#maybe the title changed... like a certain portrait/picture.

[flanneryculp]

14 + 22 for the end of the year asks?

14. favorite book you read this year?

oh man this is hard since i don't keep track of the books i've read.

if we're including nonfiction, i LOVED the complete book of photographing people by michael bussel. i got really into photography last year and this book was the best thing that could have happened to me. it's a super easy read with a lot of fascinating info. i tend to forget a lot of what i read in instructional books, but the way he wrote and explained everything just stuck in my mind.

i can't choose a favorite fiction book, but a couple i read for the first time last year and loved are: aristotle and dante discover the secrets of the universe by benjamin alire saenz, the october country by ray bradbury, the metamorphosis by franz kafka, the picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde, and flowers in the attic by vc andrews (even though i haven't finished it yet).

22. favorite place you visited this year?

i used to not really go to cafes until last spring but my favorite teacher recommended this place just a fifteen minute walk from my house. it's the best place ever. they have so much variety in their menu and it's all delicious. the music is great and not too loud, the atmosphere is relaxed and lovely, the lighting is beautiful. they have an indoor and outdoor seating area, and they're open in the evening! i go there at least twice a week now, and know most of the staff and regulars. :)

end of the year asks!

[spade-riddles]

Submission: Lover rooms = rerecorded eras?

Alright, I’m putting this as a submission, because I may ramble here. 

But if my theory is correct, then the “rooms” in the Lover house don’t just represent certain albums of Taylor’s. They may also actually contain Easter eggs that will only make sense when we get the Taylor’s Version rerecording of each album! 

Am I mad? Maybe. (But we’re all mad here, so who cares.) 

Let’s put on our clown hats and take a deep dive. 

The Orange Room / Games Room / Fearless era 

This is the first room, and already contains some potential hints, even if we may not have recognized them as such at the time. 

First of all: ANAGRAMS. Taylor kicked off the Fearless TV era by scrambling the titles of the bonus tracks as a puzzle for fans to solve. An anagram is a word game, like Scrabble. Which is what Taylor and her lover are playing on the ceiling. 

We can take the “hidden words” / “word games” thing even further, by saying the “Willam Bowery” pseudonym, and the whole debacle over Toe being given a producer’s Grammy credit after the fact, are also examples of word games. And PR games. Which is what the orange room is all about. 

We also see the door of the orange room is open a crack. And in front of it are three things. A row of little ducks. What looks like a toy version of a London bus. And a trash can. This last one is right in front of the door, suggesting someone or something is potentially about to be thrown away. 

To have your “ducks in a row” is a saying meaning that you’re prepared and your plans are all set up, ready to be put into action. 

The London double decker bus has a less clear meaning. It could be a reference to Toe. It could be a reference to Taylor’s attendance at the Brit awards. Or it could be a reference to the End Game music video. Maybe it’s not even a bus - my view of it honestly isn’t clear enough to be sure. But I think it is. 

There is also a hamper on the other side of the room, and a crocheted blanket can be seen spilling out of it. This is interesting because Taylor keeps sending hand-made baby blankets to people. It’s a nice gesture but it’s also obviously a PR move, as the recipients post them on social media and show the world. So Taylor is probably doing this for a reason beyond just being sweet. Again, it’s hard to know what the inclusion of the blanket means here. It could just be a reference to all the PR games going on around the baby. Or it could mean that we’re about to see Karlie get a baby blanket too. Again, I don’t know. 

We also just had the release of the “Halfway Out The Door” Fearless chapter, which obviously seems like a metaphor for being halfway “out”. Taylor even called Fearless the “first outing”, and the motif of standing in doorways has been showing up in her promotional materials for a while now. She performed part of her Grammy’s medley while standing in the doorway of a mock cabin, and one of the promotional photos for Folklorevermore was of Taylor standing halfway out of a door, with a sign saying “2 ½” and an arrow pointing towards her. 

I can’t make out more details without hi-res images of the room I can really zoom in on. But already there is some interesting stuff there. 

If this pattern holds true, I wonder if the rest of the rooms contain clues to her upcoming PR rollout? 

If the next album to be released is Speak Now, then does that mean we might get “single” Taylor then? Taylor is shown composing on her own in that room, and Speak Now was the only album she wrote entirely on her own. This is an especially contentious subject given the way Toe (a beard who most likely had absolutely no input on her actual work) has been credited as a co-writer for her last two albums. Will Speak Now TV see Taylor drop Toe and reclaim her musical integrity? 

What about the 1989 era? In that we see Taylor’s lover jump into the fishbowl with her. Could that be a hint Kaylor might start being seen together again during 1989 TV? 

The Red era room shows Taylor and her lover at a party, but the lover is talking to someone else, while Taylor looks on longingly. Could that mean we get a narrative of Taylor pining for Karlie in that era? You could argue some of the groundwork for that has already been laid, with suggestive, regretful tracks on Folklorevermore, which even Karlie’s detractors think are about the Kaylor relationship. 

Debut era is green, which is the colour of growth, and depicts Taylor playing the drums while her lover hangs a picture of their cat on the wall. This suggests to me that Debut era could be the last era. (There will obviously have to be a delay before Reputation can be recorded.) So after Debut, we may get some forward momentum from Taylor. A lot of us suspect Taylor has another original album in the works. There were rumours of a third album to complement Folklore and Evermore, which would be called Woodvale and have a green colour scheme.

But there are also rumours that Taylor’s next new album will be rock-influenced album she was forced to shelve before Reputation. In LWYMMD Taylor sings “all I think about is karma”. She also depicts herself cutting the wings off a jet plane and spray painting “Reputation” on the side - suggesting her next planned album was something else, and Rep was a pivot. The Taylor who does this is dressed uniquely, in a jumpsuit with a palm fronds patterns. (There are tropical house plants in the green Debut room too.) The theory goes that this next album is called Karma, and there is some evidence that suggests Taylor is still working on it. Taylor did a joint Rolling Stone interview with Paul McCartney, she is rumoured to have worked with Lenny Kravitz recently, and she has now twice collaborated with HAIM. I really feel like we don’t talk about the significance of Taylor playing the drums in that room enough. It’s such an unusual move for her, and to me it suggests she’s hinting at a change in musical style. Going more rock. 

The portrait of the cat also feels important. It feels like a metaphor for something. That Taylor is going to make a statement via her art, unveiling something she’s proud of. Again, I’m not sure what that could be. Taylor’s love of cats has been used before as a hint about her true sexuality, and we do see Ryan Reynolds painting a portrait in the YNTCD music video. So this painting could represent a coming out. But then Taylor’s cats have also been jokingly referred to as her children, most famously in the ME! music video. And recent social media posts have seemed to carry forward the trend of Taylor using her cats as code for her child. The fact that Taylor has three cats, but only one gets a portrait, makes me wonder if it symbolizes Taylor making her child a more visible part of her life / art. 

All of this is just me theorizing. And obviously, the activity in the rooms shifts over the course of the video, so I could be missing or misinterpreting things. But I think there could be something to this theory. I’d love to hear other people’s thoughts, or get some eagle eye screen caps of the video. I can never zoom in far enough and I know there are probably more clues hidden away in it. 

[scabopolis]

Congrats on 600 followers!!!! How about Logan/Veronica and "Are you doubting my acting skills?" and/or any one of your 76 Danielle/Henry modern AUs?

Oh, Sarah, I’d do anything for you! I will eventually write a Danielle/Henry modern AU and it shall be dedicated to you, but for now, here is some Logan/Veronica friends to lovers inspired fake dating setup shenanigans.

--- Title: look at me like you like me Fandom: Veronica Mars Pairing: Logan/Veronica (side Wallace/Parker) Other Characters: Wallace, Parker, a frequent switching of tenses b/c this is barely edited.  Additional Tags: Should be a multichapter probably, friends to lovers (or idiots to friends to lovers??), fake dating shenanigans, Wallace sees all and knows all Word Count: ~1,800 ---

Sitting at brunch, her plate piled high with pancakes, Veronica Mars wonders just how long her best-friend thought he could get away with this. Logan Echolls (said best-friend) is currently walking slowly back and forth in front of the restaurant as he talks on his phone. He isn’t speaking, which means his mother is in the middle of a persuasive monologue. And everyone at their table knows what that means. 

“Charity gala?” Wallace asks. 

“My money’s on a distant relative’s wedding,” Parker says. 

“His parent’s anniversary is coming up,” Veronica says. “Could be their own party.” 

“What will they celebrate?” Wallace asks. “Ten years of sleeping in separate rooms and ignoring one another’s affairs?” 

“Regardless, I’m ready,” Parker says. 

Okay. Apparently Veronica’s isn’t the only one thinking about Logan’s go-to family event strategy. “You think he’ll ask you?” 

Parker frowns as she takes a sip of her coffee. “Why wouldn’t he?” 

Veronica draws a line in the air, connecting Wallace and Parker. “Well, for one, you’re married now.” 

“The people at these parties don’t know that,” Parker answers. 

The woman has a point. Veronica turns to Wallace. “And you’re okay with this?” 

“We’re living on two teacher’s salaries. If some wealthy man wants to be my wife’s platonic sugar daddy, who am I to stop him?” 

“I wanted to buy a new dress for your brother’s graduation anyway,” Parker says. 

“See! Perfect plan.” Wallace and Parker seal their agreement with a kiss and Veronica focuses on her pancakes. She cuts off a large bite with more force than strictly required and shovels the pancakes into her mouth. 

She isn’t sure why this whole conversation needles her. Something about Parker’s certainty, Veronica supposes. That it is going to be Parker who Logan calls on. To be fair, Parker and Logan’s arrangement pre-dates Veronica’s friendship with either of them. 

By the time Veronica met Parker their first year of grad school, Parker and Logan had been friends for four years. The pattern wherein Parker pretended to be Logan’s girlfriend at any and all society events his mother required him to attend was already well-established. Even after Veronica and Logan met, and it was quickly evident the two of them were destined to be platonic soulmates for the rest of their lives, it was still Parker that Logan turned to for help in these situations. Which, fair. Parker possesses levels of grace which Veronica can never hope to achieve. 

Veronica is much more apt to give a Hollywood director in his fifties judgey facial expressions when he introduces her to his barely legal wife. (A real thing that happened at an Echolls family BBQ. At least it still makes Logan laugh all these years later.)

It just didn’t occur to Veronica that it would always be Parker. Especially now that Parker is married. What is going to happen when she and Wallace decide to have a baby? How will they prevent word of Logan Echolls’ pregnant girlfriend from making the tabloid rounds? 

No. This is ridiculous. 

“She’s definitely not listening,” Wallace says, disapprovingly. 

“Some sort of fugue state?” Parker suggests. 

“Could be.” 

Veronica sighs. “What are you two talking about?”

“I wanted to know if it was all pancakes in general you seek to destroy, or if this one in particular had done something to upset you?” 

Her first instinct is to glare at Wallace. And then at Parker when she sniggers. Introducing the two of them to one another is the worst decision she’s ever made. But then she looks down at her plate. Sure enough, at some point she traded in eating her pancakes for cutting them into smaller pieces and then smushing them into the maple syrup. They no longer resemble an edible object.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Sure,” Wallace says, taking a well-timed sip of his coffee. His expression is all smug and knowing. 

Veronica is saved from additional Wallace stares and Parker sniggers by the return of Logan. He slides his phone into his blazer pocket and sits down beside Veronica, resting his arm on the back of Veronica’s chair. This is nothing new. Being best-friends with Logan means being comfortable with his rather tactile nature. But the look Logan’s action invites from Wallace is new. Veronica wants to spit at him. (Wallace. Not Logan.) 

(Portrait of grace, indeed.)

“What happened here?” Logan asks, gesturing to Veronica’s pancakes. 

“Nothing,” Veronica says. “What happened out there?” 

Logan’s fingers still from where he is lightly tracing the contours of her shoulder. “My mom and dad are renewing their vows.” 

For a moment all movement at their table ceases as they each take in this information. This despite Veronica's keen awareness of the fact that her guess was eerily close to being right. 

“I’m sorry. What?” she asks.

“That was about my reaction,” Logan says. “Want my bacon?” 

“Yes, please. They can’t be serious.” 

Logan slides his slices of bacon onto Veronica’s plate. “Serious about drumming up some positive PR, absolutely. Aaron was spotted looking a little too friendly with a married co-star. So, he and mom are going on a romantic getaway to Italy. When they get back they’ll do a backyard vow renewal.” 

“Logan—” 

The man in question holds up a hand, stopping Parker’s softly spoken entreaty. 

“No. I can’t do the talking about it thing right now. I can’t feel anything about it right now. What I need is a wedding date.” 

“Of course,” Parker rushes to answer. “Just tell me when.” 

“The weekend of June 11th.” 

“Absolutely. Deal,” Parker says, nodding enthusiastically. “Consider it—,” she trails off, her gaze somewhere over Veronica’s shoulder. 

“Consider it, what?” Logan asks.

“—Not something I can do.”  

“Why not?”

“That’s graduation weekend,” Parker explains. “I’m the faculty speaker.” 

“I’ll buy you shoes, too.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Logan says. “This way I can get very drunk and not feel bad about it.” 

Logan’s arm returns to the back of Veronica’s chair. This time his hand sort of hangs over her shoulder and curls around towards her clavicle. It makes it impossible to ignore details about Logan’s hands — the surprising delicacy of his fingers, the length of them, the weird knot on one of his knuckles. 

“I’ll do it,” Veronica says. 

“Do what?” Logan asks. 

“Be your fake girlfriend for the sham vow renewal. I can do it.” 

She refuses to look at anyone at the table. Not Parker. Sure as hell not Wallace.

(Seriously. Does he know something? Was it that night they all played King’s Cup and the two of them stayed up talking until 3:00 AM? Did she say something she wasn’t supposed to?)

And absolutely not Logan. She scrapes the edges of the smushed pancake with the tines of her fork. 

“Veronica.” Logan’s voice is soft, but she detects a hint of incredulity. Which, maybe she’s wrong and he isn’t her best-friend and he doesn’t know her very well, because it raises her hackles. 

She drops her fork. “What? Why not?” 

“Look, I love you. You know I love you.” Veronica ignores the little skitter of her pulse at Logan’s words, furrows her brow, and concentrates on being offended. “And you know me better than anyone.”

“But?” She prompts. 

“But,” he says, “you don’t really—” 

Before Logan can finish, she comes up with a dozen ways to complete the sentence. There is plenty she doesn’t have —the class, the patience, the height, the sweetness, the glamor, the��

“—look at me like you like me,” Logan finishes. 

“Wait. What?” Veronica’s eyes dart from Logan to Wallace to Parker. Neither one of them appear surprised by Logan’s words. In fact, Parker is faintly nodding in agreement. “Of course I like you. You’re my favorite person.” She thinks about this. “When you’re not being a total asshole.” 

“I know that. But, your face makes it look like you want to slap me most of the time.” 

“Because I do.” 

“It’s just not the most conducive to convincing my mother to not set me up with the daughter of whichever producer she is trying to impress.” 

“I’ll change my face.” 

“Change it?” 

“I can look like I like you.” 

“Really?” 

“I’ve been in love before, you know.” Veronica’s hackles are now standing at full attention. “Are you doubting my acting skills?”

“I would never,” Logan says. 

“Good. Because I could be the sweetest goddamned fake girlfriend you’ve ever had.” Veronica turns to Parker. “No offense.” 

“None taken.” 

“I’ll even use pet names. Schmoopsie. Snuggle muffin. Sweet cheeks. What’s your preference?” 

“My preference is none of them.” 

Still, despite his words, Logan seems to consider it. Veronica takes the time to nibble on one of the slices of bacon from Logan’s plate. If she isn’t mistaken, Parker and Wallace kept shooting each other, what they probably believe to be, covert glances. What are those glances supposed to mean? Does Parker know something too? Damned married couples with their telling each other things. 

“My mom does love you,” Logan eventually says. 

“See, I already have a leg up,” Veronica says. “And I can absolutely rock a floor length gown.” 

“Can you?” 

“I was on homecoming court senior year.” 

“You were?” She’s not certain which of the voices speaking in unison sound more shocked, Logan’s or Parker’s, but regardless she is deeply offended. She’ll look classy and hot as hell and that will show them. 

“Yeah,” Wallace says, “Keith still has the picture hanging up in his house. It’s hilarious.” Veronica glares at him. “Hilarious, because of how great you look. Obviously.” 

“I don’t want to make you do this,” Logan says.

Veronica doesn’t have time to question why he would make Parker do this but for some reason wants to spare her.  

“Hey.” She reaches up for the hand still draped over her shoulder and laces their fingers together. Logan looks down at her. His eyes are all soft and heavy lidded; like they sometimes get when he’s sleepy. 

(She’s also noticed they can kind of look like that when she’s ranting about a coworker. Or, that one time she helped her dad install a fence and came over to Logan’s place after. Her hands were full of splinters and Logan was so careful and gentle, removing each one with a very expensive pair of tweezers.)

“This is going to suck. Isn’t it?” she asks. 

He nods. “Yeah. I think it will.” 

“Then let me be there for you.” He doesn’t say anything. “I’ll work on my face. Promise.” 

That gets him to crack a smile. “If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure.” 

“Then great.”

“Great.”

“Did I just get replaced?” Parker asks. 

Veronica shrugs. “I like nice shoes too, you know.” 

Logan gives her hand a squeeze. 

Oh.��Look at that. She didn’t even notice they were still holding hands.

[timextoxhajima]

Love Me A Little Less: Chapter 2 - Auction

LOVE ME A LITTLE LESS CHAPTER MASTERLIST

Member: (3rd person pov) arranged marriage au with Lee Juyeon

Genre: angsty wangsty

Taglist: @hyunvelies​ 

“You no longer own me.”

The guppies in the tank that spans nearly half the space of the wall flush around, their brightly colored and flared tails gently wading in the water. Juyeon gently taps on the glass, the yellow guppy swimming towards him instead of away. The shelves are stacked with books on marine life and nature, posters of the Northern Lights dawn the walls if they weren’t covered in the latest Apple commercial poster. 

He hears the hurried footsteps before he hears his assistant, who is huffing by the time she’s at the door of his office. “Anything urgent, Miss Young? Forgive me if I imagined I told you that I would be unavailable until after lunch.”

“Sir, I think you should see the news. I know why your parents aren’t in office today.”

“What?” Juyeon finally pulls away from the tank, worried eyes scanning his assistant. She’s well-dressed, has short hair and ruby cheeks. She looks like she belongs in high school. “Anything serious happen? An accident?”

“Um, no, it’s just--”

Ring ring

Lee Juyeon turns to the phone set on his table, then side-eyes Young Jin Seol, feet turning toward the device. 

“No, sir! Wait, before you--”

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Mr Lee. We’re calling from The Board to request your availability tonight for a press conference regarding today’s updates.”

Juyeon scoffs gently, standing straight up and resting a hand on his hip. He turns to look at Jin Seol, eyes filled with caution, as if they meant to say I told you not to pick it up.

“I’m sorry but... what updates?”

“The change in ownership of HERA & ARTEMIS and the marriage.”

There’s a brooding uneasiness in his gut as he processes the heavy word. In the world of corporate under The Board, the word ‘marriage’ is nothing but a contract.

“Remind me who this concerns?”

“You, sir. The marriage between you and Kim Jang Won. The Board would like your presence during a press conference to address the marriage as well as the following change in ownership of HERA & ARTEMIS.”

It’s like Medusa has just stared him straight in the eye, for Juyeon fails to respond in any way possible. 

“Uh... sir? Hello? Mr Lee Juyeon?”

Jin Seol rushes over, able to hear the voice on the other end calling out to him. She grabs the phone and presses it to her ear, eyes plastered to Juyeon, whose lips seemed to be whitening. “Hi, this is Young Jin Seol, Mr Lee’s assistant. He’s not feeling very well now, so I’ll get him to give you a call later regarding the press conference, if that’s alright.”

“Oh, um, of course. But we’d like to have details settled by 1pm later, Miss Young. If it’s not too troubling to relay the message to Mr Lee.”

“Rest assured, he’ll...” Jin Seol watches Juyeon trudge to the couches sitting before the tank, sinking into the soft cushion and pressing his fingers into his closed lids. “I’ll make sure he gets back to you by then.”

Juyeon can feel the skin on his chest stretch when he sucks in a deep breath. The nonsensical thoughts start to crowd his head in the most logical way possible, if that was even possible. Luckily, the only thing he could hear was the bubbling of the oxygen pump in the tank.

He hears Jin Seol return the phone back into the phone set before he finally opens his eyes, vision a little blurred from the pressure of his fingers. 

“I could schedule them in straight away but I have a feeling you’d want to talk to your parents first, Mr Lee.”

Juyeon brings his palms down to his nose and mouth, lips perpendicular to his index finger and his thumbs under his chin as he focuses on the table before him. The white tulips in the vase have already started to brown. 

“Schedule them for lunch at 11 and I’d like to be left alone from 12.30 to 1. I’ll call The Board myself afterwards,” Juyeon notes the coldness in his voice, an element he doesn’t even recognise much. “My parents and I have alot to talk about.”

The Director of Chang’s Funeral Services personally flips open the file, turning it and sliding it across the table to the siblings sitting opposite them. Mr Chang would’ve shat himself if Kim Jang Won had come alone - she doesn’t have the title ‘Hera’s Princess’ for nothing. It’s a good thing ‘The Prince of Artemis’ had come with her. But maybe that’s just it, isn’t it? 

What if he pulled out a gun and shot me right now?

Younghoon’s eyes conscientiously process the printed words on the document, his sister a little too over the edge to be paying attention to anything. 

“We-- Um, carried out an investigation and realised that the bodies were... well... mismatched.”

Younghoon listens, but his gaze is still on the carbon print. The file was labelled KIM JO-PIL but the papers in the folder belonged to someone else. Someone else’s body. A common city address. 

“Have you excavated the body?”

“In progress, Mr Kim. They should be calling any time now for after identification.”

“I don’t suppose you have the documents for Kim Jo-Pil? The ones that were supposed to be in this folder?”

“The thing is... I remember seeing the documents. My colleagues have too. The people in charge of your father’s burial saw it too. But... if it’s not in this office then frankly, I’ve got no clue where it would be.”

For the first time in 3 hours, Jang Won actually looks somewhat understanding, sympathetic, empathetic. Younghoon shuts the file and slides it over to Jang Won when she sits up in her seat. 

“If you don’t mind, we’ll take the file and contact the deceased’s family. When’s that body identification phone call coming in?” Then the 3-hour streak is lost, and Younghoon sighs exasperatedly, out of her peripheral vision. “Taking mighty long for a simply body identification, no?”

Flustered, Mr Chang fumbles for the phone set sitting in the corner of his desk, hurriedly dialing a number. 

“Where do you think he ran to for 2 years?” Jang Won squints at the deceased’s information. “Why 2 years?”

Younghoon runs a hand through his hair, probably worth about half a million Korean Won. “You ask me as if I know any more than you do.”

Mr Chang is finally talking to someone. Jang Won’s focus fixates on something familiar at the bottom of the page. 

“That’s because maybe you do,” Lifting the file, she points to the bottommost section.

LAST OCCUPATION: 

PHOTOGRAPHER FOR ARTEMIS ENTERTAINMENT GROUP

“It’s your company and subsidiary. I’m surprised you don’t recognise the name.”

“I might own Artemis but I don’t personally know all 278 employees. If he’s a photographer and I don’t recognise him, that means he’s in another department. Women, or children or product. I’m only listed as a model under the ‘Males’ department.”

There’s a silence in the air that allowed Younghoon to hear the gears churning in Jang Won’s head. The appearance of Kim Jo-Pil, 2 years after his supposed death, has just dragged both his children and everybody else related into a mess of a puzzle. But Younghoon has no doubt his sister can find all the pieces, much less draw the connections. 

There’s a reason why she could build HERA & ARTEMIS from the ground up.

Mr Chang finally hangs up, sighing heavily as he looks at the powerful siblings over the rim of his glasses. “They’ve confirmed. The body in the coffin you saw your father in belongs to the man in the document.”

Younghoon chortles in disbelief. “Right then. So our father did die, but someone managed to swap the bodies before it was lowered, and then proceeded to keep him alive for the next 2 years.”

Jang Won flips and finds a portrait of the dead man. “Question is... who?”

Younghoon stands up first, thanking Mr Chang and tapping Jang Won as he turns for the exit of the office. The Director doesn’t even get a chance to bid his goodbye when Jang Won leaves, behind Younghoon. 

Escorted by four bodyguards, the siblings walk side by side with her heels clicking against the floor. Upon reaching the first floor, the lift doors ding open into an array of reporters hustling outside the entrance. 

“Get them out of my face before I ruin their lives!”

The guards rush before them, hurriedly trying to disperse the crowd. Jang Won pulls out her sunglasses, covering her eyes. 

“Time-wasting assholes.”

The shouted questions are loud and intrusive. The short distance of a few tens of metres feel like a mile from all the shoving and yelling. The flashes refuse to cease, but they’ve been in the spotlight for so long, it just gets annoying. 

BREAKING: KIM YOUNGHOON AND KIM JANG WON SPOTTED AT CHANG’S FUNERAL SERVICES - KIM JO-PIL CONFIRMED TO HAVE BEEN SWAPPED OUT BEFORE BURIAL TWO YEARS AGO

Juyeon turns into the private room the restaurant manager has led him to, leaving him at the door whilst his parents gawk at the headlines blasting on the screen mounted to the wall. There’s a picture of Kim Jang Won and her brother getting into a car right below the headlines. 

“Quite a mess, isn’t it?”

Both of them whip around to see the young man standing by the door, pushing himself off the frame and strutting into the private room. The whole fit he was wearing could buy a short vacation. His father reaches for the remote and shuts off the television. 

“I expect nothing less from Kim Jo-Pil, given the history of HERA & ARTEMIS. It was just a matter of time before his daughter took over and turned it into a multi-billion name,” His mother sings, fingers around the base of a glass of wine and carefully swirling the blood-red liquid. 

Juyeon sits, and a waiter comes by to fill his glass with wine. The gentle whir of the air-conditioning in the room is the only source of noise, other than the waiter taking his leave. Juyeon picks up the glass, raising a brow as he brings it to his lips. “I expect nothing less from my own parents when they are about to put me up for a certain type of contract,” He pauses, the glass in mid-air. “Say... a marriage.”

His lips meet the curve of the glass and he takes a sip. 

“We wanted to tell you before we agreed, but--”

“But the money’s more worth?” He winces from the alcohol in the wine, frowning and offering a sarcastic purse of his lips. “I can imagine. All that stuff you have at home... you know, grand piano worth five million, a kitchen big enough for a herd of horses-- oh, not to mention the actual stable of horses... Yeah, I guess... I guess I could empathise with how you needed more than those. Planning a re-deco? I might know some great architects.”

“Juyeon...”

“No, no,” Placing down the glass, he waves his hand. “Let me put things into perspective for you. After all, gotta make the homework I did on my way here worth it right? See if it’s correct.” 

Juyeon clears his throat and cracks his knuckles, knowing that his parents are offering him the most miserable looks they’ve ever given him in his life. 

“The Board announces Kim Jo-Pil’s return. HERA & ARTEMIS goes back under his belt, leaving Kim Jang Won, current owner and might I say, the very reason why HERA & ARTEMIS is as good as it is today, jobless and absolutely helpless in a ditch. The Board then passes a rule, one which I have never heard before in my life, maybe because it’s never happened before, but... in order for Kim Jang Won to re-obtain some kind of ownership or at least some part of HERA & ARTEMIS, she must marry a name attached to The Board. And the two of you, seeing how rich and successful Kim Jang Won has made HERA & ARTEMIS, snatched the offer up first and put me on the stage... for auction.”

“Auction...!”

“Correct me, will you? Because that’s exactly what I think you did. What, becoming the next director of Apple-Korea isn’t enough for you? Owning the Korean branch of one of the largest tech companies in the world isn’t enough-- you must have a fashion-retail company?!”

The entire room falls into heavy silence. The waiters knock before entering with some seafood appetizer. Juyeon sucks his lips between his teeth, nibbling anxiously on his bottom one. 

“Juyeon...” His father waits for the waiter to leave. “We... we just wanted the best for you. You know how powerful the Kim family is. Any remote connection to them will do us good. It’ll do you good.”

He scoffs and rubs his forehead with his index and middle finger. “I really have no clue what’s going on in those heads of yours sometimes.”

“I don’t know why you’re so against this, Juyeon. It’ll be helpful to you in your future!”

“As opposed to what? Wanting to be a marine biologist? Wanting to study the waters and nature? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Thinking that his father would hush his mother, Juyeon is surprised when he doesn’t. 

“Wow, really? Nothing?”

Silence. 

His mother picks up a fork.

“Very nice to know that you’re treating me like a piece of property instead of your son.”

Juyeon pulls the napkin off his lap and stands. 

“Oh, and uh... Don’t wait for a wedding invitation. You’re not getting one.”

“Juyeon!” His parents collectively exclaim in disdain, eyes widening as he struts towards the exit and out of the room.

“What? You auctioned me off! You no longer own me, right?!” 

Juyeon huffs angrily, hands running through his hair and ruining his own efforts of waxing his hair. He enters the lift, multiple staff members looking at him stride into the metallic box, confused. His fingers search for his phone in the pocket of his blazer, the device buzzing non-stop from the headlines and messages and emails from broadcasting companies and companies he couldn’t give two shits about. 

But when the lift doors open and he sees the  Kim Jang Won standing right outside with the same suit and sunglasses he had previously seen her on TV with, his eyes widen with a mix of surprise and distaste. 

“Well, if it isn’t Kim Jang Won... or might I say, my fiancé?”

“My dad couldn’t have done this on his own. I have a theory, and multiple plans to fix this mess of a shitshow, so I’m here to figure out if you wanna be in on it.”

Juyeon scoffs and shoves his hands into his pockets, stepping out of the lift and staring down straight at her. He attempts to search for her eyes through the chocolate-brown shade of her sunglasses, but fails. 

A tiny smirk crawls unto her lips as she pulls it off, her bright, sparkling, manipulative eyes ignite some flame in Juyeon. 

Because that’s just how smart and cunning Kim Jang Won is.

“I know you don’t give a shit, Lee Juyeon. About The Board, about the marriage, about Apple.”

He chuckles, teeth wiping his canine teeth as he pulls his shoulders back. “So you Googled me. Should I be impressed?”

Then his phone buzzes and he pulls it out in a bid to display some kind of disinterest. 

Young Jin Seol [12.13pm]: The tulips are here! [photo]

He blinks, eyes travelling from the screen to the most powerful figure of his generation under The Board.

“If I could find this out from Google, I think you should revisit your privacy logistics,” Kim Jang Won squints one eye and raises her brow. “I’m not here to confuse you or piss you off, Lee Juyeon. I’m here with an offer, to save both our asses. I want HERA & ARTEMIS back but I cannot do it if I have no link to it.”

“What’s in it for me then? It’s not like you can buy me a degree in marine biology.”

“I can’t but you could have the freedom to do so. I’ll pay for you to start your own company. Whoever said you needed a degree to do what you wanted to do? In this world... all you need is money and a little bit of brain... but!” She points to him her sunglasses. “You don’t have to worry about either because I’ve got that covered. All I need you to do is get down on one knee -- willingly -- for the whole world to see... and I’ll give you your freedom.”

Juyeon sucks in a deep breath so hard that he wheezes and Kim Jang Won could not be any more satisfied with herself. 

[c-watches-too-many-shows]

‘The One’ - Mat Barzal (Part Two)

It’s finally here! Sorry it took me so long to write it, uni is killing me. Like and reblogs are always appreciated!

Hope you like it!

PS: I didn’t proofread it so almost sure there are some errors sorry!

Part 1

Masterlist

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings: implicit mention of sex (?)

-

Tonight was Mat’s night, he was scoring goal after goal and he knew the reason. Every time he had the puke he advanced with one thing in mind: you. Knowing that he could look up and find you there in your old spot between the wags, smiling and cheering for him was all the fuel he needed to play what was probably his best game of the season so far.

You had missed it so much. The mere feeling of being there surrounded by everyone, the atmosphere of the place, it was electrifying. However what you had missed the most definitely was the way his head would instinctively shoot up after each goal, each assistance; his eyes meeting with yours and being able to express to him how proud and happy you were with just one look.

Before you knew it the game was over, the boys rushed to the locker room and you stayed with the girls waiting for them. That’s when the nerves started kicking in. There was only one thing left for the night and you still weren’t sure what to expect.

Ever since your encounter earlier that week you haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Nevertheless no matter how much you thought about it you never seem to find an answer to all your doubts. You were still clueless as to how the night could turn out. Were you going to get back together? Or just talk until you came to the conclusion that there was no solution?

Part of you wanted everything to go back to how it was a year ago, get back together and forget you even thought you could live without each other. But another part, the more rational one, kept reminding you that even a year later you still had the same problems you did then, nothing had or could change really. So was it worth trying again just to stumble over the same stone and having to go over the same painful process of walking away from him?

Your thoughts were interrupted when the locker room opened and Mat was the first out.

“Hey superstar!” You walked up to him. His face lit up when he saw you there. This was surely another thing he had missed, having you there to celebrate the triumphs and comfort him after the defeats. He didn’t hesitate and pulled you into his chest, arms holding you tight against him. His smile only grew when he felt you hug him back.

“That was amazing. Really. I haven’t seen you play like that since…” you started to say as you pulled away but words died in your mouth when you realized where the sentence was going.

“I know.” he replied.

“What about me? Wasn't I amazing?” a familiar voice added from behind you and soon you felt an arm around your shoulders.

"Yes you were amazing as well Tito" you said turning to the blonde next to you.

"Thank you." he said before tightening his grip on you, giving you a side hug. Mat observed the interaction happily, trying to hide the grin on his face. "Come on, first round is on me."

"Not today man." Mat mumbled between his teeth, brows raising trying to signal to his best friend this was not the moment. It took Tito second to realize where he was screwing up. Once he did he mouthed a ‘sorry’ to his friend, lips pursed into an awkward grin.

"We can go if you want. I don't mind-" you started to say but he was quick to cut you off.

"I don't want to." he stopped you, sounding a bit rough. You looked at him confused, you knew Mat loved celebrating with the guys after a win, especially after a big one like the one they had today.

"I mean I obviously enjoy going to celebrate after a win, but tonight all I want is to be just us and, you know, talk." he clarified after seeing the muddled look on your face, reassuring you he was okay with missing out tonight, he had something way more important to do.

"Ok.” you agreed with him, knowing that there was a certain conversation that needed to happen. “Let me say goodbye to the rest and then we can go." you told him before turning around and walking away.

He watched you as you hugged his teammates and their partners, loving how you just fitted between them, like you were always meant to be part of this group that had become his chosen family. It was clear to him that you were what was missing from his life, he already knew it but seeing you back in it only confirmed it. In that moment he understood he was willing to do anything to have you back.

"Sorry man I forgot." Tito brought him back to reality. He just titled his neck brushing it off. "So how are you? Nervous?"

"Very." he replied as he kept on shifting his weight from side to side.

"What do you think she'll say?"

"I honestly don't know. I just hope she takes me back. If she says no I-I don't know-" He started getting anxious at the mere thought of you rejecting him. Tito could perceive this and tried to calm him down.

"She's gonna say yes Mat. You two are meant to be, known it since the day you presented her to us."

"I really hope you're right." he replied but you were back before he could start spiraling again.

"Ready?" he asked as you stood next to him. You nodded and went to give Tito a final hug.

“Listen to him. Please.” he murmured into your ear, low enough so Mat wouldn’t hear him. Your heart shrinked, it sounded almost like a pleade.

"Goodbye Beau.” You pulled away with a smile. “Take a shot for me."

"Oh I will."

With that you both turned around and started making your way to the parking lot side to side. Your left hand accidentally brushed his right one and it sent a shock down your spine. Mat obviously noticed your reaction which made you look away, embarrassed of how much effect he still had on you with such little things. You were surprised when you felt his hand slowly slip into yours.

He knew he was taking a risk, not sure what your response would be. However you didn’t pull away, you even gave his hand a slight squeeze. He beamed down at you and a guilty feeling started growing on you. Maybe you shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t want to give him false hopes, especially when you still didn’t know how you wanted the night to go.

-

It was going to be a simple night, no fancy outing or anything, just dinner at his place and then eventually the so equally dreaded and anticipated talk.

Once you were at his place you were surprised to see everything was pretty much the same. Everything was exactly where it used to be, even the portraits with pictures of the two of you and the small basket with blankets he had bought after you had told him how cold his apartment would get some nights. He never understood that until one night, meryl days after your break up when he found himself alone watching the tv unable to sleep shivering, and the only comfort he could get were those blankets. But not necessarily because they kept him warm, only because they still had your essence.

“I obviously didn’t cook.” he informed you as he placed his bag near the door and made his way to the kitchen.

“Obviously.” you teased following him closely.

“We can order whatever you want and .. I bought this” He turned around with a bottle of your favourite wine in his hands. You smiled at the sweet gesture, he still remembered.

As he turned back to grab the corkscrew and open the bottle, you went to the cupboards to grab two glasses. Then passed them to him and took a seat on the counter next to him as he poured the drink. He gave you one glass and proceeded to lean against the kitchen island in front of you.

The whole scene felt so familiar, it had happened countless times when you were together, casual evenings drinking wine in his kitchen as you told him about your day or talked about his last game.

He watched you take a sip of your glass as your eyes wandered through the kitchen and a thought sneaked into his mind, a dirty one. It wasn’t exactly a thought, it was more of a memory. His cheeks went red and he tried pushing it away but he couldn’t.

“Do you remember…” he started to say, not sure if he should bring it up or not.

“Ander’s birthday last year?” you finished his sentence. The same thought had taken over your mind the second you sat on the counter and rested your head against the cupboard.

“Yes!” he let out with a chuckle, letting his head fall back with relief.

“We were wasted.” you pointed out as you remembered that night.

You had both drank a little too much at Anders birthday and after somehow making it back home in one piece you didn’t make it past the kitchen. Your breath hitched as you recalled his strong arms lifting you and placing you on the counter, your hands tangled in his hair, his lips on your neck, your legs around his waist.

“Still some of the best sex I’ve ever had tho.” he pointed out.

“Oh for sure. I still have a small scar in the back of my head as proof.” you added causing both of you to crack up. At some point that night you had hit yourself with the cupboard behind you, but you were so drunk you only realized the morning after.

“We had some good times, didn’t we?” you said reminiscently once the laughter had died.

“We can still have more.” he corrected you.

“Mat...” The gloomy tone on your voice warned him.

“Let’s wait until after dinner to talk about everything, ok?” he suggested and you nodded, not wanting to ruin the nice moment you were just having. There would be time later to have that serious conversation, even if you didn’t want that time to come. He could tell how you were starting to drift away in your thoughts, certainly not good ones, so he rapidly changed the topic. “What do you want to eat then?”

“Maybe pizza? I’m not in a fancy mood.”

“Pizza it is.”

The pizza arrived in a matter of minutes, you insisted on paying since he had bought the wine, and he had to hold back the casual comment of how he’d be paying the next time, because he didn’t know if there would be a next one but he did know pushing you would only lower his chances of ending the night on a good note.

You decided to move the dinner to the living room where you’d be more comfortable. Both of you sat on the large couch, glass of wine in one hand slice of pizza in the other.

-

An hour later the pizza was long gone, so was the wine. You had talked about practically every topic, both of you too scared to touch the one you were there to talk about in the first place.

The room went silent and you knew it was time.

“So …”

“It’s time, isn’t it?” He placed down his glass on the small table, getting ready for what was about to come.

“Didn’t you want to have this conversation?” you chirped him up a little to take the tension off.

“I did- I do! Doesn’t change the fact I’m nervous as hell.” He ran his hand through his hair, something he’d do when he was on edge.

“Don’t be, it's same old me Mat.” you told him trying to calm him down, but also trying to calm yourself, reminding you it was Mat after all. No matter how things turned out tonight, it was Mat, nothing bad could happen.

He took a deep breath, mentally going over everything he needed to say. He had even practiced it with Tito, something his best friend would tease him about for the rest of their lives. He wanted to have the right words to express how he felt, scared one wrong move could blow his last chance with you.

“I missed you so much Y/N. I still can't believe I ever let you go. I replay that night in my head over and over again and I don’t understand how I just let you leave. We were having a fight because I was gone all the time and when I wasn’t gone you were working, and I was mad because there was nothing I could do about it and you were mad too. I don’t even remember who proposed it-”

“It was me. I was the one who said maybe breaking up was the better option.” you cut him off. Flashbacks of that night started rushing to your head as he spoke and you certainly remembered things differently.

“It wasn’t just a fight Mat, it was the same fight over and over again. I know that sometimes we forget about the bad things and just keep the nice memories, that’s what we were doing days ago in the coffee, but the bad moments still existed Mat, it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. Towards the end we’d fight almost weekly and it was always the same, we fought until we were exhausted and then we’d just push it away and pretend everything was fine because we both knew there was no solution for our problems.”

You told yourself you’d have an open mind, not discard the idea of getting back together immediately because you knew part of you wanted that. Nevertheless ignoring the problem you had would not solve anything. You needed Mat to accept things weren’t good, recognize you had problems. If not things were destined to fail once again.

“I know. I know we had problems, I remember the fights, but we can learn from them. It doesn’t have to be like that this time.” he was quick to add. It sounded childish but he had thought of good comebacks, almost as if he was preparing for an exam, the hardest and most important of his life.

However you had good arguments too. You wanted to believe him, you wanted to believe this time would be different but how could it be if everything was still the same?

"Nothing has changed Mat. You still have to travel and train and even if you could somehow spend less time away it would be selfish from me to ask you to. It's your dream Mat I'm not gonna do that. Plus I'm putting my job first too so it would be hypocritical of me to ask you not to do the same."

He knew what you were doing, he knew you too well not to. You were closing the door before it was even open because you were scared. Still he understood why it was like that, you were right up to a certain point, but he wasn't about to give up, not when he finally had the chance to say everything he had been wanting to ever since that horrible night.

“You’re just thinking about the bad things. Remember all the good times we had Y/N, don’t you think it’s worth it? Because I sure think it is.”

In a leap of faith he scooted closer to you and grabbed your hands that were resting in your laps. He needed the contact, he needed you to feel how honest he was being, how much he wanted this.

“We still have it, I know we do, I felt it in the coffee shop days ago, tonight at the game, on the drive here, as we were having dinner. I know we have it, I know we can make it.”

That all too familiar knot started forming in your throat and your vision went blurry with tears that threatened to fall any second. He was tearing down your barrier, but behind it all you could show were the wounds from the past.

"I don't want to go through it again Mat. It hurt-” you started to say but your voice broke mid sentence, you couldn't hold it anymore. “The fighting, the impotence, the break up, trying to move on. It all hurt too much I can't do all of that again." you cried out, too busy feeling all the emotions you had bottled up to feel embarrassed for the scene you were causing.

Mat was heartbrokened. He hated that he was the reason for those tears rolling down your cheeks. For a moment he considered giving up, he couldn't see you like that anymore, he couldn't bear the thought of him being what caused you so much hurt.

But he didn't. ‘One last time’ he told himself. One last time and if you said no then he’d accept it. It would kill him yes, but he would accept it because you were all that mattered to him and if letting you go was the right thing for you he'd do it. He'd do anything for you.

With that in mind, knowing it would be his last attempt, he started getting anxious. He could feel you slowly slipping away from him. Nerves got the worst of him, it was evident when he started talking again.

"But we don't have to. We won't Y/N. You're it for me, I promise if we try again I won't let you go this time. Well I mean you can break up with me if we get back together obviously, I won't force you or anything- what I mean is I won't break up with you- Not that I ever wanted! But I-" he started stumbling on his words and you couldn't help but giggle. He felt pathetic but at least he was able to make you somehow feel better throughout the tears, that was a bit gratifying.

However he still needed to get it together, so he took a final deep breath trying to gather his thoughts. Already knowing what his next words were going to be he moved closer and gently placed a hand on your face, making sure you were looking at him when he said it because he needed you to see how much he meant it.

"I love you Y/N. I still do and I dont think I'll ever stop loving you.” Your eyes went wide at his words, deep down you knew it, but hearing it was different. You never thought you'd hear those words from Mat’s lips again, yet he was right in front of you saying it, looking at you with all the love in the world, and something started building inside of you.

“These past few months showed me what a life without you is like and I don't ever want to go through that again.” he continued, now more confident after seeing your reaction. “I want to wake up next to you. I want you to tell me about what weird dream you had while I make us breakfast. I want to pick you up from work every afternoon. I want you to wear my jersey and take you to all my games. I want silly fights about which movie we should watch. I want to come home to find you asleep on the couch and pick you up and tug you to sleep. I want to show you off to everyone. I want to make up after every fight. I want to start and end every single day with you. I want to get married and have kids and grow old.”

With every sentence your smile only grew bigger, you tried to contain it but you couldn’t hide it anymore. Mat noticed this and got so excited he kept on going to the point he even forgot where he was going so he took a pause before finishing his confession.

“What I’m trying to say is: I love you Y/N. I love you so much and I know we can make it work. Please give us a second chance”

You looked at his eyes one final time. They were full of hope, something you lacked but you were sure he had enough for both of you. All the reasons why this wasn’t going to work didn’t matter anymore, not when you had the love of your life in front of you telling you he still loved you, fighting for you, reassuring you you’d make it this time. You couldn’t say no to him, most importantly you didn’t want to. You wanted him as much as he did, you missed him as much as he did and you loved him as much as he loved you.

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his, needing the extra touch as encouragement to say something you’d been holding in for too long.

“I love you.” you whispered, lips less than an inch apart from his, noses touching. Your eyes were closed but you could feel his smile. He let out a deep breath, the weight he had been carrying for so long finally being lifted off his shoulders. He couldn’t count how many nights he dreamed of you saying those words to him, it was surreal.

“I love you” he replied before shortening the distance between your lips and finally kissing you.

It was all he had imagined and more. He already knew your lips, but this time it was different, his heart fluttered the second your his lips were on yours.

It started as a gentle kiss. You’d smile against each other, giggles escaping from both of you because you couldn’t contain your happiness. Whispering ‘I love you’s between kisses. It was a mess of a kiss, but a beautiful one.

Then your hands sneaked to the back of his neck, pulling him closer till there was no space between your bodies. You leaned back on the couch with Mat on top of you. It was slow and soft, bodies melting into each other. One of his hands stayed on your face, thumb caressing your cheek, while the other went to your waist. Your hands started roaming over his body; his neck, his shoulder, his back, his hair. He yearned for your touch.

It soon turned into an openmouthed kiss, almost sexual. It was fiery, full of passion, almost like your bodies missed each other for so long and now that they were back together you couldn’t pull away, but you also didn’t want to. At some point he turned you around, making you lay on top of him. Now his hands were the ones wandering over your body.

The kiss was long and it only ended when you had run out of breath, if not it could have gone on forever.

“I missed that.” he breathed out, unable to breath. Your forehead still gently placed against his.

“Me too.” you replied with a hoarse voice trying to catch your breath.

“I missed you.” he added, accentuating the ‘you’. You lift your head to look at him.

“I miss you too Mat.” you murmured placing a final kiss on his lips before nestling in his chest. He hummed in content, leaving one hand in your lowback and the other going to tenderly stroke your hair.

“I honestly was expecting you to try and extort me with a puppy.” you said out of the blue making him laugh, feeling his chest vibrate against your cheek with every laugh.

“Oh Tito suggested it and I thought about it, but you’re too smart, wouldn’t have fallen for it.”

“I don’t know, maybe it would have saved us all this trouble.” you joked, placing your chin on his chest to see his face.

“Excuse me?” He looked down at you with furrowed brows and an offended expression. “I just opened my heart for you and you call it ‘trouble’?” You were the one laughing now and he soon joined.

“God I missed this.” he said, pressing you impossibly closer to his body.

“I love you.” you told him once again, stretching your neck to place a kiss under his jaw. He’d never get tired of hearing those words coming from you.

“I love you too.” he replied, placing one on the top of your head.

With your heart beating against his, for the first time in months, he felt at home. That piece that had been missing was finally back, he was complet.

[cafeinthemoon]

The Home I Crave - Chapter 4

Title: The Home I Crave

Genre: Fanfiction

Pairing: Tobirama Senju x reader

Rating: teen and up

Word count: 2938

Chapter: 4/?

Symbols: ⭕ | ➕ | 💛 | ▶️▶️

Read the previous chapter here: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Though your future husband had his own residence separated from the Hokage’s, you weren’t sent there after being informed that you would stay in the village for the next days. Instead, you would be a guest in Hashirama’s house, and Mito would provide you the orientation you’d need in your new role.

The Uzumaki princess, with her vivid presence and smartness, helped you to find ways to fill your days with meaningful activities, so you wouldn’t see time passing until the wedding and wouldn’t have many chances to feel like a burden staying in the house of strange people counting on their assistance. You couldn’t entirely avoid this sensation, which led you to decline from small favors and treats that were offered to you from time to time; on the other hand, you found some relief once you realized that the manners showed by the Hokage’s wife during the reception were not mere formality: Mito’s interest in your well being was genuine, and she was not going to give up on making you as comfortable as possible under the current circumstances.

It was better this way, you thought. So you just let her be the friend she was willing to be.

In fact, Mito Uzumaki was an excellent friend: she would always answer your questions and doubts with honesty and objectivity and never hide when she didn’t have the information you needed; the things she asked about you were never embarrassing or invasive, and you always saw yourself willing to talk when she made you questions. You spoke to her about your life with your sisters, your training at your clan’s compound, your use of Doton and how it is a characteristic of your family since the oldest generations; Mito explained that her clan was specialized in sealing techniques the same way your were proficient in Earth Style, and when you asked her about them, she described the history and the creation of the most important among them.

During your time together, most of your conversations consisted in you two exchanging your experiences as shinobi, your families and your relationships with your friends. You discovered opinions and preferences in common despite the obvious differences in your personalities: while you had a tendency to live in your head if you were left alone and not speak your mind unless you were invited too, Mito was straightforward when it came to expressing her thoughts, though she was never rude while doing it; many times she took the initiative to start the conversations, and the mission of taking out your thoughts would almost always fall on her shoulders, no matter how many times she assured you that you were free to speak whenever you needed to.

One day, when this situation happened, she looked into your eyes and gave you an advise for which you would thank her later, when you’d be a married woman facing the challenges typical of your new condition:

- I am always encouraging you to not keep everything to yourself when you have the chance to talk, but maybe I’ve failed in explaining why I insist so much in this, y/n-san.

You blinked in surprise and curiosity.

- In this case, let me ask you your reasons for doing this, Mito-san.

- This can be good for you in any circumstance of your life, of course, but the main reason is that this is the most efficient way to communicate with Tobirama.

You clenched your hands to avoid the trembling that was about to reach them after you heard his name. It’s been a while since it was mentioned between you: you’d usually hear it when Hashirama came home and mentioned something concerning his work or a message sent by his brother. However, you always felt it differently whenever it was said by Mito.

You asked little about him since that conversation you had when you first met the Uzumaki woman. You didn’t like to think you were avoiding the topic, though your attitude would say that this was exactly what you were doing; the case was that you didn’t have so much to ask about him after everything she told you that day, and knowing that he was the brain behind the measures of the new alliance between your clans already said too much about the person he was: any other minor information you’d get would sound superfluous compared to that. Mito noticed your reluctance in this, and despite never asking about your reasons for it, she chose to respect it.

To speak the truth, you would only talk about Tobirama when you got in touch with something – a place, a circumstance, an idea – that, according to Mito, reminded of him in some way. There was a time when you were taking a walk at the shores of a river around the village and she commented that you were walking at one of his favorite places to fish and spend time alone after stressful days.

- If he suddenly disappears, it is almost certain that you will find him here – she smiled – But that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to come here unannounced when he’s trying to get some rest. He’s too attached to his privacy.

You looked around and couldn’t judge him for this feeling: that was a beautiful, calm place; you wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted if you were there seeking for relief from the burdens of the day.

Episodes like this happened with some frequency, and you took the opportunities to enrich the image you were creating of him. Everything you discovered was interesting in their own way, though you weren’t still able to decide if your final opinion was good or not. Maybe it was something between the two – shinobi were always in the gray zone of the human moral compass. And when you remembered that you, as a kunoichi, were included in this account, you refrained yourself from pointing your finger at him.

However, there was a parameter that remained unconsidered to you among all the others, perhaps because of your lack of attention or the great amount of urgent preoccupations you already had, and about which you’d only come to think when you were directly led to it – Tobirama’s physical appearance.

After your experience with Hokage, you were aware that sometimes informations could be deceiving depending on their source and the person who received them. With all you’ve heard about him and considering what you thought of the arrangements led by him, it was possible that your betrothed’s looks were just like his personality: not the most pleasing one, and even scary at some point. But when you added the fact that he had a brother like Hashirama, well, maybe he was nothing like this. At some moment, you started to imagine that he could resemble his brother in some traits, or he was just like the men you saw working in the office during the meeting: all of them had a certain level of resemblance, something that made it possible for a stranger to identify them as members of the same clan, even if they were not blood relatives.

Whatever the truth, all you had was a just a vague idea, a second hand thought that you weren’t willing to turn into a concrete concept or to confirm with Mito: it was more interesting just to hear her talk about his actions and attitudes.

You would only change your mind when, thanks to an unexpected incident, you ended up finding a portrait of him.

You were still getting used to the structure of the Hokage’s house: though your own residence at your clan’s compound was large, formed by many rooms, the corridors were few, not enough to form the same intricate labyrinth of the building you were now. Still, you wouldn’t avoid walking through them without company in order to train your sense of direction, and thanks to the orientations you received from Mito regarding the rooms you had permission to enter, you weren’t afraid of invading the wrong place. But you would still  get confused if you entered the wrong corridor.

This is what happened that time, so that instead of reaching the living room you got into a narrow hall with a collection of photographs on the walls of both sides.

You recognized some of the landscapes in them from the path you and your group took when you arrived at Konoha’s territory: hills, rivers and the forest’s entry; some of the residences and farms were there too.

You also identified some of the people: there was a rectangular portrait of Hashirama Senju in what you understood to be his official clothing as the village’s governor; Mito Uzumaki appeared in another picture right beside it, surrounded by a group of men and women with their hair as red as hers and dressed in the same style, leading you to the conclusion that they were part of her family or were close friends; there were also pictures with some of the people you saw in the office beside those two.

The majority of the photos were of people you didn’t know but were certainly close to the ones you knew. There was a photograph of a middle aged man wearing a reddish armor; wrapped on his forehead there was a white stripe with the crest of the Senju. The man had his skin as tanned as Hashirama’s, and his hair was straight and dark just like his, though it wasn’t that long. Looking closer, you noticed the two shared similar face traits despite the lack of gentleness and freshness of the older man if compared to the younger one. There was no identification in the picture, but you thought that this man could be Hashirama’s father. If this was the case, they must haven’t had nothing in common besides the appearance.

Near this photograph, there were other, larger, with a group of children surrounding a woman, all of them wearing the Senju traditional clothing. One of the children, a boy with a bowl haircut, shared some resemblance with the man of the previous image: you looked at him for a moment and recognized Hashirama. The other children, all boys, and the woman were too different from him and between themselves, but there was something in them that told you they were relatives, so that if that was the Hokage’s mother, those boys should be his brothers. With this, your natural reaction was to wonder which of them could be Tobirama.

The first kid, close to Hashirama, had a scar on his cheek and brown hair; he was the one with the widest smile. The second, sitting right after him with a sweet look and some shyness in his manners, had white skin and a hair parted in two contrasting shades: white on the right side and dark brown on the left. The third boy, standing up beside the woman and separated from the others, was the one who most resembled her; he was staring at the camera with a serious, firm look. He had the same light skin tone of the second child, and his shaggy hair was of a shade similar to the lighter side of that boy’s hair as well; but the thing that caught your attention in this one was that pair of red eyes, just like the woman’s, with which he looked into the lens, to the photographer or to something beyond them. It wasn’t the look one would expect from a child.

Considering what Mito told you during the tea and what you thought of the arrangements, you were thinking that this kid had the highest probability of being…

- Oh.

Your voice escaped when you took a step ahead to observe the next photograph and found in it a figure entirely different from the ones you’ve saw until that moment.

The portrait was the same size as the one of the Hokage and it showed a young man in a blue armor, with his arms crossed, looking at the lens with the same perspicacity you sensed in the boy’s look. His armor was different from the one of the middle aged Senju who you supposed to be his father: around his shoulders there was a huge, white fur attached to his forearm protectors, all of them together creating the impression that his torso was larger than it really was; under the armor, he was wearing a black shirt that covered his neck and arms until his fists; he wasn’t wearing gloves. On his face, he had a gray happuri with the Leaf crest carved on its forehead.

The man had white, voluminous hair that would rebel against the steadiness of his general aspect, as a minor inconvenience that remained out of his control and to which he was already used; looking closer, you realized it wasn’t of a pure white, but of a slight shade of gray. His skin, only visible through his uncovered hands and face, was light, even pale if you compared him to other people who spent as much time under the sunlight as him certainly did as a warrior; was it a peculiarity of him or just the environment where the photo was taken? You had no way to tell. On his face, too, the light tone served as a white canvas for what you thought to be facial painting or tattoos: three red marks spreading over his chin and under his eyes as slits opened by a kunai; around his eyes, black, thin lines that would contour their natural form, already sharp, giving them the sensitivity of a hunter’s eyes.

Those eyes, you realized with astonishment, were as red as the eyes of the boy from the other photograph.

You went back to the children’s picture to observe his face with more attention, and didn’t need much time to notice the similarities between them. The mannerisms, the traits, the seriousness – they were the same person.

It was when you started to look for portraits of the other children and was unable to find anything except the one of Hashirama in the Hokage’s clothing. You already knew that the Senju head had lost his siblings to war, but just a few days ago you found out there was only one brother left for him. You looked at the blue armored man again…

- Finally I found you.

You startled, almost letting a scream out. When you turned, you found Mito smiling at you.

- If I was an enemy, you would be in trouble.

A glimmer in her eyes insinuated that she has been observing you for a while, waiting for you to notice her presence. You never cursed your lack of sensory abilities as much as in that moment.

- I… I am sorry for this – you apologized, looking at the photographs – I took the wrong corridor and ended up here. I wasn’t expecting to find these pictures, so…

You glanced behind, as if sensing the man’s image right over your shoulder. This didn’t escape Mito’s attention: she walked closer to its spot on the wall, looking in the eyes of the warrior. This gesture eliminated any remaining doubts about the identity of the man.

- You already guessed, didn’t you? – with her unaltered voice, she questioned you without taking her eyes off the picture.

You turned to the portrait too, facing his gaze again.

- This photograph was taken four or five years ago, but he remains the same – Mito continued – Not even a line of expression appeared on his forehead or in the corner of his eyes since then – and with a smile – The same goes to Hashi. Just another talent of the Senju.

You observed the portrait in silence, not interrupted by the princess: having familiarity with arranged marriages as much as you, she was aware of the time one needed to become accustomed with the looks of their betrothed under these circumstances.

You only spoke when you felt prepared to, and when you did, it was to point out that he looked even younger than you expected after all the things you discovered about him.

Mito laughed.

- I don’t blame you. If I didn’t know him or his brother and saw them together for the first time, I would certainly think that Hashirama is the younger one.

You laughed too; when your smile faded, you turned back to your contemplative expression. Now, the white collar and the aspect of his eyes just gave you an idea.

- I hope you don’t find it strange what I’m going to say, Mito-san, but he reminds me of a wolf.

Mito crossed her arms, looking at the picture; now that you were becoming used to her manners, you no longer found it weird to see her doing gestures like that while dressing in noble clothing.

- Nobody never said that about him before, at least not to me – she commented – But it makes sense, now that I’m looking at him.

You stood in silence for some time. You spent it training your eyes to get used to Tobirama’s sight, to the weight of his gaze, for you sensed that once you were together, you wouldn’t have such time. The funny thing was that, while you stood there, you didn’t notice how much time passed, only waking up when you heard Mito’s giggle beside you.

You turned, only to find her still contemplating her brother-in-law’s image.

- In his own way, he’s a beautiful man, isn’t he?

You sensed heat coming up your cheeks, mas didn’t refuse to reply.

- Yes. I dare say yes.

[meowmerson]

hi meowmers! just read your latest tomione fics and i'm so glad you're back here blessing us. would love to read your take on head boy & head girl tomione fic? or maybe an au where auror! hermione chases after dark wizard tom riddle

head boy head girl you say??????????????? one of my favorite tropes you say????????????????????????? I ACCEPT

–

Hermione knew it would be him. He was top of their class (a title she had been battling against him for since their first year) beloved by their professors and classmates, he was a natural-born leader, handsome, likable - it would have been outrageous for head boy to be anyone other than him.

Didn’t mean she had to like it.

Hermione always found something suspicious about Tom Riddle. She was certain she was the only one who thought so, save for maybe Harry, but then Harry was easily won over when people were kind to him. And Tom Riddle certainly went out of his way to be kind.

But he was mysterious. No one really knew where he was from - everyone knew he was an orphan, but no one knew how, or where he lived now. Everyone just thought he was a poor tortured soul and that those things should never be mentioned.

He had a close circle of friends who followed his every command and cowered in the face of his glare. She had seen Malfoy once laughing and subsequently cowering from nothing but a look from Tom Riddle, nothing more than a glance, and suddenly Malfoy was swallowing his laughter and averting his eyes to the ground. Malfoy didn’t do that for anybody.

How could someone so allegedly kind strike that kind of fear into someone’s heart with nothing more than a glance?

He was fake, she had decided. He was nothing more than secrets upon secrets shrouded beneath a pretty face, a friendly smile, an intelligent mind. But there was something there, beneath the surface. Something secret, something dark.

And Hermione never liked liars.

“Would you just admit you want to ride his dick til you pass out so we can move on?” Lavender drawled from her bed in the Gryffindor seventh year room.

Hermione sputtered for a solid thirty seconds while Padma and Parvati absolutely killed themselves laughing. Ginny, who was lounging on Padma’s bed while the twins lay together on Parvati’s, stared at Hermione awaiting her reaction with unrelenting glee.

“Lavender!” Hermione finally managed to choke out, bringing on another round of obnoxious laughter from the girls.

“Oh come on, Hermione,” Lavender said, “You have wanted to hop on that since first year!”

“I have absolutely no idea what you are–”

“Oh, look at him Hermione!” Ginny said, “That boy is sex on legs,”

“Whether or not he is sex on legs is not the point!” Hermione snapped, “Have you been listening to anything I’m saying? I have to share a living quarters with a boy who–”

“So you admit he’s sex on legs then?” Lavender interrupted.

“Ugh!” Hermione pushed herself to her feet, “I am finished with this conversation. I’m leaving.”

“Make sure you get back before curfew starts,” Padma said, and Parvati added, “Or Riddle will need to punish you!”

“Fuck all of you!” Hermione swore, and the uncharacteristically foul language sent the girls into another round of laughter.

–

She tried to speak to Harry and Ron.

Ron said, “Ah, this is about how badly you want to snog Riddle then, is it?”

Harry laughed, and Hermione picked up the bottle of firewhiskey they had snuck in and poured it out the window as revenge.

–

She put off returning to the common room as long as she could. Guiding the first years around had been alright, mostly because they split up those responsibilities and didn’t take them together, but they would be doing rounds tonight, together, just the two of them, then returning to the Head’s common together.

It all felt very strange.

Tom was stood outside the portrait to their common room when she arrived. “You’re nearly late.” He said.

“Nearly,” Hermione agreed, “But not quite.”

“Meeting up with your friends?” He asked as they started down the hall. He always did this, attempted friendly conversation, as if they were familiar enough to do so. She nodded curtly. “Did you meet up with any of them over the summer?”

“No,” She answered. She didn’t elaborate.

“Ah,” He replied, seemingly nonplussed, “It must be nice to catch up, then.”

When would this torture end?

“Yes, it is.” Hermione agreed.

“And did you have a nice summer?” He asked.

She glanced toward him, but looked away before she caught his eye. He was peering around the corridor, keeping an eye out for any students out after curfew or first years who had gotten lost. She wondered what he was playing at, why he was trying to make friendly conversation. What did he have to gain, here? What did he want?

“Miss Granger?” He pressed.

“Hm?”

“I asked if you had a nice summer.” She looked toward him again, and this time his eyes were fixed on her.

“Did you?” She asked, just to see the twitch in his brow in response. He did that sometimes, little ticks to show that his endless patience wasn’t really so endless. She loved to see it, see those glances into whoever he was behind his mask of perfection.

“Yes.” It was the shortest response he’d given her that night.

“Oh,” She said, and offered him a strained smile, “Yes, I did.”

He didn’t speak to her for the remainder of the evening, except for a polite ‘have a good night’ when they returned to the common room.

It felt like a win

–

They split up rounds, after that. They worked on a one night on, one night off schedule, trading off. It wasn’t typical for head boy and girl to do this, but Hermione had suggested it, and Tom hadn’t argued.

He never did, she found out. He had debated her countless times in class, but they had never had a personal conversation before this year, and it seemed no matter what she said, what she suggested, he tended to agree.

She didn’t understand what he was up to.

Her friends wouldn’t stop relentlessly teasing her, and wouldn’t listen to a single one of her suspicions. And why would they? She didn’t have anything to go on, just this feeling in her gut.

Maybe it was just an issue of attraction.

He was handsome, certainly, and extremely intelligent. He impressed her, and it had been a while since she had met someone who genuinely impressed her. He had a way with people that she always lacked, everyone liked him, maybe it was jealousy. Or maybe it was the way she had so often caught herself thinking about him over the year, wondering what it would be like to know him, for him to know her.

Was this feeling nothing but her own convoluted emotions making her over paranoid?

Living in close quarters to Tom was easy. He kept to himself, didn’t invite anyone over, she would only see him if he was reading in front of the fireplace in their shared common area. She never saw him up to no good, never heard strange noises or saw strange things. He was perfectly normal, perfectly good, perfectly perfect.

She was beginning to doubt herself.

“You know,” Harry told her once, “I thought I hated Draco for ages until I realized I just like blokes.”

“But you also hated Draco,” She reminded him.

“True,” He agreed, and shrugged, as if that didn’t really matter.

–

It was her turn for rounds, and she was dutifully making her way through her assigned route. It was a quiet night, she hadn’t run into any first-years sneaking around the castle, or third-years finding their way to the kitchens, or sixth-years hooking up in abandoned classrooms. She was grateful especially for the last one, she hated stumbling upon that.

She was about ready to finish, head back up to her room and go to bed, when she saw the slightest glow under a classroom door.

It only lasted for a moment before it was gone, like a candle being burnt out, or a spell being cast. She crept toward the door, it was probably a couple of naked teenagers again, trying to get their rocks off in the potions classroom. She pressed her ear against the door to see if she needed to knock or if she could barge in.

She could hear nothing.

She moved away, furrowed her brow. There was definitely someone in there, but they put up a silencing charm. Definitely a couple. She went to open the door, it was locked. So she cast an Alohomora, and to her surprise, nothing happened.

Something icy settled in her stomach. She could only think of one person that she could imagine casting such advanced locking charms. But it wasn’t his night for patrols, and she thought he was in his room.

She was being paranoid. She knew she should knock and demand whoever is in there comes out immediately, deduct house points for being out late and finish her rounds. She shouldn’t be overdramatic about this, lest she look like a fool.

She blew up the lock and removed the silencing charm.

She heard a boy yelp as she pushed the door open. There was a bit of smoke from the exploded lock that had to clear before she could see what was going on inside the room.

Malfoy stood inside, his eyes wide and wet, and Tom stood opposite, looking like he was trying very hard not to look angry.

“What is going on in here?”

“Miss Granger,” Tom said calmly, “Was blowing the lock truly necessary?”

“Was locking and silencing the room truly necessary?” She replied, but she was quickly distracted by Malfoy. He looked terrified, he was blinking rapidly, his eyes wet, and he was shaking like a leaf. She glanced between the two of them, Malfoy looking traumatized, and Tom looking the picture of poise, his eyes locked on her.

She wondered what could have been happening before she opened that door.

“Are you alright?” She asked Malfoy quietly.

“Draco sometimes has nightmares,” Tom answered, “It’s not something he is particularly open about. I was trying to give him a space to calm down with a bit of privacy.”

Hermione watched Tom for a long moment, examined the friendly tilt of his lips into an almost-smile,  the gentle tone of his voice. He was for all intents and purposes, a dedicated friend.

Hermione wasn’t buying it. “I asked Malfoy.” She said.

Something changed in Tom’s expression then, something she hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t just the twitch of his eyebrow or a slight, barely present frown. His whole face went startlingly blank, and his eyes became sharp. She had never seen his eyes like that, focused and intense.

She looked back to Malfoy, who stared back and forth between them with wide eyes. “Malfoy.” She repeated.

He looked at Tom first, who met his gaze. Malfoy then looked back to her, and finally spoke, “Yes,” He said, and the breathiness of his voice made Hermione wonder what had been happening before she interrupted. Did people really sound like this just from crying from a nightmare? “I get night-terrors. Tom was simply calming me down.”

Hermione didn’t like the way Tom turned back to her with a smile. “If you don’t mind, Ms. Granger,” He said, “I’ll take care of Malfoy.”

Malfoy had not stopped shaking.

“I can take him back to his common room,” Hermione said, “It isn’t your night for rounds, Mr. Riddle.”

“I would rather Tom takes me back to the common room.” Malfoy interjected.

There was nothing more Hermione could do then, except look sadly at the state Malfoy was in and ask, “Are you sure, Draco?”

She used his first name on purpose. Malfoy blinked at her, and Tom turned his head slowly to look at her as she said it. She didn’t look at Riddle, kept her eyes on Malfoy and waited for his response.

He nodded, so there was nothing else she could do.

“Fine,” She nodded, and didn’t look at Riddle when she added, “Take him straight back to his common room, it’s after curfew and I don’t want to have to deduct house points.”

“Of course, Hermione,” Tom said.

It was the first time he ever used her first name.

–

Hermione didn’t see Tom that night, and she left her room early that morning.

She didn’t see him until breakfast.

“I need to tell you something,” She said to Harry and Ron, “Something I saw last night.”

“What is it?” Ron said through a mouth full of food.

She looked around the Great Hall. Tom Riddle hadn’t made his appearance yet, but Malfoy was at the Slytherin table. He looked normal, his typical haughty self, it was as if last night had never happened. But Hermione couldn’t chake the memory of his expression, frightened and shaking like a leaf.

“I was doing my rounds,” She said, looking back to Ron and Harry who were listening closely, “And I walked in on Riddle and Malfoy.”

“Doing what?” Harry asked.

“I’m not sure,” Hermione said, “They were in the potions classroom and had a silencing charm and complicated locking charm on the door.”

“Doing what, though?” Ron pressed.

“I don’t know!” Hermione protested, “I can’t imagine what they could have been doing, but–”

“Were they fucking?” Ron asked outright.

Hermione sputtered for a moment, “No!” She said, “Well, I–I don’t think so. No. Malfoy looked terrified.” She thought of the two of them, standing there, Riddle’s calm stance, Malfoy’s wide, wet eyes. “No, definitely not. I blew the lock and walked in unannounced and they weren’t even touching, no clothes askew.”

“Wait,” Harry interjected, “You blew the lock?”

“Yes.” Hermione confirmed.

“Bloody hell,” Ron said, “Why’d you do that?”

“I couldn’t unlock it.” Hermione shrugged, not understanding the fuss. “That’s not the point.”

“So what did they say?” Harry asked.

“They said something about Malfoy having nightmares,” Hermione sighed, “That he needed to calm down, and Tom was helping him.”

Ron shrugged, “Sounds believable to me.”

“Does it?” Hermione asked, astounded, “Does it actually?”

“Yeah, why not?” Ron asked, and commenced shoveling food into his face again, “They’re friends, aren’t they?”

“Riddle doesn’t have friends,” Hermione protested, “Have you ever heard him call anyone by their first name? Have you ever seen him spending time with someone outside what is absolutely necessary?” She didn’t miss Ron rolling his eyes, but she ignored it, “Something was going on, I’m sure of it. I’m just not sure what.”

“What does Malfoy have nightmares about?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know, Harry!” Hermione replied, exasperated, “That’s not the point.”

“The point is,” Ron said through another mouthful, “Hermione is pissed her boyfriend was canoodling with another guy.”

“Ronald.” Hermione said sternly.

“Hermione.”

That wasn’t Ron. That wasn’t Harry. Hermione looked up to see Tom Riddle stood behind her two best friends, a small, friendly smile on his face. Ron’s eyes practically bulged out of his skull when he turned to see who was behind him, and he turned back to Hermione to raise his eyebrows and she knew what he was trying to say to her without words, ‘he calls you Hermione, huh?’

“Riddle.” She greeted, pointedly avoiding his first name.

“I was hoping I could speak to you.” Tom said.

“No.” Hermione replied, secretly delighted by the slight falter in his smile, “I’m in the middle of a conversation.”

“We just finished, actually!” Harry chirped, smiling at Tom and then turning back to Hermione, “Go ahead, ‘Mione. It’s fine.”

She wanted to kill Harry.

“Fine.” She said, and stood slowly, “We can talk.”

“Excellent.” Tom said.

They were on opposite sides of the long table, and the distance from where she was sat to the main door of the great hall felt like a funeral procession. She glanced toward him, over the heads of the students at the Gryffindor table. He looked straight ahead, his hands clasped behind his back, his head held high. He had excellent posture and a perfect mask. It felt dreamlike, walking alongside him with only a table full of oblivious students between them.

Once outside the Great Hall, Tom walked beside Hermione until they reached a relatively quiet corridor. It was lined with windows that overlooked the courtyard. Sunlight streamed in, and they stopped in the light of one of the windows, but Tom stood just outside of the sunlight.

She waited for him to speak.

“You blew the lock off the door.” Was the first thing he said. She didn’t understand why everyone was so hung up on that.

“Yes.” She confirmed, “You cast very complicated locking spells.”

He smiled tightly, “We wanted privacy.”

“What for?” She asked.

He paused, examined her for a quiet moment. Hermione wasn’t sure what he hoped to find, but he stared into her eyes for what felt like a very, very long time before speaking again, “Forgive me to saying so, Hermione,” He used her name again. She didn’t know why he did that. “But you seem suspicious of me.”

“Is there something I should be suspicious of?” She asked.

“I certainly don’t think so,” He laughed, “I told you the truth last night, I’m sorry if it appeared suspicious.”

“Why was he so afraid of you?” She tipped her chin up, tried to search his eyes for some kind of answer like he seemed to try to do with her.

He laughed, “Hermione,” He said her name again, she felt something uncomfortable coil in her gut, “He was not afraid of me. I don’t believe anyone has any reason to be afraid of me.”

She didn’t believe him. That was the strangest thing about all of this - despite his nice smile and his kind words, she couldn’t find it within herself to believe him no matter how she tried. But it would do no good to say so, so she looked away and said, “Of course. Forgive me, I’m a bit on edge.”

“Are you alright, Hermione?” He asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

You can stop lying to my fucking face, she thought. But she just smiled tightly and shook her head.

He reached out, gently laid his hands on her arm, and it took everything in herself not to flinch. “Let me know if you need anything.” He said kindly, “Perhaps we can start doing rounds together?”

She didn’t like the idea of spending any more time around him than absolutely necessary. But then she didn’t like the idea of him galavanting around Hogwarts at night, either. At least this way she could keep an eye on him.

“Alright,” She agreed, “Let’s do that.”

He smiled, and let his hand linger just a moment too long on her arm.

–

Hermione cornered Malfoy in the library.

“Draco,” She greeted, sitting down across from him where he was reading. He looked up, and promptly blanched.

“What the fuck do you want, Granger?” He snapped.

“Just checking in.” She said, “How are you feeling?”

He stared at her for a very long time, a sneer steadily spreading across his face. “Fine.” He spat.

“No more nightmares?” She pressed.

There was a split second, barely there at all, where his brows started to press together, and he looked confused. It was gone in a flash, and he averted his eyes and followed along, but it was all Hermione needed to know she was right. “Yeah, nightmares…” He agreed, “I’m fine, Riddle helped.”

She leaned closer, folding her arms on the table in front of her. “But it wasn’t really a nightmare, was it?”

Malfoy grit his teeth. “What are you on about?”

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” Hermione repeated, “It was something else, right?” Malfoy was glaring fiercely at her now, “What happened to you in there? Why were you so scared?”

“Granger,” He started, and it sounded like a warning. Hermione ignored it.

“What did he do to you?” She pressed, “Malfoy, if you tell me, I can help you.”

Abruptly, Malfoy slammed his hands on the table and stood. He leaned toward her, and in a quiet tone, he furiously spoke, “I have never once asked for help from a mudblood,” Hermione sat back, the word sinking deep into her chest. She blinked once and willed herself not to show how it bothered her, “And I won’t start now.”

She stood and slammed her hand down on his book, let her magic seep out through her fingertips to set it on fire.

She left him there, frantically stamping out the flames, and felt foolish for caring.  

–

She was studying in the heads common room. She didn’t usually do that, opting to study in her room instead, but she wanted a change in scenery, so she sat on the floor of the common room by the fire, taking in its warmth and focusing on her coursebook.

She didn’t expect Tom to sit in the chair across from her by the fire.

She glanced up, and saw he was staring at her intently. He hadn’t greeted her yet, just stared. It was evening time, and the room was dark except for the fire. She watched the glow play along his features, and felt something strange in her belly.

“Hello, Riddle.” She greeted first, because he wasn’t saying anything yet.

“Hermione.” He greeted, and smiled a small, private smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” She answered, “Why?”

“I heard about your conversation with Malfoy.” He explained, and she felt herself go cold despite the warmth of the fire.

She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure what she was meant to say.

He pursed his lips for a moment, then moved from the chair to sit on the ground across from her. “Hermione,” He said quietly, “I heard about what he called you.”

She suddenly felt very confused. She thought he would ask why she was still asking about him, still acting like he was suspicious. She couldn’t fathom why he, a Slytherin who had absolutely used that word before, would be concerned because someone called her a mudblood.

It wasn’t precisely that it didn’t bother her. It did. Every time someone called her by that name it made her feel angry, upset, ashamed, all at the same time. But she was used to it, to some extent.

“He’s called me that before,” She finally answered, “I know you’ve used that word before.”

“Not against you.” He argued.

A strange argument, because it hardly mattered who he used it against.

“Regardless,” She continued, “You’re hardly in a position to comfort me if someone calls me a horrible name.” His brow twitched, “Besides, it isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. I’m fine.”

“I’ve spoken to him,” Tom said, “He won’t call you that again.”

She felt well and truly lost. She couldn’t hide the confusion on her face even if she tried.

“Shouldn’t you be more concerned with other parts of our conversation?” She asked.

It was a foolish thing to ask him, but she couldn’t help herself.

He laughed, glanced away for a moment to look into the fire. Hermione found herself unwillingly fixating on the glow of his cheeks, the slope of his nose, the way the firelight danced in his dark eyes and made them glow red.

“Do you know what I think, Hermione?” He asked, still looking into the fire. She didn’t answer, and after a moment he looked back at her, and there was something in his gaze that made her stomach twist. “I think there are better things we could be doing than fighting each other.”

Hermione suddenly found herself rather short of breath. There was no mistaking what he was implying, his tone of voice and the weight of his eyes made it very clear. Though for all of the female attention Tom Riddle received, she had never heard of him being so forward. Quite the opposite - she had often heard girls bemoaning the fact that Tom was so standoffish, refused to make a move or pursue anyone, was nothing but a perfect gentleman at all times.

He was trying to distract her, she thought. It was the only explanation. He was trying to take her mind off of things that he didn’t want her to be thinking of.

She wondered…

She set her book aside, leaned toward him slowly. There was no sound except for the crackling of the fire. She watched his eyes as she leaned toward him, closer and closer until there were only a few inches between them. He watched her, sat as still as a statue. She paused, left a breath of space between them and watched his expression, but he showed no emotion.

Quietly, she spoke, and as she did, his eyes fell to her lips, “I would love to know what it is you think we should be doing, Tom Riddle.”

His eyes met hers again, impossibly dark. She didn’t notice he lifted his hand until she felt his fingers drag gently up her arm. He didn’t move closer, he left that decision entirely up to her. Clever, she thought. To let her believe she is entirely in control, to ease any thoughts of suspicions that he should be hiding something by distracting her but making it feel like it is her decision.

Briefly, she did consider the possibility of going through with it. It would grant easy access to his bedroom, and she could surely find all sorts of things in there to clear some of his mystery. But there was no guarantee she would have a moment in there without his watchful eye, and she felt a bit uncomfortable at the thought of sleeping with someone to get what she wanted.

She wasn’t like him.

She could feel the heat of him, as strong as the fire, blazing against her chest. She was struck by the uncomfortable thought that some part of her, buried beneath the suspicion and frustration and anger, would like to kiss him. It made her angry, the way some parts of him seemed to call to her, it made her deeply uncomfortable that the thought of being with him made her stomach twist with anticipation.

It especially infuriated her that all of this was only a show. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that someone like Tom Riddle - intelligent, poised, enigmatic, Slytherin - would never look at her that way. He must think her a fool to fall for something as simple as this, to trip over herself because he gives her an iota of attention.

Hermione tilted her head. He still hadn’t moved. She found it fascinating, the way he held himself so still, allowing her to make all the moves. Somehow she doubted someone like him, someone capable of instilling os much fear in his friends, would be so submissive in matters like this.

“How stupid do you think I am?” She asked, breaking the silence with nothing more than a whisper. He blinked, a slight pinch to the centre of his brow. “What kind of simpering fool do you take me for?”

His hand dropped. “Hermione,” He started, but she caught his hand by the wrist and he fell silent once more.

“Perhaps next time,” Hermione spat, “We can come from a place of mutual respect, rather than pretending I am like every other person you have ever seduced, intimidated, or threatened into doing what you want.” His face was carefully blank, but he didn’t interrupt, he didn’t move, didn’t even pull his hand away. “You can start by telling me what was happening with Malfoy the other night, and then perhaps I can withstand your present long enough to have a conversation.”

He didn’t say anything, so Hermione turned to pick up her book and began to stand. Tom Riddle caught her by her wrist before she could get far, so quick and so sudden that he startled her. She dropped her book as he pulled her back down, and in a tone sounding very unlike him he spoke.

“How about we start with you telling me something,” He said, and she noted his voice was higher when he was angry, sharper, more cutting. It wasn’t a nice sound, not like the way his voice usually sounded. “Why do you care so much about what happens to Malfoy?”

“So you admit it?” She pressed, “Something happened to Malfoy?”

“Don’t you know that he hates you?” He spat, and this version of him was so different than any version of him she had seen before. She took in every inch of him, the downward curl of his sneer, the slight wrinkle of his nose, the cutting gaze, the slope of his brow. There was even a slight flush to his cheeks, a sign of life that she hadn’t even noticed wasn’t there before. “More than he hates Potter, more than he hates anyone, he hates you. He find you repulsive, dirty—“

“I have never cared what Malfoy thinks of me and I won’t start now.” She interrupted.

“Then why do you give a shit about what happens to him behind closed doors?” His grip on her wrist was bruising, but she wouldn’t flinch. This was the most brutal, honest display he had ever shared with her, and she wouldn’t miss a moment, wouldn’t shy away, not now when she was getting exactly what she asked for.

“Because it doesn’t matter how much of a bigoted arsehole someone is,” Hermione spoke through gritted teeth, “Doesn’t mean they deserve to be tortured.”

It surprised even her when she said it. She wasn’t sure what precisely it was she suspected when she found Malfoy shaking and terrified in that room with Riddle, hadn’t thought on the details too much. But it made sense to her somehow that someone so perfect and so poised, so falsely kind, could only be capable of horrible, unspeakable things.

Tom’s face closed off immediately, and any and all emotions she had been rewarded with was suddenly gone. His eyes went blank, cold, and a dead smile stretched across his lips. “Oh Hermione,” He murmured, “What a dark imagination you have.”

She snatched her wrist out of his grip, and realized a moment after he did that her hands were shaking. His eyes followed the movement of her hands as she picked up her book and pressed it against her chest.

“I’m not so easily fooled, Riddle,” She said as she stood, “You can deny it all you want, but we both know I’m right.”

“You always are, aren’t you?” He asked, his tone mocking, looking up at her from his place on the ground.

Such a strange and unusual stalemate, she thought, standing her him while he stared up at her with cold, emotionless eyes. She was too quick to call him out, it was too sudden, and because of that they were back to square one. He hadn’t admitted it, but he hadn’t denied it, and he hadn’t lashed out at her either. She might’ve expected more anger in light of her accusations, but he just sat there, the picture of ease, staring up at her as if he had nothing to worry about.

She didn’t say anything in return, instead she stormed to her room, shut the door, and cast three separate locking charms.

She didn’t sleep well that night.

—

Hermione wasn’t sure what she expected the following morning, but seeing Tom Riddle waiting for her on the couch in the common room stopped her in her tracks.

“Hermione,” He greeted.

“Riddle,” She replied, pointedly refusing to use his first name. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to walk you to the Great Hall.” He answered, standing smoothly. She narrowed her eyes.

“Why?” She asked.

“Because I’d like to show you something.” He answered vaguely.

She didn’t like this, it gave her an uncomfortable feeling, but she wasn’t sure what else she could do. If she resorted to violence, its more than likely people would side with Riddle. Running away would do no good, as they went to school together, shared multiple classes, and slept in rooms next to each other. Not to mention, the idea of running away felt cowardly as well as foolish.

She sighed through her nose and nodded, approaching him with measured steps. He held his arm out to her with a smile as if to guide her, and she ignored it.

They walked in silence. He didn’t try to speak to her and she had no interest in speaking to him. She paid close attention to the corridors, trying to see if any of his friends were lurking about, ready to jump her. She kept a hand on her wand at all times, ready for anything, but nothing happened.

When they neared the Great Hall, she saw a head of white blonde hair lurking outside the entrance. She glanced at Tom momentarily, then looked ahead, tightening her grip on her wand.

Malfoy straightened as they approached, and Hermione readied herself for…for what, she wasn’t sure. It seemed foolish to start something right outside the great hall, and Malfoy didn’t have his wand in hand. His eyes were trained on the floor as they neared him, and he didn’t look up.

“Malfoy.” Tom greeted.

“Riddle,” Malfoy returned, and then more quietly, “Granger.”

Hermione had no idea what was happening, even less so when Malfoy squared his shoulders and spoke.

“Granger,” He repeated, louder this time, somehow managing to sound haughty and arrogant even while his eyes were trained on her shoes, “I apologize for my behavior yesterday. It was inappropriate and uncalled for.”

Hermione was at a loss of what to say. At her extended silence, Malfoy glanced up at her, and then toward Tom. His eyes quickly fell to the ground again, and to Hermione’s utter shock, he lowered his head in what was almost a bow.

She had seen purebloods do this often, mostly to their elders, bow their heads in respect. They rarely did it to anyone on their level, classmates or colleagues, and certainly never did it to muggleborns. “Please, forgive me.” Malfoy said.

Hermione turned her head slowly to look at Tom, who was watching Malfoy with a blank expression, but something dance in his eyes, something almost gleeful.

She turned her head back to see Malfoy, head still bowed. “I forgive you.” She said quietly, and watched the way his shoulders sag, like he was expecting differently.

He straightened, tipped his chin up and nodded before heading into the Great Hall. Hermione watched the empty space where he had just stood.

Tom started to move, but Hermione caught his arm before he could enter the Great Hall. “What in Merlin’s name was that?” She hissed.

“A gift,” He said, and stepped close to her, so close that she had to lift her chin, tip her head back to meet his eyes. “Did you like it?”

“What are you doing?” She asked quietly, and he smiled.

“You don’t like it then?” He surmised, looking like he was enjoying this far too much.

“What did you do to him to make him do that?” She snapped, keeping her voice low.

He dipped his head just a bit, and whispered, “Nothing more than he deserved,” Then he straightened up again, and continued, “Don’t you like him better this way?”

“What are you doing?” She repeated, quickly losing her temper.

Tom Riddle smiled, an unusual thing, because it wasn’t just a quirk of his lips. It was a fully-fledged smile, one that showed his teeth, dimpled his cheek. Hermione felt that smile deep in her belly, twisting and tugging, shortening her breath. “It’s time for breakfast.” Is all he said.

“I’m not eating with you.” She said, furious at how breathy her voice sounded.

“I would be surprised if you did.” He answered.

He took her gently by the arm, and it was only then she realized she had never let go of his arm. She let go as if burned, but didn’t shy away from the gentle fingers on her arm. He guided her toward the entrance to the great hall, and waited until they had entered, until they had caught the gaze of the students nearest to the entrance, before he dropped his hand and nodded his farewell, heading toward the Slytherin table.

Hermione ignored the twisting in her belly, the heat where this hand had touched her arm, and wondered what it meant that when she turned her head to peer over the heads of all the students as she walked toward her table, Tom Riddle’s eyes were still fixed on her.

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Five (Zuko x Reader)

Part Four

Word Count: 3,300

Author’s Note: I was up until 4am finishing this on Thursday night, and honestly, the way my single brain cell was barely functioning at that point, I’m surprised this even got done, let alone that it got done relatively well. We’re also getting super close to 1,000 followers, so if you like this series or any of my other works, PLEASE subscribe! I’ve got some fun stuff planned once we get there that I’m really excited to start planning! 

~ Muerta

Despite their rocky beginning, your first few weeks as Lady of the Fire Nation go surprisingly well. After your conflict with Advisor Lin, everyone begins to treat you with newfound respect - even Zuko. Your first breakfast together was the last time he advised any of your aids to be moderate or keep their distance from you, instead encouraging them to speak to you as directly as they would him, openly reproving them when they treat you as if you aren't capable of grasping everything they face you with; of course, you very much feel like you aren't, remaining stoic during morning briefings in the dining room while inwardly panicking, hearing everything but only able to decipher about half of it. You’re lucky you’re still shadowing the Firelord, learning your place and duties; once you’re sent out on your own, you have a feeling you’ll drown before you even get the chance to tread water. 

Protective as he is, Sokka arranges to stay in the palace until you’re completely settled, stating that it’s his duty as the chief ambassador for the Southern Water Tribe; you know that the real reason is because he’s worried to death about you, trying his hardest to keep up the tough, unflappable big brother act for nobody's sake but his own. Toph also decides to extend her trip, quite concerned herself but mostly using the political tension as an excuse to catch up with you, Zuko, and Iroh - you don't mind, since having her around is an endless comfort to you, and you often invite her to sleep in your room so you can pretend that you’re just two friends enjoying normal young adult lives. 

Each day spent in Firelady prep school is a new lesson in what exactly the role means, and you’re quickly finding that it’s much more than observing any of the first ladies of the Water Tribe could have ever prepared you for. They were considered accessories to their chiefs, appearing beside their husbands mostly for aesthetics and only truly serving the purpose of giving birth to sons to take his place; as the Firelord’s wife, you’re seen as an extension of him, and he an extension of you. Your people view you as the monarch and matriarch of a massive, powerful clan, and expect you to live and act in sync with one another for the betterment of your children, both literal and metaphorical. Nation comes before everything, any action that could suggest intentions otherwise criticized with the utmost scrutiny; disgrace is all too easy, while honor seems near impossible. 

You have tea with Zuko every night before bed; the more you learn about the culture of his upbringing, the more you empathize with his younger self. 

“I understand now why you were so angry,” you admit to him one night. “They make you feel as if just being human were a mistake. I'm already frustrated - I can't imagine what seventeen years of it was like.”

Zuko hums, his face taking on a wistful, somber expression. 

“That's what my father did to me,” he explains. “Everything was wrong, even if it was what felt natural.” 

He takes your hand in his, his thumb grazing over your knuckles as he gazes off in thought. 

“We can change that, though,” he tells you. “Things already feel better with you here.” 

For a country that just ended a century long war in which they were the main aggressor, you would think that your advisors would put more energy into matters of diplomatic affairs than your image. 

“I'm just uncertain what a choice like this could make the nation feel,” Advisor Yong says. “We’re already walking a very delicate line.”

You stand in one of the palace’s many meeting parlors with Zuko, Advisors Yong and Sung, Sokka, Iroh, and the royal seamstress, pouring over multiple yards of fabric she's brought for the robes that will immortalize you in your wedding portrait. For the past forty-five minutes, you've been debating whether you should be pictured wearing Fire Nation or Water Tribe clothes - the proceedings have been dismal at best. 

“The representation of our tribe is important to our people,” Sokka replies to Advisor Yong. “We’ve been small for decades, and mostly because of the Fire Nation - she should wear a traditional dress.” 

“But certain people in our nation are still very put off by the idea of a foreign queen,” Advisor Yong argues. “A man was already killed over the matter; embracing it so fully could spark anger and endanger her and the Firelord even more.” 

In the time you've spent with Advisor Yong, she's grown to be your favorite of anyone within the royal council. Her small stature and plump, motherly features make her seem gentle and subdued, but her kindness only runs so deep; when faced with confrontation, she's like an angry bull - fierce, but in a way that's so swift and graceful, you barely notice her goring into you until she's shredded you to pieces. She's been one of your most supportive council members as well, guiding you in matters of proper Fire Nation etiquette and culture and sticking her neck out farther than could possibly be expected to keep you safe. You can see Sokka getting irritable, but you know she speaks with a voice that only has your best interests in mind. 

“Perhaps we should consider the external perception,” Advisor Sung suggests. His soft spoken manner is a welcome reprieve from the increasing bitterness in Yong and Sokka’s tones. “Yes, it's quite important that the Southern Tribe is recognized, and doing so will present a compassionate image of our nation. On the other hand, however, having our lord and lady in different traditional dress could suggest division; picturing them as the same would imply a more unified pair.” 

“Maybe we should put Zuko in a Water Tribe outfit,” you suggest flatly. “Make it look like we’re pushing you guys around for a change.” 

Zuko snickers beside you, raising a hand to his mouth to (ineffectively) stifle the sound under the guise of a cough. The rest of the room is deathly silent, its occupants either oblivious to your sarcasm or deeply unamused by it. 

“I believe what our lady is trying to convey,” Iroh chimes in, “is that we have hardly taken her own thoughts into consideration. After all, it is her marriage and her people she must represent.” 

“Okay, so what do you think?” Sokka prods, turning to you. “Do you want to wear Fire Nation clothes or Water Tribe ones?”

You sigh, dropping your eyes to the mixture of red and blue fabric sprawled out before you. 

“Honestly? I don't know,” you confess. “There are too many issues with either choice. I think we need more time to gauge how people react to me just being here before we decide.” 

“My lady, I understand,” Advisor Yong says, “but as cautious as we have to be, we can't be too hesitant; you can’t possibly hope to bear children in a few months’ time if we can't come to a decision on something like this in a timely manner.”  

You and Zuko both jolt, instinctively backing away from one another.

“Children will come much later,” Zuko sputters, his cheeks turning the same shade as his robes. “Right now we have to focus on getting the people of our nations to agree with each other.” 

“And children are an important part of doing so,” Advisor Yong explains. “They’ll serve to physically embody the union of the two nations; the sooner you become pregnant, my lady, the quicker we may resolve the issue.” 

“I’m not going to bring a baby into this world just to be a political pawn,” you snap, a bit more harshly than you intend to. “That wouldn’t be fair and I couldn’t do that to my kid.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Zuko glance at you with an expression you can’t quite place. You want to reach for him but restrain yourself, feeling strange about showing him any sort of intimacy with an audience. 

“We need to decide what will be done about this portrait before we decide what will be done about heirs,” Iroh agrees. “We should give our lady more time to think on the matter. Could we spare another day?” 

Advisors Yong and Sung look to one another, Advisor Sung nodding his compliance. Advisor Yong also concedes, her tone almost apologetic when she speaks. 

“Another day will be just fine,” she says. “We’ll leave the final decision to you and your husband, my lady. Have Rina bring your instructions to the seamstress when you’re ready.” 

Your stomach flutters manically when you hear the words “your husband”. Advisor Yong has never referred to him as such, only ever calling him “the Firelord”; somehow, coming from her, the title feels much more significant than just the result of an arranged marriage. 

You flop down in the grass beside Zuko, burying your face in the sleeves of your robe. He chuckles, tossing another apple peel to the turtle ducks in the courtyard pond. 

“At least they’re being nice,” he consoles you. “Advisor Yong called me a coward in front of the whole council when I told her I wasn’t sure about getting married. She was right, but it’s hard getting your ass handed to you by someone who looks like a sweet little grandmother.” 

You sigh, rolling over onto your back and tilting your head to look up at him. He gives you a faint, assuring smile, which you can’t help but return. 

“I totally understand why you snapped when we were kids,” you tell him. “I’ve been here less than a month and I already want to go apeshit. Did you know that one of our advisors told me to take my betrothal necklace off the other day? The slimy little bastard waited until you left the room to do it, too! He told me it made me look less like a ‘naturalized Fire Nation woman’, and I told him that anyone who expected me to look like one was either stupid or delusional. And what, we need to have kids right way for the sake of political leverage? That’s horrible! What kind of monster brings a child into the world just to use them their whole life??” 

You draw back when you notice Zuko’s fallen expression. You’ve sat up by this point, and your near-screaming has scared the turtle ducks to the other side of the pond. You feel your heart drop into your gut, wishing you could take the words back. 

“Oh, Zuko,” you breathe. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…” 

Zuko shakes his head, closing his eyes and taking a deep, measured breath. You watch his chest rise and fall, his shoulders loosening as he exhales. When he opens his eyes again, he meets yours, the knot between his brows unraveling. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I know. My father was a monster. And my mother… she just did what she was told. I never realized how much she sacrificed for me until she was gone.” 

You inch closer to him, warily reaching for his hand. He takes it, lacing his fingers with yours and gently tugging you to sit beside him, reclining against the trunk of an ancient maple tree. He leans into you, clutching your hand tightly. 

“Sometimes I wish the worst thing he did to me was use me,” he laments. “Then maybe I wouldn’t have done such awful things to the people who loved me.” 

“Zuko,” you whisper, tightly squeezing his hand, “you’re not your father. Just the fact that you asked me to marry you proves that. You didn’t choose your family based on who would make you powerful. You chose me because you love my siblings, and they love you, and that’s exactly why I agreed to be with you. I never met your father, but I know for a fact that he never knew love like you do; he wouldn’t allow himself to because he thought it was weakness. But you’re so much stronger than he is, and could ever be, because Katara and Sokka, Aang and Toph, and Iroh - all of us are here with you. You allow yourself to show weakness in loving us, which is the bravest thing you could ever do. You are nothing like Ozai.” 

To your surprise, Zuko smirks at you; the corners of his eyes glimmer with the buds of tears, however, and the rest of his features don’t rise to match the expression on his lips. 

“No wonder Uncle likes you so much,” he says. “You sound just like him.” 

You scoff, punching him in the shoulder. He laughs, playfully tossing you over his lap and pinching the soft sides of your stomach, an area he discovered was sensitive by accident one day whilst he was walking you through the palace; you giggle hysterically, trying in vain to fend off the attack. He retreats after a little while, sighing as he cradles you in his arms - your head presses to his chest while his chin rests atop your head, hugging you tightly in a way he hasn’t done before. You wrap yourself around him, arms latching about his waist to hold him just as closely. 

“I won’t let them pressure us,” he assures you. “We’re family, and we have to take care of each other. That’s all I ever want to do for you.” 

You nestle into him, curling your body closer to his while your arms squeeze at his sides. He kisses the crest of your head, a rare display of affection he’s only done a handful of times - it makes you realize that even when you were teenagers, and Sokka started to make serious suggestions about keeping his promise of marrying you after Hakoda left you in his care, he never once made you feel as safe as Zuko does. 

“I hope I wasn't interrupting anything with my invitation,” Iroh greets you when you arrive at his chambers. 

Before your nightly pot of tea with Zuko, a messenger came to your quarters telling you that Iroh wished to see you; when you asked why, the messenger told you that the general wanted to teach you to play Pai Sho. You looked to Zuko quizzically, wondering what was so important about knowing how to play a board game that you needed to be summoned so late in the evening, and he sent you off, assuring you that, knowing Iroh, it was worth taking up the offer. 

“Just Zuko’s tea,” you tell him, “which, if it weren't for his company, I think I'd bail on every night.” 

Iroh chuckles, leading you inside and lowering you onto a cushion on one end of a large Pai Sho table; he takes the other seat, smiling good-naturedly at you. 

“Unfortunately, my nephew has never quite taken to the art of tea brewing,” he says, “no matter how many times I've tried to teach him; I take comfort in the fact that he's much better with a sword than I am, instead.” 

You grin, watching as the old man spreads a set of tiles across the game board. 

“Do you know of the significance of Pai Sho within the royal families of the Fire Nation?” he asks; you shake your head in response. 

“It is traditionally learned as a way of teaching our young leaders to rule with strategy,” he explains. “It is meant to teach a balance between inner passions and outward logic, as well as how to observe one’s peers; those who practice Pai Sho diligently know how to pinpoint an opponent’s weaknesses while understanding and controlling their own, keeping others from using their shortcomings against them.

“Each tile has a meaning,” he continues, “and represents a different positive or negative attribute. They may only move in certain ways, but can change their effect on the game based on how the player chooses to use them within each environment. For example…” 

Iroh goes on to explain each tile and its movements to you, walking you through each element of the game and practicing different tiles with you until you can actually place them in a somewhat skilled way. When you're comfortable, he plays a simple game with you, aiding you in which possibilities cause which consequences and pointing out ways you can better defend your side of the board. You play five games with him in total, never winning but trying as if you stood a chance against such a skilled player as him. 

When you lose the last game, Iroh removes the last tile you played and replaces it with the white lotus - you quirk your brow, wondering why that would be the better move. 

“I thought the white lotus was a weak tile,” you question him. “Why put it up against something as strong as the flame tile?” 

“There are no weak tiles in Pai Sho,” Iroh instructs you, “only ones that are often overlooked. Sometimes we must look at things from a different perspective, you see; manipulate the odds by doing something unorthodox and unexpected. If your opponent cannot anticipate your actions, they cannot overcome you.” 

Iroh removes the white lotus from the board, taking your hand within his and placing it in your open palm. He folds your fingers over it, closing your hand between both of his. 

“Keep this with you,” he says. “It may help you someday.” 

“But won't your board be incomplete?” you ask. 

Iroh chuckles, giving you a mischievous wink that makes you feel almost as if the man is in some way omniscient. 

“I have plenty of others,” he assures you. “It will do much more good in your hands.” 

The next day, you accompany Rina to the seamstress’s workshop, wanting to give her the instructions for your portrait dress yourself. When you tell her this, Rina is clearly confused - she gently attempts to explain to you that it isn’t necessary, that she’s supposed to handle these sorts of things for you, but once you reveal what you have in mind, she shifts completely. 

“The council is going to hate that,” she says. “I think it’s a great idea. I can take you to the seamstress, come with me.” 

When you relay your plans to the seamstress, she’s also shocked - her eyes widen, and she physically backs away from you as if even considering following your orders will get her executed for treason. 

“Are you sure?” she asks. “It isn’t what the Firelady would typically do…” 

“And I’m not a typical Firelady,” you reply, your tone bright and straightforward. “I’ve been asked to do what will create compromise, and this is the best compromise I can think of; I’m simply doing what I’m meant to.” 

The seamstress agrees, but only after you give her your vow that she won’t take any of the blame should the idea backfire (you're in charge, after all, so what can anyone do? She’s just following orders.)

In white fabric, she makes a set of robes for Zuko and a dress for you, each including elements crafted in Fire Nation and Water Tribe tradition. She then takes each set to its own vat of hot water, adding blue dye to one and red dye to the other - she places the pieces in, looking nervously up at you as you approach the twin cauldrons.

“I just want to make one last adjustment,” you tell her. 

Before she can respond, you take a bucket of blue dye and a bucket of red and tip each one into the opposite vat. The garments swirl as if caught in the midst of a tempestuous storm, the dye bleeding into the pristine fabric until it stains a shade of vivid, furious purple. 

📚 table of contents 📚

✨ join me on patreon ✨

{ subscribers: @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @celamoon @omgwhattheeven @i-am-not-a-thot @fandomtrash1616 @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @just-another-romantic @berkeliums @eridanuswave @oleander-in-the-wind @kinismanditory @lammello @peppermenty @theawesomefactor123 @loganrwebb @ijustwannabecanadian @a-hopeless-fan @softvv @oddment-niwit-blubber-tweak @pearl-stonecutter @crazy0t @commander-rex @kittyddandnyla @abbyarchie @smol-grandpa @nonbinary-rogers @themanwiththemetalarmsdoll @witchywrter @canibea-whore-yet @fuckwhateverfuck }

[150289city]

ILLUSION - SURREALISM

Analyse creative manipulation images.

1. Zdzislaw Beksinski

The canvas, known as "Creeping Death", evokes a lot of emotions and remains relevant all the time. The leitmotif is death, which creeps silently like a spider. This is how he appeared in the eyes of the painter - death comes unexpectedly and destroys everything on its way.

Beksiński's paintings were about loneliness and the inevitability of death. The painter also often presented a vision of Armageddon. This is also the case of "Creeping Death". The end of the world appears in dark, brown and bloody colors. And death takes its toll and disappears unnoticed from the battlefield. The city burning in the background means that death has won again. Nobody survived. Death can take many shapes, it can resemble a human, an animal or a spider. In the painting by Zdzisław Beksiński, he is a terrifying creature that leaves the ruined area on its cramped limbs. Instead of the face, you can see a bandage through which a blood stain pierces. Instead of a torso, there is a hairy abdomen, similar to that of deadly spiders, and they will always flee from impending danger. Just like death, which also has time to hide from fire.

Beksiński's painting is one of the most terrifying contemporary works of Polish painting. Suffering, anger and resignation permeate them. The artist knows that he is unable to change his fate. He only has pain and the awareness that death will come for him. "Creeping Death" can be a universal picture, presenting the world after war, apocalypse or catastrophe. They can also be the darkest thoughts of every human being that circulate through the mind looking for an outlet. Because everyone is struggling with their own demons, which may appear completely different. It is certain that they cause fear, but they are essential in the fight against the suffering that is part of human life.

2. SALVADOR DALI

There are four clocks in the picture. One hangs from a dry tree, the other, with a blue shield and golden edging, flows down from a brown plinth. There is a fly on it, which can symbolize the "flying" and passing time. The orange watch lying next to it seems to be less soft and melting than the others. Ants crawled over him. The orange clock looks like it's about to be eaten by insects. Ants are here a symbol of rotting, decay. The fourth clock is in the center of the painting. It flows down from a deformed, beige-colored form. Only after looking closely you can see something like a nose, eyelid, long eyelashes. The distorted form resembles skin pulled from the face. According to some, it is a self-portrait of Salvador himself.

"Soft clocks" is nothing but a delicate, extravagant and lonely, paranoid-critical camembert of time and space.’’ Salvador Dali

Persistence of memory is perhaps one of the artist's most recognizable works. It was established in 1931. The idea was born when Dali, eating a melting French Camembert cheese, saw clock faces in it.

Dali created works that were supposed to amaze or shock. He did not represent anything directly, but through a vision. Therefore, he is included in the group of surrealists. Obraz Persistence of memory is a dream about time deformed by memories and dreams. Gala - Dali's muse and wife - said about this painting that the viewer's memory would only be the "softness" of the watches, because anyone who saw this work at least once would never forget it. The rocks of Cape Creus are an element of the landscape that appears in many of Dali's works. They have become an example of "hard" forms. The artist, who has a well-prepared drawing and knows the perspective, creates in a surprising way. An example is theoretically correctly painted clocks, but why is one of them hung over a branch, and the other running off the counter? It was this astonishment that the artist wanted to combine various objects in any way. The elements of the painting are arranged on the canvas in such a way that we have the impression of a large space and emptiness. Thanks to vivid imagination, all details have been divided into soft and hard. Clocks are among the soft ones.

3.  RENÉ MAGRITTE

With my popular sympathy for the Belgian painter René Magritte, I have allowed myself to be introduced to you by opening the whole series "Art for Tuesday" with his "Lovers". Together with the blog returning to the expanses of the Internet, let Magritte be the patron of the reactivation of this cycle, this time with her "Son of Man".

The very title "Son of Man" (French: "Le fils de l'homme") is a bit puzzling when confronted with this picture presents itself.

After all, we see an elegant man in a suit and a bowler hat against the background of the wall separating him from the sea, above him there are clouds that announce a storm or storm. And what is very important - it is a self-portrait.

Oh yes, I would ... Before the face of forgotten people (levitating?) A green apple that makes his face invisible, revealing part of the eye and eyebrow in fact. We have to remind ourselves that the Belgian was definitely a surrealist who grew out of the impressionist school. However, he used his symbolic linguistic voice, which was shaped by such tragic experiences as the mother's suicide - hence the motive of the shroud. The motif of a veiled face, or the lack of it, is constantly present in Magritte's painting. Maybe it allows you to stay safe? For both the "covered" and those looking at him? Or maybe these masks and covers allow for proper perception of things (I refer to the author's painting "Rape")?

As for the "Son of Man", a stretched (as always), original interpretation appeared in my head.

The apple ripens with its apple tree represented by the man. He is well dressed, which can mean high social status. Or maybe an apple covering a man's face makes him anonymous? is it just a tree from which society grows? And when he dies, will someone eat the forbidden fruit that he has grown, and will continue this process? Another "Son of Man" ..?

4. Max Ernst

"Day and Night" is a work that Max Ernst painted in the years 1941-1942. It presents a gloomy rocky landscape in dark colors. The image of the night is dominant here - the dark blue sky and the outlines of boulders. On the dark background, however, there are traces of the day, resembling daytime photographs of the same space. In these pictures these places appear completely different - they are sunny and full of bright colors. They do not resemble a barren night landscape.

Ernst's work follows surrealist poetics. Its meaning becomes understandable above all in the historical context in which it was created. It is about the tragedy of World War II, which left its mark on the artist's own biography. He miraculously managed to escape from the hands of the Gestapo and emigrate from France to the United States.

The night landscape is a barren land devoid of color and optimism. One gets the impression that we are dealing with a world completely destroyed by some cataclysm. His memories are only optimistic photographs from the past, which show the old face of the landscape. These optimistic incrustations in combination with the dominant gray and sterility not only do not cheer up the whole, but make it even more repulsive. We are dealing here with a world that will never return to its former glory.

The colorful pictures bring to mind illustrations from children's books. Thus, the artist refers to the myth of childhood as a lost paradise. Children's dreams are triggered here, in which reality seems to be a magical and wonderful being. At the same time, the juxtaposition of colored fragments with a gloomy background is also associated with the biblical Eden, where innocence and beauty are destroyed by sin and evil.

You can also understand "Night and Day" as a kind of puzzle. The picture resembles a puzzle that needs to be matched in an appropriate way so that they form a whole together. In this sense, one should see in Ernst's work traces of hope for rebuilding what was destroyed during the war. It is, in a way, a proposal to organize the world once again so that it becomes a place where a person feels safe again.

5. Pablo Picasso

"Guernica" is a famous painting by Pablo Picasso, painted in 1937 in reaction to the Spanish Civil War. The work is an act of protest against violence and at the same time a great manifestation of pacifism.

The title of the painting comes from the name of a Spanish city bombed by the German Luftwaffe air force in response to resistance to General Franco's group.

"Guernica" shows deformed human and animal figures, forming a chaotic swirl. You can see the bodies in pieces, especially the heads and limbs. The severed hands tighten tightly on the objects they hold: a candle or a sword. The mouths of the characters are usually open in a silent scream, and terror is visible in their eyes. People seem to squirm in deathly groans. Human figures blend with animals.

The whole thing looks like a huge, dynamic swirl. The depressing impression is deepened by the colors of the painting, in shades of black and gray. The central part of the painting is lit by a light bulb in the upper edge of the work. It seems that the situation depicted in the picture takes place in a narrow room, intensifying the impression of being surrounded and threatened.

The painting was painted in cubist aesthetics, which in the case of such a dramatic topic emphasizes the cruelty and tragedy of war. The fragmentation of the solid is here not only an act of artistic deformation, but also emphasizes the essence of any armed conflict, which is the total destruction of the world.

The war appears on Picasso's canvas as unbridled chaos and suffering. People dehumanize, they are reduced to the level of terrified animals, driven by the survival instinct. Human remains are clearly deformed, they resemble meat. Human and animal bodies are fragmented as if after a bomb had exploded.

The symbol of destruction is the Spanish bull emerging from the gloom, which covers the unfolding events with an unshakable gaze. Broken hands clutch at useless objects, among which stand out a candle and a broken sword. The former may symbolize the desire to illuminate the escape route, but it is also a sign of mourning for those who died. A broken sword and a torn horse indicate the uselessness of conventional weapons in a modern war that brings mass death and destruction.

Picasso's painting exudes an atmosphere of fear and terror, the image of a mother lamenting over a child's corpse is particularly poignant. The claustrophobic narrowness of the room in which the characters find themselves emphasizes the non-exit character of their situation.

[letterboxd]

Obsession.

Ella Kemp dives into Letterboxd’s 100 highest-rated, obsessively rewatched films of 2020 to find out why we love them—and to give Hollywood a heads-up on what we want to rewatch again and again.

Take note, development execs: we want to watch more of everything that makes us feel alive; that makes us feel thankful to be. To bottle that feeling, and drink it up as often, and as obsessively, as we like. We also want: more singing, more dancing, more drugs, more talking animals, more of whatever Director Bong is serving—and make everything gayer.

We know this because, a few years back, the Letterboxd team asked one very simple question: what’s the highest-rated film of all time, when the criteria is that you must have seen it five or more times? Not the ‘guilty’ pleasures, not the ‘so-bad-it’s-good’ gems, but the already-excellent films that are also inherently rewatchable. The resulting top 100 from back then are all extremely, objectively good. What can we say—you have great taste.

Because 2020 is, well, 2020, we revisited this idea to see how four years and an endless quarantine might have changed things. The usual suspects have been rounded up (Christopher, Quentin, Ridley, Damien, David and company), but a lot has shifted in the Highest Rated Obsessively Rewatched Club for 2020.

The top ten in the 100 highest rated, obsessively rewatched films of 2020.

Céline Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire is now top of the heap, where Spike Jonze’s Her was number one last time around. In fact, only Jaws and Carol remain from the last top ten. The Letterboxd community favors a wider world view: in 2017, the top 100 had only one film by a female director; in 2020 there are eight. The list has gone from exactly zero films entirely in languages other than English, to two (Portrait and Parasite), with several more containing a portion of non-English dialogue. Not quite leaping the one-inch tall barrier of subtitles, but it’s progress. And, there is substantially more LGBTQ+ representation all round.

This year’s top 100 shows that we still like to return to the idea of the auteur, and the challenge of a franchise. In 2017, Christopher Nolan was the filmmaker with the highest number of highly rated, obsessively rewatched films; in 2020 Quentin Tarantino has taken the lead, just ahead of Nolan. Joining them in the multiple-titles group are Edgar Wright, Peter Jackson, Joe and Anthony Russo, epic-scale filmmakers from whom we’ve learned so much, and whose films have more to offer the viewer on every watch. (When ratings are not part of the equation, Avengers: Endgame—still with a respectable 3.9 average—was the Most Obsessively Rewatched title of 2019. “You give me someone flying, turning invisible, super speed… that’s where I live,” explains obsessive rewatcher Max Joseph this Letterboxd interview. “In Endgame, I get a little bit of every genre and mood.”)

Obsessed with obsession

What is “obsessive”? To put some kind of parameters around the search for this year’s top 100, our team looked for the feature films that had five or more rated watches from a minimum of 150 Letterboxd members each, then we sorted that list by the ratings of those members.

But that word—“obsessive”—got me thinking. Just how obsessive are we talking here? It’s reassuring to know that Parasite is, naturally, a film we enjoy returning to, but when we’re talking about rewatches plural, what happens when we sort these 100 highly rated titles by another value: the number of diary entries logged by these obsessive members. And what would that list say about our tendencies as watchers?

Spoiler: we also pulled those numbers, and found an entirely different top ten:

The most obsessively rewatched, highest-rated films of all time, as at 2020.

Look at that image. Compare it with the inarguable cinephilia of the ratings-based top ten, which soars on critical strength. What are we seeing here? That’s not the question. The real question is: what are we feeling? What do these ten films do to us so consistently, that helps them to retain high ratings across many, many, many rewatches?

You see, in the top 100, members typically log their favorites between five and seven times—but there’s a select handful of titles that see an average of up to 24 viewings per obsessive member. You read that right. There is a film on Letterboxd that multiple obsessive members have watched 24 times or more, at the time of writing.

Comedy that never gets old

The film in question is Jemaine Clement and Taika Waititi’s What We Do in the Shadows, a genre-smart mockumentary about three vampire housemates just, well, pure vibing. It’s entirely in a league of its own, no doubt helped by a spin-off series, with the next entry, The Lonely Island’s Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping racking up an average of 17.7 rewatches per obsessive member.

These top two most obsessively rewatched titles make sense. When you’re feeling low, or when there’s some time to kill, what better place to turn than somewhere where the jokes never get old? As James writes on Letterboxd, Shadows “never fails to make me laugh”. Never fails. Taking a chance on a new comedy harbors its risks, so when you find the ones that work, you have to hold onto them like gold dust. It’s the sense of familiarity that comes from the same sharp, self-aware sketches, the endlessly quotable one-liners and screenshots that make memes feel like works of art.

(On that note, I asked the team: what were the highest-rated, obsessively rewatched comedy specials? No surprises: Bo Burnham’s masterful 2016 Netflix special Make Happy, and John Mulaney’s Kid Gorgeous at Radio City. Comedy is good when it catches you off guard—but in a pandemic, it’s even better when you can rely on it to deliver that same rush of endorphins, every time.)

Thank you for the music

Speaking of pick-me-ups, ever notice how much better you feel after karaoke? Or, when you know everyone else has gone out so you can let rip across every inch of the house with ultimate privacy? The cathartic thrill that comes from a sing-along is what keeps our obsessive members returning to musicals, increasingly. There’s comfort in memorized lyrics; the words we yell and hold dear.

You’ve got this in Popstar (‘Finest Girl’, anyone?) and, crucially, in a double-bill of jukebox musicals celebrating ABBA’s greatest hits: Mamma Mia! and Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again. With fifteen rewatches on average for the former, and almost seventeen for the latter, the sequel’s slight upper hand proves the film’s triumphant formula—there really is an endless supply of ABBA bangers—but also that the repurposing of the most pivotal tracks (‘Mamma Mia’ and ‘Waterloo’) will work even better the second time around, due to the familiarity, both of the songs and now their new-found purpose in this world.

The feeling of singing along with Lily James as Donna, as she dances around Paris with her young Harry, of latching onto Cher’s every breath as she reunites with the eponymous Fernando—these moments become part of our own memory, and the satisfaction that comes from performing them again and again never fades. It’s also why so many musicals are rewatchable staples. Singin’ in the Rain, Rocketman, Bohemian Rhapsody and Pitch Perfect all feature in the top 100.

Out of interest, I asked the team to lift the curtain on non-narrative music films to see which greats we return to. Again, zero surprise (to me, at least): Jonathan Demme’s transcendent Talking Heads concert film Stop Making Sense is, and has long been, the highest-rated, most obsessively rewatched concert documentary on Letterboxd. And it’s only been a few months, but the Disney+ filmed version of Hamilton is up there, along with Homecoming: A Film by Beyoncé. #BEYHIVE, come in.

Maybe we should trust love

At the other end of the spectrum, two titles in the most obsessively rewatched top ten point to our tendencies to find catharsis in our most extreme, most vulnerable expressions of emotion. Our two revealing films here are Love, Simon and Interstellar—one a grounded and sensitive coming-of-age picture of a teenage boy’s coming out, the other an epic space-travel thriller. Still, both films understand that, ultimately, love transcends all.

These films make room for us to revisit these most searing feelings, of love hidden, lost, afraid or universal, they let us cry out what we relate to, and escape into whichever onscreen emotions we prefer to project ourselves into beyond our own lives, time and time again. Because however much changes, you know you’ll always crave and be rewarded by love. (And by the existential exploration that often accompanies these big feelings: Don Hertzfeldt's World of Tomorrow is the highest-rated, most obsessively rewatched short film with Letterboxd members.)

Ink spots and needle drops

The idea of projection—of escape beyond our own lives—comes back often when thinking of the rewatch. But certain titles reveal how we choose to find escape in a quite literal form; observe the love for Tangled, rewatched on average ten times per obsessive member.

And then there’s Shrek 2, revisited on average 7.9 times (more on this bizarre, outstanding oddity on its own soon). The leap of faith into an animated world is one that offers a blank canvas painted over with new colors: the pastel pinks and soft peach oranges of sunset skies in Tangled, the rich purples and blues of the twinkling lights of the afterlife in Coco, the playful blue waters of Moana, with the sun giving everything a new glow. Animation works as relaxation here, clearing the mind and coloring it calmly time and time again. Elsa said it first: you can, and should, let it all go.

It is entirely probable, of course, that no Letterboxd parent is logging the Frozens—or any other animated family film, for that matter—as often as their household is actually watching them, the truth of which would completely upend this data. We know the math underpinning this whole exercise is somewhat arbitrary, but it’s an interesting starting point from which to analyze why certain things just work, again and again.

Take the oddity that is Shrek 2, deserving of its own dissection purely because of how masterfully it combines so many of the previously established elements. This film and its predecessor create so many vivid images that fit into the category of animated escapism, but music plays a major part, also. ‘Accidentally In Love’ by Counting Crows as Shrek and Fiona blissfully enjoy their honeymoon period; ‘Funky Town’ by Lipps Inc. as Shrek, Fiona and Donkey roll into Far Far Away; Jennifer Saunders as Fairy Godmother, with her sublime cover of Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Holding Out For A Hero’. There are too many perfect needle-drop moments to count, and every time the rewatch comes around, they feel new.

Add to the comforting visuals and euphoric music the countless one-liners, perfectly performed by Eddie Murphy and Mike Myers, but really, here, Rupert Everett as Prince Charming—a squirm-inducing, note-perfect pantomimic performance. Shrek 2 might just be the defining example of what makes a good movie the best movie, and one that only grows greater with every rewatch. Lucky us.

Festive fever

The inclusion of A Christmas Story, the second-last in our most rewatched top ten, makes sense when considering the times in our lives when we turn to movies for comfort (and discomfort: note the Hallowe’en-related rewatchables in the top 100). A Christmas Story might not be your first festive choice, but you will have your own equivalent. The Muppet Christmas Carol also made the top 100, with Elf, Love, Actually and the Home Alone movies bubbling under. We recognize all the beats, and seeing as the holidays return each year, it’s natural that we return to the titles that make us feel most at home within them.

Like Carol. Darling Carol. The last of our top ten most most most rewatched. Flung out of space into our eyeballs by Todd Haynes as some sort of Christmas miracle, its rewatchability as much seasonal as it is about love, representation, vintage glamor and that final scene. Let’s see where Happiest Season sits this time next year, shall we?

And so, what can filmmakers and distributors learn from what we want to see, not just once, but again and again? In just four years the list of titles the Letterboxd community has chosen to revisit and protect has blossomed with an open heart and feverishly enthusiastic mind.

Looking over the top 100 highest-rated, obsessively rewatched films in 2020, we want more queer love: Portrait, Moonlight and Carol but also Booksmart, The Favourite, Call Me by Your Name. We definitely need more singing and dancing: Suspiria, La La Land, Singin’ in the Rain, Mamma Mia and beyond.

We want more adventure, more time travel, more mind-melters, more drinking, exploring, investigating, more talking animals, more drugs, more laughs, more tears, more goosebumps. We want more full-body feelings of falling in love with a movie you know you’ll hold onto with everything you’ve got.

In the end, numbers can only tell us so much, and these numbers are drawn from what we’ve already seen, which is what’s already managed to make it through the system. There’s as much to learn from how these films were made as there is from what they’re about. Because, no matter how many AI tools people dream up to help with the green-lighting process, moviemaking is fundamentally about magic. And when all the right ingredients make it into the cauldron, the spell can be so strong that a film will win our hearts forever.

Related content

The Highest-Rated Obsessively Rewatched Club for 2020

Follow Ella on Letterboxd

[mimiplaysgames]

in the shape of a star (2/5)

Pairing: Terra/Aqua Rating: T Word Count: 9,324

Summary: They have their home, and they have each other. What they need to build a new life is to find proper footing. But some things are still too difficult to talk about.

Read on AO3

A/N: Ohhh I really didn’t mean to take this long to update this one. But I’m so ecstatic to finally get out a new chapter, it took me a good month to write it and for now, I’m proud of it. I hope you like it! So many, many, countless thanks to @holyteapotofrussell​ for beta-reading this piece and making sure characterizations and other deeper layers are a good fit, this work would not have survived without your help, love, and support. <3

***

anti

When she brushed her hair, she did so alone - without the mirror, without anyone watching. After the bristles glided easily and she felt finished, she’d pat it flat, smoothing out the ends just in case she missed a knot or two. If there were any loose strands, they’d be damned.

It was a still night, the curtains drawn with no wind to disturb the glass, and no whispers behind an unseen reflection of her mirror, which to this hour stood pathetically underneath a discarded bedsheet. No sound disturbed her, and it would have been peaceful silence if she didn’t have thoughts - until there was a soft knock on her door.

Terra opened it for himself. “Hey.”

And Aqua couldn’t help but smile. “Hey.”

Interrupting them was a loud bang, like a lamp falling over, tussling some furniture. She tensed up, expecting something to endanger the safety of her room, maybe even another episode - the last one with Terra was something she still could not put to rest.

Aqua was ready, a list of spells reciting in her mind. But Terra’s quiet chuckle gave her the indication that everything was as normal as it should be.

There was laughter down the hall, a squeak and a giggle. Ventus was fine.

“It sounds like those two are going to keep me up all night,” Terra said with an exasperated smirk. “You know, I’m glad that Cheers came to us.”

Part of her agreed - Chirithy’s arrival meant that Ventus slept happily, soundly.

And through the entire night, bless that cat-thing.

But part of her didn’t want new adventures. Something was still… weird, and she wished to have her family together without any fear, without wondering if she had to prepare for any surprises.

She kept those thoughts to herself.

“They’ll be asleep before you know it,” she said. Call it denial but it was better to count their blessings and hope there were more where they came from.

“How are you doing tonight?” He stayed at her doorframe, head peeking in like he was testing the waters, to see if he was trespassing - not that he ever could, he was the one thing that brightened up the night.

It was slick of him to ask that question when so many others would have been more accurate to how he really felt: Are you okay? Has anything scared you? Do you need me to stay with you? Would you like to come to my room?

Maybe even: I need you, too.

Aqua nodded slowly in response, rolling her words in her mouth before she spoke as much as she fiddled with the brush in her hands.

Yes, of course she wanted him to stay. There was no denying that she wanted to be near him.

But no. She had rejected his offer for three nights now and she hated it. But still, no.

There were things that she didn’t want him to see. Not just yet, anyway.

“I’m doing okay,” she said. “I’m thinking of staying here for tonight.”

She should not make herself into a burden when she was already compromised: a Keyblade Master without a Keyblade. It wasn’t Aqua’s style to need this much, so the best defense for now was to steel herself and fight her battles like nothing had changed.

Except losing a Keyblade was a huge deal so she had to get creative in order to look like she still had her life together.

Needless to say, her boys weren’t very impressed with how she was doing so far.

“Okay.” His voice was respectful but his eyes… disappointed. He rubbed her doorframe, like he was comforting it, and she might as well tell him it was obvious the gesture was really for himself. “If you need anything-”

“I know where to find you.” She smiled. Who knew if it was convincing.

“Yeah.” He patted the doorframe once, and forced a smile. “Good night.”

“Night.”

He closed the door behind him, and she waited for the sounds.

Footsteps faded away, first over to the left, with muffled voices to check if everyone else was tucked in and ready for sleep. Then to the right where a door opened, and before it closed, the sound of a loud flick of the light switch. Light that crept under her door was now darkness.

She threw herself out of her chair, to lock her door before she cast Reflect on it, protecting her from whatever stood waiting outside in the hallway.

It wasn’t enough of course. She cast Reflect on her mirror, the bedsheet covering it just as necessary.

She cast Reflect on her closet.

To her bathroom door.

The window.

This was her new ritual, and she dared darkness to be brave enough and break through. She sat on her bed with her legs crossed, like she was ready to calm down now but there was no telling her heart that it could finally breathe easy.

The light from her ceiling glared on, suffocating the glow coming from her bedside lamp. They were brand new light bulbs, too fresh to make any physical sound yet they were still louder than sirens and they kept her up every night because they did their job too well.

Aqua wanted to be in Terra’s arms; she needed to hear his heartbeat, needed to see that his eyes were still blue.

Needed. It was time to do away with that.

Eventually, her body would do what was natural when it was exhausted enough, getting her to pull the covers over, getting her under the drone of sleep.

When her body eventually did its job, she saw what her mind dared her to see: a black horned monster, its blue veins pumping with energy, its snarled teeth trapped behind bandages, hovering right at her door without an introduction.

She made sure to lock it; she swore she did and here it was anyway.

The monster turned her lights off, and most of it disappeared in the shadows, its yellow eyes still hovering in space.

Aqua could not move her body, and she willed the monster away - there was still strength there, all she had to do was get up, it shouldn’t be this hard. She fought it before without a Keyblade and could do it again.

It floated over to her bedside and there it was, face to face with her, heavy breaths counting down to when it would start.

At first, it almost reached to touch her, but instead its fingers grasped the fabric of the bandages crossing over its mouth, struggling at first to take them off but finally succeeding. It said her name.

Aqua…

All the while a cat with red eyes watched on by her windowsill.

***

The only cure for a bad night’s sleep was tea in the morning. Despite her pounding headache, Aqua prepared herself with three open books for a hard study on how to brew the best.

She was not the resident tea expert - that title went to Terra - but she liked to play an aggressive game and wanted to impress. The books were spread on the countertop: one for tea with fruits, one for spices, and one all about the philosophy of brewing different types, at what temperatures, and for how long.

Aqua chose the hard route by creating a new brew instead of following a simple recipe - last night had defeated her, and she really needed to win at something that didn’t make her feel like she was a lost cause.

She opened the cupboard for two mugs to find that she only need one.

The Master’s mug, this enormous ceramic perfection with a painted, curled mustache near the rim. He loved drinking out of this, the joke being that if he ever wanted to change his style, he could always do so in the mornings with a side of coffee. The size of it made it more like a chalice than anything else that was proper for a kitchen.

It was one of the things neither of them could bring themselves to throw away.

Terra claimed it for himself now, toying with the idea of growing out facial hair but never following through with it.

In the Master’s chalice, she mixed her concoction: ginger tea with turmeric and orange slices.

She checked each of her books one more time, making sure that her equations were correct, that she brewed something worthwhile. She took one little sip - meh, it was decent enough, and now she was nervous that he wouldn’t like it.

Voices floated near the dining room - it was curtain time.

Ventus spoke first, his tone anxious, like he was desperate and needy. “I don’t know, man… You know Aqua. She’s going to kill you.”

“Ven,” Terra replied to shut him up. “What else do you-”

A sigh.

“Everything’s going to be fine, buddy,” Terra said, and she was certain what followed was a rustle through Ven’s hair.

Years later and it was still second nature for all of them not to take Ventus seriously. She felt bad for him.

The door opened and only Terra came through, making her wonder if Ventus was now sulking - if he was, he didn’t turn to either of them anymore. He turned to Chirithy.

“It smells great in here,” he said as though he didn’t suspect that Aqua heard anything.

Which put her in an awkward situation - ask for what they were talking about, or keep it a pleasant morning?

…Was she really that traumatized that she had to be worried over what Terra was up to? She should (and would) trust him.

“Look what I did,” she said instead, displaying the chalice proudly with a half-full teapot over the bar that stood in between them. She didn’t say anything else, giving him the opening to volunteer the information himself.

He did not. He smirked. “Let’s see how well you performed, Master.”

The rim of this quirky mug approached his lips, a huge caricatured mustache now donned across his face right under his nose, like a portrait of an era from long ago. It almost made him look like Master Eraqus; she really should take a picture.

His sip was purposefully loud, the smack of his tongue vibrant as he tested the flavor, a gentle swallow when he finished - he did all this without ever breaking his gaze on her, and Aqua found that she quite enjoyed the way he looked at her, and she definitely noticed how comfortable it was to stare back.

“I’m actually quite impressed,” he said as he set the mug down.

“Seriously?” She didn’t think it was anything special, so she grabbed it and brought it to her own lips.

Hm, oddly it tasted better. Maybe she always thought his tea tasted amazing because he always shared it with her.

His chuckles interrupted her drink. “Facial hair looks good on you,” he said.

“You’re not as clever as you think you are.”

“I am.” He took the mug back. “You’re stealing from me.”

Laughing almost felt normal, like they hadn’t lost anything and they didn’t have to be afraid of losing again.

He stopped himself from drinking more to stare in awe of her smile.

Then he shrugged it off and darted his eyes somewhere else - to the floor - as he sipped, sinking into a thought that took some of his joy away.

“What is it?” she asked.

If anything, she was grateful he didn’t try to lie about it. “I’ve decided what I want to do.”

This day was always going to come, she knew it. The easiest, most joyful days were always the first to slip away and she told herself the entire time she anticipated it that it didn’t mean they would be separated. She had to believe that.

“Let’s hear it.”

He brought himself to look at her in the eyes. “I want to train with Riku, take as much time as I can with him before he leaves.”

It made sense. It also meant that he chose Riku as his Master.

“He’ll be good for you,” she said.

Something about the way he avoided her gaze told her that there was more to it. “Aqua, I’ll be meeting him in Destiny Islands.”

“You-” She inhaled. “You won’t be training in the castle?”

“No.”

All she was able to will out of herself was to stare at her fingers, reminding herself that every student of the Keyblade deserved privacy for their personal growth and it wasn’t anything personal.

“It’s not anything to do with you. It’s just…” Tears formed behind his eyes and he blinked them away. “Every morning, every night, every moment no matter how distracted I am or how detailed I plan a better future, all I have left to come to is myself.”

“Terra…” Ever since they came home, he had a nasty self-hating habit and most of the time she wasn’t confident that her words would comfort him.

How many times would she tell him that she was proud of him? How many times did he say that she had no reason to?

And what was the point for all this self-flagellation when she understood him more than he realized?

She nearly told him - nearly - but there was something as thick as tar that glued her mouth together. She didn’t tell him that she failed, too, that darkness took her, that she got angry, that she attacked her friends and allies.

If she said anything he would ask why it happened, and there wasn’t a single word in the dictionary to soften the blow.

“Listen,” he said, bringing his hand close to hers, stopping himself from asking her to take it. “Either way, I want you to be the one to test for my Mark of Mastery.”

Her eyes met his. “You sure?”

“Yes. I want - no, I need you to see me at my best. Please.”

She understood the words he wasn’t saying: he needed to reassure himself that they were equals. In her eyes, they still were.

“I will.”

Her normal Terra was back - eyes filled with determination, with hope, with the vow that he would succeed. “There’s one more thing.”

She scoffed. “Okay.”

“I’m also going to be training with Merlin.”

“Oh.”

This she didn’t expect: him training with a stranger when magic was her expertise. She almost asked him not to go, almost spit a long resumé of how skilled she was and surely she could teach him if he was interested.

Which meant that Terra would spend more time away from home, too. “What would you be working on?”

“Oh you know,” he said, trying so hard to make her feel better. “Taming these powers some asshole who cheated death left behind for me to deal with.”

He failed.

Aqua supposed that in spite of how long they had existed apart, there were still journeys they had to take alone. Maybe sooner in the future, they would all be inseparable again.

Or was that too unrealistic to believe? Since when did her Mark of Mastery promise that adulthood would be this hard?

His fingers brushed hers, hesitant at first then relieved when she reciprocated, giving her a grip so tight as if he was the one who kept her standing.

“I promise,” he said, lowering his voice to a soft whisper, “I’ll be home every day before the sun sets.”

Terra smiled once more, stroking her thumb with his, searching her eyes, her lips, her forehead. “Just one more thing.” He brushed through some straggling strands, matching one side of her head with the other, making sure she was well-kept.

She might as well melt into mush and keep him here for at least one more day, at least to prepare a proper good-bye, but Aqua stood on her own two feet so he could start his soul-searching guilt-free. “Keep your Gummiphone on you.”

“You’re such a mom.” He gave her a gentle squeeze before letting go, the ghost of his warmth still on her. She cupped it with her other hand as if to keep it. It didn’t work.

At least he humored her by showing his Gummiphone tucked in his pocket, before handing his mug over. “I’ll allow you to have the rest,” he said.

His footsteps echoed in the entrance hall before they were muffled by the outside, and shushed by the time he was too far away. He bid his farewell to Eraqus’ memorial first before summoning his armor, the last sound he made a burst of fire as his glider took him to the sky.

The tea was still hot, but it had lost most of its flavor.

***

It would have been difficult for anyone else to find Ventus in such a large castle - however Aqua knew him well. If he wasn’t playing around in the training grounds, hiding in the highest loft of the library, or pigging out in the kitchen, then he was in his room.

How right she was, hearing voices coming from behind his door.

She knocked. “Ven?”

“Just a sec.”

He rummaged, and she heard the snap of a bedsheet. Timing herself to the movement of the fabric, she walked in, just in time for him to double check that his mirror was completely covered.

“Thanks,” she said, wishing her boys didn’t have to be so careful around her.

Chirithy stood on his table next to a carefully placed stack of books so worn out that the leather started to peel. It wiggled its ears and groomed its paws, and it was endearing enough that it almost looked like a house cat.

For as much as Ventus was the eternal child in their trio, he was way more tidy than Terra. Souvenirs from the Master’s adventures littered his walls and bookshelves, all neatly arranged so that they each shined without being shadowed by another. Aqua wondered if Ventus remembered each one’s story - she certainly didn’t.

“You talked to Terra?” Ventus asked, cautiously in fact, like he expected a fight out of it.

“I did,” Aqua replied, her tone suspicious. “Everything is fine.”

This confused him a little. “Okay. So what now?”

“That’s what I came to ask you.”

He made himself comfortable on his own seat, and if she didn’t have to burden him with huge existential questions about the direction of his future, he would have probably expected this day to be spent with another fun run in the woods, like any teenage boy would want to do. He still liked his poop and fart jokes (and Terra still laughed at them).

But Ventus was also the most determined, and she and Terra often made the mistake of underestimating him. He perked up with all the confidence of someone much older.

“Well, there’s a lot of questions I want answered.”

Immediately she leaned forward, her shoulders straight and ready for the responsibility. “Shoot.”

He chuckled nervously, his hand deliberately massaging his neck. “Um… I don’t think you’ll be able to help me with any of them.”

“Why not?”

“Well, unless Realm of Darkness gave you a history lesson about my past…” Ah. Of course. “It sucks not having anybody to talk to about it,” he said, and Chirithy stopped its grooming. “No one alive, I mean. Xehanort must have known something, though. It didn’t hit me until after he died, but now I don’t have anyone to ask.”

“… You want to leave, too?”

“I don’t know,” he said too quickly. “Maybe. One of these days, yeah. But there’s also…” He lost the words, and placed a hand at the top of the book stack. “I was supposed to read these and write the Master an essay. He postponed the deadline so I could watch your Mark of Mastery.”

Then he turned to her. “I kind of remember what it was supposed to be about, and I want to do the right thing and finish it first. Will you read it when I’m done?”

“Y-yeah, sure, if you think it would help.”

“…Why are you so surprised? Aren’t you my Master now?”

It left her with a breathless, dry laugh. “Am I?”

He shrugged, like it was the most obvious decision he could have made. “I can’t think of anyone better.”

“Ven,” she said, her hand running through his hair. There wasn’t a good enough thank you for such a compliment. Not to her anyway, all she had was a meek nod.

Then the responsibility, the honor, of being his Master dawned on her - she would have to develop an academic plan for him.

But what of? In the silence that followed, she thought of her Master and his strict lessons, half their time spent in archaic books and the rest in sparring. Philosophy was processed, digested, and repeated instead of debated. Sometimes they had formal lessons in behavioral manners, politics - even history if they were lucky.

Much of it wasn’t really relevant when all she had was her education in the darkest nights.

“If you really want to write the essay,” she finally said, “we’ll start with that.”

She took the one at the very top, the most worn with a thick cover threaded by ancient hand-made methods from before book printing was a thing.

“Affairs of the Heart by the Master of Masters,” she read aloud. “Ugh, I remember when Terra and I had to read this one.”

“Isn’t it awful?”

“The worst.”

Ventus shook his head with disgust. “I wonder if the entire thing is a lame excuse for a joke.”

She snorted. “What do you mean?”

“Thou shalt neither succumb at temptation and ne'er be fray y'est thine heart be ill-fitted with worrys,” he imitated with a deep, exaggerated voice, using his hand as a puppet.

“I don’t think y'est is a word, Ven.”

“Whatever.”

“The teachings have failed you?” Chirithy said, surprising her - she completely forgot it had been witness. It’s so much like a cat sometimes: watching, ignoring, maybe even judging.

“You could say that,” Ventus said with a nervous smirk, desperately and silently pleading at Aqua for permission to say more. “I mean, I don’t want to say that my Master was a bad teacher. Without him, I wouldn’t have been able to protect myself at all. He practically raised me and I owe him a lot-”

“Then what is troubling you?” Chirithy asked.

“I wasn’t prepared to be fighting my own shadow.” He leaned back, his hands supporting his head to give off the casual impression that nothing was really bothering him (it was). “He had a face and emotions, his own view of the world… Nothing I’ve ever read gave me the impression that was even possible.”

Chirithy wiggled its ears, cocking its head. “Therefore your teachings about the light were incomplete?”

“Not at all.” He straightened up like a lightning bolt. “I knew very little about the darkness and after everything that happened, I think a Keyblade Wielder should know more about it. I mean, I don’t know where Xehanort got the idea to split me in two. Why me?”

“Your light has and will always be bright and powerful, Ventus,” Chirithy chirped with suspicious confidence, before lowering its head. “It is ripe for the greedy, and I have seen the strongest faith break apart and cast the biggest, blackest shadows.”

“Have you really?” Aqua intervened, now that they’re on the subject. It kept its own past so close to its chest that catching it on the act of speaking was a golden opportunity. “You have any other unmatched and infinite wisdom you’d like to share, Cheers?”

“Like?”

Aqua rested her elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand. “Tell me about where you came from. Who taught you to speak?”

“I was made scientifically, in a flask,” it said flatly. Maybe as far as sarcastically.

“Okay then,” she nodded. “Well, I’d love to chat when you’re ready to be serious.”

“I have doppelgangers who all share my name,” it continued. Ventus found this particularly funny.

“Yeah, sure,” she brushed it off, turning her attention back to her new student. “Ven, I get it, I really do. I wasn’t prepared for the Realm of Darkness, either.”

“Really?” Now who was being cynical. “I don’t think I would have stayed human if I was down there for that long… But you’re a Master, so of course you survived.”

It stung more than he realized, more than Terra would ever comprehend, more than Chirithy could measure, but Aqua kept herself calm.

She simply didn’t know how to tell them that the savior they all saw in her was really an imposter.

“I’m just saying,” she said, surprising herself with how steady she sounded, “that I don’t want to follow the same path as our Master. If you think you’ll find answers outside, then you deserve to know. I won’t stop you.”

Ventus’ expression left Aqua wishing that one day soon, they could talk about the future without the baggage of the past. He was almost shocked, like this was his first taste of being treated as an adult, and he liked it.

Then there was a shift in his eyes, and she could tell that he didn’t know how to walk the talk or where to begin. She didn’t know either - should she really allow him to leave when he wanted or should they wait until he was Master before embarking on a treacherous journey first?

“I’ve got time to figure it out,” he said. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for yet. I’ll stay here for now, at least until Terra’s done with his training.”

“Why is that?”

He said too much. “No reason.”

“Ven, you know I don’t like bullshit.”

He flinched. “Promise not to get mad.”

“I can’t make-”

“Swear on this stupid book,” he tapped Affairs of the Heart, “that you will not get upset.”

She sighed, lazily putting her hand on the ancient tome. “I promise.” Not a second too soon, she let go.

Ventus took his sweet time to respond. “We thought it might be a good idea to always have one Keyblade wielder in the castle at all times.”

“That sounds sensible.”

He was relieved - too relieved for her taste. “Really?”

“Huh.” It wasn’t for the castle’s sake. It was for hers. “I don’t remember needing bodyguards.”

He squirmed. “You promised.”

Her lips pursed to the point of soreness and she desperately wanted to assure him that yes, she wanted to smack him on the side of the head with that book.

But she had to admit watching his reaction was pretty funny. “Focus on your essay. I’ll ask for it in about three days.”

“I- I can’t read all of that in-”

“Finish it.”

She left him there, gently shutting the door behind her and overhearing him tell Chirithy that maybe she might be scarier than Eraqus. Aqua didn’t actually commit to such a tight deadline, but she’d wait a little longer before informing him.

It seemed the moment Terra made his decision was proof that they all had to own up to their duties, and that their vacation of peace and reconciling was over.

Aqua walked down a hallway far enough to be sure she wouldn’t be heard before whipping out her Gummiphone, scrolling through contacts. She understood the basic concept of how to use it, but it was still foreign enough that it wasn’t second nature just yet. What a strange new life she woke back up to.

She found it, easily enough: Ienzo, Radiant Garden. She made the call, and a video screen lit up, his entire face on display.

“Master Aqua,” he greeted. He was always so polite. “I’ve been expecting your call since we last spoke.”

She hated the words that were going to come out, but it was time to take that first leap of faith into the abyss. “I’m ready to find my Keyblade.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I’ve already conducted a survey among the team and prior Organization members. I apologize again that I have no memory of it, I was so young.

"But anyway…” He cheered himself up. “You’ll be happy to hear that yes, when Xehanort was found, there was a blue Keyblade and a set of armor by his side. Though I’m sorry to say that he experimented with it.”

She told herself that starting was going to be the worst part, and it would get easier after she swallowed the bile building in her throat. “Can you elaborate?”

“Not on any human, mind you.” His hand waved in dismissal at the camera. “He merely wanted it to cooperate. It wouldn’t respond to him, it was as good as dead.”

“Good.” Her Keyblade, her own heart and soul bound to a weapon, made her proud.

“However, all the failures of making it spark discouraged him, so he locked it away.”

“What does that mean?”

His eyes were far away now, gesturing to someone off-camera to leave him be for a minute. “He was very protective of it and didn’t want to give anyone else a try.”

Protective would be the last word she’d ever use to describe Xehanort, but this wasn’t really just him, was it? This was also a white-haired Terra, someone who apparently didn’t understand his own past, attached to a relic that reminded him of feeling.

It made her think of how doting Terra was to make her smile, and how enchanted he became when he succeeded.

And then she imagined a white-haired freak begging some inanimate object to give him the validation of a greeting.

She didn’t know how to feel about that.

“Okay, where is it now?”

“No one knows,” he said somberly. “I’m afraid I don’t have a better answer for you…

"What we do have is a shelf of journals, including personal diaries and notes about his scientific experiments,” he continued. “Perhaps the answer might lie inside?”

“No,” she said and instantly regretted letting it out of her mouth. No, no, no, no. She didn’t want to know anything about any of that: creating Heartless, locking people up, flirting and deceiving, backstabbing people who thought they were his comrades, all with Terra’s face and hands.

This was exactly why she didn’t want Terra to help her with this either. It was best to leave Xehanort buried and not do anything to revive him - especially giving his thoughts any respect of existence. Why did the old man go and make things this complicated?

Taking a leap of faith was supposed to be like dipping into cold water - unpleasant and maybe painful at first but the temperature should level after a while.

This was more akin to jumping into acid now.

Right when proper words had failed her the most.

“I completely understand if you don’t-”

“You misunderstand me,” she corrected, and she regretted that too.

***

Terra kept his promise.

He came home right before the sun set behind the western mountains, when there was still enough light to filter through the stained glass. It barely took fifteen minutes after he arrived before it finally got dark - but not fifteen minutes too late, exactly as she needed him to.

Aqua gave in and asked Ienzo to ship Xehanort’s journals. Now it was anticipating having to read them, and wondering what kind of horrid images she would have to expose herself to, and why why why.

She thought she had virtuoso though, and powered through dinner in spite of the storm brewing inside of her - which of course her boys noticed.

Ventus thought she was angry with him. Terra thought she was mad at him.

It wasn’t until after dinner, when Terra approached her, that Aqua realized the minutes had betrayed her sense of time - at least the library was a pleasant place to spend them.

Open books littered the shelves and she already forgot where they belonged. Right now, she was too busy flipping pages from the one in her arms.

Terra put down a satchel with its flap pulled back. It was filled with raw, cloudy crystals, like he had just picked them out from some mines.

“Crystal magic?” she asked.

“Merlin wanted to start with something simple.” He had his arms crossed, bracing for whatever she had to say that would upset him. She didn’t mean to make him feel this way, especially to the point that he dug for conversations to lighten the mood.

���I wouldn’t consider crystal activation as simple.” It was bizarre that they would start with this - even she had a hard time bending hard minerals to her will, and she was better at this stuff.

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Awkward silence settled in. She was supposed to chuckle at that.

So Terra, nervously rolling his lips, scanned through the titles of the books around her, closing them and making a stack.

“You’re reading about spirit guides,” he said, not as a question but as an observation. “Interesting. Is this about Cheers?”

“He’s a punk and won’t answer my questions.” She scoffed at the realization that she was probably fooling herself. “There isn’t a single mention of a Chirithy in any of these books.”

“I see.” He sneaked glances at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“No,” she said weakly. She supposed she couldn’t avoid it anymore. “If I want to find Stormfall, I’ll have to read through Xehanort’s personal diaries.”

“Oh, Aqua.” The horror in his voice confirmed her worst fears. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s no guarantee that I’ll find what I’m looking for, either. I could be exposing myself to nonsense for no good reason.”

He leaned forward, his fingers bracing her shoulder and she remembered that he was warm. “What can I do to help?”

“Oh-” She shook her head and it made him feel worse. Terra always hated to be left out, and this was especially touchy considering the guilt leaking out of his eyes. “Terra, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to…”

“Read them.” He sighed. There was a question at the tip of his tongue, something he attempted multiple times to ask but zipped himself up. “… Do you not feel safe around me anymore?”

“What?”

“I’m asking since you won't…” He barely looked at her, whatever he was thinking of embarrassed him. She bet it was because she wouldn’t sleep in his room anymore.

“Of course I do, that’s not it at all…”

If only she had the gift to inspire with her words, to talk about these things without hurting his feelings. Both of them lived with shackles on their ankles from their past transgressions, heavy enough to sink them because it mattered that much that they’d drown if they didn’t tread lightly.

It was an awful way to exist. “I’m not getting better,” she said.

“I think it’s my fault because of the situation with the stupid chandelier.”

That was only partially true. How could she let him know that being around him made her breathe easier? “It’s not. There’s just some things I think is best to fight alone, you know?”

He bitterly scoffed. “I wish you would tell me how I can help.”

“Look at me.” She wondered if sometimes it hurt him to do so. Her fingers gently grazed his, welcoming an embrace so he could be comforted by the things she was terrible at saying. “I will have to read some very upsetting things, and there will be days when I won’t be okay. I’ll need you to listen when that happens. I’ll need you to be a shoulder for me.”

It sounded weird to ask him to do that. It used to be that they would promise things like to tell the other when they’re wrong, to always split the food in equal thirds, to pass the exam together. She stood on her own and he did just fine, too - like they were equals. Asking for his strength didn’t used to be status quo but she could see how desperately he wanted to be there for her and how much brighter he was when she let him in.

He squeezed her hand tighter. “I’ll do my best.”

In the meantime, she would shoulder herself that night, to try again and sleep on her own before dumping loads on her best friend with anything else that would add weight to his burdens.

Soon enough, even though she made (triple) sure that her barriers were solid and tall, someone turned off the lights in her room as soon as she got into bed.

Someone sat at her vanity table, shadows cloaking enough to hide the identity but leaving a silhouette.

Someone breathed.

Someone shifted comfortably in her chair, watching her.

Close your eyes, said a female voice.

Aqua wouldn’t, she’d die if she did.

The figure stirred when she refused, and crept closer to the bed, soft footsteps thudding on her carpet.

Once again, Aqua was a hostage in her body.

Her own face corrupted with golden eyes sauntered into the moonlight, looking down with disdain and curiosity.

Close them, her double said with the demand for appeasement, as if darkness required a toll to let her move.

Her anti-self firmly pressed a scaly, frigid finger to her lips to shush her whimpering, before clasping a claw stained with a bitter red over her eyelids.

***

Ironically, her favorite pastime was only something she could do in the dark.

Aqua had spent years forgetting that the darkness was capable of doing anything beautiful, its one and only good deed being its necessary presence when it let the stars out.

With her boys, it was easier to go outside and rely on their cues on whether danger lurked near. It never did in the Land of Departure; she knew this and yet somehow she still found ways not to believe it.

Their night time picnics took place in the safety of huge lanterns that lit the way through the training grounds, the dark mountains far enough away to look like an unassuming painting. Of course, it would be easier to see the stars in the forests, where artificial light had no power, but Aqua needed constant reassurance that nothing in the shadows would swallow her back to hell.

That was always the point - stay in the light and she could prepare herself for what was coming. Aqua prayed that one day she could be ordinary again, just to be able to camp in the wild like she used to.

Tonight, Ven’s laugh made it seem like night never existed in the first place.

With a stick, a string, and a few molted feathers, he madeshift a cat toy for Chirithy - though it was entirely unamused and it squinted enough that it might have been annoyed. Terra tossed snarky comments that Ventus should find someone his own size to pick on (Terra was out of the question, much too big and much too strong).

While it was pleasant to enjoy a picnic with her boys like the old days, something about it didn’t feel so normal - Chirithy would always be a living reminder that the Master was dead, and maybe that was a blessing: she could spare herself the grief of expecting him to join them.

She grabbed a wrapped rice ball from the basket - each was filled with spiced chicken, to Terra’s delight - and bit into it.

“I’ve been procrastinating,” she said to Terra who sat next to her on the checkered blanket, low enough that Ventus wouldn’t hear.

He nodded, a half-eaten treat in one hand that he immediately ignored. “Have you read anything?”

It had been several days that she left the journals in a neglected pile in the Master’s office.

“Yeah.” All she did so far was peek into one, figuratively tossing a coin between the chance that it would be written with Terra’s handwriting or someone else’s…

It turned out to be someone else’s, the word ‘heart’ written on the page she pulled open. She shut it immediately because she couldn’t handle the nausea.

Terra didn’t ask for more information, forgetting he had food in his hand as his eyes glazed over and left the picnic he was supposed to be a part of.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked.

“No.” He shifted, leaning away like his first instinct was to avoid her and she hated how guilty he seemed all the time.

Then, after a time, he forced a smile - he really was good at giving himself silent pep talks to bravely face whatever he was worried about. “I saw Nami today.”

For having their lives ruined for years, it was honestly good that he had such a trusted friend in Naminé. “How is she?”

“She’s good.” It was strange that he was nervous to speak about her, sitting on his legs in an awkward angle that it couldn’t be comfortable.

“Terra.”

“Yeah?”

“What is it?”

By now, Ventus was quiet, joining them on the blanket in the hopes of getting himself something delicious, but whatever appetite he had abandoned him in the presence of such tension. Chirithy crawled onto his lap, and to anyone else they looked like a boy keeping his stuffed animal close for comfort.

Actually, on second thought, he too was bracing himself for what was coming. Ventus knew something.

“Okay,” she commanded, “let’s have it.”

Rice fell in tiny clunks on the picnic blanket, like specks of snow. Terra didn’t notice. “I asked her to…” He cleared his throat. “To rechain some of the memories that are disconnected from me.”

Her heart stopped. “Excuse me?”

“Riku was with me, I didn’t do it alone.” He held his free hand up in surrender.

“I didn’t-” She snapped, trapping her breath because she needed something to punish. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know.” He looked past her, the courage to address her directly fleeting. “I only wanted to help.”

“And what do you think it’s going to do to you?” She dropped her rice ball and it splattered. “Did you think it was a good idea?”

“Aqua,” Ventus objected, his brow furrowed like he was the one offended. “This is Terra we’re talking about. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

“Oh, but hurting himself is fine.”

“You’re not getting any better.” Ventus leaned over, his hand drawing his points in the air, his tone slicing as sharp as mountain gusts. “And we both knew that you shouldn’t be without a Keyblade. He said he was trying to help you out, or are you deaf?”

His words cut deeply enough to make her wince, and she wondered if it was a whiplash she started herself.

Was she doing it again, seeing Terra in such an awful way that she had to assume the worst? Was she going to have to watch him turn his back on her like he did before?

One of the things she regretted the most was refusing to hear what Terra had to say for himself that day.

“I didn’t mean it that way-”

“She’s right, Ven,” Terra said, waving his arm. “I should have said something to her before I did anything.”

If her words were going to continue to fail her, then she had nothing left except to crawl toward Terra, and lock him in her arms so tightly that it said what she needed to say better than she was capable of. All she had left was to hope that he heard her correctly.

He heard her right, taking her waist with both his arms, protecting her from herself. “I’m sorry. You won’t lose me again.”

***

Whatever it was that kept her company late at night - her mind, really - was the worst friend she ever had.

There she was on her bed, again, preparing for her routine: start with casting Reflect, pace back and forth, and then stare at the ceiling until she stopped remembering anything else before the sun greeted her.

It was bad enough that her boys noticed her deterioration, and they hadn’t even seen what she was doing by herself when she closed the door.

When awake, she wanted to sleep so badly but when asleep, she begged to be wake up. A proper Keyblade Master should have a little more self-control.

However, Aqua didn’t consider herself enough of a proper Master to really know what she was doing. Her hands kept finding her Gummiphone, fiddling with her contact list, and then dropping it back on her bed.

She was sick of nights like these. She texted Terra: Are you awake?

Almost immediately: kitchen. lights are on.

Indeed there was one path of lit hallways taking her straight to the kitchen, the sky through the upper windows blackened from the clouds.

He sat on a stool at the middle counter, head buried in his hands with the teapot steaming by his side and the Master’s mug filled to the brim. His thumb massaged his temple, and he didn’t give much of a response when she entered and found her place next to him.

“This is my second cup,” he sighed as he passed it toward her. Considering how huge it was, it was more like his fourth. “It’ll help you better, I think.”

It was chamomile tea even though he hated the taste of it. As she sunk a huge gulp, she tasted all the experimentation he did to make it pleasant: lavender, almond milk, and honey. He even added vanilla extract to make it sweeter, which meant his insomnia was quite serious this time.

“Delicious as always.” Warmth filled her throat and solaced her chest down to her core, as though it was telling her that sleep wasn’t a fantasy.

Terra did not reply. With elbows pressed onto the marble and his mouth leaning on his hands, he looked elsewhere - at the wall across from them. His pupils shivered as hard as his eyelids, his thoughts fighting a difficult battle all by himself.

Aqua traced her fingers on his arm. “Terra, where are you?”

Whatever he was thinking imprisoned his full attention, but it let him mumble, “I have memories that aren’t mine.”

A sick feeling of I told you so bubbled in her stomach, mixed with imagining the horrid images he was remembering, and fear of the sorrow that was threatening to barge in. He didn’t deserve to experience this, and yet this was something Terra would have always chosen to do: spare her from the same.

“Please stay with me,” she said, both hands wrapped around his forearm now, gently coaxing him back to reality where it was safer.

He blinked as though a strong light beamed into his eyes, and several more times to stop the tears. Sighing, settling into the stool, letting his shoulders relax, he turned to her, taking her fingers in his, and he looked at her like he actually saw her.

“I’m here.”

Two words from him was enough. She handed the mug back and helped herself to leaning against his bicep, which was more comfortable than her pillow.

Terra took a huge swallow, his thumb gliding across her knuckles - ever since he grew into himself and passed through adulthood, his hands had become humongous. She used to amuse herself with thoughts that he needed a hand just as big to hold.

Of course, hers were dainty in comparison even though they carried weight far heavier than most.

Yet despite how much he dwarfed her, they still fit perfectly together.

He swallowed again, before croaking, “They’re still in the Master’s office, right?”

She nodded into his arm.

He steadied, leaning away to address her directly. “Let’s take care of them.”

Indeed, those journals were still in their same positions on the Master’s large mahogany desk, almost perfectly stacked out of neglect.

Terra opened one of the books on the top, and only glanced through it before snapping it back closed.

Whether what little he read disturbed him or not, she couldn’t tell.

“Do you still need them?” he asked.

That was probably the most cynical question he had ever asked her. “No.”

“Good.”

On the opposite end of the Master’s office was the fireplace, cleaned of soot. Terra didn’t need to mention it when they both thought of the same thing.

If a fire was built out of curses, would it still be considered a hearth?

It cackled and spit when the hard leather hit, and it would take a couple of burns to melt all of the clumps but the point of this ritual was to throw their shackles overboard and watch them combust. Every journal aflamed burned more knots from her shoulders.

She had a fleeting desire to touch the fire herself, and see if it could burn away the nightmares, too.

“I feel so much better,” he said, on his knees. “You?”

For her, the warmth lasted for only a few moments. “I’d still have to go back to my room, and I don't…” She scoffed. “I don’t even know what to say about that.”

“You should sleep here.”

In between the fireplace and the rest of the office was a rug on the floor and a long, supple couch surrounded by coffee tables and footrests.

She hummed. “That would place me far away from you guys.”

“I could stay with you,” he offered and realized it might have been an embarrassing thing to say.

“Terra-”

“You know what, Aqua? I have to be honest. I really want to be with you for the night.” He rolled his lips and held his breath for her response, but didn’t let her say anything more. “Maybe I shouldn’t even ask but I don’t understand the point of not saying anything - I just needed to get that off my chest.”

“Terra,” she said more sternly (but with a smirk) to warn him against interrupting her. “I want you to stay with me, but…”

Her eyes wandered the office. The fire shone a bright light against the furniture but as much as it was healing, it left heavy, glaring shadows. She had to walk to the entrance and turn the rest of the lights on. “I don’t want you to be bothered by the lights.”

“I won’t be.”

“And there’s just stuff I have to do now before I can even relax.”

“Then do them.” He shrugged, a warm smile welcoming her home. “Do what you have to do, I don’t care.”

She shook her head. “I don’t like needing anything. I needed and needed and needed so much for so long and nothing happened, and now it feels like I’m losing a game I don’t want to play.”

“But if you’re taking care of yourself,” he came closer to her, his arms crossed, “isn’t that more like winning?”

She was going to say that he didn’t understand what she was going through, when the straightening of his mouth stopped her. Something in his mind hung on to him, and it hurt him, and he was about to free himself and let it go.

“What if I told you,” he said, “that I needed you? Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

Nerves trickled up his arms. “It’s harder to sleep without you.”

She fiddled with her fingers. “I feel the same way.”

He cleared his throat, putting on a brave face to stop himself from chuckling. “Then please spare me from another awful night.”

Those were words that she could have said but pride was a sensitive, whiny thing.

She shut the door in front of her, and checked to make sure it was locked twice. With that secured, she murmured her Reflect spell to cover the entire doorway.

“Ah,” he tisked. “Can I play your game, too?”

Aqua stammered a laugh. “The windows, please.”

“Say no more.”

He traveled opposite from the door, and took extra care that his Reflect spell stretched beyond the windowsill. In the meantime, she worked on putting a barrier over the fireplace, before heading towards the biggest piece of furniture in the room.

“The wardrobe, too?” he asked.

Aqua wasn’t the type to feel particularly shy, but in this moment, she second-guessed herself.

“Sorry,” he said, briskly opening it to fetch a black rag and then giving her the cue to help herself.

“What is that for?”

He wrapped it around his eyes, tying a knot that scrunched his hair. It was thick enough to block the light pounding from all around him, and he squeezed her hand with his to remind her that he chose to stay with her. “You’re doing me a favor, so it’s the least I can do. Now we’re even.”

His fingers played with hers, and if they had feelings, then they were smiling.

“Am I going to have to keep you from knocking into things?”

“Maybe,” he drawled like a child. “I’m used to this, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

“I spent quite a long time looking at nothing but darkness,” he softly said, his voice getting distant. “I don’t really need to see. I don’t really need to touch you either to… feel your presence near me. I can tell where the furniture is if I’m close enough. It’s really familiar.”

A cold nausea swept over her.

If this was how it was for him all this time… Was it the same that fateful night in the Realm of Darkness when the monster attacked her?

What was it called again… the Guardian? Terra just couldn’t see that it was her he was ruining, or was it something else…?

“Aqua?”

True, he didn’t need to see her to understand that something was bothering her. His head leaned over to listen to for a cue, and when he didn’t get any he lifted the rag to find her with one eye.

She stood still long enough that her hand went limp in his.

“I hate this,” she said.

He didn’t understand what she meant, and as though she had transferred pain into him, he started to slip his fingers away. She held them tighter as reassurance.

“Is it just me,” she breathed, “or was it easier for us to be ourselves before the Mark of Mastery? Tell me I’m not misremembering how we used to be, I just hate the way it’s been so hard to talk about anything.”

“Y-yeah. I know what you mean.”

“I want us to go back. I want to tell you things I wouldn’t say to anyone else. I don’t want us to have to hide anything.”

He nodded sadly. “I want the same.”

“Then let’s start over.”

“Aqua,” he chuckled. “I have too many special memories to start anew, but…” He tugged at her, leading her to the couch where he leaned against the backrest and brought his ankles to one of the embroidered footrests, accommodating his body until he found peace.

All of the paper succumbed to the flames and left a void where something could replace it and keep the hearth going, but that was the point. They were not made of wood; they were stronger than that, and they should be able to withstand what hellfire rained on them.

She followed, tucking his hand against her chest as she settled on the couch and laid her head on his lap, which prompted him to lift one thigh higher to support her neck. He began tracing circles in her hair and rubbing his thumb on her forehead.

In her position, she watched him pull the rag back down to cover his eyes.

“Then let’s start with,” she whispered, “what you saw when you met with Naminé. Where is Stormfall?”

He sighed, his body slackening despite the nature of the question. He let go of her hand to bring it around her waist and held her closer, as though she was too close to the edge.

“There was a long, white hallway with many doors…”

[favescandis]

Mads Mikkelsen in AUGUSTMAN SG

Photos by Carlos Serraro. Words by Alexandra Pollard/Farhan Shah (June 2019)

article also found on augustman.com:

THE ENIGMATIC MADS MIKKELSEN IS HAVING A MOMENT THIS YEAR

“In many ways, it was the most physical thing I’ve ever done,” says Mads Mikkelsen of his film, Arctic, the gruelling tale of a man stranded in the snowy wilderness. “Ever.” It’s a big claim, especially coming from Mikkelsen. For one thing, the Danish actor had started out as a gymnast, then spent a decade as a dancer before quitting to study drama in 1996. He was already 31 at this point, but it didn’t take him long to make his mark – that same year, he appeared in the first of Nicolas Winding Refn’s acclaimed Pusher trilogy as a troubled heroin dealer, a role he reprised in 2004 to critical acclaim. In 2006, he broke out worldwide as eye-bleeding villain Le Chiffre in the Bond film Casino Royale. Later came The Hunt (2012) – a forthright and hauntingly nuanced portrait of a man falsely accused of child sexual abuse – and more mainstream fare, such as Marvel’s Doctor Strange, and Rogue One: A Star Wars Story.

And Arctic? It’s one of those sleeper hits that, much like a stone rolling down a steep snowy slope, has increasingly garnered acclaim from plaudits and audiences alike, long after its run in the cinema has ended. Much of this can be attributed to Mikkelsen, who is a riveting tour de force. It’s the type of film that sinks or swims based on the performance of one person. Mikkelsen hauls the film on his back and drags it along the ice to its very thrilling end. If anything, it very much resembles a certain A-List actor who goes by the moniker Leo and his performance in the harrowing The Revenant.

A Quiet Danish The 53-year-old has built a career on bringing gruff gravitas to smaller films, and a left-field sensibility – helped by his inscrutable face, all high cheekbones and distinctive pout – to mainstream ones. But today, he doesn’t want to talk about any of that. He is here to talk about Arctic. And only Arctic.

In fact, Mikkelsen won’t even roam into Arctic-adjacent territory. I mention a recent interview, in which he contested the idea that there’s a message about climate change wrapped up in the film’s stark survivalist narrative.

“That’s not what the film is about, that’s not the reason we made the film,” he says. “It’s a film about the difference between surviving and being alive. It’s a film about humanity.” Does he feel that in the current climate, both literally and politically speaking, people are increasingly seeing allegories that aren’t necessarily there? “I know exactly what you’re talking about, it’s The Guardian,” he says. “Of course that writer chose to make it what he wants, so I’m not making that mistake again. I’m talking about this film, and that’s it.”

So he doesn’t want to talk about anything else except the film? “No, because it always turns out to be the main message in the interview, and I’m not walking into that trap again.”

I can see why Mikkelsen is so cautious – that interview certainly contained some contentious quotes – though I find it hard to see how he was “trapped”. After all, surely nobody forced him to say: “Yeah, the climate is changing, but to what degree are we a part of it, and to what degree are we not and what to do about that is a big question. I mean the science is divided. Right now it seems like it’s not, but it is divided.” He went on to suggest that nuclear energy was a possible solution, “but nobody wants to have a talk about that”. When the interviewer brought up #MeToo, Mikkelsen said he was “reluctant to go there”, citing the response to a 2017 Matt Damon interview – in which he suggested that sexual misconduct allegations be treated on a “spectrum of behaviour” – as evidence that “this is not a healthy discussion any more”.

Does he feel he was misquoted? “Basically what I was trying to tell him is that when there is a conflict in the world, which there always is, and there is definitely now, the problem is the real lack of communication between the two sides. And it seems to be that nobody is really interested in having that conversation, and that communication. And that’s all I have to say about that subject.” I breeze past the mild irony in what he’s just said.

I had wanted to ask him his thoughts on the progress of diversity in Hollywood, given that he’s been involved in three major franchises – Bond, Star Wars and Marvel – all of which are having to confront historical deficiencies in that regard. “I have tons to say about that,” he says, “but not in this interview. I’m trying to sell a film that I’m immensely proud of, and I know that it will drown unless we just stick to the subject.”

Into The Wilderness Back to the film, then. Thankfully, it’s a very good one. Aside from the brief, startling appearance of a polar bear (“It was a so-called ‘semi-trained’ polar bear, and that little giveaway told us absolutely not to go anywhere near it”), Arctic is a two-hander. In fact, Mikkelsen’s Overgård spends the first third entirely alone. We observe him going through the motions of his daily ritual – catching fish, carving out “SOS” in huge letters in the snow, checking his radio transmitter for signs of life – though he seems to have given up hope of being found. “He’s just there, he’s existing,” says Mikkelsen. “He’s surviving, rather than being alive.”

In another interview, the Danish actor revealed that he walked for 12 to 13 hours every day for the film. “Just to get the amount of calories [for that] was impossible. So I just forgot to eat that much and got weaker and weaker from day one.” Much like how his character become more and more frail as the film progressed.

It was crucial to Mikkelsen that the movie not fall into the “flashback trap”. We learn very little about the protagonist, what his life was like before his helicopter crashed. “In the ’80s, we started doing flashbacks and then everyone fell in love with that,” says Mikkelsen. The way he sees it, almost every film these days uses that structure. Or, at least, has the lead character regaling another with the story of their past.

“It becomes a problem when we think it is a necessity, that we have to know that he has two blonde boys back home who are waiting for papa to come home. I mean, seriously, isn’t it heartbreaking enough? Do we really have to see these two kids crying back home? Can’t we just imagine how painful it is for everyone? I think that is the strength of this film, not to play the violins of emotions. And another thing, if we place him in a world that is very precise, it wouldn’t be me and you up there, it would be him, and we wanted it to be me and you in this situation. We wanted it to be a film about humanity and not a film about a specific person.”

If at first it is us and him, soon a third party enters the picture. When another helicopter crashes nearby, killing the pilot instantly, Overgård is given a reason to live. A young woman (María Thelma), the only other person in the helicopter, is badly injured but alive. Helping her survive becomes his only goal. “His humanity starts coming back to him,” says Mikkelsen. “He becomes, slowly, more and more alive.”

When Thelma turned up for her first day of filming, Mikkelsen was elated. “That was the happiest day on set when she came,” he said. “I had spent so much time alone at that point, I was going crazy. Having an actor to talk to and go through ideas with was just a gift from heaven. And obviously for the character himself, it was also the best day of his life. Even though what happened was a disaster, it was also a gigantic gift.”

An Atypical Arc I was a little worried, when we first meet the woman (we never properly learn her name), that the film was going to turn into a romance. “I had the exact same feeling reading the script,” chuckles Mikkelsen, newly convivial, clearly happy to be back on topic. “She appeared and I was like, ‘Uh oh, here we go!’ I was so pleased it didn’t happen. If they’d spent 10 years out there, maybe it would have gone a different way, but that’s not the situation here. It’s absolutely not the first thing on your mind when you’re in a situation like this one. So yes, I was as pleased as you.”

There are moments of intimacy between them, though. At one point, when Overgård is laying the unconscious woman out onto a makeshift bed in his helicopter, he holds on to her for a moment longer than is strictly necessary. “It’s one of my favourite moments in the film,” says Mikkelsen. “It just came out of that situation actually, I was trying to lay her down on that bed, and then I realised that he would… he’s been craving this intimacy, another human being hasn’t been here for so long, so he just did it. It’s so beautiful. Not until we released the film… there were a few people commenting on that moment, in this era, [suggesting] that that could have been mistaken, but we never thought about that. We just thought it was such a beautiful moment.”

It’s not just because he’s had his fingers burnt that Mikkelsen only wants to talk about this film. He is evidently chuffed with it – particularly how it conveys with only the sparsest of dialogue the very essence of humanity and our need for connection. “It takes two to tango, it takes two people to become human,” he says. “It’s very, very difficult to be a human being all by yourself. So that’s the story we wanted to tell. In many ways, she’s the one saving him.”

Arctic is not the only glacial title that Mikkelsen acted in this year. He was also the lead in the Netflix film Polar, which has nothing to do with ice in spite of its name. It’s a return to form for Mikkelsen, who had been somewhat in the shadows for the past two years. But in some respects, Mikkelsen has perhaps come to grips with the new world now. And is ready to demonstrate to the younger audience why he’s always been known as the actor’s actor.

by Farhan Shah

[scarheaded-ferret]

Golden Brown - Wolfstar

*soulmate au where you only see in the color of your soulmate’s eyes until you meet them- and then gain more colors the more you are with them

(Title is from the song by the Stranglers) 

tw: brief mentions of abuse and some blood

***

Sirius’ world was filled with honeyed browns and darkened ambers. If the sun ever shone really brightly- he would see an even lighter tone- one his parents informed him was gold. He wasn’t the only one whose soulmate’s eyes were brown, though. In fact, most people’s were. But Sirius didn’t want to believe that anyone else could see exactly what he saw. But perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

After the lights went out, and the bruises on his cheek and back would start to heal, Sirius would hope that his soulmate would find him soon. And maybe if they loved him enough, they would come and rescue him. But then again, it might’ve just been wishful thinking.

***

He wasn’t even at the school itself yet, but Sirius already knew that Hogwarts was going to be better than he had hoped. James made him laugh until his stomach hurt, and Peter was quiet but made Sirius snort at his antics as well. Lupin was quiet, but interesting in his own right with his book that had too long of a title and the cool scars that ran across his nose and brow. When they were nearing Hogsmeade, Sirius had even caught the hints of a smile on his face, revealing a small overbite and dimples too. James had elbowed him in the gut when Sirius had whispered to him about it.

“You’re weird.” James’ nose crinkled up as he giggled.

“Piss off,” Sirius grinned and James had thrown a chocolate frog at him to stop the impending shove that Sirius had begun to send his way.

***

When they reached the large stone towers of the castle, Sirius had been in awe by their size. Of course he had heard about Hogwarts from his parents, but they had never explained it in detail, and always spoke impassively. Their descriptions could have never compared to the way the towers raced each other towards the sky, windows twinkling like stars against the dark walls.

Inside was even more grand. Candles danced around each other, and the room was in all shades of golden brown, for Sirius at least. By now he had learned how to differentiate “colors” by their different kinds of shading, but he was certain that in all of his 11 years, he had never seen the vibrant color that hung above one of the tables. Sirius was transfixed by it, Peter having to poke him in the back to get him to keep walking.

“But it’s-” Sirius paused, realizing he had no way to describe it. He didn’t have any time to ponder it when his name was called. His body went rigid when he was sorted into Gryffindor- coincidentally the table with the new color on its banner. He forced his tears to not spill down on his cheeks as he stiffly walked to the table, the hall in silence save for some whispering. He brightened though, when he saw Remus Lupin be put in his house as well, plus James and Pete too. Maybe it won’t be so bad. He thought, expelling the fear of what his parents would say in favor of tucking into the feast laid before him.

As excited as he was to have his friend in his house, Sirius couldn’t stop thinking about that one new color, so obviously different to the browns around it. He kept furrowing his brow at the bright banner, and when he returned his gaze back to the table he found Remus staring at him inquisitively. The boy’s hazel eyes were strikingly familiar, but in that moment Sirius couldn’t figure out how.

“What do you keep looking at that for?” He asked around a bite of mashed potatoes, and Sirius chewed on his lip.

“I think it’s a different color than everything else,” Sirius answered.

“Well, duh, of course it is,” Remus quipped and Sirius shook his head.

“No I mean a new color,” He said, and James gasped beside him.

“Oh! Who is it? Black, who is it?” He asked excitedly and Sirius laughed as James shook his shoulders.

“Calm down, what do you mean?” Sirius asked and James slowed his excitement marginally.

“Your soulmate, idiot! Who is it?”

“Oh, I forgot about that part,” Sirius said and James gawked.

“Forgot? Soulmates are the most important thing in the world!” James cried with a flourish of his hands and Sirius snorted.

“You’re too much- I only forgot because the new color is so cool,” Sirius said. He glanced around the table a bit until he spotted one of the older students. “What color is that?” He asked, pointing at the banner.

“Red,” She told him, and Sirius looked back up at it. Red.

“I wonder what else is red,” Sirius pondered aloud.

“You’ll find out eventually,” Remus shrugged.

***

Third Year

Within a year, Sirius had gained not only red but the colors orange and purple as well. Now sunsets and sunrises looked even more beautiful, and pictures were far more interesting. James told him that he was seeing more too- now yellows along with what he told Sirius was all once green. Peter informed them gloomily that he hadn’t picked up any new colors yet, and Remus always kept quiet about his. In fact, Sirius didn’t even know what Remus’ birth color was.

One night in the common room, he and Remus were sat together on a couch, arms and legs pressed together as they worked on an essay for potions. Sirius finished another sentence and mindlessly glanced up to watch the portrait that sat next to the fireplace. It was of a bunch of people, at some sort of wedding or party, dancing around in a circle outside, with their dresses and coattails flying up in all sorts of directions as they spun. Sirius watched their painted faces sing silently, but gasped when something in the picture changed.

“Remus,” He nudged the boy and Remus hummed in acknowledgement. “They say grass is green- right?” He asked quickly and Remus then raised his head to look at him.

“Yeah, why? Can you see it now?” He asked and Sirius grinned as he nodded.

“Yeah, I think!” Remus gave him a toothy smile and returned to his work, Sirius’ chest felt strange, but he dismissed it. “Can you see it too?” Sirius asked.

Remus didn’t reply for a moment, but then quietly, he said, “Yeah.” Sirius’ eyes widened and he continued on.

“Is that your birth color?” He asked curiously.

“No,” Remus said impassively and Sirius felt a weird tug in his gut.

“So you’ve found your soulmate!” He gasped, “Why didn’t you tell us?” Sirius asked. If he was honest he was a bit hurt. He had known Remus for years and yet he never told them that he had been able to see some colors? Soulmates were a bit of a touchy subject, but still...

“S’not that important,” Remus shrugged and Sirius’s brows knitted together in worry.

“Not important? But-”

“Just drop it, mate, alright?” Remus said shortly and Sirius deflated into the couch.

“Alright.” Sirius chewed on his bottom lip in thought. Who’s his soulmate? And why is he so fresh about it?

***

It was towards the end of third year, that Sirius decided he hated the color red the most. It seeped darkly through the large bandages over Remus’ chest, and trickled down from his busted lip. They had been aware of Remus’ strange disappearances each month, but he had told them that he had been simply visiting his mother, who was very lonely without him. Sirius had been a tad worried by his vanishings, but didn’t start to think much of it until he recently started to come back with more scars and bruises than he left with. Remus blamed it on clumsiness, but Sirius had feared that it was something he himself was all too familiar with.

“What’s happened to him?” Peter cried fearfully, and Pomfrey whisked them all away from Remus’ bedside.

“Were his friends! We should know what’s happened!” James shouted angrily. Pomfrey all but glared.

“Mr.Lupin needs his rest, he does not need you three coming in and shouting like fools!” She whisper-shouted at them. Suddenly, the three were shoved out of the hospital wing, and Sirius plopped down dejectedly on the floor.

“We gotta find a way to see him,” Sirius proposed, and James and Peter’s heads looked up at that.

“But how?” Peter asked. James grinned.

“I have an idea,”

***

Remus woke groggily to a soft patter on the window beside him. He would have dismissed it as rain were it not so paced. He raised his pounding head to open the latch, and yelped as three boys tumbled in through it, a broom shooting in after them and clanging on the ground beside them.

“Quiet, or we’ll wake Pomfrey!” Remus heard Sirius whisper, and soon all three were standing around his bedside.

“We want to know what’s wrong,” Sirius then said, and if Remus weren’t so weak for both Sirius and the way his grey eyes filled with concern, he would’ve held his tongue. That night as the three snuck  back up to the tower to bed with greater news than they could have thought of, Sirius began to see the colors grey and yellow as well.

***

6th year

“Prongs,” Sirius moaned, “What do I do?”

“As you’ve asked- I think it’s been… around 18 times now?” Sirius flicked his forearm and groaned once more.

“But what if he is!” Sirius then cried, “I need a way to ensure it!” He tapped his chin in thought and James turned to face him.

“You could ask him his birth color- there’s not many grey-eyed people at school, right?” James said and Sirius sighed.

“I can’t ask him that, s’too personal,”

“You’ve known him for six years,”

“And as a good friend I respect his privacy!” Sirius retorted and James laughed.

“Is that why you “accidentally” barged in on him in the showers last week?” Sirius flushed and shoved him off the bed.

“No! That was really an accident!” Sirius cried, embarrassed, James was still chuckling as he climbed back on top of the comforter. His speculation of Remus being his soulmate had started when Remus had laughed at one of Sirius’ jokes, and the sky behind him had immediately turned blue. Sirius had been so in shock, that he had nearly fallen out of his chair, and couldn’t help the squeak that he let out when Remus steadied him with a hand on his waist.

“Easy there, mate,” Remus had muttered, and Sirius had stared right into the boy’s familiar brown eyes. It all began to piece itself together then.

“Pro-ongs,” Sirius moaned again, and James sighed.

“What now?”

“I think- I think I love him,” Sirius whispered sadly. “I want it to be him,”

“You love Remus!?” James cried loudly, and the sound of a book hitting the floor startled them both. Sirius turned and with horror, and saw a shocked Remus standing stiff in the doorway; his eyes wide and mouth slightly gaping.

“Y-you what?” Remus asked quietly, stepping into the room. Before he could finish, Sirius was already shoving past him, unglamorously rather, down the steps and out of the common room. Tears welled in his eyes as he forced himself to keep moving.

After a while, he found himself in a secret alcove near the hospital wing. He, James, and Pete often hid there on impromptu visits to Remus- when they saw Filch get too close on the map.

He clenched his fists and let his head bang against the wall painfully as he cursed. There was a chance that Remus wasn’t his soulmate, and an even larger one in Sirius’ eyes that Remus didn’t like him back. He wasn’t shocked, however, when he heard the approaching footsteps near the alcove.

“Pads,” Remus whispered, and Sirius was shocked to find Remus with tears in his brown eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius replied brokenly. “I’ll try not to let it get in between us or anything, you can’t hate me even, if you want,” Sirius told him and his brows raised when Remus slowly took Sirius’ hand in his own.

“My birth color,” Remus muttered quietly that Sirius couldn’t hear him properly.

“Huh?” Sirius prodded and Remus sighed before he continued.

“My birth color- was grey, Pads,” Remus finished and Sirius gasped.

“Does that mean-”

“The first color I saw besides that was your skin, and then I saw green- around the same time as you actually,” Remus spoke softly. Sirius let his own fingers grip Remus’ a tad tighter, and tugged the boy close.

A whispered “Moony,” Was all Sirius was able to let out before soft lips met his own, and he melted.

***

“Pink!” Sirius cried excitedly. And Remus chuckled beside him. Sirius looked at the floating pink hearts that now dotted the Great Hall, and grinned at his boyfriend.

“Didn’t you see it when you got your reds?” James asked and Sirius shrugged.

“It’s brighter now- I swear, like a whole different color!” Sirius said excitedly.

“Did you hit your head on the bedpost or something?” Peter asked jokingly and Sirius shook his head.

“I have to go do something- I’ll be back,” Sirius then said quickly, he pecked Remus’ cheek before he dashed through the doors.

“What’s he on about?” Peter queried.

“No idea,” James said, sending a funny grin towards Remus’ direction.

***

Sirius smiled gleefully as he barged into Greenhouse Number 3.

“Sprout, might I tell you that your apron is looking lovely today,” Sirius grinned and the professor sighed in annoyance.

“What is it you need of me, Black?” She questioned and Sirius twirled his fingers around each other.

“Well, you see, it’s of a dire need that I let the one I love most know that I-” He began dramatically but Sprout held up a gloved hand to stop him.

“Greenhouse 2 has the flowers, only take from the left side- the right side has the poisonous ones,” She told him and Sirius raised his fist triumphantly in victory. “Wait,” She stopped him and Sirius raised a brow, “This means you’ll have to come in- twice a week- and help me plant, yes?” She told him and Sirius huffed and nodded. It’s worth it.  “And this is a one time thing, Black!” The woman called to him as he left.

Sirius surveyed the flowers to the left of Greenhouse 2 comparatively. He found a bundle that held a lovely shade of light pink that he thought Remus would particularly enjoy. The petals held a relatively simple design, but they curled upwards towards the sky with tips that faded into white, and were small enough that he could tuck one behind Remus’ ear if he wished. Sirius then picked up the flowers and placed them in an unused pot. Satisfied with his arrangement, Sirius took the pot and went, quickly but carefully, back up to the castle.

***

A laugh from James had Remus’ head turning towards the doors of the Great Hall, where Sirius walked in, tall and confident, with a pot of pink flowers in his hands. He was beaming, and there was a small smudge of dirt on his cheek. Remus raised a questioning brow as Sirius gallantly presented them to him.

“For you, my love,” Sirius grinned and several people cooed and ‘awed’ at him. Remus crossed his arms. “Happy Valentines Day,”

“How did you manage those?” Remus asked as he studied the flowers.

“That’s all you have to say?” Sirius asked, a bit sadly, and Remus compiled a bit.

“I mean- they are rather lovely,” Remus then said, caressing one of the petals with his finger. Sirius grinned in triumph.

“I knew you would like them! Also- Sprout let me have them as long as I help her once in a while. Aren’t they pretty?” Sirius rambled and Remus hushed him with a soft chuckle.

“Thank you,” Remus said, and he leaned down and over the flowers to press his lips to Sirius’ forehead affectionately. He watched Sirius’ face heat- to a color not unlike the pink of the flowers. “Happy Valentines Day to you too, sweetheart,”

[locke-writes]

There’s A Reason

Author: locke-writes

Title: There’s A Reason

Prompt: God Help The Outcasts - Hunchback of Notre Dame, Photographer!AU For: @thefanficfaerie ‘s Disney Quote Challenge

Rating: T

Word Count: 1623

As Steve switched the lens on his camera he contemplated where he was in his career. Working freelance was fine, it meant that he had enough time to work on building his portfolio, filling it with photos he was proud of and subjects that he was passionate about. It also meant that he had to take jobs he wasn't particularly passionate about in order to pay rent. Everyone that hired him was told upfront what his standard rate was and luckily most accepted with little to no complaints. He was glad to have a good reputation among magazines and newspapers but in the art world he'd yet to make a difference.

Photography was never what he considered as a career but neither was the army. He'd joined out of high school along with a few friends simply because he had no other plans. Everyone else he knew was heading off to college but they had known what their career was meant to be ever since freshman year. Steve only knew that he knew absolutely nothing.

When he was discharged he was as aimless as ever. In the military he never had to question what to do, there was and order for everything. There'd always been the old saying about doing what you loved and then you'd never work a day in your life but Steve didn't think that was sound advice. For sometime he worked odd jobs arranged by friends, anything where he could make a small amount of money. And then there was an ad. 

That's how it all started, someone needed a photographer and Steve had been fairly decent at photography in high school. They were paying well, he needed a job, all the factors added up. Now here he was, years later still going out and taking pictures for other people. There had been times he'd looked at working solely for one magazine or another but freelance gave him freedom of choice. Yet now that freedom of choice was getting old.

He'd never really considered himself an artist but he knew that art could make people feel things, could make people understand concepts or see concepts in new ways. He wanted to make people feel what he felt when he looked at a certain photo series. Through his photos he wanted to make a difference however sometimes that felt very much like a pipe dream.

Steve took a few more photographs before dismantling his equipment and heading home to send off what he had taken. There was one problem with Steve's dream of making a difference and he knew it. Well actually that was the problem, he had no idea what his big break was going to be. No one could plan their break into the art world, he was aware of that, yet he wanted whatever he decided to be his first real photo series to be something he was going to be passionate about.

An email from Sam would change all that.

They had met purely by accident, Steve couldn't shake the military schedule or the military work out, apparently Sam couldn't either, a run is what brought them together. Sam led a few military support groups, not everyone in them had been diagnosed with PTSD but that didn't matter everyone deserved to be able to talk about their experience to people who had been through it and actually understood what it was like. Steve wasn't a regular attendee, he went on occasion, he and Sam were just friends with Sam sending update emails about the events every so often.

But this email wasn't about attending an event, it was about a job. The veteran's center where Sam worked was not associated with the VA which means they didn't have to stick to VA policy. It worked out well enough as it allowed for private events to take place including the Veteran's Day barbecue that the job in question was going to be about. Sam wanted to know if Steve would show up and take a few photos, he'd pay with both check and free food. Like most things with Steve, it was supposed to be something simple and he happened to turn it into something complex.

It had never occurred to Steve to do a portrait series featuring veteran's and the truth of what joining the military was really like. Steve had known many a soldier who had a great experience and talked highly about enlisting but he also knew soldiers who had suffered greatly coming out of war with loss of limbs, loss of faith, and more than he would have liked, loss of life. So that's what was arranged, Steve would take pictures of the actual event for a few hours and those who wished to be a part of his photo series could head to a room Sam would free up in the veteran's center that way Steve could create a makeshift studio.

You had never served, had never wanted to. You'd had family and family friends that were veterans but you knew what the consequences were. And rather than going off to join the great military cog machine, you put your talents elsewhere while still finding a way to help. 

Dogs seemed to love you and you loved them. Having grown up around dogs it seemed only natural that you would end up working at an animal shelter. After a few friends had been assigned PTSD support dogs you broached the idea of a training program with the shelter managers. It wasn't necessarily well received. There was already a tremendous amount of effort put in just to rescuing and housing dogs, more time and money thrown in to a program that wouldn't provide much in terms of added profit for the shelter wasn't deemed a well enough investment. So you quit and started your own company specifically designed for providing veteran's with service dogs for any number of needs.

It took a length of time to get up off the ground. Business permits and licenses and other expenses had to be taken care of before you could even begin bringing dogs in. You searched for some time to partner with a veteran's center. All VA facilities seemed to not want to take the risk of a new business, Sam Wilson was the only person who had ever said yes. And that yes had made all the difference.

The click of a camera alerted you to the fact that you were being watched. Still setting up you paid no attention as Sam had informed you there would be a photographer on the premises. Unloading dogs and putting them in the fenced in area was your priority. Steve's priority was to take photographs of the event although he couldn't help but ask a few questions.

"What is all this" he called, taking a few more photographs.

"Service dogs, or potential ones at least."

"Potential as in they aren't trained yet or…" he stopped, knowing you would be able to finish what he was asking.

You turned to face them after filling up a few water bowls, "Potential meaning they're all here today to find someone to adopt them. That's putting it simply at least. What are you here for?"

Steve raised his camera.

"Yeah and, what are you here for?"

"Sam asked me too. I guess he knows that I want something better than just sending photos off for other people to use. You've heard probably, that I'm here to start a series?"

"If you want me to be a part of it I think you've got the wrong person. Not a vet, just helping them out."

Steve nodded, turning away and letting you get back to work. He wandered the venue for a few hours taking pictures, talking to those in attendance. Those who came to the studio wrote out their stories and signed waivers giving him permission to use the photos freely. He of course explained that he'd only be putting them up in galleries if he was able to. He had no intention of exploiting anyone's story. It was art, that's what it was, that's how it would be treated. 

Sam grabbed Steve when the event was winding down, bringing him out to eat the last of the food and to meet some more people. Steve was caught staring at you and was teased by Sam. There was something about you that intrigued Steve, he couldn't put a finger on it. Clearly with all that you were doing working to help with service dogs there was a great kindness within you. Although that wasn't the only thing that seemed to draw him to you. He was pushed to go and speak with you once again.

"How'd the pictures come out?" you questioned.

"Pretty good I think. I'll do some touching up but nothing major. How'd the whole service dog thing go"

"Well enough. Had some interested in adopting but we train the dogs after finding the owner that they all connect with. Hopefully we still get contacted about some of the dogs after today."

"You know I could take portrait shots of the dogs for your website if you have one."

"How much?"

"I think what you're doing is for a good cause. So, for free."

"Nothing's ever really for free"

"Sam said to ask you to dinner. If you must insist on paying then I guess if you wanted to?"

"Sam said that?"

"Maybe not in so many words but he insinuated it. It's fine if you don't want to I completely understand. I'll do the dog photos still no matter what."

"You don't do this often do you?"

"Ask people out. Nearly never. And in all seriousness, is it working?

[zephyrbcll]

In these four walls my thoughts seem to wander

Zephyr wasn’t going to deny that he was a flawed person. He knew he had shortcomings and he could even name some of them if prompted. He was a hothead, he was jealous and possessive, he didn’t enjoy sharing, he was impatient, he was prone to thinking he was right and making decisions for others, he was a little entitled and yes, he’d heard the word controlling before.

That said, Zephyr also insisted that he had good qualities, thank you very fucking much. In this case, he was supportive even if he wasn’t sure how happy he was about it.

No, he was happy for Remus. He knew that Remus wanted to be a teacher and while Dumbledore’s attitude left him a little suspicious about the man’s motives, the fact that Remus would be able to achieve something he wanted mattered to Zephyr. Besides, he thought it would be a good change of pace for Remus to take the job even if he doubted early morning classes would go over well.

So he was happy for Remus, and he’d support Remus in going after what he wanted to achieve his dreams, just like he was also proud of Remus and certain that he would do a good job.

The problem was, it also sucked.

Zephyr wasn’t sure if there was a precise time when he’d gone from wanting Remus to feel at home in the house to actually calling it home, but by the time Katie arrived, Zephyr made sure to check in with Remus about all the updates he was doing in order to make sure that Remus would feel welcome and ‘home’ was a word that generally meant wherever the other would be. 

The house wasn’t supposed to become ‘home’ because Remus’ flat blew up, but that was the way things worked out and besides, Remus still had other options and Zephyr still made a big deal out of asking Remus to move in as a counter to Remus asking if it was okay.

So maybe the circumstances weren’t perfect, but it was the perfect outcome for Zephyr, who’d been waiting for Remus to move in for months, doing his best to wait patiently for Remus to be ready because the last thing he wanted to do was rush Remus. His boyfriend, his cat, and his baby all in one place appealed to something inside of Zephyr and even if Remus spent more nights with him than not, it was nice to have it be official.

Needless to say, Zephyr was happily picturing spending the rest of his days sharing a roof with Remus and he got to experience that certainty for all of about three and a half months before he found out about the job offer.

He was happy for Remus. He was glad that Remus was getting another shot at being a professor and he knew that Remus would be good at it, Zephyr was proud of him. It just sucked to think of him moving out and living somewhere else again. Living together wasn’t supposed to be temporary, it was supposed to be permanent.

Two days after Remus told him about the job offer, Zephyr was finished feeling sorry for himself and had decided to do what he did best, which was fight.

Losing wasn’t exactly a concept that Zephyr was at peace with, he was absolutely certain that if given enough time, he could beat anything that got in his way and he was prepared to pitch a fit if that’s what it took to make sure that he was heard. 

Before that point, however, he had to do some listening of his own, which started at the radio station. He talked to the others that worked on air, then he hit up the pubs to talk to the bartenders since they always seemed to be a good source of gossip, and both places led him back to Hogsmeade, where he talked to a select group of individuals that lived not too far from the edge of the village.

After that, he wrote a letter to Hogwarts. Considering the fact that Dumblefore was supposed to secretly be in charge of an illegal group of vigilantes and running a school and also serve as part of the government to some degree that Zephyr always managed to forget since the man seemed to have multiple titles, he expected to get the runaround. Instead he was treated to a return owl later that day that assured him that he had a lunch appointment for the next day.

While Zephyr didn’t ask about it, he had a hunch that his connection with Remus and Dumbledore’s eagerness to have him on the staff was a large part of just why it was so damn easy to get a meeting with the man. Really, there was no reason why it should be that damn easy to get hold of the man, but Zephyr wasn’t going to argue about it because this just meant scheduling was one less thing he had to fight about.

“Mr. Bell,” Professor McGonagall stated when he arrived the next day. “You’re early.”

“Professor McGonagall,” Zephyr responded in kind, a well ingrained respect for women making sure that Zephyr minded his manners. “Believe it or not, I’m actually pretty punctual.”

“I’m sure. I’ll show you to Professor Dumbledore’s office. This way.” Something about the pinch of her lips made it seem like she wasn’t swayed either way by him being early or on time, but since she was showing him to Dumbledore’s office and not having him wait on a bench somewhere for the next twenty minutes, Zephyr didn’t think it was too much of a problem.

Following her through long corridors and up moving stairs, Zephyr thought it was some sort of mind game to expect students to remember where everything was and he wondered absently what happened if a student was ever pushed or throwing off the staircases while they were moving, if there was some sort of safety measure in place or if they’d simply fall to their doom. 

What floor were they even on? 

“Here we are, Mr. Bell,” McGonagall stated as she stopped in front of a large statue and Zephyr wasn’t stupid, he didn’t need to see a door to figure out they’d made it considering it hadn’t been that long ago that he was crawling through portraits and sneaking around through secret tunnels hidden behind statues in this very castle. 

“Thanks.” Despite the fact he was quite a bit taller than her (which wasn’t unusual, he was taller than most people, thank you very much), Zephyr had the feeling that the deputy headmistress viewed him the same as she would an unruly first year that wasn’t appreciative in the least of the trouble he’d found themselves in, but he meant what he said and for reasons she likely didn’t know. “Seriously, thank you.”

“Good luck with your meeting.” She told him, still sounding as if she had better things to do than escort an American visitor around. “Fizzing Whizbees!”

About the moment that Zephyr had to wonder what candy had to do with the conversation, the statue began to twist to reveal a staircase and McGonagall turned to walk away, apparently not too worried about what he would do once Dumbledore was finished with him. He didn’t know if she was always so abrupt or if she had some aversion to Americans, but Zephyr was endeared to her and grinned at her back before taking his way to the steps.

The closer he made it to the top, the more focused Zephyr became on his mission, the encounter with McGonagall having bolstered his confidence and his determination not to take ‘no’ for an answer. Daisy had told Zephyr once that he wasn’t someone you won an argument against and he planned on proving her right on that.

The door was partially open when he made it to his destination and Dumbledore either heard him or had something that alerted him of the presence of others because Zephyr hadn’t made it halfway to the door before he heard a voice say, “Come in.”

Good thing, too, because Zephyr hadn’t exactly been planning to knock.

“Professor Dumbledore, I want to have a word with you.” Zephyr started as soon as he entered the room, pushing the door shut behind himself and hearing it slam a little harder than he’d necessarily meant to. While there was certainly plenty in Dumbledore’s office to distract a guest and prompt them to stare, Zephyr kept his attention focused on Dumbledore like a man on a mission, not even giving the Phoenix off to one side more than a cursory glance.

“I know you want Remus as your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Fuck, I know you wanted him before the start of the year and I get it, he’s fucking brilliant and from the sounds of it, he spent enough time tutoring back when he was in school that he might as well have been a teacher. And it’s just the first four years, right? After that, they go to someone else, so he gets the beginners, the kids that need to have a good teacher and not someone that will shit on them the first time they don’t get something right and Remus has a good understanding of the basics and hell, he’s a better wizard now than he was when he was in school.” Zephyr ranted, opting to ignore the chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk in favor of pacing, waving his hand through the air to emphasize his point.

Dumbledore, for his part, didn’t say anything. Instead he sat with his fingers steeped beneath his chin, half moon spectacles appearing in danger of slipping off his nose as he watched Zephyr with what seemed to be an amused, indulgent expression that went unnoticed by its recipient.

“And yeah, I know I wasn’t in school with him, so how the fuck can I say I know he’s better? Simple fucking logic, people get better at things over time and not only that, but I trained him. We went out and worked on spells together, on wandless and nonverbal magic and you know what he did? He worked on it. He’s dedicated and hardworking and so fucking smart, he sounds like he swallowed the textbook, I know this and I’m sure you know it, too.” During his rant, Zephyr never seemed to stop for breath until he came to a pause before Dumbledore’s desk, staring at the man intently and finally getting around to the point of his visit.

Sucking in a deep breath, Zephyr rolled his shoulders and continued, “I understand why you want him here, but here’s the thing. You don’t need him here. Not all the time. Look, I did my research. Professor McGonagall lived in Hogsmeade until her husband died last year in one of the Death Eater attacks. She taught here without actually living here for years, so I know there’s precedent for it.

“And yeah, I know she’s deputy headmistress and you can say that’s special circumstances, she was married and all that, but these are special, too. Remus and I have a kid, okay, he should get to see her grow up instead of just visiting on weekends. I know she’s not the only one either, I hear you had a professor once that lived in the Leaky Cauldron with his wife, so you can’t say that Mcgonagall gets away with it before of her position. And even if she did, you already have a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor living in the castle. You don’t need Remus here, but Katie and I, we do. We need him.”

There was silence for a moment, a slight note of desperation having crept into Zephyr’s voice by the end. There wasn’t any reason that Dumbledore should insist on Remus living in the castle unless he was up to some trick and the fixation the man showed in hiring Remus as well as the way Remus reacted to the first job offer left Zephyr with the worry that Dumbledore had an ulterior motive, the uncertainty leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

“Ah.” Dumbledore said finally. “You must be Mr. Bell.”

It was at that moment that Zephyr realized he’d forgotten to introduce himself, but he didn’t falter in his stance.

Lowering his hands and gesturing towards the chair, Dumbledore smiled kindly as he said, “Why don’t we chat, dear boy?”

[bitletsanddrabbles]

Downton Court Hotel pt. 8

And now the part that I’ve we’ve all been waiting for!

No, seriously, I’ve had this drafted for over a month, maybe two.

This piece is dedicated to every art student who’s ever had to BS their way through a presentation on the colour field piece they did for the final in their painting class’s abstract section. Cheers!

Note: When I do get all of today’s spam up on Ao3, I will probably just post the link for pt. 6. Because spam.

Fandom: Downton Abbey

Characters: Thomas Barrow, Jimmy Kent, Peter Pelham

Relationship: Baxter/Molesley, canon pairings

Warnings: Resurrecting more characters! Play “spot the Maggie Smith” reference! Peter is a fluffy marshmallow!

https://bitletsanddrabbles.tumblr.com/post/184471088834/downton-court-hotel-pt-7

Thomas wasn't certain who it was who'd said "I may not know much about art, but I know what I like."  It was probably George Bernard Shaw or Oscar Wild or someone like that. Maybe Winston Churchill. All he could really say, standing in the hotel's dining room-cum-art gallery, was that he truly appreciated the sentiment. Mr. Carson had been rattling on at length about the virtues of the Marquess of Hexham's work to anyone within ear shot for a week solid, his words laden with solemn respect. If the listening party was Mr. Molelsey, only three days back from his honeymoon, one was certain to hear lively, pedantic replies on depth of colour and experimental art forms. Admittedly, it made a bit of a break from hearing about Paris, but there was still only so much of Mr. Molesley being pedantic one could take.

(Mrs. Molesley was better. Ask her how things went and she would shyly tell you about how Mr. Molesley had surprised her with tickets to the opera and she hadn't understood a word of it. Then she'd change the subject to the linens or some such.)

As far as Thomas was concerned, it looked like a paint store had thrown up on the room. With the exception of one or two pieces in black and white, each canvas was a riot of colour, some more harmonious than others. None of them contained what he would consider a 'picture' or even the semblance of one. Even definite 'shapes' were frequently lacking. There were, he thought, five year olds in the country who could do just as well. Then again, he supposed he'd seen calendars of five year old art here and there, along side art by cats and dogs, so someone with the money and title to attract attention shouldn't have too much trouble getting noticed.

He walked over to stand behind Jimmy who was finishing hanging a plaque next to one canvas (the staff had not been trusted to hang the art, only the descriptions) and asked. "So do you have any idea what any of this is supposed to be then?"

"I haven't been reading these things," was the reply. "Just hanging them."

Thomas cocked an eyebrow at the bellboy's disgruntled tone, but didn't reprimand him. It was, after all, rather late and well past when Jimmy would normally be off  having a drink and chatting up some girl or other. There was, however, a healthy dose of playful sarcasm in his voice as he replied, "Well then, what does that one say?"

Jimmy stepped back, looked at him, then at the picture. As with many of the others, there was no discernible picture, as such, just huge swatches of colour blending into each other. Leaning in to better see the rather small print, Jimmy read. "An exploration of the effect of colour and harmony as a reflection of the human psyche and a path to tranquility."

Thomas blinked, not quite certain to believe he'd heard properly.  He shook his head with a lopsided grin and asked, "Cor, what do you think all that means in English?"

An amused and unfamiliar voice answered him. "It means I painted pretty colours on the canvas while listening to smooth jazz, and it was very relaxing."

Turning abruptly, Thomas found himself facing a man just a bit shorter than himself, although about the same age. He had brown hair that needed a trim, blue eyes, an open face, and was wearing what struck Thomas as a very soft, comfortable looking jumper. There was just enough family resemblance with Lady Edith's fiance that, combined with the commentary, there was no doubt that this was Peter Pelham, sixth Marquess of Hexham.

"Why didn't you just say that, then?" Jimmy asked.

It earned him a laugh. "My dear boy, art critics are going to read that! You can't just give an art critic plain language, the poor things would shrivel up and die!"

Thomas and Jimmy both looked back and forth between the man and the painting, each exuding an air of utter confusion. Jimmy was the first to get up the guts to say something. "So, you're saying that all of the high toned language you read about with art is all pointless gibberish to make things sound posh?"

"Not all of it," Lord Hexham replied, walking over to stand next to them, his eyes on the painting. "There are definitely artists in all fields who paint to send messages and make statements on the world. Something that claims to be a commentary on the treatment of the working class by the Conservative Party, for instance, or the roll of women in Socialist society is likely exactly as billed. Similarly the photorealists who wind up in galleries rather than sketching people's portraits in malls have every right to talk about the years and difficulty of perfecting their craft and attention to detail. But process artists have a bit more difficulty getting taken seriously.

“Take my Study in the Style of Jackson Pollock, for example." He turned and gestured to another painting which looked very much to Thomas as if he'd simply thrown random colours of paint at a canvas. "As far as technique is concerned, all I did was splash paint at the canvas and see where it hit. Not much to talk about, really. A child could do it. But that type of abstract isn't really about technique so much as it is a study in chaos theory. What sorts of patterns will emerge? What sorts of emotions can you evoke? If you cover a ball in paint and throw it at the center of the canvas, will it hit there or someplace you hadn't intended and what sort of effect will that have?" He paused, then added with another of those wryly amused smiles, "Not to mention if you've just had a bad day it can be very cathartic."

Thomas looked around him with a bit more respect than he had earlier. "So basically, these were all experiments that came out the way you wanted them to?"

"More or less. I normally don't have any sort of end goal in mind for what I want things to look like, but I stop when I get something I like." Turning, the aristocrat held out his hand. "But we've not been properly introduced. I am Peter Pelham, Marquess of Hexham. And you are?"

"Thomas Barrow, night manager."

"A pleasure," Peter smiled at him, shook his hand, then turned his attention to Jimmy.

"James Kent," Jimmy replied in the formal manner Mr. Carson insisted on. "Bell boy."

"Does everything meet with your approval, Your Lordship?" Thomas asked in the same, prim tone, stepping into his professional role.

"Oof, please, call me Peter when I'm not 'on duty'," Peter winced, looking around the room. "One does get tired of being 'sired' and 'Your Lordshipped' on every little occasion. Save the formality for when the show opens and the press is here." He concluded his turn of the room, then walked over to one painting that was hanging perfectly straight on  the wall and pulled it off center so it hung slightly skee-jawed. "I prefer the way that one looks at a bit of an angle," he explained. "I expect people will forever be trying to straighten it, so if you could convince them not to I would appreciate it. Beyond that," he looked around again and nodded, "It's very nice. I approve." He gave them a smile from his seemingly endless supply. "Does this mean you can take a break now?"

"Well, it means James can clock off," Thomas allowed. Mr. Carson probably wouldn't have approved, but there was nothing left to be done here and the other man needed to sleep sometime. "I need to get back to my office. It's normally quiet this time of night, though, unless someone decides they want a midnight snack."

"Will you be here for the actual event?" The question was directed at both of them, but Thomas thought Peter looked a touch more in his direction. "I'd told Edith there needn't be a lot of fuss, but she made it sound like there would be anyway."

"If you have a title, Mr. Carson will make a fuss," Thomas assured him. "It will be all hands on deck, although you'll see James more than you will me. I'll stop past, but I'll be busy running things elsewhere."

Peter nodded. "In which case, I will see you two tomorrow. I hope you have a good night." Turning he walked to the door and picked up a large, rectangular package that Thomas immediately recognized as a painting.

His heart rate jumped. "Ah, Your Lor – er – Peter?" he called, causing the other man to pause and turn. He pointed to the package. "We've not forgotten one, have we?"

It took a moment for understanding to register with the other man, then he laughed. "Oh, no! This is just something Edith asked me to do as a present for her grandmother. It's considerably different than the works here." He gestured to the rest of the room "Would you like to see?"

The offer caught Thomas a bit off guard and he hesitated. Carson would probably not approve of their fraternizing with their betters, but as he couldn't imagine the Dowager Countess Grantham appreciating the Marquess's work, from what he'd seen of it, it was tempting to say yes. He glanced at Jimmy, who was obviously thinking something similar, and then yielded to temptation. "If it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all," Peter assured, setting the canvas down and carefully working at the tape with his fingers. "I wouldn't want you both to go through life thinking my entire skill set was throwing buckets of paint around. Here, could one of you hold this up for me while I get the tape at the bottom?"

Jimmy stepped forward and between the two of them they worked the brown wrapping paper off the work. The painting, as promised, was nothing like the surrounding experimental abstracts. This canvas had a very definite, if stylized, image and reminded Thomas of art you might see on a post card. In the center stood a young woman with red hair who looked familiar although he couldn't quite place her. She was dressed in a plain white dress, like something out of a Greek play, and a gold band wrapped around her head. A wave was breaking behind her and a series of moons in different phases went along the top.

Jimmy whistled. "I may not know art, but I know what I like," he said, eying the painting with obvious appreciation. Thomas bit back the playful urge to ask if he meant the painting or the woman.

"Thank you. Now," Peter grinned, watching them out of the tops of his eyes. "Do you recognize who it is?"

The easy answer was 'no', but Thomas hated admitting when he was wrong. He particularly hated it when someone more educated and titled than he was rubbing his face in it so they could look superior, so, despite the fact that Peter seemed a lot nicer than most of the aristocrats he knew – right up there with Sybil, really – he had a crack at it. "She reminds me of that picture of the naked woman on the sea shell. Goddess of Love, wasn't it?"

"Ah, the Birth of Venus, yes," Peter nodded, clearly pleased with the answer. "Not a direct influence on this work, but I can see where you'd draw the comparison. She's actually Thetis, a relatively minor sea goddess. I wouldn't expect anyone who hasn't done some heavy study of mythology to recognize her. But I was meaning more the woman herself, the model. Edith says you've all met her." He paused and, receiving absolutely baffled expressions for his pains, explained, "It's Lady Violet Crawley, in her younger days. I believe most of my references were from her forties, if you could believe it."

Thomas had a bit of trouble believing it, but there again the image was stylized. That might have made her look a bit younger, not to mention the Crawleys, from what he'd seen, were graceful agers.

Jimmy was caught up on a different detail. "The Dowager Countess was a red-head?"

Peter nodded, "Indeed! She wore it well, don't you think?" He started packaging up the painting again, pulling the paper over it and pressing down on the tape. This time both Thomas and Jimmy went to help him. "Edith wanted a painting of her Grandmother as a younger woman, done in the style of the Art Nouveau movement of the 1920s. Alphonse Mucha is the best known and most often mimicked artist of the movement, so I thought of mimicking someone less overdone, but then again from what I know of the Dowager, she's the sort to appreciate the iconic."

"You've described her quite well," Thomas agreed. He did not add that he found it second to 'bloody old bat'. "And it's an impressive painting."

"Aren't artists supposed to find their own style, though?" Jimmy asked. "Be original, do their own thing, all of that?"

"To an extent, but really, people have been painting for millennia. There's not really anything 'new' left and unless you live in a bubble someone, someplace is going to influence your way of doing things." Peter pressed down the last of the tape, then stood, picking the painting up again. "Not to mention in order to learn a technique, you have to study the technique and the fastest way to impress upon people that you've got it down is to mimic someone who already did it. Art critics love this – you listen tomorrow, particularly when they get to the Pollock inspired piece." He nodded to the canvas he threw paint at. "They will dither on forever about capturing the intent and tone of the original artist."

"Well, looks like I certainly have something to look forward to." Jimmy gave a forced smile that threw his enthusiasm into question.

"It's entertaining if you look at it as sort of a social comedy," Peter assured him, blue eyes twinkling.  He definitely had the sort of eyes that twinkled. "Mocking the pomp and circumstance and all of that. But here, I am keeping you from a no doubt well deserved rest and Mr. Barrow from his office. I will bid you both a good night and let you get on with it." He smiled and nodded, accepted their respectful bows, then turned and left.

Once it was quite certain he was out of ear shot, Jimmy turned and looked around the room, muttering under his breath. "Well he's an odd duck, but I'll tell you, suddenly tomorrow looks a lot less boring."