#first time using this many colors on a tapestry

[halfspunthreads-crafts]

Goopernicus is coming along nicely. The back side of this is a monstrosity, though. (I should weave in the ends when I'm done. I don't.) Also, can you tell I have a white cat? The jerk really liked the wool.

[thorougly-melted-brains]

Ghost keeps a clean house. Soap knows this is true for his pack, his office, his room, and—to all assumptions—his apartment.

The circumstances of how Soap got there are too jumbled with the high of a mission and the drop of mandated time off. He didn’t want to take time off, neither did Ghost.

He can’t quite remember which one of them fumbled through the offer to stick together- only to maintain their schedules, of course. They still had additional reports and inventory to do, it was only tactical.

So now here he stands, in Ghost’s wholly spartan apartment. It’s been stripped of all charm and frivolity not painted on the walls or molded into the quaintly patterned glass by the front door. It’s not intentionally devoid of comfort- Ghost may be many things, but even he didn’t go out of his way to live without small comforts. There’s an old but soft couch, rugs and mats placed around the doors, and even lamps to offset the harsh over-heads.

The most curious thing, the one that really catches Soaps eyes, is the only visible adornment, quilts.

Great, sprawling tiled blankets (tapestries?) are hung from most of the walls. There’s one draped over the back of the sofa, tucked into the seat of the solitary plush chair. There’s smaller, flat pillows on the few chairs in the kitchen. There’s even placemats on the table. All colored with swirls of vibrant linen in dazzling patterns.

Ghost catches him staring as he leads them through his space (They decided on his apartment, given Soap’s was a bachelor pad, while Ghost had a guest room).

“My mum used to quilt.” Ghost says cryptically, and snags the pack off Soap’s shoulder while he’s still too busy gawking to protest.

Later, after they’ve showered off their travel and eaten something not wrapped in plastic and some amount of mud, Soap tries to breach the topic. Ghost replies as vaguely as ever,

“She tried to make me a baby blanket, never finished it.” Which takes Soap for a spin because based on what Ghost had previously (not) said, he’d assumed his mom had made them. He leaves it be.

Much later, after they’ve settled back into some semblance of their normal routine, Soap finally figures it out. It’s late at night, later than he should be awake after running himself ragged in the gym.

He’s stuck in a state of un-anxiety, which is in itself anxiety inducing, when he hears something next door. It’s rhythmic, mechanical, sharp, but in a way that’s distinctly well milled.

It’s coming from Ghost’s room, and if it were earlier in the night he might’ve just let it be, but he’s curious and without anything better to do.

He drags himself out of bed, slips on a shirt, and makes his way to Ghost’s room. It had been excluded from the gruff house tour he’d been giving on arrival, and right as he creaks the door open he understands why.

There are shelves covering the whole wall opposite to the door, obviously custom built, filled with bat upon bat of colorful fabric. The same colorful fabric, Soap realizes, that makes up the sole decoration in Ghost’s apartment. Sat at a desk, hunched slightly over a near-antique sewing machine, is Ghost.

Soap stares.

Ghost stares back at him, deceptively warm in the light of the machine. Soap can only imagine what he looks like, half awake and face cavernous in the dark of the hallway. There’s a momentary stand-off, Soap inanimate, Ghost giving him a look of challenge.

Soap breaks it first, glancing away and to Ghost’s project. It’s half-way finished, colored with calming blues and grays. Ghost seems satisfied and turns back to his work, ignoring him entirely.

Soap, sleep addled and out of his depth, takes the dismissal for all it could be. He shuts the door behind him, for both their sanities, and sits down on Ghost’s bed. It’s covered in a thick quilt, made of reds and golds and the occasional maroon hexagon. It’s unlike anything he’s thought of Ghost as, but he’s beginning to think this is the most raw he’ll ever see him.

The hum of the machine, combined with his tiredness, or maybe with the air of safety that curled around him with Ghost in his sights, starts to lull Soap to sleep.

He blinks himself an awake every time, waiting for the cozy haze to lift and Ghost to kick him out. But it never does, and the time between his eyes closing and opening slowly becomes longer and longer.

He must’ve properly fallen asleep when he’s jolted awake by the sound of plastic on plastic. Ghost had switched off his machine and was clamping closed a large, sorted box of pins. He glances back at Soap,

“Go to sleep, Mactavish.”

And Soap is nothing if not trusting of Ghost, so he does as he’s told. He’s woken again, briefly, by Ghost pulling the quilt out from underneath where he’d laid on top of it. There’s a rush of cold air, a dip in the bed beside him, and then the warm blanket being draped over him.

He makes a slight noise of alarm as he realizes it’s Ghost crawling into bed with him. Ghost huffs and grabs him by the arm, stopping him from sitting up and pulling his head to rest on a pillow in one motion. He lets go, then, and turns away from Soap.

“You can go if you want.” He rasps. Soap belatedly realizes he hadn’t talked to the other man much the previous day. He hums in clumsy thanks before finally falling asleep.

Later, Soap asks (he doesn’t beg, he’s a grown adult) Ghost to make him a quilt. He doesn’t expect him to say yes, or to have him pick the patterns, or to let him intrude on his room again almost nightly, but Ghost does.

They both know it’s not about the quilt.

[lovesickeros]

☆ from gold, i am undone

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts {☆} word count 0.9k

You weren't meant to be here.

You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.

You are changed, and you are whole.

But you are so unbearably broken.

A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.

Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.

All you see is a monster.

Something new, something old.

A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.

But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.

You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.

But you know it will not satisfy you.

Nothing does anymore.

You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.

And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.

There is nothing left but absolute authority.

You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?

Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.

Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.

You welcome it.

It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.

Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.

You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.

For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?

Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?

Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?

Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.

For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.

[amhrosina]

The Artist and the Sea (Namor x f!Reader)

MASTERLIST // JOIN MY TAGLIST

Requests are open - slowing working my way through them!

Part 2

A/N: Hello Nonnie! Thank you for requesting! It inspired me, and I couldn’t not write it as soon as I saw it. Also, let's pretend we can't see the spears being pointed at Namor in this gif lol. (Again, if any of the Yucatec Maya to English translations are off, please let me know!)

Request: tbh it's my first time requesting something regarding the marvel fandom but can i request a namor x fem reader where they meet at the beach when the reader is painting the landscape of the ocean? if you don't understand or don't want to write this, it's okay <333

Summary: You meet a stranger on the beach who takes an interest in your paintings, which somehow puts you in the position of painting the King of Talokan’s portrait. 

(Warnings: not a lot?, the kisses gets a little steamy, Namor is a little touch starved, WING TOUCHING!!!!!, no smut (nonnie didn’t specify and I didn’t want to deliver hardcore smut to someone who didn’t want it lol), reader doesn’t speak Namor’s language but loves the nicknames anyways, I think that’s it???) 

Translations:  

ki'ichpam artista – beautiful artist 

pétalo – petal 

ch'ujuk ch'úupalo' – sweet girl 

princesa – princess

The light reflecting off the ocean was a blinding blue, and you had been trying to blend your paint together to mimic the color for 15 minutes already. You grunted with displeasure as your paintbrush stained three shades too dark. Today was a day for painting. The wind wasn’t blowing too hard, the weather was the perfect mix of cool, but not too cold, and the tides were relatively consistent. When you’d walked out onto your back porch earlier this morning and laid your eyes on the little slice of the beach you owned, it almost felt like an invitation.  

Now, you were regretting your decision to lug all of your paint supplies out of your tiny studio and down the beach. You rolled your eyes, tossing the palette down onto the old blanket you used to keep any stray paint from spilling onto the beach. You dipped a clean brush into the tan color you had mixed earlier and began working on creating the right texture for the sand.  

The beach was mostly empty today, but even during tourist season, there wasn’t much foot traffic this far down the beach. Your grandmother’s house was a small, but cozy cabin-like home, nestled in a small cove that only locals knew about. You had spent many summers here, tucked away in your little slice of heaven, painting anything and everything you saw. When your grandmother had passed away, the deed of the house was transferred to you, and suddenly you were a homeowner.  

You had transformed the inside after moving in, turning the office into an art studio, and transforming the bedroom into a library. Your bedroom, if you could call it that, was actually the living room with tapestries hung up as makeshift walls. You didn’t mind, and neither did anyone else. Or they wouldn’t, you thought, if anyone happened to come by.  

You sat back on your stool, looking between the sand around you and your canvas. The texture was coming along nicely, and you grinned at your work. Landscapes had never been your forte – most of your commissions were oil portraits – but you had been working on expanding your skills over the last few months.  

“You are an artist?”  

An unfamiliar voice startled you from your concentration, and you furrowed your brow at the intrusion. You weren’t one to hog the beach, but you’re clearly a busy woman that didn’t want to be bothered. You leaned around the canvas, intent on staying silent and ignoring the man, but did a double take when you made eye contact with the man.  

He was undoubtably beautiful, and definitely not a local. His body was adorned with beautifully carved artifacts draping across his chest and shoulders, and the only actual article of clothing he wore was a pair of green shorts. You glanced down at the light flutter at his ankles, which had small wings sprouting from the sides of them. You brought your eyes back up, not wanting him to catch you staring, but the stranger hadn’t taken his eyes off you since you’d acknowledged him.  

“I’m a...what?” You asked, blinking. You’d been so distracted by his sudden appearance that you’d forgotten the question he’d asked.  

“You are an,” he nodded to the canvas in front of you, “artist. Yes?”  

“Yes.” You nodded, standing from your stool. “But I am not very good at landscapes.”  

He walked around you, facing the canvas and looking over it with a prompt shake of his head.  

“This is beautiful. You are very good.”  

“Oh.” You mumbled, ringing your hands together. “Thanks.”  

You could feel your cheeks heating at his compliment, and you didn’t want to know why his compliments were getting such a rise out of you. This man was a complete stranger, and his opinions on your art should not have gotten that reaction out of you.  

“You are not reacting to me the way I thought you would.”  

You stared at your half-finished canvas harder, refusing to look in his eyes again, as you mulled over his statement. Yes, this was definitely the strangest encounter you’d ever experienced, but you lived in a universe where Avengers seemed to be popping up in every city, so the idea of a man from the sea appearing on your beach wasn’t as farfetched as it sounded. He was clearly a powerful being, but you weren’t afraid of him, or his power for that matter.  

“How did you think I would react?” You finally asked, peeking at him in your peripheral.  

“I am not sure. This is my first time approaching a surface dweller like this.”  

“Surface dweller?” You scoffed, finally meeting his gaze.  

He had a small smile on his face. “You dwell...amongst the surface. Do you not?”  

“I’m assuming you dwell amongst something else?” Your eyes flicked towards the sea and then back at him. 

“You assume correctly.” He dipped his head in a nod, adjusting his stance to face you. “I am Namor.”  

You tested the name on your tongue, repeating it under your breath. Your gaze ran across his broad chest, trying to gauge the colors of paint you would mix to paint the golden-brown hues of his skin. 

“Can I paint you, Namor?”  

The words were out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. He was just so pretty, and the artist in you couldn’t deny how beautiful the painting would turn out.  

“You want to paint me?” He furrowed his brows, but the grin on his face grew slightly.  

“Yes,” you responded quickly, nodding your head with vigor, “I would like to paint you.”  

He was silent for a few moments, before shrugging his shoulders in a very human motion. “Okay, ki'ichpam artista. You may paint me.”  

- 

Your portrait of Namor would take you a few weeks, maybe even a month to complete. You wanted to highlight his strength and the unbridled power he possessed, but you also wanted to emphasize his beauty. Namor would have to visit you many times for you to get every detail just right, and the thought of that sent an excited flurry of butterflies through your stomach. You thought about taking a photo of him, to speed the process along, but quickly decided against it. It’s not every day that a girl gets to sit with a God, let alone paint one. 

The first visit was mostly a sketch session, and you spent the vast majority of the time studying Namor’s features, sketching a few lines, and then erratically erasing different areas of the canvas. Namor sat patiently, watching you mumble under your breath as you captured the angles of his face. He wasn’t used to being studied so closely but being under your careful eye didn’t make him uncomfortable.  

“Why did you become an artist?” Namor asked as you looked between your canvas and his face.  

“Because I love art.” You murmured, squinting at the line you’d just drawn. 

Namor smiled, and you ignored the fluttery feeling in your chest.  

“I know that pétalo. I meant, why do you love art?” 

You glanced up at him, studying the way his lips curled when he smiled. You began sketching again before you answered him.  

“Art brings people together, you know? That’s super cliché, but I guess it’s true.” You shrugged. “Languages are complex. They cause confusion and barrier us from other cultures. But art is a form of communication that doesn’t have those boundaries. Everyone can look at a painting and understand it at its very core, even if they interpret it differently.”  

Namor nodded, leaning back on his hands in the sand. You had a sneaky feeling that not many people got to see Namor in this relaxed state and took a mental picture of it so you could sketch it later.  

“You have a very pretty way of saying things pétalo.”  

You blushed, focusing on the angle of his pointed ears on your canvas.  

- 

It wasn’t until your third session with Namor that he began opening up about his home in Talokan. He told you about his people, and how most of the world didn’t know of their existence due to his vigorous efforts to protect them. You had an overwhelming sense that Namor’s pride lay in the ruling of his people, and that he would do anything to protect them.  

While he described his homelands to you, you snuck another peek at his ankles. You’d have to ask him for a closer look eventually. The only way you could do them justice in your painting was by touching them, but you didn’t know how to ask. 

“You can...touch them, if you need to, pétalo.” 

You looked up, stiffening with guilt. You didn’t know what to say to that.  

“You cannot hurt me. I promise.” He nudged his foot out, urging you to touch them. 

You nodded slowly, softly setting your paintbrush down and standing from your seat. You kneeled down beside him, leaving a trail of featherlight touches along the inside of one of the wings. The texture was unlike anything you’d ever felt before, and you couldn’t help the second stroke you left across the back of the wing.  

Namor inhaled sharply and you pulled your hand away, looking up at him with concern.  

“Did I hurt you?” you asked, squeezing your hands together. 

“No, ch'ujuk ch'úupalo'. They are very...sensitive.”  

“Oh. Oh.” You stood up, swiftly turning to walk back towards your canvas, when his hand lightly wrapped around your wrist, stopping you.  

“It’s okay, pétalo. No one has touched them in many years. It was a feeling I had forgotten, that’s all.” His eyes shone bright with ease, and the soft smile on his lips was comforting.  

You nodded, returning his smile. You noticed that he hadn’t let go of your wrist, even though it was clear you weren’t moving away from him anytime soon.  

“Were you born with them?” You asked, looking up at his tall frame.  

“Yes. And these, too.” He pointed at his ears, and you couldn’t help it when you reached forward, running a fingertip along their edge.  

“Beautiful.” You murmured under your breath, leaning in to get a closer look. Everything about him was beautiful, and you were finding it harder and harder to breathe when you were this close to him. 

Namor stumbled back, facing the ocean with such speed that you stumbled forward in his absence.  

“I must go. Something is not right at home. I am sorry to leave so quickly. It was just getting good. I will see you again, next week, pétalo.” 

You watched him walk back into the water, washing away with the tide, and just like that, he was gone.  

- 

The fourth session you were supposed to have with Namor was nearly ruined by a terrible storm brewing on the coast. You’d startled awake to the loud clap of thunder and watched through your window as the ocean violently responded. The rain came soon after, and just as you convinced yourself you wouldn’t be seeing Namor today, his powerful body trudged out of the water and onto the beach.  

You met him at your front door, ushering him inside as the storm raged above his head. He stood in your foyer/living room/bedroom and looked around. You froze with the realization that this was the first time he had entered your house. It was strange, you thought, seeing someone so ethereal surrounded by the familiar, but common, walls of your home. You hadn’t done the dishes the night before, and your bed was unmade, but his attention had been snagged by the light coming from your makeshift studio.  

“In here, then?” He pointed, gaze returning to you. 

“Yeah. I’ll be in there in a minute. I just have to get my sketches.”  

As soon as he rounded the corner, you bolted forward, straightening the covers on your messy bed and throwing dirty laundry into a pile in the corner. You ran your fingers through your hair, and finally joined him in the room a few moments later.  

He was hunched over, looking at the dozens of sketches you’d drawn of him. You face palmed and internally groaned as you realized that you hadn’t put them away before inviting him inside. This was an embarrassing secret, to say the least, but you couldn’t stop drawing him. Every time he sent you a new look or moved his body in a way that captured your attention, the urge to draw it in your sketchbook wouldn’t leave your mind until you finally gave in and sketched it out.  

“You are very talented, ch'ujuk ch'úupalo'.” he said, standing to his full height. 

“Thanks.” You mumbled through your hands, trying to hide the fact that you were blushing, again. You shifted your focus to the painting, which was nearing its completion. “I’m almost done with the painting. I think after today I’ll just have to do minor touchups.” 

“That is...wonderful, pétalo.” He plopped into one of the chairs you had set up around the room. You moved toward him and reached your hands out, intending to turn his head the way you needed it to finish the painting, but you hesitated. Your arms were frozen, stretched out in front of you as you met his heated gaze.  

He shifted forward, keeping his gaze on you as he slowly leaned into your outstretched palms. Your hands curled into hair, and he shuttered, eyes closing as he forcefully pushed his head further into your hold. You tried to ignore the butterflies his slight movement had spurred in your stomach, but the soft groan he let out as you ran your fingers through his hair ruined any chance you had of controlling your blood pressure. 

“It has been...a very long time since I’ve been touched so gently, princesa.” 

You swallowed, unsure what to do next, but he was quick to hoist you into his lap. You traced his jaw and couldn’t help but glance at his lips as you met his gaze. He wrapped his arms around your waist and tugged you closer to his body.  

“I did not mean to fall for you so entirely, ch'ujuk ch'úupalo', but you have not left my mind since I saw you painting on the beach.” 

His voice was soft, but his hands tightened around your waist as he spoke. He had to physically restrain himself from pulling your lips down to meet his. But he would wait, a lifetime if he had to, for a sign of consent from you before crushing his lips against yours.  

“I finished the painting last night.” You revealed, choking out a laugh. “I just wanted one more day with you before you left.”  

Namor let out a deep laugh, throwing his head back against the back of his chair. “What were you planning on doing all day, princesa?” 

You groaned, resting your forehead on his shoulder. “I was going to pretend to paint for a few hours before showing it to you.”  

“If you wanted to spend more time with me, princesa, you only had to ask.” Namor was grinning wide, running his fingers along the curve of your waist.  

“Don’t you have important kingly things to attend to?”  

“Yes, but nothing that can’t be rearranged, ch'ujuk ch'úupalo'. You are also important to me.” 

You smiled, cradling his face between your hands. His expression turned molten as you leaned into him, parting your lips in anticipation. He cupped the back of your head, pulling you the rest of the way down to meet his lips. The kiss was both sweet and lustful. His tongue dominated yours, begging for more as he ran his hands over your waist.  

He pulled away from you abruptly, squeezing your waist. You were about to crawl off of his lap and begin profusely apologizing to him, but his words stopped you.  

“You said you finished the painting. Can I see it?”  

“Of course.” You jumped off of his lap and ran to the closet you’d hidden it in, suddenly excited to reveal it to him. You’d been keeping it a secret until it was finished, and to say you were eager to hear his thoughts on it was an understatement.  

You set it on your canvas stand and stepped back, allowing him to fully see the painting. It had come out better than you’d hoped, and you’d known by the time you were halfway finished that it would be your best portrait yet.  

He leaned in, marking the tiny details you’d spent hours polishing, and smiled.  

“Ch'ujuk ch'úupalo', I have seen many paintings of me over the years, but none come close to this. You are so talented, princesa.”  

“Do you really like it?” You asked, clutching your hands into your chest.  

“I love it, my ki'ichpam artista. If I could take it with me and hang it for all my people to see, I would.” 

“Really?” You squeaked, trying not to tear up at his declaration.  

“Do you like it?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“I think it’s my favorite painting I’ve ever done.” You breathed, glancing at it. 

“You should keep it, ch'ujuk ch'úupalo'. Hang it in your home as a reminder of me, for when I have to attend to those kingly duties.”  

You thought it over for a moment, and then smiled. “Okay.”  

Parting with that painting was something you’d been dreading since you’d started it, along with the idea of not seeing Namor on a regular basis, but he’d just relieved your doubts in one sentence. You got to keep the painting and you’d be seeing him again. 

“Okay.” He repeated, pulling at your waist until you were situated in front of him. He leaned down, planting a soft kiss on your lips, and you finally gave into those damned butterflies, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for another kiss. 

Tag List (Click here to join!):

@alexxavicry @hallecarey1 @km-ffluv @chiaraxtargaryen @trulylavandedarling @D0wnbad @deliciousfestsalad @lilyevans1 @imagineadream @thatlesbosimp @legocity2 @softclue @violet-19999 @uwiuwi @omgsuperstarg @purpleetou @raeluvsbloodline @historygeekgueen @kneelarhmstrung @euphoricjupiter @kneelarhmstrung @ethereal-athalia @quackson03 @johfaam @messymissy

[im-a-wonderling]

Is It Still Punishment if It Was Worth It? ~ George Weasley

Summary: Y/N runs into George Weasley after her detention with Umbridge (aka me finishing a request from ages ago)

Warnings: Umbridge *shudders*

Word count: 2.4k

As I left the atrocious pink office, nothing around me stirred, as if the whole castle was frozen, lying in wait for the dawn. Light streamed through the open doorway, heralding my late release from detention. 

“Off to bed, dear,” said that sugary, poisonous voice behind me. “Don’t let Mr. Filch catch you lingering instead of being safe asleep in your bed.” Was it my imagination, or did the throbbing of the back of my hand pulse in time with her voice? 

I wanted nothing more than to scurry away as fast as my legs would allow, but like any predatory animal, Professor Umbridge could smell fear, so I simply bowed my head as demurely as possible, avoiding her deep-set gaze. “Yes, professor.” I could feel the horrid woman’s toad eyes following me as I walked down the wide staircase, heading for the dungeons. 

The door closed behind me with an ominous thud, and the light disappeared. 

Stopping in my tracks, I immediately turned the corner to a little alcove, slumping next to the window. I stared at the colored glass, depicting a dragon breathing flames up into the sky. My wound gave a particularly violent throb. “Ouch,” I hissed under my breath, staring down at the shiny red letters.

I must obey the rules.

Cradling my aching hand to my chest, I let out a long breath. Every pang seemed to ring through my whole body, and yet, instead of acting as a deterrent, I was all the more resolved in my actions. If Umbridge had forced my brother to write those words and endure this pain, even her title as High Inquisitor would not have saved her from my wrath. 

“Well, that’s a first.”

I jolted. At first, I wondered if it’d been the dragon that spoke—often things at Hogwarts spoke when one might think they shouldn’t. But the dragon didn’t move. I looked around me, just in time to see the tapestry further down the stairs shift, and a red-headed boy came out from behind it.

George Weasley. Certified troublemaker with an un-shuttable gob and downright homemade values, the very personification of Godric Gryffindor’s ideal student. 

“Excuse me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

George gestured to my hand. “I didn’t know she punished Slytherins too.” He spoke the word without distaste, but with an emphasis all the same.

I just shook my head and left my alcove, heading for the Slytherin common room. There was no point in arguing in Slytherin’s favor; the history in this castle chronicled many a Slytherin who tried and subsequently had to run for the Hospital Wing before a toenail-growing hex grew too painful to walk.

Unfortunately, the redhead sidled into my path. I took several steps back, checking for the location of his wand, prepared to whip out my own before he could cast anything. But his hands were empty, and judging by the way he watched me, his head was regrettably anything but.

“You’re in my way,” I said calmly.

“Malfoy shouldn’t have done that.”

The simple statement made my lungs falter for breath, but I kept my face impassive. “He didn’t have a choice.”

“No, he had a choice.” George’s maddeningly certain tone set my teeth on edge.

I scoffed, walking down the staircase. “You don’t understand, you couldn’t possibly understand what he faces.”

“Oh, yes,” George’s voice grew louder and mocking, following me on my heels, “poor little rich Malfoy, head of the Inquisitor Squad, can’t handle–”

“Sod off.” My gritted teeth added all the threat I wanted, but George wasn’t deterred.

“What a slog it is, having everything one could possibly–”

I whirled around, my hands finding George’s chest to shove him as hard as I could. “You don’t know what it’s like!” I hissed, glaring at him. “You and your brothers just do whatever you fancy at the moment, whatever wicked thing halfway crosses your mind. Well, not all of us have the luxury of doing what we want.”

George looked as serious as I’d ever seen him. “He could’ve spared you this and he didn’t. No true friend would scurry off to Umbridge to report you like that.”

For a moment, I considered starting a row, but Umbridge’s office was still within earshot, and I didn’t want another round of writing with that cursed quill. So I chose not to acknowledge him, walking down the stairs with my head held high, reaching the bottom of the stairs and quickly walking down the corridor, hoping my feet could outrun George’s mouth. But when I looked to my right, there was George, loping alongside me.

“Seriously–”

“Seriously, George, shut it.” I came to a stop, glaring up at him. “What are you even doing here? It’s past curfew.”

“Some of us are taking turns behind the tapestry,” he said easily. “Watching in case any first or second years get turned out of Umbridge’s office with bleeding hands.”

“Oh?” I tossed my head, moving my hair to one side. “And if it were a Slytherin first year, would you have greeted them the way you greeted me?” If my kid brother had been the one walking out of the office, I silently asked, would you have comforted him? 

“Perhaps, but I’m willing to bet that they, unlike you, would accept a hug and a trip to the kitchens for some dessert afterwards.”

My stomach rumbled, and I placed my uninjured hand over it. “Well, I’m no first year, so you can go.” I resumed my furious pace.

George easily kept up. “It wasn’t fair of Malfoy to do that.”

Was it impossible for him to leave well enough alone? “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

“Everyone knows you were just protecting your brother.”

I seized the collar of George’s robes, dragging his face down an inch from mine. “Don’t you dare–

“I’m not going to tell,” George said, remarkably calm considering how quickly his position had changed. 

“How am I supposed to trust that?”

“I’m not Malfoy.” 

I considered him for another moment before letting him go. He straightened, smoothing out his robes. “How did you know?” I asked. 

George gave a short laugh. “You’ve never touched a broomstick outside of Flying class, and yet I’m supposed to believe you even have a broomstick to bring into the castle?” He shook his head. “Anyone with eyes knows you’d do anything for your brother, so of course Umbridge is the only one daft enough to fall for your switcheroo.” 

I pondered his words for a moment before turning to walk back to my room. Like before, George kept time beside me. “She shouldn’t have given detention just for having a broomstick.” 

I shook my head. “There are rules.”

“And rules were made to–”

“–be broken?” I rolled my eyes. “Of course. I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a Gryffindor.”

“Says the Slytherin who just got out of detention.” I bit my tongue, trying to stay silent. “You should tell your head of house what Umbridge’s doing, maybe Snape’ll do something about–”

I let out a short laugh. “See, there’s the difference between you and me, George–”

George leapt forward, covering my mouth. Next thing I knew, I was being tugged behind a statue, finally pulled to meet George’s alarmed expression.

This was it. I should’ve known better than to trust a Gryffindor. Now he was going to hex me or curse me or even forgo a wand altogether and use his own two fists. 

Eyes wide, I tried to shove him away, protesting loudly from behind his hand. “Shush!” George said harshly. “Filch!”

I instantly stopped fighting, my heart pounding for a different reason. If George and I were caught by Filch right now, not only would I have another detention with Umbridge, but word would get out. I couldn’t even imagine the trouble I’d be in with my house if they found out I was out at night past curfew with a Gryffindor, and a Weasley at that!

The light of the lantern the caretaker always carried with him after hours grew closer and closer to the statue we crouched behind. George lifted his hand from my mouth, pressing a finger to his lips. I rolled my eyes. As if I didn’t already get the memo. 

“Anyone about, my dear?” Filch’s haughty voice asked. Mrs. Norris meowed back, and I heard the sound of a dark chuckle. "Professor Umbridge might allow us to try our new manacles.”

George and I met eyes. 

He made a stop gesture and then started to creep forward towards Filch. What could he possibly be planning? Filch would see him! 

Then it occurred to me. The noble idiot was about to sacrifice himself so that I would stay undetected. 

Oh no you don’t, I thought, seizing the back of George’s robes, dragging him back. I was not about to owe a Gryffindor anything. I pulled out my wand and a tissue I'd forgotten was there.

Snufflifors, I mouthed. 

The tissue morphed into a white mouse, which immediately scampered down the corridor. Immediately, Mrs. Norris sped after it. 

“My dear!” Filch protested, running after her, the light from his lantern growing farther and farther away until George and I were left alone in the dark. 

“Wow,” George stared in the direction Filch had gone, “that was quite impressive.”

The compliment made my cheeks warm. “Well, some of us jump into things without thinking about the consequences and some of us actually use our brains for more than pranks.” I shoved my wand into my pocket, about to storm down the corridor. 

“So you thought it through beforehand?”

“I didn’t necessarily plan to get caught by–”

“No, you thought through taking the blame for your brother?” 

I stopped short, allowing George to catch up with me. I eyed him warily. Was he fishing for evidence to get my brother in trouble? Or was he fishing for other reasons?  “Of course I did,” I said finally, deciding that my word against George’s was hardly any competition. 

A strange look twinkled in his eyes at that. “You actually thought about getting in trouble?” I didn’t reply. I should’ve known that I wouldn’t need to, because George could easily carry a conversation by himself. “You knew you could lose house points? And Hogsmeade could become off-limits to you? And that you might end up with words scratched into the back of your hand?” 

My silence was the only answer. Truthfully, he was right. I’d thought through all those possibilities. 

I’d earned Slytherin enough points throughout the years that any deduction wouldn’t damage my reputation too badly for anyone not in the Inquisitor Squad, especially under Umbridge’s reign. As for Hogsmeade, the castle itself was large enough to keep me from feeling claustrophobic. And, yes, I even budgeted for the possibility of getting detention with Umbridge; that’s why there was a Soothing potion waiting for me in my room. 

What I hadn’t anticipated was Malfoy being the one to report me. 

So much for being friends. 

George shuffled closer, bringing me to the present with his brown eyes. “You thought through the possibilities, and you still did it?” I nodded, and a grin broke out on his face. “Are you sure you aren’t supposed to be in Gryffindor?”

I made a disgusted sound in the back of my throat. “How dare you,” I said blandly. 

“I’m serious,” he said with a smile that said the opposite. “You’re quite the little risk-taker.” 

“Is it really risk-taking,” I murmured, “if you’re prepared for all the risks?” 

The inner corners of George’s eyebrows turned upward, his smile dimming to a more serious affect. “Was it worth it even though you got caught and punished?” 

“Is it still punishment if it was worth it?” 

His freckled face relaxed at the question, smoothing out until it was without pucker or twinge. “Should there be a rule against it if it’s still worth it?” he murmured.

I brought out my hand, looking down on it so I could once again read the message waiting there. The shiny letters didn’t hold any answers within their crimson hue. “I’m not sure.”

A hand reached out to touch mine, and my breath caught when I saw, on the back of George’s hand, familiar words, written in narrower handwriting.

I must obey the rules.

“Funny,” George said softly. “Regardless of what happened beforehand, we ended up the same.”

I slowly dragged my eyes up to meet his. “Not quite.” I smiled sadly. “I’m apparently friendless.” 

“Not friendless,” George murmured like a promise. “Not if you don’t want to be.”

I studied him, searching for any sign of deception. His locks had darkened over the years. In our first year, they could only be described as flaming, his hair as dangerous as his tendencies, but now they’d tempered into a comforting copper hue. His freckles also faded, though there were still just as many of them. His eyebrows normally promised even more trouble than his mischievous eyes, but now, nothing in his face seemed disingenuous. “Can Slytherins and Gryffindors even be friends?” I asked.

“Is it risk-taking if you’re prepared for all the risks?” George echoed.

I gave a short laugh. “Touchè.”

“Besides,” George said with a smirk, “you could do with friends better than that old tosser.”

I wanted to laugh, truly I did. Or perhaps I wanted to care little enough to be able to laugh. But alas, I cared too much, so I simply shook it off. “I’d better go, before Filch actually finds us.” 

“Fair enough.” George dropped my hand, and I missed the warmth immediately. “See you around, Y/N?”

I took great care to lessen my smile into a smirk. “If you’re lucky,” I replied.

George gave a relaxed salute before walking back the way we’d come, presumably to take up his place behind the tapestry.

I watched him go. Funny, I may not have been a first year, and he may not have taken me to the kitchens for dessert, and yet…I was glad for anyone else who might leave Umbridge’s office when George waited for them behind the tapestry.

-

Read the continuation here!

If you enjoyed this, you might also enjoy my other George fanfic: Seven Years of Bad Luck

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

[monsterblogging]

Fuck JKR: How To Create A Harry Potter-Esque Aesthetic Without Any Harry Potter In It

So I saw a few posts from people mentioning that a reason people might be into Harry Potter is because of the aesthetic or atmosphere, and ya know what? I can't even argue that, because if there's one thing about HP, it's that it Sure Does Have Aesthetic And Atmosphere.

So! I'm gonna tell you how to STEAL ITS LOOK! Because:

JK Rowling considers ANY support of her work to be support of her politics.

Fan content/fan merch is still free advertisement for Rowling's work. YOU might not choose to give her money, but you can't be sure you won't pull people into the fandom who will.

Everyone should create more things that aren't tied to corporate-owned IP, period.

So. Most things in these films have an aged, antique look. You'll see a lot of brown hues, both on sets and on people's clothes. There's a lot of near-blacks (especially charcoals and walnuts) and lighter grays on the sets, especially from the third film onwards. (Wood is more often than not stained dark, while lighter hues are often provided by bricks or plaster.) The last two films use a lot of stormy blues and grays. Prisoner of Azkaban also emphasizes contrast between tones, which heightens a sense of texture. True black also appears throughout the films, such as on students' uniforms and many Death Eaters' outfits, and on the chairs in Malfoy Manor. White appears occasionally, especially on Hedwig, students' shirts, or during winter scenes, but pure white isn't otherwise really common. Paper or parchment is usually warm beige. There's also a lot of silver, gold, and brass, often appearing on things like dishware, tools, trinkets, Christmas baubles, and so forth. Bronze also comes up occasionally.

Reds, yellows, blues, and greens are pretty common throughout the films, even outside of Hogwarts, though you'll see just about every color somewhere. For example, orange is often found around the Weasleys, and orange, maroon, and purple feature in the divination classroom. Teal features prominently in Grimmauld Place (contrasted with saffron yellows).

Most colors aren't really super bright; a lot of the time they look a little faded, or like they're colored with natural dyes. If you use medieval illustrations to source your colors, or aim for earth tones and jewel tones, you'll be about right for a lot of what you see in the films. Bright colors are pretty rare; some of the brights we do see are in Honeydukes, Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, and certain magical effects, such as Floo fire.

A lot of light is provided by candles, torches, or fireplaces, which cast a warm yellow/orange light. Moonlight is represented by blue light in the first and second films. Blue light is also used for the Goblet of Fire and the penseive.

Another thing you gotta have in there is clutter. It should look kinda antique and give off a kind of magical or mystical atmosphere. Think books, storage jars, orreries, crystal balls, old lamps, antique clocks, vintage glassware, antique mirrors, old teapots, and little metal trinkets. (If you're trying to decorate a physical room, your stuff doesn't have to actually be antique, of course; antique-styled is fine.)

Texture is also very important, which can be represented with full or top grain leather book covers, stone walls, dents and scratches, cracks, embellishments, and embossing. Additionally, all damage and wear gives a sense of oldness to things. Stains and variegated colors also add interest. (If you're decorating a physical space, you might look into aging/distressing/antiquing techniques.)

If you want a space to look cozy, you don't really want bare or blank walls. Shelves, paintings, tapestries, and wallpaper can all help with that. Again, use brown, rather than black. Warm, yellow lighting will also help. If you lean toward blacks and cool lighting, you're going to have a colder-looking space.

Fashion in the wizarding world is extremely all over the place, ranging from stereotypical fantasy witch and wizard clothing, to pretty normal vintage clothing, to some wacky vintage-inspired looks, to the kind of fashion that would be put under the cozycore umbrella, to ordinary modern clothing. One thing that's absent is subculture fashion as we know it. (Bellatrix Lestrange does look kinda goth, but it's less a subculture thing, and more a "yeah we're putting our bad guys in fancy black stuff" thing.)

If you're trying to lean into the whole quirky/eccentric/old-fashioned kinda thing, you'll want to pass over the more modern and obviously synthetic type stuff. Also, patterns, textured fabrics, knits, mixed colors, lace, and other embellishments can add interest to outfits.

Architecture is also all over the place. Hogwarts is pretty medieval, while places like Diagon Alley give more Victorian vibe. The main thing is looking old fashioned and quaint.

To try and summarize all of that:

Browns. Lots and lots and lots of browns. Blacks and grays, too. Contrast between light and dark browns and blacks/grays.

More beige and gray than pure white; more charcoal gray and dark walnut brown than true black.

Among other colors, mostly earth tones and jewel tones. Very limited brights.

Polished metal and glass also add shininess.

Old-fashioned. Vintage. Antique.

Clutter, texture, patterns, variegation. Minimalist/clean aesthetic avoided.

Aged and distressed.

Lighting often yellow/orange due to coming from fire. Blue/teal light often coming from moonlight and certain magical light sources.

Now, here are some things we actually don't see. I'm not mentioning them to discourage you from using them if they're what you really want, but to inform you about them so you can consider whether they might throw off the vibe for you:

Green/purple/black combos.

Purple/silver/black combos. Pink/purple/teal combos.

Pink/black combos.

Orange/black combos.

Green/orange/purple combos.

Red/black combos.

Basically a lot of combos commonly associated with Halloween, witches, or vampires.

Big raw crystals. We see crystal balls now and then, but that's it.

Other natural items used as decorations - feathers, pinecones, sticks, etc. The one exception I can think of are the shells embedded in the walls of Shell Cottage.

Crushed velvet. Lots of fantasy uses this, HP films don't.

If you need inspiration, go look up medieval and renaissance diagrams and illustrations of stuff like the four elements, the zodiac, the solar system, and all that. Go look up alchemical symbols and emblems. Search up pre-WWII vintage ephemera. Go look up Victorian clipart. Look up stuff like botanical, zoological, and astronomical books and art from the 17th-19th centuries. Look up vintage wallpaper and fabric patterns. Look at vintage-style crafts. Research period architecture and fashion. Research European heraldry.

If you're wondering what exactly you're going to design around without Hogwarts and the Four Houses, here are some suggestions:

The four classical elements (earth, air, fire, and water)

The four seasons

Card suits - Tarot, French, whatever you want

Holidays - Halloween, Christmas, whatever

Fairy tales

Flowers

Mythical creatures

Bugs

Birds

Any other animals you like

Ecosystems

Your own original worldbuilding

So yeah, there ya go. You don't need to keep participating in HP to indulge in the aesthetic.

[NOTICE: Anybody who clowns on this post by making this about them and their childhood, patting themselves on the back about their chosen means of "ethical" participation, praising the fandom, or adding any other form of irrelevant bullshit is getting blocked. Also, I don't want to hear about PJO or Earthsea again for the millionth time, either.]

[itsafablefolks]

Some things about the frames in No Longer You!

Spoiler warning for the finale!

The first frame of Haley and the last frame of Sherb are different stylistically than the rest of the frames. The majority are in ‘prophecy-land’, which is inspired by a tapestry but it’s really to signify that this is not physically happening. Everyone in prophecy-land is silhouetted, and has one thing/color to help signify who they are. The exception for this is the wack, which is in color, because the wack isn’t something that’s supposed to be there/not from the world of Fable.

Song of past romance: Momboo! They were dating in s1, so she’s there. I chose her pink flowers in her hair. I knew I wanted something pink, and those made the most sense to me and tie into her being Lady of The World.

Sacrifice of Man: Jamie! When Icarus went and (tried to) kill Jamie, it felt the most like a sacrifice. It was the first time that Icarus went out, on their own, to deliberately hurt someone. I chose Jamie’s vines to be the color here, because they feel distinctive.

Portrayals of betrayal: coworkers! I really like this frame. Ari and Ven both betrayed the Grove to work for Fable, and then ended up betraying Fable at the end. And even though they didn’t betray Icarus specifically, he was still alone at the end. Originally, I was planning on using blue for these two because they’re both blue characters, but then it was too much. So I used yellow, which worked for a smaller area and also it’s Fable’s color.

Brothers final stand: This is Rae. This stream is called Brother’s Final Stand. I chose to do Rae’s horns, because they’re something that signify his connection to the End, and they are a distinguishing feature.

On the brink of death: Icarus is dying! And Centross is here. I wanted to include Centross in this, and this frame made that work! He’s got his scar across the eye, because I wanted to do something purple and doing all his scars would not have worked. Icarus has their eyeblood, because that’s how you can identify them. Shoutout to Abby amiactuallydoingthis for helping me figure out how this pose works- they needed to have a clear silhouette and Centross had to be catching Ic, but we needed to see Icarus’ chest.

Draw your final breath: Icarus falling, thinking they’re about to die. We can see the wack, and their wings are shut.

Man who gets to make it home alive, but it’s no longer: Icarixus!!!! Icarixus isn’t the same as Icarus- because at time of singing, Icarus has Sherbert’s eye in their head and is not fully Icarus, while Icarixus has both eyes back. Also, Icarixus has learned so many things- not to trust Fable, about the worlds and the Sherbversions, about how the wack works and how they can help and hurt the other worlds. And they do get to make it home alive, after a bit. They get their glowy bird ears!

You: Icarus not in prophecy-land, but we see the tapestry falling behind them. Their eyes are colored, but nothing else is. Apart from the wack, this is the only time someone gets two colors, and I think that’s fun.

Thanks for reading! I thought a lot about what I put into these frames, so I wanted to share it somewhere.

If you want, check out all of my Fable animatics.

[moodymisty]

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's Note: @commodoreprocrastinator this is your fault, now deal with the repercussions of your actions. Part 1 of 2. I hope it's romantic enough even though it's the cardboard cutout primarch and only my second time writing him. ¯\_( ❛︠ ⍙ ︡❛)_/¯

Summary: Your knight returns after what has felt like ages apart, and decides to take part in a secret moment alone.

Relationship: Lion'el Jonson/Gn!Reader (no pronouns are used in this, but it does have a very princess/knight vibe so fair warning)

Warnings: None that I can think of

Word Count: 1305

Lion El'Jonson strides down the halls of the Invincible Reason with purpose.

The ceramite boots of his armor hit the ground louder than that of an astartes, and any one he passes by stops their task and gives a respectful bow of their head. He doesn’t demand them to bow and kiss the floor, but he expects a level of decorum from his legion. They are expected to as sons of The First; As Dark Angels.

As he walks, rain pattering down against any surface exposed to it, Lion'el sighs.

Belath had proven more than timely with his updates as to the legion’s current effectiveness, which the Primarch appreciated. He will always find one of the astarte's finer qualities to be his lack of verbose speech- his ability to get to the point. But even in it's simplicity, it had still proven irritating when he had something else on the mind.

Travel to the Fortress Monastery had proven both as unexciting and lackluster as his drawing and discussion of strategic plans had been.

He arrived during the night, the moonlight spilling through the massive glass windows and mullions forming patterns along the stone floors. The Lion breaks their design as he walks through them, a hand resting on the pommel of his shortsword. His greatsword rests on his back, overtop of the dark emerald green cape that flows behind him just brushing against the floor.

He goes higher, traveling up flights of stairs made of solid stone. Some have runners of ornate, hand woven cloth, the design in a dark emerald green embellished with golden thread. All of it- every tapestry and mural, bears the symbol or at least the color scheme of his Legion.

Higher again, until he’s far beyond where most astartes and serfs typically tread. The rug that runs down the hall is much more worn, having taken an unknown number of years worth the footfall without being replaced. There aren’t many souls who come up here, for there isn't much reason for them to. The Lion's personal quarters reside in these halls, and unless he calls them they have no need to ever step foot here.

He turns one corner, and at the end of the hall lies his destination. 

He can see two Astartes guarding the door, as he had placed them. He had placed trust in the elder of them to choose another marine to serve as his parallel in guard along with two others to rotate with. A young astartes is beside him, clear by the different regalia and symbolism he wears that gives it away to only one familiar to their legion.

Lion stands between them, his hand adjusting once more on the pommel of his sword.

“Take your leave.”

He speaks plainly to both, and they nod their ceramite helms before walking past. Once the Lion can no longer hear their heavy power armor trudging down stairs that even made of full stone complain as men so heavy walk on them, he places a hand on the door’s handle.

He pulls it open; Winged helm in his opposite hand. Not moments later does he hear a voice call his name sounding both surprised and excited.

“Lion?”

At the call of his name he looks forward, seeing you leaning away from the window. Your hands had been leaning against the sill, watching whatever had been of interest below. More than likely the sea of Dark Angels all returning, a sea of dark green. You've always had this odd sort of of fascination with it all. He steps closer, and you turn to fully watch him come to stand right in front of you. 

After a moment’s waiting, the massive Primarch slowly lowers to a knee. He sighs as he does so, as if irritated by a request you hadn’t even made. You take the invitation to come closer, as you gently press a chaste kiss against his lips. You feel his beard brush against your skin, the top half of his blonde hair pulled back. He doesn't sigh in discontent that time.

“I missed you. Are you ok?” 

The Lion finds your overt concern pointless, but somewhat endearing. He’s never had someone so overt in caring about his wellbeing. Though even if it’s pointless, he can’t expect you to shed the emotions you’ve shown for so long. He can and has as a Primarch, to a mortal they are interwoven into your very being.

“Yes.” 

He glances over to a massive table filled with stacks of books. They’re scattered about, some open and some stacked in piles of an unknown organizational system. He’s not surprised you took interest in the massive collection. 

Your hands have stayed hovering in front of your chest most of this time, though now they move forward and hesitantly reach for him. He allows you to touch his jawline as you come closer. The rough scruff of his beard tickles your palms, and you'd laugh if you didn't think he'd be almost childishly insulted by it.

“How long are you going to stay this time?” 

Lion knows that you aren’t expecting any actual answer; He cannot give you one, nor will he. The moment an uncontacted world is discovered, he will leave. It is his duty and his purpose. No matter even if he has other thoughts on his mind, thoughts of you, they cannot impede his goal. 

“Long enough for the legion to rest.” He pauses. “What do you want?” 

He always asks this, only able to show how he feels about you in these silent gestures. You don’t say anything nor blame him, as despite him being far older than yourself, you can clearly tell this sort of thing is entirely uncharted.

It's been a bit odd; He's many years your senior, but it often feels like you're the one showing him things.

You can't avoid smiling this time, though it's abit more guilty that perhaps Lion was expecting.

“I would love to watch your men spar again, but they've only just stepped foot on Caliban." Lion gives you an unimpressed look.

"You would ask something of my Legion instead of myself?" Your hands are still on his chest armor, and your fingers brush across the giant aquilla in a slightly flustered gesture.

"But, you’ve said your men aren't strong enough for you to duel them.”

He remains one of if not the best duelist that the Imperium has ever seen, and despite how diligently and strictly he has trained his Dark Angels, none of them have the natural prowess he has to be a true fight. It's simply in his nature as a Primarch.

Lion, in an extremely rare moment, softens his face with a hint of amusement. He raises and armored hand to gently hold your jaw, and brush a small bit of a hair away from your face. His massive hand overtakes much of you, but he's surprising gentle despite it. He uses a small bit of his strength however to pull you just close enough to give you a gentle kiss to the forehead.

“When we arrive to Terra, perhaps I can proposition one of my brothers for a duel then. I am sure at least one of them will be eager to accept.” 

A fight between Primarchs? You had never considered yourself bloodthirsty or violent, but something about it makes your heart race- eager to watch. Perhaps it’s what his men feel shortly before a battle, or when they begin their training each and every day.

You smile at him, and grasp at his gauntlet. It's the closest you can get to any sort of intimate gesture, with his armor still on. He looks at you with the most relaxed face you've seen on him in awhile, as you speak.

"I would love to see that."

[beezusvreeland]

now that we don't talk - chapter 5

summary: After being rejected by Poe, the two of you are assigned a mission together. And a lot can happen during a mission.

ship: poe dameron x f!reader

note: I had so much fun writing this chapter and creating some original characters. I hope you enjoy them too!

______________________________________________________________

As much as he hated the First Order, Poe had to admit they knew how to throw a hell of a party. When you walked in, it was hard to pretend to be unaffected by the opulence that made the inside of the mansion look like a palace. The deep red tapestry contrasted with the black and white First Order symbol displayed in huge posters that started on the second floor balcony and ended just short of touching the ground floor. 

Stormtroopers were positioned in various spots across the room. You and Poe keep a serious expression as you walk down the stairs, your arm attached to his. Two excited, well dressed Twi’leks greeted the two of you. They wore very colorful and well tailored suits, one in pink and the other in lilac, and grabbed your hand immediately. The gesture got Poe on his commander mode: quickly, his right hand grabbed your arm, pulling you back to him, while the left hand went to the blaster he hid on the insides of his cape.

“My dear, you look radiant, what a wonderful dress!”, pink suit said, analyzing your figure. His eyes stopped at Poe’s hand on your arm. The Twi’lek looked at the pilot with a mischievous smile. “Well well, you brought an equally beautiful specimen with you.”

You immediately put your hand on top of Poe’. He knew that was your code for don’t do anything stupid, let me take it from here, still, he was furious with pink suit’s insolence.

Lilac suit must have noticed Poe’s expression as well, coming to the rescue and approaching you with subtlety. 

“I’m Jib and this is my husband Boq, welcome to our house!”, he gestured to the wide room behind him. “We’re so excited to make new acquaintances. My apologies if Boq here was overly enthusiastic, we saw you from afar and were mesmerized by your beautiful dress”, Jib gave you an apologetical look.

“Thank you for having us”, you gave them your hand, which they promptly kissed. “I’m Yasmin and this handsome grumpy overprotective man here is my husband, Kal.” 

Poe shook hands with the other couple, giving them a nod, feeling grateful for your quick thinking. He still couldn’t shake that bad feeling that had been following him all this way. Normally, he would be the charmer, but at that point, he just didn’t have it in him. At least the taciturn energy he was displaying aligned with the character you had just invented to explain his behavior. 

“You look fabulous too. I’m glad I’m not the only one wearing some color at this party”, you gave the Twi’leks a knowing look. They laughed loudly, completely taken by you. And to think Poe was the only charming pilot of the bunch. He made a mental note to praise you for it later. Being extroverted wasn’t in your nature, just as being quiet and mysterious wasn’t his.

Poe, however, didn’t understand why you were spending so much time on the hosts, when the mission was very clear on finding the general and leaving as fast as you could. 

“Don’t even get us started! So many boring looks today”, Boq commented, rolling his eyes. “The three of us are definitely standing out.”

…which was less than ideal for an undercover mission like the one you were in. Poe was officially worried. 

But you were so confident, it was obvious you had some sort of plan. He would just have to go with it.

A few drinks later, Jib and Boq had told you a lot of interesting information. They were merchants, had business on several planets and didn’t exactly align with any side of the war, choosing to stay out of conflicts as much as they could. Except for the one time the First Order held some of their cargo back in one of the planets they conquered — Jib and Boq made a deal with one of the generals, owing him a favor. That’s how they ended up opening their house to host the party.

“It could’ve been a lot worse”, you said in a concerned tone. “You were lucky the general had some compassion…”

“Right? That’s so rare nowadays”, Boq said, visibly affected by the alcohol. 

“Do you remember his name?”

Jib and Boq looked at each other. Before they could think the weird question through, Poe stepped in:

“As a businessman myself, it’s always good to know who to reach out to when a situation like that happens.”

It was the first time Poe talked since the beginning of the conversation, and Jib and Boq looked delighted with this new development. 

“It’s good indeed. As traders, we must keep a good contact list”, Boq looked around the room. “Not only do we remember the general in question, but he is in attendance tonight.”

“Oh, there he is, his name is…”, Jib pointed to the back of a man dressed as every other First Order officer in the room. Except, he had striking red hair.

“...Armitage Hux.”

Poe tried to catch your attention, so the two of you could leave the hosts and follow the general. But he couldn’t quite read your expression. You didn’t seem surprised or satisfied with the new information. It was almost like you just had something really sour to eat.

“Is everything okay?”, Poe whispered in your ear, taking advantage of the fact that the Twi’leks got distracted by other guests.”

“Remember how I told you some people I knew chose to serve the First Order?, you whispered back.

Poe nodded.

“Armitage Hux is one of them…In fact, he was a close friend of mine.”

“The carrot head? Really?

“Yes”, you set your eyes on Hux. Grabbing Poe’s hand, you started leading the way through the crowd. 

“Are we just going straight up to him?”

You dodged a few guests and stopped by the bar. 

“Like, hey, we know about the notebook, now give it to us.”

Ignoring Poe, you ordered two drinks to the droid bartender. Besides the stormtroopers, all the workers there were droids, Poe noticed. It looked like you had just realized the same, as he followed your gaze, which was focused on a band of droids who played classical Imperial music on a small stage. Of course Poe had been feeling horrible that whole time, the soundtrack was terrible, with chords shrieking off beat, setting an unsettling tone to the whole spectacle. 

“We aren’t going straight to him, we’re going to stop near him for a little bit, just enough for him to recognize me”, you smelled your drink before taking a sip. 

“Absolutely not, delete it, that’s a terrible idea”, Poe was agitated again. 

“No, it’s not”, you answered, putting a fake smile on your face and pretending to fix Poe’s collar as a stormtrooper walked next to you.

“Yes, it is”, he imitates you, while keeping his pose. “I’m not going to let you present yourself to him on a silver platter. That’s extremely dangerous.”

“Trust me, an old ewok is more dangerous than Armitage Hux. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you though? You haven’t seen this guy in decades. A lot could have changed since then.”

“Please, please, trust me on this? I have an idea that will let us grab the notebook and leave this place in the next hour.”

Poe scratches his beard, trying to maintain his composure. If you weren’t undercover, the discussion would have evolved to you reprimanding him and him walking away. But he was cornered there, without many movements available to him. And Poe was well aware you knew and was taking advantage of that.

“If there is even the slight possibility of you getting hurt, I’ll intervene and we’ll do it my way. Understood?”, the seriousness in him wasn't just for the pretense of “Kal” anymore. 

“Let’s do this”, you answered with a sparkle in your eyes. It reminded Poe of the thrill of finally being able to fly again after being in the med bay for weeks after an injury. Heart soaring and soul shining bright after finding purpose.

______________________________________________________________

<< chapter 4

>> chapter 6

all chapters

______________________________________________________________

tags 💖

@wreckmyimage @steven-grants-world @lizispunkk @torntaltos @nervousmumbling

[rickrakontoys]

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga (2024)

9/10

Just let George Miller make whatever Mad Max movies he wants. I will witness it.

A very different beast than Fury Road, this is a sweeping, ambitious, character driven story of vengence and violence. Splitting the story into 5 chapters, each having their own narrative goals, makes the film feel very episodic. However, this structure allows each segment to have a distinct feel, while familiarizing us with the key players and the motivating events in young Furiosa's life that lead her on the path to Fury Road. The themes, visual motifs, and symbols woven through the story create a rich tapestry that, like Fury Road, elevates this beyond action spectacle and into something grand and mythic.

Anya Taylor Joy doesn't actually appear as Furiosa until nearly a third into the movie, but once she does, she commands the screen with a nearly wordless performance, glowering with intense resolve and roiling emotions. This gives the few words she does say more importance and weight. Joy has much more to do with the character here than Charlize Theron, and, while evocative of Theron's version, makes it her own. Alyla Brown as young Furiosa is terrific as well in the first two chapters, also saying very little while using only her eyes and body language to convey feelings.

While many of the Wasteland denizens new and old are portrayed impeccably with that signature manic "Mad Max" energy, it is Chris Hemsworth's Dementus that basically steals the show. Equal parts charismatic and menacing, intimidating yet vulnerable, he provides Furiosa with an interesting antagonist whose motivations are as nebulous and volatile as a desert sandstorm. Hemsworth plays Dementus as a true product of the end of the world: a sad, pitiable, broken man acting the part of a cruel, bombastic leader, allowing himself to be corrupted by the unforgiving reality around him, using humor and eccentricity as a thin veneer over his brutal nihilism.

Much has already been discussed about the film's look. While John Seale's cinematography is missed, Furiosa still contains some terrific and creative shots, particularly during its many action scenes. The wasteland is once again presented using a variety of highly-saturated colors, which is always a refreshing deviation from the typical, washed-out appearance of other post-apocalyptic movies. Yet, the compositing, lighting, and computer effects are a step down from Fury Road, and can be distractingly noticeable at times, especially due to the grander scale of the setpieces requiring more CGI effects and background replacements. But these are relatively minor complaints, as the practical effects involving smashing vehicles and flailing stunt persons are still astonishing to behold. Miller's skill in staging action remains some of the best in the business, as even the most chaotic of sequences remain visually coherent.

While not as laser focused as Fury Road, Furiosa is still an incredible achievement in both character and world-building. It is perhaps one of the best prequels made, as it not only expands what was seen before in a satisfying way, but its added context improves its predecessor.

It is rather odd that Miller chose to include a montage of Fury Road scenes in the end credits... This movie would make a perfect double-feature with Fury Road, except it decides to show you "Fury Road: Cliff Notes edition" right at the end...

[epitomereally]

Renegade Binderary 2 of 3: Kept in Cages by @sweet-s0rr0w and @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm

Deep in the heart of the Ministry lies the Beast Division: a hidden room where ancient beasts roam, and winged creatures soar, and grumpy giant ferrets eat all your biscuits unless you keep them well hidden. Draco Malfoy would know – he’s been working there for five years now, after all.

Meanwhile, on Level One, ex-Golden Boy Harry Potter is stuck in another interminable policy meeting, completely unaware of the mysterious comings and goings just three floors below. But when a giant snake emergency requires the assistance of a Parselmouth, Harry finds himself thrust, unprepared, into Draco’s weird and wonderful world – and naturally, he can’t keep away…

In this fic, Sweet and Joy wove an incredibly hopeful and gracious journey of healing for both Harry and Draco against a lush backdrop of magical creatures & friends. I am so happy to have bound this fic for Sweet and me. I bound this as a part of Renegade’s Binderary 2023 (where we challenge ourselves to make as many books as we can). I specifically focused on some of my favorite fics published in 2022 that I hadn’t already bound :)

I was quite burnt out of writing & reading fic at the end of H/D Wireless 2022 and so I slept on this fic for months and SHAME ON ME! It took me until December to read it and I was just blown away by the world that Joy and Sweet built together. I had this two-toned blue/green bookcloth, knew I wanted to have a cut-out, found this gorgeous William Morris tapestry, and boom, the design was born. I also want to say that Joy’s gorgeous illustrations & Sweet’s beautiful words were so evocative that designing & typesetting this was a breeze; if you have any doubt, see how @a-gay-old-time (who did such an amazing bind of this here) and I came to very similar design choices independently :)

I also used text from @sitp-recs' rec here and @getawayfox's rec here at the front of the book, which I would love to start doing for all of my binds.

I learned a ton of stuff that is totally boring to a non-fanbinder, but was huge for me: footnotes, full page illustrations, double French-core endbands (still need some refinement, but I am so happy to be able to use more than two colors!), cut-outs!! Some technical challenges of this bind: getting the cut-out exactly in the right spot, using a guillotine for the first time & having some pretty tight margins as a result, painting on Duo bookcloth (the texture makes it really tough!), but I'm still so happy with this bind. I also have to acknowledge @pleasantboatpress who inspired both the headbands and the cut-out with their absolutely gorgeous binds.

Materials:

Title font: Argaka

Body font: Alegraya

Endpapers: Birds by William Morris (public domain)

Bookcloth: Duo Laguna (sadly no longer being manufactured :()

[lemony-snickers]

i should have kept a journal.

the thought comes unbidden, late at night, just as kakashi feels the first tendrils of sleep tugging at his concious mind, dragging him under the heavy blanket of a dream.

but then he is awake, mind spinning, sifting through memories he can't quite pull into focus.

he never expected the loss of the sharingan to have such consequence - for all the tender moments of his life, which he had taken for granted, to meld into the backdrop of a long, arduous tapestry of other moments.

before he lost obito's eye, kakashi had been able to recall with perfect clarity some of his most important memories - times when he had merely blinked the eye open for a second or two, the tomoe spinning to life, draining his chakra as the eye greedily memorized whatever scene lay before it.

he had at his disposal a perfect recorded history of his life; for better and worse.

now, kakashi would happily accept all the bitter ends and entrails if it meant he could remember rin's smile the way it truly looked. if he could recall the exact shade of kushin's hair or the cerulean of minato's eyes.

kakashi would watch every death he had ever witnessed in an endless loop if he could call forth the picture of team 7 in the land of waves, fierce and too small and his. but now he forgets which side sasuke wore his kunai pouch on, the length of sakura's hair, how many wrinkles appeared when naruto scrunched his nose in confusion.

small details. minute. insignificant.

important.

now fading. soon, gone.

kakashi knows he's lost any chance at rest and instead he crawls his way to the desk at the opposite side of his room and he uses his creaky fingers to try and scribble out the memories as they come - birthdays and festivals and quiet nights beneath the stars. he tries to remember the look on gai's face during each of their ridiculous competitions; tenzo's expression when he showed kakashi his first apartment after root.

but it's all a watered down version of what really happened. his fingers are too slow, his brain too tired and unfocused. each lost detail feels like losing. like grief.

the way he felt when he forgot his mother's eye color, when he realized he could no longer ask his father about it; could no longer remember the exact pitch of the older man's nose, how many teeth he revealed when he smiled.

kakashi should have known how tenuous a memory can be. had known the devastation of loss, of forgetting, long before he knew the power of remembrance; the true gift of the sharingan.

more than prowess in battle, the eye was powerful because it would not allow him to forget. good, bad, happy, traumatic, it was all still there, waiting to be spun to life beneath a crimson veil.

now everything is gone.

and kakashi realizes he should have kept another record because all those precious moments bled away, replaced by jutsu and regulations and quotes from icha icha as if they could ever matter more than the warmth of his first kiss, the comfort of loving arms after battle.

and it seems such a waste for the most exquisite mundanities of his life to fade into a watercolor backdrop of his world - the colors there, but all the detail lost - in favor of necessity.

because none of it matters if he can't remember the moments that made it worthwhile.

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

The Piper and the Frog

For this challenge proposed by @thepenultimateword, I had to mix the Pipe Piper and the Frog Prince (you'll admire the originality of the title). This is what I got:

*

When the rat catcher stepped into the throne room, both the king and queen failed to hide their surprise. They had been warned, though. Most people thought that this man was not completely human.

What a peculiar appearance, though ! He was so skinny and tall, his spine rigid as if wearing a tight corset. His face was the color of flour, contrasting with the skin of his neck and arms, with golden spirals under the eyelids. It didn’t look like makeup. Discolored long hair fell on his shoulders. His long sky-blue robe with wide sleeves was made of a silk that not many royal guests could have afforded. The same golden spirals were shining on the fabric, and it was hard to stare away. Stuck in his belt, there was one simple flute. Whoever he was, it was evident that this man had spent a long time with the fair folks, and hadn’t come back untouched.

The king and the queen knew how important it was to be polite with the faeries, so they treated him like a prince. Not once they wondered out loud how he could catch rats in such an outfit. Instead, they invited him to dinner. While they ate, young and beautiful girls danced for them and harp players sang.

The rat catcher was not exactly impolite, but didn’t look impressed either. He accepted silently what happened, staring in front of him, his face emotionless except for a tiny smile when the orchestra began to play. He barely ate, and the queen blushed in humiliation. The dinner had not been a feast. It was all they could find that had been spared by the rats. Only during the (meager) dessert the king tried to talk about it:

“It’s like a curse. I’ve never seen anything like it. We can’t poison them, we can’t hit them fast enough. We don’t have many cats, and when I try to buy some from the next kingdom, they ran away or die of illness. At first, they were hiding. Now they don’t even bother. We see some in the day, looking at us in the eye as they’re eating our food. They know they won. It’s only a matter of time before everyone here die of sickness. I’ve already lost some guards who were bitten. Our only son has ran away years ago and can’t be found. Please sir, you are our only hope.”

The rat catcher looked at the thrones and at the once beautiful tapestries surrounding them. Everything had been nibbled. Precious furniture was covered with droppings. The people threw anxious glances here and there, as if dreading to see a form moving from the shadows, grimacing when they did, then staring away in defeat. From the guards to the dancers to the royal couple, they all look exhausted.

The rat catcher made his first genuine smile of the day.

“Pests”, he said. “Quite strange creatures, aren’t they? So sure of themselves. So confident when they take away beauties that they can’t understand, and destroying them. Oh yes. I’ll deal with them.”

His voice was sweet but the tone was strange. Many people shivered, without knowing why. The man nodded to his hosts, then went out of the room without another word. The queen pressed the king’s wrist:

“He looked very passionate about pests”, she said. “I’m glad our son couldn’t meet him.”

“I’m glad too.”

*

Now to be clear, it wasn’t exact that the prince had run away. The prince had not left the kingdom, not even the capital. In his current state, it wouldn’t have been very easy. He was currently living in a lake, next to the forest.

He’d seen the rats during his time here. It’d have been hard to find a place where they weren’t there. Sometimes they came to drink. Sometimes he’d fought against them, with no success. They had teeth and he hadn’t, not anymore. They were stronger and more agile when he was nothing but a green mass with awkward legs.

He’d never been seriously hurt, though. That was the thing with curses. The person who had thrown the spell on you always made sure you stayed healthy, so you could endure your fate worse than death the longest time possible. He stayed there, his humans thoughts and memories and desires trapped in a frog’s tiny mind, turning and turning around. He learned to eat flies and to hide from predators.

He couldn’t drown. Sometimes he wished he could.

He didn’t like to look at humans anymore. They were a painful reminder and a threat, all of them. So when he heard a flute so close to the lake, his first impulse was to flee into the water.

He didn’t, though. The sound was unlike he ever heard before, and yet somehow it was something familiar, something he thought he’d heard a long time ago. He stayed frozen in place, one of his three eyelids twitching, hearing with his inner ears, his lungs, his skin, his whole soul.

Frogs are better at seeing far objects. The prince saw at first a long silhouette covered in sky-blue silk, his flute like a strange beak. Then, he heard a trumping, and focused his large eyes on the ground. Rats were coming. Not only some of them. Lots and lots of them. More than he’d ever seen in his life. A walking, gray meadow. They came in troops without hastening, but not slowly either.

Survival instinct told him to run away, but he stayed glued on the leaf, watching the lake getting surrounded.

One rat fell – no, not fell, stepped into the water. The prince stared at it, expecting it to swim, but it didn’t. It let itself drown, its little black eyes only expressing a vague dreaminess. The others followed. The frog felt drops of water made from their splashing glistening on his skin. Bodies floated around him before plunging into the darkness.

“You are no ordinary animal.”

To say this, the rat catcher had interrupted his song. The prince made a desperate effort to jump, but two hands came over to catch him before he could escape.

“Let me go!” he croaked.

“Not before you tell me who you are.”

“You can understand me?”

“I speak many languages.”

“I’m – I was the prince of this kingdom. I was cursed, as you can see.”

There was a moment of silence. The frog couldn’t look at the rat catcher’s expression, but a few seconds later, he was gently laid on a polished stone. Then the face of the man came into view. The prince took a while before realizing that he was kneeling before him. Again, he was overwhelmed by an impression of familiarity – he’d never seen that stranger, and yet, something in that gesture…

“Who did this to you?” asked the flute player. “What happened?”

The frog gulped.

“I don’t know how it happened. One night I was a man, the next morning a frog. I went to my parents – their room was just in front of mine.”

“How did they react?”

“Well…”

The prince stayed silent for a moment. He remembered his own deformed voice, helplessly trying to form words. He remembered jumping on the royal bed, watching his mother blinking, his own heart beating at the idea that she could scream and try to kill him-

The queen had done nothing of the sort. She’d woken up her husband, and whispered:

“So the spell has worked.”

The prince had a bitter smile.

“They knew already. In fact, they’d asked an enchantress to curse me.”

“Why?”

Embarrassed by the constant staring, the prince moved his legs awkwardly:

“They wanted me to have children. For children, I have to marry. I didn’t want to, and they felt I needed an incentive.”

The frog sighed:

“For the curse to wear off, I have to convince a princess to spend the night with me. My parents told me that and let me go out of the castle.”

“Like that? They didn’t help you at all?”

“Oh, I was supposed to figure things on my own. For a little frog, it’s a big kingdom. I never made it. Maybe they just wanted me out of the way. I tried to stay among people for a while, but since no one understood me, I settled for this lake. It’s- it’s nice.”

He looked at the water that was overflowing with corpses:

“Well, it was.”

“Did no one have pity on you?”

“Who would? They all thought I’d run away. Well, there was- there was my best friend. After my disappearance, he was so sad he bound three bands of iron around his heart, for preventing it to break.”

“Your best friend?”

“Technically, a servant. He mourned me. He was the only one telling people something was wrong, but he left to find me and was never seen again. No one cared about that either, but it’s my fault.”

“How so?”

“I spent so much time with him, everyone thought it was his fault if I didn’t want to find a wife.”

“Were they right?”

“Does it matter? What’s done is done. He knew nothing of the life outside the kingdom. I don’t think he survived. It’s been three years now.”

“Three years is a long time. It’s enough to get lost in the woods. It’s enough to be caught by the fairies.”

“Thanks, you don’t exactly-”

“Your majesty. What do you think happen when you sleep on a fairy mount but your heart is protected by iron?”

“I- I don’t-”

“The fairies take you in. They teach you how to live with nature, how to talk with animals, how to make music that binds the listeners to the will of the musician, and to end curses.”

With that, the rat catcher delicately took the leg of the frog prince into his hand, and kissed it three times. A golden mist appeared around the beast, then went away, revealing a young man with emerald skin. The prince used his new legs to throw himself against the rat catcher, his arms feeling the iron bands under the soft blue silk.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

“The years have changed me, your Majesty. I didn’t recognize you at first, either. I also thought you died.”

“Then why coming back?”

There was no answer. The prince gently got free from the embrace to look at the surroundings.

“You brought the rats here,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

The flute player was silent.

“You never were going to be satisfied with the reward they had for you.”

The flute player was silent.

“You were going to burn this kingdom.”

“I cursed them,” slowly said the rat catcher. “I cursed them all, with all my hate. The rats were just the first stage. I wanted them to beg me before I crushed them. I wanted-”

The prince took his hands:

“What if you wouldn’t?”

“It can’t be stopped.”

“Can it be changed?”

The flute player looked at him. The prince put a hand on his chest. His touch was soft, but the three iron bands broke under his fingers. The rat catch took a deep breath, feeling his heart beating fast for the first time since three years.

“I’m sure we can find something”, said the prince. “Now that we’re both here.”

*

The kingdom stood. The castle is still there. The houses have not caught fire. It’s silent, though. Maybe it’s because the people are mourning.

Maybe it’s because the children are gone, all of them.

The kids hold the hands of the toddlers who are carrying babies. They follow a man transformed by hate, and a man transformed by love.

People said they were all damned. Then again, happy endings can take such strange forms.

*

Additional notes:

- Read The Frog Prince here: https://www.worldoftales.com/fairy_tales/Brothers_Grimm/Grimm_fairy_stories/The_Frog_Prince.html#gsc.tab=0 and many versions of the Pipe Piper here: https://sites.pitt.edu/~dash/hameln.html

- Yes, the servant who bounded his chest with iron was in the Grimm version (with zero impact on the plot, that’s why he was deleted from most modern versions), and come on...

- Yes, frogs have three eyelids and they can hear with their skin and lungs, etc. The more you know.

- The Pied Piper might have been based on a real story that happened in the Middle Ages. In the 13th century, 130 children disappeared in Hamelin. No one knows why or how. Sweet dreams!

*

Back to Fantasy Masterlist

[spunsugarmusings]

Laura Bow In: The Dagger of Amon-Ra Sentence Starter Pack

Quotes taken from the game Laura Bow In: The Dagger of Amon-Ra, the wildly tonally different sequel to The Colonel's Bequest. TW for murder, death, infidelity and such. Change pronouns and tenses as needed, some entries have been edited for clarity, and please enjoy!

"There is still time to correct this most grievous misunderstanding."

"Don't let him shake you. He's tough on the outside, but inside, he's got a heart of stone."

"Don't touch it! You don't know where it's been!"

"That's what you think, you mallard rest buffoon!"

"It is a unicorn, left over from a King's Quest game."

"You're in a heck of a pickle now!"

"Death is a natural part of life, so when your time comes, it's best to accept it and go out gracefully."

"Your perky demeanor and thorough technique are making you a First Class Detective."

"Death from traumatic lead poisoning claims many lives every year."

"Stay out of my way, or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life!"

"We usually just hire men for this job. It's rough out there, and you're kind of…small."

"You mean there's ANOTHER [NAME]? No two sets of parents could be THAT cruel."

"He's got a chip on his shoulder the size of the Brooklyn Bridge. He'll try to cut you down. Just shake it off; that's what I had to do."

"Look, that was long ago and far away, okay? The room was dark and I was NOT married at the time."

"I don't know how you know about that, but I don't want to hear another word about it."

"Oh, lovely place if you like rats, thieves, and roughnecks."

"Don't bother Doctor Jazz while he's performing."

"Ya look so cute in that outfit, it makes me want to scream!"

"I find it distasteful to celebrate thievery in the name of science!"

"Amon-Ra will have his revenge!"

"Excuse me, SIR, but I see a turkey leg on the buffet table that requires my attention."

"I just happened to be standing here."

"I don't think my wife would ever have done it in a mummy case."

"Oh, I'm sure his body is crawling with maggots by now."

"If his spirit IS with you, let me know because I'd love to see it!"

"Very kind of you to say that, but there are many who misinterpret my actions."

"A delightful girl. I keep asking her if she'd like to be my second wife."

"It never hurts to have highly-placed friends on the police force, no?"

"He doesn't care a fig for what's right and what's wrong! His evil deeds will catch up to him though, just wait and see!"

"Our civilization has evolved over thousands of years, so our methods are quite well thought out and practical."

"I almost didn't recognize you with your clothes on."

"Even empty water glasses have their uses."

"Oh, wunderbar! Now we've got the AMATEURS involved."

"The food is free of bugs, if that's what you were worried about."

"That translates out to: "My Fish Dances in the Parking Lot"?!"

"The tablet says: "She who reads this cursed tablet is doomed to be eaten by a thousand voracious scarabs"."

"You might cut yourself, or you could put an eye out, or any number of other things could happen that your mother warned you about when you were little and everything in your life was dangerous."

"Your face has certainly changed to an attractive pale color, my dear."

"Remember our deal."

"You'll have to show me how sorry you are. Kiss me."

"Honestly, you men can be such crybabies."

"Because of you, a murderer is running around loose in this city, free to kill again!"

"I've got more tricks than you have braincells!"

"Nobody just happens to HIDE behind a museum tapestry!"

"The nerve, going around accusing people of stealing paintings!"

"Just be keeping in mind that I'd have to kill you if I ever found out you were sleeping with someone else."

"It's been a long time since I've been able to trust anyone as much as I trust you."

"We've got a perfectly good art burglary scheme going!"

"That's not blood, you got me all excited..."

"That man'd lie to his own MOTHER if someone paid him for it!"

"I lost a load of Egyptian cobras down there a few weeks ago, and I occasionally come across one of the little darlings."

"I need more proof before I subject him to the full force of my wrath."

"Why are you tied up on my desk?"

"If you see him, will you tell him [NAME] is dying on the desk in my office?"

"Ah, excuse me, I was looking for the women's lounge?"

"There is too much at stake here, too many important people are involved!"

"We can either test you or sacrifice you, it's your choice!"

"It's all that damned lousy reporter's fault!"

[the-orange-tabby-cat]

GIF by loregifs

By The Window | Introduction

Ghost!Joel miller x fem!reader

Summary: Wisteria grew over the wall, year after year, covering the sidewalk in a light purple petal tapestry. The windows that hadn’t been open for at least a decade no longer contained finger marks over the white paint, just a dust layer. Between the bricks, the bindweed made a delicate pattern covering most of the façade in green. The house sat quietly at the bottom of the valley, undisturbed and unnoticed. Sometimes walkers passed by it, but it didn’t matter, they never saw the building or what lives inside. The thing that lives inside the house waited patiently for her, until she came and changed everything.

read on AO3 | fic masterlist | masterlist | next chapter

Rating: General

Warnings/Tags: Haunted House, Ghost!Joel Miller, Alternative Universe - Haunted House, Mystery, Eventual Fluff, No cordyceps outbreak, No use of y/n

Chapter Word count: 1,7k

｡˚🐾₊˚

INTRODUCTION

Wisteria grew over the wall, year after year, covering the sidewalk in a light purple petal tapestry. The windows that hadn’t been open for at least a decade no longer contained finger marks over the white paint, just a dust layer. Between the bricks, the bindweed made a delicate pattern covering most of the façade in green. The house sat quietly at the bottom of the valley, undisturbed and unnoticed. Sometimes walkers passed by it, but it didn’t matter, they never saw the building or what lives inside.

Alive wouldn’t be a fair statement for what resides there. The house, once imposing and a jewel of its time, was now in the middle of a modern setting, strangely out of place. Its owners left a long time ago and those who saw it at its prime were long gone, except for one.

She came by on a sunny day, with her hair down. Her earrings matched the necklace, golden with green. The house felt her before she crossed the door, making space for her to enter. She wasn't the first to come inside, over the years many toured around, but none claimed it – they could feel something wrong with it. As her curious eyes scanned the room, the resident kept a distance to absorb her face. Room after room, the woman let her guard down and touched the house details that were left to rotten.

“You said the last family to reside here was in the early 1900s?" She questioned the real state agent that was impatiently waiting for the visit to be over. He had felt the house watching him every time he entered the gate for a chance to sell it and he was right, he was being watched.

"Yes, it's an old family state. Generational wealth if you may, the last resident left during the 20s. You would be the first in almost a hundred years." The man spilled out with a professional smile on his lips, but a deep unsettling feeling inside. He could almost feel whatever was watching him getting closer.

The resident was getting closer, but to watch her. The woman had color in her cheeks, a soft gaze that roared the walls and old furniture, she cherished the house. The thing that lives inside of it remembered her, she had spent her teenage years looking through the gates. With her fingers clasped between the bars, she often stayed longer staring at the window on the second floor, exactly where the resident was. She couldn’t see it, but the resident watched her. Inside the house, she was the first living person to grace the place with a beating heart wishing to spend more than a minute there.

“I never understood why someone would ignore a house like this for so long. But good for me, I want it.” Her smile was genuine and oblivious to the man’s crippling fear.

The resident watched from the window the life outside waiting for the moment when she would be back. Days became weeks that became months until she crossed the gate once more. Her updo hair frizzled with the rain droplets and a stubborn smile on her lips. She had the same color in her cheeks as the last time, now from the constant walk between the moving truck and the house’s front door. The house gained life as she placed new furniture and gave away the centurial ones.

The wisteria no longer made the sidewalk fully purple, she cut the overgrown. The windows now had finger marks from the constant sliding, as she liked the breeze from the mountain down the valley. The bindweed was kept, despite being told that could ruin the bricks, she liked the green in contrast with the burned orange. The house was alive with her presence, despite the former resident stay.

The old drawing room became a studio with walls decorated in art, bottom to top. The dark wood furniture was replaced with clear tones, in the hope of lifting the mood. Once a room to host visits of distinguished members of the Texan society was now ready to be the home of an everyday woman and her paintings.

A month after the moving, she started to paint. Soft brushes on the canvas created shapes, slowly the image of the house façade appeared. The former resident sat at the corner and watched the delicate curve of her wrist, the precision of her grip on the brush, her lips slightly opened as she focused on the canvas.

Small details such as the shape of the doorknob and a missing brick at the bottom were there, captured by her attentive gaze. She was enamored of the house, it was obvious in her continuous work. The house was fed on it after being on its own for so long.

When the rainy season began, a little after her arrival, she started to have tea by the second floor window. She would sit at the loveseat and stare at the street outside, an inversion of what she used to do when younger. With her thoughts and listening to the rain falling down the pavement, she would enjoy her own company. The former resident would enjoy her company as well.

The resident would follow her step by step at the stairs. Stand next to the loveseat, mimicking her head movements. At night, when she was sleeping, the resident would watch her chest rise with every breath. She would have vivid dreams, mumble in her sleep, just so the resident could try to decipher what was happening inside her head. In the morning, when she slowly opened her eyes, the resident would watch closely the colors in her irises. Always just the two of them, the woman and the thing that lives inside the house.

It was morning when this peace got broken. The rain got stronger and her careful eyes saw an old woman having a hard time moving on the wet sidewalk. Leaving the house with an umbrella, she went to the woman and chaperoned her into the house.

“Thank you, dear. I would have fallen down or something worse. This weather will be the death of me!" The old woman exclaimed while the living resident helped her get out of her wet coat.

“Worst rainy season in a century, that’s what they’re saying at the papers,” she replied. The former resident watched from the stairs.

“And people say climate change isn't real, am I right? I'm Libby, love." She shook the old woman's hand and introduced herself. "Pardon me, but I thought this house was abandoned. I'm surprised a sweet thing like you lives here."

“I moved in a few months ago, still fresh. It’s my dream house. Do you live close?”

She led the way to the kitchen, making Libby a cup of tea. The resident saw how the old woman analyzed every inch of the place, startled by its state.

“Yes, about two streets down the road, love. You have a good eye for it, don’t you? The house is lovely!” The woman smiled at the compliment, knowing how much effort she put into making the house a home.

“I tried to. Like I told you, it’s my dream house. Wanted to make good for me.”

"Not trying to snoop around but you live alone, don't you?" The former resident watched closely the woman's response, a hint of jealousy.

"Yes, I do. Just me in this big house, but I like it. It's peaceful and quiet, most of the time," she replied to Libby.

“I wish I was the same. Haven’t been on my own for over 40 years, my house is always filled with noise. Don’t you get a little spooky sometimes?” Libby tried to get more from the woman, who was serenely unaware of the meaning behind it. Libby felt a chill down her spine from the former resident getting closer.

“It’s just an old house. I don’t believe in the occult, in ghosts, if this is what you’re asking me.” The woman softly chuckled, but Libby continued to feel something close to her.

“From your accent, I presume you aren't from here, I'm not as well. But trust me on this: 40 years living in this land and I can guarantee there's a reason for nobody decided to live inside these walls. I've heard about it. You know about the house history, don't ya?"

The walls have memory, and each room holds onto the events there. Over the years, certain stories went on repeat behind those walls as the former resident couldn't let go of them. The woman didn't believe in life after death, but the house chose not to spook her.

“My real state agent told me nobody has actively lived here over a hundred years, something about being an old family state. I presumed they have more properties to care about." Despite her skepticism, the woman was curious about the house's history. The former resident could sense it, getting irritated by it.

“No, love. They haven’t left this poor house to rotten on its own because they lost interest, they have fled the place. You should take a look at its history, it might surprise you.”

The woman went to bed later than usual that night, letting a lampshade still on. The heavy rain got stronger, making the temperature drop. Under the blanket, she was up on her computer looking for answers. In the quiet of her bedroom, her face being illuminated by the computer’s light, she was unaware of the former resident watching her from the bedpost.

Searching the address, she didn't find much at first glance, but by adding the word "tragedy" to it (as she suspects it was the meaning behind Libby's speech), she found more. Clicking on the first link, she read the title "Hundred Years of The Fire That Almost Turned Jackson City Into Dust".

The former resident was next to her, getting angrier with every second passing. Her eyes read through the page and stopped at a picture of the house. In line, in front of the façade, it was possible to see a tall man with a full patchy beard and well groomed mustache next to a shorter girl with curly hair and a big smile.

“Joel and Sarah Miller days before the incident,” the woman read out loud at the same time the power went out.

A thunder lit up the sky outside the house, as the light entered the room it revealed a tall man’s silhouette a few meters from her. In a split second, the silhouette disappeared leaving a confused woman with her thoughts.

Was the house truly empty for almost a hundred years?

[reem-jasser1]

Resilience Rising: The Story of My Beloved Art Studio Lost to War in Gaza

The art studio on the roof of my house was more than just a physical space; it was a sanctuary for my soul, a haven of creativity nestled beneath the expansive skies of Gaza. Each brushstroke, each stroke of the pencil, was a testament to my unwavering passion for art, a passion that had been with me since I was a teenager.

From the moment I began earning money from my art, I knew that I wanted to channel those earnings into creating a space where my creativity could truly thrive. And so, with careful thought and meticulous attention to detail, I embarked on the journey of building my own art studio.

Every aspect of the studio was a reflection of who I was and what I stood for. From the vibrant colors adorning the walls to the cozy corners filled with cushions and blankets, I poured my heart and soul into every decision, ensuring that the space was not just a place to create, but a place to truly be myself.

The soft glow emanates from the heart of an olive tree, a beacon of warmth and history. Each handcrafted tile, lovingly wrought in Hebron, whispers tales of generations past, its six decades a testament to enduring beauty. My desk, a gift from my brother, stands as a silent sentinel of our shared journey, each scratch and imperfection a reminder of the depth of our bond. The ancient fork, a relic from my grandmother's hands, holds within it the echoes of her laughter and love, a treasure cherished for thirty long years.

And amidst it all, my first tree stands tall, a symbol of growth and beginnings. My cats, with their gentle purrs and playful antics, infuse each moment with a warmth that words cannot capture. And yet, there are memories, fleeting and unfinished, like fragments of a dream waiting to be pieced together, adding depth and meaning to the tapestry of my life

But amidst the tranquility of my personal haven, there loomed a shadow of uncertainty. The ever-present threat of conflict cast a pall over the land, a reminder of the fragile peace that we so desperately clung to. And then, in an instant, that fragile peace was shattered.

The war in Gaza, fueled by forces beyond my control, descended upon us with a ferocity that left no corner untouched. As bombs fell and buildings crumbled, my beloved house, along with everything I held dear, was consumed by the flames of destruction.

In the aftermath of the devastation, as I sifted through the rubble of what was once my home, I felt a profound sense of loss. But amidst the ashes of my shattered dreams, a spark of resilience flickered to life.

For while the physical space may have been destroyed, the spirit of creativity that had thrived within those walls lived on within me. And though I may have lost my art studio, my home, and everything I held dear, I refused to let go of the passion that had sustained me through the darkest of times.

This cause is important to me personally because it represents not just the loss of a physical space, but the resilience of the human spirit in the face of unimaginable adversity. It is a reminder that, no matter how many times we may be knocked down, we always have the strength to rise again, to rebuild, and to create anew. And it is a testament to the power of art to heal, inspire, and endure, even in the midst of chaos and destruction.

In the face of every sorrow, I initiated a fundraising campaign not only to salvage myself but also to rescue my family from the brink of death, your support means alot to us.