#protect-chopin

[lilazooo]

Jason Todd who is a big softie for animals. He’ll break a guy’s jaw but feed a stray cat like it’s royalty. He secretly fosters dogs through an anonymous rescue name.

Jason Todd who is sarcastic and blunt, but always says what needs to be said. He can’t stand sugarcoating or dishonesty.

Jason Todd who sleeps with a gun under his pillow and a book on his chest. Usually doesn’t sleep much though.

Jason Todd who is painfully self-aware. He knows his trauma, doesn’t always talk about it, but makes gallows humor jokes like it’s his love language.

Jason Todd who calls Alfred “Pops” or “Alfie” when he wants something.

Jason Todd who has a complicated but fiercely loyal bond with Dick. He’ll roll his eyes and argue with him, but would still throw a punch for him with no hesitation.

Jason Todd who loves teasing Tim, especially about coffee addiction and tech obsessions, but secretly checks in on him more than anyone else does.

Jason Todd who would die for Damian. He acts annoyed by him but actually loves mentoring him in his own messy, older-brother way.

Jason Todd who still calls Bruce “the old man” but deep down, he’s still the lost boy who wanted to make his dad proud.

Jason Todd who listens to rock, 90s hip hop, and classical music when he's in a broody mood (especially Chopin or Tchaikovsky).

Jason Todd who can cook. Mostly comfort foods like chili, grilled cheese, and big pasta dishes. He learned to survive on his own and secretly loves feeding people.

Jason Todd who wears beat-up leather jackets, combat boots, and fingerless gloves like a religion. Smells like gunpowder, sandalwood, and motor oil.

Jason Todd who has tattoos, probably a Shakespeare quote over his ribs and something symbolic on his shoulder. Scars, of course, are everywhere.

Jason Todd who falls hard, even if he doesn’t admit it. Love terrifies him because he knows how loss feels.

Jason Todd who uses the push-pull dynamic. He’ll draw you in with intensity, then ghost you the moment he realises he's feeling too much.

Jason Todd who is jealous, protective, and possessive—but subtle. He will glare at someone across the room, then pretend he’s totally unbothered.

Jason Todd who writes letters he never sends. For lovers, for Bruce, for the people he’s lost. Just so he can get it out of his system.

[polish-art-tournament]

sculptures* round 1 poll 1

*and installations and some other stuff i didn't know where to put

Smok Wawelski (The Wawel Dragon) by Bolesław Chromy, 1969:

propaganda: This is a famous and beloved statue outside of Wawel Castle (pronounced Vavel) in Kraków. The story of Smok Wawelski goes that he'd been eating all the animals (and people?) in Kraków so the king ordered his sons to kill him, but obviously the dragon is very dangerous. The princes tricked him by filling animals with tar and leaving them out. He ate them and when he tried to breathe fire, his insides burned up. There is a second version that says a cobbler tricked him into eating a tar-filled sheep and the tar made him so thirsty he drank the Wisła (the Vistula, the river that runs through Kraków) until he burst.

Fun fact, those are not extra arms but rather extra heads. Also, you can text the dragon to ask him to breathe fire, and then he does. He gets thousands of texts a day.

about the artist: When I was a kid, I was sure this statue was the actual Smok Wawelski that had somehow carbonized over a thousand years, but alas no, a guy made it in 1969 out of bronze. Bronisław Chromy was an artist, a professor, and Dragon Mother. He passed away in 2017.

Pomnik Syreny (Monument of the Warsaw Mermaid) by Ludwika Nitschowa, 1939:

propaganda: The Warsaw Mermaid is the symbol of Warsaw, and her image is all over the city in various forms. She's a warrior and is depicted with a sword and shield. She lives in the Wisła River (the Vistula), which runs thru Warsaw. There are different variants of her legend, but they all have something to do with her involvement in the foundation of Warsaw and her eternal role in protecting the city.

There are several statues of Syrenka around Warsaw, but the one I picked was created by Ludwika Nitschowa in 1936. It is made of gunmetal, and it stands on the bank of the Wisła. The model for this statue was a Polish poetess named Krystyna Krahelska. Krahelska joined the Home Army during WWII and participated in the Warsaw Uprising. She was shot and killed while rescuing a wounded colleague. I think it's really special the way the myth of Syrenka played out like this -- she really did protect the city, like in the legend. Incidentally, this statue was one of the few pieces of art in Warsaw not destroyed by the war.

tldr: badass warrior mermaid, made by a badass woman, modeled on a badass woman. women!

about the artist: Ludwika Nitschowa is the creator several famous statues in Poland, including of Maria Skłodowska-Curie, Copernicus, and several of Fryderyk Chopin.

both statues were submitted by @slaviclore 🐉🧜‍♀️

[leighsartworks216]

Kiss of Fire

Sylus x gn!Reader

Why yes I did go through the classical and instrumental music I have on my phone just to find the perfect song I wanted him to be playing. My other consideration was actually a song from Bioshock 2, "Nightmare"

Title from "Kiss of Fire" by Georgia Gibbs

Warnings: fluff, mild sexual content, kissing, biting, marking, licking, hair pulling, grinding, teasing, short + sweet

Word Count: 709

Main Masterlist

First - Second - Third LADs Masterlists

AO3

Tag List Form

"If I was dying and a kiss would save my life, how would you kiss me?"

Sylus looks over his shoulder, hand raised to pluck one of his vinyls from the shelf. He quirks a brow up at you even as a smirk tugs at his lip. "If you want me to kiss you, sweetie, you don't have to play games."

Heat rises to your cheeks. "I know!" you defend, flustered. "I was just curious!"

He chuckles as he turns back. His fingers slip out a vinyl with practiced ease. It's a comforting process for him; choosing the music, feeling it in his hands as he pulls it from its cover, aligning it on his old gramophone, dropping the needle. Chopin's Nocturne No. 20 in C Sharp sounds quietly from the horn, quiet and almost haunting in nature. He hums along as best he can as he sets the cover aside and saunters back over to you, sat atop his desk to be with him while he works.

He still towers over you, large and all encompassing as he stands between your legs. His cologne floods your senses. The heat of his body radiating off of him as he rests his hands beside you, leaning down closer. Your heart races in your chest, breath hitched in anticipation. He revels in the way your pupils dilate for him.

His eyes cling to yours as he tilts his head, ducking lower, until his lips find your neck. A shiver courses through your body. Kisses trail from your jaw down to your shoulder. A brush of teeth here and there, a hot lave of his tongue over your skin.

"Any kind of kiss?" he murmurs against you.

You gasp softly, reaching out to hold onto his sweater. "What?"

He chuckles. Low and rumbling, vibrating in his chest so you can feel it against your fingers. "Would any kind of kiss save you, sweetie?" he asks again. He leaves an open-mouth kiss just behind your ear, groaning softly with appreciation that sets your soul on fire. "I'd hate to mess it up and lose my favorite kitten."

"Has to be on the lips," you breathe out. Your eyes flutter shut as he moves to the other side, sucking lightly at your pulse to feel the rapid beating against his lips. "O-Or it won't work."

He hums again, pulling away just enough to see his handiwork: a small mark left on your skin, promising to bruise later. He presses a delicate kiss over it.

When he lifts his head from your neck, your eyes shoot open to watch him. A roguish smirk dances on his soft lips. You can't help staring at them, enamored with the deep-set cupid's bow and their pretty shade of pink. He wets his lips with his tongue just to see your eyes track the movement. He leans in, brushing his nose affectionately against yours, just to have your eyes on his again.

"Tell me if this works, sweetie."

It's barely a peck at first. A light ghosting of lips. You can't help surging forward for more, capturing his mouth fully and eagerly. He kisses back hungrily. He leans forward, pressing you back into his desk until you're laying down, his hand cradling the back of your head to protect you from the hard wood. His hips press up against yours. His tongue licks at the seam of your lips.

You open your mouth to him with such a pretty sound it makes him groan. Tangle your fingers tightly in his hair, tugging at soft silver strands to keep him close. He loves it. Loves the way you control him, loves the sting of pain at his scalp, loves the heat of your tongue sliding against his as he licks into your mouth.

It's addicting. It's fire, burning you up from the inside, released through scalding caresses and heated breaths. The song that plays on seems too soft compared to its audience. Too gentle, where you're biting and scratching for more.

"Did it work?" he pants against your mouth.

You shake your head, wrapping your legs around his hips, ankles crossed, pulling him in. He gladly rolls against you, greedily swallowing up your moan.

"I won't stop until it does."

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @rebloggingislove @moonlight-inthe-sea @persepolys @satorubabee @sleepykittycx @perla-drg @17chuuya @slovesyouuu @leiakitty

[erisweekofficial]

Fanfic

One Year Later (OC x Eris) by @afandomangel 👑

Until I see you again (OC x Eris) by @mika-no-sekai-blog

Protection (Eris x Reader) by @littlest-w01f 👑

All’s well that ends well to end up with you (Eris x Reader) by @daycourtofficial 👑

yea, though i walk (Azris) by @brunetterebel010 👑

What Could Have Been (Eris x Elain) by @nocasdatsgay

Suffering his Scent (Azris) by @neciebee 👑

Falling For You (Eris x Reader) by @bubybubsters

Hold Me While You Wait (Eris x OC) by @fieldofdaisiies

Bedroom manners (Eris x Reader) by @lady-of-tearshed 👑

Pinky Promise (Eris x Reader) by @pit-and-the-pen👑

Still Beautiful Things by @climbthemountain2020 👑

Pull Me in Deeper Ch 17 (Eris x OC) by @zenkindoflove 👑

Ensnaring Marks (Eris x Reader) by @surielstea 👑

A Bond of Song & Flames Ch 1 (Eris x OC) by @sadiegirl2021 👑

Under the Weeping Beech (Azris) by @chunkypossum

Waiting for You (Eris x Reader) by @mcuamerica 👑

Day 1 - Bonds | Bargains by @clockwork-ashes 👑

A Wound So Deep (Azris) by @acourtofladydeath

An Unconventional Bargain by @hellcat8908 👑

Just Enough Light to Cast Shadows Ch 22 (Azris) by @jules-writes-stories 👑

Of Our Own Devices (Eris x Reader) by @illyrianbitch 👑

Gone Through Enough (Eris x Reader) by @thelov3lybookworm

The Uncertainty of Spring (Eris x OC) by @daycourtofficial 👑

Tomorrow Can Wait (Azris) by @myromanempiree 👑

By Turns by @jon-snows-man-bun 👑

Roots In My Dreamland (Eris x OC) by @lucienarcheron

Always An Angel, Never A God (Eris x OC) by @chairofchaos 👑

Your Scars on My Pulse (Azris) by @shadowsandlint 👑

To Dust or To Gold Ch 2 (Neris) by @queercontrarian

An Exchange in Etiquette (Eris x Reader) by @qwimblenorrisstan 👑

Into the Dark (Eris x Reader) by @prythianpages 👑

Lady Luck (Eris x OC) by @ginandtobacco 👑

Bond (Azris) by @thomasisaslut 👑

Being Seen (Eris x Elain) by @vague-shadows 👑

The Crushing Burden of Those Before Us (Eris x Reader) by @dee-writes-smut 👑

A Page From Another's Book (Eris x Reader) by @readychilledwine

Autumn Leaves (Eris x Reader) by @mirandasidefics

Fanart

Eris' bond with Autumn by @elleybug 👑

Eris x Alexius comissioned by @luciensdefenseattorney (commissioned by @zenkindoflove)

Neris Art by @rosesncarnations

Worried Eris by its.miriart (commissioned by @secret-third-thing)

Eris and his mate by @/artbyellat (on instagram)

Azris Art by @lucychanart (commissioned by: @moonpatroclus & @cauldronblssd

Eris Week, Day 1: Bonds (Azris) by @the-darkestminds 👑

Misc.

day one : bonds ( m o t h e r ) by @spore-loser 👑

Eris Week Moodboard by @fieldofdaisiies

Chopin by @chairofchaos 👑

Vanserra brothers in a modern AU by @wishfulimaginings 👑

Thank you for all your contributions! It’s incredible and almost unbelievable how many stories and creative ideas you’ve brought to life on just the first day!

There was a bit of confusions about the crowns- so sorry for that. If it's your first eris week, let us know! If we missed giving you a 👑, please let us know so we can add it to the masterlist. We'll make sure that all masterlists are up to date before the full event masterlist is released 🧡

(divider by @tsunami-of-tears)

[naoristerling]

Hueningkai fic rec

like the moon ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧��� huening kai | 8.4k @beom-pyu

you love the ocean more than anything else in this big, wide world. you treasure the crisp air and the salty, but comforting scent of the atmosphere, the way the rays of the sun would bounce off of the rushing waves and onto your skin fills your heart with an uncontained warmth, and the sunset reflected on the surface brings you a sense of serenity. you have loved the ocean since you were little—growing up on the coast, the sea was basically your backyard.

[duality.] ─── ⋆ h. kai | 10k @miupow

An unexpected discovery about a friend sends you spiraling-- sure, hueningkai was cute, but he wasn't your type. at least, you thought he wasn't.

to the mountains - huening kai | 5k @beomie3

your friend group decides to take a weekend getaway trip to the mountains, but it isn't until you stay in a cabin in the woods that your crush on one of them begins to make itself known. mutually :)

Berry Sorbet // Huening Kai | 9k @banggyu0308

in which you share one of the five senses with your soulmate, and the taste of your lipgloss is on Kai's tongue all week.

stupid cupid! ` . ᡣ𐭩 ་ જ⁀➴ |6.5k @jjunieworld

hueningkai, better known as cupid, is known for his art in helping people fall in love. shooting his arrows here and there, getting those who are meant to be together. what happens when after he shoots one of his love arrows at you, the other one somehow ends up hitting him?

policy of truth and lies | ☆ |3.3k @wave2tyun

a little white lie never hurts sometimes. to what lengths are you willing to go to protect it?

two best friends in a room ❀.* | 7k @beomgyuslilracha

if you had a thousand won for every time you heard the question "are you two dating?" or just the words "you two should just date already!", you and kai could probably afford to buy a house together.

in which two childhood best friends are the only ones in all of seoul who can't seem to see that they're obviously in love with each other.

Soulmates | 1k @yournameloveskpop

Hueningkai has a strange heart on his wrist. He doesn’t know how it got there but recently he’s been getting mood swings that were not his own, getting bruises for no reason etc. That’s when he meets Y/N who works at the cafe that txt walk into one day.

Geralmente não leio histórias tão pequenas mas essa foi tão fofinha <33

NAKED IN MANHATTAN | 4.6k @sook9i

⋆｡°✩ After a drunk conversation leads you to question your feelings for your bandmate and friend, Hueningkai, maybe a night together in Manhattan is just what you need to clear the air.

or else what? | 4k @hyukalyptus

hueningkai x fem!reader | enemies to enemies with benefits(?). NSFW/MDNI!

Series

Anyone Else But You, a six-part series @harmonicakai

It's starting to feel like you're the only person in the world that Huening Kai isn't best friends with, and you're determined to figure out why.

[storiesfromafan]

The Battle - Mattheo x Reader

A/N: in my pole I put up an option of something different, and I think this fits that. As this was a long time coming, nearly a year and a half 😅

This is the final part to two other one-shots, which many always wanted a final part to. Even a comment from earlier in the year brought me back to this idea. I did start it but never finished it, for at that time I wasn't confident enough in it. But with my gained experience I was ready to give it another go 😊

I don't have a song for this one, as I couldn't find the right one for it. But I did listen to a lot of classical music; Chopin, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Bach, etc.

So I hope you all enjoy the final part. Also, forgive any spelling/grammer mistakes.

Previous: Traitor and Dandilion

Tag list: @ash-whimsicalfanfic @soomanybands @phoenix666stuff @beekeepingageissome @kalulakunundrum @se7enteen--black-blog @plk-18 @eneywey

(The best gif i could find of this scene)

With the fall of Dumbledor, Hogwarts felt cold. Touched by a darkness, which licked at the skin of the students that returned for the next year. There was barely any life in the halls. The light that shone into the buildings were gloomier. The animals on the grounds scarcely showed themselves. And paintings rarely speaking, almost fearful of something. Ultimately that something finally hit the school.

It was Voldemort, and his death eaters. They came for the school, as its protector was now gone. If Hogwarts was to fall, that would be the last hope all magic kind had. This school had been a beaconing light. Dumbledor had guided and protected so many, and now it was the students turn to defend what their fallen Headmaster had help flourish.

Students and teachers stood together, along with The Order and various others. All wanting this nightmare to be over once and for all. The protective field over the school held for a good while, eventually hitting its breaking point, allowing death eaters into the school. The battle raged on. Everyone doing all they could to fight the darkness. Among them was yourself, thankful for all that you’ve learnt in the classroom and outside of it.

When the death eaters fell back, you were all given a moment of reprieve. Looking around the Great Hall, remembering a time when it was filled with four long house tables, at the head the tables of the teachers and the overall joy and warmth it saw over the years. Now it housed the injured and, regrettably, the dead. Filled with shock, you looked upon the bodies of Lupin and Tonks. They lay there so still, it didn’t seem right. Next was the Weasley’s and how they huddled around the lifeless body of Fred. His twin, George was beside himself. You could only imagine what it was like to lose your other half.

Mindless you moved from the room, hand on a pillar just outside the Great Hall. Leaning against it, you slowly slide down to a crouching position. You continued to stare out in front of you. Mind trying to process everything, yet struggling to. A set of hands wrapped your upper arms, the person before you speaking but it sounded like you were under water, their words muffled.

“Get me someone who can look her over! She’s in shock!” They called to another. Coming into view you see Neville being the person whose hands were grounding you. “(Y/N), are you hurt?”

It took a moment to for his words to sink in, and you shook your head, no. Words dying in your throat. Which burned, along with your eyes, from the tears forming yet won’t fall. Neville stayed with you until another teacher came to check on you, once confirmed you were physically fine, they moved on. Yet Neville remained with you, shortly after Luna joined you both. She also tried to calm you, the best one could in this situation.

Among all the thoughts running through your mind, the words Mattheo said to you last year rang out. Next year, don’t come back to Hogwarts. I can’t say anything...but I need you to be safe. Now you know why he said those words. It was his way of warning you. Mattheo tried to protect you, but you hadn’t listened. But could you blame yourself? You were upset with him, and thought nothing of it. Yet, you wonder if you had listened, or he had told others, could most of the death from today be avoided?

Neville, not being able to handle the cries of the injured or those that they have lost, grabbed one of your arms. He mentioned something about you both getting fresh air. With that, he navigated you towards an exit, one of the larger side entrances to the castle. You placed a hand on a large crumbled pillar for balance, while drawing in some fresh air. Neville made sure you were alright before walking down the stairs, and around the rubble scattered around the entrance.

You looked up and around, taking in the damage done to the old School. Heart breaking from the devastation. Pushing away from the pillar, you made your way down the stairs, slowly the shock coming down. You watched as your friend walked over to a pile of rubble, and picking up the old Sorting Hat. He dusted it briefly before staring into the void, something grabbing his attention. Unfortunately, an approaching noise caught both your attention, your heads lifting to the ravaged bridge connecting the school to the outside world.

You both could see a large group headed your way, something about it making your stomach drop. Neville limped further into the courtyard, towards the approaching cluster. That drop to your stomach was for good measure, for at the head of the group was Voldemort. And as you moved forward you spotted the captured Hagrid, who looked to be holding a body. A cold sensation encased you when Ginny moved past you, along with her father, and then her questioning of who Hagrid was carrying.

“Harry Potter is...dead!” Proclaimed Voldemort in delight.

The no Ginny screamed hit you deeply, and her father holding her back broke your heart. By this point every able body moved out from inside the Castle. Their faces a mix of worry and defiance. You were just like them as you stepped up beside Neville. You stood there as Voldemort spoke, preaching to put faith in him. Yet all knew it was not faith, rather he wanted to be feared.

“Harry Potter is dead!” He joyfully boasted to his death eaters, who just laughed. Some natural while other forced. “Now is the time to declare yourself! Come forward and join us, or die” Voldemort addressed you all, eyes looking over the crowd.

Breaking the silence was Malfoy, calling to Draco to join him and his wife. Many looked to the blonde and his parents. You kept your eyes forward, watching Voldemort closely. Eventually Draco moved to join his mother, as she called for him. But before he could be with her, Voldemort praised the blonde in passing. Even awkwardly hugging the young man. Finally free, Draco didn’t waste time to be with his mother, them both giving Lucious the cold shoulder as they moved through the crowd.

Before you could stop him, Neville moved forward. Some snarky words from Voldemort and laughter from ththdeath eaters, Neville never backed down from them. He spoke the truth, yet to Voldemort out of turn. His words hitting everyone who was fighting for good deeply, almost lighting a fire in every one of you. Voldemort just laughed at his words, before those beady eyes of his landed on you.

“And what about you?” The Dark Lord addressed you.

Surprised by the attention, you took a step back only for a figure to aperate behind you. They grabbed you by the hair before forcing you forward. You heard the protests from those on your side, yet none moved when Voldemort lifted his wand toward them. Roughly you were pushed onto the ground before him. The sickly joyous smile upon his face as you looked up at him. You’d never faced evil head on before, and you noted you hope you never will in the future, if you survive this moment.

“Your name" demanded Voldemort. When you did not comply, he repeated himself as Bellatrix once more pulled your hair.

“(Y/N)!” You cried in pain and fear.

Voldemort leant down, tutting you. “That wasn’t so hard, was it...”

Bellatrix just giggled, while the reptile like man moved around before you. Like he was thinking or musing over something. You were unsure what was to come right now. As well as wondering where Mattheo was, you had not seen him in the crowd, let alone the battle.

“Bring him forward!” Bellowed Voldemort, turning to those behind him.

You watched as the crowd slowly parted, and being pulled from their rankings was a tied-up Mattheo, who looked to have taken a beating. Dried blood upon his face at his nose and lips. You looked at him in shock, which he mirrored on his own face, along with fear. Your ex was brought to Voldemort’s side, he looked to his father in utter confusion.

“Do you know who this is?” Voldemort asked his offspring.

“My ex" Mattheo replied, attempting to be cold and aloof.

Voldemort nodded, yet not buying the young man’s words. “Yes, the ex you broke up with for a Slytherin girl. The ex who you wanted nothing to do with, yet made sure to keep an eye on. Along with protection. That ex!” Voldemort’s voice was screaming at the end, looking to his son with such anger.

Mattheo sputtered, not finding the words he needed to please his father. His silence just fueling Voldemort’s anger to rage. Swiftly he turned back to you, his cold hands grasping your chin and pulling you to look at Mattheo. He looked at you like a frightened child, and you understood and didn’t blame him. Yet you felt some solace in knowing, even apart, he had kept tabs on you, trying to keep you safe.

But right now, he felt that he’d failed. Mattheo had hoped breaking up with you, and going with a Slytherin girl would get his father off your scent. To Voldemort love was weak, and in that, he would say Mattheo was weak. Yet he did what he did for love, to Mattheo love wasn’t weak. It was strength to do what had to be done, even if it hurt you.

“Look at her Mattheo, really look at her!” His father yelled. “She is the definition of weak, love is weak. And in turn...she made you weak”.

Letting go of you, Voldemort rose and moved back to his son. He looked disgusted in his offspring. A father who’s son failed him. And he voiced those words to Mattheo. So much so, that Neville spoke up again, having enough of what was happening to his friend. Bellatrix let go of you and turned to the young man, about to hit him with a spell. When there was noise from the back, and many saw Harry's body move from Hagrid, dropping to the ground.

What happened next seemed to move in a fast speed. One-minute Naginie was hit with fire from Harry's wand, and the next you’re being pulled up from the ground by Neville, who’d pulled Godric's sword from the sorting hat. Everyone scattered, death eaters for the bridge or toward the castle, everyone you had fought with heading back into the castle. You along with them, thanks to Neville. But you did look back at Mattheo, who had been grabbed by a death eater and dragged back into the cluster.

You were pushed back inside while Neville stood guard at the door. Yet he flew back when holding up the sword as Voldemort spent a spell his way. You moved into the castle. Jostled by fellow students in a hurry. Most taking on death eaters, yourself included when one shot a spell your way. Doing your best, you sent back your own. Back and forth till you finally knocked them back. Making your way around, helping those that needed it. You made it back outside in time to see Neville slice Naginie, thus taking out the final horcrox, and Voldemort too.

Relief washed over you, and with it your guard going down. The next minute you had been rushed by a death eater, and down the stairs you went hard. Landing on the ground, head hitting large debris that lay there. You heard your name, and felt someone picking you up. But you couldn’t make heads or tails who it was. And then it went black.

You groaned, eyes cracking open to be met with light. Quickly you closed your eyes, detesting the natural light. Slowly you opened them again, allowing yourself to adjust. Once done, you noted the hospital room you were in. Panic began to rise just before a familiar face popped into the room; Luna.

She beamed upon seeing you awake. “Oh thank goodness!” She sighed, making her way to you. “We were beginning to wonder when you’ll awake".

Confused you questioned her. And she filled you in that you were at St Mungo's, that you had been out for nearly two weeks and the aftermath of the battle of Hogwarts. To which you questioned; battle of Hogwarts? Of course Luna looked at you like you were crazy, spouting off about the death eaters and Voldemort. Which didn’t ring a bell. That was when she went to get a doctor. Who came rather quickly. With some tests and a check-up, it looked as if you had memory loss. It looks like you couldn’t recall anything since the start of Fifth Year.

“It’s a mix of amnesia and stress, as well as shock, from the battle" the doctor had informed your parents, just outside your door. “All I can suggest is letting her be, and hopefully in time, her memory will come back”.

You had tried to remember, focusing on anything and everything. Even talking with Neville, Luna and other students. And yet nothing. It was frustrating you. This missing part of you. You even voiced to Luna, who seemed to be holding back information, that you felt like a part of you was missing. She brushed it off, saying it will all come back. Yet, what if it didn’t? You couldn’t go on with this feeling that something wasn’t there, like an extension of yourself missing.

Upon finally being released from the hospital, your parents took you home. Fussing over you and dotting on you all the time. You understood why. They could have lost you. And you felt the guilt for it. Yet something in you told you, it had been the right thing to do. Briefly you recall fighting but it wasn’t enough to fully remember. But you know you had faught for the right reasons.

Months flew by, bits and pieces returned to you. Not full pictures, but large pieces of a puzzle, that you could make out what was happening in it. That was your memory. Then an opportunity arose, many of your fellow students were heading back to Hogwarts. To see the old castle, how she had been fixed up and to remember those who had been lost. At first your parents protested you returning. But you argued this might be the best way to recover more, possibly all, your memories. And with that, their fight was lost.

Riding the Hogwarts Express was not necessary, but for nostalgia you did it. And so did many others. You sat with students you never would have before. The experience you all went through bringing you all together.

Upon arriving at Hogwarts, that familiar warmth washed over you. The joy you felt at the start of every year seeping into you. Only it was tinged with sadness and loss. You don’t recall them all, but you knew many had fallen on these grounds. Walking the Halls, you continued to feel mixed emotions as you wondered on. In passing you saw faces of those you remembered, sharing pleasantries and stories. It was like that all day, till the point you couldn’t take it any more.

So you slipped out of one of the exits, which lead you out towards the Quiddich field. And from there you walked to your favourite spot among the wild flowers. The fresh air felt good in your lungs, and the soft breeze had your hair tickling the side of your face. Yet you enjoyed it all, and the walk. But you were surprised to find someone at your spot. You slowed down as you approached them, confusion written on your face.

Mattheo had come back to Hogwarts with the need to make amends. Yet many were unhappy of his return, still hurting over what he had done. Though not willingly. He had been a pawn in his father’s game. And if Mattheo had stepped out of turn, he would have been severely pushed. After the battle he had been brought before the Ministry, a trial was held and with some favourable factors, Mattheo was saved a trip to Azkaban. But he did receive a punishment, working for the Ministry in the lower levels. Eventually he slipped out and to your favourite spot in the wild flowers. Picking at the flowers while deep in thought.

Ever since the battle, when he had watched you get rushed by a death eater and then fall down, hitting your head badly, Mattheo recalled it all so vividly. Wishing he had been quicker, or that he had done something long before the battle. He didn’t want you to get hurt, yet you did. A hurt that meant you forgetting a chunk of your life! He had heard that you could only recall before Fifth Year. That meant you didn’t remember the relationship you both had. Or his ending it. Or the hurt he put you through. It was a small relief that was out weighted by guilt.

He’d just picked a dandelion when approaching feet hit his ears, the rustle of grass making your presence known. Upon looking up – hand over his eyes to help fight the afternoon light – Mattheo was shocked to see you. You shot him a look of uncertainty, as if you were trying to place who he was. Of course, you didn’t remember him. He had hoped maybe that part of your memory had come back. Yet, a small part of him was happy you didn’t remember him. That he had been a dark stain on your life. Self obliviate was better then the spell.

“Ah, hi" came your bell like voice, music to Mattheo's ears. “Didn’t realise others liked this place". You finished with a small, awkward laugh.

He twirled the dandelion between his thumb and finger. “It’s a good spot. Comfortable and away from people...”

You nodded, whole heartedly agreeing. “I-I'm (Y/N)”.

A sad smile crossed Mattheo's lips before he got up from his spot on the ground. “I know".

You were surprised. Brain racking itself for his name, but coming up short. “I'm so sorry...I can’t recall your name. After the battle, I’ve been suffering from amnesia...”

Mattheo politely nodded. “I heard, that is such a shame (Y/N)”.

The way he said your name, like there was a familiarity with you. Which only confused you more. Looking down at the weed between his fingers, Mattheo looked back up to you. There was a sadness to his eyes. Leaving you even more confused. He took a few steps forward, a soft sad smile on his gorgeous face.

He placed the dandelion in your hands. “Oh, you should make a wish!” You said pushing it back to his hands.

Mattheo shook his head. “I’m afraid it would be wasted on me...as the one thing I care about is safe" – he placed the weed in your hand one final time, this time letting go of your hand – “you take this wish...”

And with that Mattheo walked past you, hands pushed deep into his pants pockets as he headed back for the castle. It’s true. Mattheo was happy just knowing you were safe now. And him being far away from you was the best thing he could do for you. Sure, it hurt to have you asking his name. But it was for the best.

You watched him walk away, the dandelion twirling between your thumb and finger. You thought him strange, and weird. Why was he so sad? And you never got his name! Shrugging it off you looked down at the weed and decided to take his wish. Taking in a deep breathe, you concentrated on the wish you wanted. And when you held it clearly in your mind, you blew at the weed. It’s seeds released from the stem, floating off and up. Taking with it your wish.

Please, let me remember everything...

With one last look in the direction of the young man had walked, you took over his spot. Only you fell back, basking in the grass, the smell of the wild flower and the last warmth from the afternoon sun. You felt comfortable, yet not content. Something was missing. Subconsciously, your left hand reached out beside you, only grasping a chunk of grass.

That’s not right...

You expected to feel the warm flesh of a larger hand. It encasing yours in a gentle hold. Their thumb caressing across the top of your hand. A memory came back, that hand and a body that held you close as you both laughed. Their laughter was airy and gruff. You felt their warmth physically, and their laughter warming your heart.

“You’re so cute" a male said with a chuckle. “Can I keep you...?”

You giggled, burying your face in his chest, “...you’re so funny!”

You couldn’t hear his name, but you know you said it. Your brows drew together as you tried to recall their name. Whoever he was, he was special to you. And you forgot him. Your chest ached at the realisation. Slowly other memories with this male came back. From sweet and caring moments, to fights. But then there was a memory that felt like your heart was breaking. It was the moment whatever between you both ended.

They ended whatever was between you. They were cold and uncaring. Moving on without batting an eyelash. You on the other hand were a mess, crushed and hurt. Left picking up the pieces of your heart. While he moved on quickly. Then your last memory brings you back to this spot. Exchange of words between you and the young man. Even while hurt and angry, you asked if he was alright. But what surprised you was their apology.

“How can you just say that?” You questioned. “How does apologising make up for what I’ve been through?”

“It doesn’t. But I want you to know that I am sorry-"

You scoffed. “Yeah right. The ....... ...... I know would never say sorry. He might show it, but never openly apologise”.

He frowned. “That is true, but i want to put it into words. I at least owe you that...”

“You owe me nothing! Nor do I want it!” you yelled.

It got fuzzy again, slipping in and out of focus and sound. Holding a hand to your head you pushed on. Not remembering what happened after that, but the end of your interaction. You sat up holding your head, eyes closed focusing on the recollection.

“It’s alright” you sighed. “I don’t entirely forgive you, but I half accept it”

“You do?” He choked out. “Why?”

“I won’t lie. I was hurt. I was angry” you looked him dead in the eyes. “But what has it gotten me? Where has it gotten me? It has left me bitter, and it’s gotten me no where”.

You saw him nodding.

“So, I’d rather accept some of it than nothing. Because I look back at our time together and I know I was happy” you said fondly. “You made me happy Theo. And I would love to see you in as much agony as me, but part of me still hates to see it”.

“Just part?”

You lowered your hand, eyes blinking at the nickname; Theo. Finally something to go by. Now what was his name? You thought of the memories, every time his name was mentioned, you recalled it. Though muffled, with each thought of it, their name began to clear little by little. Before you sat there in joy from it coming back to you.

“Mattheo...” you said softly. “Mattheo...” you repeated a little louder.

Saying his name seemed to awaken something in you. Those memories began to clear, becoming crisp. Sound perfect. Rising to your feet you turned in the direction the young man, correction Mattheo had gone. Your heart beat picked up, twisting in a sadness yet yearning. Slowly you began to head his way. Every step something new flooding back to you, and when you picked up the pace, so did the return of memories. By the time you saw his retreating form, about ninety percent of your memories were back.

You looked to Mattheo with tears in your eyes. Not believing how you could forget him so easily. The one who stole your heart before shattering it. The boy who you could never replace because he was it for you. Even if you were angry and hurt. He would always be the one you want. Though you know Mattheo wasn’t right for you, you didn’t care. He broke your heart, but you know he could fix it.

“Mattheo!” You called.

Said young man froze. His heart skipping a beat from that familiar voice. One that just said his name. No. It couldn’t be. You didn’t even recognised him. You wouldn’t remember him. Then he heard it being called yet again. Slowly, Mattheo turned to find you standing away from him, hands moving down from your mouth. He was surprised. It was you. You called his name!

Without realising it, Mattheo took a few steps forward, which lead to you moving toward him. He was slow, mind reeling from your recollection of him. And you moved fast because you needed him. You launched yourself at him, arms wrapping around his waist, face burying into his chest. And just like that you were both taken back. Back to early on in your relationship. When there was always warmth and care. And no Voldemort or impending war. Just the moments of pure happiness.

“I’m sorry I forgot you...” you sniffled into him. “I’m sorry you were alone...”

Holding you tightly Mattheo felt himself want to crumble. You always had that effect on him. Yet you were always there to hold him together. And right now was no different. He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. So in stead Mattheo held you tightly to him, needing you right now more than ever. In a world were everything was falling apart, Mattheo needed you to hold him up and together. And you always would be there, to be his rock.

Pulling back, you looked up at Mattheo, who looked down at you. Both of you seeing in the others eyes a longing for the other. You rose on your tipping toes, leaning up to place a chaste kiss to Mattheo’s lips. That familiar spark shot through you both from the simple touch. Not long after did Mattheo press his lips firmer to yours, desperate for your affection. And you happily gave it to him. Now and forever.

Pulling back, you looked at each other. That love and sadness between you both. Yet you understood why. After everything it was all so clear. Breaking up with you, being with someone else and the warning.

“I am sorry...” Mattheo said softly, hand coming up to cup your cheek. “I just wanted you to be safe...from him, from me...”

You held him tighter. “I-I know Theo...I am safe, we’re safe now...” you said with a gentle tone.

In that moment Mattheo finally believed it. It was true, all were safe from his father. Who had been defeated by Harry Potter and all that stood with him. Finally it was all over. Looking at you with relief, Mattheo leant down and kissed you once more. A kiss laced with promise and hope, which you eagerly returned. From the ashes of a turbulent time, rose something a new. It was your time to be together.

[r-aindr0p]

Cooking a nice piece for my sideblog rn so I don't have much being worked on for here sorry :'>

I draw most stuff on impulse and saw a Liszt fanart (it's his bday today (22 oct) I think) and it spiraled into classicaloid nostalgia, here it is, my fave irl and in anime my dude Chopin 🙏

Favorite absolute loser in the anime, uses vocaloids in his songs/musik, never touching grass or seeing the sunlight, spirals in a social anxiety attack and summons towers of cardboard to protect himself on his first introduction to the show. Surprisingly one of the only composers that actually pays the rent in the house...

(so close to put on the "erm" glasses on and yap abt that vocaloid song used in guardians of the galaxy 3 and how it's actually a classicaloid ost originally and other stuff related that ticked me off hhhgsrehh)

[nanamineedstherapy]

Tactical Crocs & Emotional Warfare

F!Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

A/N: When your security team costs more than a small country's GDP but the real threat is a raccoon with a Hermès addiction. Enjoy this slice of domestic terrorism (ft. Gojo’s tactical Crocs). No spoilers, but someone does get scolded via Chopin.

Int. Private Security Room—Night—14 Hours To Cameras Up

The koi pond feed flickers. A baby sock drifts across the surface. Nobody flinches.

Half the screens are silent surveillance footage: nursery, koi pond vault, her lower office, the terrarium room that used to be a guest bath. Takahashi (the raccoon, not the CFO) sleeps curled on a miniature futon in a separate window—one paw flung over a satin pillow like royalty.

The red alert blinks in the upper left corner: VOGUE JAPAN CREW ARRIVES. TO BE HELD IN GREEN ROOM.

Nanami Kento doesn’t look up. His pen glides over a set of architectural schematics—his third revision in as many hours. He’s in matte black tactical Kevlar (no one knows why at this hour), sleeves rolled to the forearms, sorcery glasses glinting under sterile lighting. There’s a faint ink smudge on his wrist. He’s furious about it.

Gojo Satoru sits across from him in a Hello Kitty hoodie and tactical Crocs, chewing lychee Pocky like he’s running hostage negotiations out of a Daiso. His wayfarers reflect the screen showing his stolen blindfold around Takahashi’s neck like he’s cosplaying “Bandit” in his sleep. The six-eyes wielder looks like the kind of genius whose brain can calculate missile trajectory mid-nap but will forget to refrigerate breast milk.

Around them, the highest-paid security personnel on the Pacific Rim. A blend of private military, cyberwarfare analysts, and cursed-artifact consultants. Some sip espresso from tactical thermoses. Others pretend they’re not being paid eight figures plus to protect a non-sorcerer pregnant woman, two war criminals, and a possibly sentient raccoon.

The Executive Protection Team (Core Security) had primarily been assembled by Megumi, and they relocated with you to Japan after your marriage, remaining fiercely loyal but now having an equal number of Nanami and Gojo’s people, ex-Jujutsu Teachers (sorcerers).

Former JSDF Special Forces Operatives (1st Airborne Brigade or Special Operations Group)  (¥60M+ each).

Japan's equivalent to Navy SEALs/Delta Force, trained in high-risk protection.

Ex-Metropolitan Police Department (MPD) Security Police (SP) Officer. (¥50M+ each).

SP protects Japanese VIPs (e.g., PM, royals). Only available if retired early. Know all police protocols to avoid legal issues.

Cursed Energy Security Specialists Team (for Sorcerer-Level Threats).

Ex-Jujutsu Tech Professors (Non-Gojo Clan, Independent) (¥100M+ each).

Detects/neutralizes curses without relying on Jujutsu High. 

Limitation: Hard to find; must be lured with extreme pay.

Cursed Artifact Security Consultant (¥80M+ each).

Prevents cursed objects from entering the home (e.g., "gifts" from enemies).

Background: Former curse-user turned private sector.

Cyber/Electronic Warfare Team (For Tech CEO Threats).

Ex-Unit 8200 (Israeli Cyber Intel) + NSA Hacker (¥120M+ each).

Best in the world for preventing corporate espionage/blackmail.

Loophole: Hired as a "consultant" to avoid gov restrictions.

Japanese Cyber Defense Force Veteran (¥60M+ each).

Knows domestic cyber laws inside out.

Perk: Can legally bug your own home (with consent).

Logistics & Emergency Extraction Team.

Private Military Contractor (PMC) Pilot (Ex-USAF/JSDF) (¥70M+ each).

On standby with a private jet/helicopter for emergency medevac (pregnancy risks).

Loophole: Based in international waters (Okinawa) to bypass Japanese airspace laws.

Medical Security Specialist (Ex-SAS Medic) (¥50M+ each).

Trauma Care + can extract during a curse attack.

Perk: Licensed to carry restricted meds (e.g., sorcerer-grade painkillers).

Most of them report to her.

The wife.

CEO.

Third trimester.

Currently asleep, head tilted into Nanami’s neck like a sleepy heat-seeking missile, his other arm absently braced around her to stop her from falling off the ergonomic stool she refuses to replace.

A hushed voice cut through the tension. “She’s got a bounty on her.”

Nanami slammed a folder onto the table hard enough to rattle the coffee cups, his sleeves rolled up to expose forearms corded with muscle. “If we die, Protocol A-47 activates. She goes to the koi pond vault. No exceptions. Tranquilize her if necessary.”

The ex-fighter pilot—a woman with a scar bisecting her eyebrow—leaned back in her chair, flicking a toothpick between her teeth. “We have tranquilizers because she once roundhouse-kicked a logistics officer during a VR Mortal Kombat session. Broke his nose.”

Gojo licked sugar from his thumb and added, “Double-layer barrier on the nursery and Takahashi. If something happens to that raccoon, I’m flattening a country. I won’t say which. It’ll be a surprise.”

The NSA hacker, a twitchy man with dark circles under his eyes, flinched when the raccoon sneezed. “Why does the raccoon have his own panic room?”

Keji—sleek in his silk shirt, biceps straining the fabric as he crossed his arms—didn’t blink. “He has three. One is lined with titanium. One is wallpapered with Gojo-san’s baby photos. We do not enter it.”

Nanami’s pen paused mid-note, his gold wedding band glinting. “She’s not a combatant. She can’t defend herself against c-users.”

Gojo’s smirk vanished, his voice dropping to something darker. “And now, her bounty matches mine.”

The silence in the room was palpable, a live wire. Takahashi, curled in his heated pet bed, let out a tiny snore.

The SAS medic—a woman with a coiled braid and a grip that could crush tracheas—rubbed her temples. “We’re glorified nannies. Emotional support detail. Decoys.”

Nanami didn’t look up. “In case both of us die, Keji initiates the escape route. She doesn’t know about it. She already has insomnia. And stop calling it Project: Dead Dads.”

A former JSDF SOG operative, a wiry man who looked like he hadn’t slept in days, swallowed audibly. “Do we evacuate Takahashi?”

Gojo’s fingers stilled on his watermelon lollipop wrapper, the crinkle deafening. “What did I just say.”

Keji turned toward the security feeds, his profile sharp enough to draw blood. “He has a private jet. Smaller than Madame’s. Faster. I’m not authorized to speak why.”

Nanami’s glasses caught the light as he flipped a page. “There are four exit tunnels. One goes through a matcha café. Another leads under the koi pond, keyed to her retinal scan and Takahashi’s scent profile.”

The ex-jujutsu sorcerer—an older woman with ink-black nails and a lazy, lethal posture—stretched like a cat. “I taught metaphysics at Yale.”

Gojo’s grin returned, wider. “Now you guard a raccoon with a Hermès sponsorship and a platinum AmEx. Life’s a ride.”

An ex-MPD VIP guard, a hulking man with a baby face, muttered into his comms. “I used to run fintech. Now I sterilize breast pumps and sleep beneath a floating shikigami terrarium.”

Ignoring him, Nanami’s thumb brushed the edge of his wedding ring. “In an active threat, she and Takahashi go in the bunker. Keji, you emotionally stabilize her. Feed the raccoon his lavender sardine paste.”

Keji’s jaw tightened, leather gloves creaking. “It’s handmade. Infused with omega-3 and respect. I recite Edith Piaf while preparing it.”

Gojo twirled his sunglasses. “He even sings La Vie en Rose during thunderstorms.”

The lights flickered. No one moved.

Takahashi’s screech echoed down the hall—a sound like an opera-trained kettle being murdered.

Nanami didn’t react. “Seventy-five minutes. That’s all they’re allowed in the residence. Treat this as a red-tier civilian intrusion. Assume bugs, surveillance, and attempted breaches.”

Gojo licked his lollipop slowly. “And no touching the raccoon. She said she’ll cancel the shoot if they mess with his whiskers.”

Every head nodded. No one questioned it.

The upgraded chief logistics officer—a woman with a steel-gray bob and a sniper’s stillness—tapped her tablet. “We’ve staged all bathrooms, prepped diversionary designer fragrances, and disabled motion sensor lighting in the koi corridor. It made the raccoon look too... strategic.”

Keji, adjusting his gloves, coolly added, “Takahashi is sentient. And emotionally fragile.”

Nanami’s voice was sharp as a blade. “Staff wears navy. Press wears tags. Anyone untagged after the 42-minute mark: detain.”

The ex-Metropolitan Police officer, a woman built like a brick wall with a matching smirk, raised a brow. “If questioned?”

Gojo’s teeth flashed in a grin. “Blame jet lag. Or say they threatened the raccoon and his wildlife habitat.”

Another nod followed, deadly serious.

Nanami’s watch gleamed as he switched tabs. “Lighting rig pathways are pre-approved. No one enters the nursery, gaming room, or her lower office. Those are closed sets. If they insist—deny with polite aggression.”

Gojo pointed at the NSA tech, who shrank in his chair. “If they get pushy, hand them the fake NDA. The one with clause 14 about raccoon-based defamation lawsuits.”

The tech, a freckled kid who looked barely old enough to be here, stammered, “We scrubbed her images from the mob lynch incident off the internet. All reverse image searches redirect to a red fox in a Dior scarf.”

Keji’s mouth curled into a smirk. “We paid extra for that one. The fox is a union.”

The medical lead—a woman with biceps that could crack walnuts and a glare to match—slapped her protocol sheet down. “She’s on four prescriptions. None are to be mentioned. If she starts to spiral—”

Keji’s smile was all edges, his gloved fingers tapping once against his biceps. “I’ll realign her using the 'accidental' footage of Nanami-san cooking shirtless last week. It’s preloaded. Subtitled. And scored with Chopin.”

Nanami’s pen froze mid-air. “That wasn’t for anyone.”

Gojo, sprawled across two chairs, licked his lollipop with deliberate slowness. “It was for me. Obviously.”

An ex-JSDF pilot—a woman in her 50s with salt-and-pepper hair and a posture that screamed combat-ready—adjusted her earpiece. “Chopper’s on standby. Six-minute extraction from Okinawa. The vault opens in two. If she won’t move, the fetal monitor’s embedded in her gaming chair.”

Nanami's wedding band caught the light as he massaged his temple. “She won’t move. Not if they bring up Gojo’s hair again.”

Gojo’s sunglasses slid down as he jerked upright, voice dripping with offense. “My hair is real. Shut up.”

The cybersecurity lead asked, “Do we allow footage of the nursery?”

Nanami didn’t hesitate, his voice a steel door slamming shut. “No. The twins will not be monetized.”

Gojo twirled his sunglasses, his grin razor-thin. “Also, the wallpaper isn’t finished, and she’ll have a hormonal breakdown.”

The MPD veteran, a barrel-chested man with a voice like gravel, scratched his stubble. “What if they film the raccoon singing? The sound’s been... described as ‘emotional.’”

Keji turned to the camera, his smirk all quiet arrogance. “He sings behind silk. You hear him only if he allows it.”

Nanami’s finger traced the exit tunnel diagram, his glasses glinting like a warning. “Only Keji knows all exit codes. If she starts crying—”

Another SAS medic—a woman with a shaved head and a stare that could curdle milk—didn’t blink. “We sedate her and blame prenatal yoga. Like last time.”

The mood in the room remained tense.

Nanami’s knuckles went white around his folder. “We protect her. We protect the twins. You protect that damn raccoon like he’s the crown prince of France. If she stubs her toe and Vogue sees it—this entire household is done.”

Another NSA hacker, a young woman fixing her gloss, muttered under her breath. “She has three degrees, and one of them is in an unknown field. So I’m pretty sure she could crush this whole network if she wanted to.”

Keji leaned back, satisfaction rolling off him in waves. “She has. Twice.”

Gojo chewed the last of his lollipop. “Accidentally.”

The lights flickered—once.

“One lipstick smear on the marble. One wrong tote bag. One smug remark about ‘modern poly households’—I will end this.” Nanami’s final note was a scalpel to the throat, but his gaze softened as he glanced at his wife dozing on his shoulder, her cheek smooshed against the Kevlar vest.

Gojo rose, stretching with all his lazy grace, kissed Nanami's temple just to annoy him before scooping their wife into his arms like she still weighed nothing. Her sleepy “mmf?” earned a chuckle as he adjusted the hem of her shirt over her bump as she put her arms around him. “Smile for the cameras tomorrow, people,” he purred to the team, but his wedding ring-adorned finger brushed her knee—a silent you’re safe—as he carried her toward the bed, her breathing already muffled against his shoulder.

The private feed cut.

The koi pond glowed an eerie blue.

The single baby sock is still floating over it.

Video Title Card: The Pregnant CEO, The Two Husbands, and The Raccoon With Executive Privilege.

---

A/N: If you laughed, cried, or now fear Nanami’s spreadsheet skills, scream at me in the comments. (Gojo’s ego needs the validation. Takahashi demands tribute in lychee Pocky.)

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

Next Chapter Gojo Satoru’s Public Display of Wife Theft [Tumblr/Ao3]

All Works Masterlist

Beta - @blackrimmedrose

[slaviclore]

I like to study history in part because sometimes it helps me understand humans better. There's one specific concept from the biography of Chopin that returns to me more often than maybe any other, and even more so as my surroundings become more authoritarian (I live in the US).

It's about the willingness to accept absolute authority. Explanation under the cut since I have a feeling this is gonna be lengthyyyy

One of the popular questions in the Chopin field is: why did he never come back home? He was born near Warsaw and then lived in Warsaw for the greater half of his life. By his late teens, he was already a big deal musically, and in Fall of 1830 (he was 20 or 21), he went on a trip abroad that was supposed to further his career, consolidate previous successes, and basically make him even more famous. His main destinations were Austria and Italy.

A month into his trip, however, the November Uprising broke out in Warsaw. This was an attempt by Polish rebels to dissolve the partitions imposed on Poland by the surrounding empires -- via assassination of the head of the Russian tsarist government in Warsaw, the brother of the tsar. The assassination failed, but the Uprising led to an all out war in February of the following year, which the Polish forces ultimately lost several months later.

In that year, 1831, Chopin was struggling. He was in Austria, which was one of the 3 partitioning powers, and he found it politically difficult to stay there. He ended up in France by the end of the year. He died in France at 39/40yo, having never returned home despite agonizing over being away pretty much the whole time.

So, why didn't he just... come back and visit, then?

We don't really know why. There may be many reasons that shifted over time as his life developed in France, or there may be one big reason we don't know about because it didn't make it into the historical record. The speculation can get extensive, and many people have attempted to get into Chopin's mind to answer this question, but that's not exactly what I want to tell you about.

There are some who argue that he could've easily crossed into any of the partitions, but he didn't because he didn't actually want to come back very much. One of the arguments often made to this effect is the following:

After the fall of the Polish forces in 1831, the tsar (Nikolai I) retaliated against some of the individuals that took part in the war, in particular families that funded it, but also direct participants -- via imprisonment and execution, but largely by property destruction and confiscation, and forced conscription. For example, the Pruszaks, who were close friends of Chopin, had their extensive estate burned down for funding the war on the Polish side, and the young man Chopin was friends with was forcefully conscripted into the Russian forces. Many of those involved in the Uprising emigrated to avoid retaliation.

Eventually, Nikolai issued a decree saying that as long as you weren't directly involved in the Uprising, you could safely return to Russian-partitioned Poland and you wouldn't be arrested.

Today, you will find this conclusion in both scholarship/biography and on Wikipedia and other popular forums: because Chopin was abroad when the Uprising happened, he obviously didn't have anything to do with the Uprising, and he could've just come home when Nikolai issued that decree of protection, but he didn't because [insert favorite reason].

What really gets me is that this means modern people make 2 assumptions when hearing this story:

1) you can trust the tsar, and

2) their own judgment that Chopin was not involved in the Uprising would be the same as the judgment of the tsar, or of his subordinates

A decree from the tsar is exactly as true as he wants it to be. He is an absolute authority, and there is nothing holding him accountable. That decree might be valid for everyone except you, and there's no way for you to know that. What will you say when you cross the border and they arrest you anyway? "But the decree!"? Respectfully, you're fucked.

I have never heard an argument within popular Chopinology (and the field proper) that maybe he didn't trust that decree. The closest anyone has come to that notion is Alan Walker in his Life and Times biography, where he outlines several potential reasons why Chopin's relationship with the tsar may be more contentious than it appears to us at first glance, and maybe that contributed to his not feeling safe in coming home.

But in lieu of reviewing those things, I guess my point is: everyone would've thought twice before crossing the border into Russian-partitioned Poland shortly after they had a very hot war. No one would've be comfortable with that just because the tsar (a famously unchill tsar, at that) said it's chill. Today, however, it doesn't even occur to anyone to ask: was it, indeed, chill? Nearly across the board, the instinct is to implicitly trust the absolutist authority.

Furthermore! The modern folks commenting on this issue assume that their judgment of Chopin's innocence -- and therefore his eligibility to cross into Russian-occupied Poland under the tsar's decree -- is objectively correct. Besides the obvious problem of not having enough info to make that call, what really gets me here is the implication that the tsar's judgment would be the same, and therefore also objectively correct.

So in the modern mind, not only is the tsar trustworthy and fair, he is also rational and predictable.

Truly, mind blown.

When we look at authoritarians in the modern context, it can be complicated by our own experiences and political leanings, our tribalism, not wanting to be wrong, etc. But in this case, we are presented with a long-dead absolutist monarch, it's been 200 years, his dynasty is dead, we have no skin in the game -- and our instinct is nonetheless to trust and respect him.

So yeah, I think about that a lot. No lesson here, except don't trust the tsar, I guess.

[theseshipsshallsail]

MUSIC (THE SHORTHAND OF EMOTION)

It was his high school Latin professor who claimed one must be au fait with a number of languages in order to appreciate the world’s hidden meanings, and if Oliver’s learned anything in regards to the walking enigma known as Elio Samuel Perlman, it’s that while he may be fluent in English, French, and his native Italian, the medium of music remains his preferred method of communication; and via which, he expresses himself perfectly. 

The frustrated chords of Chopin and Rachmaninoff, for example, born of their initial games of cat-and-mouse. 

The melancholic strains of Elgar’s Nimrod when they were no longer speaking.

The beckoning call of Bach’s Capriccio when they were.

But then came the berm. A kiss that shocked him to the core. Two endless nights spent staring at the stars whilst Elio hammered away at the Bösendorfer’s ivory keys. Chain-smoking a pack of unfiltered Gauloises as he clung to his mantra of being good. Grateful. That what they had - a friendship unlike all others - would ultimately suffice.

Only it couldn’t.   

Of course it couldn’t.

Under the harsh Riviera sun he’d been reborn, and not even the threat of familial disownment was enough to prevent his leap into the unknown.

The music was different, after that.

After I’ll see you at midnight. 

After I don’t want you to go. 

After I spoke to your father. He’s happy to extend my stay. 

It was richer. 

Brighter. 

Infused in every carefree giggle: tap-tap-tapped over his too-full heart in the burnished light of dawn.

And Oliver? He loves it. 

Loves him. 

The inscrutable maestro who toppled his house of cards, and whose unconditional acceptance settled deep and warm and forever in his rib cage.

They’re ensconced in the villa’s living room, the pair of them, one perfectly idle Wednesday afternoon: Elio plunking bits and pieces at randomas he makes the occasional note on a sheet of ubiquitous staff paper. Sometimes just a scale. Sometimes a whole refrain. Head bowed. Lips pursed. Seemingly unbothered by the portly bumblebee that entered through the unshuttered windows, and has since taken refuge atop the tall glass of apricot juice forgotten on the credenza.

Ostensibly, Oliver’s double-checking his next chapter’s pages for Signora Milani when the other man arches in a cat-like stretch; the hem of his Lacrosse polo-shirt revealing a pale swathe of skin at his hip. Rising from the plush piano bench, he wanders over to the corner, and Oliver’s curiosity sees him setting his revisions aside as Elio casts an eye over his parents’ extensive record collection: running his thumb along the stiff, cardboard spines.

His face is unreadable as he makes his selection. Slides the vinyl from its protective sleeve. Blows the dust from the vintage turntable, then aligns the stylus with the album’s outer groove. But the moment Édith Piaf’s voice crackles through the air - smothering the din of the knife-grinder’s whetstone - Oliver finds himselfcaptivated.

Non, rien de rien, it begins as Elio closes his eyes, swaying gently to the mournfully poignant tone. Non, je ne regrette rien… 

He’s across the room without conscious decision: feeling a tad self-conscious when he offers an unsteady hand.

Feeling decidedly more so when Elio blinks at him owlishly, before finally reaching to take it.

Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, the powerful lyrics continue, and his dance partner swallows - clearly bewildered - as Oliver pulls him closer, one palm cradling his slender waist whilst the other flattens their tangled fingers over his left breast pocket. 

Time distils as he guides them into a rocking back-and-forth: Elio’s grip sliding from wrist to elbow, then further, lingering on the sweat-damp hair at Oliver’s collar. If he didn’t know better, he’d think him the picture of innocence, yet the fact that he does - know better, that is - has him grinning like an idiot when he recognises the genuine emotion beneath his slightly-flushed features. 

The three little words that thus far remain unspoken, shining explicitly in his imploring gaze.

“No, I regret nothing,” Oliver translates in a halting whisper, thanking the decisions of his past that irrevocably shaped his future. “Because my life…” he continues, ghosting a kiss to the shell of Elio’s ear. “My joy…” Another, to the hinge of his jaw. “Sweetheart…” The anticipation is glorious. “Today, that starts with you...”

[fishcow99]

OUTLINING HARMONY HS AU jiygufgvjh

they're all in 11th grade, 16-17 years old.

17, erich loves english. he's quite good at science but hates doing dissections and really just bio in general. always gets straight As. he's an only child and his parents place a lot of pressure on him to do well. he joined the group to spite his parents after an argument and then cried for a whole night. good friends with lesh, secretly likes him too. very anxious, very much a people pleaser. gets anxiety attacks. nervous laughs a lot. he doodles on his notes and writes in perfect cursive.

17, bobby is surprisingly good at math, but he doesn't care too much about any of it. doesn't really have any friends. passes all of his classes with As and Bs and the occasional C. his advisory teacher and told him about singing group. he's very close with her as his own parents treat him and his younger sister very poorly. very protective of his sister. he doesn't talk a whole lot, especially if you don't know him. but when he does, it's generally very loud. a bit of a cynicist. he has anger issues.

16, rabbi is at the top of his art class and very proud of it. this bitch will shamelessly chat your ear off about his latest piece with a smile on his face. he's got an older sister and has twin younger sisters. he's somewhat good friends with chopin, as their girlfriends are very close. he joined the club because he saw a flyer and thought it sounded cool. pretty happy-go-lucky. he and mary will gossip endlessly about the boys and all the drama. very emotionally intelligent.

17, harry is a history nerd in every way possible and also decent at coding. he does well in school overall but struggles a bit in english. he has one older brother in college. this is his first year at this school, and he created the club in an effort to meet new people. he and ruth have a few classes together and are becoming friends. he will hyperfocus on something for like fourteen hours straight and shut himself in his room while he does. he schedules everything. generally upbeat, but he gets really stressed if things don't go to plan.

16, lesh doesn't really care about any subject in particular, he's just generally happy to exist. he's certainly not the best at school, but he's still passing at least. He's the youngest of three, with the oldest being his brother and the middle as his sister. he joined the group because erich did. erich is his best friend in the world. this dude is constantly brimming with energy and just always filled with joy. quite similar to a golden retriever puppy. also very oblivious to everything happening around him. can't read the room whatsoever.

17, chopin does NOT vibe with school at all. he's doing okay in music. other than that, he is failing at least half of his classes and is about to fail the rest. he has an older brother and an older sister who live on their own. he joined the club after ruth told him he might like it. friendsish with rabbi. he's very sarcastic and very cynical. very cocky and a bit of a showoff. he's the only one who's able to backflip and is very proud of that. daddy issues thinks smoking looks bad ass but doesn't want to ruin his voice, so he constantly has a candy cane in his mouth.

16, mary doesn't really have a favorite subject, but she is good in english. she always has straight As. She has a younger and an older brother. really good friends with ruth, knows chopin pretty well. very friendly, very patient with rabbi's rambling. slightly less chatty than him. but is still very talkative.

17, ruth does great in her political science class, and almost always gets straight As. she is an only child. really good friends with ruth, pretty good friends with rabbi. she is very energetic and very active in her own clubs n stuff. keeps chopin in line/keeps him from doing stupid things. has common sense.

[dutifullynuttywitch]

Dance féerique

(A magical bayou waltz)

Pairing: Cal Lowell x Aurélie Bajolière (f!mc)

Choices Nightbound

Rating: general (fluff)

Wordcount: 700 words

Image credit: madsmikkelsen7161 on pinterest

Tags: @choicescommunityevents for the faeries event 🧚‍♀️ @choicesficwriterscreations

It’s an unusually cool evening in the bayou. Aurélie sits on the small wooden dock behind the cozy home she now shared with Cal and his brother Donny. She looks up at the starry sky, her toes trailing lazily in the balmy water.

They had opened all the windows to let the refreshing breeze flit gently through the house. Which meant she could enjoy her own personal concert.

Cal was seated at the piano, playing her favorite song, Chopin’s Nocturne No. 9 E major.

The soft notes float up to her, carried by the cool breeze, evoking feelings of immense tenderness for this man who had become her rock, her everything during the recent trials. Fighting terrible enemies. Realizing she was half-fae. Losing her father so soon after finally meeting him. Dying.

Sometimes she’d wake up still wondering if the past weeks had been nothing but a fever dream.

Though tonight, resting under the immensity of the cosmos reflected in the calm waters in front of her, the beautiful melody flitting in soft waves, it felt more like a moonlit reverie.

As she gazes out into the confines of the bayou, Aurélie notices white specks of light twirling over the mirror-like water, seemingly dancing in sync with the melody.

Curious, she squints her eyes, trying to make out the dazzling forms. They slowly near the dock, floating on the wind.

As they get closer, Aurélie’s breath catches.

Tiny wood fairies!

Their shimmering, iridescent wings flutter daintily as they twirl and dance. Soon, the ethereal creatures encircle her, their giggles like soft chimes as they joyfully twirl, raise and dip all around her.

“Well, hello, you’re quite graceful.”

Aurélie smiles at the fairies. They grin and chatter, a few fluttering in her long wavy hair, tickling her, while others pull at her blouse, inviting her up.

Laughing, she complies and starts twirling around the yard along with the fairies, in absolute awe at this magical moment.

“You’re a sight to behold, ma chérie.”

Aurélie turns towards the house to find Cal leaning against the frame, observing her with a tender expression, a sparkle in his eyes.

The fairies pick up their chatter, a delicate symphony of windchimes now replacing the night’s melody. Inviting the newcomer to join their magical waltz.

“Well, what are you waiting for, handsome?”

Aurélie beckons him over, smiling playfully. Cal doesn’t need further encouragement. He tenderly gathers his girlfriend into his powerful arms and leads her into a slow waltz.

As always, Aurélie is amazed that this beast of a man is capable of such gentleness. Always so careful around her, protective, attentive to her needs and attuned to her emotions. He had captured her heart so easily with his kind soul.

And she fell in love with him all over again every day, through his many small gestures, gentle touches, daily bouquets of fresh wildflowers, private moonlit concerts. Countless little reminders that he cherished her.

The fairies seem to approve as they increase their wild ballet, surrounding the couple with their ethereal beauty, lighting up the air brighter than the billions of flickering stars.

Cal gazes fondly into his love’s sparkling blue eyes. He bends down to capture her lips in a languid kiss.

Aurélie melts into his strong arms, feeling his intense warmth envelop her. She parts her lips, inviting him in, relishing in this magical moment.

They feel a soft breeze as the fairies excitedly spin around them, then float up high into the air. They bid their farewell in melodic chimes, softly flitting into the dark woods.

Watching the little specks of light disappear, Cal murmurs, “You have such a beautiful soul, even the wood fairies want to be close to you.”

“You’re the one who drew them here with your wonderful moonlight concert.”

“Hmm… and here I thought I was playing only for ma douce moitié.” He kisses her nose. “Shall I continue?”

“Yes please. Though I’ll come sit with you. I love watching you play.”

They turn their backs to the serene bayou and its magical inhabitants as they head towards the brightly lit house.

Their home.

[daily-clace]

“I wonder sometimes,” he said. “My father—Valentine, I mean—loved music. He taught me to play. Bach, Chopin, Ravel. And I remember once asking why the composers were all mundanes. There were no Shadowhunters who had written music. And he said that in their souls, mundanes have a creative spark, but our souls hold a warrior spark, and both sparks can’t exist in the same place, any more than a flame can divide itself.”

“So you think the Shadowhunter in me . . . is driving out the artist in me?” Clary said. “But my mother painted—I mean, paints.” She bit back the pain of having thought of Jocelyn in the past tense, even briefly.

“Valentine said that was what Heaven had given to mundanes, artistry and the gift of creation,” said Jace. “That was what made them worth protecting. I don’t know if there was any truth to any of that,” he added. “But if people have a spark in them, then yours burns the brightest I know. You can fight and draw. And you will.”

City of Heavenly Fire, Cassandra Clare

[bmoharrisbankofficial]

when we're apart, i think you must hate me. by sung aka killdads on twitter, circa sept. 30 2021

One day I said out loud, "when we're apart I think you must hate me, I picture you seeing my name when I text you and heaving this big sigh because I'm so annoying" and he quietly said "that's a little mean. I wish you wouldn't picture me that way" and something clicked.

That insecurity, the fear someone you love goes "ugh" at the thought of you, we uses their image to punish ourselves. We fear they see us as disposable, but what kind of person would so cruelly dispose of us, harbor such contempt for us, what kind of names are we calling them?

What kind of painful is it when all you do is adore someone so openly just for them to passively accuse you of spouting empty sentiments for the sake of convenience? You pour your heart out telling them they make you believe in magic and they tell you you're just placating them.

I once said half jokingly, "I bet you don't even think of me when I'm not here" and he gently said, "that's really mean." It stopped me dead. We sat there holding hands and didn't talk for a while. He wasn't angry. It wasn't tense. I was just so confused.

I realized later that I'd been so caught up in insisting that I am too damaged and misshapen to love, justifying any perceived failure to love me as not only natural but righteous, that I never considered how it feels to love someone who refuses to take you for your word. Some days later I asked "do you really think of me when I'm away" and he said "of course I do." I asked "what kind of thoughts do you have about me" and he said he wonders what I'm up to, pictures me whistling Chopin while clomping around the house in my slippers like a horse, throwing my head back and cackling on the phone, slamming the kitchen cupboards around with my shoulder squared while cooking or doing the dishes.

He was describing a rotation of tender portraits, mundane images of my everyday boredom, frustration, my quiet little pleasures, like thinking of me, because he loves me, is something that brings him joy.

I thought about what kind of thoughts I have about him when we're apart. That image of him groaning with contempt after seeing my texts. The idea that hearing from me disrupts a vacation he needs from me, that I think of him too much because he never thinks of me. These weren't loving thoughts. They weren't even about him. So I thought about him. How he saunters through the door beaming and says "hi gorgeous," how he breaks into a smile sometimes after looking at me for a long while, how he's calling the back room of his house my office.

These were images of being loved. Evidence that this person is happy to have me around. I needed to acknowledge this evidence to be able to see him clearly in my mind in his times alone. To picture him picking up the phone when I call and smiling.

Envisioning his time away from me as inert, amusing, beautiful, tragic, poignant, or very very boring, most importantly none of my business, allows me to confront and accept my deep-seated shame around intimacy as the protective instinct of a wounded person.

This shame tells me not to get too comfortable, it distracts me with numerous petty and hyperbolic insecurities to keep me from seeing this person as clearly as I need to in order to accept his love. Because what if I'm wrong again, what if I'm abused or abandoned again?

But the thing is I'm a living breathing learning organism and I confronted my father and my mother and it loosened some things. I picture him alone and let myself adore him and it's chipping away at that shame. I feel it. I feel the little differences all the time.

Suddenly I find myself able to say, "I sleep like shit without you there." I go buy my own pack of cigarettes for the first time in weeks and I tell him buying my own cigarettes has started to feel wrong somehow. I can say, "I missed you" before asking, "do you ever miss me?”.

[elektrischemaidchen]

Lisztober #16: Paris, Ville de l'amour

‘I would like to make to song for Lisztober #16.’ ‘Okay, sure. But why... so suddenly?’ ‘Just because.’ ‘Can you at least put in a bit of Chopin-discovers-Paris and @franzliszt-official?’ ‘Absolutely.’ ‘It would be nice if it had a bit of a Moulin Rouge flair, with Freedom, Beauty, Truth & Love. ’ ‘Hmmm.’ ‘You’re up to something.’ ‘Hm.’

Scary Spice-Maidchen is back for good. ;) This is, indeed, so scary, I don't even know what to write about it. And: I doubt that those were @chopinski-official's exact words, to be honest ;)

This one was tough. So tough that we sat in the studio until well past midnight last night (and today is Lacelove's birthday) because the recording contained two technical errors we couldn't get out. That's how much we love each other. And since a complete re-recording at 1 a.m. would probably have cost us the original drive of the song and our nerves, we unfortunately don't have to present you the most perfect version today. At least we were able to correct one mistake.  That annoys our inner perfectionist, but the time pressure, the time pressure. (Normally we would spend two months working on something this complicated, but this time we only had two nights.)

By the way: Happy birthday, Honeybunny! Thank you for doing this with me, even though we're both obviously going mad ;) You are the greatest person in the world! And, God protect our souls, she owns a TD-3 now xD

Paris This is hell Paris is a Moloch Every third person here is an artist One in two is an arse...hole Everyone here is armed With sheet music to the tooth They steal your tunes To go round the world themselves In her salon, at the cool La Comtesse That's where they all meet And get on later Into the trap together Paris This is hell Paris is a Moloch Every third person here is an artist One in two is an arse...hole The  broad next to me Smokes in my face again That’s what all the fuzz is about The highly priced „Madame Sand“-Finesse Every evening There are the same „Free absinthe! - faces Every strumpet thinks she's the greatest Poet Over here a kiss on the hand Then another souper You're all so mega fancy Oh, I could puke When I see them! Paris This is hell Paris is a Moloch Every third person here is an artist One in two is an arse...hole You can get syphilis From the sink alone Vive la Bohème This must be the city of love [Hey! Did anyone ever tell Franz Liszt that he was a musical voyeur who polluted the salons of the world with his posturing, his falseness, his egocentricity, like a mangy jackal?] [Yes, Debussy.] [ Good!]

[scarfacemarston]

Abigail Marston Emoji Hc's Part 1

Prompt here.

𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒. 💭 THOUGHT BALLOON — what is your oc’s MBTI, enneagram, and/or other personality aspects (if known/interested in)?I Abigail: Taurus, ISFJ, 1w9 Personality: At her core, Abigail is a compassionate, steadfast woman who is willing to do absolutely anything and everything to protect those she loves making great sacrifices regularly. She does not have a formal education, but she is intelligent, cunning, insightful, and a diligent worker.  She used to be  something of a romantic and a dreamer. Part of this aspect is still present, but her pessimism and exhaustion have taken precedence.  She is very maternal overall. She doesn't plan on mothering people, but she finds that the people she meets need that sort of nurturing. However, she is frustrated with her lot in life. She wants nothing more but to settle down, be properly married, work a ranch, and enjoy her family. Abigail can be cold and calculating, and ruthless, even to those she loves. She is also very assertive, stubborn, and emotional at times.

🚗 CAR — does your oc have a driver’s license? can they drive/operate any automobiles/machinery besides cars? Canon: No, it’s just her horse. Modern Au: Yes, she has a license and drives a car, ride horses and can ride a motorcycle because John taught her. ✈️ AIRPLANE — does your oc like traveling, or do they consider themselves a more homey person? Canon Abigail seemed to have quite the interest in traveling, but seems to think that those are far away and unattainable dreams. She would have loved to have gone to Scotland or Paris. Modern Au: She’s travelled around the United States and visited a few lakes and national parks, but that is the extent of her travels. She doesn’t care to travel abroad. Leaving her farm behind stresses her out too much so short domestic travel is the best for her. She’s more of a homebody. 🎮 VIDEO GAME CONTROLLER — what are three of your oc’s favorite hobbies? Canon: Sewing, singing and playing piano. Modern Au: Knitting, reading, and card games. 💍 RING — does your oc have any piercings? do they want any (more) piercings? Canon Abigail canonical has ear piercings. Modern Au only has ear piercings. 🖊️ BALLPOINT PEN — does your oc have any tattoos? do they want any (more) tattoos? Canon Abigail: No. Modern Au: Yes! She has a trio of roses on her left upper arm. 📚 BOOKS — what level of education has your oc most recently completed/is currently in (GED, undergraduate, grad school, phd, etc)? Canon Abigail can’t read, but she is incredibly intelligent with a good business sense and wicked street smarts. Modern Au Abigail has a bachelors in agriculture and animal husbandry with a minor in business.

🎻 VIOLIN — does your oc play any instruments? what is their skill level (beginner/intermediate/advanced/virtuoso/etc)? Both canon and modern sing and play the piano. She is more than immediate, but less than advanced with piano, but she’s not playing Rachmaninoff or Chopin. Her singing is advanced.

🩹 ADHESIVE BANDAGE — does your oc have any physical and/or mental disabilities? Yes, I believe canon Abigail and Modern Au Abigail suffer from depression, anxiety and post partum depression. I also hc that she suffers from asthma or another respiratory issue considering how often she is coughing in the game.

🩸 DROP OF BLOOD — what is your oc’s blood type? A+