Finding.Nirvana

vanity_scribblings on ao3

[veritas-scribblings]

Table of Contents

AO3 Account: vanity_scribblings

One-Shots:

Sacrosanct [ao3] (M): Regulus x Barty; canon-era; Barty POV

(y)earn [ao3] (E/NSFW): Regulus x Barty; trans-Regulus Black

reverent [ao3] (E/NSFW): Regulus x Barty; canon-era; trans-Regulus Black

Microfics: All explicit / NSFW microfics | Jegulus-Microfics | Bartylus-Microfics | Other Pairings

———

"things we carry" prompt collection: black brothers; James x Regulus; complicated Regulus x Barty; platonic James + Sirius; past James x Lily

things we carry | out of control | early morning | home | an open door | faces in the street | mirror | this road | aftermath | very loud shoes | nothing | anywhere in the world | stars | forgotten | witness | small things | warning | walk away | supermarket | everybody | things people say | wrong way | too many | remember | song | impatience | if | one hundred years | what I wrote 

Jegulus-Microfics within the same timeline/universe

welcome, night, safe, more, devour (M) boggart, and then constellation: Regulus moves in with the Potters

doctor, pride, puddles and then penthouse: trans-Regulus Black; Jegulus baby

achieve and brain: quidditch player James; quidditch player Regulus

Bartylus-Microfics within the same timeline/universe

teach (M), hold (M), potion, earn, intense (E/NSFW) and then left (E/NSFW) (and one-shot (y)earn, which takes place after potion and earn, but before intense): trans-Regulus Black; Barty Crouch Jnr figures out sex

joint, idolise, blinded: canon-era; dark!fics; obsessive-love

buzz (E/NSFW), ride, pretty (E/NSFW) and then keeps (M/NSFW): modern-day au; trans-Regulus Black

Jartylus-Microfics within the same timeline/universe

nightclub (M), electric (E/NSFW), video (E/NSFW): modern-day au; trans-Regulus Black

[veritas-scribblings]

i have discovered solo journalling rpgs.

this may consume me.

i have also decided that writing by hand sucks. i can't edit something if i've already written it.

[veritas-scribblings]

my scrivener did a thing, and now I’ve lost some of my unfinished writing, and I’m awfully sad. 😔

[demeter1111]

[ratsquinks]

the cutest little face in all the land

[veritas-scribblings]

penthouse - @into-the-jeggyverse - words: 887 | Barty POV

[in-universe: doctor, pride and then puddles]

When the baby is three, James and Regulus buy a penthouse apartment. One of those new developments constructed in the bustling heart of Muggle London’s West End, wedged between Muggle buildings, and aimed at reducing the disparity between Muggle society and Wizarding society, encouraging understanding, discouraging the elitist tendencies so prevalent in wizarding society, blah, blah, blah. 

The reality is that Regulus has been bitching about the lack of space in their current set up, and James ends up in a foul mood whenever he trips over one of the baby’s toys and stubs his toe and the baby cackles at him like the little menace he is. It’s not because of the toys, it’s because you’re always in sneezing distance of him, Regulus says. But Regulus doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Barty is a gift and a blessing.

The penthouse apartment is ceiling-to-floor windows, high-beam ceilings, architectural marble bathrooms, spiralling sculptural staircases, elegant butler’s pantry…All the bedrooms have ensuites, Regulus says, and in the principal suite, you access the bathroom through the walk-through wardrobe.

Barty whistles and trails after them, the baby wiggling and chattering in his arms. 

Isn’t it great, Regulus says. 

Great? It’s fucking pretentious, is what it is. 

James glares at Barty over his shoulder. “Why are you even here?” 

Why is Barty here? Where the hell else would Barty be when his best friend (nay, his soulmate) buys himself a big, shiny new toy? Barty has every intention of choosing his bedroom before anyone else gets their paws on the best digs in the penthouse (You don’t fucking live with us! James snaps), and then maybe going sock sliding across the glossy polished floor with the baby.

Barty has also recently heard of this superstitious muggle ritual where new homes are blessed with sex, and now he has ideas aplenty. Ideas that will have to wait until James is less snippy, because while Barty admittedly likes to fuck with a lot of things, he won't fuck with his best friend's (nay, soulmate's) happiness.

James takes Regulus by his arm, pulling him close. “It’s wonderful,” he says, but James doesn’t sound like he genuinely thinks it’s wonderful. He sounds tired, resigned, like he’s saying it’s wonderful merely to placate the resentment stewing in his gut. They’d been arguing over various places for weeks. 

I’m not going to live in a closest, Regulus had yelled, only for James to hit right back with, well, I’m not going to let Elio grow up in a stone-cold new-age rendition of Hogwarts, I want him to have a home! 

And then Regulus had taken the baby and moved back in with Barty and Evan (You want him to have a home? Fine! He has a fucking home!) and the metaphorical shit had hit the metaphorical fan.

And really, Barty could have told James that absolutely no one, not even Barty, wins in a fight with Regulus. Regulus is stubborn as fuck. The boy could stand his ground until he’s the last person left on Earth. He could take his frustration and resentment and spite with him to the grave.

There had been make-up sex after everything. There had been rough rage sex, and then there had been mope-y make-up sex, and then apparently James had cried, because James is an idiot who still doesn’t realise that Regulus is far too in love with him to ever actually want to leave. Regulus is just a stubborn motherfucker who had gotten over his anger ages ago only for his Mount Everest-sized pride to get in the way of early reconciliation.

“Raining again,” Baby Elio whispers. 

“Oh yeah,” Barty murmurs in return, “it is.” 

Barty had suggested, when James and Regulus were fighting, that Baby Elio come and live with him and Evan if Regulus was so insistent on having his palace and James was so insistent on the baby having a ‘home’. We have a home, Barty had explained. 

For some reason, that had made James even more angry. He’s my fucking child, Crouch, get your own fucking child! James had screamed, which Barty thinks is just ridiculous. Any child of Regulus’s is also a child of Barty’s. Obviously.

Regulus stands in front of the ceiling-to-floor window. From the penthouse, all of the West End is visible through the thin sheets of falling rain. James approaches him from behind and wraps his arms around his waist, leaning down to gently kiss his temple and whisper in his ear.

“Ew,” Baby Elio says.

Barty snickers and concurs. He’s taught his child well. There isn’t going to be ‘make-up sex’ for James and Regulus tonight, Barty knows. There’s no more making up to do. But after a particularly nasty fight, James and Regulus are always a little bit more gooey, more touchy-feely. The sex will be slow and sensual and desperate, the kind that lights Regulus on fire and sends him spiralling. 

It’s not gooey, it’s called love making, idiot, James always insists. You should try it some time.

Barty would definitely like to try it some time.

That’s not what I fucking meant, Crouch!

Barty leans down and carefully takes off the baby’s shoes. “Hey,” he whispers, “You wanna try sliding while they’re being gross?” 

“Sliding?” Baby Elio echos.

“Oh yes, sock sliding.” Barty takes Elio’s hand and leads him to the hall, which is long and empty and doesn’t yet have any furniture to crash into, because while Barty might be the cool uncle, but he isn’t about to maim his child. 

[veritas-scribblings]

crime - @rosekillermicrofic - words: 619

At school, they used to play this game: should you need to dump a body, which friend would call? Should you need to be bailed out of prison, which friend would you call? There were many variations on the same theme, but ultimately, it boiled down the one point. 

Who is your ride or die?

Barty has so many thoughts on this matter (the first of which is, why does he have to choose just one?). His answer sometimes depends on the time of day, the direction the wind is blowing, the level of perfection to which his tea was brewed that morning. But generally, it goes like this.

Evan is good for planned, and sometimes spontaneous, murders. Evan will help you execute the killing. Evan will help you hide (or destroy) the body. Evan will help you clean the crime scene. Evan will lie to the police for you. Evan would probably even take the fall for you, should it unfortunately come down to that. 

Evan will follow Barty to the ends of the Earth, would do anything and everything for Barty. Barty knows this. He doesn’t doubt it, nor does he question it. Barty loves Evan fiercely and unendingly for this.

That’s not to say that Regulus won’t offer to whack someone for him, but the boy has too many scruples about him, and Barty isn’t about to dump that big a load of guilt on his shoulders. No, Regulus is persistent. Regulus is resilient. Regulus is resourceful. Regulus is good for bailing Barty out of jail. He’s good for paying off, maybe even blackmailing, the jury panel. He is the mastermind, the one who makes the schemes and finds the resources and draws up the maps and makes the schedules and ensures everything runs like clockwork.

Regulus will bust Barty out of prison, should he need to.

But that’s, quite unfortunately, not how things are going down.

When Barty climbs into the car, Evan barely acknowledges him. He grips the steering wheel and stares straight ahead, and then slams his foot on the accelerator and kicks off before Barty has a chance to secure his seatbelt. Evan drives like a mad man when he’s angry, and currently Barty is seated alongside an F1 racer. 

“Ugh, I stink. Like sweat and piss and vomit. Not my vomit…or my piss…” Barty gives himself a cursory sniff and pulls a face. “You know, I’ve always had this fantasy. Did I tell you about it?”

“You told me about it,” Evan says flatly. He doesn’t ask whether Barty did it. It doesn’t matter to him whether Barty did or he didn’t. That’s not the point, at this stage. He doesn’t mind bailing Barty out of jail; this Barty knows. That’s not why Evan’s mad. What Evan does mind is that Barty didn’t ask him to help out, didn’t ask him to help hide the metaphorical body. Or literal. 

Whatever.

“Three men, all behind bars,” Barty sighs. “Ugly bastards, though. You know I love a lil' bit of exhibitionism just as much as the next guy, but…there wasn’t a single one of them that I had the slightest urge to shag or watch shag. Jail’s nothing like they make it out like in those films.”

“Jail’s nothing like what they show in porn films. You don’t say.” Evan spins the wheel so suddenly the car goes screeching as it swerves around the corner and Barty finds himself holding onto the car seat for dear life.

“So. How bad’s the damage?” Evan asks, which Barty knows is Evan’s way of asking: What do you need me to do? What do you need me to clean up? Is there anyone you need me to kill?

[literary-landscapes]

All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king.

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring (The Lord of the Rings

[huariqueje]

Metta Lettuce Mix - Daryl Storrs , 2009.

American , b. 1960s -

Colour woodcut , 20 x 24 in.

[veritas-scribblings]

toast - @into-the-jeggyverse - words: 1,400 | Mature: some sexual content | another long one, I apologise! | I was inspired | Sirius POV

Sirius starts by asking Euphemia Potter.

The Potter house smells, as it frequently does, of flowers and butter biscuits. When times are tough, when Fleamont is stuck in a rut, the man stress bakes. Sirius learnt very quickly during these times to hover around the kitchen. The kitchen is where the treats are. And as it is, with the rapidly impending wedding and James having ordered from Fleamont every kind of sweet treat known to man-kind, the kitchen overflows with baked goods. Everything from butter biscuits to brownies to banoffee pies.

Sirius puts on his glasses and holds up the notepad, brandishing his quill at the ready. “Right,” he says. He clears his throat and peers at Euphemia over the top of his glasses; glasses that are actually unnecessary as he has perfect 20-20 vision. “What can you tell me about the enigma that is James Potter?”

“Enigma, huh,” Euphemia repeats. Her lips quirk up at the sides as they do when she’s merely humouring him. “My James? Sweet child, James is the very definition of ‘what you see is what you get’. He does not do hidden layers.”

“Ma! I need to write this bloody speech, and it needs to be perfect. It needs to say: this, this, is who James is. The man is depending on me. Your son. The light of your life. The apple of your eye. Well, the other apple of your eye, obviously I’m actually the—”

“Alright, alright! A story, huh?”

“A story. The perfect story.”

Euphemia takes a thoughtful, measured sip of her tea and hums quietly. “You know, when James was in his first year, those first few weeks he wrote to us—and he wrote to us every day, you know—he’d spend pages and pages ranting and raving about this boy in his dormitory who kept vanishing his socks..”

“…he’d bloody leave them everywhere, it was disgusting…”

“…and ate all his biscuits…”

“…I did not, he’s a liar…”

“…and kept insulting him and picking fights for no reason.”

“Well,” Sirius shrugs, frowning, “I am an acquired taste. But Ma, not that kind of story!”

“You are James’s Best Man, are you not? This story is about James and you.”

Sirius rolls his eyes and falls back in his chair despairingly, barely missing the tray of cupcakes before him with the way he flails his arms. “I need a story about them and..,” he shudders, “their…love. Regulus is my brother! I can’t just skip over the matter and, you know, pretend I never had the chance to meet him.”

“Sirius,” Euphemia says firmly. She places her teacup on the only small, empty space left on the kitchen table and leans forwards. “They’re your best friend and your little brother. You’re the one with the stories.”

“I am biased,” Sirius says, emphasising his words in bold, in capital letters, underlined with exclamation marks. “You know, James bought me a huge, expensive bottle of whiskey and a full steak dinner to ask my bloody permission to marry my brother, the stupid idiot. Looked like he thought I was going to rip his head off, too, like he thought I’d say no, you can’t marry my brother, like James is not the best person I know and Regulus isn’t a particular little prat with such discerning taste that he’d never settle for anything less than perfect. Such an idiot.”

He tries to fall flat on the table before him, but the entire surface is covered with trays of shortbread biscuits ready for icing, and Fleamont cuts him off with a gentle, “mind the biscuits, please…”

When Sirius is desperate, he goes to Bartemius Crouch Junior even though he hates the guy with a flaming passion. With a pure intensity that cannot be reduced to anything so simple as words. There aren’t many in this world who know, but James and Barty grew up together. They shared a childhood long before Sirius arrived on the scene. James doesn’t often mention it. Barty rarely acknowledges it. But every once in a while, one of them will drop an anecdote or get a bit too familiar, and it’ll kindle something inside Sirius akin to loathing.

And, of course, Barty comes with the added benefit of being so attached at the hip to Regulus that he’s damned near territorial about it.

Barty and Evan live in a small flat in the bustling heart of London. Regulus hasn’t lived there for almost a year now since he moved in with James. But every time Sirius needs to talk to his brother he goes to the small flat in the bustling heart of London because even though Regulus no longer lives there…Regulus still kind of lives there.

Thankfully, Regulus is not there right now. 

“A story, huh,” Barty repeats thoughtfully. “A story about James and Regulus…”

“About their…love…” Sirius shudders just as Barty snickers, “for my speech. Hey, what are you putting in yours?”

When Barty had opened the door, he’d given Sirius this devious grin, like he had thought pre-dinner entertainment had just arrived. Sirius should have known then. Actually, he should have known when the, ‘Barty might be able to help, Barty’s actually in the perfect position to help!’ thought had first graced him.

“As much as Reg likes to pretend he doesn’t like to be touched, he’s actually all about post-sex cuddling, all sticky and still covered in fluids,” Barty sighs, feigning wistful. “It’s so romantic.”

“Oh my god, not those kind of stories, Crouch!”

“Reg likes it missionary-style, not cos he’s vanilla—believe me, he’s so far from vanilla, boy’s kinky as shit—but he likes to look at James when James…”

“Shut up! I don’t want to…”

“Alright, fine. Reg says James is a very giving sort. Says he loves that about James. Always tries to make sure Reg comes first. Can you imagine that! The guy could be hanging on for dear life, and he always—as Reg puts it—tends to his…”

The last person Sirius speaks to, when there is no one left to speak to, is Remus. 

Remus lives in a damp little one-bedroom box that seems like a metaphor for sadness. Every time Sirius visits, he wants to bundle Remus up and steal him away, only Remus’s pride and internal self-loathing will not allow for it. Sirius drifts through the flat, poking and prodding at the aging and frayed books on the shelves, at the photographs pinned to the walls. Remus hasn’t bothered to put down whatever it is he’s reading, which is all Sirius needs to know exactly how this conversation will go.

“Well?” Sirius repeats.

“Well, what?” Remus idly flips the page, giving off the impression that he’s not actually reading, he’s just avoiding eye contact. One of the things about Remus is that he is so much less likely to enable Sirius’s dramatics. Where Peter and James will get swept up in the moment, ferried away by Sirius’s emotions, Remus is very much a cold dousing of reality. 

“Well, you gonna help me?”

“I was under the impression that you’re the one giving this speech, not me.” Finally, Remus snaps his book closed and looks up at Sirius with a little frown. “I’m honestly not sure what I can say that you don’t already know…” He wanders off to the kitchen to fuss around with the kettle and mugs, pulling this and that from various paint-chipped cupboards. “Thing is, Padfoot, you were there for everything, for every single moment we were at Hogwarts together.” 

“Not everything,” Sirius mutters darkly.

“Fine. Almost everything.” Remus levels him with a stern look. “They’re your brother and best friend. You’re the perfect person to shed insight and perspective into their relationship.”

“What insight? James is a glowing ray of beneficence. Regulus is a mean and spiteful little shit. I guess with James, he’s a little bit nicer...”

“Sure,” Remus shrugs, handing Sirius the mug of tea. “The cut of his words aren’t quite as scarring these days.”

Sirius takes the tea and sips carefully at the brew, choking a bit as it scalds him on its way down. “But I can’t say that, Moony. Help? I mean, I get why they fell in love. Regulus always has to take what’s mine, and James thought shagging me would be a bit too weird…”

“You’re such an arse, Pads.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! I do get why they fell in love, I really do. James taught Regulus how to be less guarded and be kinder, and Regulus taught James how to be more selfish and actually love and look after himself for once. But, like…how do I actually…say that? Help!”

[veritas-scribblings]

stiff - @into-the-jeggyverse - words: 1,566 | I hadn't meant for this to be so long, but it ended up so long | I got stuck in James's internal drunken narrative | And in unnecessary but fun to write Barty and Sirius backstory

It had taken nine months to turn Sirius Black into the biggest fucking menace to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts Castle. By the end of his first year, he was sassing the professors with one hand and charming them with the other. Sweet talking the castle house elves out of midnight snacks. Creeping around Hogwarts in the dead of the night. Picking arguments and fights left, right and centre with anyone who even dared to breathe incorrectly.

It had taken nine months to turn Sirius Black into the biggest fucking menace, and it had taken significantly less time for Orion and Walburga Black to decide that they weren’t about to risk their only other heir to the terrible, terrible influence that Sirius is. The less time around Sirius, Sirius had said morosely, the better. And when Sirius had gone and grown his hair and pierced his ear and discovered the joys of inebriation and discovered Muggle Rock and discovered every vice so very beneath the House of Black, and then had proceeded to ice the cake of deviance by running away from home…

Well, apparently Orion and Walburga Black had decided they were absolutely, beyond any shadow of doubt, right.

A terrible, terrible influence Sirius was, indeed.

James Potter has been going to stuffy ministry functions his entire existence, like they’re annual “bring your child to work” events and he’s to be toted around and put on display for the benefit of stuffy ministry officials eager to get their claws into the next generation of mindless automatons.

Only James Potter is no longer a child. And James Potter has no desire to be yet another mindless ministry automaton. And still, nevertheless, here he is.

At another stuffy, ministry function.

It’s one and a half hours into the event held in honour of…Merlin only knows what…and James has Sirius hanging off one arm yammering in his ear about…Merlin only cares what. Over the years, he’s developed this almost subconscious ability to tune the boy out and offer up only vague platitudes; a highly necessary ability, because Sirius is already at risk of becoming the voice in James’s head.

When James spots the beautiful, mystery boy across the room, he doesn’t recognise him immediately. He knows he should, honestly, but he doesn’t. The boy—nay, young man—is young, elegant and nigh-graceful in a sea of old farts with an expiry date within the next fifteen-or-so-years. He descends into James’s life like an angel, a prince shrouded in shadow. There’s something about this beautiful young mystery man with his slender form and his sleek black robes and the holier-than-thou expression and way in which he holds himself that kindles ‘feelings’ inside James’s stomach. “Approach me,” the young man seems to say with that dark sidelong glare of his, “just try to speak to me, I dare you.”

And dare, James would like to. However, with his quidditch refined reflexes, he can sense an obstacle a kilometre away. It hits his radar like a bludger aimed straight at his head, and the name of said obstacle is Barty Crouch Junior. If there is anyone in this mortal world who can rival, and possibly even out-do, Sirius Black for the crown of ‘biggest fucking menace to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts Castle’, that would be one Barty Crouch Junior.

James has had run-ins with Baby Crouch. He’s gone head-to-head with him on the quidditch pitch, because Baby Crouch was the most biased and snarky commentator James has had to battle in all his years of playing quidditch. He’s gone head-to-head with him during the Library Wars when Baby Crouch had decided that table by the window was his and, one Full Moon, Remus had decided that he’d be a territorial son-of-a-bitch about it, and Baby Crouch had declared the whole thing great fun, lost limbs included. He’s gone head-to-head with him to win the affections of Lily Evans…until he’d realised that Baby Crouch had been merely fucking with him for shits and giggles.

He knows that Baby Crouch is not an opponent to be trifled with, and now it looks like the bastard is sniffing up James’s beautiful, mystery man.

“You distract Crouch. I’m going in,” James hisses, tugging on Sirius’s arm. He snatches away the glass of wine Sirius has started chugging.

“Huh? What? No, absolutely not. You are not leaving me to the mercy of the foot-in-the-grave masses to go and get your rocks off in the bathrooms, you slut.”

“Pads,” James whines, “look at him, he’s beautiful. We’re meant to be! It’s fate! You’re not going to stand in the way of fate, are you?” He tracks the movements of the beautiful, mystery man across the room as he weaves through the crowd like a dancer, glares jealously when Baby Crouch leans over and whispers in the beautiful, mystery man’s ear and gestures at the glass doors that lead to the garden outside.

No way in any level of hell! Things happen in gardens. James should know. Dirty, dirty things…

“No, what I’m going to do is stop enabling your frivolous, whorish behaviour.” Sirius tugs on James’s arm to try and pull him away, but James will not go. James is rock. James is marble. James is a statue erected somewhere in honour of the beautiful, mystery man.

“Look, Pads. He’s beautiful,” James insists. “He’s my prince. My dark, scowl-y prince. We’re going to get married. And you can be my best man. You can give me away. Look at him! Isn’t he wonderful?”

To Sirius’s credit, he does as James requests. He glances around the function hall, scanning the crowd milling about: the politicians chatting up prospective backers, the ministers, the Department Heads, James’s mother who is trying her hardest to politely exit a painfully dreary conversation.

And then Sirius frowns, says darkly, “What, one Black isn’t enough for you? You need the pair?” He stares so intently at James that James is sure he’ll actually turn to stone.

Black. Of course. Stupidity is a bitter, metallic taste. It’s only in retrospect that James realises why Regulus Black had seemed immediately so familiar; he has that ‘Ancient and Most Noble House of Black’ charm about him. The ‘back straight, chin high, clean and crisp tones’ kind of charm that Sirius has spent years trying to shake.

“Yes,” James whispers under his breath, “a pair…”

“You’re drunk, you idiot.” Sirius snatches a canapé off the tray of a passing waiter and shoves it into his mouth. “Merlin’s balls, you’re such a lightweight.”

“It’s just…he’s beautiful, and he’s all grown up. When did he grow up? Why didn’t you tell me he’s all grown up now?”

Regulus really has grown up. When they were still in school, James had seen photos of him when he’d been little, from before Sirius had dramatically departed Grimmauld Place. Regulus then had been a scrawny, awkward kind of little, all knees and floppy curls and angry, little frowns that had impressed James with their intensity. James had never met him—he’d been shipped off to Beauxbatons before James had ever had the opportunity to—and at the time he’d been somewhat relieved. Regulus had looked leagues away from Sirius in terms of personality.

Now in person, though still from a distance, James can see the similarities. Sirius and Regulus both have the same distinct pride and air of superiority about them. They just have it in different shades.

“No, but really,” James insists, “if we get married, you and I, we’ll be brothers. Look at him! He’s wonderful. Beautiful.”

“Stop saying that! You’re going to wake up tomorrow morning and you’re going to combust with embarrassment. Or with a bloody hangover.”

“No, I won’t,” James frowns, scandalised, “If I get to speak with him tonight, I’ll wake up a happy, happy man. He’s absolutely radiant. …he looks just like you, Pads.”

“Don’t try to speak to him, you idiot, you’re just going to embarrass yourself. And he does not look like me. That’s just fucking weird.” When Sirius scowls, the scowl is so very familiar. “No, you know what? Fine. Fine. Go. Talk to him. Off you trot. ”

Sirius lets go of James’s arm, brushes off James’s robe to smooth the creases, and steers him in the direction of the beautiful and mysterious Regulus Black. They’re getting closer, Sirius’s hands on James’s shoulders, wading their way through the crowd. They’re magnets, James and Regulus, and Sirius is the force pulling them towards one another. They’re an inevitability, James and Regulus, and Sirius is the hand of fate.

And when Regulus stands before him, James is oh-so-very-small beneath the judgement in Regulus’s gaze. Regulus’s hair is black, not the black-black of Sirius’s hair, but the brownish-black of ebony wood. His eyes are a speckled grey with little flecks of white. His mouth, James notes awestruck and despairing, is drawn into a thin line like James has managed to offend him before he’s so much as had a chance to speak.

“Hello, brother. This is James Potter. He’s excellent at transfiguration and charms, and has wicked mad Quidditch skills. And when he isn’t lubricated on excessive amounts of wine, he can even be somewhat well-spoken. Be gentle. James…good luck…,” Sirius delivers a reassuring pat to James’s shoulders, “you’re going to need it…”

[shisasan]

Angela Carter, The Company of Wolves The bloody chamber, and other stories

[urgetocreate]

Jia Li (Chinese, b.1964), Summer Light, 2015, Watercolor on paper

[veritas-scribblings]

i love how sometimes shit hits the absolute fan and it seems like all and sundry are going nuts, making crazy fucking choices, doing crazy fucking things

and you're like, 'what the fuck is happening right now, is it a full moon or something?'

i looked it up. it's a full moon tonight.

explains everything

[hellanne]

Dennis Schnieber

[geealiceart]

[veritas-scribblings]

I'm inspired. I think, almost one whole year later, I finally know where this story is going.

I think my summary for revenant will be: "Evan is convinced that Barty has been possessed by some sort of spirit. Regulus is too distracted with exams, Quidditch, and the fall out of getting together with his brother's best friend to even notice."

Ahaha.

Because the idea that Evan is freaking out like, "you put a fucking demon in Barty!!!" And Pandora is like, "demons aren't real, Evan..." is just so fucking funny to me.