#enough to make him start questioning the history he threw himself so wholly into learning?

[cybertron-smash-or-pass]

TFA Arachnus Prime

[knightsdeath]

he has never touched it , the scar marring felix's shoulder ; he's never been permitted to , something known without even having needed to ask. but tonight ... it seems to call to him more so than usual , coaxing his curiosity from him and he does not touch it , but rather hovers his fingers over it / asking permission , respecting the unknown answer . ❛ felix , ❜ a gentle murmur , ❛ would you tell me how you came to have such a scar ? ❜

they’re in flux, constantly ———— the ever changing form of them, frenetic and unwilling to settle for even a moment / turbulent. muted. what better shape for them to take, to so thoroughly differentiate them from the boys that they once were? that people swear they had once embodied? when they had been steady and level and sure to the last moments of their lives and to the ends of the earth dedicated, wholly and utterly, to each other and few others.

this is not the natural resolution of them. lying on this bed beneath these sheets alongside each other with his skin humming from remembrance of where they had touched not so long ago, intertwined from their ankles to the very fall of their hair ( the sharp delineation between inky darkness and the coming of light ) meandering and very nearly calm in the face of each other and the proximity of them. the fire on the other side of the room whispers still and baron is asleep in the vestibule beside the other fire / how ridiculous it is to have two fires to warm a room / how ridiculous it is : this play at peace and serenity and love, how devotedly they forge it together.

this is not the natural resolution of them ———— or perhaps it is and the cynicism with which he sees everything and anything demands otherwise. demands that the nightmares he has ( that they both have, in truth, and he knows that somewhat and knows that vaguely and knows that well ) tell of what they could have been. what they should have been. death reigning and blood splattering and the taste of despair on his tongue and the weight of a body long dead in his arms / dead by another’s hand / dead by his hand ———— or himself dead, killed by the monster who is the man who is the monster who is. who is. who is.

what’s the truth? well : it hardly matters, does it? when this is the tenuous resolution that they’ve chosen for now and they’ve chosen for this moment. this intimacy and this closeness and this attempt at LOVE. a love that is true. a love that is genuine. a love that is theirs and stained in blood and strife and years long gone by and steeped in grief and torment and reeks of fear that has passed but remains : an unwitting and unrelenting third party to their ( … ) whatever it is. relationship, he supposes.

not that there’s anything else to call it.

dimitri’s touch is gentle / it always is, when they’re like this, unless he’s goading and goading and goading ———— always so damnably gentle, as if in frank opposition to the strength that lays coiled beneath his skin. dimitri’s touch is gentle / trailing along his hip and the tip of his waist and his arm, the whole left side of him, the left because lying on his left side is far too painful, sometimes. tonight. tonight, with a storm brewing not so far away and his shoulder aching and aching and aching / memory clinging to the joint / teeth digging in and refusing to unhand him.

he watches the fall of dimitri’s hair over the pillow and the curve of his hand beside his head as that touch lifts. and hovers. felix’s nerve endings are alight as they so frequently are and it aches and he aches and watches his mouth form that question and for a moment it seems SO VERY ODD. so very misplaced. like a blade that doesn’t belong in a set. like a shrub just barely misshapen. the question? the spoken / unspoken question? or that he doesn’t know?

how could he know? how could he have found out? how could he have learned, lest he asked sylvain or ingrid, what had befallen him in those five years where he had been gone, four of which he had been presumed dead? oh, he could have asked, certainly. at any time. at any pause. any of them could have told him ( though felix certainly wouldn’t have relished in the chance years ago ) what had happened. but dimitri, respectful and courteous and gentle dimitri, wouldn’t have demanded such a thing from him in light of his unwillingness to allow ANYONE AND EVERYONE to touch his shoulder ———— save sylvain and ingrid, of course. the only ones. the only ones who have been permitted the full horror of that experience and the terror of it and the torturous aftermath.

PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE, some claim. there is little use for patience when there are things to be done and things that can be done, in his opinion, but dimitri’s care with handling him and skirting around his shoulder hasn’t gone wholly unnoticed. he had known. of course he had. of course he had, from the very start the extensive care that dimitri had taken with him. every step. every last infuriating step : from the way that he spoke to him to the way that he touched him to the way that HE HID FROM HIM, EVEN NOW. as if there is any part of him that felix hasn’t seen. as if there is any part of him that felix doesn’t know.

his kindness and his love and his hopes and his determination and his rage. whether felix knows him best is questionable, now, but it hadn’t been once upon a time. so very long ago.

they’re in flux, constantly. learning and re—learning and discovering each other anew. this isn’t seamless and is hardly anything that can be called SIMPLE what with the tangled nature of their histories, but it’s ———— them. is that enough? it must be. it must be. dimitri treats him with aggravating care and felix treats him with bold bluntness and they / fit? strangely. not quite perfectly. but there’s no such thing as PERFECT, after all. there is simply the choice to be made.

and there’s this choice : the shift of his body as he half turns his face into the pillow and dimitri’s fingers brush along his shoulder. a ghost of a touch. something so light that it may as well not have been there at all / but for that his skin threatens to tremble beneath it / but for that it could very well being a blade stabbing through his shoulder, instead of the reality of it all. it’s at once too much and not nearly enough and he meets dimitri’s eyes as he settles / and his hand settles / still not fully touching / but present. there’s a wideness to dimitri’s eyes. something that feels like shock. something that feels like tenderness.

their knees bump and / his shoulder aches.

nothing new, really.

❝ i was protecting a village against the witch’s forces, ❞ he could very well leave it there, couldn’t he? that alone told more than enough of a story. more than enough of the tale. the details are hardly quite so important ———— dimitri’s thumb slips along the mass of scar tissue. the knotted gnarled terribly smooth texture of it. a reminder of his mortality. ❝ a year into the war, ❞ a pause and he wonders if he’s said too much / but what’s too much gazing into these eyes that he knows so well who knows him so well and, ah.

perhaps he, too, has been hiding from him. all along. bits and pieces and shreds of the whole / well buried inside of him / out of sight and out of reach. what a pair they make. what a love they create. what choices they make.

❝ i became reckless and threw myself in front of someone who had been caught in the crossfire, ❞ his shoulder is alight beneath dimitri’s touch ———— or perhaps that is merely the restless energy that reverberates just beneath his skin / or perhaps it’s both, body tense and muscles screaming beneath his hand and is it cruel, that this is a test of TRUST? it is and it isn’t and they both know well the paranoia with which felix treats the masses and what it means. what this means. what it means as he breathes and breathes and breathes and fear eases itself from him / and dimitri’s hand drifts back down to his bicep / to the end of the scar tissue and the beginning of another longer, thinner scar / his expression solemn and the set of his mouth gentle. ❝ it was foolish of me. ❞

❝ it wasn’t foolish, ❞ dimitri’s voice is feather—light / and drifting / and steeped in something that lingers far too close to love. ❝ you saved someone’s life. that’s never foolish. ❞

❝ i almost died, ❞ he had come perilously close, in fact. had drawn so near that sylvain and ingrid had genuinely feared that he would leave this world permanently. it had been miraculous that he had survived at all / an artery severed and a great deal of other injuries to contend with. ❝ i almost lost my arm,” the most terrifying part of it all, truly. if anything had been A MIRACLE it’s that he kept it with a great deal of healing and a heavy amount of magic. ❝ but i survived. ❞

❝ you did, ❞ a kiss, fleeting and brief and so very light, ❝ and i am grateful for that. ❞ he shifts, his elbow digging into the bed beneath as his upper body raises and felix knows ———— it occurs to him to stop him / except that he doesn’t want to / except that he doesn’t wish to / and so he watches as his head bows and dimitri’s mouth is pressed against that macabre proof that he lives, if you’re of a mind to think of it in such a way. he isn’t, particularly, but his chest constricts and he wonders over the emotion that wells up inside of him so very suddenly.

❝ ———— dimitri, ❞ his name !! his name !! THE FUCKING SAVIOR KING looks at him, exhausted and worn and breathing, still. a masterwork of survival. they both are, in the end. and how many times has this been said without being said and how many permutations these words can place themselves through and how mangled they can become and how they burn, laying on his tongue, and what a weapon they are, truly. ❝ i love you. ❞

@hlycrwn // don’t ask me to say it again , it’s taken a part of me , you’ve taken a part of me. or is that a part you’ve always had? no , shut up. here’s a promise : i’ll say it again. i will. i will.

[hogwartsuniversity-rpg]

Sirius Black | Gryffindor ✗ Major: Literature | FC: Ben Barnes

✗ Traits:

+ Easy going, adventurous, smarter than he lets on

- Cocky, inconsistent, emotionally unavailable 

Ø Past:

Sirius Orion Black should have been his parents’ pride and joy. As the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son of the Black family, he was expected to be the next great patriarch. The Blacks traced their heritage to a Baronetcy granted after the English Civil War and have an honest-to-goodness framed page from Dungale hanging in the foyer to prove it. However, somewhere along the line one of the ancestors had been a younger son, and when the titled side of the family died out, forgotten drama deprived the surviving branch of inheriting the title. A fact Walburga and Orion Black remain jealous of to this day. Sirius, for his part, couldn't care less about family history, except to laugh at the striking similarity to the Elliots in Persuasion. Lady Susan remains his favorite Austen, but that is mostly because he doesn’t think he makes much of an Anne Elliot. For one thing, he doesn’t see the value in a persuasive temper, though perhaps that’s because he’s spent most of his life fighting against his parents’ expectations. He was meant to be proud and powerful. You can really spit those words out, what with all the P’s, as it didn’t take Sirius long to learn. When he was young he and his parents could play the part well enough; they’d dress him up and he’d smile just right so he might be smirking (like his father did) for all their rich friends, but when they were alone, well… relations between the boy and his parents been frosty for most of Sirius life.

He never liked to talk about it, or think much about it if he could help it, and maybe that’s why he can’t remember when their relationship flew south for the winter and never came back. It could have been when he was five and his parents wouldn’t let his new black friend come over, it could have been when he was eight and first heard them talking about ‘filthy queers,’ or when he was nine, or when he was 6, or, or, or… Or maybe those were only the times' fuel got added to the fire. The truth, he knew deep down, was that in addition to being horrible people, his parents were simply unprepared to be parents. Babies are loud and messy and emotional and everything his parents hated. Sirius later thought of them as more actively abrasive versions of Tom and Daisy Buchanan. They were wealthy and careless and absentee and, well, Fitzgerald never gets into how the daughter grew up in the end.

So, Sirius rebelled. In everything he ever did. He wore his hair long and stayed out too late. He tried to run away three times before he was 15. The third time he got dragged back into the house by his ear he saw Regulus’s face— tired and drawn— and they might be less than a year apart but Sirius never wanted his little brother to look that old again, so he stopped running. Still, he never stopped regarding himself as a soldier in a one-man war and was always searching for the next inch of ground he could gain from his parents. He was determined to love everything they hated. He never regretted fighting them, either. Every cut from a bottle shattering against the wall near his head after Walburga drank too much was a medal of valor. Every bruise Orion left on him (always where clothes would cover it) after Sirius pushed just far enough was proof he was winning. Every screech that pierced his ears was a war cry. Once when Sirius was 13, Regulus asked him if he had any sense of self-preservation whatsoever. “Yes,” Sirius had told his brother, “I’m preserving myself against them. You ought to as well.” Regulus infuriated his brother because he bowed his head and went with all the shit their parents said, but in some ways, Sirius couldn’t help blaming himself. He’d rebelled, he’d separated himself from the Blacks. That had left his parents with only Regulus. They funneled their anger, their hatred, at Sirius, yes, but he knew they pushed their manipulation, their pressure, onto Regulus. As pissed as Regulus made him, he got it. Maybe he didn’t understand it, how he could play their games, but he got it. They were his parents. Hell, Sirius wouldn’t have fought so hard if they weren’t. On some level, Sirius knew he was pushing back because he wanted what every kid wants; for his parents to engage with him, to love him. Regulus sucked up in search of that, Sirius fought back. At least, the war had started that way. By the end, Sirius wanted nothing to do with them, but at its roots, well. Some rich kids smashed expensive cars into trees, he smashed himself into his parents’ ideology. Same basic principle.

As a result, he’d been planning his escape to Uni for practically as long as he could remember. He’d accepted going to Hogwarts as a legacy student, mostly because of the school’s somewhat funky reputation, and actually leaving was one of the most liberating experiences of his life. He’d been to boarding school before, but with overbearing headmasters and Walburga and Orion never more than a short drive away, that hadn’t done much to elevate the stifling nature of his childhood. That said, he’d taken every chance to fuck around in the past and had every intention of continuing the tradition at Uni. He might be able to angst and brood like Mr. fucking Rochester, but he honestly preferred what he would call a certain care-free roughness. Chaotic Good, as he described his sixth form DnD character. Consequently, he’d never been fond of self-reflection, but if he’d bothered, he’d have realized that those first few months with James and Remus and Peter were terrifying. He’d been so angry his whole life, he never really learned how to make friends casually. So, when he met the three of them during Freshers Week and knew in an instant he wanted them to be friends, he threw himself wholly into making it happen. Any scheme James thought up, any late night Remus wanted to stay up talking, any homework Peter wanted to put off to play just one more round of chess, Sirius agreed, no questions asked. He never thought about the possibility of being rejected, only plowed forward with everything he was. In the year that followed at Hogwarts, he did everything in much the same way: full speed ahead, no questions asked.

He didn’t mean to be careless or to run over people's lives with his own, he just couldn’t bring himself to care that he did. Sirius lived for the moments and didn’t see anything wrong with that. He was of the opinion that anyone who had a problem with him, his friends, or their pranks was too sensitive, and they only hated people who deserved it. Grey area was a concept Sirius had a hard time grasping. He and his friends were good, nothing they did could be evil. People like his parents were evil, no one who was associated with them could do anything good. He had no illusions of being perfect, (that, after all, would be boring) but in the end, he was one of the good guys.

As his second year at Hogwarts opens, that certainty is flagging. He’s grown up to realize some of the pranks he’s pulled and the ways he’s acted have been very, very not cool. Other people have told him he needed to lay off before, but he’s always dismissed them as being uptight. He knows he has a… big personality, and that people listened to him, that he could goad people into doing things. So, coming to those realizations, he’s starting to see that he’s been hurting people. And it’s messing with his head. He’s thought back to all those pranks and jokes that had been just so funny only to hear a voice keeps telling him “you are just like your parents.” Whether that particular thought is true or not, he’s trying to change. He’s struggling with what needs to change and the walls of stubbornness he’s built up, but he’s promised himself he’ll at least pay attention. He has no plans to follow the rules to the letter, or anything crazy like that, but he is growing more aware. Of himself, and of the world around him.

→ Connections:

The Marauders (James Potter, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew) - Best Friends. Sirius is a proud drama queen, but he’s not being over the top when he says he’d die for any of them.

Regulus & Narcissa Black - Family. Sirius has a difficult relationship with family, to say the least. He cares for Regulus and Narcissa and wishes they’d come to their senses and stop playing their family’s mind games.

Bartemius Crouch Jr. - Hates. Barty’s angsty teenager attitude ticks Sirius off, as does the fact that he thinks he’s so rebellious when he refuses to actually stand up to his dad.

James Potter - Best Friend. Sirius is closer to James than he is to the other Marauders. He loves them all fiercely, but James is a brother to him.

[hogwartsuniversity-rpg]

Sample Application

Hey all! Here is a sample app written for Sirius Black, who admin Zev will be playing! Hopefully, this helps give an idea of what we are looking for, but it should not be taken as a template! 

-Admin Zev

OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION;

Name/Alias: Zevia/Zev

Pronouns: She/Her/s

Age: 18

Timezone: PST

Trigger Warnings: Redacted

Activity Level: On the dash probably a 7-9. As your admin, I will always be around!

About You/Previous Experience: I have admin’d one roleplay before and have been roleplaying for five years. I also aid for a help blog from time to time. Also, see the About Us page.

BASICS;

Desired Character: Sirius Black

Gender/Pronouns: He/Him/s

Sexuality: Bisexual, actively not thinking about this as he is working through internalized homophobia from his upbringing.

FC: Ben Barnes, Matthew Daddario, Ezra Miller

Scholarship Status: None, supportive of the expansion.

Major: Literature

Extracurriculars: Begrudgingly in the Slug Club

PAST;

Sirius Orion Black should have been his parents’ pride and joy. As the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son of the Black family, he was expected to be the next great patriarch. The Blacks traced their heritage to a Baronetcy granted after the English Civil War and have an honest-to-goodness framed page from Dungale hanging in the foyer to prove it. However, somewhere along the line one of the ancestors had been a younger son, and when the titled side of the family died out, forgotten drama deprived the surviving branch of inheriting the title. A fact Walburga and Orion Black remain jealous of to this day. Sirius, for his part, couldn't care less about family history, except to laugh at the striking similarity to the Elliots in Persuasion. Lady Susan remains his favorite Austen, but that is mostly because he doesn’t think he makes much of an Anne Elliot. For one thing, he doesn’t see the value in a persuasive temper, though perhaps that’s because he’s spent most of his life fighting against his parents’ expectations. He was meant to be proud and powerful. You can really spit those words out, what with all the P’s, as it didn’t take Sirius long to learn. When he was young he and his parents could play the part well enough; they’d dress him up and he’d smile just right so he might be smirking (like his father did) for all their rich friends, but when they were alone, well… relations between the boy and his parents been frosty for most of Sirius life.

He never liked to talk about it, or think much about it if he could help it, and maybe that’s why he can’t remember when their relationship flew south for the winter and never came back. It could have been when he was five and his parents wouldn’t let his new black friend come over, it could have been when he was eight and first heard them talking about ‘filthy queers,’ or when he was nine, or when he was 6, or, or, or… Or maybe those were only the times' fuel got added to the fire. The truth, he knew deep down, was that in addition to being horrible people, his parents were simply unprepared to be parents. Babies are loud and messy and emotional and everything his parents hated. Sirius later thought of them as more actively abrasive versions of Tom and Daisy Buchanan. They were wealthy and careless and absentee and, well, Fitzgerald never gets into how the daughter grew up in the end.

So, Sirius rebelled. In everything he ever did. He wore his hair long and stayed out too late. He tried to run away three times before he was 15. The third time he got dragged back into the house by his ear he saw Regulus’s face— tired and drawn— and they might be less than a year apart but Sirius never wanted his little brother to look that old again, so he stopped running. Still, he never stopped regarding himself as a soldier in a one-man war and was always searching for the next inch of ground he could gain from his parents. He was determined to love everything they hated. He never regretted fighting them, either. Every cut from a bottle shattering against the wall near his head after Walburga drank too much was a medal of valor. Every bruise Orion left on him (always where clothes would cover it) after Sirius pushed just far enough was proof he was winning. Every screech that pierced his ears was a war cry. Once when Sirius was 13, Regulus asked him if he had any sense of self-preservation whatsoever. “Yes,” Sirius had told his brother, “I’m preserving myself against them. You ought to as well.” Regulus infuriated his brother because he bowed his head and went with all the shit their parents said, but in some ways, Sirius couldn’t help blaming himself. He’d rebelled, he’d separated himself from the Blacks. That had left his parents with only Regulus. They funneled their anger, their hatred, at Sirius, yes, but he knew they pushed their manipulation, their pressure, onto Regulus. As pissed as Regulus made him, he got it. Maybe he didn’t understand it, how he could play their games, but he got it. They were his parents. Hell, Sirius wouldn’t have fought so hard if they weren’t. On some level, Sirius knew he was pushing back because he wanted what every kid wants; for his parents to engage with him, to love him. Regulus sucked up in search of that, Sirius fought back. At least, the war had started that way. By the end, Sirius wanted nothing to do with them, but at its roots, well. Some rich kids smashed expensive cars into trees, he smashed himself into his parents’ ideology. Same basic principle.

As a result, he’d been planning his escape to Uni for practically as long as he could remember. He’d accepted going to Hogwarts as a legacy student, mostly because of the school’s somewhat funky reputation, and actually leaving was one of the most liberating experiences of his life. He’d been to boarding school before, but with overbearing headmasters and Walburga and Orion never more than a short drive away, that hadn’t done much to elevate the stifling nature of his childhood. That said, he’d taken every chance to fuck around in the past and had every intention of continuing the tradition at Uni. He might be able to angst and brood like Mr. fucking Rochester, but he honestly preferred what he would call a certain care-free roughness. Chaotic Good, as he described his sixth form DnD character. Consequently, he’d never been fond of self-reflection, but if he’d bothered, he’d have realized that those first few months with James and Remus and Peter were terrifying. He’d been so angry his whole life, he never really learned how to make friends casually. So, when he met the three of them during Freshers Week and knew in an instant he wanted them to be friends, he threw himself wholly into making it happen. Any scheme James thought up, any late night Remus wanted to stay up talking, any homework Peter wanted to put off to play just one more round of chess, Sirius agreed, no questions asked. He never thought about the possibility of being rejected, only plowed forward with everything he was. In the year that followed at Hogwarts, he did everything in much the same way: full speed ahead, no questions asked.

He didn’t mean to be careless or to run over people's lives with his own, he just couldn’t bring himself to care that he did. Sirius lived for the moments and didn’t see anything wrong with that. He was of the opinion that anyone who had a problem with him, his friends, or their pranks was too sensitive, and they only hated people who deserved it. Grey area was a concept Sirius had a hard time grasping. He and his friends were good, nothing they did could be evil. People like his parents were evil, no one who was associated with them could do anything good. He had no illusions of being perfect, (that, after all, would be boring) but in the end, he was one of the good guys.

As his second year at Hogwarts opens, that certainty is flagging. He’s grown up to realize some of the pranks he’s pulled and the ways he’s acted have been very, very not cool. Other people have told him he needed to lay off before, but he’s always dismissed them as being uptight. He knows he has a… big personality, and that people listened to him, that he could goad people into doing things. So, coming to those realizations, he’s starting to see that he’s been hurting people. And it’s messing with his head. He’s thought back to all those pranks and jokes that had been just so funny only to hear a voice keeps telling him “you are just like your parents.” Whether that particular thought is true or not, he’s trying to change. He’s struggling with what needs to change and the walls of stubbornness he’s built up, but he’s promised himself he’ll at least pay attention. He has no plans to follow the rules to the letter, or anything crazy like that, but he is growing more aware. Of himself, and of the world around him.

EXTRA;

Headcanons:

My bio may have made Sirius sound more brooding and, well, serious than he is. This boy is a goofball— he is cuddly and (deep down) kind, once you get past the layers of well-meaning snark. His friends mean the world to him and yeah, he loves a good party, but he’d sooner take a quiet night talking with friends somewhere the worries of the world can’t find them.

Sirius makes it a point of pride to know both pop and “high” cultural references. He’s a literature major, and very fond of the classics (the Romans were ridiculous and knew how to party), but ultimately, he’s a nerd, as much as he tried to be cool and a “”bad boy.”” He loves Star Wars with his whole heart. Everyone thinks it’s because of Han Solo. In fact, he thinks of James as much more of a Han. He’s cast Peter as Luke, Remus as Leia, and himself as everyone's favorite walking carpet Chewbacca.

Sirius smokes and he’s trying to quit the habit. It just goes so well with his whole aesthetic but, well, people keep telling him it’s “”killing him”” so. He also drinks, but not enough for it to be a problem. He’s only properly drunk once. 

Sirius sometimes thinks he’s more messed up than he has a right to be, and doesn’t like feeling sorry for himself. That said, he’s not that brooding a guy. He’s happy at Hogwarts and it’s not completely wrong to describe him as “carefree.” He loves his friends and he’s a troublemaker. He’s really just a big kid still.

He has two styles of clothes: Cool BadboyTM and 80′s Disaster. He loves ugly sweaters and mortifying the more fashion-minded of his friends. 

He wants to be a good brother and truly loves Regulus, but he feels like he’s let their split go on too long to be mended.

Aesthetic and Quotes: https://fallendog-starblack-aesthetic.tumblr.com/

ANY CHANGES?;

Nope!