they were using her? i could see either ( or both! gasp ) working. OPEN

rival/frenemies – these two are just too similar to get along. toxic pureblood society has pitted them against each other and no one is winning. okay but if they went from enemies, to reluctant respect, to almost friends?? MAYBE EVEN FRIENDS EVENTUALLY?? i would be here for it asdlk  OPEN

confidante – narcissa isn’t honest with anyone, not even herself. but this could be someone that she’s probably known for a long time who she possibly could’ve opened up to in a weak moment and now they’re bonded forever. she would feel indebted to this person for keeping her secrets and would do her best to protect them any way that she could. extra feelings if this person feels the same way and they can be sad, but also cLOSE, together. OPEN

secret school friend – maybe they were forced partners as prefects or a fateful potions class but narcissa found herself making a surprising friend in an unexpected place. they spoke for years and she couldn’t help admiring their persistence despite her reluctance and occasional snobbery. but now they’re older and she really should cut things off. for whatever reason, she just can’t let go. OPEN

banter partner – alright so this would be someone from the other side of the war that narcissa runs into all the time and they always seem to get into arguments! she’s not quite sure why they get under her skin but narcissa finds it difficult to step away from their confrontations. OPEN

muse – listennnn. this person would be someone that narcissa would just be enamored with, she would regard them very highly and make efforts to speak with them and be around them. if this person were on the other side of the war she would probably resent them a little but be unable to resist.  i’ll probably just spring this on somebody tbh?? since the relationship would be based on her own tastes. but this would be someone that narcissa would admire for their appearance– sure, but also for the aura that they project.

but yes!! promo over, thanks for reading loves! can’t wait to write with you all!

[stex-secret-valentine]

Arrival

Coming in hot, it’s a gift for @exdraghunt ya silly goose!

~~~~~

“Are you excited??”

“Dinah, I swear you’re even more of a nosy parker than your friends are!”

No one needed to gossip about seeing Greaseball and Dinah together that sunny summer afternoon. It was common knowledge that the two had amicably ended their relationship not too long after the championship that one year. He’d sworn up and down that he’d change, and Dinah believed him.

That was… Well, at the time she did. But she was wiser than before. It didn’t take him long to show that he was having trouble keeping interest in her, and surprisingly, she couldn’t fault him. She too had begun to look elsewhere to feed that itch for love and passion. So when they sat down for lunch one day on a day off, it was mutually agreed; this wasn’t working out for them. Soon, she ate her lunches alone, and he lived a single life again.

It was to no one’s surprise, of course, that soon after the diesel had been released from what he must’ve felt was the closest thing to a physical ball and chain, he seemed to be disappearing very often. Dinah didn’t mind; not long after they broke things off, she had connected- to her surprise- with the brake truck that cost Greaseball his win in the final. CB was currently looked down upon by many for his actions in the final, though you’d be hard-pressed to find that many were still willing to forgive him… Y’know, after he served his extended probation period. But Dinah didn’t mind it. He had been kind to her when she was down after Greaseball uncoupled her in the races, so it wasn’t like she could hold a grudge toward him. (Save for maybe what he did to Rusty, but even the steamer had somewhat forgiven CB by the time his relationship with Dinah had begun to flourish.)

And Greaseball seemed to give his blessing when he found out, yet when Dinah gushed about how she felt about the brake truck, the engine began to feel strangely uncomfortable at the mention of intimacy. “What’s wrong?!” Dinah had asked him, but the diesel refused to say. She reasoned with him, stating that just because they weren’t an item, it didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” the engine said, waving her off. It wasn’t her concern anyway “… But tell your man he’s lucky to have ya!” Dinah was concerned, but CB soothed her nerves. He was probably just jealous, he joked, and Dinah giggled at the comment, but still she wondered about him.

But oddly enough, a rumor started to circulate for a while; a certain engine had returned. Just as quickly, he had disappeared, and the rumor lost its footing. Most trains didn’t think anything of it, and life in the yard soon returned to normal. But certain trucks knew better, as they would eventually tell some of the trains they worked with. It was no rumor after all; Electra had come back to the yard after all. But why was he hiding?

No one knew for certain, and they certainly didn’t care, but it was quite bizarre to a few that the engine would return and just hide away somewhere. Some asked around, “have you seen Electra?”, but no one had any clue as to where the electric train would be. Even the Components, trucks who were once sworn followers of the superstar, had no idea where the engine could be.

That is, until someone slipped up. That someone, as one of the Nationals found out initially, was a certain other engine. A diesel engine. It was an innocent enough remark, really. He just made a snide comment about ���that asshole being cranky again”, and when someone asked, all he said was “they’re just a visitor”. Except there weren’t any visitors to note except the one rumored about. It may sound like jumping to conclusions, but it wasn’t hard to see that the yard hardly ever had long-time visitors unless there were races going on, so it wasn’t a hard jump in logic to make.

But then came the speculation. “Why would Electra be visiting Greaseball of all trains??!” Honestly, the yard couldn’t go a day without hearing some new rumor. Naturally, the idea of them being lovers came up, and as one would expect, it was brushed away rather quickly. So imagine the yard’s surprise when after about 3 months of speculation, Electra finally appeared out in the open with a formal request to have permanent residency in the yard. Many objected to it, but ultimately Control approved the motion (with some prodding from the leading diesel of course). The news of it fired up the rumor mill even more, and soon trains were leering and spying on the electric in effort to find out why the return and move happened.

“What?” The engine looked offended when someone finally had the nerve to ask in person. “Do I not have right to work here as everyone else does?”

“Well of course you do,” the unlucky train stammered, “but it’s just… You left so suddenly and you caused so much-”

“Give it a rest, grime-for-brain!” The diesel’s intrusion to the conversation cut things short, and the train made a hasty getaway. Of course, not before they noted just how close the two engines were, in more ways than one.

That’s all history now, if you could imagine it. And now Greaseball and Dinah stood together on that summer afternoon, as friends rather than bitter exes. Though why they were there was a new story in and of itself.

“Oh come on, everyone’s just as excited for it as y’all should be! It’s a lovely thing to be excited for!” The blonde bounced as she spoke, brimming with joy. “How’s Electra feeling about it??”

Greaseball rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Just as high-strung as always. Asshat’s worried about every little thing right now.”

“Aww, but that’s just part of the experience! Everyone gets a little nervous when it’s their time!”

“Alright Dinah, I know you’re trying real hard to be friendly about this, but I’m getting real pissed off right now-”

“Greaseball to repair garage! I repeat, Greaseball to repair garage!” The speakers clicked off just as quickly as they had clicked on, but Greaseball was already headed in the direction of the garages, with Dinah in hot pursuit. The dining car struggled to even keep up with him, but soon they were at the repair garage, and a small crowd had already gathered outside.

“Hey, just in time!” Rocky 2 waved at the two as they neared the group, his brothers standing nearby. “So, how we feelin’? Ready to run away yet??”

“Can it, Rocky, I ain’t worried about nothin’,” Greaseball laughed, playfully punching the boxcar on the shoulder. “Y’all sure gathered quick, I’ll admit.”

“We just wanted to see how things go!” Pearl piped up, sitting on the ground below them. “Electra’s been talking nonstop about all of it, he just couldn’t get a grip on it!”

Rusty nodded, sitting beside her. “It’s been quiet in there for a while now. CB was keeping him company, but we haven’t heard anything yet.”

“Right..” Greaseball ran a palm alongside his slicked-back hair, smoothing it down with ease. But truth be told, he was a little nervous. He rolled his head from side to side, popping the joints in his shoulders and neck, and gave a deep sigh in and out. And finally, he knocked on the door.

“Come in!” It was Wrench, from the sounds of it.

“Wish me luck,” Greaseball whispered to the group outside, and opened the door, making his way in before anyone could peek inside. The garage was brightly lit and very spacious, and on the far side away from the diesel was Wrench, Electra, and CB, standing in front of a curtain. The electric’s mohawk was a bit frazzled, but his bright blue eyes beamed with pride. CB yawned, but a grin was on his face in a second. Wrench, of course, looked ever the part of a repair truck who mastered her craft, with only minimal signs of weariness. “So,” he started, “how’d it go?”

“Well, we figure you might want to see for yourself,” Wrench replied, moving back to allow Greaseball access to the curtain. Slowly, the diesel made his way to the group, glancing at Electra for a sign that what he would see might be of some concern, but Electra only nodded. Greaseball nodded back and extended his hand to take hold of the curtain. Quietly, he pulled back the curtail, and his eyes fell upon the operating table. Upon it sat what had to have been an angel from heaven above, something only a dream could produce. Its’ plating was the color of cocoa, glistening with a fresh polishing, and bore faint traces of freckling upon its faintly rosy cheeks. Its hair was a silvery fair sheen with streaks of black dispersed through it in haphazard curls, and tiny beautiful lashes adorned its eyes, keeping hidden what had to be the most precious set of eyes any train would ever see. Swaddled in a pale yellow blanket, the trainlet slumbered away, its tiny hands only barely free of the blanket as it snoozed.

A small gasp escaped from Greaseball as he gazed over the new addition. “It’s so tiny..”

“All trainlets are like that,” Wrench said, smiling at the new father. “I think you’ll both do well raising her.”

“…Her?”

“Her,” Wrench repeated. “The first hybrid engine in the yard, and it’s a little baby girl.”

Greaseball seemed to make a grimace, but bit his lip as his eyes grew watery. “…Can I hold her?”

“If it so pleases your partner,” Wrench grinned, rolling away as she motioned to CB to do the same.

Greaseball hesitated, looking at Electra again for confirmation that it was okay to pick up the trainlet. But he too seemed hesitant to hold her. The two exchanged looks, and seemed to confirm between them that everything was okay. Gently, the diesel picked up the trainlet, bringing her into his arms as she slept. The way she breathed, that way she fit just exactly into his arms… Greaseball was enamored with her. But a thought occurred to him. “… What are we gonna name her?”

Electra gazed over the little trainlet, Her curls and lashes seemed so delicate, beckoning out to them in small waves of sweetness… “…Wave.”

Greaseball thought over the suggestion. No, it was more an affirmation. “Wave… I like it.” The little trainlet stirred, and finally her eyes fluttered open. They were the same brilliant shade of blue as Electra’s, and a spark flashed within them and she cooed and wiggled to life, almost like she could recognize her own name.

If you had asked Greaseball what he would be doing almost a year after the final he managed to lose, you’d be sure his last response would’ve been celebrating the arrival of a trainlet with the train he’d sworn to hate as the one he’d sworn to spend the rest of his life with, but for the moment, all Greaseball could do was be thankful that he was able be with Electra at all, to have Wave in his life as well, and to live in a peaceful new life together.

>>>>>

(Happy Valentine’s Day, Ed! I admit I’m shit at writing things like this, but hey, it was either this or a veeeeeeeeeeeeery crappy drawing of Greaseball, and I mean very crappy. Count yourself lucky you won’t have to see such a thing. Have a happy holiday!)

[nightingveilxo]

Lindsey Duncan, Dr. Who, Waters, Rome, and Sherlock

Choosing an actress with experience in plots about amnesia, changing time, black pearls, and men with super powers, but fragile egos...

Dr. Who: Adelaide

Back in 2009, Lindsey Duncan was in the Dr. Who episode, The Waters of Mars. Her character name was Adelaide Brooke, and this was the first Dr. Who special that wasn’t connected with a holiday. The story arc was referred to as “He will knock four times.”

Just prior to his regeneration a significant change in the Tenth Doctor's character was presented, showing a much darker and benevolent side. Up to this point he'd only seen himself as a survivor of the Time War, but now he started to believe that he was the "Victorious" and that the Laws of Time were his to command, allowing him to break them because there were no other Time Lords around to stop him. After saving Adelaide Brooke even though he knew her death was fixed, he realised that he'd gone too far and that he shouldn't have the power to influence history and the future on such a large scale. ( x )

Unfortunately, there is a virus on board the ship, and it involves water. Last recorded message: "Don't drink the water. Don't even touch it. Not one drop." 

At one point, The Doctor tells Adelaide that “she was the woman with starlight in her soul,” and that "Water is patient, Adelaide, water just waits. It wears down the clifftops, the mountains, the whole of the world. Water always wins!"

Adelaide’s crewmates are: Steffi, Yuri, Tarak, Andy

Roman, a genius who contracts the virus, and tells the others to run before he transforms (”When I say run, run...”).

Maggie, who also contracts the disease inside the biodome, and ends up with amnesia. It’s important that the virus makes humans seem like zombies, and they’re susceptible, because of the amount of water content in the human body.

By the end of the episode, The Doctor becomes a complete egomaniac, and Adelaide is horrified by it. She commits suicide, and there is a flash of blue light indicating the event. Her death rearranges the events of The Doctor saving the day, and a vision of Ood Sigma appears, which prompts The Doctor to ask if he’s finally gone too far.

This Special element might explain why this image of the backward sigma/300 ended up on a clapboard for Sherlock S4 Ep 2. It was a Special (TAB) CLUE, before Mycroft’s Umbrella, John’s Cane, and Sherlock’s Hat were involved. It’s almost like Monopoly, and we’re banking on seeing the important pieces.

Birdman: Tabitha

Riggan Thomson is a faded American actor who is famous for playing the superhero Birdman in a film trilogy 20 years ago. He is tormented by the mocking and critical internal voice of Birdman and is frequently shown performing feats of levitation and telekinesis....She (Sam) shows him that the Times Square footage is going viral and explains how this actually helps him. Riggan goes to a bar for a drink and approaches Tabitha, accusing her of not understanding theater and just being someone who crudely labels things. She tells him that she hates ignorant Hollywood celebrities who pretend to be serious actors and promises to "kill" his play with a deprecating review without even having seen it. On the way back, Riggan buys a pint of whiskey, drinks it and passes out on a stoop...After Sylvia wishes him luck and leaves the room, Riggan picks up a real gun and checks that it is loaded for the final scene in which his character commits suicide. At the climax, Riggan shoots himself in the head on-stage. The play receives a standing ovation as Tabitha rushes out to file copy. The next day, Riggan wakes up in hospital with his face covered in a mask of bandages where his nose has been surgically reconstructed after he blew it off during the botched suicide. His ex-wife is worried about him but Jake cannot contain his excitement that the play will run forever after Tabitha's rave-review which called the suicide attempt "super-realism" and just what American theater needed. Sam visits with flowers, which he cannot smell, and takes a picture of him to scare the skyrocketing number of followers on the Twitter account she has created for him. (This reminded me of Mofftiss post S4, and what John went through.)

TLD

THERAPIST (offscreen): Culverton Smith. In the present, John’s therapist has her laptop open on the side table in the back room.  Pushing her glasses up her nose, she bends down to the computer and runs her finger over the pad. THERAPIST: This, I think, is relevant from this morning. (She has done a search for the man in question and the results page is on the screen.  At the right of the screen are photographs of Smith, and underneath are links to a couple of books he has written.  One is called ‘How to Make a Killing’ and the other ‘Business Killer’.  On the left of the screen, the top item on the results list – headed Latest News – is headlined, in speech marks, ‘“He’s a serial killer!”’ and underneath it says, ‘Net detective blasts Culverton Smith on Twitter’ and then ‘Defamatory remake goes viral on Twitter’.

Fast forward...

CORNELIA: Sherlock’s been amazing for us. (Handing the notebook back to the woman as she smiles, Smith continues onwards with the others.) SMITH (to the reporters): Breakfast has got to be cool. CORNELIA (to John): We’re beyond viral. SMITH: And you know what makes it cool when you’re a kid? JOHN (to Cornelia): What, sorry? Beyond what? SMITH: Dangerous.

Also, Naomi Watts is in the film, but she will be getting her own meta.

Rome: Servilia of the Junii

The characters is based on Servilia, mistress to Julius Caesar, and mother of Brutus, who was of course one of Caesar’s assassins.

Caesar was very fond of her and, years later, when he returned to a chaotic Rome after the Gallic Wars, he presented her with a priceless black pearl. It is also said that she offered him her youngest daughter Junia Tertia once his interests began to wane.

For this part, suffice to say she plays characters out for revenge, really well...tw//violence

Servilia's curse upon Caesar:

"Gods of the Junii, with this offering I ask you to summon Tyche, Megaera, and Nemesis. so that they may witness this curse. By the spirits of my ancestors I curse Gaius Julius Caesar. Let his penis wither. Let his bones crack. Let him see his legions drown in their own blood. Gods of the Inferno, I offer to you his limbs, his mouth, his breath, his speech, his hands, his liver, his heart, his stomach. Gods of the Inferno, let me see him suffer deeply, and I will rejoice and sacrifice to you."

Servilia's curse upon Atia:

"By the spirits of my ancestors I curse Atia of the Julii. Let dogs rape her. Let her children die and her houses burn. Let her live a long life of bitter misery and shame. Gods of the Inferno, I offer you her limbs, her head, her mouth, her breath, her speech, her heart, her liver, her stomach. Gods of the Inferno, let me see her suffer deeply, and I will rejoice and sacrifice to you."

Both of these curses are invoked as she carves them into scrolls of lead. The scrolls are then rolled up and given to her duenna (slave), who then takes the scrolls to hide them within the cracks of the homes of Servilia's intended victims.

Her final curse comes just before her suicide in front of Atia's front door:

"Gods below, I am Servilia,

of the most ancient and sacred Junii, of whose bones the seven hills of Rome are built. I summon you to listen. Curse this woman! Send her bitterness and despair for all of her life. Let her taste nothing but ashes and iron. Gods of the Underworld, all that I have left I give to you in sacrifice

I’ve already seen many meta about Lady Smallwood as a Mary mirror, but I will link this one, because it is a concise series of bullet points.

@darlingtonsubstitution @swimmingfeelsinajohnlockianpool @may-shepard @marathecactupus