#Portrait Accelerator

[illustratelaw]

At some point, I hit a wall. I didn't mean or plan to - but I took a break. I started playing video games again and just trying to get as much dopamine as possible. This felt like such a backwards step and I was beyond disappointed in myself. I'm so hard headed and stubborn at times! But, at the time - when you're in it, you can't see a way out, and the frustration and negativity just seeps in - it's an old evolutionary response and survival mechanism that us humans just can't seem to shake off, even in the modern world when it no longer really serves us. I felt particularly bad playing video games again - as this was something that Angel had shared with us - he used to play video games too - but gave up and then was massively successful with his art - this was so inspiring for me! And at that time, I began to see anything that wasn't drawing as a waste of time (this reminds me of the time I thought that if I wasn't doing something to make money - or creating something that I could eventually monetize - then it was a waste of time? Such a toxic mindset and not at all a balanced way to live - Hussle and grind culture really do be fucking us neurodivergent up!) I info dumped how I was feeling into the "mindset" channel of the discord and then just RAGE quit. Eventually - after around a 2-4 weeks - my curiosity got the better of me and I checked the discord... Sammie - another neuro-spicy individual like myself, from America - had read my message and taken the time to write a lovely reply to me, and had offered to be a sort of study buddy for me as she was a few lessons ahead. <3 Her message was JUST the thing I needed. It really perked me up and gave me hope!!! After speaking to a few other people in the separate study buddies discord, I learnt that not everyone was following the course to a T as I was attempting to do. (I'm sure this comes from some sort of childhood trauma of not wanting to get into trouble!) Once I learned that, actually - I could just go through the whole course, download everything - and then, take a sneak peak at the next lesson, lesson two? THAT CHANGED THINGS!!! It might be that I have a little bit of the 'tism - and seeing / hearing - WHY we were doing things, helped to really solidify the things being taught into my brain. I started to see the lay ins differently - I could now envision what the lesson 2 lay in would look like over the top of the lesson 1 lay in - and I understood what the initial guidelines where there for! Admittedly this is kind of a backwards way of approaching things but, as someone who's neurodivergent and struggles with learning difficulties - I should have been kinder to myself. No one told me that this was okay until now, turns out I just needed permission from someone else to experiment. And MAN, what a massive difference it made for my mental health! Now - I was starting to have fun again, the studies didn't feel like a chore or homework and - just for fun - I'd practice turning my lesson 1 studies into lesson 2 studies. This motivated me to get the lesson 1 study 100% right and just levelled up the end result? I can't quite explain it but - it worked for me.

[revivisection]

smashing these two games together like atoms in a particle accelerator (again)

all of the random shit i have to say under the cut

portrait based off of clara's. the staring right at you that felt right

he has the same hair as daniil and victor's character models because. hair is inconsistent between the portrait and the "model" for accuracy

sorry the "model" doesn't look like he's made out of mashed potatoes. can he uncross his arms? you decide

after this dialogue he disappears to give you the blink tutorial however pathy characters do not do that it feels unnatural to think about... if you're an important character you can only move around offscreen

3rd pic is me taking both versions of the void and the stairways to heaven and smushing them together like playdough. also a tiny bit of polyhedron motif in there

thinking about the bottle filling mechanic except it's the drink you can continuously pour yourself at the boyle party so the item pickup icon keeps on flashing in the corner between empty and a full glass. very amusing. run around with an open cup full of liquid in your pockets that's an order

[girl-lostconnection]

for the acceleration au! i was wondering, maybe reader could get fed up of the situation and the fact that suddenly there’s a third in the equation and she hates it, especially since ghost and soap seem to be so affectionate with each other and so normal about it; so somehow she gets closer to a colleague of hers, feeling alone and confused, and finds comfort in his presence. then they kith and ghost realizes that maybe he actually wants to spend his whole life with her, and that bringing another guy to their home was a dick move. i know it’s a lot but yeah🥸

You know, anon, you aren’t that far away from how approximately it was supposed to go initially. But I think considering that I kinda…remade Soap’s psychological portrait while writing the second part we can take a slightly different course.

I feel like the only person who’s normal about everything is Simon. For now. Because he hasn’t been caught yet but the metaphorical stone that will get thrown in his face is coming.

It’s approaching rapidly.

I just don’t know yet how to properly throw it. I have a shit aim

[freedelusionshere]

I think part of Carmy’s problem in S3 is how he accelerates everything to get the star. Which is about Syd. The idea that he will run out of time (which he even says).

I’ve always thought this meant he knows there is a countdown clock until Syd leaves him (like she almost did in S1). That he can’t do this without her and doesn’t even want to. It’s always really been about Syd and wanting to get her to stay from the minute she walked through the door of The Beef.

How much of what Carmy has done from the start is about keeping Syd with him? Starting with the brigade (hierarchy, she’s his subordinate), which creates a barrier so he can’t fully act on his feelings. Then she leaves him and he promises her the restaurant she’s always wanted in return.

He dated Claire in S2 and yet tells Syd he is giving her what she wanted, but distanced himself physically. He wasn’t around the way he knows he should’ve been and tries to make up for it at the end (I also get slight vibes of what maybe went down with the Berzatto dad here, and his aversion to hard emotional things despite being a dreamer). When you see how at ease he is with Syd versus his anxiety around Claire it lines up with him hiding out to avoid real feelings vs superficial ones.

In S3, he distances himself from Syd emotionally, while trying to make her his partner and constantly being physically present but controlling (Donna/Chef David mode) and trying to make Syd believe she needs him to get a star as he watches her demonstrate that’s absolutely not the case; it’s the other way around and now everyone knows it, too.

Like I’ve said many times before I think he has realized this by the end of S3, it’s just a matter of what Syd will do now.

At least since the discussion in Legacy when he saw her in the cute outfit, he mentions wanting to get square with everything and everyone.

Then he realizes he is obsessing over trying to figure Syd out instead of working on himself in Apologies (this is the reason he contemplates calling Claire: to apologize and not be shitty).

Then he starts to do the actual work in Forever by acknowledging he’s been a bad boss by confronting his own bad boss. Claire and his mom will follow as well as Richie.

These three seasons combined also give me massive François Truffaut feels, following a similar arc about love, marriage, and seasons of life in his film cycle The Adventures of Antoine Doinel.

[scorchieart]

Doodles and Dust

Genre: Slice of Life

Characters: Jin Grandet, Sariel Noir

Wordcount: 700

Prompts: In the shadows, Make it...

A/N: My gift for the 2024 Ikemen Exchange over on @flash-exchange for @pathogenic. Despite them having one of my favorite friendships in the game, I don't often write these two together. So I'm very happy I got to work on this for ya, Ollie!

“Cinnamon sticks, old man— You scared the sugarcubes outta me,” Jin heaved, clutching the door with one hand and his chest with the other. It always was a shock running into him unscheduled. Doubly so in a dark attic.

Sariel did not look up from the trunk he rifled through. “If you are looking for your magazines, Prince Yves disposed of them last week,” he said.

“Magazines?” scoffed Jin. “You misunderstand. I am here for the same noble reason as yourself.” 

“How fortuitous that we both elected to use our lunch breaks productively today.” Sariel lifted his head and cobwebs swayed off his hair giving his face a ghoulish glow. “I have this area covered. Please start by searching there.” He pointed to a corner where stacks of dusty bookshelves leaned against one another in ominous invitation.

Jin groaned, masking it with a blazing grin. “You’re looking for a magazine, right?” 

The entirety of Sariel’s annoyance flashed with a single eyebrow twitch. “A notebook. Red. With my handwriting.”

“Embarrassing diary entries from your youth, eh?”

“An accelerated course is necessary to bring Belle up to speed with Rhodolite’s governance,” Sariel explained soberly. “I thought it prudent to reference study plans I developed from Prince Leon’s early tutoring days. Why reinvent the wheel?”

It was just a joke. Jin raised his arms in surrender and waddled over to the shelves, each so full to bursting, grabbing one book might topple the entire configuration.

Where to begin? 

Behind looked most stable. Plus he could hide there and snooze. Hey, this was supposed to be break time.

Jin scooted into the shadows, but something already occupied his napping spot. Carefully, carefully, he pulled out a large, ornate frame.  From first glance it looked like a typical painting of the palace grounds—lush rosebushes clearly recognizable to any Rhodolitian visitor—with seven tiny figures scattered across. Boys. But closer inspection revealed more; the boys were not in fact original subjects of the painting but crudely pasted on, torn edges revealing glimpses of different origins. On top of it all, notable blots of ink were scribbled over the scene, as though someone had once left behind harsh criticisms of the work.

“No way!” Jin exclaimed, “I thought I lost this ages ago!”

“And I thought those pieces were pilfered ages ago,” Sariel called as he joined him.

“You never asked. I never told,” Jin said, studying the collage. Long ago, this attic was his preferred place to practice quill-usage in solitude. He reverently glided his fingers over the markings. A pair of dark gloves covered the twins’ interlocked hands. A wide smile cut across Chevalier’s stoic face. Tears welling in Clavis’s eyes replaced with glittering stars. Even Sariel’s fury melted at the doodles.

To a child, the attic is an escape to worlds beyond imagination. To an adult, it is a prison of memory.

“Someone’s missing,” Sariel commented.

“Well, Luke wasn’t around yet.”

“Yes. But I meant His Majesty.”

Jin inhaled. “He wouldn’t have fit. They don’t make portraits that small for kings,” he said.

“But you left a sizable gap in the middle there.”

“As if I’d remember my muse from that long ago?”

“As well as you remembered to discard your drafts, it seems.” Sariel approached the frame and plucked a loose paper sticking out from the corner. Jin reflexively snatched it from his hands.

“Oh my. Embarrassing doodles from your youth?” Sariel asked with glee.

“Yves just missed a page,” Jin said, stuffing it into his pocket. Sariel decided not to comment on how Jin accidentally revealed his lie. Nor how he spotted the unmistakable drawing of a dark-haired boy with glasses on that paper.

“Goodness, how time flies!” Sariel announced. “I can always create a new study plan—Prince Luke requires one regardless. And speaking of recreating things for Prince Luke…” he mused, one hand stroking his chin. “It would be short notice, but I don’t believe the royal painter would mind. And gathering the princes would be beneficial for Belle to interrogate you all at once.”

The attic was indeed a place to unearth memories. Sometimes it worked well to inspire new ones, too.

Jin beamed. “Fine, but you’re standing next to me. Got it?”

Ever helpful, Rio volunteered to organize the entire event. He swiftly located and invited the royal painter from the farthest edge of the kingdom, booked and gathered the princes in the ballroom (resolving any and all inter-factional scheduling and squabbling conflicts that arose), and gallantly escorted Belle to the venue all with such efficiency, the princes invited him to join in for the painting. Neither Jin nor Sariel protested when he perched himself between them bearing the biggest smile of the bunch.

And that’s my headcanon for the story behind the 1st anniversary group portrait :)

[scotianostra]

On December 18th 1780 the Society of Antiquaries was founded.

The purpose of the Society is set out in the Royal Charter: “…to investigate both antiquities and natural and civil history in general, with the intention that the talents of mankind should be cultivated and that the study of natural and useful sciences should be promoted.

The original members began to donate material to the Society from its inception, and in 1781 it bought a property so that the donations it received could be properly deposited. The Antiquarian Society Hall appears on the Alexander Kincaid A Plan of the City and Suburbs of Edinburgh in 1784, located off the Cowgate and behind Parliament Close off the Royal Mile (then Lawnmarket). After several moves, the Society rented accommodation in the Institution for the Encouragement of the Fine Arts (later the Royal Institution) at the foot of The Mound in 1826 (now the Royal Scottish Academy). A detailed account of the history of the Museum was written by RBK Stevenson, former Keeper of the National Museum of Antiquities of Scotland and President of the Society, in The Scottish Antiquarian Tradition, edited by A S Bell and published to mark the bicentenary of the Society and its Museum in 1981

In 1841 there were over 4,000 visitors, including the Queen and Prince Albert, to the Society Museum to view the thousands of objects collected over the previous 60 years. By 1850 free admission to this collection was attracting 17,000 visitors per year, which led in turn to the accelerated expansion of the collection as donations flowed in, and to the publication of a 150 page catalogue.

In November 1851 the signing of a Deed of Conveyance with the Board of Manufactures on behalf of Parliament made the Society collections National Property in return for fit and proper accommodation at all times, for the preservation and exhibition of the collection, and also for the Society’s meetings, free of all expense to them. By this time the collections were housed in 24 George Street, they then moved back to the mound before sharing The National Portrait Gallery for a time.

In 1861 construction of the Industrial Museum of Scotland began, with Prince Albert laying the foundation stone. In 1866, renamed the Edinburgh Museum of Science and Art, the eastern end and the Grand Gallery were opened by Prince Alfred. In 1888 the building was finished and in 1904 the institution was renamed the Royal Scottish Museum.

There have been many extensions to the building over the years to accommodate the growing collections, the latest was finished in 2011, giving us the splendid new building adjoined to the old one, they also opened up the basement as a shop and cafeteria, the Society still functions today. the museum is one of the most popular tourist attractions in Scotland and in 2019 approximately 2.2 million visitors passed through it’s doors, the way things are going it will be a while before we see anything like these numbers again.

[highlordofkrypton]

CHAPTER 47 SUMMARY: Jurian is the star of this chapter, and he's fucking annoying about it. Johan can't decide if he'd rather die than owe a debt to this idiot human.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: WE ARE BACK IN BUSINESS I HOPE YOU GUYS ARE READYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

TW: Gore, so much gore, cannibalism

DIVIDERS BY @olenvasynyt

READ ON AO3 OR UNDER THE CUT

His power is fading, slowly and surely. Mortals are more resilient than he thought, his heart still hammering despite the absence of most of his body, and the blood pooling beneath him along with the long unfurling of his intestines, like pink garlands celebrating the King of Hybern’s ascension. With most of his power gone to Tamlin, the scraps are left to Valerian. Once his heart is gone, their game is over and whatever happens next is no longer Johan’s problem.

Gods don’t die. Does he know?

It’s the only thought on his mind—has he taken enough care to comfort Tamlin in case this happened? Has he provided enough rationality to comfort his Spring King? So long as Tamlin lives on, Johan will come back. Perhaps in a thousand years. Perhaps sooner if the pieces of his being find each other across the multiple planes of existence. He scours his brain for a spell, or an equation, that will accelerate the process. He might still have enough cleverness to trick the King into sealing his fate. Johan’s power was never in his magic, but in his mind.

His vision begins to blacken at the edges. His sight has always been fallible; he’s never known the faces of his parents or his loved one. Each feature appears clearly, but Johan has never known the whole. He has his mother’s eyes, and his father’s complexion, but which of the two does he resemble? Lucien’s hair is made of fire, and he loves the mechanical tick of technological brilliance, but he could never tell him apart in a crowd of his brothers. What terrible thoughts to have at the end—memories of his loneliness. Johan has never felt the feeling of his heart soaring as a child when his favourite person would enter the room. He would scramble to identify them, piece them together quickly by their components.

Tamlin. Tamlin had been the only one he could see. A full portrait in a world of parts.

His bargain means that he cannot plan for escape. He simply hangs there, blood seeping from the nails in his wrist. The worst part is not his slow death, but the fact that his small sliver of freedom depends on Jurian. He has yet to decide if he’d rather die than owe a debt to the human. The King of Hybern is a force to be reckoned with, and Johan has no idea how the man plans to outsmart him. Every shadow in Hybern will report his movement back.

A distant boom resounds through the castle. It rumbles in Johan’s chest. He sags against the wall, lids growing heavy. Another boom jolts him from the sweet lull of unconsciousness. It’s time, he tells himself, unable to bring himself to care about the machinations of the living. In the corners of his cell, his demons return in full force. They circle him with their jagged, cut maws. They flash their rotting teeth and bloated bellies. Finally, his time has come, and after a millennia they can catch him.

Fire blooms in the dungeons, and Johan hisses at it, trying to protect his eyes. His end is silhouetted by the blazing flame and accompanied by a symphony of cackles.

“Miss me, pookie?”

Jurian moves quickly, jostling Johan painfully, but efficiently. Pain comforts him—it means he’s still alive, if only for another brief moment.

“Are you putting me in a bag ?” Johan curses at the feel of  fabric against his open wounds and insides. The insides are lined with blankets to soak up as much blood as possible. They just need to reach the shore without being caught. Once there, Johan can freely bleed all over the place.

“Yup. Like the whiniest bunch of apples,” Jurian hums. “You owe me so much.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Too bad.”

Jurian’s smile is bright, and Johan hates that it’s the last thing he sees before darkness.

It is with great relief that Tamlin finds out he can restore Feyre’s powers. Her bond remains severed—that kind of magic requires a complex knowledge that transcends Tamlin. At the very least, Feyre is armed and on even footing with the enemies they may encounter here. They practice her shapeshifting until their boat arrives near the stormy shores of Hybern.

It’s the details that matter, Tamlin had told her. To become someone else, you have to think of the details and not just an approximation of ‘someone else’. He points out scars on their skin, beauty marks and unique features like the slope of her nose and the fullness of her lips. Once upon a time, it would have been romantic, but his heart cannot stop transposing Nyx’s features over hers and tightening like a vice whenever he thinks of him. They need to make it in time.

The alabaster castle of Hybern is haunting, skeletal atop its mountain. Tamlin had been here many times in his youth at his father’s command. It’s where all his nightmares were born. He faces it now, watches as he approaches it for, hopefully, the last time. Feyre reaches for him and squeezes his hand. He’s glad he doesn’t have to do this alone.

His eyes widen as several sides are blasted open. Smoke billows and fires rage—the perfect distraction.

“Feyre, we need to move.”

Tamlin gets up, taking hold of the rope attached to their boat. His change is so fluid; as soon as his skin touches the water, he becomes something else. With a sharp-tipped nose, radiant gray-blue back fins and a narrow body, Tamlin pulls Feyre to shore. He emerges as soon as his feet can touch ground and prepares to tie their vessel down, a voice calls to them.

“You’re late!” Jurian waves them down, a satchel over his shoulder. “Not sure if you noticed,” he says, jabbing his thumb behind them. “But we’ve got to go!”

“No,” Tamlin snarls at the traitor in his midst. “We’re not here for you.”

“Oh, I know. I have your god here. Or… what’s left of him.” Jurian shrugs, turning to show off the blood-soaked bag. “So, can I get a ride?”

[nekohime19]

Mini Mac # 44 : I love you

It's confession time! Finally it was time

Macaque was controlling the shadows. He made them flow in his hands, made them pull him up when he stumbled (it happened quite often after the loss of his eye). He wanted to be stronger. He remembered the helplessness that seized him when Peng charged upon him. The only thing he was able to do was curl to protect his precious pups. He wanted to do more. He wanted to be their shield, to be their sword, to be their guardian.

He woke up yesterday, he knew he should rest, but he couldn't help but train his hold over the darkness. He was not as tall as the other creatures roaming this earth. Not as strong. But he had weapons of his own. He thought of a giant of shadows. Taller than houses, taller than mountains, if he managed to do this, he would be able to protect his cubs.

Macaque flicked his wrist and the shadows flicked in response. It would take time to be able to create something this massive, but he knew he could do it. He was distracted by a demanding chirp. Macaque stopped commanding the shadows and turned towards the silk crib. Savage was blinking open, her tiny eyes veiled by a thin layer of slumberish tears. She pawed at the silk cover in frustration. Her brother was tightly curled around his lil doll, dead to the world around him. Macaque approached the crib, immediately Savage began to pawe harder, trying to reach for the black-furred monkey.

Macaque took the lil hands of his daughter and squeezed them. Her little fingers curled around his much larger ones. “I'm here, blossom. I'm here.” Savage squinted, trying to see through the blurry slumberish tears. She calmed down when she recognized Macaque and closed her eyes. She woke up every hour to check if he was near. Macaque didn't dare to get away from the crib. It would break his heart if Savage woke up and she couldn't find him near.

The lil devil chirped, satisfied, and squeezed her doll. She dived back to the lands of dreams. Macaque smiled, he caressed her face and brushed away the strands of fur falling in her eyes. The black-furred monkey then turned towards his son and cupped his chubby cheeks, he playfully pinched his baby fat and delighted in his son's lil frown.

“They're sleeping?” Macaque turned around at the soft whisper, Wukong sat beside him and gazed at the pups with fondness. Macaque nodded.

Both monkeys stood in silence, they cooed reassuringly each time one of the cub began to stir.

“I, huh, I wanted to take you somewhere and confess something.” Awkwardly chuckled Wukong. He scratched his neck, his ears reddening in embarrassment. “But I think I'll do it here. The cubs don't want you to get away.”

Macaque remembered that Wukong promised to “steal him away” the day before. He felt his heart skip a beat at thought. It was a very… ambiguous phrasing. The lil warrior turned around and gazed at the slumbering pilgrims to calm down. The moon was at its highest. Shining upon them with a pale light. Wukong played with his fingers for a few minutes. Macaque could hear his heart accelerate. Nerves, perhaps.

The great sage took a deep breath and pulled a little scroll from his heart-pocket. He handed it to Macaque with red cheeks.

Macaque carefully took the scroll and unfolded it. His eyes widened. It was a portrait of him. He was smiling, the curve of his lips soft like silk, his six ears fanned out delicately, reminiscent of an angel's wings. He looked… enchanting. His black fur was covered with the golden luster of the sun, and his eyes were curved like a moon crescent. Wukong even included his fresh scar on his left eye….Macaque gulped, he felt a knock form itself in his throat. It would be a lie to say he didn't feel self-conscious about his scar. He didn't like how it marred his face. He thought his milky white eye was dull. Dead. But Wukong drew it so beautifully. Like a precious pearl lightened by passion itself.

“This is…” Mumbled Macaque with a tight voice. He felt tears nipp at his eye.

Wukong opened his mouth and closed it a few times, as if the words were stuck behind his teeth. Macaque looked up at him with curiosity. The great sage face was becoming redder and redder.

“I love you!” He blurted out in a moment of a panick.

Macaque stood frozen. Feelings bloomed inside of him. His face erupted in vibrant red and his ears fluttered.

“Wait, wait!” Panicked Wukong. “I - I had a speech ready and a lot to say. And, no, wait. Forget that and let me do it again.” Wukong took a deep breath and confessed “Y-you were here for me-”

“I love you too!” Cut Macaque with a squeaking voice. He couldn't hold those words back anymore. They slipped out of his lips without him even noticing.

Wukong blinked, surprised, and his fur puffed out. They gazed at each other for a bit. Not knowing what to say after this.

“Really?” Asked Wukong with hope.

“Y-yeah.” Nodded Macaque.

The great sage tentatively offered his hand for the little monkey, Macaque stepped on it and gulped, his heart exploding in his chest. Wukong brought Macaque to his face, they both stared each other in the eye. Then they both erupted in laughter, overcome with joy. Macaque grabbed Wukong's fur, he hugged his snout and, in a bold move, kissed the tip of it. Wukong blushed and smiled, his eyes shining with delight.

“I love you.” Repeated Wukong. “I love you so much”

“I love you too.” Chuckled Macaque as he pressed himself against Wukong's face, grabbing as much as the other as he could to hug and cuddle.

They both stayed close, until they were interrupted by grumpy chirps. Savage was blinking open, awakened by their commotion. Both monkeys chuckled at their daughter's narrowed gaze.

Wukong lowered Macaque, and the lil guy came to his daughter's side, reassuring her.

“I'm here, blossom. Dad is here.” Macaque hesitated a bit, before adding. “Your Pa is here too.” Wukong stiffened, but then he smiled brightly and leaned over the crib, curling around it.

“We're both here.” Softly whispered Wukong.

+ cut scenes

Savage *suddenly awakened* : Daaaad! Where are u?? 🥺

Wukong inner thoughts : I have a really heartfelt and cool speech ready. Macaque is gonna swoon! 😌

Wukong *throwing away his speech* : I-I love you!

Wukong : wait! No! Reset! 😣

Ch1 / Previous / Next

[veeluvss]

ghost train

emily prentiss x reader

second date jitters or ghost train jitters?

“babeeeee, please,” emily whined, gripping your arm and tugging it gently.

“but i don’t like them!” you replied, stomping your foot slightly. it was your second date with emily prentiss and she’d brought you to a carnival. at first, you were extremely apprehensive. the sudden phone call at 8pm when you were already in your pjs and curled up on your sofa with two cats was cute but you hated rides.

she hadn’t made you go on anything too drastic yet. you refused the waltzers and cooperated on the teacups instead.

“just this one and then we can go!” emily begged, giving you puppy eyes.

“em,” you whimpered.

“look baby,” she giggled and took your hands in hers. “we go on it just once and i hold you the whole time!” you smirked, being held did sound nice.

“you promise?” you asked.

“i promise. you can even close your eyes super tight and not look.” you thought about it for a second and looked at her sweet face. her eyes, big and glimmering like dravite.

“okay fine.” you gave in. she did a jump before taking one hand and dragging you towards the ticket booth.

the ride creaked as the wheels began spinning. instantly, you grabbed hold of emily’s hand and shot her a scared look but she smiled, wide. had she done this on purpose? the train entered the darkness and violins played spooky tunes as it turned corners. echoing laughter filled the void around you and you inched closer to emily. her arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer but just as you went to look at her, a skeleton jumped at the you.

screaming, you jumped closer to emily. she laughed and wrapped another arm around you so both her arms were around your waist.

“it’s okay,” she giggled in your ear. the train continued through the dark halls. creepy portraits were hung on the walls, the lit up eyes followed you as you passed - staring into your soul. more laughter echoed around you and you gulped, anticipating another jump.

inching up a hill, the music stopped suddenly and you gulped as the train puled to a sudden stop and all lights went off.

“em?” you whispered, inching closer to her - if that was possible.

“it’s okay,” she whispered back, although uncertainty was riddled in her tone.

fear creeped up as you thought about what was around you. your breath hitched and when the sudden voice came, you jumped in emily’s hold.

“are you alright folks? we’ve just had some technical difficulties. the ride will be going again soon. sit tight,” the ride operator said and you gulped even more. you needed to get out of here.

“it’s okay, it’s okay.” emily mumbled, holding you tighter. you moved closer, if that was even possible and put your head in her neck, hiding from the eyes around you.

“none of it is real baby, you’re okay.” she reassured you. she was a god damn fbi agent, she didn’t feel fear but you - you were a teacher at a primary school. you were as terrified as the four year olds you taught to count right now and you hated it.

“i’m scared,” you whispered, as loud as your voice would make itself.

“i know sweet, i’m right here. nothing will hurt you.”

surprisingly, you felt safe in emily’s arms. her strong muscles wrapped around your smaller frame made you feel a lot better. her soothing voice settled your heart beat. you moved one of your hands to her chest, feeling her heart. it pounded hard and fast in her chest. in the dim light, you looked up from her neck. she smiled down at you.

“are you scared?” you asked, why was her heart going so fast?

“not quite the same way as you,” she chuckled. you frowned. her hand came up from your waist and to your hair. you felt her fingers interlace with your lose curls before she pulled your head up closer to hers. shit, she was going to kiss you. you smiled, suddenly not scared of the dark or the ghost train at all.

keeping your hand on her accelerating heart, you connected your lips. hers were soft, her kiss as gentle as her hold yet as fierce and protective too. your lips worked in unison, moving rhythmically. she pulled away, smiled then connected your lips again before holding you closer.

the lights flashed suddenly and the music began again. seconds later the ride jumped to a start and you pulled away. feeling like a lucky school girl, you blushed and hid in emily’s neck. you heard her giggle before holding you close yet again.

the ride continued with no more faults yet a lot more screams and jumps from your nervous body. however, being held in emily’s arms made you feel so, so much better. you weren’t as scared or as nervous because you had your protector. as the carnival lights flooded you, emerging from the ghost train tunnels, you finally saw the big, beautiful smile emily held. the ride stopped, in the right place this time, and emily climbed out of the cart. she held her hand out for you, helping you out.

“we’re so sorry about that, we can give you your money back. full compensation and some free tickets-“ the operator rushed, coming towards the two of you. but emily hadn’t taken her eyes off you.

“don’t worry about it,” she said to the man. she wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into her side.

“these things happen and beside,” she looked at you. “it was worth it.”

blushing and lowering your head, you hid a smile. it was worth it. you knew that without the train, neither of you would have had the guts to kiss on the second date. it was certainly a kiss to remember, and one you wouldn’t mind doing again.

[illustratelaw]

It's so cringe / funny looking back at these and remembering that I felt proud of them?! Like I really thought I was ready for the next lesson xD Goshhh, I got humbled SO fast.

[paralleljulieverse]

Negotiating Transatlantic Stardom: Julie Andrews in Everywoman, May 1956

By early 1956, Julie Andrews was firmly on the path to international stardom. Her New York debut in The Boy Friend (1954–55) had made her the "Toast of Broadway," and her latest role as Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, hailed as "the musical of the century," was set to elevate her fame even further.

Back home in the UK, commentators were quick to celebrate the US success of "our Julie" as a source of national pride. This fascinating two-page celebrity spread in Everywoman—compiled while Julie was home on a Christmas hiatus between shows and published in the magazine's May 1956 issue—captures a pivotal moment in the evolution of her public image in Britain (Lincoln 1956).

From the outset, the article frames Julie’s celebrity in emphatically nationalist terms. Its very title, The Lass With the Delicate Air—a reference to the famed British folk song (and, incidentally, later the title track of Julie’s first solo LP)—positions her as an emblem of English heritage. This nationalist coding is further reinforced through descriptions that variously cast Julie as 'Broadway’s English star' and "a delicate English rose" (p. 52).

The article sustains this image by attributing to Julie a familiar repertoire of classic British virtues—modesty, middle-class reserve, and plucky pragmatism. She is portrayed as "charming" but "without gimmicks," thoughtful and polite: "she concentrates when you ask her a question, pauses reflectively a moment, then answers without affectation or coyness" (p. 53). She is also grounded and disciplined—"unsensationally businesslike"—approaching everything with "her usual seriousness and application" (p. 52).

Yet alongside this warming portrait of hegemonic Englishness, the article also acknowledges elements of novelty and transformation. Julie’s "long brown childlike bob" has become "a sleek, centre-parted cap style" (p. 52); she has exchanged her "beret and schoolgirlish coat" for "full-skirted dresses and American-style sports clothes"; and she has "cultivated the American taste for steaks and fruit" (p. 53).

While these details position her within a more cosmopolitan, modernised femininity, the article simultaneously reassures readers that she remains steadfastly loyal to her homeland. She may "enchant… everyone both sides of the Atlantic," but "the loneliness of New York" leaves her "terribly homesick" (p. 52). "I wish I could spend six months of the year in America and the other six in England," she confesses longingly (p. 53).

This careful balancing act—celebrating Julie’s American success while reaffirming her enduring Englishness—takes on heightened significance when viewed in the broader postwar context. The 1950s were a period of profound transformation in Britain as the nation adjusted to a shifting global order (Catterall & Obelkevich 1994). The United States had emerged as the dominant superpower, and its cultural and economic influence expanded rapidly, flooding British markets with American products, fashions, and entertainment. This influx fuelled widespread anxiety over what many saw as an accelerating cultural Americanisation. "America is now the great invader," huffed British writer J.B. Priestley in 1955 (cited in Lyons 2013, p. 7).

Amidst these anxieties, the framing of Julie’s expanded celebrity had to walk a rhetorical tightrope—embracing the glamour of her transatlantic success without undermining the sense of her enduring Englishness. One of the ways in which the article negotiates this tension is through a recurring Cinderella theme—a classic motif of celebrity discourse and one central to Julie’s early stardom. Her journey from an ordinary English girl with 'buck teeth' to the 'Toast of Broadway' mirrors a fairytale transformation, positioning her as both relatable and exceptional, English and international—a perfect synthesis for a public icon of the era.

The Cinderella metamorphosis is also spelled out visually in the accompanying selection of press photos of Julie across the years. There is Juvenile Julie, a gangly 13-year-old schoolgirl, all fidgety fingers as she gazes intently into the eyes of Danny Kaye—and, perhaps, her own as-yet-unrealised future of American stardom. Then there is Homely Julie, lovingly framed with her brothers in the diamond-leaded window of their suburban Surrey home or practising at the family piano with her mother. Finally, there is Transatlantic Star Julie—striking a theatrical pose in an armchair, gazing at her poised reflection in a Hollywood-style dressing room mirror, or dressed in character as she takes her place on the New York stage alongside the established stardom of Rex Harrison.

This interplay of imagery, narrative, and cultural positioning ultimately serves a primary commercial function: celebrity-mediated promotion. Like many magazines of its era, Everywoman catered to the booming postwar market of female readers through an aspirational mix of idealised domesticity, beauty culture, and consumerist lifestyle. With sections dedicated to home-making, fashion, beauty, and family affairs, the magazine was also filled with colourful advertising for everything from fashion and cosmetics to grocery items, white goods, and cleaning products. In doing so, Everywoman worked to socialise its largely lower-middle-class readership into the moral and material imperatives of global postwar consumerism (Walker 1998).

Understood in these terms, Julie’s Cinderella transformation functions not just as a fairytale idyll but as an instructive model of self-fashioning, reinforcing postwar ideals of commodified femininity and aspirational consumption. Framed explicitly as a beauty story, her rise to stardom becomes a journey of discipline and self-improvement, one extending beyond talent to the meticulous cultivation of beauty. Whether perfecting her makeup or refining her wardrobe, Julie approaches her appearance with the same no-nonsense effort she applies to her craft. Her willingness to learn—from the sage counsel of a Fairy Godmother-like Beauty Counselor, no less—embodies the magazine’s ethos of achievable glamour, where self-discipline and refinement lead to transformation.

By blending the extraordinary with the accessible, the Everywoman article presents Julie’s success as both aspirational and instructive, reinforcing the postwar belief that discipline, charm, and the right consumer choices could shape one’s destiny. At the same time, it resolves tensions between British identity and American influence by portraying "our Julie" as both triumphant abroad and steadfastly English at heart.

Sources:

Catterall, P. & Obelkevich, J. (1994). Understanding post-war British society. Routledge.

Lincoln, N. (1956, May). Julie Andrews: The lass with the delicate air. Everywoman. 17(195). pp. 52-53.

Lyons, J.F. (2013). America in the British imagination, 1945 to the present. Palgrave Macmillan. Walker, N. (Ed.). (1998). Women's magazines, 1940-1960: Gender roles and the popular press. Bedford Press.

© 2025, Brett Farmer. All Rights Reserved.

[tzitzki]

life update (it's been wild)

Hello everyone, hope you all are doing well and have had a great start to the year!

My February started off bad, and is ending with me getting 2nd degree burns all over my legs (there's 6 days left, I hope it doesn't get any worse from here), hence accelerating the tragic timing of everything; putting me out of actual work for a while, and in a tough financial situation as a custom commission recently fell through. 🧛🏽 Due to all of this I'll be reselling this Vampire: The Masquerade custom at $215, as per original quote for the commissioner. if you're interested, please inbox me.

✉️ I'm also opening 4 slots of portrait commissions — all at $60 flat; if you're interested, contact me via email (you can find it through my comm page).

☕️ If you'd like to drop anything small to help out: ko-fi.com/tzitzki I'd appreciate any re-shares! Thank you all so much in advance!

[docgold13]

Heroes & Villains The DC Animated Universe - Paper Cut-Out Portraits and Profiles

The Ultimen

A group of genetically engineered metahumans, the Ultimen were the creation of Project Cadmus; designed as a team of superheroes to counter the Justice League.  Developed by Professor Hamilton and his team of scientists, the five beings were accelerated in age to their late teens and provided with implanted false memories that led them to believe they were normal people who just happened to possess fantastic abilities.

The team was composed of Wind Dragon, who possessed elemental powers that enabled him to create and control torrents of wind; Juice, who had electrokinetic abilities; Long Shadow who possessed augmented strength and size-altering powers; Shifter, a changeling who could transform into various different animals; and Downpour, an aquamorph who could change into massive amounts of controllable water. 

The team was managed by Maxwell Lord whose public relations firm ensured that the Ultimen remained popular and trusted among the general public.  The heroes teamed up on a number of occasions with the Justice League and the Ultimen were themselves offered membership into the League.  Persuaded by Lord, the young heroes declined and remained under the thumb of their benefactors.

This changed when the engineered heroes began to experience increased cellular degradation.  The process that created them proved imperfect and it was determined they did not have long to live. This quickly resulted in the Ultimen discovering the tragic truth about their origins and rapidly approaching demise.  

Frightened, angry and feeling horribly betrayed, the Ultimen set about destroying the Cadmus facility where they had been created. The Justice League were forced to intervene and managed to defeat the Ultimen.  Afterwards, they were remanded to governmental custody with Cadmus director, Amanda Waller, stating her people would do all they could to help the young heroes or at least make their final moments as comfortable as possible.  

Although the initial batch of Ultimen were deemed a failure, several new batches were created to act as foot soldiers in an attack on the Justice League’s Watchtower headquarters.  These new Ultimen were not given false memories and were little more than powered automatons tethered to Galatea’s control through a neural link.  

Actors James Sie, CCH Pounder, Gregg Rainwater and Grey DeLisle provided the voices for Wind Dragon, Juice, Long Shadow, and Shifter/Downpour respectively.  The tragic figures first appeared in the ninth episode of the first season of Justice League Unlimited, ‘Ultimatum.’  

[spell-cleaver]

Portrait of an Empire

Angstober

Day 29: Get Out

Vader was still in the medbay. Luke had visited him—Sheev could hardly have refused without drawing suspicion—and returned sombre. Vader was awake after his dip in the bacta, Sheev knew, so what had they spoken of? What had Vader told Luke about how Vader received those injuries?

If he told Luke anything, he would tell him the whole truth. Vader was not a good enough liar to dole it out piecemeal, and everyone knew it.

Did Luke know that Sheev was the one who had nearly killed his father? He must. No one else would have that power.

But did Luke know why they had had that fight? Did Luke know that Sheev had nearly killed him?

Sheev knocked on the door to Luke’s bedroom. Luke definitely knew it was him. They could sense each other in the Force like two powerful smells that mingled unpleasantly. But there was a long hesitation before—

“Alright. Come in.”

Sheev came in, leaning on his cane. Luke was seated on the sofa of his living quarters, staring out the window at the sky. In the distance, speeders zoomed past. His gaze tracked them idly, like a tooka who wasn’t really paying attention.

“Did you see your father?” he asked.

“Why did he try to kill you?”

Luke turned to face him directly as he asked the question, not giving Sheev the chance to avoid eye contact.

Sheev had to laugh—at the boldness, and at Vader’s stupidity. “He told you it happened but not the cause?”

“He didn’t tell me anything. He pretended to be asleep the whole time. I think he thinks he failed. And apparently he did, if you’re still alive. You’ve confirmed that’s what he tried to do.”

He had, hadn’t he? He was losing track. He was on the back foot.

“How did you deduce—”

“You’re the only one who knows how to spit karking lightning,” Luke spat. “Answer my question. Why did he try to kill you?”

Sheev could avoid the question. He could refuse to answer it. But Luke knew too much, now. How much longer could they evade the topic? Would they be able to bury it? Vader was an attack dog, but Luke was a dog in his own way, too. He never stopped digging.

It was a gamble. But the best way to manipulate him was… Sheev needed to—he wanted to—

“Because I tried to kill you,” he said.

Luke’s face froze in a controlled mask of dislike. He tilted his head slightly, away from Sheev; that was the only concession he gave. “What?” was all he could say.

“I was the one who ordered you assassinated. Your father finally found conclusive evidence.”

Luke was breathing hard. His hand flexed on his cane. He glanced down at it, and his expression hardened.

Sheev expected him to implode. Vader always did. Luke was emotional, foolish, driven—his father’s son in many ways.

But not all.

His breathing accelerated, heavy and rasping. His every muscle froze. But he did not break Sheev’s gaze.

“Why?”

That was the most obvious question to ask. It was the one Sheev could not answer. He flailed, groping around for words. He was fluent in multiple languages but he could not handle this.

“You were a weakness,” he said. “The Sith do not tolerate weakness.”

“Get out.”

Sheev raised one of his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“Get out. Get out of my room. Get out of my life.”

Sheev said stiffly, “I am your grandfather.”

“If you don’t want to be,” Luke snarled, “you don’t have to.”

It was a humiliating indignation that seized him, then. Sheev glared at his grandson. “How dare you say that?”

“You tried to kill me!”

“I have not tried to kill you since!”

Luke stared at him. “Is that the best you can do?”

It was too much. The horrible emotions swirling in him, staring that boy down. The hunted, haunted look in Luke’s eyes. Sheev turned and left.

He did not flee. Sith did not flee.

It was a calculated gamble. Luke was always difficult to manipulate. But it would pay off.

Later, he found him gone.

[mercenarymage]

"Hugh?"

They had already realised they miss him, earlier, when he is not around. Worry, deeply, like they do for anyone they pledge themself to in one way or another. Sometimes, it's rough prods in the ribs, teasing and affectionate. Sometimes it's yelling at eachother in a drafty old house, affection in worry again. Either way, it is an unspoken 'please don't go', a roundabout 'let's go home'.

Softly, then louder. "Hugh. HUGH!"

They've developed a limp to favor their right leg in the past hours of hell on earth— Between injury, between flight, between being too restless-anxious to actually rest, heart beating an enduring staccato against the cage of their chest. their own vulnerability is barely a thought— It's in this incessant, uncertain searching that they realise that the certainty of who is gone and who remains that Araphen instilled in them was a fucking blessing in comparison.

One more certainty: Hugh is here. Hugh is here. They run to him wiithout a second thought, hurling themself against him, irreverent of whatever angle he's standing at, and knocks their head hard against his shoulder, and stills. They'd scoured every stone of this goddamn shelter and finally found Hugh.

Found lavender-night, violet-bright, russet-stone, snow and roses. Missing from this portrait of home, was still...

Meadowshine. Grass and daffodils, the harvest taking root. Face to the sunshine, to the spring, to...

One last uncertainty, all the more stark for their certainties. Terror yawns wide. Their fingers curl in the fabric of his clothes. Their shoulders begin to shake. Every time they manage to keep the fraying of their nerves together, the tugging and pulling of that worn weave starts to make it come apart. Once-steady breaths stick and hitch and choke. "—I can't find Lugh," They speak, a rush all at once, and voicing the fact is what makes their fear burst apart at the seams.

"I can't find Lugh," He repeats, slower, horrified, "I c-can't find Lugh, I, I can't find him, I,"

The words accelerate, scramble but don't stop. Hugh's shirt is growing damp. Chad's hands are growing clammy. "—Don't know— Know where he, I can't—" A gasp, voice steadily rising, "I can't find, I, Hugh, I can't lose h— I, I can't, I can't I can't I can't—!!"

The impact comes when he least expects it. It's after he's been patched up thanks to the help of Elffin, found time to put at least something in his stomach to keep his body steady. Anything that Hugh had been thinking, had been worrying, had been uncertain about - all of that had stalled to a halt in that moment.

A wishful self awaits a playful jab, a 'how dare it take so long to find you'. Something that shows him the person that proves to Hugh that there's some hope to be had.

The grip on his clothes tighten. This isn't like the last he's seen him upset. At least then, they were able to determine that the person he was worried for was ok. More importantly, the person back then was among them, instead of...

A careful hand is placed on their head. Above all else, the last he wants is for Chad to believe that he needs to be strong now. He doesn't have to prove anything to Hugh. And with everything that's happened, all Hugh wants to do is to give them the chance to breathe, before everything comes crashing down on all of them once more.

"I'm worried about Lugh too." He speaks carefully, a practiced levelness to hide how truthfully scared he is. "But I'll find him. Not everyone was at the monastery, and he's a smart kid. I'll make sure to bring him back home."

Hugh has no idea how to respond if he's questioned about it. About whether or not it's the case, about what happens if he's wrong about his assumptions. Just as much as he could find Lugh's smiling face at the end of this search, there's just a real of a possibility that no smile can be found. Only traces of what was.

But there's no turning back. He's made this promise.

And if anyone has to find that harsh truth first, Hugh wants to be the one to shoulder, above all else.

[thenerdykneazle]

Dear Diary

Summary: You stumble across Garreth's rather scandalizing diary while waiting for him to meet up with you.

Garreth Weasley x Gryffindor F!MC

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, 7th year, aged-up characters

Word count: 2263

You sat on the edge of the fourposter bed. The maroon curtains were tied back, leaving it open. You looked around the room. It resembled your own, having the same beds with the exception that these were numbered. Garreth also had one more roommate than you did, though the room was smaller than yours. The five beds were packed into the small room at the top of Gryffindor tower. It also lacked the sitting area yours had, though a similar enchanted mirror stood near the door. The room was cleaner than you had ever seen it, too, as most of its residents were away for the holidays. The sole exception was Garreth. He had retuned just after Christmas to spend time with his aunt. As such, his desk was as strewn with papers as ever. It was filled with books, a few for his actual classes but most were various extracurricular tomes on potions and herbology. A portrait of the last Gryffindor captain to win the quidditch cup was hung above it.

Currently, you were waiting for Garreth to return from getting lunch with his aunt. You flopped back, lying sideways across the bed as you stared at the ceiling in boredom. You yawned as you stretched your limbs as far as you could reach them. Perhaps you would sneak in a nap while you waited. The break had been wonderfully peaceful – a stark contrast to your usually hectic schedule. Not a single soul had come to you in crisis, which meant you had been using a lot of time to catch up on much-needed sleep.

However, you decided against the nap since Garreth was set to return shortly. You got up and sat at his desk, looking through the pages of notes on his newest experiment. While you refused to be his guineapig, the concoctions did intrigue you. You drummed your fingers on the desk absentmindedly, tapping to the tune of one of the numerous Chudley Cannons cheers Garreth had taught you over the summer. Suddenly, a drawer you had never noticed in the desk slid open.

“And who are you?” you said as you plucked the lone book out of the drawer before sliding it shut.

You flicked it open, and your eyes scanned the black scrawl on the pages. A diary! You glanced at the door before returning your gaze to the book. Your heart rate accelerated with excitement. You knew you should put it back. Clearly these were private thoughts, hidden away behind a charm. Although, it wasn’t your fault the book practically thrust itself into your lap. You were flipping through the pages as you dialogued with yourself on the morality of perusing something so personal to your friend.

You held the book in both hands as you read the most recent entry. It was a sweet musing about Garreth’s excitement for break. He talked about missing his family and looking forward to quality time with his aunt. He also wrote a bit about the potion he hoped to perfect over break, a fizzing beverage that makes the drinker burp bubbles. You smiled as you read the words. You worked your way backwards, reading through complaints about classes and teachers, especially Professor Sharp. Though, despite his frustrations with him, he clearly had admiration for the man, as well.

An entry from two weeks prior gave you pause.

I had the best dream last night. It was about her, of course. In it, we spent the day in Hogsmeade, browsing Honeydukes and Zonko’s, before spending the night drinking at the Three Broomsticks. We stayed in the private room above the tavern, and she was all over me, kissing my neck and grabbing my hair. I got her knickers off, and she was so wet for me. I swear I could feel her slick now. It was so vivid.

Before I knew it, we were naked on the bed. She was under me as I slid into her. She moaned my name as I thrust sharply into her over and over. She mewled and pleaded for more, and I gave it to her. Merlin, I loved the way her voice cracked as she came, calling my name again. I was surprised I hadn’t actually spilled my seed when I woke up. What I wouldn’t give to hear her moaning my name in the waking world. I do so love the sound of it on her lips in her innocent greetings. Oh, how deliciously it would echo in my ears as she fell apart. Gods, I hope the memories of this dream never fade.

Wide-eyed, you looked around the room again, ensuring you were still alone. The sordid words shocked you. You would never have expected such vulgarity from the genial boy. Well, he wasn’t a boy anymore, you supposed. Well into your seventh year, you had both matured over the last two years. For Garreth, that meant filling out considerably. His broad shoulders and muscular arms served him well on the quidditch pitch. His strong forearms exposed from perpetually rolled-up sleeves were rather distracting in class. So was the way he loosened his tie in potions as the steaming cauldrons heated the room.

It was a small mercy that the woman in his dream went unnamed. It would be too much to know who had stolen the affections of the boy you cared for so ardently. Though, that didn’t stop you from rifling through the diary to try to find it out, against your better judgment. You found several other recountings of his wet dreams. He wrote of dreaming about her riding him and “watching her impale herself on [his] prick.” He wrote of another dream where he bent her over one of the potions stations and pounded into her from behind. An entry on a dream about eating her out in the astronomy tower after meeting her to fill out star charts brought a particularly strong blush to your cheeks. Yet not once did he mention her name.

You had made it all the way back to entries from the beginning of sixth year. It was there that you found the entry that sealed your fate.

She was driving me mad today. I swear she does it on purpose, leaning over tables so that her arse sticks out, begging to be grasped, and biting her lip to draw my eye to it. Even the lightest touch on my arm or brush of her fingers on my hand sets my skin ablaze. Gods, I’m desperate to tell her how I feel. I need to know if she feels the same. Yet, I cannot. We’ve become such good friends, and I couldn’t bear to make her uncomfortable if she doesn’t feel the same. Besides, she and Aunt Matilda are so close. I know my aunt loves me, but she is certain I would lead her into trouble. Aunt Matilda told me as much herself when she first arrived last year. Can’t imagine why she thinks so, though. I’m sure my aunt already warned her against me, and, even if she would give me a chance despite it, Aunt Matilda would never approve.

You almost missed it. The key phrase that made everything click into place: when she first arrived last year. He was talking about you. Fantasizing about you. Your skin tingled as a thrill ran up your spine. You were desperate to read more, but the sound of someone ascending the steps had you snapping the book shut. You tried to pull the drawer open, but it didn’t budge. You shoved the diary between random tomes on one of the desk’s shelves just before the door swung open. You were trembling with adrenaline.

“Good afternoon! Sorry I’m late. Aunt Matilda was extra chatty today,” he said brightly.

“Hi! No need to apologize, Garreth,” you replied as naturally as you could while feeling breathless and like your heart was about to beat out of your throat.

You saw his smile brighten a bit at the use of his name, and you couldn’t help the smirk that played on your lips. “Ready to ring in the new year?” he asked.

It was December 31st, and you two had plans to attend a party in Hogsmeade.

“Actually, Garreth, I was thinking we could hang out here for a while,” you said. You were eager to experiment with the knowledge you had gained. “I don’t want to start partying too early.”

Garreth sat on the side of his bed, facing you. His knee was mere inches from yours. “Okay. What would you like to do? We could bundle up and play summoner’s court, or we could nick some hot cocoa from the kitchens and hang out in the common room by the fire.”

As you looked in his emerald eyes, it was like you had never really seen them. You had always averted your gaze so quickly, afraid he’d see into your soul and reveal the feelings you worked so hard to keep hidden. Now as you gazed into them, you could see the adoration with which he looked at you. “I figured we could just stay up here for a while, Garreth,” you said. You wanted privacy.

He tilted his head as he smiled at you. “Why do you keep saying my name?” he asked, bemused.

You shrugged. “It’s a nice name. Very strong. Masculine,” you said. “Don’t you think, Garreth?”

A blush crept onto his freckled cheeks. “I guess so,” he said sheepishly.

You chucked. “I can stop if you’d rather, though,” you said seriously.

“No,” he blurted out far too quickly. “I mean…you don’t have to.”

The corners of your mouth ticked up again. “Good,” you said. “Because I like saying your name, Garreth.” You let your knee bump against his.

Garreth’s heart was racing. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew that he liked it, whatever it was.

You let your fingers rest on his forearm. “Do you like it?” you asked.

His gaze shifted from your hand to your eyes. He looked at you with a furrowed brow. “What?”

You gave him your most innocent expression. “Do you like it? When I say your name?”

He stared at you, wide-eyed and lips parted. Was he dreaming? He felt like he was awake, but surely you would only say such things in his dreams. He just nodded, unable to find any words.

Your smirk grew. You were loving the effect you were having on the ginger lad. “What about watching me impale myself on your prick? Would you like that?”

Garreth may well have been part mooncalf with how wide his eyes were now. He had reread his own words enough times to recognize them immediately. His eyes flicked to his desk, searching for the familiar cover. He spotted it quickly on the shelf – very much not where he had left it. “I can explain,” he said in a panicked tone.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, the corners turned down. “Seemed pretty self-explanatory to me,” you mused.

“Where was–I mean, how did you–?” he stammered to his shoes.

“I was just tapping on your desk as I read through some notes, and the drawer popped open,” you said.

He shook his head in disbelief at his bad luck. “I’m so sorry you had to read that,” he said, his gaze still downcast.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at your frantic friend. “Garreth, look at me,” you said.

He winced as his eyes flitted up to your face. He was surprised by what he saw. He expected you to be scowling, maybe borderline murderous. Instead, he found an amused, slightly arrogant smile. Your eyes scanned his face, lingering on his lips. You trapped your own lip between your teeth as you stared at him with unmistakable lust.

Your eyes met his as you spoke. “I’m not sorry at all that I read it. In fact, I was hoping to read more before I heard you coming.”

He could feel the desire burning in his stomach immediately. He repeated your words in his mind several times, checking if there was any possibility that he could be misinterpreting them. Once he was certain he understood you correctly, he was leaning over you, his hands resting on the edges of your chair. His face hovered a few treacherous inches from yours as he looked at you with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Why don’t I show you instead, love?” he asked.

You grabbed his tie and pulled him down so his lips met yours. You tangled a hand in his ginger curls, and his hands slid up your thighs as he kissed you back fiercely. He ran his tongue along your lower lip, entreating you for entry. Your lips parted, and his tongue slid along your own, exploring your mouth. Garreth pulled back beaming at you. You were both panting for air.

“So, I’ll take that as a ‘yes’?” he teased.

You bit your lip again as you nodded. “I’m quite curious about your dream in the astronomy tower,” you said as you gazed into his verdant eyes.

He gave you a devilish smile before hoisting you straight up from the chair. You let out a surprised squeal before giggling. He was careful not to hit your head as he laid you on his bed. His tongue darted out across his lips as he looked down at you like a starved chimera at a rabbit. His eyes glinted with desire. “I’ve been rather curious about it myself.”