#Beatific Moone

[atribe]

http://fuzzystereo.com

[luckycharms1701]

Mikey seems a bit nervous, you think as you gaze over your hot chocolate at him.

It is Valentine’s Day, and the sweetest boyfriend in the world invited you to a rooftop picnic. You were a little skeptical, as it is A Little Chilly, but he insisted that he had it all covered. “It’s gonna be a full moon, Angelcakes,” he wheedled, “It’ll be beautiful, like you! AND we’ll be the only ones around!”

Unfortunately for you, his puppy eyes are your greatest weakness, and he knows when to use them.

You were quite pleasantly surprised to discover that you felt warm when you stepped out onto your rooftop. Mikey had jury-rigged a blanket to hang over a corner, and he had a heater near the entrance going full blast. The corner was covered in blankets and pillows and looked super cozy, and there was still a good view of the eastern sky so you could see the moon come up.

Mikey had helped you get comfortable, then handed you hot chocolate. You smiled when you looked around and saw all your favorites. Your peck on the cheek was greeted with a blush from your boyfriend as he sat down next to you and started serving you food.

You had to admit that Mikey was right as you both ate and watched the moon rise. It was a gorgeous sight, huge in a way you rarely get to see. “Almost as big as my love for you!” Mikey had proclaimed. You had told him to stop with a laugh, but your blush and the way you leaned into him gave you away. He had long since sussed out that you thought his cheesiness was sweet.

Now, Mikey is pulling out yet another container. “I couldn’t possibly eat more Mikey,” you protest. “You’ve spoiled me rotten and I’m fu-”

Once you see what Mikey has in the container, you are struck speechless with delight and awe. He has brought you Valentine’s chocolate. You could tell by the slight wonkiness that they are homemade, and you feel tears well in your eyes.

Next to the chocolates are some cookies, and your breath catches as you realize that they are the kind you made together on your first date, a spontaneous baking spree that had ended with the kitchen covered in flour and you and Mikey covered in kisses. The tears in your eyes start to fall.

“Aw babe,” Mikey says, juggling the container as he reaches out to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You grab his hand and press a kiss to each finger, then hold his hand to your cheek as you gaze into his warm blue eyes.

He sets the container down, eyes not leaving yours as his other hand comes up. You grab that one as well as he frames your face. He bites his lip, and you realize that you are about to discover why he is so nervous.

“I have a question,” Mikey starts hesitantly, and you nod and smile in encouragement. Surely he knows that he can ask anything of you. You agreed to a rooftop picnic on Valentine’s Day in New York City, for heaven’s sake.

His tongue wets his lips as he lowers his eyes and opens his mouth. “Ever since we moved into the new lair, there’s been a lot more space, you know? I mean, we each have multiple rooms. And I guess it gets kind of lonely sometimes, you know?”

His fingers tap against the fresh tears on your cheeks. You don’t think he realizes that the tears are there, or that you know what he’s getting at. You curl your lips into your teeth to prevent your response from bursting out, wanting to let him ask the question first.

“So, I thought that maybe, if you, you know… were cool with it or whatever… if you maybe wanted to think about moving in?”

Your eyes close and you smile as he continues to ramble. “I mean! I know it’s not the best accommodations, but we all love you, and it would be nice if maybe we could all spend more time together, and maybe we could sleep together more often! Although if you want your own room instead that’s cool too! Whatever my angel wants she gets.”

You reach out and put a hand to his lips before he can ramble any further. He looks up, startling at the fresh tears on your face and the beatific smile on your face.

“Mikey,” you have to pause for a moment as your happiness overwhelms you, “I would love nothing more than to move in with you.”

It is as if the sun has risen, here in your little rooftop corner with Mikey, as he smiles back at you.

[codeinetylenol]

Check my DNI before you interact, thanks.

arch, 18+, EN/中文. HP sideblog, primarily art/writing. Mainly TMR & tomarrymort, possibly other ships. FUB free.

Tom Riddle Jr is my #1 wretched maladjusted babygirl.

Switch shipper. Multishipper. Most anything goes. AO3.

No reposts as-is. Do not profit off of my work. Do not use my work for AI. Certain non-commercial 'fun' uses permitted. See art usage policy.

Nothing under the cut really matters, but you can read it if you like.

I think DNIs are stupid and infantile.

I also enjoy whatever other TMR ships fanfics can convince me of, including, but not limited to: riddledore, volbus, tomoine, whatever it is you call TMR/Grindelwald, etc.

I'm not a fan of OC ships, or Y/Ns, or self-inserts.

Once more: TMR is my abhorrent little meow meow. Unproblematic, untoxic, and beatific. He deserves to kill, maim, manipulate, gaslight, and check off the entirety of an abusive behaviour list. He should also get his arse handed to him, severely, and spend eternity being flayed in a circle of hell.

I think he's enormously tragic. I love a nice tragedy.

-

I do not care what you ship, whether you are interested in self-shipping, whether you want to interpret my ambiguous ship art as top/bottom Tom, et cetera.

You don't have to enjoy everything I enjoy, obviously. On the other hand, if you like none of it, why are you here?

-

Music:

My pitch for a TMR song is O Fortuna.

Also consider the Sibelius violin concertos in D minor. The suite, too, is very lovely.

Sibelius, Violin Concerto in D minor, Op 47, II. Adadio di molto.

Miscellany:

I dislike the majority of baked sweets. And also just sweets.

Having conquered the abject loathing of cakes of my childhood, they have consequently been relegated to the category of "seriously disliked".

I had codeine tylenol when I had my wisdoms taken out. It sucked.

My typing WPM caps out at approximately 150-160. Tragically, I write at a staggering 10-15 WPM.

Despite the board up there, I actually do like Dumbledore. :)

O Fortuna | O Fortune,  velut luna | like the moon  statu variabilis, | you are changeable,  semper crescis | ever waxing  aut decrescis; | and waning;  vita detestabilis | hateful life  nunc obdurat | first oppresses  et tunc curat | and then soothes  ludo mentis aciem, | as the sharp mind takes it;  egestatem, | poverty  potestatem | and power  dissolvit ut glaciem. | it melts them like ice.    Sors immanis | Fate – monstrous  et inanis, | and empty,  rota tu volubilis, | you whirling wheel,  status malus, | you are malevolent,  vana salus | well-being is vain  semper dissolubilis, | and always fades to nothing,  obumbrata | shadowed  et velata | and veiled  michi quoque niteris; | you plague me too;  nunc per ludum | now through the game  dorsum nudum | I bring my bare back  fero tui sceleris. | to your villainy.    Sors salutis | Fate – in health  et virtutis | and virtue –  michi nunc contraria, | is against me,  est affectus | driven on  et defectus | and weighted down,  semper in angaria. | always enslaved.  Hac in hora | So at this hour  sine mora | without delay  corde pulsum tangite; | pluck the vibrating strings;  quod per sortem | since Fate  sternit fortem, | strikes down the strong man,  mecum omnes plangite! | everyone weep with me!

[douevenbleachbro]

I was excited for Rukia week as I always am, but the brain is dry and shriveled after the IR Big Bang, so this is all I could write for my Queen.

Rukia week 2024 Day 2: ❆ Fashion Brand

Title: By Desing (WIP) Rated T

“You are the spitting image of your sister! Hisana would be proud!”

Rukia gave them a small smile, bowing her head. She was the perfect picture of gratefulness and humility. She wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her late sister's legacy, after all. 

Except it had been Rukia the one that was obsessed with design and fashion and photography. It had been her stealing her mother's magazines and cutting out the beautiful models for her super secret scrapbook. She had been the one to take photography classes and sewing classes and beat out that pretentious Ishida Uryuu for the top spot at Tokyo International School of Design (a rivalry that eventually blossomed into a partnership when she started walking his Fashion Week shows).

But Hisana was the one with the looks. The soft eyes and small lips, long legs, and beatific smile made for the perfect model. It was like the sun chased her. Everyone just naturally wanted to be around her. She hated it though. She hated having her picture taken and being the center of attention in that way. Unfortunately, a few bad financial decisions and subsequent death of their parents at the hands of a drunk driver, left the sisters in ruins and forced them to find jobs wherever they could get them. So Rukia took the pictures whilst Hisana modeled, until an agency got a hold of her and made her into a star. Hisana’s stardom was bright but ephemeral. The president of the agency, Byakuya Kuchiki, fell for her head over heels and gave her his name after less than a year of dating. Their wedding was elegant and grand. Rukia designed Hisana’s dress and cleaned it in silence when Hisana coughed blood onto it. Six months later Hisana died, taking the sun with her. 

Whatever veil that covered Rukia seemed to have lifted after Hisana’s passing. Everyone had eyes for her as they desperately tried to get back some of Hisana Kuchiki’s magic. But Rukia had none of that. She was not warm and calm like the ocean waters during the rising sun. She was cold and tempestuous like the water during a full moon. Her eyes were dark and hard, her voice too deep. The designers and photographers would overlook Rukia searching for Hisana where they could, and she allowed it. A part of her still yearned for the childhood dreams of high-fashion and runways, so she took the gigs and walked the shows as Hisana’s little sister. She even took Byakuya’s last name as his sister in his life-long quest to give Hisana everything she ever asked for. Now she walked as Rukia Kuchiki, Hisana’s shadow.

During the height of Fashion Week in Paris, Rukia had once again caught the attention of the fashion world as she walked Uryuu Ishida’s show once more. This time he had brought on a new photographer – an up and coming prodigy named Ichigo Kurosaki. Dark eyes and bright hair, his leather wearing, cigarette smoking bad boy reputation preceded him. He was quick with his camera, capturing the perfect moment in an instant. Apparently he and Uryuu went to school together, which he brought up as he introduced Ichigo to Rukia. She couldn’t help but bristle under his intense stare. His eyes moved with her, following her every step. It would’ve bothered her a lot more if she wasn’t so used to being stared at. Although he didn’t just stare. He observed her. His eyes were on her whenever they were close, making the hairs on her nape stand. He rarely smiled but was never mean or cold. He maneuvered her like priceless marble, like glass. When she modeled for him, he barely even directed her. She would just stand before him and the flashes would go off, his smoky whisky eyes following her. Ichigo’s large hands cupped her chin gently, moving her face slightly from side to side, studying her profile. His fingers moved her hair away from her face, fingertips ghosting the length of her neck. If he wasn’t so close she would’ve gasped, instead she swallowed, trying to keep as steady as possible as Ichigo worked. Finally turning to look directly into her already dilated eyes, Ichigo grinned.

“I’d hate to lose those eyes behind hair.”

Heat blanketed her face, rendering her speechless until he returned to his initial position and continued taking pictures. Rukia took a deep, calming breath and smiled, her voice taking the saccharine note it usually did during these things. 

“Of course. I do have my sister's eyes after all.”

“You look nothing like your sister,” Ichigo scoffed, not a note of humor in his tone. Rukia felt the blood rush from her face, leaving her cold and shaking. What did he mean by that? Everyone said she looked like her sister, that’s why she was always getting booked. Did he see something wrong with her? Could he see what others didn’t - that she was indeed not her sister - not as soft, not as bright, not as beautiful. Was that why he looked at her like that? The boning of her dress constricted her lungs, the lights were suddenly too bright. Her breath was coming up ragged and harsh, making her feel lightheaded. A warm hand grabbed onto her elbow, grounding her. Ichigo was in front of her again, this time his eyes filled with concern. He directed everyone to take five and to dim the lights, then guided her away from prying eyes into her dressing room. Once inside, Rukia immediately loosened her dress, allowing air to fill her lungs freely. Ichigo pressed a cold bottle of water into her hand, startling her to his presence. She was very used to getting dressed in the open and in public places, but today modesty decided to show its face. She gathered the front of her dress to her chest.

“Are you okay?” Ichigo asked softly, his voice low. Chugging the water, Rukia nodded, gasping at the feeling of the cool water refreshing her heated body. She wasn’t sure how long they stood there with only the sound of her breathing filling the room. Her head was swimming with thoughts, all negative, about her past and her sister and all the things that could’ve been and weren’t. Hot tears threatened to spill over, but she fought them back, unwilling to allow this man to see her cry. But there he stood, not taking his eyes off of her, apparent worry radiating out of him and not a drip of annoyance or judgment. That alone almost made her break. 

After what felt like hours (it had been more like 5 minutes. The crew decided to take their lunch break), Ichigo shifted, moving closer. His hands hovered close, as if they wanted desperately to touch her. 

“Rukia,” the sound of her name in his voice gave her goosebumps and brought her out of her thoughts. She took a steading breath.

“I’m sorry I don’t look like her,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. Ichigo frowned.

“What a dumb thing to apologize for,” he replied, head tilted. The frown was still there, now accompanied by a small grin. Now Rukia was frowning.

“I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand? I don’t think you look like your sister, is all. I mean, yeah she was beautiful but you…you’re…”

Weaker? Shorter? Colder?

“Stronger.”

“Huh?” Was all she could muster, too taken aback by his response, “What do you mean?”

Sighing, Ichigo got closer, taking her chin in his hands. Rukia didn’t think her eyes could get any wider as he moved her face slowly from side to side, studying her profile just like earlier.

“Your profile is much stronger. You have rounder cheeks which makes you look more youthful. Your lips are fuller,” his eyes dropped to her lips, which she couldn’t help making into a pout. The look in his eyes was making her nervous, “and your eyes.”

“Everyone says we have the same eyes,” she muttered. Ichigo scoffed.

“Everyone is stupid. Anyone with working eyes can tell they’re very different. I like yours better,” he grinned at her again, making her blush. She blew air out her mouth in frustration. 

“Do you always say what’s on your mind?”

“Yes. Do you want to know what I’m thinking right now?” He tilted her head closer, the distance between them shorter. Rukia shook her head.

“Show me.”

Without hesitation, Ichigo closed the gap between them with a searing kiss, leaving her breathless. Her heart had never felt this light and for the first time, she saw herself, her true self, in the eyes of the man who loved her for her and her alone.

[st-danger]

Hiya Saint do you think that Aeth prefers fucking Dewy missionary so he can pin Dew’s wrists down and watch his expressions? Otherwise Dew always tries to hide his pretty face and teary eyes

Dew only tries to hide when Aether's being soft and sweet. And he'll entertain that, usually. But sometimes Aether wants to watch the,way his lip trembles when he pushes in, wants to see the tension in his brows and comment on it. If Aether shuts up, it's manageable. But usually he wants to tell Dew what he looks like, what the image of Dew is doing to him.

And for that, he holds his wrists.

Dew puts up a token little protest, wriggling around until Aether's hands tighten, just so he can feel the strength. Sometimes it's easy to forget that underneath the beatific smile and laughter, Aether can tear any of them to shreds without a second thought, without expending any effort.

"Pretty like this," Aether moans, and Dew flinches; it's just how he responds, even if he does enjoy it. It's still difficult.

He wants to close his eyes. Cover his hot face. Prevent Aether from seeing how strikingly vulnerable he is this way, but Aether's looking at him like he's hung the moon, and the warmth he feels from it is worth the burns.

[tennessoui]

The new chapter is amazing!!! The flashbacks are so, so cool. And baby obi-wan? 🥹 so precious!! Thank you for posting!!

i am so glad to hear you liked it! obi-wan was extra baby (literally) in tht chapter because for the next part of the chapter, he's extra bitchy:

Senator Wraeth’s eyes flash, and his hands emerge from his sleeves to curl into fists at his side. “Do not forget that Norr opened itself up—gave precious resources—for the sake of the Republic to support a war effort we never saw the benefit o—”

“The benefit of? Senator, your benefit of supporting the Republic was the fact that the Separatist bombs never landed on your doorstep. The moons of Norr were turned into shield and battlefield and until they are ready for habitation once more, it is the least your planet can do offer shelter and protection to those—”

“Making friends?” Master Skywalker asks, making himself known as he slips behind Obi-Wan. His hands settle for a moment on his bare hips, fingers slotting against the bruises there like he knows exactly where to put them and where to squeeze.

“And do you speak for the Jedi Order, Padawan Kenobi?” Wraeth sneers. “When the queen told me that they allowed a learner to lead negotiations for the Jedi, I was surprised and confused. Yet now I find myself slipping quickly toward offense.”

Master Skywalker’s fingers flex around his waist. Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he means to hold himself or Obi-Wan back from lunging at the senator.

“The Jedi allow anyone who proves themselves knowledgeable on a topic to speak on behalf of the Order,” Obi-Wan says, smiling beatifically. “It is a model of conversational participation that I find myself wishing more of the galaxy subscribed to. I can see why it would baffle you, of course.”

“Alright,” Master Skywalker decides, using his grip to physically steer Obi-Wan away from the circle of senators. “So not making friends.”

[just-wublrful]

the winds talk to the stars sometimes. that’d be nice. i’d like that.

The Worm King’s Lullaby, Richard Siken | Autobiography of Red, Anne Carson | The Chronology of Water: A Memoir, Lidia Yuknavitch | I Dreamed I Forgot, Leila Chatti | Henry and June: From the Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, Anaïs Nin | Letters to Milena, Franz Kafka | Eurydice, Margaret Atwood | Sue Zhao | The Beatrice Letters, Lemony Snicket | Ross Gay | Elegy for the Four Chambers of My Brother’s Heart, Steven Espada Dawson | In A Dream, trans. Lenore Mayhew & William Mcnaughton, Anna Akhmatova, | Sue Zhao | Francis Forever, Mitski | The Hurting Kind, Ada Limon

[ID: An assortment of quotes and lyrics from various sources.

1. Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

2. I once loved you,/ now I don’t know you at all.

3. What lived and died between us - haunts me still.

4. I dreamed I forgot you/ but to dream was remembering. I have words for you/ only, a linguistic fidelity./ Cherish and anguish and fool./ I look for you, I am finding/ out if I am brave. Last/ I saw you, it was the same disruptive season: robins trilling in the young/ flush, trees shivering/ pink all down the street./ I thought the ache/ would ruin me, and maybe it did./ Here I am in the beatific after/ still calling back to you.

5. “You carry away with you a reflection of me, a part of me. I dreamed you, I wished for your existence. You will always be a part of my life. If I love you, is must be because we have shared at some time the same imaginings, the same madness

6. ship to you (you belong to me, even if I should never see you again) [...] these I know, insofar they do not fall into the

7. was that you love him anywhere,/ even in this land of no memory,/ even in this domain of hunger./ You hold love in your hand, a red seed/ you had forgotten you were holding.

8. We loved, didn’t we? I was devoted to you, like a nail to a bed. A splinter to skin. Sometimes I was soft, though, do you remember?

9. “(...) I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close... I will love you until your face is fogged by distant memory. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, I will love you if you don't marry me. I will love you if you marry someone else--and I will love you if you never marry at all, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all. That is how I will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way.”

10. I am sorry. I am grateful./ I just want us to be friends now, forever./ Take this bowl of blackberries from the garden./ The sun has made them warm./ I picked them just for you. I promise/ I will try to stay on my side of the couch.

11. We’re under the same moon and I’m sick/ with that knowing.

12. You and I/ are like grief and the mountain,/ we will not meet/ in this world./ But sometimes/ will you send across the stars/ A sign?

13. If I could have done it all again, I would have loved you better. But I could not have loved you more.

14. And autumn comes when you’re not yet done/ With the summer passing by, but/ I don’t think I could stand to be/ Where you don’t see me.

15. I see the tree above the grave and think, I’m wearing/ my heart on leaves. My heart on leaves./ Love ends. But what if it doesn’t? End ID.]

[sword-dad-fukuzawa]

spaces between

Chuuya reaches out—fingers flexed, outstretched, always searching for something he’ll never touch—and fists his hand in Dazai’s collar, dragging him so close their foreheads could have knocked together. “I’m allowed to hate you!” he howls, and shakes Dazai so hard his teeth rattle. “Goddamit, I’m allowed to hate you!”

Dazai’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and he grips Chuuya’s fist with his own hand. His fingers, long and delicate as matchsticks, burn with some inhuman cold. But Chuuya doesn’t let go. 

“Of course you’re allowed,” Dazai leers, and closes the millimeter gap between the two of them so his bangs brush against Chuuya’s forehead. His skin is cold, too, so cold. Like midwinter. Like permafrost. Like a chill wind down to his bones, and still, Chuuya only closes his fist so hard he nearly tears Dazai’s shirt. “When have I ever stopped you from doing what you wanted, Chuuya?”

“Keep my name out of your mouth,” Chuuya says, the words low and guttural in his throat.

“Oh?” Dazai raises an eyebrow. “Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya. Am I not supposed to call you that? Do you prefer your nickname? Or—” and his eyes are so flat, so lightless—“what about executive? Nakahara-san? Former king of the sheep? What shall I call you?”

With every word, Chuuya’s grip grows tighter. “Don’t call me anything,” he says roughly, and shoves Dazai away from him. He can’t look at the man, can’t speak to him. The sound of his soft, knowing voice is like razors to his ears. But Dazai keeps talking, smug and cruel to the last. 

“Sweetheart?” he tries, amusement dripping from his mouth honey-sweet. “My love? Darling?” 

Chuuya flinches. 

“That one?” Dazai says, and breaks into surprised laughter. “How disgusting. I didn’t think you were that sort of person.” 

[ ]

They’re seventeen when Chuuya asks his partner why he wants to die so badly. And Osamu Dazai—young, not quite an executive, still a slip of a boy in a coat two sizes too large—laughs at him.

“By asking that sort of question,” he says gently, “you’ve given away that you wouldn’t understand the answer. You simply can’t comprehend it. Your brain is too small.”

And Chuuya bristles, raw from the edge of rejection and set ablaze by Dazai’s condescending tone. He props himself up on his elbow, paying no mind to the roof tiles, and glares at him. “Try,” he bites out. 

“Did I hit a nerve?” Dazai asks. “Does the chibi not like to be called stupid?” His eyes are bright with some damaged glow, hissing and sparking like a candle in the rain as he leans closer to tap Chuuya on the nose. “I can’t help being so knowledgeable all the time, you know. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

Chuuya goes to bite the pale, bloodless finger that still hovers by his face, but Dazai snatches it away. “What’re you, a dog?”

“Isn’t that your favorite thing to call me?” Chuuya grumbles. “Fine, don’t answer if you don’t want to. I can take a hint.”

Dazai is silent for a long moment. “I want to die with a beautiful woman,” he says then, apropos nothing, and Chuuya startles so badly he nearly falls off the roof.

“Hah?” he demands. 

Dazai’s got his eyes shut, and he’s gentled his expression into something mimicking bliss. “To commit double suicide with a lovely woman…that, I think, is the most beautiful way to die.”

“Why the fuck would you do that to some random girl?” 

Dazai cracks one eye open to glare at him. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s about the aesthetic of it all. The melodrama. Passing from this earth to the next in the embrace of someone so pretty you could hardly stand to look at her…unlike you, Chuuya, so don’t get any ideas. You’re so ugly I would come back to life out of sheer spite.”

“I’m hardly a pretty girl,” Chuuya sputters.

“Exactly,” sniffs Dazai, and closes his eye again. 

“As if I would want to commit double suicide with you! What the hell, Dazai?” 

But Dazai only makes a humming noise like he’s not listening, and smiles beatifically at the moon.

[capsensislagamoprh]

The darkness that enveloped him was profound. It slunk a cape of shadows from shoulders to floor. Trendels drew form from from pools of age graced hidden places, spidering into a tapestry of decay, flickering thrugh the places where the unseen were in abundance. His eyes closed, searching, feeling, until he found what he was looking for.

That fool child had taken his crown. That idiot feyling had cried to the darkness, had drawn the sword, had stabbed him in the eye and ripped the life out of his chest. That stupid, selfless being! He'd planted it! With care! With affection! It. Had. Grown!

He'd spent eons consuming that power. He'd caged it just so, tended to it just enough for it to produce ever lasting heat. For it to give the spark of magic, true, ¡TRUE! magic. The fire of the universe was in that spark! A delicate bird of a thing, ever changing, ever beatific, ever full of grace and grander things! And the Hero ripped it from his chest.

He'd stolen his spark and all that came with it. The idiot didn't even wield his power, didn't covet the crown, didn't do the darkest of deed. The moron was *noble*. The darkness spat into the void. Noble. He'd once been noble. Been regal. Been feared. He ruled the endless maws of death, the frozen lands of sleep; endless expanses of entropy were at his every whim - no need to command. They wanted to please him.

And he had captured Life in his Maws! Swallowed it whole, felt it reside in his chest breathing gasping breaths. It suffered. All life suffered. Never had the darkness known such a feast!

And who sent the hero? HUMANS! Humans had cried to the sun, and the sun cried to the moon, and the moon called the tides, the tides sent the waves, the waves touched the shores, the land felt the pull to expand with out taking away, and the humans wanted to explore the new land. Of course they did. And when they did, they ran into oblivion - traps, predator, prey, even the plants themselves threatened there pitiful bodies. They found death at every turn. They cried into the darkness, mourning there foolishness and refusing to give it away. They wanted someone to tell them what to do. The darkness was ready to step in, to feed on that fear and decay, to be their savior, welcomed and wanted. A terrifying god to these foolish mortal fledglings.

And then. And Then! A mother protected her child. A father laid his life down for his kin. Neighbors called caution and saved others from poisons. As terrible as these had been, they then began - the darkness had to stop from gagging, so vile were the thoughts - they began to care for the weak. Not just children to keep the species going. The old. The infirm. Those born 'wrong' some how survived with the touch of impassioned admiration and a fierce force of will to keep going that was not their own. They began to accept differences, and dance at the same fire. They. Formed. Tribes. Community. They made themselves targets for his deepest rage, and rage he did.

He sent his most vile warriors. He dug them from the dankest caves, from the deepest depths, from the very night sky. And every time someone stood in the way. They wanted to survive. They wanted to be cared for. They wanted to know they were safe. As they did when children. They began to sing and speak and call. They drew and made symbols. They created a powerful being who could defeat any danger, who could save them from harm, and if they did not it was not from lack of trying, it was because they were meant to learn from it. But if they knew the power of dreams, the Darkness did not know, not until one stood tall, speaking his tale of bravery and sorrow, of adventure and greed. Telling how a tribe member faced a parlous event, and though it cost them their life, it was a fair price to pay for the many this one act of bravery saved.

The tribe cried, and sang praise. They enamored and cheer. Children stood tall, looking to the shadows where the woods lay deep and foreboding. They did not face it with fear. They now had someone to look up to. They had someone they could emulate. Someone who saved them all by standing tall against the odds, knowing the risks and taking them.

They each saw a different image. They cried out how they knew this hero, and they must be this way, but of course they were! And they must have this and that, and never should they stray! When the darkness came for them, they would scream from their souls, feel the blood rush with quivering instinct, until they too faced down fear with action. They Dreamed a True Dream. And from it they. Created. Heroes. Abysmal, horrid things!

As always happened, when things were dreamed to big, the Dream made them manifest. It was the sum of all the dreams, sifted and averaged, and given the most powerful beginning. The darkness thought this would be no challenge to him. After all, despite all this, the Hero had done nothing. It merely stood on the cusp of life and death, watching. It wasn't until Life was trapped, consumed, caged in his chest that the Hero went missing. The darkness had laughed. Heroes were dreams of mortal things. What chance did it stand with out Life to guide it?

And then he'd appeared, vorpal sword summoned from places it shouldn't have been, armor called from nothing, a cloak of night caressing his crest of shimmering, iridescent glow. His body was small, as were all dream-things to the Darkness. He sent his minions, not bothering to consider this pathetic display as anything but weak.

Dark fey, curses, nightmares laid an attack. Horrors unknown to mortal man bubbled up from there hidden, unspoken thinking. That stuff they would never admit, there fear of death, of living less became arrows to fell the Hero as he stood still, waiting.

All struck true. And he did not fall.

He.

Did.

Not.

Fall!

The Darkness called upon his queens and kings, called upon his knights and knaves. He sent his shadows and assassins, his plagues, fires, and decay. None of it moved the Hero. He stood there with the audacity to *watch* the army coming his way. It converged, freezing him in place, rot trying to take hold of his protective shell. It blinded him, removed sound, it ripped at his soul with what things create eternal scaring.

He.

Did. Not.

Move.

They army fell back at Darkness's smirking command. The Hero stood there, cloaked in night, gold glittering in his veins, blood spilling in liquid delight. And then he disappeared.

When the Darkness recalled what happened next he threw everything in his path into its most basic shape, unmaking until nothing in his reach remained, and yet there it fell, shattered, dented, and still blastedly whole. For the Hero had infused the vorpal blade with every dark deed, every cruel thought, every undying exchange of mortality, every eternal last breath the Darkness had thrust into his court without so much as an expression on his lips, eyes burning with a fire the Darkness had swallowed long ago.

He struck true.

And the Darkness fell.

All his beings were released, his mantle, his crown, his power flicker-flashing into the Hero as if it were his birth right. It was infuriating. He didn't even command them to bow! He'd just ... cared. How vile! But he'd been so invested in Life's new form, in the glory of Beltane, that he'd not been watching when the Darkness slipped his remains away. He knew all he had to do was gather power and wait. Sooner or later some hapless fey would give him the opportunity to take that fool of a Hero down, and when he got it, he would strike just as deadly, just as true. He would regain his crown.

When he felt the tingle of the gates opening, the threads pulled and tossed aside, the Darkness watched. Listened. So Victor was going into the mortal realm. And the Hero was lost to it. But so was Beltane. Well, with out the Hero to silently alter his machinations, the Darkness could use its limited pull to destroy those about them until they fell completely under his sway. And then! And then he would use their own companions to kill them.

When the Darkness smiled, the mortal world felt it as a volcano erupted.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24, part 25, part 26, part 27, part 28

[heartofspells]

@fonkeloog, for after work. A bit of fluff, sweetheart, because you deserve it. 

-----

"Moony."

Remus' eyes focus more firmly.

"Moooony."

His shoulders hunch deeper over the book in his hands, ignoring the insistent voice.

"Moooooooony." Sirius huffs when there is no forthcoming response, when Remus doesn't change or so much as flicker his gaze is Sirius' direction. "C'mon, you're not still put out, are you?"

Remus snorts but doesn't respond, pulling the book up in front of his face. Sirius tugs it back down with a not so gentle movement. Remus glowers at him, and Sirius smiles beatifically.  

"Why're you angry?"

It's a stupid question, and Remus says as much, pulling Sirius' smile into a small, perplexed frown.

"This is because of the bed?" At Remus' pointed glare, Sirius sighs, slumping a little on the floor in front of him. "What did it harm? Nothing."

"It was our bed, Padfoot," states Remus, because honestly. "Our bed. Covered in toilet seats. Why? Why did I come home to find our bed, of all things, piled high like a forming mountain with toilet seats? It's disgusting."

"I cleaned them, they were fine," mutters Sirius, eyes shifting away briefly.

"With your cleaning charms?" scoffs Remus, lifting his book back into the air. Sirius tugs it down again.

"Oi, that's not on. My cleaning charms are fantastic. It's the things being cleaned that's the problem," grumbles Sirius, looking mildly irritated.

"Why, Sirius?" demands Remus, not allowing Sirius to distract him as he typically so easily can.

Sirius sighs, resting his thighs back on his heels. "I was helping Fred and George," he admits begrudgingly. "Ginny wanted a Hogwarts toilet seat. They went above and beyond the call of duty. I admired their tenacity, and Molly would have had a conniption if she'd found out. I already took one to Ginny. She's very pleased. You would have loved her face, Moons. She just…glowed." Sirius makes a little fanning motion with his fingers around his cheeks, and Remus gapes.

"You – actually, never mind," says Remus, shaking his head. "Sirius Black, aiding and abetting mischief. I should have known."

"You should have, yes," agrees Sirius easily, eyes locked on Remus almost innocently. "Why didn't you?"

Remus groans, thumping his head back to the sofa, staring up at the ceiling in defeat. He drops his book from his hand, letting it land on the floor beside Sirius, giving up. He remains that way until he feels firm pressure over one of his knees, looking down again to find Sirius' chin resting on him, eyes wide just like Padfoot when the dog wants attention.

"Oh no. No," he denies. "That's not working this time. You can't do that, look at me like that, and always get your way. You're a grown man, Sirius. Act like it." Sirius chuffs, wriggling a little, head not leaving Remus' leg, still gazing up at him sweetly. Remus feels his resolve almost instantly crumbling. "Padfoot," he whinges weakly.

Sirius beams at him, and then he's climbing up, all long limbs and graceful movements as he tucks them in tight, Remus suddenly finding himself with a lap filled with Sirius Black, too large, far too warm, and entirely right. He clutches at him against his better judgement, unable to help himself. Sirius hums as he leans forward, pushing Remus back into the cushions, making his head tilt upwards again as he hovers. Long fingers push into his brown hair, pulling gently, something that never fails to make Remus melt into a puddle of himself where Sirius is concerned.

"I'll clean the bed," murmurs Sirius, a sort of promise, better ones in his grey eyes, heavy-lidded and infatuated, sparks in the irises that mesmerizes Remus, always does.

"You will not," protests Remus, but there's little feeling in it, his hands gripping around Sirius' hips, slotting in perfectly, grooves created from so many years of exactly this, this perfection curled into him, all around him. Remus is weak to it, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Sirius snorts, rolling his eyes a little. "I'll do it by hand," he insists. "You know I like that anyhow. And no more toilet seats. Well," he amends suddenly, expression turning thoughtful, "that's likely untrue, we both know it. But I'll keep them somewhere else from now on. How's that sound?"

Remus releases a long breath, and Sirius grins, feeling him wane. "If Molly finds out, I will not be taking the blame for this," he insists, attempting to hold on to some semblance of reserve in the face of the man that never fails to scatter it to pieces of itself.

"Wouldn't dream of it," murmurs Sirius with a hum, mouth suddenly at the hinge of Remus' jaw, working expertly, pulling a small shudder from Remus that he can't contain.

They remain like this for a while, Sirius marking pathways over stubble, places followed and traversed too many times to count. Remus sinks into it, but he has to give one final burst of fight before he fully caves.

"Why in Godric's name did she want a toilet seat?" he bemoans.

Sirius laughs against his skin, all hot breath and marvelous light.  

[friendshipgun]

shuffling back from the depths bc @kaitheenbydoesthings tagged me (thank you Kai!!) in this meme which sounds really fun so here goes: Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

not gonna actually post all of them bc 1) it's a lot 2) most are just part of inktober challenges so the title for like ten wips is 'inktober 19' or whatever 3) most of my wips are detailed outlines with no actual scenes written, save for (at most) dialogue. there's still plenty here tho lol. anyway:

where i go the ancient curse follows the same ghosts every day fucked up rich people Karl/Sturm au where time compression fucked shit up jethan fic doughboy spn -nanowrimo beatification, canonization, benediction spirit hat reverse au wintersberg blades fic the succ ch1 untitled kannazuki hanzo fic genya fic houndwoof at the moon

if i tagged as many people as i have wips it'd be too many so i'm tagging everyone who sees this. if you see this and you want to do it consider yourself tagged.

[winepresswrath]

lbfad gets increasingly handwavey on the exact mechanics of things and braincells are sometimes tossed out for scenes with Feelings(fair), and you can tell that lbfad rewrote the script some as it was filming(like the cut xunfeng/danyin plotline), and some things get kind of janky as a result but i DID enjoy the overall tasty meal!

I was so charmed, especially by Ronghao (Rong Hao?) and his very specific deal- his instincts are to be very decent! He loves changheng very sincerely! and yet. Also he's just very funny, truly a character of all time. Love it when it's revealed his evil schemes are "cash in a favour I earned by not being a dickbag several millennia ago." Also love his beatific expression when he realizes he'll probably be executed. Exuding "worth it" from every pore. My frustrations are really an outgrowth of my affections- it's so delightful! It could be just a tiny bit better! I would have been very into a danyin/xunfeng plotline, especially if it brought danyin and xiao lanhua back in contact- I really enjoyed their early interactions and thought they were pretty shippable in their own right. ps. Ronghao's minion should have been Danyin's mom.

Aside from the general continuity mess/ rushed pacing of the last few episodes, I wish they'd made xiao lanhua's perspective and goals a little clearer in the second arc so it doesn't just look like she's desperate to go home and finish being tortured to death, and in general that the moon kingdom conflicts were a bit tighter (Jie Li are you a literal kleptomaniac? why are you stealing from the most powerful man in the universe? is this an expression of your death wish and self loathing). I thought Dongfang Qingcang's personality shift at the very end was a bit too extreme, but my #1 petty irritation is definitely with the way they handled Changheng/Lanhua. I can believe that her feelings changed, but they sold me way too hard on it in the first act for me to believe she didn't have romantic feelings for him at all, and they didn't even bother to come up with something faintly plausible to explain why he left Dongfang Qingcang alone with her soul-seed. He'd never! His whole arc is about how he's actually if anything more willing to ditch his job for her than Dongfang Qingcang (incidentally I love them very much for giving the main ship the real duty vs. love problems. yes!!! thank you for the food). Anyway "the other war god is back I've got to go" is the worst line in the whole show and I can't believe they had a whole thing where she got her memories back but it's never made clear if she remembers him falling in love with her (which is presumably her falling in love with him too!!! Like I really thought at some point they'd address that she has a feelings hangover from something she can't remember and how that ties in with her original magical amnesia but NO! I was denied).

[lazaruspearl]

u were a beatific vision through the Dirty windshield

Drivin though the gap at night

I am privileged to have witnessed your life

Through the screen

I perceive my own eyes movin rapidly

Through the screen I can see

It play out like a movie dream

All that I wasted on you all of my wasted breath

I just keep on dyin’ all these little deaths

I played the fool for your truth on warm leatherette

I just keep on dyin all these little deaths

Original boys, original girls

Doin burnouts in the parking lot

Strawberry moon, the height of June

Precious in the eyes of God

All the saints I have estranged could have never held a flame

All the saints, and devils too

Know my name and so do you

All that I wasted on you all of my wasted breath

I just keep on dyin all these little deaths

I played the fool for your truth on warm leatherette

I just keep on dyin all these little deaths

U were a beatific vision

Through the dirty windshield

Driving through the gap at night

I am privileged to have witnessed your life

In my mind I rewind the worn out tape until it grinds

In my mind I rewind the worn out tape until I find

All that I wasted on you all of my wasted breath

I just keep on dyin all these little deaths

I played the fool for your truth on warm leatherette

I just keep on dyin all these little deaths

U were a beatific vision

Flyin through the windshield

Layin mangled in the moonlight

Your eyes flashed like glitterin glass

Ephemera never dies

All that I wasted on you all of my wasted breath

I just keep on dyin all these little deaths

I played the fool for your truth on warm leatherette

I just keep on dyin all these little deaths

[witchofimber]

Fracture

This is a fragment of a planned, longer work that I’m probably never going to finish. I already posted one snippet of it on here (which is repeated in this story), but this puts it into a longer context. 

FRACTURE: November 1981  

“The boy should be at his aunts,” says Dumbledore.  

Remus says nothing. The noise of St Mungo’s prohibits speech. From far away; hushed voices, footsteps pressing circles into the worn carpet, the clatter of shaking hands putting down cups of tea. He can just about make out Shacklebolt’s voice, but not the words. Further away – distant screaming. Peter’s mother. And inside this room, the same sounds that have been playing for the last five days. There are no beeping heartbeat monitors in St Mungo’s. There is only a green line over Lily’s chest, rising and falling. Sometimes when Harry makes a sound, Remus swears it spikes. Harry in his arms, the smallest thing he’s ever seen. And now Dumbledore.  

“You know they won’t let you keep him, Mr Lupin.”

“Lily’s still alive. I’m not keeping him. I’m – borrowing him. Holding him.”  

“And yet – “

“I’ll fight you on it. Lily and – they left a list of who should execute their estate if they were incapacitated. It was – Peter and me. Peter’s gone, and – I’m the only one left. So I have their money, and I’ll fight you on it.”  

The light flashes over Dumbledore’s half-moon glasses, turns them hard as silver. Silver rattles his teeth and sends shooting pains along his nerves; silver makes the wolf inside him cower; silver are the eyes of the man they have dragged into Azkaban, the man who left Lily comatose at their front door and James Potter dead by his son’s crib.  

Dumbledore sighs. “The boy is in danger.”

“Voldemort’s dead.”

“His followers are not. And – forgive me for bringing even more gloom into a situation that is already dire – we still don’t understand what happened in Godric’s Hollow, or how the Dark Lord disappeared. The fact that his followers believe him gone does not mean he will never return.”  

“I can keep him safe,” he insists; thinks you can’t even keep yourself safe; thinks even monsters protect their young; thinks James, oh James, I will pay this penance for the rest of my life. I’m so sorry.  

There is an opalescent sheen over Lily’s tiny body. A cocoon of spellwork, rebuilding the charred remains of her nervous system from scratch. She doesn’t move. Remus had asked the mediwitch if that meant she wasn’t in pain; the mediwitch had looked at him for a long time, stroked Harry’s head and left without a word.  

“We’d have to hide you,” says Dumbledore. “We know the Death Eaters are targeting Harry. You’ll have to miss the funeral.”  

James will be buried alone. But James would pick Harry every time.  

“Ok.”  

“And you’d have to stop visiting here.”

Lily, third year, during a study session around midnight when they were both loopy with lack of sleep. She’d told him how her grandmother had died in a Muggle hospital, how the people there even cried quietly. It’s awful, and it’s wrong, she’d said, because you’re sitting there feeling the most intense grief of your life at ten, eleven years old, and it should drown out everything, but you can’t even just focus on your sadness because at the back of your head there’s ‘this is a hospital, have some decorum.’  

But, that same night: I think my sister hates me. I can see her hating me more with every passing year.  

“But what about – “ if – “when she wakes up?”  

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”  

Harry still doesn’t have any hair. He’d been born almost completely hairless, and Lily, tired and beatific, had nudged James and said looks like those Potter bald genes are kicking in early. James had rocked Harry, tears streaming down his face, and choked out but he’s so beautiful, he’ll be the most beautiful little bald man in the world.  

“I’ll do it,” Remus promises. “I’ll keep Harry safe.”  

---

They’re in a cottage at the edge of nowhere and Harry’s screaming with the gusto of a full-grown man.  

“I’m sorry,” says Remus. He is on the floor, and in one hand is a bottle of milk and in the other is a shiny little wooden man with a rictus grin and charmed cymbals in his painted fists, crash crash crash, and Remus in between with an equally rictus grin and tears streaming down his face. There is probably snot on his upper lip as well, but he’s too immune to being moist to notice. That’s something nobody tells you about infants – just how much time you spend time squelching. There’s milk and mush and shit and puke and tears and snot, and occasionally Harry just seems to produce various weird damp spots without doing anything. Add to that all the crying that Remus is doing and one day they’ll just drift away, Alice in Wonderland style.  

“Hello?” There’s someone outside, and Remus grabs his wand and has the door open and the tip under the stranger’s throat before he recognises the voice, the face – Arthur Weasley, in a crumpled purple suit, with two bags of groceries on each arm.  

“I’m only supposed to walk the perimeter,” he says, “but I thought to myself I bet Dumbledore has no idea how much stuff babies need, so I picked up a few things – nothing that would set off any alarm bells if I was being followed, don’t worry – oh my, is that Harry? He’s got big lungs, hasn’t he?”

He nudges past Remus into the kitchen, bellowing, “Don’t forget to ask me the question!” after him.

“Uh, ah - “ Remus potters after him, wonders if it’s morally acceptable to obliviate Arthur before he reports back to Dumbledore about what a terrible parent he is. “I don’t - fuck, give me a second - “

“How about this,” says Arthur. “My coat turned yellow on the night of Alice Longbottom’s twenty-second because Peter had spilt a drink down the back of it, and you were tipsily trying to clean it up before I noticed. You thought I didn’t see you, but I did. Will that do?”

Remus scratches his ear. “I’ll pay for the coat?”  

“Ah, I never liked it. Present from Molly’s parents. Hello, little man, what’s got you so upset?” He scoops up Harry, who’s now resorted to thrashing anything around him – the floor, his toys, Arthur’s chest – with his tiny fists.

“I don’t know what to do,” says Remus, right back on the brink of tears. “I’ve changed him and fed him and burped him and walked him and – I can’t do it. I don’t know what he wants. How the hell could I know what he wants?”

“Oh, Remus,” says Arthur. “Sometimes babies just scream. You’ve got to remember that they’re very small, and very scared, and they don’t know what any of their feelings are.”

“He wants his mum and dad.”

Arthur nods. “I’m sorry, lad, but he probably does.”

Remus slumps over and puts his head between his knees.  

Arthur’s voice is soft over the sound of Harry’s screaming. There’s something calming in his cadence, and Remus lets himself drift into it, float away.  

“Bill was a very easy baby, you know. We got ridiculously lucky first time out of the gate. Should have seen it coming with Charlie – nothing that charmed can hold. He got sick a lot. That was the worst of it. You become this sort of – irrational nightmare, standing over a crib and being told it’s just a cough but knowing, knowing, that something’s seriously wrong with your baby and it’s probably your fault. We were wrong, of course, it was just a cough and it was nobody’s fault, but that paranoia never really leaves you. Percy was the opposite – too quiet. We kept on missing these big developmental milestones. You know the sort of thing; wouldn’t look at us, wouldn’t smile. His shapes and numbers and sounds were all on track, but it was like he didn’t notice us. Eventually Molly just sat me down and said, ‘Arthur, our son’s just a little odd, and we love him fine.’ George and Fred were surprisingly easy, given what terrors they turned out to be. I think twins can sort of amuse themselves, you know? Ron’s a stoic little chap, but when he wails, he wails. And then as soon as you think you’ve calmed him he’ll start fussing again. Ginny’s too new to be much of anything, but she’s got a ferocious grip – if she gets your finger it’s like being tussled by an octopus.”

“Harry hates me,” mumbles Remus.  

“He doesn’t hate you. I don’t think babies even have big, complex feelings like that – hate, love. I think they just know safe and not-safe, and sometimes something spooks them. You have to remember that the big, blurry blobs he trusted to keep him safe have disappeared. They usually come when he screams. It’s going to take a while to learn that they – but he’s got you. You’re doing ok.”

“I was drunk the night they died.”  

“Ah, lad. You’re – what, twenty-three? Quite a bit younger than I was when I had my Bill. You’re doing better than me, I can promise you that. Tell you what – if Dumbledore thinks it’s safe, how about I bring some of the boys round for a playdate? You can’t imagine how happy Molly would be to get some of them out of the house. I’ll bring Ron, and maybe Percy – we’ll stick him in the corner with a book and he’ll happily ignore us. I’ll save the twins for when you’re feeling a bit stronger. And then we can have a cup of tea and a chat while they throw blocks at each other. Does that sound ok?”  

“The house is a mess, I couldn’t – “

“I’ll bring you a picture of the Burrow next time as well, and you can see what a real mess looks like. It takes a village, you know that, don’t you? Gid and Fab – Molly’s brothers – used to do what they called ‘the three-week blitz.’ Three weeks after the birth they’d come to the Burrow, hand me a beer and Molly a sleeping potion, and whizz round the whole place with a bunch of cleaning spells.”

Harry had a village, and now it’s dead. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says instead, because he heard about the Prewitts, knew them on sight – two big, identical Viking-types, the sort of lads he’d seen outside the pub in Wales after a big rugby win slamming back pints, men who would have been threatening if they weren’t so obviously nice.  

“Thank you,” says Arthur. Harry’s calm now, and Arthur lays him back into Remus’s arms. “Well, there’s a lot of that going around.”  

---

The first time Remus heard Harry’s name was three years before he even existed. They were stoned in James and Lily’s first flat, and Sirius was waving James’ seventh-year jotter in one hand and laughing until he cried.  

“What you have to remember – “ James made another one-handed swipe for the jotter, the other hand still pleading at Lily – “what you have to remember is that I was seventeen, and – Sirius, give it back – very in love, and perhaps my taste wasn’t fully formed – “

“Ah, and now you’re a mature old man of nineteen,” said Remus.  

“Thistledown Potter,” sang Sirius.  

“For a boy or for a girl?” said Pete.  

“God, does it matter?” said Lily. “James, in what universe would I have agreed to any of these names for my kid – “

“Hey, these are old family names, some of them are traditional – “

Remus leaned over and snatched the book from Sirius. “Oh yeah? Hey Padfoot, do you remember any Bowie Potters on the family tree?”  

“Your great uncle, I believe, wasn’t he James?” Sirius stopped jumping around and fell onto the sofa next to Remus, half in his lap. “Second cousin of – ah, here it is – Zepplin Potter. Are we about to find a Ramones Potter somewhere on the list?”  

James raised a finger as if to argue, and then lowered it, abashed. “Ramona. For a girl.”  

“I can’t believe I’m in love with you,” said Lily. “I’m going to name my kid something nice and normal. None of this weird pureblood shit.”

“Good shout,” said Remus, pulling the joint from Sirius’ mouth, “otherwise you might end up with something really out there, like – I don’t know – James.”

“Fuck off, Remus. Me and Pete are the only ones here with a proud family tradition of normal nomen- nomen- ugh, name-stuff.”  

“Nomenclature,” said Remus, which earned him a middle finger from Lily.  

“Isn’t your sister called Petunia?” said Sirius.  

“Petunia,” said Lily, with a grand and sweeping air, “does not count as a person. Anyway, I’m going to pick something as aggressively mundane as I can. Bob or Sally or Harry.”

“I like Harry,” said Pete.  

James scoffed. “Harold, surely. Shortened to Harry.”

“Absolutely fucking not, otherwise he’ll grow into the sort of person who ends proclamations with surely.” Lily planted a kiss on James’ nose and snuggled softly into his arms as she gestured at Remus and Sirius. “Anyway, what about you two?”

Remus turned his head into Sirius’ hair. “Darling, are you pregnant? But you told me you were on the pill.”  

“I’m baby-trapping you,” said Sirius, and kissed him firmly on the nose. “Gotten tired of waiting to see you make an honest woman out of me.”

“You could always adopt,” said Lily. “Do you want to?”

“Not sure,” said Remus, who was dimly aware, through the wavering mist of hash, that this conversation was dangerous.  

“We’ll just be the cool uncles to Harry-not-Harold Potter,” said Sirius. “Teaching him how to ride a motorbike and giving him his first tattoos.”  

“And I’ll stop them from doing that,” said Pete.  

And after that it became a running joke, the kind that peppered all their conversations until they were nearly incomprehensible to outsiders. Lily, asking Remus if he really needed that much firewhisky for one party – Ah, Lils, I’m saving it for Harry-not-Harold’s first birthday. Sirius won a shitty plastic watch in a Muggle claw-machine and proudly presented it to James to save for Harry-not-Harold’s seventeenth. Pete ducked out of the office early to meet them for a pint – I told them I was needed for babysitting duties. If anyone asks, Harry has a terrible cough. James, pissed as a lord, had snorted and declared loudly that his son had the lungs of an ox, how dare you importune – is that the right word? – how dare you DENIGRATE the Potter family name. So by the time Lily stood up at a dinner party with a glass of sparkling apple juice in her hands and announced that she was pregnant, it felt like Harry had always existed between them.  

Like they’d spun him up into being together.  

---

“Read about it in a Muggle parenting book,” says Arthur, beaming proudly at Ron and Harry. They’re painstakingly transferring ping-pong balls from one bowl to another, spoon by spoon. Occasionally they get confused and start transferring the other way, re-filling the original bowl. Arthur and Remus, by unspoken consent, have decided to let this happen.  

“They’re terribly clever, these Muggles,” says Arthur. “All sorts of ideas as to what to do with babies. With Bill, I think I mostly just walked around the house and pointed at things, telling him the names. He used to love the bathroom when he was a little ‘un. Always got very excited when I pointed at the taps. Now it’s so difficult getting him into the bath that half the time I just aim a strong Augamenti at him when he’s on the back step.”  

“You make fatherhood sound so fun.”

“Oh, you’ve got a lot to look forward to.”  

“It’s not – I won’t be there for that bit, Arthur. Lily’s going to wake up.”  

Arthur’s giving him a strange look, and it feels like a fist to his sternum. “She will, Arthur. She will.”

“I know,” says Arthur. “But you’ll still be around, won’t you?”  

“I’m not his dad.”

“Remus. I know you loved James. But Harry doesn’t have a dad anymore. He needs you.”  

And Remus stares at the floor and tries very hard not to cry, until Harry flicks a ball into his nose and gives him an excuse.  

[stankycowboy]

Hunkered down in the cold, only one plume of steamy air escaped the pair. Their breath was coming hard from the rugged trek up to the peak. The view from the summit was worth the climb. All around them was moonlit, a vast open valley of evergreen trees and freshly fallen snow. A harsh wind intermittently whipped through, scattering snowflakes like a shimmering flurry of stardust across the land that seemed unsure of how welcome it felt its visitors were. Yet there was a power here. A force that hummed. The solace was palatable. Its unspoiled beauty unlike that of any world of man or beast; speaking of a resilience few could.

Severen smiled, knowing this was the perfect setting. A place for just the two of them. He looks to her pale hand, running his fingers through hers. His palm is cold as always, bearing none of the stiffness of joints or trembling nerves another’s might. He is just as at home in this frozen land as she. Lifting their interwoven fingers up, he rotates her wrist upward and slides his hand away, replacing it with an object wrapped in a scrap of cloth. When revealed, it is a dagger in a leather sheath, dyed a midnight black. A silver moon has been pressed into the center, a delicate pattern of diamond shapes skirting the borders. The handle is carved from a piece of ironwood, the carving good, clean and well sanded, but clearly not the part the craftsman had the most expertise in. Drawn from where it rests, the blade itself steals the show. The polish on the metal-- a bright silver with a dark heart, speaking of a stone fallen from the heavens above-- is so highly glossed that it nearly disappears against the night sky. The edge sings its sharpness, the curve elegant and bearing a keen resemblance to a wing.

“I learned a little from my mama”, he mutters, proud of his work, but feeling humble in the silence between them as she studies her gift. “I know this kin’a thing s’ppose’ta go a little diffrn’ly, with the dagger’n sheath n’all, but”, he reaches to stroke her dark curls, wanting to bury his hands in the sheen of green and violet. “I just wan’td you’da have somethin’ special". Severen gives her a smile that is nearly beatific. He is perfectly at peace, completely open, eyes tranquil and serene. Her presence calms him, at ease in the comfort of who and what she is. How similar they are in nature. His voice is low, quietly in tune with the sacred nature of their surroundings, “Happy Birthday Spark”, he leans in to kiss her, whispering words meant for her alone against her lips, "I love you".

@ulfhrafnx

[viviennelamb]

True Daughter Of God: A Poem

Happy Now Olivia

True Daughter of God

(Had to add the video also because the poem in it is so sweet and true.)

When a true Daughter of God builds an immortal, invincible, unconquerable subtle causal empire of experienced divinity to light the inner way of billions towards God, untouched by The Evil Forces of Delusion, Dogma & Distraction, what can The Scheming Scum of The World do about it?

Can they shoot down the sun? Can they burn down the stars? Can they take down the moon?

Can rats scratch the secrets of universe? Can pigs become saints? And though cockroaches may survive a nuclear apocalypse huddled in their dark underground “nobody-knows-about” Nazi underground cities…they will not survive the lethal-to-degenerates Radiant Radiation Behind My Nuclear Thoughts.

They shall all flee back to the hell from whence they have spawned their depraved World Domination Nightmares, or they will be scorched to renewable karmic compost in the immortal flames of Real Purity.

When a true Lover of God builds an empire of immaculate love and illuminating wisdom, it’s above the filthy minds of men, impossible for The Godless & The Faithless to perceive, for its various sanctified cosmic pavilions, its eternal gardens of beauty, its rivers of sweetness, its forests of bliss, its endless wonders of majesty, its mountain peaks of ecstasy, and its innumerable soul-lit courtyards of silent communion under the canopy of eternity

are accessed only through sincere devotion and deep concentration,

but though inaccessible to The Mindless Masses and The Cunning Cults of Bubonic Brethren, one thing will someday be holy apparent and made manifest to all:

the (terrifying to evil) 100% effective results of The Eternally Illuminating (Real) Influence of a true child of God:

i.e. the applied-purity of The Billions, the actual experience of God by The Many, and the acquired powerful divinity of The Few, who will go all the way to their full beatific Self-Realization, but by the “few by few” year after year, century after century will be made The Nuveau Nirvikalpa Pillars of The Higher Ages, who will guide by example and perfect wisdom, the new generations who will treasure and protect their hearts and minds as precious God-given and God-made instruments for the attainment of immaculate holiness.

Newly inspired starry-eyed generations will revere the awakening divinity within themselves, and within their brothers and sisters, keeping all evil at bay by the light of their atoms, emanating like holy swords to skewer the insolence of beasts and the hubris of men.

There’s nothing The Bottom Feeding Scum of The Sewers of Humanity can do against One Whose Realm of Thought Is In The Heavens & Way Way Beyond your little dreams…(but whose down-to-earth by-divine-command service to God is broadcast eternally on the electromagnetic waves of creation right here

and now). Tune into your divinity silently within and learn to establish yourselves there in the depths of inner communion, children of God, or you will be swallowed up by the mediocrity of men (not to mention drowned in their perpetual reincarnating seas of sin).

God said, “Be still [in the inner-communion born of real meditation] and know that I am God.” He did not say, “Be self-righteously confident and complacent in your useless social church circles where you never learn My Real Teachings (because unenlightened men have no clue as to My Real Teachings, much less do they ever practice them) nor do you ever bother to have even a single deep silent moment of contemplation, let alone real inner-communion (and be convinced, of course, that in spite of your spiritual sloth, Christ has saved you and your blindly indoctrinated children from your daily lust for all time…).”