#i will never forgive obsidian for not making him romancable

[lacefuneral]

SMASH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"I mean, just look at him. Just listen to him! He's so cunty and I love it!"

[brownandblackpearls]

📜 🖋 𝒞ourting with 𝒟r. 𝒟evorak (Julian x BlackReader) Pt.3

PART 3 SUMMARY:

You are a reputable, young beauty of means in Vesuvia, enjoying the winter courting season. An odd letter from an odd doctor finds its way to your door. You are on the second segment of your first date, attending a play in Vesuvia.

─── Julian x black female reader

─── imagery + fiction

─── explicit smut

─── regency/historical/fantasy, courtship rituals, wealthy! MC, love letters, drama, handsome redheads

☾ previous. next. 

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

The obsidian carriage was a comfortable reprieve from the glare of the chilled sun rays. Drifts of snow were all too happy to try and reflect the light into your eyes, but the dark, shrouded curtains of the doctor’s vehicle saved you from the visual spotlights. 

Swept in by your courter, you sit and watch Julian seat himself before his man yips the horses and pulls you all off, down the snowswept cobblestones.

You watch Julian watching you, thinking quietly to yourself about the events that have happened thus far, and letting the moment of silence cover you both. Sometimes, silence was just as good as words. What kind of man was Julian, in silence?

Shy, it seemed. He tries to pretend to glance out the window before being reeled back into your gaze, and finally, staying there. Shoulders stiff, you could almost feel the thoughts running through his mind.

You graced him a gentle smile, an offering.

Julian is more than eager to return it, nervousness be damned.

You were beginning to understand a little better why you felt so fond of him so fast, you realized. He was so…eager. Open. Even with all the little charades of character he pulled from time to time, they were more entertaining than anything. It did not come off as malevolent or manipulative. It was more experimental than anything. As anxious as your presence seemed to make him, Julian seemed comfortable enough in himself to try different things, different ways of being.

It didn’t hurt that he was very easy to read, and he read a tale of a soft heart on his sleeve.

You were very good at keeping yours under your sleeves, and something told you that Julian—as well as many others—liked the challenge enough to rise to it.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” Julian says rather than asks, hope tingeing his tone.

“I am,” you confirm easily, showing your cards.

Pleased, his chest almost seemed to puff up in pride. You realize that Julian wants this courtship to be not just enjoyable, but memorable. Memorable enough for you to call upon him once more, memorable enough for you to savor spending time with him, to become hooked to it, and in turn, to him.

“What play shall we be seeing...?” You wonder aloud, tiring of your mental courting maps.

“It is a new showing,” Julian answers brightly, “’To Rake a Shrew’. One of my old friends behind-the-scenes, he explained some of the outline. It sounds delightfully dramatic.”

Your eyes widen. 

You’ve always enjoyed a good, romantic drama.

“Do tell.”

Julian leans forward, looking every bit the cat that caught the canary and intended on sharing its prize. His large frame and sweeping height becomes much more apparent in the tiny space as he forgets himself and his nerves, confidence gleaming through his silver gaze as he speaks excitedly on the play. 

He’s such a large man…yet graceful when he desires it…like reedgrass curtsying in the wind on a breezy, summer’s day. The whole of him is enough to cover you entirely. He’s visibly strong, you realize as your eyes rake over him. Yet he moves with such gentleness, especially when it concerns you. A helping hand, an assisting palm to elbow, a touch’s kiss above the lower back. You can feel the ability course through him, yet he remains composed and contained, as a proper doctor would.

Under the doctor however, there is yet a man.

With him this near, your senses flare.

His cologne is somewhat sharp, if not heady. All of him sticks out, dark, dashing, and enough to do whatever he’d like with you…to please…to pursue...to protect…

You suppress a shiver, taking in the sight of him. You’re not new at this particular game of attraction, but you’re still made of flesh and blood, and behave so. You swallow slightly, ignoring the way your heart picks up speed.

“…?” You suddenly realize Julian has called your name, and you’ve yet to answer.

“Forgive me,” you apologize. “I was caught in a thought! Please, tell me once more. I shall not wander again.”

Julian tilts his head curiously before smiling. 

“It’s quite alright. I can be a bore, I’ve been told! What thought draws you away from me?”

‘You, actually.’

“Nothing of imminent concern, I assure you. I’d much rather hear you tell me of your friend and this play.”

Julian pauses before nodding, dropping the matter easily. 

“Well, ‘To Rake a Shrew’ is about a Casanova descending upon a bustling town to find more conquests in love. He is a slave to beauty, but unfortunately for him, the most sought-after beauty in the town is a shrew unlike any other. She will bend to no one, especially not clownish, predictable seducers such as him. He changes his tactics to try and best her at his own game, however she wins in the end and dupes him while entertaining the love of another. And so...he attempts to seduce them both! The outcome of that mess is yet to be determined.”

You clap, terribly excited now. You love interesting plots and twisted triangles of romance, tripe and as common as they may be.

“Ooh, how devilish!”

“Indeed,” Julian agrees. “Do you think he’ll succeed in the end?”

“Well,” you suppose, “I’d have to see this Casanova. I want to know if his wooing is actually something of interest, or if he is simply full of his own air. Seducing two lovers at once? The gall! The work!”

Julian chuckles.

“Some could manage, I’d assume.”

“Oh?” You wonder. “Like who? You know people who could draw even those already entangled, in? That’s quite a feat.” 

Surely he didn’t mean himself...? Julian seemed the shy sort, but was it all really an act? Could he be a playboy? He was certainly handsome enough to pull it off...perhaps you'd gotten ahead of yourself thinking that he was easy to read? It hadn't even been a day.

Julian pins a heavy gaze on you before flicking his eyes down to his hands casually, adjusting the hem of his glove. The leather creaks in a wonderful, quiet way over his regal fingers.

“I think perhaps, I know a few who could make that Casanova look like child’s play.”

‘Oh…’

“A few, you say?”

“Perhaps less than that, even.”

“...One?”

“Would it please you to hear so?” Julian teases lightly, a low heat simmering underneath it all.

“Only if it pleases you, to please me,” you test, returning the flame. “So it is one.”

“Perhaps.”

“Hm…an allure like no other is on the loose in our city…Dr. Devorak, should Vesuvia be afraid?” You jest, playing along with him.

Julian’s fingers halt at the sound of his title in your mouth. He levels another look at you, a smirk drawing up his face.

“Vesuvia will last. I, on the other hand…”

The carriage door sounds out a rapping of knuckles. Neither of you look away from one another. The challenge you both find there is too sweet.

“Sir Devorak, Lady _______, we have arrived at the Theater!”

You finally decide to turn away from your suitor then, the heat of Julian’s interest surprising you a little into your own nerves. 

You like what you see there, you had simply…not expected to see it so soon in such a...heated manner...? Where did his nerves go?

‘So much for shy!’

The carriage door opens and Julian steps out first before clearing the snow with one big sweep of his boot, and lifts out a gloved hand to assist you. You gently take it, allowing him to ease you down onto the stones of the street. Though the sun is high in the sky now, the chill of winter has crept further into the air. 

You do your best to suppress a shiver, but the concerned look on Julian’s face tells you that you’ve been caught.

“Allow me?” He asks, offering his arm for you.

“Naturally,” you consent, taking his arm in a deeper hold and stepping close to leech the warmth from him. Julian, though blushing now, seems all too pleased to have you nearer than propriety allowed, excluding chilly winter walks of course. No suitor would let the one they were courting be left out to the elements, unguarded! That was a quick recipe to losing out.

Julian leads you both away from the carriage, past the doorman, the playbill boys, the ushers, and down to the head seater.

“Tickets?” The staff member crows.

“We’ve our own box in the center section,” Julian says, his voice clear and assured. 

You quietly watch as he easily discusses your seating with the somewhat confused staff member before watching as the worker realizes his grave error and bows, showing you both your way to your accommodations. 

“Right here sir, madam! Watch your step! Ring the bell if you need anything—!“

A sudden noise makes all of you turn to the entrance to the private box, curtains now swishing aside as an angry, bustling man launches towards the staff member.

“This is my box!” The man bellows, puff sleeves flying. “I am gravely insulted. How do they train you louts these days? Even in Vesuvia’s worse I’ve never seen such a display of disrespect. I’ll be seeing your manager about this, most certainly.”

The man advances but Julian moves before anyone else really can, cutting the stranger off at the throat of the box’s entrance and herding him back with his own immense volume and size.

“Surely we can settle this like gentlemen,” Julian says in a soothing way, with a tone that is anything but.

“I beg your pardon? The only way this will ‘settle’ is if you all escort yourselves out of my box—“

The man tries to sidestep Julian, but finds himself blocked with every motion he makes. Julian is large, imposing, and will not let him pass.

Julian leans in then, his voice murmuring so low and so subdued that you can make no sense of it outside of the rumbling vibrations that do reach you. The staff member looks just as confused and out of the loop as you feel, but the man before Julian seems to understand with crystal clarity as trepidation colors his face. It soon melds into fear, to a quick, prideful facade.

The stranger takes a step back, scoffing loudly before exiting the box in a flurry of curtains and stomping boots.

Julian turns back to you both, a strained, yet somewhat humored look on his face.

“Well! That’s taken care of. Dizzy man, that one. Must’ve lost his way.”

“Ah,” you note, unsure of how to respond.

You were...admittedly nervous when that hostile, aggressive stranger entered the box so suddenly. It felt as if a fight had been imminent with a temper like that. And yet…

…Julian effectively diffused the situation. You’re fairly sure he used his own version of hostility, but he was conscious and chose to hide that side of him from your sight. You’re not sure why, aside from manners. A show of protectiveness does very little to wane your ever increasing interest in him.

Quite the opposite.

Maybe the Doctor is not as harmless or bumbling as he portrays himself to be...?

“Are you alright?” Julian asks you. “Is this box fine, or would you prefer another? That man will not be returning, but if you’re not comfortable, I will ensure that—“

“This is fine,” you insist gently. “As long as you’re here, I have no need to worry.”

When the initial surprise in your full trust finally fades from his eyes, Julian gives you the warmest of smiles.

“I—well, I—yes!”

The usher sneaks out as you and Julian lock gazes. The lights begin to dim in the theater. The crowd rumbles below in the pit, up in the stands, and from the teetering little boxes on all ends. 

The show is about to begin.

“This way,” Julian says, offering his hand.

Julian helps guide you to your seat before securing the privacy of your box and seating himself beside you. For a moment, he is a flurry of cape and leather and boot before settling in to the cushy theater couch. His long legs jut out and he folds them, eyes on the stage, excitement in them. 

You can’t help but follow suit, your eyes trailing the orchestra down below as they prepare to play alongside the show and its actors. 

Suddenly, you feel eyes on you.

You take it in stride, keeping your gaze focused, but you know that Julian is peering at you. The dimmed lights have certainly sparked a more romantic mood than even the lit, dazzling, gilded chandeliers of the theater could evoke. There, in the cover of shadow and stage light, you feel yourself becoming the center of his particular show.

“You could have a portrait commissioned,” you joke lightly. “That would last you far longer, Doctor.”

A smooth chuckle resounds from your side before the words.

“If you’d allow it, I’d be honored.”

Now, it is your turn to look at him.

“You jest, sir.”

“I do not.”

You feel a smile break onto your face, before you turn once again towards the stage, biting your lip in amusement. The heavy, red stage curtains part before you can speak.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Vesuvia! Welcome to the grand debut of To Rake a Shrew…!”

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

AN: Do not copy, repost, translate, or edit any of my work. If you see someone do so, please let me know.

☾ previous. next. 

☾ check my blog for more imagines.

[wreckofawriter]

Best Not To Cry Over Spilled Milk

Pairing: James Potter x Sirius' twin!reader

Warnings: A shit ton of angst, a little swearing

Word Count: 3,779

Request: @rini-scallison: May I request something? If I may I would like to request something like not so perfect sister but instead it’s with Sirius as the brother (a twin if you may) and the reader is like the perfect daughter and Sirius hates her but she tries really hard for him to have a happy life and there’s a bunch of angst and stuff ! You can add a romance in there if you would like too ! Thank you!

A/n: Okay sooo I'm not sure if this is exscatly what the request was but it's how I interpreted it, I really like it at least, I hope you guys do to. I'm hoping to bang out my last few requests, I'm quarantined till April 12th sooo... (stay safe everyone, love you all <3)

Sirius liked to believe he was a pleasant person. At least for the most part, and considering his background, he thought he did pretty good. He may not have been an angel but he had good friends, he helped those around him and unless your name was Severus, he was usually kind. Usually. Unfortunatly there were two people in this world that could break his carefully crafted exterior in a matter of seconds. They both shared his name.

The first was his mother, someone who in all honesty he saw as less of a human and more of a grotesque creature from a child’s nightmare. In his mind, her black heels were replaced by sharp talons. Her long fingernails were claws of obsidian and her dark eyes had the ability to turn you to stone. She had spent her time in Sirius’ life diminishing him to nothing more than a clone of her terror as he tried to make himself anything but. 

The second was a success story. The clone of his mother’s terror. His beloved twin, y/n Black or as many had taken to calling her recently; the Slytherin Queen. And boy was she. She followed every order dispatched to her, obeyed every demand, bowed before the monster that had raised her. She had kept on her blindfold her mother had placed on her the minute she had entered the world. Maybe it only took the twelve minutes which y/n had emerged before Sirius for her to fall under a spell which even the youngest black had started to break from. 

    Sirius was never sure what happened to you. You always sat with your back straight at the dinner table. You never complained about the corset which was always sinched too tight, you would just let your vision go dark from the lack of oxygen. And it completely infuriated him. 

    Sirius really wished he hadn’t cared when he had gotten the letter. He really wished he had thrown a party and done something stupid like set off fireworks in the common room. But he hadn’t. He had instead demolished an entire bottle of fire whiskey crying because, fuck it hurt to be tossed aside by the people who were supposed to love you most.  The next morning he dragged you into an empty classroom hungover and still smelling of liquor and asked you what he fuck had happened. 

    You had told him you begged your mother not to, you told a sob story about a sad little argument in which you- the obvious victim -had fought for his place on the banner in your living room. 

The truth had been very different, his mother had exposed the fact that it was indeed your idea to kick him from the family, that you were convinced he was a disgrace, nothing more than a bug to squash under your boot. He wished he could believe you not his monster. But he knew you. He knew you so goddamn well. You were his twin. His other half. He saw the way your eyes darted away from his own, you shifted on your feet, how you bit the inside of your cheek. You had lied. You had lied to him and he would never forgive you for it. 

    “And what is the M.O.M classification of the Phoenix?” Merrythought asked. Your hand shot in the air. “Ms. Black?” 

    “An XXXX professor, although it did not earn this rating from its aggression but only because so few wizards have been able to domesticate it.” You explained and Sirius rolled his eyes. 

    “Correct Ms. Black, five points to Slytherin.” The teacher praised, you beamed still sitting straight as a board.  

    Sirius let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like the words ‘Kiss ass’ earning a few giggles from the surrounding students. 

    You pretended you didn’t hear him, hand tightening around your quill. 

    James watched as your knuckles went white, How did your brother still bother you? He wondered. 

    Sirius leaned back in the chair next to him mumbling something unnecessarily rude. James fought the urge to roll his eyes. When class was dismissed Sirius made a point to pass you as you packed up. 

    “You’ll make an excellent death eater sis.” He taunted and you paused for a moment but refused to comment. 

    Sirius left the classroom James followed risking a glance over this shoulder to see you being joined by a blonde boy and the Lestrange sisters. Sirius caught him looking and sneered, “A bunch of future murders. Fuckin’ assholes.” 

“You know you could give her a rest, you haven’t even spoken in like a year,” James suggested. 

Sirius scoffed, “And who’s fault is that?” 

James shrugged, knowing the awnser. 

“You know she’s ghosting Reg too?” Sirius glowered, “He always looked up to her too, I have no clue why, but he did. And now she won’t even talk to him.” 

Remus and Peter joined the pair as they made their way into the Grand Hall. 

“Talking about y/n?” Remus inferred.

“Hard not to when she’s such a bitch.” 

James cringed at his friend’s choice of words.  “I’m hungry, let's get some food.” He spoke attempting to change the topic. 

“Why else would be in here?” Remus laughed. 

James cracked a smile opening his mouth to speak but was cut off. 

“Oh shit.” Sirius cussed. 

“What did you do?” Remus sighed, rolling his eyes. 

“I didn’t do anything but can you get me food and meet me in the common room, I may or may not be avoiding Marleen,” Sirius spoke ducking behind James.  

“Sure, just get out of here, I really don’t want to hear her voice right now.” Peter cringed at the memory of being yelled at by the sharp toned girl. 

“I’ll get food, you guys ditch,” James suggested. The other three agreed to leave the hall as the fourth grabbed four plates filling each and flicking his wand causing them to float in the air surrounding him.

James then made his way from the hall. As he turned out of the door he ran straight into someone, stumbling backward a bit he straightened his gaze to see you, your group of what he supposed were friends sneered at him. 

“You guys go on, I’ll catch up.” You spoke, voice monotone. 

They silently agreed, leaving you with the curly-haired boy who now pushed his glasses nervously up his nose. 

“Hey Potter, I need to talk to you.”  James would never admit he was scared of you but he did feel his heart leap to his throat at your words. 

“What’s up?” He asked hoping you didn’t catch as the sentence wavered slightly. 

You bit your lip glancing down at your feet before looking up to meet his gaze. “I wanted to thank you.” 

That is not what he expected you to ask. 

“I can’t even begin to say how relieved I am that you took Sirius in. Please thank your parents for me as well.” You seemed almost nervous, “I actually have something for you.” 

James could not believe that the words you were saying were actually coming out of your mouth. He had expected you to cuss at him, call him a blood traitor amongst other names and then follow your friends into the hall. But you were thanking him instead. 

You rummaged in your bag before removing a red box about the size of a wide bookmark. You held it out to the boy. 

James stared at you half expecting you to break out laughing and reveal the joke. 

“Stop looking at me like that.” You mumbled shoving the gift at his chest. 

“Sorry.” James murmured opening the box eyes widening. Inside was a watch, a damn nice one. It looked to be at least plated with gold, if not solid. Its inside was a scarlet red with three different faces, one of which instead of showing roman numerals around the edge showed the phases of the moon. The strap was a reddish leather, clasp gold as well. 

“Here, watch this.” You spoke stepping closer and carefully removing the watch from its velvet cushion. You held it delicately, pressing an almost invisible button on the side. In a flash two delicate golden wings erupted from the sides of the device and James realized in fascination that the watch now appeared to look like a snitch, you paid no mind flipping it over to reveal a small square gap on the back. “It’s enchanted with an undetectable extension charm so you can put just about anything in it.” You explained clicking the small button again. 

James watched in marvel as the wings fluttered closed closing the gap seamlessly.  “This is amazing y/n,” He whispered looking up at you only to realize you were centimeters away. He could feel your breath fan over his cheeks. It was cold and minty.  

“It’s nothing compared to what you’ve done for me.” You reasoned sliding the watch back into its case and stepping backward. “And before you say you can’t accept it remember that I have plenty of money.” 

Those were going to be the next words out of his mouth. 

“I have one more thing to ask you, James.” You seemed really nervous now, you hoisted the strap of your bag back up over your shoulder. “How’s Sirius? Is he okay?” 

You had baffled him once again. 

“I know I should be asking him that but ever since last year he would sooner light me on fire than have a civil conversation with me.” You sighed.

The Chaser stared at you, this is not how he thought your conversation would go.

“So is he okay?” You asked again, almost urgently. 

“Yeah, he’s fine.” James assured you, “He’s a little moody but overall he’s good.” 

“Have his panic attacks stopped?” You questioned.  

James who had no clue he even got those nodded, “I think so.” 

“Mental breakdowns?” 

James ran his hands through his hair, “He gets them every once and awhile, Moony and I help him through though.” 

You gave a weak smile and stepped forward wrapping your arms around his neck, placing your forehead on his chest. James froze, slowly letting his arms hold your waist, “I honestly can’t thank you enough. You’re a godsend Potter.” You mumbled. You stepped away a few seconds later crimson kissing your cheeks. “Don’t tell Siri we talked. He’ll be pissed.” And with that, you left. 

James felt his heart hammer as he sucked in the air he didn’t realize he had stopped breathing. What just happened?

James had had a crush on you the second you locked eyes centuries ago on platform 9 and ¾. You were the main reason he had looked so long for a certain compartment. A compartment that contained a set of twins, one of which would become his best friend. You had always been very pretty, your strong attitude had aided in that conclusion as well. He thought you were going to be very good friends with him. That was until you were sorted into Slytherin and Sirius soon revealed his rivalry with you.  

He had still harbored feelings for you, small ones he chose to ignore most of the time. He never told a soul, passing his feelings from girl to girl. He proved to be quite good at burying them. You also showed just how good you were at unearthing his secrets with a laugh, a wide smile or the save of a quaffle. The feeling of you in his arms rested in his mind for a long time. He dreamt of you, yearned to hold you again. You had smelt like caramel and cinnamon, you fit into his chest as a puzzle piece did to its neighbor. He really wished you hadn’t hugged him. 

As your sixteenth birthday approached both twins appeared to be more and more on edge. James was dead set on throwing a massive party but Sirius didn’t seem into it. As the day loomed closer he got jumpy, almost paranoid; as if someone was going to lean out from behind him and throw a bag over his head before dragging him away. 

James also began to notice your absences from classes. More and more often you were simply gone, not being anywhere for days before appearing out of nowhere. You always looked so pale when you got back from wherever you had gone, the circle under your eyes always looked darker. He had asked Sirius what was up but got nowhere, he would just lick his lips and say nothing was wrong. A blatant lie. 

You disappeared four days before the 3rd and was gone the entire week. Sirius refused to go to classes that week as well, claiming to be sick, which was fair considering he looked white as a ghost most of the time. 

When you finally returned it looked as if you had been kissed by a dementor. Your face was vacant of any color, your usually vibrant eyes looked pale, bags underneath them bruised brown. 

Both James and Sirius simultaneously tried to convince themselves you just had a stomach bug, that your sunken cheeks were nothing to be concerned about. Both knew they were wrong. 

Sirius found you easily. He knew you too well. You always snuck outside, even when you were younger you would always sneak to the park a few blocks away to escape your mother’s rage. Until you learned to play with fire rather than run from it.

He followed you to the greenhouse. You had always liked herbology. 

You turned at the shuffle of feet to see your brother, he looked almost as terrible as you did. 

“Did you do it?” He asked, his voice sounding so empty as muffled chirps of crickets flowed through the cold November air. 

You refused to look up, You sat in the corner of the cold glass house, your knees pulled to your chest, eyes cast on your dress shoes.  

“Did you really go through with it?” His voice cracked, he stumbled over his own feet. 

You still didn’t answer. Tears had built so thickly in your eyes you couldn’t see. You blinked and they went cascading downwards, raindrops leaking off your chin. 

“Answer me y/n!” Sirius cried through gritted teeth, tears of his own threatening to spill. 

“We have to get Regulus out of that house.” You spoke so plainly it was hard to believe that the words had come from you. “Fuck Siri they have a new initiation ceremony. He can’t go through with that.” 

“Shit y/n/n, what did you do?” His voice was a mix of disgust and despair.

“I don’t fucking know.” You answered honestly.

“Did you kill someone?” He hissed. 

“I wish I did Siri, I really wish I did.” 

Sirius dropped his shoulders a defeated sigh coming from his lips.

“We have to get him out soon Siri. He is so much more stubborn than you were too.” You whimpered. “I mean you practically disowned yourself, mom just needed a push with you.” 

“Why did you give her that push?” Sirius gasped, “Why did you do that? I could have helped you.” 

“I saved you, Sirius.” Your sentence broke in half, “I know you hate me for it but I saved you.” 

Sirius wiped his eyes furiously, “How did you possibly save me y/n?” He seethed.

“What do you think mom would have done if you were still in that house four days ago?” You asked. You knew he already knew the answer. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you save yourself?” Sirius hollered, “Why did you follow every rule she set? Every fucking order she gave you?” 

“The Black family needed an heir.” You shrugged tongue darting out to collect a tear from the corner of your mouth. “I knew it had to be one of us, if not you or me then Reg.” you paused, “So I decided it would be me.” 

    “How? How could you possibly decide that?” Sirius sobbed now standing in front of you. You still didn’t look up. 

“It was easier than you would think.” You chuckled darkly.

“It’s not fair y/n.” He stated, “We can still help you. Dumbledore will help, you can stay with James and me. Please y/n.” 

“It’s too late and you know it.” You spoke, “Best not to cry over spilled milk.” 

“But your life isn’t spilled milk!” Sirius shouted. 

“Might as well be.” You shrugged finally meeting your brother’s eyes. They matched your own, puffy and red. 

“How can you say that?” The boy spat, “It’s your fucking life!”

“Not anymore.” You sighed. “Look, Siri, in all honesty, I don’t give two fucks about my life right now, we have less than 13 months to find a way to get Regulus the fuck out of that house and then boom he turns 16 and none of this shit matters anymore. So stop worrying about me and start realizing we can still save him.” 

Sirius had never felt so incredibly selfish before. You had given away your life for him and for Regulus. What had he given away? He had gotten the life he wanted while you would suffer for the rest of yours. And all you said was ‘It’s best not to cry over spilled milk.’ He suddenly remembered every jibe and comment he had said to you. You had done nothing but bite your tongue as he taunted the nightmare you lived him so he could bask in a daydream. 

“I need you to start hanging out with him.” You mumbled, voice raw, “I have been avoiding him, hopefully, it will help. I’m gonna start making up lies about how his grades are slipping and he’s hanging out with mudbloods, maybe dating one.” You sighed, “Reg still wants to impress mom, I need you to get it into his mind how twisted she is. Make him hate her. Make him hate me too, use me as an example.” You paused, “Can you do that Siri?” 

Sirius didn’t speak for a long time. You didn’t pressure him to. You stared straight ahead tears still leaking from your eyes. 

“Yeah, I can do that.” Sirius finally spoke. He sounded half-dead, deflated. He sounded like you. 

“Good.” You didn’t waste a second. You got to your feet wiping your tears and then you walked away.  

James sprinted down the halls. He has his eyes peeled to the two names in the greenhouse. He made it free of the castle and saw a figure making their way towards him. He glanced down at the map and saw that it was you.  

As he neared you he was finally able to drink in your appearance. Your eyes were bloodshot, you were attempting to dry never-ending teardrops, dragging your forearm repeatedly over your face. When you looked up at him his heart broke. Your bottom lip was shaking eyes so glassy it must have stung. 

You dove into his chest, wrapping your arms around him and you began to cry. Your body jumped with sobs as James pulled you closer to him. 

He forgot about everything but you as you nuzzled closer to him. He forgot about Sirius, about the tears soaking through his shirt and the dew that had dampened his robes. He only cared about you. You and the fact that you still smelt like caramel and cinnamon, you and your overly soft hair, you and your cold hands wrapped around him.

James nestled into your hair inhaling its intoxicating scent. He then hooked his hands under your arms and lifted you so your hands were wrapped around his neck. You understood and wrapped your legs around his waist your head becoming buried into his neck. He placed one hand under each of your thighs and began to carry you inside. As you made your way through the castle your tears began to slow, sobs turning to whimpers.

James felt his face bloom with deep red roses. His heart was thumping far too quickly. When he reached his destination he only had to pace twice before the door showed its self. The inside of the room was relatively the same as it always was except for the large brick fireplace and massive couch filled with large pillows. 

The Chaser attempted to set you down on the couch but your firm grip on his neck and the legs wrapped around him forced him to follow downwards. A fresh blush coated his cheeks. You burrowed back into his embrace and it was quiet for a long time. The only noise coming from the crack of the fireplace and the sound of a faint wind blowing outside.  

“Y/n what happened?” James finally asked and you pulled a bit away from him so you could look him in his eyes. 

He looked so handsome, his deep chocolate brown eyes were wide with worry, only more magnified behind his round glasses. His cheeks were painted with poppies, his lips plush, and pink. His unruly thickly curled hair framed his face perfectly, a small strand falling between his eyes. 

“You know I always had a thing for you.” You smiled weakly, “From the moment I saw you on the platform I thought you were the cutest thing I had ever laid eyes on.” 

James wasn’t quite sure how to respond, he assumed he was dreaming. 

“I never wanted to tell you, James, I never thought I would. But I need to.” 

The room fell quiet again. 

“Can I kiss you y/n?” James finally asked his heart near shattering. 

You nodded slowly and he let his eyes flutter shut, yours doing the same as your lips gently met. The kiss was so fragile you were afraid it may break. He tasted like pumpkin juice, his tongue slipping into your mouth seconds before you pulled away. 

“Y/n let me help you.” James pleaded as you swung your feet off of the couch, sitting upright as you mumbled ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’ quietly to yourself. 

“Just.. take care of Siri for me.” You could feel tears beginning to climb back upwards. 

James sat up beside you, “Y/n please.” He begged. 

“It’s okay James.” You assured him with a watery smile. “You’ll get over it.” 

“But y/n-” 

You shushed him placing your pointer finger on his lips. He blinked a small tear falling down his flushed cheek. You wiped it away with your thumb. 

“You’ll be okay James.” You paused standing swiftly, “Best not to cry over spilled milk.” You murmured over your shoulder as you left the room. 

Taglist:

@accio-rogers

@roslea

@k3nz-doodl3

@theseuscmander

@sleepingalaska

Masterlist

[stylishanachronism]

So uh, this Got Long, but here, have a couple of thousand words about Edér's narrative (and like... the game structure as a whole, I tried to stay on topic but I've got a couple of dozen essays somewhere (some are even cited because that's what I do with my life) about this nonsense so.) and also his character development, because those aren't actually the same thing. It is probably the Worst essay I have ever written, and that's saying something.

Anyways.

Edér's character thread (not his character development per se but the thing that permits it if I'm making any sense whatsoever) in both games is very much both 'grappling with religion' and 'grappling with choices he didn't know he was making' but also 'grappling with choices he made based on incomplete information' and the consequences of all three. (Honestly, speaking as somebody who, if I had a character thread, it'd be the same damn one, I was really pleased by how well they handled it in both games (the fact it’s not supposed to be his narrative in Deadfire nonwithstanding). Most series don't, but that's a completely different kettle of fish.) 

So like, in the first game, when you find him he's basically stuck at the point where he feels utterly betrayed (by his god, by his church, by his community, even by his family, sort of), but also like nothing he did mattered in the short or long run, and despite his best efforts, every time he's tried to help he's just made things worse, so there's really nothing he can or should do, and even if he did, it wouldn't help or matter, so why should he bother? Like he's flat out 'yeah, they're going to kill me next, just killing time 'till that happens, what of it?', which is a hell of a lead off, given you don't find out the rest of it until later and the fact that despite all that, he’s not particularly suicidal. And he's so desperate to feel like he's doing something he wanders off with the first wild-eyed possibly-crazy definitely-sicker-than-a-dog person he comes across, without even squaring up his debts or closing up his house or quitting his metaphorical job, (Obsidian show me your setting bible, I need to know what the Dyrwood exports and if ring lace isn't on that list somewhere I'll make every single developer eat the ring shawl I haven't knit, I have Opinions about this, but also, kettle, fish.), just because they gave him the thinnest, most ridiculous scrap of a hope that he might get answers that make the rest of it okay! And he doesn't! He never gets those answers! 

...Well, sort of. He doesn't get the answer to 'What did Woden, the brother I idolize above all else, know that I didn't?' for vaguely bullshit reasons (look I'm just saying if I can articulate 'yeah, that was really Eothas, and yeah, Woden basically had a fucking pentacostal moment and then got his brain steamrolled' (...more on that later, that's actually relevant), the Watcher ought to have been able to do the same, which changes the lack of answers to 'why didn't Eothas just... do something to prove it was him' and/or 'if it was that obvious, why did it come to that?', which are the questions that the narrative's actually concerned with (and also sort of get addressed in Deadfire, but More On That Later), Obsidian Where is Your Setting Bible I Have Questions), but he does get to come to terms with what he actually did, Not Knowing What Woden Knew (and it's a solid ending either way! I liked the consequences! Either he tries to make amends for what he sees as a dereliction of duty, not just to his god but to his community on a spiritual level (the Night Market ending), or he says 'fuck you, I failed but so did you, Eothas' and he sets out make amends for what he sees a dereliction of duty to his community and his community alone, on a practical level (the Mayor ending) and either way he's no longer stuck feeling worthless, and he has a purpose again, more accurately has learned to forge his own purpose, and he's good at whatever it is he's doing!)

And in the meantime, he's been doing good shit! Lasting shit! Even when it all goes to hell he's making progress, which is excellent for his state of mind (and you see that reflected in not only how he treats the Watcher but also how he reacts to shit like giant setbacks (Maerwald! What Happened to Woden! That time Defiance Bay was on fire! Hell even the wolf encounter in White March, that's something Gilded Vale Edér would have wanted to do, but probably wouldn't have been able to bring himself to do or would have but like, Knowing one or both of them would die for it, and by the earliest point you can hit that, he can just… do it) and this is the part where I do not talk about romance novel tropes because that development is also where he starts being the Romantic Lead for realsies. It’s very interesting! But this essay is trying to stay focused.)

Anyways that's… a lot of words to say the heart of his first game character arc is that he learns to live with what happened without ever knowing why, for better or for worse, it did, learns to forgive himself (and everyone else involved, more or less) and any way you cut it, he makes his own purpose, and he ends up okay at the end. 

(Going off on a momentary tangent, one of the things I really liked about the first game is how focused it was? Like all the quests, even the stupid ones, asked serious moral questions about various things, and made you stick to the answers. I've talked before about the Dyrford questline, which is ugly on every front, but doesn't pull any of those punches either, and doesn't have a clear 'right' answer, but they're really all like that to some extent, and especially the character quests. Like, Edér's is about religion and forgiveness, Aloth's is about authority and 'divine right v free will' so to speak, Grieving Mother's is about doing horrible things with the very best of intentions and living with that, Sagani's is about deciding what's important enough to hold on to when all else is lost, etc. etc., and even the tiny ones have questions like ‘if murder is the only way out of an abusive relationship, is that the right answer?’ like there's no quest you could cut without actual ramifications to the overall storyline or the worldbuilding, and that was Great.)

...Which brings us to Deadfire, and this is where it might get a little weird? I need to stress that my first playthrough was bugged to hell, my second was... almost as bad, tbh, and I didn't manage to finish any of the DLC (mostly due to charming things like invisible indestructible final bosses, for example, which still have not been fixed), and by the time I hit the third go round (because it turns out turn based is a ton more fun) I was extremely confused about the actual order of events, due to the aforementioned bugs, so some of the conclusions I've drawn might be a bit off base. (Also Deadfire suffers from sequelitis, by which I mean it has a bunch of internal and, uh, intertextual contradictions of established canon, and it’s not particularly tightly plotted, among other things. I still really liked it! But the worldbuilding's cracked a little bit.)

So Deadfire opens with Eothas bursting out of the earth like a really big chick in a really small egg or something, killing a lot of people in the process, and Edér going 'oh shit, my god just more than half murdered my bff!' and, touching back on what @brightoncemore said earlier, racing off after the statue he’s piloting on basically a hope and a prayer, Watcher in tow, on the half chance this might save their life. It's a hell of a thing, but it means that the opening of his Deadfire arc is 'Dear Eothas, why the Fuck do you keep doing this (to me)?', and depending on which of his endings he's coming off of, this is either a further betrayal from someone he'd managed, not to forgive, but to move on from, or a further betrayal from someone he had managed to forgive, and whose forgiveness in turn he'd spent a solid five years seeking. It is not 'huh, wonder what my old flame's up to?' (not that Elafa was his old flame, but more on that later, and alternately if it is the old flame is Eothas and the answer is ‘being a casually murderous dick for inscrutable reasons’), and nor is it a 'my biological clock is ticking and I didn't manage to adopt Vela properly', which to be honest is what I got out of his bit of his actual personal quest, more or less. (Spoilers: his personal quest is actually Bearn’s personal quest, and he’s not even a recruitable companion, which is rude considering Tekēhu, among other companions.)

What happens to the Watcher is rather more intimately tied up in his character arc in Deadfire, which is where the real trouble comes from; the developers Did Not Want the romance, so they kept trying to walk it back (remember I don’t find this particularly tightly plotted), while all of his character development was tied up in the same tropes that make him the Romantic Lead (we aren’t even going to mention the fucking wedding), and frankly it’s a mess.

So you’ve got the shoe-horned in ‘I’m head over heels for someone I literally never mentioned before, whoops she’s dead and her kid, who might be my kid (spoilers: he’s not, the timeline doesn’t work, not that the timeline works anywhere ever), is going to do something Really Stupid’ thing that his Named personal quest, which is just barely even about him to begin with, while meanwhile he’s yelling at gods and making the same big sweeping decisions from the first game as he gets more information about what did/might have/could have happened. Like, there’s one revelation in the base game (Eothas is the reason for his rad magic armor, and despite Edér feeling betrayed and abandoned for almost two decades(!), he really was paying close attention to everything Edér did, and I at least got the impression that part of the reason Eothas is trying to make amends is because of what happened to Edér due to his actions, like he’s here to ‘help’ kith in general, and Edér in particular, and the Watcher makes a particularly convenient tool to do so), and then BoW and FS each have another (that instead of St. Waidwen, it might have been St. Edér, and it was pretty much the flip of a coin that decided it the way it was, and also that Waidwen didn’t know what he was doing but he did it with intent anyways, so they were both betrayed on multiple levels (I left the first game convinced Eothas had just steamrolled Waidwen’s brain the same way he’d steamrolled Woden’s, so it was very interesting to discover that that didn’t precisely happen), and also that there was a distinct difference between Waidwen, who theoretically went into this with his eyes open, and Woden, who didn’t. There’s a whole series of essays in that alone, but again, kettle, fish.), and what ought to have been his ‘defining choice’ (v whatever happened to Bearn), is his whole thing at Magran’s Teeth, where he demands Eothas be better (which, if it had been his personal quest, could have been reactive on ‘I was right, you’re just as bad as the rest’ if he comes to the conclusion Eothas sees all their lives as playthings, and he doesn’t actually care he just wants to be Right, or the canonical ‘Do better you fucker’ if he comes to the conclusion that Eothas just Doesn’t Get It, with a reprise at Ukaizo, because I loved the narrative callbacks that actually exist and it would have been a really good place for one.), instead of what we got (I went and looked them up, what the fuck), which was… completely backwards for his character, holy shit. Either he goes and camps on Elafa’s grave because her kid was a moron (well… kettle, fish, here is another essay and this one’s already too long, we don’t need a discussion of cults and Bearn’s equal desire for a purpose, which is a narrative foil they could have done something with but never did), or he decides to parent this kid who he firstly doesn’t know, secondly doesn’t know him, and thirdly in a place that’s been pretty wrecked that he’s completely unfamiliar with for what’s seriously no reason (Bearn is…. arguably 17? 18? The timeline never works, but that’s about where he’s written, also kettle, fish, arguments that don’t go here.) since the boy is almost an adult to begin with, none of which has anything to do with his need to have a purpose, or the fact he explicitly follows the Watcher around as part of that, and they’ve gone back to the Dyrwood either way. Like it’s just… such a reversal from his growth in the first game, basically dropping him back where he started at the very very beginning, mired in hopeless, apathetic guilt over something that he actually had fuck all to do with this time around.

Anyways, the whole thing where the developers rooted his endstate choices in something that, to be really frank, could have been deleted without doing fuck all to the narrative (remember how all the quests in the first games were important? Yeah, no, a solid chunk of the quests serve little to no real purpose in Deadfire, even the ones I love.) is unfortunately a Thing. Tekehu’s lack of a quest is the Watershaper’s Guild questline, it straight up should have been his personal quest, he’s got the only solid one in the game, Xoti’s feels like it was supposed to be a callback to Grieving Mother’s, but in reverse, and while I loved it, it doesn’t go anywhere, not for her character (either she does a shitty thing for a good reason and goes crazy and can’t regret her choices, or she does a good thing for terrible reasons and doesn’t learn from that either, so far as I can tell) or for the narrative as a whole (there is also an essay about Gaun’s place in the worldbuilding here, kettle, fish), Seraphen either asks the important questions and Gets It, or he doesn’t and he… doesn’t, and either way it’s literally never addressed again, Maia’s has backwards consequences for some reason, which completely defeats the purpose of a character development quest on top of being basically Sir Not Appearing in this Game to begin with, Aloth’s doesn’t really do anything for his development either (his is all elsewhere in the game, too), and as much highly appreciated narrative context Pallegina’s provided, it didn’t make any sense for her character where it was (in either state) in Deadfire, not to mention it was confusing as hell. (Also, narratively speaking? Rekke should have had one, as should Ydwin, on the bias (she’s bugged to shit, and therefore keeps vanishing from my playthroughs, but what I’ve managed to see of her opens a lot of doors, so to speak). They’re both more plot important than some of the *actual* companions, and it’s terrible.)

And like, I get it, Deadfire had a *lot* more moving parts than Pillars did, having character quests that were any more timeline/location dependent would have been a terrible idea, it’s already so easy to fuck up the order of events without even trying, simply because you can just travel anywhere at any point just by picking a direction, and I have the very strong feeling that a lot of the existant character arcs were not intended to be as important as they ended up being, but still. Still. I expected a lot more out of… pretty much everything.

Speaking of: the very last sequence of the game. Eothas, doing the thing. Breaking the wheel. Murdering the world. Ending the Game. Whatever you want to call it.

Dear Obsidian: what, pray tell, the Actual Fuck.

One of the things that I got out of the first game, like not even extrapolating it’s right there in black and white in the text, is that the Wheel? Co-opted by the Engwithans, who essentially bolted a tap onto it to power their gods, but who neither invented nor really affected it in any way, shape, or form. Like, I think it’s Iovara who says that the gods are built on an existing system, parasites on a natural process? I’m not citing this and I don’t remember, but it’s in the last sequence of that game somewhere, and I’m 99% sure it’s one of her revelations. Anyways, smashing the physical wheel should have done fuck all to the metaphysical process, even with the Valians eating all the adra, like the question of ‘what do we do now???’ should have been about ‘how do we keep the gods alive, and do we even want to?’ not ‘oh shit, how do we keep the fucking world running’, that’s not the thematically relevant question. Like the game spends the whole time asking nitty gritty questions on the theme of ‘do we need the gods or do they need us?’ (Pallegina’s whole quest, for example, everything about the godlikes ever, a solid chunk of the underpinning of all three DLCs, the weird shit in Cignath Mor, like it’s woven through e v e r y t h i n g.) The fact that the final deciding question is instead ‘who gets the leftover power’ (and that you can’t talk Eothas out of the thing, or tell him to tip it back into the wheel in like, a useful way) honestly felt like a cop out to me. Like suddenly the narrative weight is on a random god and/or group of people who spent most of the game squabbling over stupid shit while the Watcher tried to save the world again, this time with Real Actual Obvious signs of shit going down. Like in the first game? The Watcher doesn’t figure it out until almost the end of the game, but what you stumble into stopping is both highly subtle and *really* awful on every level, and the consequences are going to be worse, but nobody knows anything about it and you’ve only got the clues you have because you made a bunch of stupid decisions a dozen lifetimes ago, like, you don’t have proof and there’s no way to get it until everything’s over and done with. Deadfire? People have seen Eothas! He’s wandering around, wrecking ships and causing tsunamis and basically being Obvious as Fuck that he’s the thing causing all these problems, and letting him keep going is a Bad Idea, And Yet. Literally nobody in the entire fucking game can focus on the real problem for five seconds until it’s too late, and even then they can’t let go long enough to fix it. And yes, I know, the developers intended it to be more politically minded, they’re not focused on Eothas because he’s far away and this particular thing blowing up in their faces is right here, but…. that’s not how it worked as a narrative? Not even a little? Eothas is on top of your super secret laboratory and he ate your lighthouse or whatever, but that’s not important right now because oh no there’s a different lighthouse that’s a weird color (yes I know the diseased adra pillar is not a lighthouse give me the metaphor) really, really doesn’t look like being politically minded, frankly it looks like, well, real life right this second, and let me tell you, if I had a god I was hell bent on yelling at for being a dick telling me I had to pick who ended up in charge of the fate of the world, I’d be yelling him into not doing that using any trick I had to. And obviously that wasn’t applicable when Deadfire came out, but the sentiment remains.

And what complicates this is that I loved most of Ukaizo. Like up until the final two minutes I found it really narratively fulfilling, more or less (I remain cross enough about said last two minutes it’s rather scrambled my actual impressions of the rest, but I remember being very excited), and then that happened (and the game crashed because I had technically defied the gods again I guess) and then I was very cross.

If this was a real essay, I’d have something to say here about looking at the narrative as it is, not how I’d like it to be, or maybe about how Edér ends up with multiple narrative foils that literally never see any use, and that’s another essay right there. If I were editing this into something readable, I might have actually come to a point at some point, and I could talk about that instead, but I guess I’m just going to say that I wish the developers had owned what they’d built, instead of trying to head it off. Like, cheers, you built one of the more rewarding romances in modern fiction, tell me more about Edér’s relationship with god, don’t murder a perfectly good female character to give him something to be sad about so you don’t have to acknowledge that.

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Word by Word | 01 (Bangchan x Reader)

Genre: Fluff, Romance, University/College AU

Pairing: Graphic design student!Bangchan x Literature student!/Irish!Reader

Warnings: Swearing (but what can you honestly expect when dealing with an Irish person?)

Summary: An ancient saying dictates that polar opposites attract, which is proven once again once an introverted whiskey-loving aspiring author meets a fairly extroverted boy initially proposing to survive the loneliness brought about by academic administration together.

But soon the meaning of ‘together’ expands as personal creative worlds are explored and understanding stirs up hidden emotions.

Masterlist

Next Part

For anxious people, friendly support from strangers oddly turning into companions is often needed to get through the day, finding solace in the kindred spirit of the bond has been established despite being not worth a dime. The previous semester could only be survived thanks to the small group of friends that made the seminars more bearable, huddling together and always having at least one to have as a research partner or discuss a primary source with. Withal, the university administration has different plans for the second half of the year, resulting in the complete split from familiar faces which will now only be seen on Monday for the start of the academic week with lectures.

Henceforth, yesterday was only the misleading silence before the storm, chatting and fooling around with curiously close relationships during the day. As per usual, multiple pairs of shoes found themselves to the habitual café by the canal to go for lunch together in between lectures, but a lonesome soul listening to the vivid chatter only settled for a cup of coffee since the stomach could possibly not handle more because of the all-nighter working on the next chapter of the attempted novel and composing a few more poems for a to-be-published-someday poetry bundle.

A chip off the old block, taking after the grandfather who raised a timid girl to become like this: full of too many voices and writing them down since that is the only acceptable form of schizophrenia in today’s society. Fortunately, it is while enjoying the company of Dante, a Birman with hellishly blue eyes of an extremely distrustful and arrogant nature except when being with an aspiring author rivalling with a relative. He mostly lies on the duvet on nights filled with the self-inflicted torture of bleeding behind a typewriter, occasionally jumping on the desk beneath the attic window where often a raven nicknamed Edgar settles down and demanding to be pet whenever a repose is taken for a glass o’ Irish whiskey when threatening to fall on hard creative times. Otherwise, dirty bean water is grand as well. Whatever the case, Dante conveniently though perfectly times it each time.

In the meanwhile, Virgil is likely functioning as company for Charles, who is also known as “Grandfather” during formal events of which most relate to publishing houses and to which he always has to be dragged while muttering unintelligible Gaelic profanities. Alternatively, it is the first full name whenever competing with one another or simply “Charlie” when the old balding man with a snow white moustache reviews the latest result of typing on the historic sidekick of every author. According to the in-house editor and occasional enemy, a typewriter is the sole source of ‘’pure writing’’ and imprinted the habit of working with the old school machine as soon as hands were able to write the letters formerly merely read in books.

For those unfamiliar with the cats, it is impossible to draw a distinction between the two, but those who look closer notice that Virgil does not share the same eye colour with his brother, the ocean grey betraying the fact the fluffy bastard is indeed that. 

A bastard. 

Exactly like his owner and the owner’s granddaughter who was also born out of wedlock. 

However, even in Dante there is a trace of being not a full blood Birman since his slender skull hints at a Ragdoll influence though the selective sweetheart would never admit to it even if the ability of speech had been given to cats. 

All in all, all of us are outcasts so it has become the running joke beneath the roof of the outskirts mansion we are glorious bastards. Honestly speaking, it has a nice ring to it because if being separated from others for whatever reason counts as a qualification for becoming this, then the lack of pals in primary and high school is not minded. The same goes for the adoption by a loving howbeit harshly critical grandfather because the son who should have been a proper father could not bear the sight of the offspring originating in a scandalous affair with a secretary who had no mother instinct at all, thus sharing in the shallowness with her one-time lover.

Whiskey story nights filled with almost empty pens, digits stained with ink, reading breaks and lots of swearing in frustration or joy have come to form a steady aspect of life, Charlie clearly in a better mood when settling down to shape the rough paper diamonds in each other’s company despite the exchange of insults pertaining to manuscripts or in a loving manner. An Irishman can leave Ireland, but the Irishness will never leave the individual and the island tales that at times seem mere fantastic fancies create a bond with a heritage that would otherwise have never been known.

It is because of Charles, his upbringing that has not been without it struggles, and Dante and Virgil I am still here, exerting power as an author on the Internet after creating a manuscript on the typewriter that once belonged to the moustached man’s close American friend who, too, had a taste for liquor and a talent for writing. 

Apparently, one night at a party, this comrade was hit in the face by a drunken accountant who tried his hand at poetry nobody understood and insulted the boxer’s manhood, causing the offended party to strike the provoker down in drunken rage. Fortunately for the injured, the American was willing to forgive the insult after being offered an apology and the next day the papers reported the incomprehensible poet fell down the stairs, the accident resulting in a broken hip alongside other injuries, thus covering up the truth of being beaten black and blue.

When asking why nothing was done to stop the fight from escalating, the answer is always the same. ‘It was too much fun to see that idiotic sod being beaten up. Furthermore, he had it coming sooner or later because he was a fecking racist prick, Y/N. It was more of a service than a true crime.’

Basically, Granddad sat back with a bowl of popcorn and cheered his boxing buddy on.

Truly a gentleman bastard.

As proves to be an inherent characteristic, judging by the rage coming from the classically furnished writing room on the east side of the house bought with the royalties from writing pieces critical of the human condition and problems rooted in society under the guise of a cleverly composed story. ‘Virgil! For fuck’s sake, ye bloody gobshite!’

‘Charlie, how’s she cuttin’?’ Not so well, judging by the look of pure horror in fast passing stone-toned irises with elated pupils framed by deep earthy brown fur and liquid onyx paw prints creating a trail on the freshly mopped floor. What a way to leave the house before facing the horror of being left alone at the university because everyone has been placed in a different time slot. ‘Although, never mind.’

In the faux leather spinning chair behind the intricately designed baroque desk, agitated calloused fingers run through pale thin hairs while lips are pulled into a snarl at the sight of the obsidian pool of ink staining the pile of blank pages meant to be engraved with poetry. ‘Well, this is just fucking grand, isn’t it?’

‘Think about your blood pressure, ye aren’t all that spry anymore and your fans will not like it if you kick the bucket already.’ Grinning like the purple cat in the favourite story to listen to while sitting by the hearth during childhood, dark flats wander the afromosia floor to the stout big man with an irritated iron gaze that slightly softens at the sight of the lass raised as a daughter rather than a granddaughter, the pupil who has turned more and more into a peer as time went by. ‘And Virgil isn’t as graceful as Dante, prone to causing accidents yet you love him all the same.’

‘Ah, feck off.’ An eyebrow raises in question when settling down into the fauteuil in front of the bureau, casually crossing one leg over the other and endeavouring to suppress the pressing yawns as best as possible. ‘It’s yer first day of university after a week of being a dosser and you pulled an all-nighter while having to show up early. You’re not the full shilling, are ye?’

‘No. No, I’m not, but you are what you eat. I’m fine, Charlie. And I worked on a couple of poems, mind you, and also wrote two more chapters for Paper Wonderland. Furthermore, I read ahead for this block’s course so, overall, I’ve been productive.’

‘You haven’t been until I’ve seen the first drafts.’ It is a house rule: there are no actual original versions of a part of a tale unless the stern editor has seen it and given feedback. Otherwise, it is nothing more than stained paper. 

‘Oi, I want to keep some element of surprise to blow you off yer socks when you read the full result. Where’s the fun in being spoiled beforehand when it can become the reason I’ll finally conquer the throne you’re currently sitting on. One day, one day I’ll finally be recognized as more than mere family.’

The mentor stands up to walk around the chaotically ruined heavy piece of furniture to put an encouraging hand on the shoulder and give it a little encouraging squeeze, which gets nullified by a comment that makes the characteristic need for rivalry flare up. ‘Keep dreaming about that day, ye wee chiseler, and maybe, just maybe you’ll manage.’

A sarcastic mirthless chuckle functions as a nullifying factor for the elder’s smugness while standing up from the oddly comfortable espresso brown chair to head for the door. ‘You really like throwing shapes, don’t ye, gramps?’

‘As much as any grand man.’ The old great man matches the pace to the young feet eventually coming to a halt at the entrance of the writing office. 

At the double doors, on the edge of a casual temporary farewell, all devilishness fades away into fatherly concern due to the realization a difficult social challenge has to be faced, having had many conversations about the introverted anxiety of a mask-wearing lass who merely acts like a young professional while working as a barista to earn a little cash on the side. ‘Take that puss off yer face, Y/N. You’re gonna be grand because you’re a full-grown woman with an Irish background. We’re tough people made of iron who don’t take anyone’s intimidation.’ 

Two big wrinkled hands wrap themselves around upper arms clad in a neatly-ironed alabaster collared shirt as a moustached mouth places a familial hope-giving smooch on the forehead before giving the right cheek a weak playful slap. ‘Now, go, you fine thing. Maybe you’ll catch the eye of a proper laddie.’

‘Feck off.’ A playful punch on the shoulder undoes the intimacy and grants the opportunity to crack on to catch the bus towards doom after putting on a khaki trench coat and slinging the stone-grey laptop bag over the shoulder.

‘I don’t recommend effin’ and blindin’, though. Tends to give a bad image,’ is the last piece of laughingly uttered advice which is seemingly also disregarded howbeit with an absently-minded waving hand wandering down the sandstone cobblestone path towards the main road. 

And before taking an immediate right out of the gate towards the nearest bus stop, the other one holds the habitual saviour in the form of a book already.

An opportunity to escape the nervousness brought about by cruel reality that is taken away when bumping into someone, an accident which still tends to happen despite the mastery of avoidance skills, and the account of the life of a bookseller falls onto the concrete. 

Eyes as big as a doe’s when caught in the headlights of a rapidly approaching car stare in horror at annoyed molten chocolate irises above an admittedly adorable big nose, irritated by an ignorant daydreamer under the constant scrutiny of the world, which quickly gain a weird gentleness when truly looking back. ‘I’m so, so fe- sorry. I should watch where- no, watch my footing. Again, I’m so sorry.’

Please, don’t get mad. Grand job, Y/N. The day’s barely begun and you already messed up.

‘It’s alright.’ Bleached short locks clad in an onyx leather jacket squat down to pick up the paperback on the ground, long pale fingers dusting off the little dirt the impact of the fall has caused to stain the cover before handing it back. ‘You dropped this.��

Trembling hands accept a small piece of peace of mind, gaze averted from the small fading kind smile on the young man’s face to stare with burning cheeks and a raving heart at dark flats aching to flee the situation. ‘Thanks.’

‘Miss? Are you alright?’ The lost distant type of contact from just a second ago is futilely tried to be re-established, unable to connect thus to a soul with a thousand voices within now all rendered to a flustered whisper. 

‘Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll- I need to go. Don’t want to miss the bus.’ A curt nod ends the conversation abruptly, turning away as fast as lightning while muttering a form of apologetic goodbye as the walking pace enhances to a speed barely shy of running. ‘Again, my apologies.’

However, as Fate or mere coincidence would have it, this meeting is not the last as tracks are silently retraced by foreign sneakers as blasting songs from various genres disclose the world from a never tranquil consciousness.

A few minutes more the blissful unknowing continues, reading irises stuck in the sceptic description of a man able to do what wants to be done in case becoming a writer does not work out.

A few minutes more the wind has the possibility to play freely with locks without it being noticed nor minded.

Then all changes with the approach of the awaited vehicle. 

The loudness comes back with the bus.

And an ink-black leather jacket.

[madsfoxwritings]

I’m Sorry

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Haruno Sakura Fandom: Naruto Genre: Romance/Angst Rating: G

"I'm sorry."

"I don't care. Get lost." She pushed past him roughly, shaking off his hand that had gripped her wrist. She refused to accept his apology this time. It was no use – he would lead her into the vicious cycle over and over again.

He let his arm fall limply to his side, his throat dry as he struggled to hang onto his defensive wall of indifference. He knew that she knew it was breaking him too, that this was final. He wanted to tell her things, things he had never told her before, yet he knew the next few words he said would be the last he would say to her. Ever.

"I'm really, truly proud of you," he choked out, holding back the tears already forming a blurry mist in his vision.

She didn't turn back, she didn't look back – she didn't even pause in her steps. She just walked away.

Big droplets of tears flowed gently down her cheeks, her lips trembling as she bit her bottom lip hard. She forced her eyes shut, holding back the wail she wanted to scream out. She opened her eyes again, now turning a forlorn gaze heavenwards. The sky was crying with her today, the bleak rain clouds hovering ominously over her as the rain pelt softly against her skin.

She missed him.

It was already half a year gone – a time too long for even her anger to remain. It had dissipated after two weeks since she walked away, though he had been long gone on a solo mission by the time she squashed her ego and walked up to his apartment to apologize. She had stood out in his balcony, as she always did, and had tapped softly on the glass panel. She had waited under the heavy rain that soaked her thoroughly before leaving dejectedly. She had dragged her feet back to her own apartment, before being summoned to the Hokage's office to resume her duties. Seeing Sakura's wretchedness made Tsunade frown in apprehension, before informing her apprentice that her former sensei had left on a solo mission. She had said it so brusquely, as though in sympathy for the absent man instead of the woman that stood in disappointment in front of her – Sakura remembered so well that it still made her flinch as she recalled it. She had resumed her duties soon after, only taking the time off regularly to frequent the memorial stone that he had visited every day – perhaps hoping to see him there, should he return from his mission.

She laughed bitterly, stifled by her choked tears.

His scent was still fresh in her memories. It smelled of the forest, the rain, his dogs and everything else that was part of him. She had clung to that scent vehemently, always trying to duplicate it on herself so she would not need to sniff his pillow she had stolen on those aching nights. It was to no avail, and even the slightest smell on his pillow was now slowly overwhelmed with hers. She bit her lip, remembering the light traces of his fingers on her lips. His touches were always lingering, as though he was contemplating just how long the moments would last on all those times. The light caresses on her cheeks were always accompanied with a faraway, dreamy gaze, as though he was walking in a dream he did not want to be rid of. She ran her fingers through her tangled mess of hair, feeling the sensations of his fingers brushing through her hair as they snuggled up in bed with each other on cold nights. His brushes were always so delicate and soft, as though he thought her hair was as fragile as it looked.

She wrapped her arms around her torso, trying to make herself feel as though he was the one holding her now. The rain now diluted her tears, and she felt thankful that it was so. It felt as though she could release her pain freely, now that the rainwater washed away her tears. The rain gradually subsided, and she cursed the skies for its fickleness – though inwardly, she knew she was cursing herself for hurting him with her impatience.

It was time to stop mourning for the man – he was not dead yet, and she wanted it kept that way. She got up slowly, and ambled weakly towards the Hokage tower. She trudged reluctantly up the stairs leading up to her teacher's office, grudging the fact that her ritual was cut short – though she was late for their meeting. She allowed a small smile at the reminder, knowing that Kakashi's habit had taken a hold in her now. It was rare for her to smile nowadays – though all that mattered to her was that he could still make her smile, even if he was not around.

She pushed the door open after being permitted to enter and bowed as she greeted her teacher.

"Good afternoon, shishou." A clipped polite greeting, devoid of any cheerful emotions.

Her teacher did not reply. Instead, she received an appraising stare mixed with a faint grimness. She waited patiently for some sort of explanation, now no longer excited to be assigned any task. She was a sorry, empty shell of her former self – always masking her loneliness with a fake smile that did not reach her eyes. Perhaps it had been a half hour, or an hour – she was not sure – that her shishou kept her silence.

The silence was broken when the older woman cleared her throat. Still fixing a cautious stare on her young apprentice, she began, "I have news."

Whatever left of her joy was chained into a bundle and thrown away out of her soul; a sense of foreboding taking over her. 

"Yes?" Her voice had gone unsteady, slightly cracking as she anticipated the worst.

"We will engrave his name," her shishou choked slightly, tears forming in her eyes, "on the memorial stone in two days' time." 

She bit her lip, her gaze now cast downwards. Big, fat droplets fell on the sheaf of documents in front of her.

Without a word, Sakura walked out of the office. Her expression was inscrutable, unreadable even to the best of the shinobi used to looking underneath the underneath. Her eyes were empty of their shine as they fixed a straight stare ahead. Her lips were set in a taut, straight line. Her shoulders were rigid, not slumped, though her arms hung listlessly by her sides. The color had drained from her cheeks, enhancing the dead look in her eyes as her feet took on a mind of its own and led her to somewhere familiar.

She squeezed her eyes shut, letting her knees buckle weakly as she knelt in front of the memorial stone.

A hand went up limply to her chest, and she clutched the cloth desperately, feeling the faint heartbeat beneath it. Thoughts ran wildly through her mind, thoughts that her mind had scrounged for just to redirect her raw emotions from being released as it should. Her heartbeats would maybe stay faint for as long as she lived outside of the battlefield. It would never thump wildly against her chest anymore just like it would when he was so close to her, now that his body would be six feet under. It would never skip a beat anymore now just like it would when his voice had dropped into a hoarse, needy whisper, now that his voice had lost itself in the winds. She would never feel her heart sinking anymore just like it would when she anxiously awaited his homecoming from missions, now that he was lost forever.

The big heart he had loved so much could not contain the morose thoughts anymore. It started as small sobs, which then made her entire body wrack with heavy, violent sobs. Sobs turned into soft crying, and eventually became a strangled wail. Her fist drove into the muddy soil beneath her, splashing mud onto her clothes.

The news had gripped her with such cold intensity – she was tempted to discard it as a dream, a cruel joke played in her subconscious. Her mind knew better, and a cold voice crept up into her thoughts, telling her it was real. He was really gone, truly dead – he had died for the ones he loved, to protect them all, to protect her. She beat a fist against the unforgiving stone, knowing slightly that he too had done the suicidal assignment to alleviate the pain. What was she to do now – now that there were no words of forgiveness for her to offer in return for the undoing of his death? Thoughts of regret wistfully clouded her mind.

What she would give just to hear his voice again – to hear him chide her when she did not listen to his orders, to listen to the tenderness his voice had adopted when he called her name, and even to hear his silly excuses for being late to their dates. She would give anything to turn back time – to tell him that she forgave him, to heal the pain she had caused him, and just to look into his obsidian eye that would wink at her in return. The moments they had shared in the past seemed so distant from her that it felt so unreal, as though it had happened in a different lifetime. She had not taken them for granted, though it did slipped her mind on that day that she walked away from him.

It was a dangerous thing to wish for – the ability to turn back time – and she knew it. She knew that he had seen this coming, feeling bitter with herself as she recalled his very last words before she left. Heartfelt words had choked out of his lips – words that were almost unheard of, coming from him. She leaned her forehead on the stone, tracing lightly an empty space that would be carved with his name.

He was really gone – and there was nothing she could do to take away the pain. She loved him, and was loved in return by the man. There will be no other, none that would ever take his place – her last promise to him.

A/N 2: I wrote this 7 years ago, still new and fresh to the Kakasaku fandom, and when I was most vulnerable. I just want to thank everyone who had read this story on FF.net, and your support has been incredible. I will be returning to writing very soon, now that I’m done with my studies and heading into the working world. I didn’t edit anything in here, particularly because this piece was my most personal, and that I thought it is in the best form I can possibly imagine.

Crossposted at: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11844966

[halfblood-fiend]

So I just wanna make a huge, and I mean massive, thank you post for all y’all that came out and supported me during my liveblogging of finishing The Calling over the last couple days. It’s honestly been the best part of being stuck in bed sick and it actually made me want to finish that bound--forgive my language here--piece of crap. (If you wanna see the posts, you can find it all under #Fiend attacks The Calling and spoilers are tagged, just in case.)

For anyone who’s interested in me doing it again, the other two DA books I haven’t read right now are Asunder and The Masked Empire and you can let me know via ask, message, reply, or whatever, which one should be done next (though I think I know which one might win).

If you replied to any of my posts and didn’t get a shitty personal reply I tried to do through mobile, I am literally gonna put them all here, under the cut (and if you have the time, I feel like it’s worth looking through all of them because some people said interesting things and I like to think I can be pretty funny with my responses. lol). Lmao.

Thanks for enjoying this mess of a book with me! When I first started venting my frustrations, I low-key thought I’d be slamming a book everyone loved. Lol. I’m glad I was wrong.

@inuy21 replied to her own reply post:  I’ll have to give Stolen Throne a look to see if will change my mind Loghain. Though I wasn’t really a fan of his in the game nor Maric’s in The Calling. And it’s Empress Celene, right? LOL

Nah, that book is actually called The Masked Empire. It’s the one where allegedly Celene and Michel de Chevin are The Worst™.

Anyways, do at least take a look at Stolen Throne because Loghain is 15/10 in that, honestly. I hated him too until I read that book and now I’m in love.

@thexann replied to Why do I hate David Gaider’s book’s so much?:  The only good thing his books did for me were make me unconditionally love Loghain, but even then, his writing was so difficult to give a damn about I skipped around the ENTIRETY of The Stolen Throne, read all the good Loghain bits, then never picked it up again!

Same! High five for solidarity sisterrr!!

Skipping around, that was smart. That could’ve saved me a lot of Maric moaning and complaining as he destroyed not one, not two, but THREE of his friends’ lives. WHat a swell guy!

@october-rosehip (I hate it when it doesn’t TAG PEOPLE!!) replied to the same post: Dude needs an editor, BAD. He also suffers from… severe need for someone to hide his thesaurus. He’s written about people sitting redolently, smoking *kohl*, and once, three elves were playing HARPSICHORDS in a town center. Outdoors. Also, pacing issues. Dude has great ideas, but he’s not a novelist. Or historian.

He does! I’m surprised he didn’t have one? Isn’t everyone supposed to have one? Or did it not matter because he was riding on the coattails of a successful game of a hopeful franchise?

But yeah, I noticed that too. There’s overly conspicuous complex words, like he actually went into Word processor and tried to find the biggest word he could to replace his plain English ones. Causing no one to understand him. I mean harpsichords?? outside?? Has he ever SEEN a harpsichord??? Gaider wtf man... I look forward to that nonsense.

@cullenstairshenanigans replied to Dusty. Everything is “dusty” with this guy.: I quit after the 20th use of “the man”

Oh yeah. I saw that. He was notorious for that.

Don’t be afraid! Use people’s names! Do you realize how many men there were in this book?? Especially at the beginning?! Use. Names. There’s some free writing advice for ya, Gaider.

@october-rosehip replied to the same post: Oh, I guess someone DID steal his thesaurus.

Lmao. Only when it wasn’t convenient. Not only did he use “dusty” for everything, he also believes that the only noise swords make is a “clatter,” be it a “dull clatter” or a “clear clatter” (literally both phrases he used in the same scene!) Not to mention that he also thinks warriors just drop their swords willy nilly all over the place, as if they aren’t the most important singular possession to a SWORDSMAN.

@oh-thatcal  replied to “She had never spoken of this to anyone.”:  if you wanna rage, just read The Masked Empire… OTL these books are both good and awful at the same time.

I am actually rather beside myself with excitement tbqh.

@bombasticpro replied to  Oh god now Maric is doing it too…: Dat dab

Now I’m not sure if I’m Young and Hip™ enough to understand this correctly, but I’ll go out on a limb and say, “Yeah, I know right??”

Maric and Fiona bled their hearts out to each other for literally no reason. Do real life people actually do this? I don’t go around spilling my deepest secrets. Maybe it’s just that no one has gained enough Approval to unlock my Tragic Backstory™ yet.

@oblivionscribe replied to Maric has been stabbed by several spears...: For all the head trauma Maric received, I’m surprised he lasted long enough to sire sons.

Me too. I seem to recall that this isn’t new either, that Maric was often receiving head trauma in The Stolen Throne too!

What I would like to know is why is no one wearing a fucking helmet???

@thecrazyfereldan replied to I think that I’m starting to see one...: His writing also tends to be rather dry.

TRUE. It’s hard to read. Like, I read his story the way I would eat beef jerky: slowly, in near agony because I like the taste but hate the texture, and with my jaw aching because I had to chew so god damn much. And in the end, it’s for what? A steak tastes better, is easier to eat and is still beef.

(the steak in this metaphor is a DA game btdubbs, lol)

But seriously, it goes right up there with show and don’t tell. Telling only takes me to Snoozeville.

@october-rosehip replied to the same post: Dislocated thumbs continue to dislocate for MONTHS if you keep using your hands. Guess how I know. Also? Putting them back in hurts just as much as putting them out in the first place.

Oh, yikes!! I am so sorry there, friend. But, yeah, I can see that because my jaw still gives me trouble. Not that it redislocates, but it’ll pop sometimes and it HURTS.

So that means that Duncan would have been in WAY more trouble by doing that to himself. Imagine being a rogue who’s thumbs kept dislocating??? Especially when he was trying to pick the locks on their manacles again in the climax?

And when Duncan popped his thumbs back in, all he said about it was that second quote (“He took a moment to get used to the stabbing pain…”). That was it.

Gaider, I can only suspend my disbelief so far, bro.

@oh-thatcal replied to @starlanellfic ‘s post about my liveblogging:  Do all the books!

Dude... I kinda want to...

Although I wouldn’t do Stolen Throne again only because it would probably crumble into me fangirling over Loghain which no one, except maybe @@element-104 , would want to see. lol.

@ma-sulevin  replied to Okay, so, as much as I sorta like Duncan...: My personal favorite part is when the mage asks him about Grey Warden stamina and he’s like “uhh….. YES yes we do have that let me show you”

*snorts* omg YES. It was classic! Predictable, but classic, and I was totally willing to accept that from him. xD

@ma-sulevin replied to WHY DID SHE KISS HIM I AM SO MAD... : It literally made no sense

I’m still mad. I haven’t gotten over it. There was no romance until that happened and even that was forced af. Not one piece of it felt real. At least I can thank the Maker that he didn’t write about Fiona “boobing boobily down the stairs” or any of that other male gaze nonsense.

@thesecondsealwrites replied to Duncan has an obsidian dagger. Smh.:  \o/

Bless you, PonySeal. I feel like you might’ve already figured this was a peeve of mine. Lol.

@queenofeire replied to the same post:  0/10 against any kind of armor Hella sharp for 5-10 cuts then pretty much useless….

^^Yup, basically.

Granted, it ended up being magical? But if that mage didn’t enchant it with an Unbreakable spell, chances are it’s still useless. Fite me.

And @fenriswaifu? You’re welcome. :) Sorry if I ruined your Aesthetic.

@valammar replied to Gaider keeps using the word “almost.”:  I’m still cackling at the last line of this post.

Look, I’m still VERY angry about obsidian knives, okay?? lmao. Volcanic glass IS GLASS, it’s not ALMOST GLASS. It is.

It is.

@amarmeme replied to Well that resolved neatly...:  yea, that book was… not my cup of tea

Mine either. Of the three DA books I have now read, The Caling is my least favorite. And by least favorite, I mean it was awful. Sorry to those who love it.

And that’s all te replies for now. LMao.

[eldaryadiary]

                                       •    A L O Y S I A       G R A C E      C A A N   •

                                                                          ♏

                               Let it go || No ordinary girl || Postcard ||  Siren call ||  S.E.X

                                                               •    E A R T H    •

    Aloysia was born on Earth in 199O. Nigel and Olivia Caan were loving parents. She grew up by the sea, dreaming that she was a mermaid.

  Aloysia used to be very shy. She couldn’t talk to people. Some of her teachers almost never heard the sound of her voice. She was even shy around some members of her family. As a consequence, she didn’t have many friends. Most of her school mates thought that this little introverted girl was kind of boring with her books and her fear of doing something wrong that could put her into trouble.

  During high school, people were more violent and mocking. They critisized her for her weight, her black clothes, her seriousness concerning school. Tired of this situation, helped by a great teacher who gave her more self-confidence, she spoke up. She was not afraid of doing something wrong anymore. When someone criticized her, she would stand for herself. She became agresive and would hate basically everyone.

  She left her native town to go to University to study History. She found herself there. People wouldn’t mind about her clothes, her passions. She dated a guy, Adam, for a few months. He left her because for another girl. He didn’t want to hurt her and she would prefer that to him cheating on her. After this, she would work, work, work, not wanting to lose time with friendships or romantic relationships.

                                                           •    E L D A R Y A    •

  She jumps into the circle during a walk in the forest. She is 22. She wakes up in a cave, on the beach. She’s connected to this place. It’s called the Lunar Cave. She’s arrested by the Guard and put into jail. She escapes but is arrested once again. What can I say ? Aloysia is not good with discretion. Valkyon helps her getting her things back, he tells her that it’s not a dream and that she can’t go home. She doesn’t listen to him. He’s upset. They yell at each other. She escapes and spend three days in the forest. That’s where she meets Solal, a young Becola.

  In short, Valkyon gets Aloysia back to the G.Q. because he can’t let someone in the forest, it’s too dangerous. He would not forgive himself if she died because he is the one who let her go. He takes her into the Obsidian Guard. She’s brave, strong. It’s either that or she go back to jail so she has no choice. The life in Eldarya is a nightmare. She’s not sporty. She loves eating but it’s war so food is rationed. People are awful to her. They insult her, some of them are violent. So she fights back. Ezarel is probably the worst. Always insulting her, dragging her down, lacking of respect towards her family and her origines.

  Time goes by, so many things happen. I have a 169-pages Word file full of her adventures. So I’m gonna try be brief. She discovers her powers on water a year after she arrived in Eldarya. They appeared because she was closer to the Trident than she was on Earth. She is a mermaid but she spent too much time on Earth so she can’t have a tail and everything. Three years after, a sea witch gave her the ability to turn into a mermaid whenever she wants. She puts this power into the pendant Valkyon gave her years ago. She has to wear it to become a mermaid.

  There are so many things I could tell, once again. How she almost died several times, her romance with Valkyon, the war, the moment she could go home but chose to stay, her fights with this stupid elf, her son, how she left the Guard to become a Guardian of the Ocean. But it would take days and no one cares.

                                                  •    P H Y S I C A L     T R A I T S   •

»•» Her eyes are gray.

»•» Event though she’s an Obsidiann she has no abs ans she’s a bit chubby. How ? No one knows. Her weight is the least of her problems. She has learnt to embrace her body. There are some days where she stays in bed because she has ❝ nothing to wear ❞ and she has a ❝ ugly face ❞. Anyway, she’s fine with her body and is not ashamed of it.

»•» Her tail when she’s in her mermaid form is in a sand-like colour.

»•» When she first turned into a mermaid, marks appeared on the inside of her forearms. One stands for her human part [this kind of circle representing the Earth with ray of sunshine that can only be seen if you live on dry land] and one stands for her mermaid part [the trident is obviously the symbol of merpeople].

                                                    •    R A N D O M     F A C T S   •

»•»  Never tell her that something is impossible or that she can’t do it. You will get a ❝ hold my drink ❞ and she will do anything to prove you wrong. Whatever it costs.

»•» When she was young, on Earth, her neighbour taught her the Hawaiian language. Now she uses it as a way to insult people without them knowing it.

»•»  She would do anything for her friends now. Cassia is like a sister to her. She would kill for her, Ty and Pâris in particular. She would have never thought she could care that much about people before she landed in Eldarya. But don’t expect her to tell them out loud that she loves them. It’s too embrassing.

»•» She loves singing. She sings all the time. When it was clear she was stuck in Eldarya, she wrote down the lyrics of all the songs she remembered so that she would not forget them.

»•» Valkyon calls her Ali.

                                                          •     N O T E S    •

  Her name comes from Aloysia Weber.

  To begin this post I put some songs that are related to her story, some songs she would love. I associate Let it Go with the day Valkyon proposed to her. No ordinary girl is there because H2O just add water is the show that gave me the idea of her being a mermaid. Postcard is about what she went through as a human in the Guard. Siren call is the song related to the moment of the story where Aloysia and Valkyon fights to protect the Trident to save their son, Caleb. S.E.X... Good Lord, she would love this song ! She has such a dirty mind !

  Phoebe Tonkin inspires me for this character. Her facial expressions are gold, especially when she plays Hayley Marshall in TO. That’s exactly Aloysia.

  There is also a huge part of her that comes from me. Her character, her attitude toward people, most of her story, the way she dresses. In many ways, Ali is me. She has a lot more of courage and strength than me and I admire this in her. When I hear a song I often think ❝ Ali would love that ❞. When I meet someone I think ❝ Oh, Ali would hate you... me too tbh ❞. When I go shopping I think ❝ Ali could kill for this dress ❞. She has been part of my life for three years now. It’s not the most original character ever. It has nothing special. But I love her anyway.

  Well, that is a very long post ! I wanted to practise my written English because I never do that. So I thought that Ali would be a good topic. I’m planning on doing this with my other OCs. I like talking about them even though no one is interested in this, it helps me realise some things about my story that make no sense sometimes.

  My vision of Eldarya is pretty different from the canon thing. I created all sorts of legends and skipped almost everything that the episodes told us about this world and the characters.   ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

TOM | PÂRIS | CASSIA | TY | JED

[distortedaura-blog]

Just a Story...

“Sometimes you have to stop still in order to move on,

Sometimes the songs you hear are just the songs of your own,

Sometimes you can’t be the one to fall apart,

Sometimes you have to pain your body to numb the one in your heart.”

Has it really been ten years?

Ten years without her?

He turned the question around in his mind for the hundredth time. Outside, the winter sun had long since set, the greyish sheen of fog visible through the window.

Friendship- they say, is a fragile thing, handle with care. But care was the only thing that had always eluded him. He couldn’t see her the second time they met. They were separated by a thick veil, dark as obsidian.

And then again, he couldn’t see the tiny crack that had appeared in their friendship. It had come silently through the shades of time and like a single drop of venom that races down the veins , it had shattered all ties. The glass sculpture bore a gaping hole.

He’d tried to shrug it off, to soldier on manfully- because hey, that was the only thing Robert Frost and seven years in Afghanistan had taught him- Life. Goes. On.

He still remembers her laugh, her high-pitched voice that used to chatter so cheerfully, about her dreams about ‘their’ future. Their.

As a child, Kabir was THE bad boy of their middle-class neighborhood. Always the one to get into fights and brawls, the first one out in the streets during Holi, the first guy to yell around celebrating another of India’s thrashing of Pakistan.

Aditi was not his opposite. Hell, this isn’t one of those clichéd good-girl-falls-for-bad-boy type sappy romances. Rather, she was his partner-in-crime. With three piercings in each ear and a shocking red bandanna, she was the sort of girl parents warned their children to steer clear of.

He remembered the time they had sneaked up to Mahesh uncle’s house to pinch laddoos. She had clutched his hand and said, “Don’t leave me if we get caught.”  

“Nah”, He’d replied with an arrogant smirk, “I’ll marry you and hitch you along.”

The next day they had both fallen sick from a laddoo overdose.

Kair went off to join the army when he was eighteen. The locality was relieved. His visits to his parents, thrice a year were not looked forward to. Kabir’s parents died a couple of years later, and his visits stopped altogether.

The bad boy of the para was gone. With newer thugs baring their fangs, the bad boy legend of the neighborhood crawled into a tiny hellhole to die a quiet death.

He came back though, exactly three years later, with a limp replacing the spring in his step, and an inexplicable hollowness usurping the glimmer in his eyes.

Aditi had had her own generous share of misfortunes. She’d been through a failed marriage- with her in-laws brutally punishing her for the double-D crimes –too little dowry and too many daughters.

With her two daughters she had come back to her father’s house, and here’s where she met Kabir again. She had never thought that they’d meet again. Because hey, this sort of reunions- meeting your childhood….. love after all these years, it happens only in movies and fairy tales, and the tomboy in her thirties knew that whatever her life might have been, it was certainly not a fairy tale.

Fate had smiled at her. Not the kind, generous type. But the one your enemy has when he knows he has trapped your heart- just a little force and it’ll break again. She got back Kabir and that year itself- on Dussera, her father bid this world a sad goodbye.

I know what you’re thinking- what the hell? Is this story all about death? Man this is so so depressing.

My friend here’s the truth- Life is nothing more than a sugar-coated lie. A bitter pill, that reeks of poison and invariably kills you in the end.

In the fading light of dusk, he tightly held on to her as they stood before the funeral pyre, his other hand clasping the four-year old Aisha. Little Zara was  fast asleep in her mother’s arms, blissfully unaware of the teardrops falling on her face. The four of them were standing together. Everything had felt so right right then. But all Kabir could see was an endless ocean of black. The light of this world had long since left his eyes.

He knew he couldn’t be the one to fall apart. He had to stop his tears because he had to wipe hers. He couldn’t show his emotions because someone stupid had once said-“Boys don’t cry.”

Aditi did not stay for long either. Leaving four-year old aisha and ten months old Zara in his hands, she too took her leave. Leukemia, she knew she had it coming.

And there she was- a member of the stars. The miracle he kept hoping for never really arrived. Ten years have passed since then.

He exhaled and looked out of the window. A storm was brewing. Winds blew hard, someone hit a six in the alley- for the sound of breaking glass was preceded by cheers and followed by neighboring auntie’s ear-splitting yells. Earlier, he used to be on the receiving side.

The ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. The dull throb in his chest was starting to become a permanent ache. He opened a drawer and pulled out a yellowed, well-thumbed sheet of paper and began reading for the umpteenth time.

Dear Kabir,

Can you forgive me?

He laid the letter on the desk. His throat ached, making it difficult to breathe. The overhead light was making a strange prism of his unbidden tears. Composing himself, he started again.

In a world that I seldom understand, there are winds of destiny that blow when we least expect them. Sometimes they gust with the fury of a hurricane; sometimes they barely fan one’s cheek. But they often do bring a future that is impossible to ignore.

I was wrong. Wrong, to ignore what was obvious. Like a cautious

traveler, I tried to protect myself from the wind and lost my soul instead.

I was a fool to let you go, for in the evenings when a storm came raging and Aisha used to cry, I wanted you to be the one holding us tightly together.

When Ved died, I wanted you to be the one comforting me. Is it possible that you know how I feel without you? When I dream, I like to think you do.

We were destined to be together.

But alone in my house, I have come to realize that destiny can also hurt a person, and I wonder why—out of all the people in all the world I could ever have loved—I had to fall in love with someone who went far far away. If this letter ever finds you Kabir, just know that I have and will always love you.

Aditi.

She gave him something he’d treasure forever. Sighing, he looked into the window panes, and from the misty reflections- Aditi’s eyes stared back at me.

[elaine-white-author]

The “Friends & Enemies” series is a new development. I began with the idea of a MM romance surrounding two small town gangs, in a sort of West Side Story setting with a love-hate relationship between two opposing gang members.

The story, Rugged Heart, was already ten years old when I picked it up at the end of 2017 and dusted it off for major plot rewrites. I mixed in another really old story, called Desperate, where a young man witnessed a mob shooting and ended up being blackmailed into a relationship with the gangster. That helped me focus on the love-hate aspect, but I also needed another story, something to tie it all together and be the main focus outside of the relationship. So I picked up a 15 year old story, Sold (a trilogy that has gone through many, many title and plot changes over the years), as well as a story called Kissing Is A Cover, about a young reporter who goes undercover as a gangster’s girlfriend to get a story. Obviously, I made it MM to fit the story I was turning it into. With that all brought together, I added one last ancient story, Between Darkness in Dawn, about a young girl kidnapped in the Congo and brought into the life of a drug gang.

By the time I’d brought it all together, I realised that half of it wasn’t needed, but I picked the pieces I wanted and basically made a hack job of the rest. It sounds brutal, because it is. It took me forever to figure out which parts I really wanted and how they all fit together.

So far, I’m over halfway through book one of a proposed three novel series that focuses on the two gangs introduced in book one: the Skulls and the Crazy Monsters. Here’s a look at the book covers for the series:

~

Now, let’s take a peek at book 1 – The Enemy of My Enemy.

~

What if his only friend was his enemy?

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Dante was raised in a gang environment. He was raised with expectations of taking over the gang, just as soon as he turned of age. But he didn’t want to live his life by the gun, fighting over egos and territory.

At the age of eighteen, he escaped into the army, with the help of the one man who should have been his enemy…Cassius. Leader of a rival gang, he shouldn’t be the only friend Dante has. He shouldn’t be his first crush. He shouldn’t be anything to him, much less the architect of his escape.

So when his military career crashes after two years, Dante is forced to return home to the same pressures, the same expectations and the same dangers he thought he’d left behind. And the only person who can save him from his family legacy is the one man who is more dangerous than all the rest. To Dante’s life…and his heart.

~

Prologue

14th May, 2015

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Dante’s knees quaked, though the school bell releasing them for another day had only just rung. He knew he shouldn’t go, but there was no other way. His family had been part of the Skulls for generations, creating a legacy that went all the way back to when his grandfather and great-grandfather still lived in Tijuana. He couldn’t flake now.

Shrugging his bag over his shoulder, he took a deep breath and headed for the front gates of the school, ready to face the music. Well, not exactly ready, but as ready as he was ever going to be.

He just had to remember to breathe and tell himself how important this was. He needed this experience, even if it might kill him. This would set him up with an ability to endure anything that might follow. Just as long as he made it out alive.

He couldn’t help but heave a sigh as Ryker pushed off the gates and crossed to meet him halfway. Santiago’s little lap dog and his own personal stalker. Still, a strange relief swept through Dante at the fact that he wouldn’t go through this alone. His brother’s best friend would walk him to the location tonight, where the rest of the Skulls would meet them. Until then they were all alone.

“Are you ready for this?” Ryker asked, reaching up to ruffle Dante’s slicked back black hair.

Squinting at his friend, he fixed his hair and gave Ryker a shove. “Course I am. This gang is my past, present and future. This is my birthright,” he admitted, reminding himself that there was no way to back out of this.

He didn’t add that he had no choice, because his big brother, Santiago, was the leader of the Skulls and would rather kill Dante than let him skip out. Since his parents died, Santiago’s father had been his legal guardian, thanks to a less than legit lawyer he kept on the payroll. Leaving Dante a prisoner to his adopted family until he turned twenty-one. Leaving him a prisoner who had no choice but to do what was expected of him.

But, the minute he turned of age, he was getting out of here. The gang, the country; all he really wanted was to get far away from his family.

Without thought, he reached up and grabbed the dog tags around his neck, the ones that had belonged to his father, Hugo. His death had really screwed up everything. At least when he’d been running the Skulls, Dante would have been given a choice of what to do with his future. The moment he died and Santiago’s father, Tomás, took his place, free will and his future had taken a nose dive out the window.

Thinking that did no good. Dante stopped and pressed his hand to his mouth, as the truth washed over him. As much as he tried to pretend, this wasn’t a choice; it wasn’t choosing the lesser of two evils to survive, it wasn’t even doing whatever he had to do to survive. It was cowardice. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want any part of the Skulls. He didn’t want anything to do with the gang, his family, Santiago. It was all a trap, something to keep him towing the line so that Santiago could railroad over him for the rest of his life.

If he did this, he wasn’t buying a temporary reprieve until he could leave once he was twenty-one; he was locking himself into a life he could never escape. He was ruining his promising future with the very real prospect of having a criminal record before he turned twenty-one. Who would want him, then?

Glancing up, he eyed Ryker carefully. He was already part of the Skulls. He was in deep and nowhere close to Dante’s wavelength as to how being a criminal was so not the direction his life should take. He’d wanted Dante in the crew since he was fourteen, but Tomás had been adamant – if Dante was to join, it would be on his eighteenth birthday. Some birthday present that was meant to be.

Hey, little brother, let us kick the shit out of you for your birthday. Then you can thank us, if you survive it.

Yeah, no. Not going to happen.

Dante eyed the street as they walked away from his school and towards his doom. He had to find some way of getting out of this.

His mind whirled with excuses he could use. As they passed a newsagents, he thought he could tell Ryker he had to piss, that he was having jitters and needed to splash his face, or that the anticipation was screwing with his stomach. But then he thought about how Ryker would probably just go into the bathroom with him.

Swallowing down his fear, as they moved increasingly closer to the one thing he would give his life to escape, Dante spotted the perfect opportunity in the unlikeliest place.

Sitting across the road, on a motorbike in a showroom, was the one person that Ryker would stop anything to get to. The one person who made his blood boil and who riled his temper like no one else could manage.

Cassius.

Jesus, Dante had never been happier to see anyone in his life.

Taking a deep breath, he muttered a quiet “Shit” and started walking faster, a sure spark to grab Ryker’s attention. And, sure enough, a hand quickly grabbed his elbow and pulled him to a stop. “Don’t! Didn’t you see him? If you stop me, he’s going to be over here any second,” he argued, pulling the hood of his jumper over his head to pretend that he was hiding from Ryker’s greatest rival.

In truth, Cassius was the only decent person he’d ever met because of the Skulls. Not that he was part of them. Hell, no. Cassius was the leader of a rival street gang, Clever Monsters. It was hardly an original name, but Dante had said the same about his own family’s legacy, so he had no right to judge. Still, he was a decent guy, for all that he was involved in a gang.

Cassius was another one brought into a family legacy, only he had never shunned it. Not like Dante was about to do.

And as Ryker cursed and dragged Dante around the corner into an alleyway, his still roaming gaze – seeking any escape possible – caught onto the best solution. It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t even something he’d ever considered, but it would get him the hell out of here and away from his family.

“Stay here, out of sight. I’m going to deal with this,” Ryker demanded, leaving him, to swagger across the road towards Cassius.

Peeking around the corner, Dante’s eighteen-year-old heart beat like it was fifty years older and about to burst. He hated knowing that he’d sent Ryker to Cassius on purpose, potentially getting one or both of them hurt, but he would pray for forgiveness later. Right now, he had to make sure they were suitably distracted before he made his move. If he moved too quickly, it would all be over and Ryker would know what he’d done.

He watched as Ryker kicked the door of the showroom open, shouting at Cassius for being in ‘their neighbourhood’, as though it was some kind of crime to cross the invisible barrier a street away.

He only just resisted shaking his head at the ego Ryker rarely put on display. Dante turned his attention to Cassius and couldn’t stop the clenching of his gut when his perfect teeth flashed a smile, exposing that adorable gap between his front teeth.

Dante could only curse as he remembered the first time he met Cassius and he flashed that smile at him. He’d been so mesmerised by the sunlight glinting off his silver neck chain that when he finally let his gaze roam over the rest of him, it was his skin, of a deep, rich obsidian that reminded Dante of the precious stones he used to collect as a kid, that had really held him in place.

His life had been sheltered until he was fourteen and they moved to a new neighbourhood, because he’d been bullied at his old school for being different. Everyone in his life had looked the same until they moved. Then Ryker became the only anomaly allowed in his world, with his cool blush of the faintest rose making him stand out amongst the deep chestnut wood of the bar he’d been standing in front of when Dante first met him. Added to the way that his blue eyes popped so clearly out from beneath his almost-white hair, and he couldn’t have been more obviously not from their distinctly Latino neighbourhood.

Cassius had been different in a new way. When he walked into Dante’s world, it suddenly didn’t matter that the kids at school laughing at him or bullied him. He’d moved to escape the bullying, only to walk into a new kind, a more verbal, vicious kind and he’d always been too scared to tell anyone. Until Cassius bumped into him.

~

Writer Wednesday: Friends and Enemies The "Friends & Enemies" series is a new development. I began with the idea of a MM romance surrounding two small town gangs, in a sort of West Side Story setting with a love-hate relationship between two opposing gang members.