#practise as residents. you know. small details.

[what-are-even-humans]

Hey so im moving out of my flat tomorrow and due to my university* being Awful at Admin and me having to spend a lot of time and energy fixing shit, I have to pack down essentially my entire flat in one night. Anyone got any tips for how you pack quickly?

*technically former. I graduated and will only ever return for a) a brief stint as an advisor in a subject I aided in developing and b) the residency meet-up in like 9 months

[keepmeinmind-01]

wip wednesday 30/10-06/11

feel free to check this out if you are curious about any of my "fantastic beasts" wips. this is a very long one (apologies), so i will tag and put the requested sentences below the cut for accountability :)

for "kmim thesleta flashbacks":

Too obsessive. Doesn’t see the big picture. Too rigid. Better than his brother, but not by much. They should try testing out becoming a small faulty gear in the clockwork of war. Try having a barrel pressed to their forehead for the side they were presumably assigned to, months after the same side had strapped him to a crucifix of a cartwheel for supposedly trying to escape. Everything was about the details. And believing everything to be about the details allowed him to stay at the Ministry even as Evermonde had hinted they’d considered betraying him, first. 

He didn’t talk much, yet, because not many others knew how he felt. He’d given up on communicating that a long time ago. Newt was the same way, after all. Life went by and he’d only had ten or eleven or twelve months to make the ‘adjustments’ they still claimed possible, so he reasoned that it was okay that he couldn’t yet be a part of it. 

Theseus still didn’t know who he was, or what he’d become, but the question had grown muted. It was younger people who challenged that question, who really tried to find those buried parts of their souls. At twenty-nine, he was content to know only that the war had sharpened him like a blade at a whetstone, and dulled some of his worst qualities, stripping him into something closer to whom he might have been.

An actual question, such as, who am I?, was irrelevant. Theseus was still a brother, a son, and an Auror. One day, he would die, but it hadn’t happened yet. Objectively and to full intents and purposes, he lived cautiously, given all that. 

It was alright. 

It was harder than it had been before to face the Ministry. He’d always taken pride in his position there: how he worked harder than everyone else, making up for his questionable heritage; how he maintained a careful blend of critical and dutiful, enough to have his advice asked on certain cases, one of the youngest to make Senior Auror before the war; and his general success, his commendations, his rate of closed cases one of the highest, if not quite the highest, because he never liked leaving loose ends to the cold fate of a steel drawer. In his early Auror years, even with the threats and the doubt, even with Newt and his family always weighing at the back of his mind like storm clouds, he’d walked through these corridors with his head held high. 

He did the same now, of course, but the facade took more effort than before to maintain. Before he’d enlisted, he’d at least begun to grow into confidence, emboldened by his moral compass and narrow skill set perfectly suited to the life he’d chosen.

By the end of each day, he was exhausted. No longer could he clock the easy hours of overtime that distracted him from his own thoughts and proved him better than everyone else. By the time it hit seven in the evening, he was jumpy, hands beginning to shake, forgetting occasionally how to speak in the smooth and confident low tones that were expected of him. He would rearrange his files over and over again on his desk, and the chaos of the bullpen he usually thrived in would start feeling like nails on a chalkboard, setting his nerves on edge until he couldn’t contain his fidgeting. Bouncing his legs, getting up and pacing the far corner where they kept the files, tapping his fingers. Every bad habit he thought he’d trained himself out of, with the added bonus of losing the charisma he’d practised, the easy conversation, whenever he was approached from behind in the low-light so similar to a dozen other stops in Europe. 

On better days, he walked home to his tenement flat. It was horrible. But he liked it. It was dirty, and dingey, and his fellow residents often got aggressive with him if he eyed them the wrong way, prone to staring and, before the war, looking a little too soft and educated. Less so, now. In the Muggle world, it was respected, to have served, even if it was a point of contention with the wixen. But it was perfect to wallow, to curl up on the narrow bed he’d chosen when he was only nineteen, and remember that he’d picked this because he’d been escaping exactly what his family needed him to become. Perfect—because that was all too ironic, now. 

Newt was avoiding him. The primary reason Theseus avoided drinking was not because he feared ending up like their father, but because he feared Newt would one day no longer forgive the connection he’d drawn for some time. 

He rotated between a few regular haunts. After the tribunal, his colleagues seemed to be considering how to talk to him. The wixen world had taken pride for some time in not getting involved in Muggle wars, and instead had endured dozens of small conflicts, massacres, and tragedies, habitually turning the other cheek. That hadn’t escaped Theseus, either: how few poets, political speakers, and rebels they had to commit these things to memory. And given he’d learned that many wixen just didn’t understand, both what they tried to pay attention to and did not, he picked spots in the Muggle world, instead. Bookshops in Cecil Court. Jazz bars hosting both wixen and Muggles. Empty parks with good views, where he could smoke in peace. 

The August air was hot and heavy. His undershirt was sitting to his back, his suspenders felt like pack straps, and the humidity meant London smelt of the smog lingering over its tall stone buildings. It was eight in the evening, and he just needed a drink. He had a personal rule; never could he have more than three drinks in one evening, nor could he drink alone. Of course, he was alone in most places he went, but not physically so. By mere technicality, a drink in either an expensive hotel bar or a dive of a pub, in the rough proximity of others, saved him from acknowledging it was a miserable habit. 

Half of him was tempted to head right to the Criterion Bar and see what he could do to feel less claustrophobic, no matter how taboo or small the rebellion. Maybe this would finally be the night. Affectionately nicknamed the ‘Witches’ Cauldron’-- amusing --or the ‘Bargain Basement’ -- also more suitable than Theseus liked to let on. And what did he do there? No war hero confidence, that was certain; he lingered by the walls and wondered if he would ever dare step into the fray of humans and people and intimacy, sweat and smoke together, a certain jubilance in the rebellion. He tapped his fingers against his glass and didn’t smile much, because since the war, he didn’t know how to react when approached. How to play at pretending to be like everyone else once more. 

The other half of him sighed and begged familiarity. He went, instead, to the dockside. It was bustling, even at this time in the evening. The Thames ran nearby; every car he passed was loaded and stacked with future cargo, the arched windows of nearby buildings glinting against the broken streetlights, the crowds thinning into the afterdark crowd. He slipped past a group of workers smoking at the entrance, keeping his collar upturned, and into the establishment. This one was always quiet, at least. Hardly anyone there; a few at the back, nursing drinks in silence, a heaviness in the air. 

At the bar sat one smaller figure in a dark, hooded cloak. Likely another wix. He chewed on his lower lip, but pressed forwards, some invisible instinct calling him to sit on one of the sticky stalls in front of the heavy wooden bar. 

for "kmim sudan":

The humid air clung to Newt's skin. He crouched in the tall elephant grass beyond the village, wand between his ink-stained fingers, directing the focus of his binoculars. The disillusionment charm he'd cast made his outline waver like rising heat: good enough to avoid casual notice but far from perfect. 

Three days of covert observation. Not for the first time, he wished he was dealing with one of his creatures instead. At least then he'd know where he stood. 

Sweat dripped down his forehead from the wavering heat. Nyaring was sitting outside her mother’s luak, grinding sorghum with slow, methodical movements. She was small for her age, with soft round features and eyes that seemed too old for her face. Small things fluttered around her, catching the last light of day on their delicate wings. It had taken Newt a while to identify them: caper white butterflies, drawn to whatever power emanated from her. Every now and then, one would land too close and fall, its wings blackening from the body outwards.

"Just...observing. For now. Though that doesn't make it much better, does it?" he murmured, mostly to Pickett. "But I need to understand before I can...well. Before I make things worse, probably."

His notebook lay at his side like a guilty conscience. His experience with magical creatures had taught him the importance of observation before interaction, but this was different. The methodical approach that had served him so well with his beasts felt almost offensive here.

Nyaring wasn't a creature. She was a child. A potentially deadly one, yes, but still fundamentally human.

Pickett gave him what could only be described as a judgmental look. "Yes, I know," Newt sighed. "But I can't exactly walk up and introduce myself, can I? 'Hello, I'm a foreign wizard who's not supposed to be here, and I think your daughter might be being preyed upon by a destructive magical force that's killing people.' That would go brilliantly."

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the village. Women moved between the luaks, carrying water and preparing the evening meal. Children played nearby, their laughter carrying across the distance. 

But none of them went near Nyaring.

Nyaring.

The quiet girl who sat apart from the others, who seemed to draw shadows to herself even in bright sunlight. The other children still called her name, still occasionally chattered to her, but she didn’t always sleep in her luak, and spent time hiding from a man wearing a headdress. The village’s witch doctor, Newt suspected. 

What could be passed off in other countries sometimes took on more significance in the smaller, more rural villages. And an Obscurial—not that he’d seen one to this level, not that he knew much about them beyond myth picked up on his journeys and Albus’s surprisingly knowledgeable research about their manifestations—would surely be a clear outlier in a superstitious community. 

Her family clearly loved her, but there was fear there too. At least, that was how Newt judged the situation; if he used only his own experiences of family, and childhood, he’d never be able to come to a clear conclusion on what was normal and what was not. 

For example, the woman taking care of her—possibly her mother—performed subtle protective gestures when she walked close to give the girl her evening meal. Not all of them magical, but all of them carrying intent. Newt recognised some from his research into local magical traditions; the magical theory here might not have aligned with the European academies Newt published his work in, but their practical applications seemed effective. There was leakage here between the wixen and Muggle worlds: including Muggle practices that channelled spiritual beliefs that weren’t precisely magic, but weren’t precisely not, either. 

The Sudanese Guild of Magical Practitioners had jurisdiction here, not the British Ministry. The magical and Muggle governments didn’t align on the Empire’s enterprises, but they didn’t exactly do much about it, either. Non-inference, even when wixen scorned or expressed apathetic distaste over Muggle prejudices and rhetorics (while, Newt thought, hardly being more enlightened themselves). Even if the Guilt somehow were happy with him entering the closed area of Bahr el Gazal, Newt’s  own experience with the law’s views on a researcher with few permits and a penchant for danger left him hesitant to involve any official bodies. 

A bird cawed, and, abruptly, he felt as though he’d been yanked from the warm pool of intense focus. The air was thick with insects, but a quick charm kept them at bay as he stood and picked his way carefully along the firmer ground between pools of standing water. Half by instinct, Newt pulled out the letter from Dumbledore again, though he'd practically memorised it by now, the ink smudged. The political situation was delicate, his former teacher had written, but information about Obscurials could prove invaluable.

From this vantage point, he could see the whole village spread out before him, cooking fires beginning to flicker to life in the gathering darkness. The cattle’s lowing carried across the evening air. The horned beasts were more than just livestock. They were wealth, status, connection to ancestors. It was beautiful, Newt thought, to value living creatures so much.

Teddy chose that moment to make another escape attempt, rattling the latches of his case. Newt quickly checked the locks, reinforced with every charm he knew but somehow never quite enough to contain his most persistent troublemaker. The last thing he needed was to explain why a magical creature was stealing shiny objects from the village.

"No, absolutely not," Newt muttered, catching the case just as it started to wobble. "Their ceremonial beads are not yours to collect, and I really can't afford another international incident. We're meant to be inconspicuous." 

A pause, then he added fondly: "Though there’s nothing inconspicuous about hiding in swamps watching people. Rather hypocritical of me.”

from "all i need":

Appearing out of the crowd, stride unhurried and nonchalant, Vinda Rosier stepped forwards. The dark-haired woman was one of Grindelwald’s closest lieutenants. Lifting a small bronze disk, she tossed it to the ceiling with a flourish. The stone at the centre of the stage turned a brilliant white. A spotlight. She stepped delicately back into it, and was handed a black box. When she opened it, she revealed a human skull, engraved with markings Leta had memorised. 

Prophecy would be told tonight.   

She turned her head away from Newt, shame crawling through her gut. If only he’d said it simply, bluntly. But, no, he had breathed in each of the words, stuttering and soft, and it reminded her of how villainous it felt to pursue this cause. “We can be here for any reason you want,” she said, although that was a lie. “But that only holds true if you believe it’s both of us. You see, Newt—“

“You’re here to watch,” Newt mumbled. “You’re…here to listen.”

“I didn’t say that I was going to be the one to watch,” she said, turning back to him and fixing him with a look of challenge. She lifted her chin. Like the proud prow of a ship. There would be no denial tonight. The Ministry and its allies had denied enough. 

“What do you want me to do?” Newt said, his tone cooling. “I can’t join him, Leta. You know that. You know where my loyalty lies.”

She’d expected him to be shocked for longer. Had she misjudged? Had he read her too precisely, buoyed by their once-close friendship instead of his usual hesitancy when it came to humans? Or did he believe her predictable and doomed, barely registering this was still a big, undecided decision for her, too? 

“Then just stay here,” she said.

Newt looked down. His voice was quiet. “I, um, don’t want to do that, either.”

She gritted her teeth. “You were the one that lied for me. You were the one that made them call me a liar. Yes, Newt, you saved me, and yes, we’re still friends. But don’t pretend that you don’t have a habit of walking away. Stay. Watch. I chose you because I trusted you.”

“But you don’t want to do it alone.”

The astuteness in that statement hit her like a blow to the sternum. It was precisely the opposite of what she’d been telling herself for months. 

And she felt crushed, frozen, split as if by a pin, by the truth: she didn’t. 

She had been alone for so many years, until they’d met. 

Vinda’s midnight-blue robes glittered under the spotlight. She placed the skull on the ground; it began to brew faint misty smoke, curling like fingers across the first few rows, seeking purchase like a jagged approximation of plant roots. 

"My friends," she began, her French accent lending a musical quality to her words. "We gather tonight in a sacred place, where generations of magical blood have left their mark upon these ancient stones. How fitting, that here—we shall hear the truth spoken freely.”

Vinda smiled, sharp and beautiful as a blade.

"Remember. Some will call this revolution. Others, war. But we know it for what it is—justice. The natural order reasserting itself after centuries of suppression." She paused, letting the words sink in. Some of it, Leta knew, was on the pamphlets, in the hidden texts, in the whispers spread through the secret meeting places of high and low society alike. "And who better to lead us into this glorious future than the man who dares to speak these truths? The wizard who saw our potential when others would deny it?"

Blue flames began to wrap around the edges of the platform. For now, it was theatre. Only Grindelwald himself could conjure the honest fire.  

"My friends," Vinda's voice rang out, "I give you the architect of our liberation, the champion of magical freedom—Gellert Grindelwald!"

for "1908" (i transferred these lines to the next chapter):

“Is that my star atlas?” Theseus asked, nodding towards the thick leather book embossed with the silver stamps of various constellations. “Are you going to be keen on Astrology?”

Newt shrugged, thumbing it open with practised ease. His little brother spent a surprising amount of time borrowing books from their father’s study, while also seeming to never pay any attention at all. “Yes. I think it would be helpful.” He paused, and then added, his voice a little more vulnerable: “I want it to be…good.”

Theseus would never be opposed to Newt showing academic interest, especially if it was primarily theoretical and had limited capacity to land him and everyone else in trouble. “Then take it,” he said, trying not to feel a small squirm of possessive jealousy, remembering how it had been one of his absolute favourite books when he was eight.

“Alexander said it was too advanced for me,” Newt said. “Or, um, rather, I think he just didn’t want me to take your things.”

“Like you ask,” Theseus said with a scoff.

A small smile crossed Newt’s face as he ducked his head. “Well. Um, if you study Niffler habits…”

He had no idea what a Niffler even was, but this was progress. Anything for Newt to act like less of a ghost. The mention of his creatures still made Theseus uneasy—blasted things that he’d started to care for, that he feared, that Newt had firmly claimed as only his own once more. He wondered whether, in thirty-odd years, people would scoff at the family’s reputation struggles produced only by whispers about the second Scamander, acting more beast than boy. There was limited research on magical creatures beyond their extreme danger; hundreds of wixen died every year from creatures of almost every category on the scale, ranking precisely by how much damage they could cause. 

“First year isn’t so bad,” Theseus said. “Well. No, it’s quite hard actually, because Headmaster Black is particularly horrible. Try and find some older students who can help you out—the Muggleborn ones are the most patient, because they know what it’s like to go through the curriculum even when Black’s totally careless about Muggle Studies.”

“You have to memorise everything, probably,” Newt muttered. “Like, um, like school. It’s not very useful.” 

Newt checked the old set of brass scales, somehow calibrating them with ease. Theseus remembered going shopping for many of these hand-me-downs with their father. He had been practically buzzing with excitement, pleased and proud as his father lectured him about the cost of each item and the investment made in his education. Even looking at those scales, he could remember exactly how much they’d cost. Now, he had a new set for the Academy to brew emergency healing potions and take apart and consider suspicious objects—and he couldn’t for the life of him remember the cost. 

They had less budget for Newt.  

“If that’s your packing, you’ve also got to take a few pairs of formal robes,” Theseus instructed. “I have several. They’re not hard to hem, but if there’s any kind of dinner party or guest lecture, you really should wear them. Your friends might wear the school set, but you’ll make a better impression with smart ones. And we can’t always afford to be as relaxed as other people.”

 “I,” Newt said, drawing out the single letter into a long hum. “I don’t want to. I don't want to make impressions. Not anymore."

"Well," Theseus said carefully, "at least take one set. For special occasions." He picked up one of his old robes, the dark green wool still good quality despite its age. "This one's not too formal. Practical, even. Good for winter."

Newt accepted the robe without looking at it, adding it to a pile that seemed dedicated to warm clothing. Theseus looked at it, wondering abruptly if Newt was packing so much because he didn’t plan to come home for Christmas. It was an option offered to many of the students; the Ministry paid for the schooling of everyone who couldn’t afford it, which was a good quarter of the student body. The castle at least was a warm place to spend those weeks. 

"Did you like it?" Newt asked, interrupting Theseus’s attempt to join the dots. Theseus sighed and trained his attention on his little brother as Newt chewed the inside of his cheek and then clarified: "I mean, um, the first year?"

Theseus considered the question, trying to separate his genuine memories from the polished version he usually presented. 

“Parts of it," he said finally. "The actual magic was fascinating. Learning to make things float, turn matches into needles. The castle itself is incredible—there's always something new to discover. Though try to stay out of the restricted sections.”

"What about the other parts?" Newt pressed, still focused on organising his supplies.

"You don't need to worry about all that. Just focus on your studies and the rest will come.”

Newt screwed up his face. Theseus also personally felt that the words rang hollow, but he didn’t want to scare his little brother with how anxious he himself had been. 

“Hmm,” Newt said. He’d always had a tendency to make sounds instead of filling in words; it was part of the reason why they’d developed their sign language. But in the last two weeks, since Newt had come home, he’d seem to shy away from using it, retreating into silence instead. Theseus supposed him having even come up with that—a system of hand symbols that he used when they failed at normal behaviour, in its most damning light—would now seem wrong to Newt. 

“Hmm what?” Theseus asked, keeping his voice low.

“Everyone always seems to know everything about us. Everything about you, especially. So, I think that they might already know about things that have, um, happened, and if they have, I don’t want to change their minds, because there’s no point. I want..." 

He trailed off, turning back to the scales.

"What do you want?" Theseus asked, when the silence had stretched too long.

Newt carefully placed the scales in his trunk before answering. "I want to be myself. Even if that means being strange. Even if that means people talk."

There was a certainty to his movements that hadn't been there before the institution. It had hardened something in him.

"Alright," Theseus conceded. "But you'll need a warm cloak for winter. The castle gets cold, especially in the dungeons during Potions."

"I’ll use your old one," Newt said, pulling out the worn black wool. "It's perfectly good still."

Theseus remembered wearing that cloak, hurrying between classes, trying so hard to be perfect, to be normal, to be everything their father wanted. Now, Newt was wearing it, choosing his own path.

"We should get going soon," he said, pushing away the complicated tangle of emotions. "The shops will be getting crowded."

Newt nodded, getting to his feet and kicking the lid of his trunk closed. It seemed as though he had deliberated over each item, but the clothes and robes still hung messily over the edges of the battered trunk they’d found in the loft above Theseus’s room. Some of Theseus’s old shirts were missing buttons on the cuffs; he’d had a habit of tugging his sleeves down. Newt had scratched Newt AF Scamander into one of the leather panels with what might have been a penknife, mimicking a monogram. 

"I'm ready,” Newt said, fiddling with his collar. 

Looking at his little brother standing there, surrounded by the pieces of his future, Theseus wasn't sure that he was. 

from "and the hound":

The autumn evening pressed oily early darkness against the kitchen windows. Theseus watched Newt's reflection in the glass as his brother worked, small hand cramping around a quill that needed replacing. He probably had to start making dinner soon; their parents were at the hospital for their mother’s treatments, and wouldn’t be back for hours yet. 

Steam rose from his fourth cup of tea, gone cold twice already. The kitchen table was scattered with their work—Theseus's half-finished Transfiguration essay comparing human and animal anatomical transformation theory, and Newt's arithmetic sheets, covered in smudged numbers and tiny doodles of bowtruckles in the margins. Their father would hate those doodles. Theseus found himself unconsciously straightening Newt's papers, aligning the edges.

Something shot past the window. Exhausted from the strange dreams, Theseus's wand hand twitched, but it was just a crow, wheeling away toward the woods that crouched at the edge of their property. 

The trees looked wrong somehow, too dense for this time of year when the leaves should be thinning.

Newt paused in his work, staring at the paper. "They're coming closer," he said, not looking up. "Can't you feel it?"

Something cold pressed against Theseus's temples, like fingers testing the thickness of glass. 

The sudden burst of magic felt like being punched in the chest. Silver light erupted from his wand without incantation or intent. 

Theseus's heart stuttered. His hand wasn't on his wand. He hadn't spoken the incantation. He hadn't even been thinking of anything particularly happy—quite the opposite. And yet his Patronus was materialising on the other side of the kitchen, by the hob and under the broken bulb, the silver mist coalescing muzzle-first into the familiar elegant shape of his wolfhound. The wallpaper was peeling away at the edges between the cabinets, its dulled yellow exposing the wall beneath.

This wasn't possible. Patronus charms required intense concentration, precise wandwork, and above all, genuine joy. They were among the most intentional forms of magic. You couldn't just accidentally cast one, any more than you could accidentally perform human transfiguration. 

The dog moved as if underwater, its hackles raised, pacing jerky circles around the kitchen. He could hear the irregular click of its claws against the floorboard. “Newt? Do you see that?” 

Newt tilted his head in that peculiar way of his, like a bird hearing distant thunder. His attention seemed caught by something just past Theseus's shoulder. "They say you're fighting it, but you shouldn't. They say it will be easier if you accept it."

"Accept what?"

The Patronus growled, a sound it had never made before, hackles rising. It came to a halt in front of the double doors overlooking the garden. Patterns appeared in round, foggy patches like cigarette burns the colour of cobwebs, pressed in from the other side as if something were breathing on the cold glass. 

Something wasn't right. Something fundamental was shifting, like the ground beneath his feet had tilted just a few degrees off true.

"What you're going to become." Newt returned to his sums with the same focus he gave to examining insects in the garden. "Don't worry, Thee. I'll still love you, even when you're different."

Theseus should correct him, should insist again that there was nothing in those woods. Instead, he found himself watching the Patronus as it stationed itself beneath the window, hackles raised against something only it could see. The dog's silver light caught the old burn mark on the table where their father had once grabbed Theseus's wrist too hard, making him drop a hot pan. Their mother had refused to repair it, though Theseus never learned why.

for "theseus tina five times one time":

Tina kept her wand holstered to her ribs now, just as she kept everything else close to her chest. As she stepped inside the Woolwich Building, she removed her dark green hat, crushing it untidily into one pocket and avoiding the eyes of passersby. After all, it had only been a year since New York. Every face could be a mask now. She'd started keeping a journal of small details—the way people held their coffee cups, their usual routes to their desks, the cadence of their laughs. Small anchors of reality.

Given her analyses held no prisoners, it was no wonder she’d been chosen to investigate this new lead on the Graves disappearance. MACUSA had been oddly unenthusiastic about the actual facts of the case beyond the truth that it had happened—and even that was a classified detail, eventually redacted from every newspaper that cared to try to spread it, papered over with the swift efficiency their European counterparts lacked. Assigning the role to a Senior Auror held loaded subtext—but Tina ignored it, as she had learned to do with most of the discomfort she felt in this place. Look away and survive. Look too closely, and perish, particularly when you had a sister who’d joined the most wanted man on the planet with no warning nor trace. 

Even the last letter from Newt, folded neatly into the breast pocket of her dark green velour suit, was creased from re-reading. Three months old now. His usually meandering sentences had been clipped, distracted. Something about Bulgarian field research, promises to write soon, a hastily scrawled signature. Nothing like the letters from that first year—pages of careful observations about his creatures, quiet jokes, questions about her day that made her feel seen in a way that even Queenie's mind-reading hadn't managed.

Security took nearly thirty minutes nowadays. 

Once she got into the elevator, alone—as she almost always was—Tina took a deep breath and pressed her forehead against the cool metal grating. She shouldn't have volunteered for this. But when Picquery had mentioned needing someone to liaison with the British Ministry about the Graves investigation, she’d produced a desperate agreement before she could stop herself. After all, who could have been better? She'd worked directly under Graves. She'd been the one to bring Newt in. She'd nearly died in that death cell.

The white rust-stained walls closing in, that terrible chair ascending from the oily pit. Newt's hand finding hers. The real Graves would never have ordered an execution without proper procedure. That should have been her first clue, if she hadn't been so caught up in proving herself after her demotion. If she hadn't been so desperate to show she could still be a good Auror, even after breaking protocol to protect Credence.

But it was the other Scamander brother she was meeting today. Theseus Scamander. And he, at least, couldn’t break her already shattered heart.

and i have added sentences to "white button down"!

thank you so much for the comments and motivation! tag list for accountability is @enigma-the-mysterious @tamsinswriting @oriharaizayadividesintoslytherin @whimsicalmeerkat @somefishycat @aparticularbandit @wizisbored @violet-prism-creatively @bald-rights @quietly-sleeping @kalira @zyrafowe-sny @eriquin @twyrewolf @1attheedge @auburnlaughter @loyal-house-of-lupin @tiercell @allofthebeanz @stonemaskedtaliesin @kitten-kokomo @sourb0i @kallisto-k @hurricanebreeze. thank you all so much 💗💗

[apricitystudies]

this post has been highly requested! it turned out more focused on loneliness and the emotional side of things, so i might do a part two to explore what culture shock is and go through its stages in more detail later on. as always, further questions and requests are always welcome in my askbox :)

transcript below:

(this is such a text-heavy masterpost and i didn’t save the original so i have to types out everything again bc i am the stupid. let’s go)

(title slide) culture shock and loneliness: studying abroad, adjusting to a new country, and overcoming isolation. a guide by apricitystudies

1. do some research. before you leave, read up on the basics of your new country’s culture. what are its customs and traditions? what holidays do they celebrate? is the pace of life hectic or laid back? are the people friendly or reserved? is society egalitarian or hierarchical? the easiest way to do this is to search ‘[country] culture’ or ‘what is life like in [country]?’ try google, youtube, and online forums. you can even make friends from your new country through online penpalling or language-learning apps like HiNative to get a native’s perspective.

2. bring some pieces of home with you. while writing out your packing list, leave some space in your suitcase for items that will remind you of home. they can be pictures of you and your friends and family, gifts from your loved ones, a stuffed animal, or anything else that will make your new place feel more comfortable. for example, when i left home, i brought with me letters and cards from my friends, a throw pillow, some small trinkets i kept on my desk, and my favourite mug.

3. carve out some alone time. the first few weeks after you’ve moved to a new country will likely be extremely hectic and difficult, so it’s important to reserve time to be alone and reflect.

4. keep yourself occupied. that being said, don’t just sit around with your thoughts all day. there is nothing worse than coming home from a long day of running errands trying to get settled in your new place, and then just sitting in your empty apartment by yourself and thinking about how quiet it is and how lonely you are. it’s important to keep your down time from growing into a daily pity party; trust me, i’ve been there.

5. keep up with your interests. see if there are sports or interest clubs at your new school that you can join. if you play an instrument but couldn’t bring it with you, like me (rip drummers), ask if your school has a music studio you can book to practise. pack your favourite art supplies or books. maintaining a common link with your life back home will help you to adjust quicker to your new life.

6. stay connected with loved ones. and make this contact regular! i called my dad every weekend, skyped my sister every other week, spoke to my friends every month, etc. slightly unrelated, but if you’re already seeing a therapist, ask about scheduling online appointments. this is a delicate balancing act. it’s okay to text your loved ones little blurbs every say; i texted my dad every night to let him know i was safe, but we only had actual conversations once or twice a week at most. if you’re having daily hour-long calls with family or friends, you’ll constantly be thinking about how much you miss home and make yourself miserable.

7. make new connections. one of the best ways to adjust to your new country is to get to know the locals. not only can they teach you the in and outs of your new home, but establishing social roots in the local community can also help you feel more like a new community member instead of just a temporary resident. having local friends exposes you to your new country’s culture in a more personal way and helps to ground you in that culture much more effectively than if you were to mix only with other international students.

8. be patient with yourself. you might have had high expectations for your new life and be disappointed that you don’t feel as happy as you thought you would feel. you might look at other international students having the time of the lives and be frustrated with yourself for feeling lonely and homesick and having less fun than them. or, if you’re like me, your overseas experience may have been cut short by a global pandemic. everyone adapts to new situations in different ways, and there is no ‘right way’ to feel. you might have immense amounts of fun or you might feel like absolute rubbish. either way, know that your emotions are valid. you will figure it out at your own pace.

9. ask for help. check what support services are available at your new school if you have a legal-administrative issue, see if your school has advisors for international students. for academic help, reach out to your professors to let them know you need extra guidance adjusting to the new school system. if you’re suffering mentally/emotionally, check if your school offers free counselling. join an international student club or a club for people from your home country. if you have a mentor, they can help you too. it can be difficult to admit you’re struggling if you don’t want to seem weak or worry your loved ones back home. but it’s okay to be lost or overwhelmed, and there is no shame in asking for help. most people will be understanding and more than willing to give you the support you need.

(final slide) the adjustment curve is difficult, but you can get through it! i believe in you. thanks for reading! from apricitystudies

[worldwidemochiguy]

Sweets (Soft Yandere! Jungkook)

You keep being visited by the most peculiar thief…

➵ in which jungkook steals your lip balm and perfume instead of talking to you, you leave a post-it note with your number on it for the strange thief who only seems to take the most inexplicable items and has a strange sense of responsibility for your wellbeing, and the cute boy in your photography class with the fluffy hair and the oversized sweater keeps getting more and more endearing…

➵ Warnings: Soft Yandere Jungkook, Breaking & Entering but without the Breaking, Reader is a bit of a ditz (lol sorry guys) 

➵ Word Count: 4.2K

➵ Masterlist

“Hello, uh, I’d like to… report a crime?” 

Your statement, which had always sounded suitably firm and assertive when you practised it in front of the bathroom mirror, ended with an unplanned upturn, making it sound more like a question than you would like. 

“Please state your name and address, ma’am.”

You did so, listening anxiously to the tap of a keyboard as your information was filed away. The undoubtedly over-worked police officer on the other end of the line sounded like he was two seconds from falling asleep, and you questioned yourself for the millionth time over whether you really needed to report this or not.

“What is the nature of the crime you are reporting, ma’am?”

“Um… well…” 

You twisted your hand into the fabric of your shirt self-consciously, trying to decide the best way to explain the strange little occurrences that had been surrounding your apartment over the last few months. You had not yet found a way to put it without sounding ridiculous, but you supposed there was a first time for everything. 

“I, uh, I think someone’s breaking into my apartment and stealing things.”

“You have an intruder?”

“Uh huh,”

“…Are they currently in your residence?”

“No, I think�� they come and take things when I’m not here and then they’re gone by the time I get back.” 

“What items have been stolen?”

You bit your lip. 

“I know it sounds silly, but…”

“No crime is too small to report, ma’am. We are committed to making the lives of everyday citizens safer.”

“Well… they’ve stolen my lip balm like… several times. I keep buying new ones and they keep being stolen after a week or so. And my perfume. And my hairbrush one time, and-”

“Ma’am,” The officer cut you off with the impatience you had been both anticipating and dreading ever since you decided to call the police, “Listen, we don’t have the capacity to deal with prank callers-”

“It’s not a prank call!” You blurted, a momentary burst of desperation overtaking you, “I- um, sorry for interrupting, officer, but this isn’t a prank call. Things have been going missing. I can’t afford to keep replacing my lip balm.” 

A sigh crackled across the line, and you pictured the officer maybe taking off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose like those people in movies always seemed to do when they got frustrated. Personally, you had never found that it helped. 

“Are you sure you aren’t just… misplacing them?”

You gasped, offended that even a stranger could think you so stupid. “No! I remember exactly where I leave things and then they just vanish! I swear!”

“Has anything of value ever been taken from your apartment?”

“Yes!” You exclaimed, excited to be able to prove the officer wrong, “My bunny plushy! Mr Snuggles is extremely valuable to me!”

“…Monetary value, I meant. Has anything expensive ever been taken from your apartment?” 

There was an embarrassing silence. The officer sighed again, with a little more exasperation colouring his tone. 

“If anything significant is stolen, call us back. For now, just… be a bit more careful with your possessions.” 

He hung up. You pressed your forehead against the wall and wished your strange thief had taken your phone in one of his little visits. Maybe then you would’ve avoided making that agonising call. 

The next morning as you were leaving to go to class, you noticed a pile of discarded post-it notes on your desk — the remnants of a redbull-fuelled late night study session. Your newly purchased lip balm lay next to it. Impulsively, you grabbed a pen and scrawled a message on one of the post-its, sticking it horizontally to the curved surface of the lip balm tube. 

it reads: 

pls don’t take this i just bought it and this brand is actually v expensive and i am only a struggling college student with loans and chapped lips (。•́︿•̀。)

It might have been a little too polite considering it’s intended recipient was someone who had stolen multiple items from your apartment, but you figured there was no point in being rude. They probably wouldn’t even read it anyway. 

You strolled out of your apartment, planning to pick up a smoothie on the way to your lecture, and promptly forgot all about it.

 When you returned home to find a pile of newly bought lip balms on your desk — all embossed with the logo of your favourite brand — you were slightly puzzled. But, once you remembered the note you had left- well, the confusion didn’t exactly vanish, but at least you were given some context. 

The note had disappeared, along with the lip balm you had used a scant few times. But, you didn’t understand what the thief’s aim was. Why on earth would they steal small things like lip balm and perfume? And why would they buy you new copies of the product? Wasn’t that counterproductive?

you’re very bad at your job

Your next note read, stuck to your fridge as you left to grab coffee with your study group. It remained there for a few days, and you couldn’t ignore the way your heart sank a little each time you saw it hadn’t been taken. 

After six days, when it finally vanished, you felt an odd sense of happiness bubble up within you. Yes, there was someone routinely breaking into your apartment, but at least now you had an open channel of communication with them. They had left a brand new bottle of your preferred perfume — which had been stolen at least twice before you stopped bothering to buy it because perfume is pricy — resting on your kitchen counter, beside a box of your favourite chocolates. 

As you dug into the box later, snuggled in a blanket and having a Studio Ghibli film marathon, you didn’t even consider the fact that the sweets might be tampered with. If they wanted to kill me, they would’ve killed me already, you reasoned to yourself, sucking the icing sugar off your fingers. Nor did you question how they knew your favourite chocolate. If they broke into your apartment as much as you assumed they did, they probably knew you better than your own parents by now. 

You were the very definition of a broke college student. As far as you were concerned, if this random stranger wanted to buy you things and sometimes clean up your apartment — you had definitely come back to a home tidier than you had left it more than once — then you certainly weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it was a little naïve of you, but… you had already called the police, and they hadn’t cared.

thank you for the perfume and chocolate <3

You wrote next morning, hesitating slightly before putting the heart. Before you could convince yourself not to, you scribbled another line underneath. 

i wish you’d write back someday…

As you walked to class, you scolded yourself for the butterflies swooping in your stomach. They’re literally a criminal, you told yourself, Stop getting crushes on anyone who shows you the slightest bit of attention. You don’t even know their name. 

Despite the small amount of common sense that you did have mocking you all day, you sat in classes and daydreamed about your mystery home intruder. Would they read the note? Would they be happy about your appreciation? Would they — you bit your lip — would they write back? 

You felt like a dumb schoolgirl, excited by the prospect of a badly written love note shoved in her locker. And, like a school girl, you trudged back home with your arms weighed down by class work, a billion essays and quizzes that had to be completed overnight. Did your professors not realise you had a life outside of college? Not that you did, of course, but like… in principle. 

You were so preoccupied with the coursework that you didn’t even notice the note stuck to your bedroom door. After an hour of studying, you rose wearily to start fixing yourself something to eat, and your eyes snagged on a flash of yellow. 

You squeaked, almost falling over yourself in your rush to get to the door and read the note. 

i’m glad you liked them. i’m sorry i took your things, that was mean of me. i tried to only take things you wouldn’t miss, but i guess that backfired… i just wanted to feel close to you. and these notes… are the closest i’ve ever been. i know that must sound weird, but… well. i’m a weird guy, i guess. i just liked hearing from you. that’s all. 

~ koo <3

You didn’t stop freaking out for a full five minutes. After that, you poured over every detail of the letter, eager to extricate any fragment of knowledge possible. You ended up with a list which you scribbled down in your diary, above which you pasted the note. 

The list went as follows:

They want to feel close to you

They have not talked to you before, since the notes are the closest they’ve ever been, but they must have seen you in person at least once 

They are a he 

(you adamantly did not get flustered about that)

and

     4. He calls himself Koo

When you left your apartment the next morning, you placed your note on the exact same spot he had left his. An indirect touch. 

hi koo !!!!!!!!

i was so excited to see you had written something!! you know, if you want to talk to me more often, there is an easier way…

Underneath you had scrawled your phone number, hastily and not allowing for regret before you flounced out of the apartment. The reason why you were in such a rush was because you were about to go to your favourite class: Photography 101. 

You had taken it as an extra credit, something that interested you but not enough that you wanted to pursue it as a career. You had expected it to be fun, something artistic to break up the monotony of classes. What you had not expected was the dreamy boy who sat in the first row and had full possession of your heart. 

You didn’t even know his name, but you were pretty sure you were half in love with him. With fluffy brown hair that fell over his forehead whenever he leaned over to scribble down notes, and cute bunny teeth that stuck out in a flustered smile whenever the professor praised his work in class, he was perhaps the cutest boy you had ever seen. 

Though you were sure he had many girls sighing after him, he seemed to be really shy, only ever speaking in class when called on, and even then it was in a quiet, soft voice. He was kind of like you in that respect. But that was where your similarities ended. 

Yes, you thought, sighing as you watched him pay avid attention to the professor’s lecture on the composition of frames, his cute doe eyes wide and twinkling like stars were embedded in the pupils, He is way out of my league. 

It took three days for you to lose hope. You hadn’t received a text, nor had you found any notes left for you. You tried not to be disappointed, even as your traitorous sub-conscience mocked you for being able to scare away the one person who arguably paid you the most attention. 

You didn’t really have many friends, and the ones you did have preferred each other over you, and often left you out of activities because of your shy nature. You guessed this whole thing had just been a way to feel like you actually mattered to someone, like, for once, someone cared about you, but-

You were pulled out of your musings as your phone chimed. 

From: Unknown Number

[6:48 PM]

hi

this is koo

The two of you texted every day, and soon enough you were hiding your phone underneath your desk in order to chat to him, keeping your phone on your person at all times in case koo wanted to talk. Of course, the only class you didn’t do this in was Photography, so you could spend a blissful forty-five minutes staring at the boy who played the role of your husband in all of your favourite daydreams. 

Koo still broke into your house occasionally, and he still left you sweet, considerate gifts. Often, you would receive texts like this:

From: koo ✨

[3:24 PM]

sweets i’ve been checking your groceries and your vegetables are not being eaten as often as they should be 

i know you have a sweet tooth and that’s cute but please try to stay healthy

To: koo ✨

[3:25 PM]

but i can’t cook all i know how to make is microwaveable mac n cheese :///////

You came back home that day to discover a bunch of Tupperwares full of pre-made healthy meals and a note stuck to the top of them. 

try microwaving these :)

To: koo ✨

[3:01 AM]

koo are you awake?

From: koo ✨

[3:01 AM]

i am now

what’s wrong?

To: koo ✨

[3:02 AM]

i can’t sleep :////////

From: koo ✨

[3:02 AM]

sweets you need to go to bed

you have an early morning class

To: koo ✨

[3:02 AM]

i knowwwwww

i just… i can’t sleep without mr snuggles :((

From: koo ✨

[3:03 AM]

Mr Snuggles??

???

To: koo ✨

[3:03 AM]

my cuddly bunny :((((

i think you took him a while ago

could i maybe have him back…?

From: koo ✨

[3:03 AM]

Shit

i didn’t know you couldn’t sleep without him 

[3:04 AM]

sweets im so sorry

To: koo ✨

[3:04 AM]

its okay koo

From: koo ✨

[3:04 AM]

no it isn’t

you’re loosing sleep because of me

fuck

i could… bring him to you?

To: koo ✨

[3:05 AM]

you’d do that?

…i could see you?

From: koo ✨

[3:05 AM]

no i’d leave him outside

you’d have to promise not to come out until i text you saying i’ve left

To: koo ✨

[3:06 AM]

but kooooo :(((((

From: koo ✨

[3:07 AM]

sweets 

To: koo ✨

[3:07 AM]

okay :((((((((((

but i expect you to leave a big box of chocolates on my pillow for me to come home to tomorrow evening!!

From: koo ✨

[3:08 AM]

of course sweets <3

im gonna get going now

don’t look outside your apartment

To: koo ✨

[3:08 AM]

okay

From: koo ✨

[3:34 AM]

im gone and mr snuggles is waiting outside for you

he might have a little gift with him

You trudged outside your apartment, rubbing your eyes blearily, and looked down to see your beloved plushie clutching a single rose in its paws. You gasped, leaning down to pick up the flower gently, and you noticed all the thorns had been taken off. Koo must’ve removed them so that you didn’t accidentally hurt yourself. 

You felt warmth flood you, drowning the butterflies in your stomach and replacing them with something much less fleeting, much less shallow. 

It sunk into your bones, into your heart, into your breath as you sighed, squeezing your long-lost Mr Snuggles close to your face. He carried the familiar scent of nostalgia, but also something different, something sharper. You realised with a jolt that you were smelling Koo’s cologne. 

You went back to bed, nuzzled your face into the plushy’s furry belly, and dreamed of fluffy brown hair and bunny smiles. 

Though with Mr Snuggles’ help you were able to sleep wonderfully, you were only able to do so for four hours before your alarm jolted you back into early reality. Honestly, you were sorely tempted to just ditch class, but it was Photography, and if you missed your regular dose of the cute boy in the front row then you thought you might just crumble into dust. 

You dragged yourself out of bed, pulling on your softest oversized hoodie — a gift from Koo which, now that you thought about it, smelled like the same cologne that Mr Snuggles did. You flushed at the thought of him giving you one of his hoodies to wear, though you couldn’t say exactly why that image charmed you. 

You stumbled into the lecture, arms full of textbooks because you knew you wouldn’t have the energy to return back to your apartment to retrieve the relevant materials for your next class later in the day. Your excellent plan was to crash in the library directly after this, have a two hour power-nap, and then make yourself get up in time for Calculus. 

You barely had the energy to listen to the professor droning on and on about… the perfect lense, or whatever. You allowed yourself the indulgence of tuning out, resting your chin on your palm and gazing dreamily at the boy in the front row. He was taking notes, as per usual. What a good student! You praised him in your head. I bet he has the best handwriting. 

Despite your best efforts, you fell asleep within ten minutes. You were woken as the class concluded by the clamour of students grabbing their materials and the scrape of chairs as your classmates stood up, leaving you behind — the only one half-splayed across the desk in front of you. 

You jerked upright, grabbing your stuff in one hand as you tried to tug on your bag, eventually succeeding with much struggle, only to drop it all again as soon as you stood up. You whimpered, watching helplessly as your textbooks fanned across the floor. You saw one of them split along the spine as it landed on an open page. 

That cost me two hundred dollars, you thought absently, and I just chucked it down like a bouncy ball.  

Suddenly, you glimpsed someone crouching down and gathering them all up into a sturdy pile. As he stood up, your vision was full of fluffy brown hair, errant strands falling into star-filled doe eyes. 

Oh. Oh no. 

“H-Here you are,” He murmured, passing you the pile gently, making sure you were able to take the weight before leaving them in your arms. When he leaned close to you, you breathed in a scent that was oddly familiar, and yet new at the same time. As his hands receded, his skin brushed against yours for a second and you swear your vision blanked out. 

“Thanks,” You whispered, your gaze so firmly focused on the floor that you didn’t notice his flushed cheeks. 

As soon as you got to the library, you whipped out your phone, all tiredness banished from your system by that momentous experience. You had talked to him. 

To: koo ✨

[8:47 AM]

koo i think im in love

From: koo ✨

[8:47 AM]

what

with who

To: koo ✨

[8:47 AM]

this boy in my photography class 

he’s just so- 

[8:48 AM]

i can’t even explain it

i dropped my textbooks and he picked them up for me and i stg i almost cried

From: koo ✨

[8:48 AM]

wait

seriously??

To: koo ✨

[8:49 AM]

yeah i cry at like the drop of a hat 

From: koo ✨

[8:49 AM]

no-

cute 

but i mean

that’s who you’re in love with?

To: koo ✨

[8:49 AM]

yeah?

From: koo ✨

[8:49 AM]

gray sweater

[8:50 AM]

big eyes

tall-ish

that’s him???

To: koo ✨

[8:50 AM]

OMG YOU’RE IN MY PHOTOGRAPHY CLASS AREN’T YOU

From: koo ✨

[8:50 AM]

WHAT

NO

IM NOT

To: koo ✨

[8:50 AM]

OMGGGGGGG

YOU SAW HIM HELP ME SO YOU MUST BE IN MY CLASSSS

[8:51]

okay!

are you the frat guy who always comes in hungover???

no judgement

From: koo ✨

[8:51 AM]

NO

To: koo ✨

[8:52 AM]

are you the guy who only ever wears knitwear???

From: koo ✨

[8:52 AM]

NO

To: koo ✨

[8:53 AM]

…are you the professor?

From: koo ✨

[8:53 AM]

NO!!!!!

oh my god lets just meet up or something before i explode

To: koo ✨

[8:53 AM]

WAIT

ARE YOU SERIOUS????

From: koo ✨

[8:54 AM]

…you’re that excited to meet me?

To: koo ✨

[8:54 AM]

OF COURSE I AM

OH MY GODDDD

WHEN?

From: koo ✨

[8:54 AM]

now?

i can meet you at the campus coffee shop in like five minutes?

To: koo ✨

[8:55 AM]

five minutes???

that’s not enough time koo i have to go home and pick out something pretty to wear !!

From: koo ✨

[8:55 AM]

it doesn’t matter what you wear, you’re always beautiful to me

To: koo ✨

[8:56 AM]

you

you think im

b-beautiful 

: ’ ))))))))))

From: koo ✨

[8:57 AM]

…

haha see you there!! 

To: koo ✨

[8:57 AM]

GET BACK HERE WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT THIS-

You sat on an empty table, fiddling with the tea bag tag which hung over the side of your mug. You had bought Green Tea as an effort to calm yourself down so you weren’t too anxious to meet Koo, but it hadn’t worked because you were impatient and sipped it too soon so now you were sat there nursing a burnt tongue like an idiot. 

You knew it was irrational to be self-conscious. He already knew who you were, and seemed to like you, it was just you that was in the dark. You went over the possible people Koo could be, mentally cycling through the boys in your photography class. It was an annoyingly large class, which meant he would be anyone from the guy who smelled like Funyuns to-

Fluffy-haired boy strolled into the coffee shop and you let out an involuntary sigh. He seemed to be cheerful, a smile exposing his bunny teeth and making his cheeks bunch up adorably, with like,  five different sets of dimples poked into them. You had never agreed more with the saying that dimples were caused by an angel’s kiss. 

Well, at least I’ll have something nice to look at while I wait, you thought, just before all your thoughts suddenly tipped out of your head when you realised he was walking towards your table. 

“Is this seat taken?” He grinned, before sliding into the seat across from you. 

You whimpered, and his smile grew devastatingly wider.

“Hi,” He breathed, before his gaze flickered down to your mug of tea, clutched so tightly in your hands that you worried the ceramic might shatter. “You didn’t get hot chocolate? I thought you had a sweet tooth?”

“Uhm-” You choked, before forcing yourself to get a grip. How would Koo feel if he walked in here and saw you sitting with another guy? “I’m actually- I’m waiting for someone. Sorry.”

If it was possible — and it certainly seemed to be — the boy’s grin broadened even more, his eyes crinkling into adorable half-moons.

“Is that so? Is he your boyfriend?”

“No!” You blurted, before flushing profusely. The boy across from you seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the display. “I mean- uhm, I don’t know. Maybe? This is our- this is our first actual meeting.”

“Oh?” The boy tilted his head, “Really? How exciting.”

You hummed in agreement, eyes fixed on your slowly cooling beverage. You raised it to your mouth to take a hesitant sip and- nope,  still too hot. You whined quietly, rubbing your sore tongue against the inside of your cheek to try and soothe it. 

“Oh, sweets,” The boy murmured across from you, and you were too distracted to notice the nickname. He plucked the mug out of your hands and placed it on the other side of the table, as if he was trying to make sure it couldn’t hurt you anymore. “Are you okay? Do you want me to take you to the campus infirmary?”

“Wha- no, it’s okay,” You mumbled, lisping slightly on your burnt tongue and blushing when he cooed over you, “It’s- I’m waiting here for someone, and- I mean, I don’t even know your name-”

“It’s Jungkook,” He interrupted cheekily, deliberately ignoring the rest of your statement, “Some people call me Kookie, and really special people call me… Koo.” 

Oh. Oh.

Fuck.

“Really special people?” You asked, your voice small, and not because of the burn. 

“Well, people…” Jungkook- Koo paraphrased, tilting his head slightly, “I guess it would be more accurate to say… one really special person.”

“Really?” You breathed, and Jungkook leaned over the table, close enough that you could smell his cologne, the same scent embedded in the fabric of your hoodie- his hoodie. 

“The most special person.” He murmured, the fervent emotion packed in each word speaking louder than any increase of volume could.

You had never been anyone’s most special person before, but, as you looked into Jungkook’s chocolate eyes, you started to believe you could almost taste it, sticky sweet on your lips. And when Jungkook eventually, finally coaxed your lips in a gentle kiss, you let him in, and found out that happiness tastes reassuringly honey-sweet. 

[exquisitley-obsessed]

Finaces, Firebirds, Foxes and Fawns: 9

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: A few weeks after Briallyn’s attempt at uniting with Koschei, Lucien opens the door of Lockhart Manor to find Elain, cold from the rain and holding a note from the High Lady of the Night Court demanding her to assist Lucien in building alliances with the human councils. Forced to work together by their exhausted High Lord and Lady, Elain is able to convince anyone to do anything, while Lucien has the acquaintances to go anywhere he likes. Together, they attempt to unite the fae and mortal lands and unravel the deal made between Koschei and Vassa, while Lucien remains haunted by his own promise to Elain’s father. ELUCIEN, POST-ACOSF

Pairings: Elain x Lucien, Elucien

Warnings: Mentions of sexual assault/abuse/rape + abusive families

A/N: I’ve added a tag list for those who wish to stay updated with this story! Just message me if you wish to be added <3

MY MASTERLIST

THIS FIC’S MASTERLIST

AO3

Chapter Nine: A Sight To See

Elain frowned down at the dress.

“I’m not sure if-”

“It’s perfect,” Nuala said firmly, glaring at her through the mirror. The surprisingly stubborn lesser fae was currently attempting to pin a handful of gemstones into Elain’s hair.

Elain just gave the fae a curt nod before looking back at herself.

Today was the day of the weekly meeting at Huckleberry Hall, i.e. Elain’s debut in the mortal realm as an emissary for not just the Night Court, but all the fae lands. How she’d gotten to this point in her life, she had no idea.

Yesterday she’d spent her time in the gardens chatting with Bartholomew, the Manor’s chief gardener. He was a sweet man that reminded her of her father, especially given all his travelling to the Continent and his collection of rare plant species in his greenhouse. He’d even promised her a few books on the matter and explained in great detail how plants can be useful for a number of things: healing, food, poisons.

He’d even pointed out the aphrodisiacs with a dopey grin, to which Elain had blushed furiously and moved quickly onto the exotic specimens.

She hadn’t seen Lucien that day.

Elain didn’t know why she was so aware of his absence given that she’d done just fine ignoring Lucien’s existence for two years. But yesterday, not seeing Lucien had thrown her balance off. When she was in the garden she kept looking up at the windows of the East Wing where his room supposedly resided. If only to catch a glimpse of red hair and a scarred face, just so she’d know he was okay.

Eventually, she’d turned in to the library to give one final assessment of her notes, and had spent the entire time trying to ask Nuala if Lucien was in the house without technically saying the words.

“Yes, that sounds good,” Nuala said without looking up.

“Yes, that sounds good,” Nuala said without looking up.

“Yes, that sounds good,” Nuala said without looking up.

“I…I don’t know what he does with his days.”

“Me neither,” Nuala shrugged.

“I haven’t seen him yet today…”

“Oh…shame…” From the glint in Nuala’s eye, Elain knew she had caught on to her not-so-subtle questioning.

“Yes…I wonder if he’ll be back later today.”

“Probably, considering he lives here.” Nuala was grinning now. And as Elain’s cheeks turned pink, she bit her tongue and stopped her questioning.

***

“Where did you even get this dress?”

“The Lady Morrigan gifted it to you before you left for the mortal lands, she was too late to say goodbye in person so she gave me the package.”

“Oh,” Elain nodded absent-mindedly. “How does Mor know my measurements?”

Nuala just grinned.

“Mor isn’t…talented in gift-giving, but she understands textiles like no other.”

Elain just nodded once more and shifted slightly upon dressing stand.

The dress was unlike anything Elain had ever worn before. The middle Archeron sister typically favoured dresses with full skirts and corseted bodices, all bedecked with lace, ribbon and silk, and paired with fresh flowers in her hair.

The dress she was wearing today just…wasn’t.

“Why am I wearing this again?”

“Because the mortals must understand that whilst High Fae and humans may look similar, you’re not. If you were to go in one of your standard dresses, the humans would see it as an attempt for you to ‘humanise’ yourself. Whilst common ground is important with the mortals, they must still understand that we are different. Do you see this fabric?”

Nuala took a finger and ran it along Elain’s covered shoulder, who nodded in response.

“This fabric is called Didache. It’s only found in the fae-lands, particularly the Autumn Court. It comes from the Dida-bugs of the Burning Caves who produce a fine silk-like fabric that is woven into sheets. It will remind the humans that we are different and yet-” Nuala grinned at her, “-beautiful.”

Elain blushed and nodded. The fabric was a deep forest green and yet, it moved like water. It seemed to always be shifting with the smallest of movements and sometimes, in the light, she could see not one but hundreds of shades of green flowing together, interspersed with threads of gold.

Mor’s ingenuity was shown in the choosing of this dress, as it both demonstrated a stylistic change between fae and mortal wear, and yet Elain was still able to maintain a comfortable modesty that would not outright alarm the humans.

The dress, unlike the flouncy human design, was a tight fit. It began high on her neck and covered her entire body, connecting to her hands via a tie on her middle finger. It cascaded down her body like a second skin, accentuating every dip and curve. Most strange of all was how it clung to her thighs (a sensation Elain was not yet used to) before the fabric flared ever so slightly at the knees and left a small trail of watery, emerald fabric to follow her as she walked.

It was simple, yet a statement.

Elain would’ve hated to wear such a tight dress if, well, she didn’t look so good. She’d been taught her whole life that covering up was natural for women and whilst she certainly wasn’t prepared to wear the kinds of dresses Feyre sported to the Court of Nightmares, this dress seemed to call for her.

“I think Mor had this prepared for you for some time,” Nuala said, pushing the final pin in. The hairstyle hailed from the Day Court Nuala explained as she had coiled Elain’s mass of hair on top of her head whilst leaving large strands to dangle down her shoulders. Brown bands were wrapped around her head and interwoven into her curls were dark green gems that glittered in the light and made it look as though her hair was made of starlight.

It was…beautiful.

“Thank you, Nuala,” Elain said quietly when her friend stepped back to survey her work.

“No problem,” Nuala smiled, “I know it’s not your usual dress, but you truly look like a Fae princess, perhaps even a High Lady.”

Elain reddened and surveyed herself once more in the mirror.

“The others are waiting for you at the stables,” Nuala said suddenly as shadows began to coil from her hair and she extended her hand to Elain.

After peering one more time at her notes on the table, Elain turned and glared at the female she saw in her reflection. With her hair pinned back, her pointed ears were on display, slightly pink at the tips from all her flushing. The dress, the hair, her dark eyes, the flawless skin – Elain was undeniably beautiful. And undeniably fae.

With a sigh, Elain turned and grasped Nuala’s hand before she could think too much about how she looked and all that had changed.

Even if she didn’t know how to play the part of fae, she might as well look it.

***

There was a small bustling crowd around the stables of Lockhart Manor. The stables were placed near the entrance to the woods and the small trail they would follow all the way to Huckleberry Hall.

Letting go of Nuala’s hand, Elain turned to survey the small crowd. There were stable boys and a few guards, and she could even peek Bartholomew speaking rapidly to a woman in a fine dress who was nodding along with interest, Jurian a few paces behind them, looking bored as ever.

No Lucien.

The thought shouldn’t have made Elain’s heart sink as it did. She’d been awake since sunrise, having breakfast in her chambers as Nuala began the prep work for getting her into the dress. And maybe as she watched herself slowly being transformed into a fae princess; she could only think of her mate’s reaction to seeing her in such an outfit.

Turning back around, Elain’s eyes once more fell on the gardener and the woman, now pointing down at the strawberry plants that lined the pathway. It took a few more moments of staring for Elain to realise that she was, in fact, looking at Queen Vassa.

Looking over her shoulder, Elain threw a stare at Nuala who only shrugged in response. Elain turned back. How was Vassa out? The sun was at a midpoint between East and Mid-day, she should be well past her transfiguration by now.

Sighing, Elain practised walking as she made her way over to the Queen. The dress was surprisingly practical, easier to move in than any of her corsets. Instead of restricting her movements, the fabric simply glided over her skin and moved with her, no doubt catching the light as it did and reflecting a thousand shades of green.

“Queen Vassa,” Elain greeted with a small curtsey.

The Queen turned from the gardener to nod at Elain, and Elain saw how Vassa’s eyes caught on her appearance, her eyes flicking up and down her body for a brief moment, her figure seeming to still.

“You look magnificent, Vassa,” Elain smiled, hoping that her compliment was seen as nothing other than a peace offering.

Vassa was sporting a traditional human queen’s gown. The colour was a deep gold with a panel of green and crimson embroidery running up the centre of the dress. There was a low tie hanging on the queen’s slender hips and a heavy crown upon her forehead. She was the image of strength and power, and next to her, Elain felt as though she looked like the evil-fae seductress.

“Forgive me if it’s a crude question but, how are you…”

”Here?” Vassa said drily, raising a brow. Elain forced herself not to flush with embarrassment and just nodded.

Vassa sighed as though she were bored and raised her hand. Elain was unsure what she was supposed to be looking at, there were two rings on her hand and a nice set of manicured nails but-

Then she realised. The ring on her fourth finger was made of black metal and was far too heavy and brutal to be worn by a Queen.

Looking at the ring, Elain felt something coil in her gut. Turning fae had attuned her senses to magic, and thrumming from that ring was a magic that smelt like sickness.

Suddenly, Elain felt herself drifting out of her body, able to look down on herself and Vassa. As she did, she had the distinct feeling of something falling into place.

”It’s a new addition.”

Jurian's voice snapped Elain back into her body with a small gasp. He was slowly stalking up to them, cutting into a fig with his knife as he moved with a predator-like grace. “It seems that Vassa’s keeper sent us a house-warming gift. He’s only two years late.”

“Jurian…” Vassa sighed tiredly, as though she’d had this conversation several times before.

”It seems like our death-Lord, from his lakeside manor, has decided to give our dear Queen the ability to see daylight.”

Elain could only glance between the two, barely able to keep up with their bantering. She was still feeling overwhelmingly nauseous and was trying to avoid looking at the ring directly.

”Don’t worry,” Vassa turned to Elain with a sneer, “I’m not fixed just yet. The ring comes with a cost. Each hour I put off my transformation adds 24 for later.”

”Why not leave it on?” Elain said in a quiet voice, still feeling the earth move underneath her.

”Oh yes, of course, I’m sure Koschei just skipped over that in his master plan,” Vassa snarked. Elain, to her own surprise, rolled her eyes.

“Well, hello princess,” Jurian spoke before Vassa could. He talked as though he hadn’t seen Elain before.

Elain’s skin couldn’t help but prickle as she watched his eyes lapping up her figure with a complete disregard for anything else.

“Jurian,” Elain nodded, trying to drag his eyes up to her own.

“What did we do to deserve this?” His eyes met hers with a wink and then, again, ever so slowly, Jurian’s eyes ran up Elain’s body, lingering slightly on the fabric that was straining over her bountiful chest before meeting her eye. Elain didn’t deem the comment with a retort.

“Leave her be Jurian,” Vassa rolled her eyes before turning to Elain with something that looked like a coy smile. “It’s fun to see them drool, isn’t it?”

Elain, to her surprise, found herself grinning widely and nodding. If she wasn’t mistaken, she and Vassa had just shared a pleasant interaction.

Today was full of surprises.

“And they say we’re the weaker sex.”

Vassa tipped her head back and laughed, and when Elain turned back to Jurian she found him watching the queen intently, something enigmatic in his stare.

“When you’re done with girl-talk, we really must get going,” Jurian rolled his shoulders. Even he appeared dressed in his finest, and Elain wondered just who it was that must’ve pinned him down to drag a comb through his scruffy hair, now flopping back from his, rather handsome, face.

“Last time I checked Jurian, I’m the Queen, I say when we leave.” Vassa pointed a look at the man who only seemed to smile wider at her retort.

“Of course, your majesty…” Jurian rolled the word around in his tongue, “When you’re ready, my queen, I’ll be waiting for you by the gate…possibly awake, possibly napping.”

And with that Jurian turned and strode away, the woman and the female watching his retreating figure strut across the pathway.

“Idiot,” Vassa cursed under her breath before turning back to Elain. “Lucien told me this morning he’ll be arranging your transport. Apparently, we’re not arriving together, Jurian and I will be one unit, you and Lucien another. Just so you know.”

As the Queen spoke her voice steadily grew colder and colder until she was back to how she usually was with Elain, her voice monotone and her eyes bored. Elain just gave a nod and that was enough for the Queen to deem the conversation over as she turned and followed Jurian down the path. As she moved, Elain couldn’t help but notice how she tipped her head back seemed to drink in the sunlight.

Elain was left standing in the middle of a small bustling crowd, many of the guards moving to follow their Queen and keep her safe. And so, Elain went back to her search for her mate.

After searching the crowd, she allowed her eyes to close and for her focus to turn within. It didn’t take long for her to find the bond, as soon as her eyes were shut it was there, glowing bright and gold, a single thread leading from her out ahead.

Angling herself, Elain followed the bond until she heard his heart, strong and steady, filling her ears like the most beautiful drum. Opening her eyes, she saw him.

Lucien was talking to a rather nervous stable boy and Elain was rather thankful for the small chance to ogle him without his awareness.

For one thing, Elain understood the stable boy’s nerves. Lucien looked…powerful.

He was wearing the finest of his fae attire, with fine brown boots and pants, a crisp shirt, a waistcoat and then a riding jacket. Across his chest was a bandolier with an assortment of eccentric knives, all sharpened to deadly perfection. On his hip were two swords, his autumn blade and another blade but made of gold. His hair was unleashed and cascaded down his shoulders and back, and his scar made his fierce expression even more lethal.

Two years ago, Elain would’ve been petrified at such a sight. It was a reminder that Lucien wasn’t her fae prince, that even though he had the makings of a perfect husband there was something darker and more alluring that hung around him.

He was a courtier, a disowned son, a silver-tongued fox. And Elain saw that everyone underestimated him, and that’s what made him most dangerous of all.

But while any fae prince might make Elain’s heart flutter, the sight of Lucien in his most professional, intimidating glory, roused some feeling deep within her gut. It was like her entire body turned electric, and the air between them seemed to crackle as the bond tightened.

Elain watched as Lucien’s brow furrowed and his hand reached surreptitiously to his ribs. Lucien’s eyes were no longer on the stable boy and his rambling, he was looking around – he was looking for her.

Elain saw the moment Lucien laid eyes on her. He stilled, the hand rubbing his ribs going stagnant.

The world seemed to fade away as Elain watched Lucien’s eyes take in her dress. He started by looking at the neck and then, at a tortuously slow pace, his eyes wandered down and down like Jurian.

But where Jurian’s gaze had made her tired and comfortable, Lucien’s seemed to set every nerve in her body alight.

She watched him as he watched her, and she could see him pause on certain parts. Taking in the first full display of her chest, the way the fabric ran seamlessly down her waist before flaring with her hips, and then again at her thighs.

Some part of Elain dared her to turn around, to show him how the dress barely fit over her behind, how the fabric seemed to stretch as it tried to contain the slopes and swells of her body.

She didn’t know where it had come from – but she didn’t want the voice to stop.

Then, Lucien’s eyes were reluctantly dragged upwards and just before they met eyes, Elain saw Lucien’s tongue dart between his lips to wet them. For some reason, Elain had the strongest urge to clench together her thighs.

Lucien moved forward like a predator stalking prey, with a lithe grace that was reminiscent of a snake.

Elain didn’t care for the rest of the world; she just saw him. Maybe it was not seeing him yesterday, but all Elain knew was that now he was nearby, she wasn’t taking her eyes off him for the foreseeable future.

Every step was torture. Every inch closer made the bond thrum and sing with delight.

Lucien came to a stop barely a foot away from her. There was a pause of silence.

“Elain,” His voice was low, gravelly, restrained.

“Lucien,” Elain’s own voice was breathy.

And then Lucien was bending down, leaning in close almost as though he were going to kiss her and Elain – Elain didn’t recoil. When Lucien’s face was inches from her own, his eyes searing into hers, she felt his palm slip into hers. His hand was warm and much, much larger than her own, and Elain felt raw electricity jolt through her at the contact.

With a deliberate, torturous slowness, Lucien raised Elain’s hand to his mouth and placed a single kiss on her knuckles.

Many men had kissed Elain’s hand before, from old to young, bachelors to fiancés. But it had never been like this.

Lucien’s lips on her knuckles was like a promise. It was just lips on the back of her hand – it was entirely inadequate, it was nothing – and that is what made Elain’s body sing.

Lucien’s eyes never left hers, and as he straightened, he didn’t let go of her hand.

“We’re planning on riding to Huckleberry,” Lucien’s voice sounded a bit clearer, but his eyes were still dark and glittering.

“Okay,” was all Elain could manage. But her body was in overdrive, her entire existence being concentrated into the feel of Lucien’s hand in hers. One small touch and she was consumed.

“Oh look! Lucien-” Jurian’s voice swam from somewhere off to the side.

“Vassa, Jurian, you best be headed off now, you don’t want to be late to miss the guards at the northern checkpoint,” Lucien spoke without looking away from Elain, and his voice was full of such a natural command that another pulse of heat ran through her.

Elain distantly heard as Vassa, Jurian and a few guards saddled up and trot out through the gardens into the forest. The world seemed to thin around them, stable boys returning to the Manor, even Nuala evaporated into the air, until all that was left was a grey-haired horse and Lucien, with his hand in Elain’s.

“I thought we might ride together, to present a united front. But if your uncomfortable there’s another horse in the stables saddled and ready to go.” Elain could’ve sworn that as Lucien spoke, his thumb ran across the back of her hand. “It’s also just a way of me making sure your safe.”

“Are you expecting there to be danger at the meeting?”

“No, very few even know of your arrival and the mortals are in too weak a position to attack a visiting fae. I just…for my own peace of mind.”

Remarkably, Lucien seemed bashful as he spoke, his eyes breaking from hers for a moment as he shifted on his feet.

“Oh…alright.” Elain smiled up at him, and it was a peace-offering. The world seemed to still for a moment as Lucien noticed, and his gaze lingered on her lips.

Then he was clearing his throat and turning to lead her to the saddled horse, but he didn’t release his hand, instead, he used it to tug her along, as though he were entirely reluctant to let go.

“The journey is significantly shorter on horseback; we should be there in around 15 minutes.”

Lucien eventually reluctantly let go of Elain’s hand as he hoisted himself up and onto the horse.

Elain could only watch. Watch as he set himself astride the saddle, watch how his thighs – how had Elain never notices his thighs before – clenched as he seated himself upright. Watch as he flicked his hair back over his shoulder, his muscles somehow flexing through the layers of his shirt and jacket. Watch as he extended his hand to her.

Elain frowned down at her dress as a thought struck her.

“Oh…I don’t think I’ll be able to ride anything in this dress.”

Elain felt rather than saw Lucien go still.

Looking up from the green fabric, she allowed herself to assess him. Lucien’s muscles seemed to be standing on end, his delicious thighs clenched so that the tendons stood to attention. His hands were fisted into the reigns and his knuckles had turned white with his grip.

Most intoxicating of all, was Lucien’s eyes. They were glazed over and distant, as though Lucien were thinking of something intently. Or rather, picturing.

And then Elain saw it.

It was from a distant perspective and the first thing she saw was Lucien, with his browning skin on display as he laid on his back across pale sheets. His beautifully muscled legs were exposed and tensed, his torso nothing but streamline muscles, his arms bare and glorious as they tightened as he gripped onto the figure astride him. He looked so…undone, with his red hair spilling across the sheets, his face furrowed, and his mouth parted with pleasure.

The female astride Elain’s mate had her head thrown back, her golden-brown curls bouncing along with her breasts as she bobbed wildly on top of him. Elain couldn’t hear them – couldn’t hear the moans that she saw rippling from her own mouth.

Then, the pace changed, instead of desperate jerky movements, Lucien and the female’s body slowed into an easy rhythm, each of their bodies rolling together with a trained precision. She could see Lucien’s mouth moving as he spoke breathily to the female, pulling her down so their foreheads touched. She watched as his eyes grew hungrier, how the rolling gave way to thrusting, how he took two fingers and pushed them into the female’s mouth and how she sucked enthusiastically before releasing them with a ‘pop’, how Lucien then dragged those two fingers down her body, slowly, before pushing them down to where they were joined and beginning to rub against her in slow, languid circles-

The horse grunted, and Elain jumped.

All of a sudden she came back into her body, it was as though someone had been holding her windpipe and abruptly let go. Her knees felt weak, her mouth dry, and for a moment, she could barely remember her own name, never mind where she was.

“We’ll winnow.”

Lucien was in front of her now, having gotten down off the mare whilst her mind was elsewhere. He was now fiddling with the buckles on the straddle before a stable boy took the reins.

Elain looked up at him dry-mouthed. Did he know what she’d just seen? Was she even…had there been a shift in her scent? Fear tinged with excitement plunged through her.

“You okay?” Lucien murmured; his eyes concerned as they roved over her face. It looked like he almost reached for her hand again.

Elain didn’t trust her voice and could only nod in response. Lucien seemed to assess her for another moment before he held out his arm, ever the courtier. The female looked out at the stables as she wrapped her hand around his bicep, trying to ignore how the muscles shifted and tensed under her fingertips.

“Right, well…let’s go.”

As Elain closed her eyes and held her breath to prepare for the twisting sensation of winnowing, she could on think of one thing.

Elain had just had a vision; she still had her powers.

[if-weshadows-haveoffended]

Sunshine- James Bond x Reader

A/N: GUESS WHOS BACK BINCHES. Oh man uni really did run me over with a semi-trailer. Hot Tip: biochem really do be the work of the devil. Feel free to send in fic or mixtape requests, I’ve got all the time in the apocalypse for them.

Look, I know Judi Dench dies in Skyfall but she’s the only M I will ever recognise (even though I do love Ralph Fiennes). Nothing makes me happier than the time M straight up calls Brosnan!Bond a misogynist. Also, I decided to tell this from the perspective of Q, just because I feel like he’s the only one with the emotional range to articulate in vivid detail the absolute delight that would be watching James Bond have Soft Romantic Feelings. God he was just so soft in Casino Royale before all that shit went down (rest in pieces my girl vesper lynde).

Title: Sunshine Original Request: Could you do a James Bond x reader where the reader is a doctor at MI6 and when Bond comes back from his missions, she’s really gentle and sweet in taking care of his wounds? And Q and M hardcore shipping them because they have never seen Bond flustered ever, and the reader kinda just manages to make him blush when she smiles at him and immense fluff ensues (and sweet pet names for each other) (x) Tags: @roseslovedreams​ , Fluff, sass, S O F T N E S S, Craig!Bond, Q, M, Doctor!Reader Words: 1300+ Masterpost: here (x) Prompt List: here (x) Mixtape Archive: here (x)

“Bond? Bond, were you even fucking listening to anything I said?” Bond raised his head from staring at his hands with vague disinterest- no. No Q wouldn’t call it disinterest. He watched the way the man stood up, adjusting his suit and leaving M without his usual pathetic quips.

No, Q was intrigued. This was something wholly different. In fact, if he was so bold as to suggest it, the man was distracted… on edge almost.

“Did I just see what I just saw?” M asked him, disbelief clear on her face. “I almost miss the blatant insults.”

“Well, it’ll be a nice change for a while, I suppose. Keeps bullying me into making him exploding pens.” Q muttered under his breath.

“Oh, Q, don’t let the bastard get to you. Its just his way of trying to be helpful.”

But even later that afternoon, at his appointed meeting with the surprisingly forlorn agent, there were no questions about exploding pens. Absolutely no protest about having a fancier car than 006 (to be fair, he was glad, she would take care of that car far better than 007), and even no jab about how Q’s non-existent acne was today. Usually, it would be cause for celebration and something to tell his cats. But this was just unsettling. It seemed wrong.

In fact, Q was on the verge of considering himself genuinely concerned about 007. Or at least he would have been until he very quickly connected the dots. He watched as the man stared after the woman who had just entered the room, looking mildly irritated as she threw a stack of papers at the agent.

“Don’t fucking lie on my reports, Bond. I spent years training to be where I am now and I think I can tell when sample baselines have been meddled with.” Q considered this to be a fairly mild telling off by her standards, but oh no, the man appeared to be mildly enjoying it. He considered the slight rise of colour in his cheeks to be the most emotion he’d gotten out of him all month.

“I just don’t want you to concern yourself, Sunshine, I’m perfectly fine,” 007 murmured, struggling to make eye-contact with their resident doctor.

“You’re not.”

“I am, and I will be fine, and I will come back in one piece.” He protested stronger this time, his hands resting on her upper arms, trying to convince her that he would indeed be fine and not crash yet another expensive car into the mountainside.

“You promise?” Her question was softer this time, the intensity of her gaze and Bond’s solemn stillness had absolutely transfixed Q’s attention. The way the man released her from his grasp, his fingers barely, just barely brushing her skin for longer than would be deemed necessary- the way he cleared his throat and gave the shiest smile possible. He didn’t even know Bond could look that way.

Hopeful. Hopeful and for once scared of fucking up. He fidgeted with a well-polished cufflink, staring at his shoes before meeting her gaze once more.

“Of course, can’t have you spending your time around 006.” He scoffed sarcastically. The doctor raised a brow.

“Oh, but she’s far prettier to look at than you.” She teased, her smile sharp and predatory. If Q wasn’t mistaken, the small smile pulling at the corner of Bond’s mouth meant that he enjoyed the sensation of somehow looking like a rabbit about to be slaughtered by a wolf.

And so he hurriedly relayed everything back to M who, after clearing up the tea she had choked on and spilled over her paperwork, immediately descended into a minute forty-seven of breathless laughter. Tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, she asked him if it would be worth forcing the man to retire early. She would love nothing more, she had finally gotten out after a few seconds, than to see the man in a ‘kiss the chef’ apron and serving their doctor a home-made dinner.

“Oh god, could you imagine him taking dogs for a walk? Or just… just…” She faltered now, leaning back in her chair with a softer smile on her face.

“Just?” Q asked.

“Be happy.” She finished, “They all know what they signed up for. Just that none of us ever expect to find something worth losing. You don’t remember what he used to be like, do you?” He shook his head in response, “After Venice something happened to him. He lost whatever soul he had left. Most of us lose it along the way, but I didn’t realise it turned him into something else outright.”

Well, that made his decision for him.

Within the hour he and M and made the oh-so-very solemn pact that they would do everything possible to get Bond kicked out of the service due to his overwhelming feelings for one particular woman. He even made the note to prepare a best man’s speech just in case he was asked.

And eventually (after some days or maybe weeks, he wasn’t even sure anymore) Bond sauntered back home, bruised and bloody and sporting a smug grin as he handed M the stolen spyware.

“Must you drip blood everywhere?” M sniffed, though Q pretending to show interest in the gadgets that had just been handed over, noticed her stifle a grin. “Anyway go and get yourself patched up, god knows why I keep you here.”

“Oh you love me,” M only deigned to roll her eyes.

Q escorted the man down to the medical centre, watching with rapt attention at how the façade just crumbled before him. The man who naught but five minutes ago was all bravado and quips now reduced to nerves once again. Okay, okay, you got this. “So, 007…”

The agent let go of a long-suffering sigh, “Haven’t you got 006 to equip with some laser high-heels?”

He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself, “Well, no, actually I’ve got to remove your biometric chip. Doctor Y/N has agreed to assist me with the whole process.” Bond stopped in his tracks, turning to face him with a look somewhere between excitement and fear. “If you have no objections of course.” He winced at how brightly that last statement came out.

“No… not at all.” And they continued on their way, eventually reaching the clinic.

And he couldn’t do anything but watch in amazement at how Bond suddenly shifted. He’d almost laugh if it didn’t genuinely hurt his cold heart at how happy the man looked. He watched as she’d gently cut away burned fabric, cleaning wounds and beginning her stitches. She would apologise and with an unfairly attractive smile he’d say she barely hurt him. Q wasn’t even sure if this sort of bodily contact was considered professional, the way her hand cradled against his jaw as she dabbed away at his bloodied temple. And he couldn’t help but smile as the man simply looked both flustered and confused at just how achingly gentle she was being, as if he deserved none of this. M had once described Bond as a blunt instrument, incapable of nothing but brute force. But here he was, nothing but softness in his manner and the blue of his eyes.

It felt as if he were intruding as he instructed her in removing the biometric chip, her hand caressing the nape of his neck as well-practised hands were expertly trying to remove the small implant. She would hum under her breath, like a soothing lullaby putting Bond at ease, her hand suddenly reaching for his as he held back a groan of pain and the bloodied chip hit the floor.

“Easy now darling, it’s done. I’m here.” Her voice was soft as she knelt before him now, her hands atop his.

Bond, his gaze never wavering from hers, brough her palm to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss. He murmured his thanks and she merely smiled back in return.

God help him, the man was a romantic. He was going to need a drink after this.

[tsubaki3192]

Snippets from the WIP’s I’m Currently Working on:

Bc I’m guilty as fuck for not posting anything for a while and I think I should Update ya’ll on what I’m doing xD Below Cut is a snippet from my Long-as-fuck BNHA fic on Quotev 

Luck, Chapter 4: Not that you were implying anything, but it was simply the way Hideyoshi spoke about that Nobunaga that made you think they were more than just lord and vassal… A small grin adorned your lips in amusement but was dropped almost immediately afterwards, when you sensed Hideyoshi’s footsteps behind you.

Oh boy….

“What have I told you about walking down this corridor?! This leads you to the tenshu, where Nobunaga-sama resides.”

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Soulmate HC’s 1: Ikesen

MC/AU’s Background:

So your soulmate mark appears at birth. The symbol is different for everyone, and the first person/people to see the soulmate mark are always your parents. It’s a law that has been passed for the sake of privacy, given that people liked to expose other’s symbols online.

Yours is a number. You’ve heard of those. They’re dates, and supposedly they’re written in the colour of your soulmate’s eyes. 

Usually, this would be fairly normal, except yours is a year, dates some time in the past.

So you’ve kept it a secret for your entire life, confused at the numbers tattooed on your collarbone, making up some kind of lie whenever you’d be asked what your soulmate symbol was.

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[Fic Yet to be Titled]

i.           Announcement

It was one fine afternoon that the castle town of Paris was in an uproar. 

Hundreds of heavy footsteps flurried past, up and down the cobblestone streets and towards their homes; throttling towards stores and stalls filled with accessories, clothing and other detailed pieces in the hope of capturing the attention of their beautiful princess. The yellowing flyers tossed from vibrantly-coloured hot-air balloons and various high-strung balconies fluttered through the air and littered the ground in the thousands, capturing the attention of the wandering citizen’s below. 

Above, the numerous loudspeakers boomed and crackled alongside the shouts of excitement. 

“This is a message to the citizens of Paris. Please convene at the castle gates in two hours!”

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Lovestruck, Hideyoshi x Reader/MC [Long Ver.]

It’s one morning during a full council that Hideyoshi finally realises that strange emotion buried deep within him. It comes after his lord declares to vassals that he has finally selected a wife: You. A trained- practised- gasp and blush erupts on your face. Your smile- a grin, perhaps- shines brightly past your surprised fingertips.

The pink rose on your cheeks was definitely real though, even if it remained to be seen if it was out of embarrassment or nerves. And the caramel-blond warlord could only watch on as you fall silent obviously overjoyed at the announcement. 

And that life-creating organ in his chest constricts terribly. 

When his raven-haired lord questioned if it was fine to marry you, Hideyoshi knows it’s just to humour him: After all, he was initially most suspicious of your behaviour when you first arrived. But the question was, and is, reasonable: There was no way his lord could ever know of the turmoil and predicament he was in.

For a few momentary seconds, he manages to brace himself to say “None, milord.”

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A Wish (a WIP Idk where I’m going with xD)

What, you wonder, would bring about a single wish?

You stroll quietly past the tens of stores in the open street mall, glancing through the windows every once so often. Sometimes your eyes brush past your reflection on the glassy screens and past the display shelves and to the wares beyond. And you wonder, what you would do with a single wish. 

Your thoughts wander to that life you’ve dreamed about every night. 

Fire. Steel against steel. And oh-so-familiar shouts of pain and anger.

But you can’t identify the voices. It’s not one, you know, but many. Screaming, yelling, shouting your name in a frantic scramble. Words of reassurance follow that, but all you can remember is that darkened video-like image flashing in your eyes. And then black.

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A R T I C U L A T E. BNHA x Reader, Chapter 58

Okay, okay. 

Claiming that Tsukuyomi had leaped from the edge and ‘into the darkness of the night’ was a little… Incorrect (and admittedly quite melodramatic) to say the very least. 

Rather, a very irritated (Y/N) had approached the male with a surprisingly obvious expression of discontentment before swinging her foot upwards and slamming her heel into his jaw. And rather than falling from the ledge, the god had clutched the location of the injury with a rather childish whine, remaining motionless even from the impact of the kick and the lack of clinging onto the windowsill.

“Ow….”

Lowering her leg, the female blinked and stomped- for the lack of a better term- towards the god, bending over until they were practically nose-to-nose. Breathing against the mask upon his face, she whispered to him; the sound of her voice barely reaching his ears.

“For the lack of anything reasonable, why is everyone I know childish idiots? Deal with those flowers yourself.”

And with her finger charged with light, she flicked him against his forehead- usually hard enough to leave a hole in a concrete slab- and sent him flying onto the bed of flowers below. Tsukuyomi landed with a decently soft grunt, given the distance and her sensitive hearing. And she snickered. Not even gods could withstand that much pressure and speed of fall, could they?

Yeah. Some ‘disappearing into the darkness’ that was.

[curekibouka-writing]

Blissful Tomorrow Chapter 4 (Pandora Hearts fanfic) (Completed)

Summary: May you reach a blissful tomorrow as you open your eyes. For now, sweet dreams.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

*This fic is also on FF.net and Quotev

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A/N: There is a character I created for the sake of this story. You'll get to know her as you progress through the final chapter.

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Chapter 4: Enough

The soft, hesitant pattering of small feet resounded in the empty corridors of the Rainsworth manor tonight. Vigilant, yet clearly overwhelmed with lethargy, it made its way to the master bedroom. 

“Mama...?” the ‘intruder’ peeped from the large wooden doors, “Papa...?” 

“My, what are you doing at this hour?” Sharon slipped a bookmark into the book she was reading and walked to the door, kneeling down for the young child, “Staying up late is detrimental to a lady’s health, Shelia.” 

The little girl sheepishly twittered with her 3-year-old lisp, “Can I sleep with you and papa tonight?” 

Sharon shot a glance at her husband, who had still been diligently engrossed in his reports before their daughter came by, as if to say “You decide.”

Reim smiled knowingly, promptly setting down his pen and approached his family. “Of course you can,” he scooped his daughter up, drawing a giggle from her, “We were going to turn in for the night soon anyways.” He turned to Sharon, “Are you finished reading that — ahem — climax, my dear?” 

Seeing the tips of her fingers fiddling with the corner of her harisen, he decided against speaking another word. 

“You’re the one to talk! Go on and finish up your report, you don’t like leaving them unfinished, no?” Sharon nudged him back to his table while taking Shelia from him, who echoed her mother, “That’s right, papa, you should finish your work first!”

Sharon placed Shelia on the king sized bed further into the room, “Settle. I’ll comb your hair.” 

After near-destruction of the world years ago, the Four Great Dukedoms were stripped of their political standing, but the country left a minuscule amount of their properties without confiscating them, most likely a token of gratitude for secrets that were not meant to be disclosed to the public. Even so, Sharon had decided to save on hiring servants and maids, she didn’t need someone to tend to every detail of her and her family’s daily lives, at least not anymore. 

She’d comb her own hair now, brew her own tea now, reach the top of the bookshelf by herself now. And it was her turn to take care of someone else now. 

Although he could not be here to be proud of her now. Maybe he was watching over her... them, maybe not, she wouldn’t know. 

“Mama...” 

“Hmm?” 

Shelia pointed at her nightstand, “Why do you keep that doll, mama? It’s old, and broken, and it scares me every time I see it. I feel like it’s looking at me.” 

Well yes, it is indeed quite old now. Sharon did try her best to fix it up, but sewing had never been her forte. Not that it mattered, the value of this doll didn’t lie in its appearance. 

“Shelia, sometimes, just because something is old and broken and a little scary doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve to stay.” 

The child glanced at her mother as she drew the comb away. Her mother was looking at the doll. But Shelia didn’t think she was looking at the doll. 

“Mama?” she called out. Because she felt like her mother was somehow being dragged somewhere far off as she gazed in the doll’s direction and spoke with a kind of gentleness that differed from her usual one. 

“Mama—“

“Sharon,” silence followed after Reim uttered her name, a hand on her shoulder. There was a certain weight in the air that Shelia couldn’t comprehend. Somehow, she found it a little harder to find her voice. 

Erratic shadows created by the flickering candle flames danced on her mother’s visage, making it impossible for Shelia to discern her expression. Was she upset? Was she angry? Was she in pain?

No. 

Sharon displayed a well-practised, dazzling smile, “Oh dear, look at the time. Lights out, enough chitchats for the night.” 

“...But mama, I don’t understand...”

“Shh, it’s a convoluted tale,” Reim tucked his daughter in and laid down himself as well, “When you’re older, and wiser, and ready for stories that don’t always end with happily-ever-afters, we’ll tell you everything.”

“But stories always have happily-ever-afters,” she turned to her mother who just laid down on the other side, “Right?” 

Those anticipating eyes. Sharon recognised them all too well. Back when hope still weaved gracious days for her, she had those eyes too. 

Aah. She understood now. She understood many, many things in the most recent years of her life. She understood why he had so desperately warded off any darkness that threatened to cloud those eyes of hers now. 

And his methods weren’t always the best. But none of them knew any better. 

“No, Shelia. They don’t always do,” Sharon stated, much to the surprise of both her daughter and her husband (for different reasons). But before the little girl could refute, Sharon gently nuzzled her and assured, “But there’s nothing stopping you — nothing stopping us — from hoping for one still.”

No dazzling smile graced her lips at that moment. But her soft peck on her daughter’s forehead spelled nothing but tranquility, Shelia could only accept this answer, for now, as she yawned drowsily. 

“Cradle of light, cradle of light” Reim hummed with his calming baritone, briefly giving Sharon a knowing look before turning back to their child, stroking her hair. 

Ahh, was he looking, she wondered. 

Was he looking at these two clumsy fools who had no idea where they were voyaging to but never allowed themselves to stop and question it? 

“Blown about by the winds of time” 

The bow and stern of a vessel yet somehow missing a hull. The years that went by established a bond which hastily filled the holes, but stopping to question anything would immediately sink everything. 

“Drifting on waves of dappled sunlight”

Sunlight received from someone’s wish did not exactly provide merciful tides to sail on after all. 

“And, before you know it”

But well, none of them had known any better. 

None of them had known how to carry on, how to forget, how to let go. The best they could do was pretend, and stumble awkwardly on a way. 

Which way? Who knows? 

But someone was always there. A voice. Somewhere in the back of their heads. And it sings: 

“It reaches the shores of ‘a blissful tomorrow’”

This was no fairytale, they all knew that much. Such godsends were never luxuries they could possess. 

Still, she could not help but wonder, as she gazed at her beloved family — the anchor she dropped in her haven, the ones that kept her from drifting to wherever he could be when her mind was too fragile to withstand the maelstroms in her heart. 

Was this it? Was this enough? Was this the life he had wanted them to live? 

Was this the blissful tomorrow he had hoped for on her behal— 

Enough. 

It was sinking. She felt it all sinking. Sinking in her mind, sinking in her throat, sinking in her stomach. 

This was plenty. She had plenty. Really, she had to do something with that greedy nature of hers. 

I am blessed. There’s no need to worry, so...

So would you please tell him ‘Sweet dreams’ in my stead, Emily?

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The End

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A/N: Happy birthday, Break! You still reside in our hearts even now! :3 (30/9/2020)

[insfiringyou]

BTS - ‘One Last Time’ - V leaves for the military (V x Cassandra)

Contains: Angst. Smut.

Set a few months after V and Cassandra’s historical roleplay goes wrong and she was forced to use her safeword, and following the events of ‘Refuge’ where Taehyung moves out of their shared apartment, Cassandra seeks closure on their relationship before he enters the military. 

This is a major part of our headcanon universe and ongoing storyline (find out more here) - this is set after Jin, Suga, RM, J-Hope and Jimin have started their military enlistment. 

To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM   /   Jin  /   Suga  /   J-Hope   /   Jimin   /   V   /   Jungkook 

& Our full masterlist can be found here

Rated Content below the cut

She unclasped the polka dot skirt as she locked the door and stepped out of the wide pool of fabric, turning to the pair of washed-denim jeans she had slung over the back of her chair before the show. It had been a two week stint at the small theatre and her throat was a little sore from singing. ‘Dreamboats and Petticoats’...her friend had shown her the advertisement for the part in the local newspaper and, while it wasn’t Broadway, the month of practise for the song and dance numbers had kept her mind and body occupied, preventing her thoughts from running wild.

The lighting was dim in the dressing room, but a sparkling glimmer in the large mirror caught her eye and her heart began to thud heavily as she eyed the large crystal vase on the table, a sea of blood-red flowers cascading over the sides. She considered who had let him backstage during the show, before she spotted the delivery receipt from a local florist on the dresser, weighed down by a tall bottle of Dior foundation. With a trembling hand, she knowingly teased through the lightly-spiced stems and petals until she found what she was looking for. The note had been handwritten; one corner of the paper slightly curled from the moisture of the bouquet. 

I leave on Friday

Always yours,

Tae

She put the note down slowly, surprised to find that her eyes had started to water. She had known for months he was due to go in and had subconsciously been avoiding the news websites she usually scrolled through for the past few weeks, not wanting to get involved. The flowers caught her eye once more, their fresh, sweet scent filling the room just as they had done on the day they met. Even the vase, a tall, crystal number, seemed identical and she wondered what had happened to the original. Had she lost it when moving apartments? Getting dressed and with a heavy heart that seemed to be beating too fast, she made up her mind and grabbed her car keys from her purse, deciding to forego the wrap-up party which was already taking place in the foyer, but gulping a free chute of champagne on her way past.

***

Roaming her eyes over the set of buttons, she struggled to recall which number Jimin resided at. A familiar pang of frustration rose in her as she reached in her jean pocket and pulled out her cell, flipping through the string of text messages between her and Taehyung, vaguely remembering him texting her the address a few weeks before. The fact he had sold his cozy, top-floor apartment in Gangnam to move into her cramped studio had been an arguing point from day one, and now, with an ounce of bitterness, she hoped he finally realised what a stupid thing he had done. It had been the first of many tense moments between them in the months leading up to the sex act which had gone so terribly wrong and she couldn’t help but wonder if they had been allowed more space apart, more breathing room, their lives wouldn’t have become so poisonously entangled that they needed to push each other to such extremes. It was pointless thinking of that now - what had happened had happened and, while they had texted intermittently in the past two months, with time healing some of the hurt he had caused her that night, she wouldn’t be able to forgive him completely. 

She found the message she was looking for and pressed the buzzer on the intercom, unable to remember which of the four floors Jimin’s apartment was on. She automatically took a step back as the front door opened, the sight of Taehyung on the doorstep, wearing a pair of frustratingly attractive glasses beneath his dark, curly hair, leaving her a little winded. He was clutching a crumpled paperback between his long fingers, the title unreadable in the small distance between them and she noticed how mature he looked; how his usually boyish features had changed in the months since she last saw him. She didn’t know what to say and could see he was likewise stunned into silence. Remembering why she had come; the flowers he had sent, she felt a stab in her chest and slowly moved forward, wrapping her arms around him in an embrace. His sweater was soft against her cheek, his scent familiar, as she held him close, feeling his hands cautiously touch her back, his fingers splaying as he hugged her gently.

“You’ve still got your hair…” She eventually murmured, realising they had been silent for half a minute as she pulled away. He looked surprised to see her; it was something in the way his dark eyes twitched which only someone who knew him as intimately as she had done would notice. 

“I thought I’d enjoy it while I still can.” He replied slowly, his hand moving subconsciously to touch the edges of the tightly permed locks, as though in a daze. “You got my flowers.” It was not really a question and when he stepped aside, she followed him into the building without a pause, waiting for him to lead her into the ground floor apartment. 

“How did you know I was performing?” She asked, waiting for him to close the door behind them before taking a few more steps into the narrow hallway. The pastel hue of the wallpaper along with the framed photographs which perched on the edge of a painted cabinet suggested the decor had been chosen by Ara; her and Jimin’s matching smiles filled the photo frame, the picture taken at a beach. She eyed, beyond that, a golden trophy she vaguely recognised from the MAMA awards and wondered whether it was Jimin’s or Ara’s.

“I saw a review online.” He shrugged easily beneath his pale turtleneck sweater. 

“I just took it for the money…” She paused, cheeks a little pink. The musical, which mostly attracted the older residents of the city along with their grandchildren, was not exactly the type of gig she had planned when going into acting. But then again, why should she have to feel embarrassed in front of him? “And the costumes.” She added with a smile.

“I love Buddy Holly.” He murmured sincerely, making her wonder whether he had even noticed her blush. 

“I know…” She whispered. A quick glance in the living room told her, as expected, he was alone. While the basics of the furniture were clearly not to his taste, the various objects lying around were clearly his; indicating he had been occupying the place for a number of months. She tried to recall how long Jimin had been away but failed. She guessed Ara must still be on tour, or otherwise happy to stay elsewhere while Taehyung stayed in the apartment. She wondered whether he had started looking for a new place yet, somewhere he could return to after all of this was over. “Do you have time?” She met his gaze.

“Yes...it’s just me here…” He confirmed, leading her into the adjoining space. She looked over the small pile of books littered on the coffee table as he put down the one he was currently reading. She could see the crumpled cover now it lay face up; the image of a train track fading into the distance beneath the title ‘Different Seasons’. “Do you have something else lined up?” He asked, hovering by the doorway to the kitchen, waiting to see if she would sit down.

“Not yet.” She turned to face him, once more taken aback by how bookish and academic he looked in this unfamiliar place. 

“I’ve been thinking about what happened…” He started, needing to say something to break the awkward air between them. She could see he had been holding onto this for months, unable to express his feelings in a text or phone call, and needing to see her face-to-face to explain in person. “I want you to know how sorry I am…”

The longing in his voice made her stomach drop, knowing he had spent months coming to terms with what had happened... He seemed so harmless and, looking at him now, she found it hard to believe how scared he had made her. A part of her knew, deep down, that this didn’t mean anything...that whatever had caused him to act out that night was still in him somewhere and she hoped that whatever toxic environment had caused their relationship to sour so quickly, he would know next time if it were to happen with someone else, to stop himself before it was too late.

“I just couldn’t leave things the way they were.” She admitted with a sigh, knowing that while it was not perhaps the most sensible option, it was the truth. “When you sent the flowers…” She found herself staring into space. “I remember why I fell for you in the first place.”

“Red carnations…” He murmured in a low voice.

“Because you wanted me...I know.” She nodded, recalling in perfect clarity how he had looked when she first saw him; the silk shirt he wore with the top set of buttons unfastened casually as she caught him in the foyer, the delivery boy ratting him out as being the one to have sent the flowers. She had not yet removed her long dress and the delicate beading and lace detailing had glimmered in the soft light, cast down from the chandeliers. She had been the queen of the fairies on stage and she couldn’t help but wonder whether he would still find her attractive up close, without the bold theatre makeup and glitter she had wiped off as soon as her final scene was over. The way that he looked at her as she tapped him on the shoulder, with his dreamy dark eyes, had quickly dissolved any doubts. His eyes ran over her features like she was the only woman on Earth; that they were meant to be together. It was the closest thing to love at first sight she had ever seen. 

“I still feel that way.” His voice brought her back to the present and her eyes snapped up to meet his. He held her gaze strongly, his usually dreamy expression replaced with something more fierce and concrete. 

“I meant to come and see you sooner.” She explained, both to herself and him as she moved closer.

“To end it?” 

“I hoped you wouldn’t argue with me.” She said softly, confirming his question. 

“I don’t see the point…” He murmured gently, rubbing his nose between his fingers and taking his glasses off. “You’ve clearly thought it over.”

She nodded, looking up at him. “Thank you.” Her voice whispered. “I wanted to come and say goodbye.”

His mouth twisted in acceptance, biting his inner cheek. “It means a lot.” She could see the tears starting to well in his eyes, making them glisten as his voice cracked. “I won’t bother you anymore.” He promised.

Her heart sank and she reached out for his hands, grasping them softly. “Don’t…”

He let out a sob as the first tears fell on his cheeks, his lips opening and closing a few times as he tried to speak. “I’m so scared Cass…” He eventually said, body trembling. She thought it was the most honest thing she had ever heard him say and felt a surprising wave of relief wash over her. His admittance wasn’t news to her; she had known it from the moment he received the letter, months before, but he had desperately tried to hide his feelings, masking them with wine and sex and pointless arguments. She wondered why he had fought it so hard, but realised she couldn’t relate; while her own sex faced plenty of challenges, it was only those with the Y chromosome which had to go through this particular ordeal. “I don’t know how I’m gonna make it through…” He wept, letting go of her hand to wipe his eyes messily with his sleeve.

“It’s not forever.” She reasoned, whispering soothingly. 

He sniffled. “I had this image of you being there when I come out…” His voice shook. “Of us getting married, having kids..”

She felt her cheeks grow warm, her stomach dropping unpleasantly as his face began to swim before her eyes, her own tears falling thick and fast. “It’s hard for me too…” She admitted, knowing that despite knowing him for three years, she had never seen him so vulnerable; he had never allowed her to get close enough to see him this way. “You’re not a bad person Tae.” Her brow furrowed, realising it was true.

He lifted his head from his chest, looking her straight in the eye. “I wanted to grow old with you.” 

“Stop…” She pleaded, her eyes and cheeks wet.

She felt his fingers tangle in the back of her hair as he bridged the gap between them, pressing his mouth gently to hers, their tears mingling as he opened his lips against her, wanting her to respond...to know how he was feeling. It was no use trying to resist; she could sense herself softening beneath his touch, knowing that she shouldn’t but unable to stop herself from kissing him back; their bodies pressing closer as she felt his warm breath against her skin. It felt cathartic and final, with her finally pulling away to press her forehead to his.

“One last time…” She nodded, agreeing with his silent plea, whispering against his lips. 

He was silent for a moment, nuzzling her warm, wet cheeks with his nose before tightening his fingers against her scalp, being careful to be gentle as he tilted her face upward, her long neck arched and exposed as he looked at her. 

“I loved you so much…” He gasped, his eyes glistening as he took her in.

“You too.” 

Their eyes stayed locked for a moment longer, savouring the mutual confession which was all that remained of their love. When their lips met again, she found her own hands moving to his hair, running it through the tight curls as he brushed the straps of her camisole off her shoulders, his palms holding her steady. She clutched him tightly to her as he opened his warm mouth against her chest, pecking her pale skin while she gasped above him, running her thumb over his exposed cheekbone. He continued for a moment, trailing along her collarbone before looking up, his eyes full of lust as she caught his lips between hers. 

Her fingers trailed along his lower back, appreciating the soft indents of his pelvis as she eased his sweater from his torso, throwing it to the shag-pile carpet before moving back to him, grasping his cheeks in her palms as they kissed ferociously. The band on her jeans was tight, but he slotted his thumbs between the gap at the back, moving them along her hips until he reached the button at the front. She allowed him to unbuckle her and slip his fingers beneath the hem of her panties, pulling them down her legs as he dropped heavily to his knees. Sweetly, he pressed his lips to her inner thigh, moving along the curvaceous parts of her skin where a light pattern of stretch marks adorned the fleshier part of her legs. She let out a moan, savouring his tenderness as he kissed her lovingly - seeming to trace the patterns with his lips, as though wanting her to see herself the way he did. Her lips parted as he tilted his head and moved between her thighs to the triangle of tightly curled pubic hair, pecking her slit sensually a couple of times before pulling away, a little breathlessly. 

“Can you stand up?” She asked softly, taking his hands in hers and pulling him to his feet.

She unbuckled his belt quickly, the sound of the metal clasp ringing through the cozy room as she eased the black fabric away from his crotch, reaching beneath the zipper to curl her fingers around his cock. She bent down as she uncovered him and kissed his long shaft gently. He was not quite hard; his emotions overwhelmed his desire, and she encouraged him onto the small, two-seater sofa at the edge of the room, sitting him down while she nested between his legs, the carpet soft against her bare knees. He didn’t protest as she wrapped her lips around him, clutching him gently as she sucked his cock. She knew his body intimately and she found herself brushing her tongue familiarly along the grooves and veins in his shaft, pressing against the underside of his tip as he hardened in her mouth. His head lolled back as she withdrew, letting him go almost completely before sinking down on him again. 

“You feel so good Cass.” He gasped, stroking her hair softly as she kept up the pace, working him slowly in a way she hadn’t done in years. It had been a long time since she had made love to him with her mouth, with her in control, setting the pace. She wondered when things had changed; when they stopped showing their love for each other through their bodies and instead became addicted to pushing each other to their limits, using each other like a drug. With a moan, she kept going until she felt his fingertips against her cheek. She let him go softly, looking up. 

“Can you fuck me?” He asked gently, his expression dreamy beneath his bangs. Slowly, she nodded, her thighs sticky as she stood up and removed her shirt and bra. His eyes fell to her breasts as she steadied herself against him, holding his bare shoulders and straddling his waist. His cock was wet, glistening and upright and she spread her lips with her fore and middle fingers, her clit brushing his pubic hair as she sank onto him. As always, it took a moment to adjust to his thickness and he held her by the hips, slowly moving her against him, up and down, guiding her and pressing his lips to her breasts. She appreciated the sound of their bodies coming together, the wet noise of his cock inside her, merging with their gasps. His mouth closed around a nipple, pecking it gently before moving to the other and pulling away, brushing both thumbs over the sensitive red tips, making them sheen with saliva. 

She realised, as his lips returned to hers, that he too had forgotten what it felt like to be together like this - without the toys and the kinks and the pain. Her stomach churned with sorrow and she was almost grateful when he wrapped his arms around her naked back and, clutching her close to him, lowered her backward onto the floor, the shag pile soft and comfortable against her skin. He slipped out of her, removing his trousers and underwear from his ankles, before pushing back into her, his body covering hers as she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. Their lips came together as his breathing intensified, signifying the tell-tale start of his orgasm. She knew he was trying to hold off, to savour the moment and make it last, but eventually his hips bucked against her and he allowed himself to give in, burying himself deep as he clutched her naked body to his, their hips pressed together tightly as he came inside her. She kept kissing him, knowing that when they stopped, they would have to part, and she didn’t know whether she was ready to say goodbye just yet. He likewise seemed reluctant to let her go when his hips finally slowed, but eventually, he slipped out of her, his cock having grown soft inside her warmth. He pulled away, his breath haggard, and kissed her cheek gently. 

She lay for a moment in silence as he rolled off her, her own breath heavy; breasts heaving against her chest as she watched him stand up. “I need to go…” She murmured, getting to her feet. Taehyung turned to look at her, his eyes moving to her pubis as she straightened. She followed his gaze, a little dazedly, to the space between her legs and touched her fingers to the warm semen which dripped down her inner thigh, across her stretch marks and cellulite-puckered skin. 

“Here…” He reached towards the coffee table, past the paperback he had been reading, and handed her a box of tissues. She thanked him quietly, taking a couple to clean herself and trailing it between her thighs and over the bottom of her pubic hair. He put the box down and took a couple for himself, wiping his cock before reaching for his discarded underwear. 

“Um…” She looked around, searching for a trash can in the unfamiliar apartment.

“It’s okay.” He muttered as he adjusted the elasticated waistband of his boxers against his waist and reached for the bundle of tissues. He disappeared into the kitchen and she took the opportunity to get dressed, grimacing a little when she realised her thighs were still a little tacky against her tight jeans. 

Taehyung turned to the wall when he returned, dressing quietly as she slipped on her shoes, wondering if sleeping with him had been the right thing to do. She checked her pocket to make sure her car keys were still there and the little jangle caught his attention, alerting her to the fact she was leaving.

“Can I write?” He asked softly, voice full of uncertainty. 

She was silent for a moment. “If you want to...” She said quietly. If she had thought he looked more mature when he first answered the door, his next expression broke that illusion. His lip quivered slightly, though he barely seemed to notice. “Try not to worry too much…” She whispered, trying to reassure him. 

He followed her out of the living room and into the hallway. “What did you do with the flowers?” He questioned. 

“They’re still at the theatre. I’ll pick them up later.” She turned to face him as they reached the front door and they were silent for a moment.

“I meant what I said in the note.” He looked at her, his voice low. “No matter what happens...”

“I know.” She nodded, knowing it was true. While neither were virgins when they met, they had been each other’s first love, and that would never change. “You too Tae.” She sighed. “Good luck.”

“Break a leg…” He agreed and they both smiled sadly at the shared joke. 

“Goodbye.” She whispered.

***

Please stay tuned for more headcanon content, including from this storyline, coming soon!

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[bittertarinetea]

The Day General Hux Died

Rating: G

This is the story of how Hux, the esteemed General of the First Order, died—and how Armitage lived on.

Warning: Contains TROS spoilers!

Notes: If you’re still here, you’re probably just as unhappy about the way Hux was treated in TROS. Hopefully, this fic provides just a tiny bit of solace--lmk what you think!

-- --

Hux had picked up the habit of wearing a bulletproof vest under his First Order uniform from the minute he met Allegiant General Pryde.

Stiff and arrogant, the man reminded him every bit of Grand Moff Tarkin—based off what he’d heard about the late commander, at least. Except, Enric Pryde wasn’t Tarkin, and the two disliked each other from the moment Hux had been ordered to work alongside him in the ship Pryde commanded, the Steadfast.

It wasn’t just the fact that Pryde thought Hux below him in rank (which was true, but the two worked so often together that it hardly felt that way at all), or the snide remarks he often passed about him during meetings with the ever-insufferable Kylo Ren (which happened during each one without fail) or the petty shoulders he gave him in the middle of the practically mile-wide corridors of the ship (which was silly and childish, in his opinion, for a grown man of 62 years).

Call it a hunch—or rather, a feeling—but Hux only trusted Pryde about as far as he could shoot the man with a Death Star superlaser. Ever since the first wooden handshake, the first cold nod, Hux had had a Quantum-crystalline mesh-lined vest commissioned in secret and began to don it underneath his uniform each day.

The vest was cold and not made for long-term wear, but it was surely worlds warmer and more comfortable than a blast from a SE-44C. That was a trade-off that Hux was willing to make.

And that was the trade-off that saved his life.

“...We’ve found our spy.”

Hux heard the tail-end of Pryde’s clipped, chilly accent as he laid on the floor, too stunned to move an inch. He’d been standing behind the Allegiant General just moments ago, telling him the lie he’d practised on the way to the Steadfast’s command bridge—

—And the next thing he knew, the business end of Pryde’s blaster had been pointed right at his chest, followed by a flash of red; a short, echoing blast, then pain—lots of it.

It took every inch of nerve in his body to remain still on the cold floor of the bridge surrounded, humiliatingly, by the ship’s crew, but Hux managed to do it. He kept his eyes closed, trying to ignore the deep ache that spread through him from the force of the blow. His left leg hurt even more, thanks to FN-2187, but at least the bulletproof vest had done its job: no additional harm had been done, though it certainly felt that way.

Oh well. It was better than bleeding out on the floor. What a miserable way to go, Hux thought.

There was a moment of shocked silence that followed the Allegiant General’s command, then the bridge crew, efficient and well-disciplined as ever, fell right back into the rhythm that always moved the First Order forward.

“Yes, Allegiant General,” Hux heard his Lieutenant say. Moments later, the clicking sound of her boots against the floor passed his ear. He could’ve sworn to Snoke that she paused to look at him for just the slightest second. He wished he could open his eyes, see her expression—maybe it was one of triumph,  maybe it was pity—but then her footsteps retreated past him, and unfamiliar hands wrapped themselves around his arms and started to bodily drag him across the floor.

Now, this was highly humiliating and disrespectful—but Hux reminded himself that he was, in the bridge crew’s eyes at least, dead. It no longer mattered what they thought of him. And he would now be forever free of the Allegiant General’s degrading words, snide remarks and jabs.

All he had to do now was to escape the First and Final Order. Escape, and he would be free: free to start his life over, free to do what he pleased.

The hands—two pairs, and, judging by the stomping strides their owners made, belonged to a pair of stormtroopers—continued to drag him across the ground, and Hux risked a glance through his eyelashes. They were in the corridor that led to the bridge now, heading in the opposite direction. Hux decided he would wait until the coast was fully clear—and besides, his leg still felt too weak to support him just yet. That damned FN-2187.

The troopers continued to drag his limp form across the spotless floors, presumably in the direction of one of the ship’s many, many trash compactors (who the hell designed star destroyers to have so many, anyway?). Hux waited until their pace slowed, and then he sprung to life.

His first instinct was to grab one of the blasters that hung loosely in their hands. Then the feeling returned, and Hux decided that maybe he didn’t have to go the killing route. He’d already killed three perfectly good troopers today and wasn’t keen on adding to that number. Hux wasn’t a man of religion, but he knew his hands were blood-stained enough that he’d be far from entitled to a good afterlife—but all the more reason to escape this life while breath still resided in his lungs.

He wrenched his arm from the left trooper’s grip. He made a sound of surprise and his huge helmeted head turned to look down at Hux.

“General Hux, sir!” The trooper’s voice sounded pitchy and breathless. “You’re—you’re alive!”

Hux sat up and dusted himself off. “Of course I’m alive, RD-6160,” He snapped, scowling in an attempt to look and sound dignified. “That incident back there was merely a distraction. I’m perfectly alright.”

Hux didn’t need to see the trooper’s expression to know that it was one of immense doubt.

“Let me help you up, sir,” The other trooper said quickly.

“That would be helpful,” He answered, his tone dry.

Despite the humiliation Hux had already suffered, he allowed RD-6160 and ST-3128 to help him back onto his feet (his leg still ached, after all). When they stepped back, Hux nodded to both of them and received respectful salutes in return.

A bubble of pride swelled in his chest to see that his title still inspired loyalty and a sense of duty; it was his title-given right, of course, but Pryde’s presence often overshadowed it when the two worked together. That, perhaps, was another reason why he disliked the man so much. Hux was no longer the General, the one who held all the command and respect, the moment Pryde entered the room. After that, it was just Allegiant General this and Allegiant General that, and Hux would dissolve into the shadows, forgotten.

The troopers seemed at a loss for what to do next. He straightened his uniform and looked at both of them. “You will not tell anyone, especially the Allegiant General, that this ever happened. As far as you are concerned,” Hux tried to meet ST-3128’s gaze through his helmet lens. “You carried out your orders to remove me from the ship. You won't be seeing me from this day henceforth. Dismissed.”

There was a pause. Then ST spoke up. “We carried out our orders to remove you from the ship,” He repeated in a monotone. “We won't be seeing you from this day henceforth.”

Hux frowned. A simple “Yes, sir” would have sufficed, but he supposed that was acceptable: if this was his last order as General of the First Order, it felt satisfying to have it followed to the tiniest detail. He nodded at both of them and turned in the opposite direction, beginning a brisk walk down the corridor. Yet another step closer to freedom.

Obtaining a TIE fighter was almost too simple: it’s no wonder that FN-2187 so easily stole one and escaped then, Hux realised as he took hold of the ship’s controls. Of course, he hadn’t exactly stolen it—news that the General was supposed to be deceased hadn’t yet spread beyond the bridge of the Steadfast, and so it was easy to convince a TIE pilot that Hux required the use of his starfighter.

Hux’s heart thrummed in his chest as the engine fired up. He was so close to freedom. Part of him regretted that he would not be returning to his quarters later that day, or that he would never get to walk down the bridge of a star destroyer ever again. But a larger (and smarter) part of him knew that these were merely feelings: feelings that would burn away under the sun of a much safer, much warmer planet.  

No looking back, then. And no regrets, either.

The roar of the engine grew and filled the small space of the cockpit. Hux regretted not borrowing the pilot’s helmet too.

Well, maybe just one regret.

He gripped the control wheel tightly, trying to ignore the vibrating in his teeth as the fighter lifted off the ground. Hux then manoeuvred the TIE out of the hangar and into the dark expanse of space. No one stopped him; no one even spotted him.

Just like that, General Armitage Hux of the First Order was dead.

-- --

“Your iced tarine tea, sir.”

Armitage looked up from his book just as the SE8 droid placed a tall glass on his table.

“Thank you,” He said curtly.

The droid dipped its shiny black head and moved away to serve another patron.

Reaching for the glass, Armitage directed his gaze to the endless stretch of turquoise sea of which he currently had a front-row seat. Cantonica was particularly beautiful this time of year, and there was no better place to enjoy the views the planet had to offer than in Canto City. (Not Canto Bight, no: that place was too messy, and Armitage never enjoyed gambling.)

Armitage took a sip, then he leaned back in his deck chair and sighed, contentment settling in his belly, then stretched his legs out.

The leg on which he'd been shot turned out unscarred; the injury had been easily taken care of by medic droids when he landed in Cantonica a complete year ago. No questions had been asked except for a name by which he could be addressed.

“Armitage,” He’d said. “Just Armitage.”

Which was then followed by the embarrassing need to clarify to the immigration officer that no, his name was not Just Armitage, it was just Armitage. No last name. The officer had given him a strange look, but said nothing once he was passed a sack of credits under the counter.

From that day forth, he was Armitage, resident of Cantonica.

Working under the First Order meant he had a comfortable amount of money in his savings, and so he’d been able to live a life of comfort so far. He had a house down the beach from the bar. Armitage had relaxed his appearance as well: he’d let his facial hair grow out, even allowed his hair to creep just a little over his ears.

Here in Cantonica, days were slow. Easy. Peaceful. The only chaos that ever occurred was of the tides crashing against the rocks, or the occasional thunderstorms that would descend on the planet during the monsoon season. The rest of his days were filled with books, music, and bitter tarine tea—lots of it.

Today was one of those days. Armitage continued to stare at the waves and let himself be lulled into a daze. He never could do that during his days on the Finalizer: he was often too worried about waking to a blaster pressed to his head, or to news that the insufferable Kylo Ren had destroyed yet another invaluable piece of equipment.

Hmm. Kylo Ren. Ben Solo. Armitage wondered what the man was up to these days.

Being on Cantonica also meant that he was cut off from the HoloNet. Not that the planet didn’t have access to the galaxy’s biggest news resource—on the contrary, Canto City was privileged to have one of the Canto system’s fastest connections—but Armitage simply avoided listening to any of it. He was no longer part of that life: it no longer mattered.

The sun slowly set over the horizon, turning the sky a violent orange and electric purple, and the SE8 droid returned to inquire if he needed anything else.

“No, thank you,” He said, yawning. Then something seized him, and he held up a hand before the droid could leave.

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell me,” Armitage began. “What has the political state of the galaxy been like in the past year?”

If the droid thought his question peculiar, it wasn’t programmed to say so. “Well sir, the galaxy is currently under Republic rule, following the fall of the late Supreme Leader and Emperor of the First Order.”

Armitage sat up. “The late Supreme Leader, you say?"

The droid didn’t blink. (It couldn’t, anyway.) “Yes, sir. Supreme Leader Kylo Ren of the First Order, given name Ben Solo, son of Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan and Han Solo of Corellia. Born in 5 ABY on Chandrila, died 35 ABY following the final battle of the First Order-Resistance war on—”

“That’s all, thank you,” Armitage cut the droid off, his head suddenly spinning. It nodded and left, oblivious to the blow it had just dealt him.

So Ben was dead, then. Was the scavenger Rey dead too? What about Pryde? Quinn? Armitage leaned back in his chair, now unable to stop himself from pondering the state of the galaxy. A galaxy without Kylo Ren. A galaxy without the First Order.

Interesting. He supposed he could live with that. He’d won, didn’t he? Kylo Ren lost. The details didn’t matter.

Before he could ponder any further, there was a sudden shriek in Cantonican from another bar patron. Curious, he turned his gaze from the now-black sea and looked to the source of the commotion.

A female Caskadag was pointing towards something on her left. Armitage followed her finger to see a flash of ginger with four legs running across the sand—headed straight in his direction!

Whatever the creature was, it slowed to a trot once it neared him. Perhaps it’d been startled by the female Caskadag: after all, they were infamous for their piercing cries. Compared to her, Armitage was minding his own business and being quiet. It made sense for the creature to prefer his side.

The animal was nearer now, and it stopped by his deck chair. It reminded him of a loth-cat, only smaller and furrier. And more orange. The creature let out a meow typical of its species and began rubbing its head against his chair.

“Hello there,” He said, feeling a bit silly talking to an animal.

The cat meowed again, this time hopping daintily onto the chair and scattering sand across his legs. He extended a hand out. It let out a rumble, then leaned forward to sniff his hand. A moment later, it rubbed the side of its head against the back of his fingers.

He smiled down at it. “Would you like some food? Fish, perhaps?”

The cat seemed to understand what ‘food’ meant. It meowed louder, butting its head against the flat of his palm. Armitage stood up and stretched. “Well come on, then.”

He left a few credits on the table and left. The cat followed next to him, its tail bobbing in the air. Armitage considered his furry companion as the two strolled down the beach back to his house, and decided that he would give her a name: Millicent.

There was no particular reason why, but the name brought to mind the image of a smiley young woman with flour on her clothes and freckles on her cheeks. She, like Armitage, had ginger hair and blue eyes.

No particular reason why, really.

“Millicent,” He said aloud, and the cat looked up at him before letting out another demanding meow.

"Alright, alright."

Call it a hunch—or rather, a feeling, but Armitage sensed that this was the beginning of a great friendship, and the continuation of an even greater life.

-- -- 

Notes: My first completed star wars fic!! Leave a like and rb if you’re feeling kind <3 

This fic accompanies this piece:

[emptymasks]

Hey! I'd love to hear more about your poto OC! Feel free to take me at @opeletmejustdraw. Very excited for Armand and Lizzy to be buddies

Thank you so much for asking about him!!!

Some facts about Armand Dubois:

24. Half-French, half-English. 5’7”. Can speak both French and English. Tired of getting called short.

Costume designer and sewist.

Sleep? Don’t know her.

Trans-man. Binders didn’t exist back then and he’s not going to bind unsafely (not that there was any safe way to bind) so he wears a stay (corset) under his shirt and has a small enough chest that it works in looking like a flat chest. No one knows Armand is trans, apart from Erik because he’s a creepy stalker man who caught Armand without his shirt on one day and saw the stay he wears underneath. (Armand was working late and alone in the workshop and thought it would be fine to take off the stay so he’d be a little more comfortable.)

Introverted and shy. Finds it hard to instigate conversations, but if someone else comes up and starts talking to him he’ll start to open up more, especially if they get him talking about his work.

Has severe eczema and normally wears long sleeves and high collars to cover up his skin so others can’t see how badly his skin is affected by it. Becomes instantly agitated and anxious if someone sees any of the affected skin and asks about it. He hates how his skin looks. (Because why not so full self-insert and give him my pain too right.)

Originally a ballet dancer. He quit after deciding to life his life as a man and started living under a different name. He still loved the ballet and opera, and always had a love for costumes. He’d been sewing since he was a child, making his own clothes for year, and had previously helped out a family member in their tailor’s shop. He worked in the costume department for a while before his drawings and designs got noticed and he was hired as a designer. Designing and making the ballet costumes, practically those for the men, is his favourite thing to do.

Too often he stays up late working on costumes after everyone has gone home because he wanted to add more detail or got another idea or just thinks he needs to work harder because he’s an insecure perfectionist, or sometimes the ghost’s antics cause costumes to get ripped or go missing and he has to last minute fix it or sew a new one. The managers sort of take advantage of this. Do not even talk to him about when Carlotta quit and he had to make all the costumes again so they’d fit Christine for the next evening because they didn’t want to postpone the show. At least he had the idea to only make the skirt for the ‘Think of Me’ costume and keep her existing bodice because skirts are the quickest thing to make. Perfectly fitted bodices? Not so much.

Doesn’t talk about his family. They wouldn’t be okay with him being trans and he hasn’t told them. He wasn’t very close to his family anyway. His parents died when he was young and he was raised by his uncle who was disinterested in him. His uncle wasn’t bothered about him moving to Paris on his own and Armand writes to him once a year at Christmas. Basically just to let him know he hasn’t died yet.

Sometimes gives the ballet dancers advice when Madam Giry isn’t looking. Everyone knows Armand used to be a dancer. Sometimes Armand gets a pang of jealously when watching the male dancers as he used to wish he’d be allowed to dance those parts. But really he gets along well with the dancers and in particular has a little friendship with the male principal dancer.

Very awkward with children. He tries his best but he has no idea what to do when there’s a child there just panics. He has to stop himself from saying his usual tired, self-deprecating humour.

Loves classical music, in particular Tchaikovsky’s scores for the Swan Lake and Sleeping Beauty ballets. With phonographs only just being invented, the only way Armand can listen to the music is to play it himself. When he used to be a ballet dancer he convinced the conductor, who was one of the few good adult figures he had in his early life, to let him borrow the spare conductor’s copy of the score. He then spent every evening, after a full day of dance practice and shows, writing out his own copy by hand (of his favourite pieces since if he’d done the entire score it would have taken forever since there’s almost 300 pages) so he could play them on his piano.

Terrible at sticking up for himself, but if someone talks shit on anyone else than protective-ArmandTM is activated.

Might have a crush on the opera house’s resident ghost because he’s a lonely boy who’s too into gothic romance novels. (I can imagine that’s much to Liz’s confusion). Look, I didn’t say he was smart and made good choices, and it’s not as though he’s had any romantic relationships or any good familial relationships so who knows if he knows what a proper relationship looks like. He just maybe falls for any man who doesn’t treat him like dirt and has either a pretty face or a pretty voice. He’s a gay disaster. To be honest he most likely has a bit of a crush on Raoul.

He’s scared of rats. If he saw one scuttling around on the floor he would immediately, without thinking, pull his feet up onto his stool. He doesn’t know why he’s scared of them, just catching them moving out of the corner of his eye gets his heart racing. It’s fairly easy to make him jump. Erik’s probably going to give this poor boy a heart attack without even meaning to.

Wants boyfriend?? Normally he knows when he’s crushing on someone but somehow it doesn’t click when the male principal dancer at the ballet starts trying to make friends with him that he’s getting a crush but then oh no it hits him suddenly like a train. Now he blushes and gets flustered all the time. The dancer (who I’m basing of Sergei Polunin in the 25th anniversary because I freaked out when I recognised him because he’s one of my favourite dancers, I’d just bought the Royal Ballet’s Alice in Wonderland 2011 DVD with him as the male lead and loved him in it) knows Armand used to be a dancer, as they all do, but didn’t know Armand still practices to keep in shape and also because he loved dancing and is sad sometimes he gave it up. So what if he walks in the studio in the evening and Armand is practising and the dancer (who needs a name so I can stop calling him ‘principal male dancer’) compliments Armand and notices he’s out of practice and before Armand knows it the dancer is behind him and touching his hands and correcting his arm position and oh no.

Oh boy... by making Armand have a big crush on the principal male lead dancer I just realised that means Armand had a moment while designing his costume for Hannibal that he chose for to have no shirt. I mean, there's one other male dancer that is also shirtless, but still... either it was his own idea that he was convinced was purely because I made sense that character wouldn't wear a shirt, or it was someone’s suggestion (possibly to mess with him if they knew about the crush) and Armand was just dying inside as he was designing it and making sure the fit was right once it was finished. “Hey Armand, we’re going to paint his body to make him look more tan, do you want to see?” “NoOo I’M sUrE hE looKs fINe!”

I have even more (as you’ll know if you’re in the poto oc discord) but I don’t want to make this post too long... it’s probably already too long

[thefilmsnob]

The King of Staten Island: ***1/2 out of 5

In an episode of Game of Thrones, Tyrion Lannister, a dwarf shunned by his own family, admits he has “a tender spot in [his] heart for cripples and bastards and broken things.” So, it’s fitting that he shows up in Judd Apatow’s new film The King of Staten Island as two characters are watching the HBO masterpiece. Throughout his career, the writer/director/producer has shown an obvious soft spot for the underdog, except he’s focused his attention on slackers and stoners and virgins, but you get the idea. One of hist first projects was even called Freaks and Geeks.

Pete Davidson of Saturday Night Live fame plays Scott Carlin, Apatow’s latest burnout to embark on a grueling emotional journey toward some sort of purpose. As the film opens, he seems quite content with simply smoking weed with his equally aimless friends; having sex with Kelsey (an explosive Bel Powley) without the burden of commitment; mooching off his widowed mother, Margie (Marisa Tomei, marvelous as always); and avoiding an honest day’s work like the plague. A 24-year-old high school dropout, Scott lives with his mother and sister, Claire (Maude Apatow), on Staten Island, one of the five boroughs of New York City that’s just as much a joke to other New Yorkers as Scott is to society at large.

It’s the perfect setting for a movie whose protagonist uses his regrettable circumstances as an excuse to remain in a perpetual state of arrested development. It’s no cesspool, but it’s hard to imagine the residents of this drab, nondescript sub-city truly thriving. Scott also suffers from several illnesses including Crohn’s disease and ADHD as well as the mental anguish of losing his father, a firefighter, in the line of duty when Scott was younger. He too easily lets these burdens weigh him down and impede his growth.

You don’t need a magnifying glass to notice the similarities between actor and character; it’s reasonable to describe the story as semi-biographical. Davidson doesn’t shy away from divulging details of his private life to the public, even discussing his mental health on SNL’s Weekend Update from time to time. His body is also riddled with tattoos, he’s no stranger to the reefer, he grew up on Staten Island and his father was a firefighter who died when Davidson was younger, only it was during the 9/11 attacks. The major difference is that Davidson’s battled adversity to become a successful comedian and one of the youngest SNL cast members of all time. Scott, on the other hand, has an interest in tattoo artistry, but he’s not very good and neither is his idea of a tattoo parlour/restaurant business, details that lead to a handful of amusing arguments about art and sanitation.  

Practising his hobby on a  nine-year-old boy is also a bad idea as he learns when the boy’s father, Ray (Bill Burr in an impressive dramatic turn), shows up on his doorstep, launching a hilarious tirade at Scott right in front of his mother. With that in mind, Scott’s understandably aghast when he learns Margie and Ray have started dating which is exacerbated by the fact that the first guy she’s dated in 16 years happens to be a firefighter like her late husband. This is the necessary spark that leads Scott down a path of something he dreads: change.

There’s not much here that Apatow hasn’t already tackled. He’s quite comfortable in his wheelhouse of slacker dramedies. But what the film lacks in originality, it makes up for in delightful performances, complex characters and Apatow’s signature blend of irreverence and poignancy with a surprising emphasis on the latter. He struck gold with the three leads; okay, Tomei’s predictably sublime, but comedians Davidson and Burr, though still their zany selves, strike disarmingly serious notes throughout the movie, giving us a clear view of their dramatic potential. The chemistry among these three—a mixture of jealousy, anxiety and resentment with hints of sympathy—is what gives the film its deeper meaning.

Sure, you can argue Davidson is just playing a version of himself. How hard could that be? He’s been doing it for six seasons on SNL. No one seems to know what else to do with him. Nonetheless, this movie needs him and maybe he needs this movie. It might be just the catharsis he requires, like his counterpart, to evolve emotionally and professionally.  

The movie also benefits from an equally talented supporting cast. Powley gives a breakthrough performance as Scott’s friend with benefits. Kelsey’s a tiny girl with a ferocious personality, yet Powley still makes it easy to empathize with this girl who yearns for a better future and a bigger commitment from Scott. The wonderful Pamela Adlon from TV’s Louie and Better Things has a small but effective role as Ray’s ex-wife Gina whose tired face tells us that marriage put her through the wringer. In an amusing scene, Scott has drinks with Gina to get dirt on Ray, something she’s more than willing to divulge. And, of course, the one and only Steve Buscemi turns up as a veteran firefighter who sees Scott as a lost soul that needs some guidance and support instead of a lost cause to be brushed aside. The exchanges between these two about Scott’s dad, fire fighting and life in general are truly touching.

At 136 minutes, The King of Staten Island is long for a comedy. Yet, it doesn’t feel long, as is common with Apatow’s films. His stories are more than just thin plots glued together with a quota of gags. He knows that if we’re going to care about his characters and be willing to follow their struggle for more than two hours then he needs to invest time and effort in them as well. Thankfully, he’s good at that and the film never wears out its welcome. We could’ve done without the robbery sequence, though, which isn’t boring so much as out of place.

The same can’t be said about the cast. Each actor looks and sounds like they’re a product of New York City. I suppose that authenticity is easy to achieve when most of them actually are from The Big Apple. That’s not surprising; it’s a town brimming with fascinating people full of potential. And Scott Carlin is no exception.

[worldwidemochiguy]

Ours (yandere! rapline x reader)

You've always known that Namjoon, Yoongi and Hoseok are ‘dangerous’, but when one of your classmates decides to try and approach you, you learn just how dangerous they really are....

Masterlist

Warnings: 18+ DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE A MINOR, Yandere behaviour, possessive behaviour, graphic sex scenes, Dom/sub dynamics, name-calling, face-fucking, comeplay (this is rly nasty y’all I'm sorry)

Word Count: 3.4K

a/n: thanks to anon who requested rapline x reader when a guy tries to approach reader! tbh that part only accounts for like the beginning and the end and the rest of it is just smut y’all im sorry idk how this happened lmao

OURS

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

The man in front of you slumps slightly, before mumbling out a desolate “Jongin,”

“Well, listen, Jongin, uh, it’s really flattering that you… think of me like that, but I’m not single, so… sorry?”

The man shuffles off without another word, disappearing into the library stacks, head bowed in embarrassment. You cringe slightly. Jongin was your partner for a group project a while ago and ever since then you’ve been able to feel his gaze trail over you sometimes during class, but you never thought he would actually make a move on you.

It’s pretty well-known at your college that you’re not available. Your boyfriends take pains to make it as clear as possible. They even have a rota, taking turns to pick you up each day after class, each time in a ridiculously ostentatious car. This morning you had been dropped off in Hoseok’s red Aston Martin, and you’re pretty sure it is Namjoon’s turn to pick you up in the Lamborghini once you’re finished studying. 

Even though your boyfriends always want to hear everything about your day with no detail omitted, you decide to not disclose the fact that one of your classmates had approached you. Jongin was a nice guy, after all, and you didn’t want to see him come in one day covered in bruises, or worse, not come in at all.

Your phone buzzes, and you start putting away your books without even having to check who it is. Only your boyfriends have your number now — they bought you a new phone because the old one mysteriously went missing. You take a quick glance anyway. 

[groupchat: You, Yoongi, Hoseok, Namjoon]

Namjoon

I’m outside waiting for you, Princess. 

[4:02PM]

You

I’ll be out in a sec! 

[4:02PM]

Can’t wait to see you! <33333 

[4:03PM]

You tap out a few brief responses — they hate to be left on read — before swinging your bag over your shoulder and leaving the library. As you expected, Namjoon is leaning against the Lamborghini illegally parked in front of the main entrance, subject to more than a few admiring glances tossed his way, though you can’t tell whether they’re checking out the car or him. 

As soon as he sees you, his full lips tug into a smile, exposing his dimples as he reaches out to take your bag for you. You go up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek in thanks, and pretend that you don’t feel a curl of smug possessiveness flare up when you see the girl who was checking him out scowl and turn back to her friends.

He opens the door for you and helps you into the car, before walking around to place your bag in the trunk and getting in the drivers seat. Soon enough, the rolling purr of the engine starts up and the college library starts disappearing in the rear view mirror. 

The two of you sit in companionable silence, Namjoon’s hand resting comfortably on your thigh.

“I didn’t know you were so possessive, Princess.” Namjoon breaks the silence with a seemingly casual remark, though it is easy to detect the self-satisfied undercurrent in his voice. 

“Huh?”

“Oh, so you’re playing innocent? Cute.” He smirks, beginning to smooth his hand along your thigh. You try not to squirm under his attention. “That girl who was watching me, you didn’t like her, did you? You smiled when she turned away after you kissed me. Don’t you realise I notice everything you do?” 

Your cheeks burn as Namjoon deftly unravels your thoughts, embarrassed that he finds you so easy to read. You mumble something quietly under your breath, and within the blink of an eye Namjoon pulls over, takes his hand off your thigh and uses it to grip your chin, tilting your head up firmly so you are forced to meet his eye.

“What was that, Princess?” He smirks, and you know he won’t let you get away with not replying. 

Your cheeks flush deeply, and Namjoon briefly trails his thumb over the inflamed skin, before catching it on your bottom lip and tugging, a cue for you to speak before he gets impatient. 

“I said, wouldn’t you be possessive if you saw a guy checking me out?” You ask meekly, and Namjoon’s gaze darkens. 

“I’d destroy anyone who dared to even touch you. You’re mine. Ours.” His fervent response does not shock you, but just solidifies your resolution in your mind.

You hate lying to Namjoon, and Yoongi and Hoseok as well, but you know that if you tell them Jongin asked you out, it would only end in needless bloodshed. Anyway, it’s not like he was persistent or anything, it was a one off and you don’t think it’s necessary for him to be punished so harshly. 

By the time you make it back home, Namjoon’s sucked three fresh bruises into your neck to join the already-present necklace of love-bites. Having three deeply possessive boyfriends simply means having three times the hickeys a normal person might receive — not that you are complaining. You like to feel like you belong to them. 

Before Namjoon can even type in the code to unlock the door, Hoseok has swung it open and gathers you into his arms eagerly, tugging you backwards into the house.

“Princess!” He exclaims in between the kisses he peppers over your face, your hair, anything that he can reach. Behind you, Namjoon chuckles quietly. “Oh, you were gone so long! I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Hobi.” You giggle, and his eyes widen with joy.

“I wish you didn’t have to go at all. Do you really have to get a degree?” 

“She should get an education.” Namjoon asserts, and you nod at Hoseok, agreeing with your other boyfriend. Hoseok grumbles, before leading you towards the couch, tugging you on top of his lap as he sits down. 

“It’s not like you’re gonna need to get a job or anything. We’ll support you, won’t we, Namjoon?” Hoseok raises his voice so Namjoon, who’s gone to the kitchen to arrange a small meal for you, can hear. Yoongi, the resident cook, won’t be back for a while, but Hoseok and Namjoon would rather let themselves starve than let you go hungry, which could be possibility since Namjoon really is an atrocious cook. 

“Of course she won’t get a job.” Says Namjoon as he brushes into the room with a bowl of microwaved popcorn for you. Hoseok’s already started the film, some kind of horror flick, and he settles you comfortably in between himself and Namjoon, who’s just sat down. They love to make you watch horror films because you always get scared and hold onto them tightly, it makes them laugh so loud it almost drowns out the monstrous noises coming from the TV.

~~~

“Is it over yet?” You mumble, voice muffled in Namjoon’s sweater. You feel his chest rumble as he laughs, Hoseok’s high-pitched giggle joining even as he runs a comforting hand down your back.

“We’re only forty minutes in, Princess.” 

“How much is there left?”

“About an hour.”

You release a whine which induces their laughter again, until they are interrupted by the opening and shutting of the front door.

“You guys are watching Saw again?” You hear Yoongi’s dry voice ask and you point your arms in the direction from which you think it came from, fingers splayed, needy. He immediately joins you on the couch and wraps you in his arms, displacing Hoseok who lets out a dismayed noise. 

Yoongi hates horror films just as much as you do, no matter how tough he is in real life. You survive through the next hour with your face pressed into Yoongi’s chest and his hand gently stroking your hair. After the ordeal concludes, you join Yoongi in the kitchen to make dinner, sat on a stool by the kitchen island and watching, since Yoongi doesn’t want you close to any of the hot surfaces or cooking knives in case you get hurt. 

Namjoon sits and does his paperwork on the dining table, and you occasionally drift over to sit on his lap and mouth along his collarbones, trying to help with the stress that his job brings. Every so often, you go and check on Hoseok, who is practising in the studio. Seeing him so focused and sweaty from the exercise causes something to surface within you, and when you stumble back to the kitchen with mussed hair and swollen lips, Namjoon takes one glance at you and drops his pen.

“That’s not fair.” He breathes.

“What?”

“Hoseok can’t keep you all to himself like that. Especially when you look like that.” 

“Like what?” You ask with faux innocence, and he rises from the table and begins to stalk towards you slowly, a predator cornering its prey.

“Like you’ve just been ruined. Like you’ve just had a cock in you and can barely stand. Like you’re still hungry for more.” 

“And what if I am?” You whisper as he comes closer, so close your back hits the wall and his chest touches yours. 

At your question, Namjoon groans and he wastes no time before crashing his lips against yours, all tongue and teeth and fire. His hand reaches down beneath your skirt and wrenches your panties aside, shoving his fingers inside you to play with Hoseok’s cum, still warm inside you.

“Fuck,” he bites out against your lip, “Already had one cock in you and yet you’re still so fucking tight.” 

You moan breathlessly as he plunges two fingers into you, already scissoring them and twisting them mercilessly in a way that has your legs weakening so much that he has to support your weight. 

“You need my cock, don’t you Princess? You need me to fuck you loose and sloppy, huh? I can’t believe you want two cocks within the space of a minute, you little fucking slut.”

His words cause the heat building in your gut to ratchet upwards, already on edge and over-sensitive thanks to the two orgasms Hoseok strung out of you. You’re almost delirious, panting and whining and begging as Namjoon fingerfucks you. 

“Well, Princess? Do you want my cock or not?” He growls impatiently, and you moan loud enough that Hoseok can probably hear you in his studio, even over the music.

“Yes, I want- I need your cock. ‘m want you to fuck me sloppy, please, c’mon-” You whined against Namjoon, your head slumping down onto his shoulder, and he curses harshly to himself. 

Somehow, he removes your skirt and panties — though he is still fully clothed with the exception of his open fly — and thrusts into you in one long, smooth motion. There is something so degrading about being basically naked while Namjoon is completely covered, but it just turns you on even more. 

You’re so sensitive, having just been taken Hoseok up against the mirrors in the studio, his dancer’s hips fucking into you unrelentingly, and it doesn’t take much to bring you to the edge. Namjoon pounds into you, so hard that your head knocks back against the wall, and you know you’ll have bruises on your back where you’re being pressed against the wall too hard.

The pain only makes everything more overwhelming, makes it better, and you come on his cock with a wailing scream. His thrusts do not falter, and he only pushes you further up the wall, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist and taking you in his arms so that he is bouncing your body up and down on his cock like a fucktoy. 

“Yes, Princess. You take it so well, you were made for my cock, weren’t you? Made to be used like my own little fuckdoll. My precious slut.” The new angle is hitting that perfect spot within you, the spot that makes your vision swim, and you are barely coherent, babbling nonsense and encouragement as he just keeps going. 

You lose count of the amount of times you come before he eventually slows down, spilling into you and then pumping it through you slowly, mixing in with Hoseok’s from earlier. As he pulls out, his seed trickles down your thigh and dries there. You go to wipe it off with your discarded skirt — it would ruin the skirt, but they would always just buy you a new one — but Namjoon stops you with a tight grip on your wrist.

“Leave it there.” He commands, and you nod, wide-eyed. “You look so pretty with my seed marking you. You look like you’re mine.” 

“She’s mine too, you know.” A low voice utters, and you startle when you remember that Yoongi was still in the kitchen, and could have been watching the whole time. Must have been, considering the impressive erection he’s stroking with one hand, eyes hooded as they watch you. Despite yourself, you lick your lips, and Yoongi coos. 

“Baby still wants more, huh? Even after two cocks inside her?” You nod, just like you know he wants you to, and he gives you a satisfied smile. Yoongi takes his time, moving towards you in slow, measured steps. Behind you, Namjoon forces you to your knees, holding your hands behind your back.

“Does the little slut want her dinner now?” You try to nod, and Namjoon tightens a hand into your hair, making you whimper. 

“Take her shirt off.” Yoongi says and Namjoon rips it off your body without a warning. You gasp as your skin is exposed to the cold air, a gasp which tapers into a whine and Yoongi reaches down and pinches one of your nipples hard.

“So sensitive.” He chuckles, before cupping your jaw. He moves his shoe forwards so it presses in between your legs, right up against your too-sensitive core. You mewl and wriggle away from it, but Namjoon holds you firm.

“Listen, baby.” Yoongi starts, his hand at your eye level stroking up and down his cock leisurely, “I’m going to fuck your mouth, and while I do that, you’re going to get yourself off on my shoe.” You start to whimper, shaking your head but Yoongi hushes you. “That wasn’t a question. If you don’t come before I do, you’ll be punished.” 

You shiver, but still try to protest meekly.

“Yoongi, it’s too much, please, I can’t-” But Namjoon forces your jaw open and Yoongi shoves himself into your mouth before you can finish.

You moan around his cock, the feeling of being full always mindlessly satisfying you and, after a moments hesitation, you start grinding against his shoe. The sensitivity makes it almost painful, and you sob around his cock, eyes already leaking tears as Yoongi thrusts deep into you over and over again, at one point holding your nose against his hip until you thought you were about to pass out, before pulling out and slamming back in. 

“Fuck, look at you.” Yoongi grunts, fucking your face like there’s no tomorrow. “Such a fucking slut. Look Namjoon, she’s panting on my cock, getting the come of all the men she’s fucked all over my shoe. I hope you know you’re going to be licking it clean, Princess.” 

At his last statement, all the pain and arousal and humiliation forges itself into one white-hot surge of pleasure and the orgasm rips through you almost violently. Your throat tightens against Yoongi’s cock and a few seconds later he’s yanking himself out roughly and coming all over your face and chest. 

“So beautiful.” He murmurs as you slump backwards against Namjoon’s thighs. “Covered in our essence. You’re ours, and you always will be.” 

Since Yoongi practically abandoned dinner and let it burn, the three of you order take out, and they take turns feeding you as you perch — still entirely naked and covered in their dried come — on Hoseok’s lap. After dinner, the four of you have a warm bath where Hoseok uses his magic fingers to massage all the aches and groans out of your body, all the while praising you for how well you took them, how beautiful you are, how proud you should be. It ends up with him taking you slowly against the side of the bath, water rushing around you while you stretch yourself enough to take Yoongi as well, leaning over to take Namjoon in your mouth. 

By the time you stumble into bed, you are well and truly exhausted, and you fall asleep right away, wrapped in Hoseok and Namjoon’s arms, with Yoongi sprawled on top of you, feeling safer than you’ve ever felt in your life. 

~~~

Next week, you are getting a coffee during a break between classes — normally your boyfriends would come and visit you in this time but Yoongi was being held up at work, as was Namjoon, and Hoseok was trying to nail down a new routine — when Jongin approaches you again. 

He looks nervous, and you surprise a sigh.

“Look, Jongin, I’m flattered, but-”

“I know you’re dating those men, but honestly, Y/n, they are not who you think they are.”

“Excuse me?” You ask incredulously, anger flaring within you at the criticism of your boyfriends.

“Listen, I’ve looked into their backgrounds a little and they’re dangerous, Y/n, you don’t want to associate with them.” 

“I think I can decide what I want for myself, thanks.” You reply frostily. “I know you have a crush on me, and I was willing to let that slide, but this really is pathetic. Maybe you should think for a second; if they’re so dangerous, then what do you think is going to happen when you try to take what’s theirs?” 

His eyes widen in fear, and for a second you feel smug that you managed to cow him into such a level of fear, and then you feel an arm wrap securely around your shoulders.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself, Princess.” Namjoon says, giving a now-trembling Jongin a death glare. 

“Telling lies to our girlfriend is certainly a dangerous thing to do.” Hoseok purrs, flanking Namjoon’s shoulder. 

“And telling her you have feelings for her is even worse.” Yoongi smirks, moving in between you and Jongin. 

“Honestly, if I were you, I would start running.”

Jongin turns tail and flees out of the coffee shop, followed by many curious glances. Namjoon, Hoseok and Yoongi exchange a smug smile before they start leading you to the car — a modest Rolls Royce today.

“I- I thought you couldn’t come today?” You ask, confused, and Namjoon huffs a laugh.

“We wanted to surprise you.”

“Of course, we should have realised we’d have to scare off one of your admirers.” Hoseok laughs, though his eyes are tight. 

“I didn’t realise he would go that far. I just felt kind of bad for him, but if you hadn’t arrived today I would definitely have told you the second I got home.”

“You should always tell us everything, Princess.” Yoongi growls, before pushing you into the back of the car. 

Hoseok slips into the drivers seat whilst Namjoon and Yoongi flank your sides in the back seats. 

“From now on, you tell us everything, ok? No secrets.” Namjoon says sternly, and you nod. 

“What about Jongin? Are you going to catch him?”

“Don’t think about that filth.” Hoseok instructs from the front, “We’ll take care of him. You don’t have to worry about any of it. We’ll call the college and say you’re sick for the rest of the week so you can have time to recover.” 

“Ok.” You reply quietly, burrowing into the car leather.

“You really don’t have to worry, Princess.” Yoongi reassures you, taking your quiet behaviour for fear. 

“We won’t let anyone take you from us. Ever. You’re ours. We’ll kill anyone who tries to lay a single finger on you, sweetheart. And if anyone tries to take you away? I’ll make sure they suffer so much they’ll be begging for death. That’s how much I love you, baby. We love you, so much.” 

[advancedmanifestation69-blog]

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"All commonly provided their strategies, joys and woes. No one felt unnecessarily an intruder into into somebody else's business. The curiosity manifested was welcome. It appeared of a need to have to share. this pattern one need to find in all age groups. House going to was typically an attribute of the elderly's folk methods of lifestyle. No objective was needed being a basis for visits. It had been all part of our deep concern for each and every other-thus- Botho/Ubuntu.

abundance statements and affirmations

[oosteven-universe]

Join The Future #1 Advance Review

Join the Future #1 Advance Review Aftershock Comics 2020 On Sale March 4th 2020 Written by Zack Kaplan Illustrated by Piotr Kowalski Coloured by Brad Simpson Lettered by Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou     The Future. Ultra-modern megacities reward millions of their citizens with a completely funded life, with every need met, from food to housing and healthcare, in order to compete in an economic power struggle in which population is key. But a few rural residents still cling to their independence in what last American small towns are left. When a nearby megacity pressures the people of a small town join up or else, a young teenage girl named Clem will learn how far she'll go to defend her principles.     Welcome to a future that is being sold as utopia by those living in the city, the megacity in the Midwest of the United States. I have to say I was excited to read this when it was sent to me, I love Zack's writing and I always, always rave about Piotr's skill as an artist and illustrator. Plus anytime there is a future that looks too good to be true it usually is so finding that dark side is what I am sure most of us are going to be looking for. This is already off to a sensational start and when you read the book you realise that this isn't like anything else we've seen with similar vein or slant to it. Usually a future city like this will have mutated humans or the dregs of society, too dangerous to have around. So I really like how this is being presented.     I really like the way that his is being told. For an introductory issue this is one of the best we've seen lately. The opening does what it needs to do and introduces us the new way of life in the megacity that seems to have no name. Our tour guides seem well practised in the art of the sales pitch as if they go through the motions rather really sell you on it. The meat of the story however is where the real tale begins. I like seeing that those living outside the city appear like they live out in the old western frontier instead of in the future. The way that these guys are able to really capture a not so apocalyptic future and merge it with elements that the reader can find familiar.     The story & plot development that we see through how the sequence of events unfold as well as how the reader learns information is perfectly presented. This has a natural flow to how the events are seen and it makes for good strong reading. The character development is solid and as far as meeting them for the first time goes Zack does a magnificent job in getting us an immediate feel for the characters. The pacing is superb and as it takes us through the pages revealing the twists and turns it works with everything to create an intense and dramatic ebb & flow.     Piotr is a bloody brilliant artist and as we see through the strength of his linework and it's varying weights showcasing this level of quality in the attention to detail. I don't know how he manages to do it but there is such a difference in the way we see the city compared to the towns on the outskirts. From this harsh, cold and sterile environment to this warm, inviting and alive feelings is mindbogglingly impressive work. The utilisation of the backgrounds is phenomenal and an integral part of this storytelling process. The way they work within the composition in the panels to bring out depth perception, scale and that overall sense of size and scope is impressive. The utilisation of the page layouts and how we see the angles and perspective in the panels show us this masters eye for storytelling. I really like the colour work we see here a well. Brad really is able to bring the futuristic and the grittiness of each sector to the work that helps us understand each one. The way that we see the various hues and tones within the colours create the shading, highlights and shadow work is astonishingly well rendered. Just to see how well he understands how colour works and which colours are needed and can be utilised is sublime. ​     Everything you could possibly need to see how things work, escalate and the catalyst for how the books seems to need to move forward is right here. In what configuration well that's for you to discover when you pick up the book. This won't be anything you are expecting it to be and that alone shakes up the status quo considerably well. This is a creative team powerhouse and they've managed to put lighting in the bottle here and I cannot wait to see how the rest of this story unfolds!

[lmlaw]

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