enjoy it while it lasts

Starting off, the animation in this sequence of Edward walking towards the camera, wind tearing through the golden field and ruffling his clothes and hair, is drop-dead gorgeous. Incredibly fluid.

I’m not sure what his reaching out to us symbolizes. Perhaps a reference to his initial quest: Obtaining a Philosopher’s Stone.

And then… Jesus, it’s just straight up Hohenheim. Keep in mind I could have seen this opening as far back as episode 01! Seeing Hohenheim here would have completely nullified the early teases of what he looked like. The reveal was casual and uninteresting, sure, but I still enjoyed the mystery while it lasted.

And through this whole scene, Hohenheim’s eyes are obscured by the light hitting his glasses. A common trick used to make characters more mysterious, to hide their emotions. It’s a good fit for how Hohenheim figures in Edward’s life.

As the scene ends, the camera pulls away as Hohenheim swiftly turns away from us, and begins walking to what looks like the stone walls of Central. A clever reference to the fact he’s hiding down in a chamber beneath it.

“Story Time! Once a guy tried out an app and it changed his life. Thank you, Vine”

Yes, Vine. Thank you for bringing Thomas Sanders into my life! And can I just wanna say that I’m incredibly thankful that Vine was a thing!? And since I’ve done so many I felt the need to do one last Vine related drawing since it ended today!

Thomas, thank you so much for being the stupendous individual that you are and continue to be! It has been an honor and a privilege to watch you grow over these past 4 years!! I’m so freakin proud of you! And with Vine ending I feel we just finished the most recent chapter, that was just volume 1! Your story has only begun, Thomas! And honestly I can’t wait to see where it goes! I love you to the moon and back! ✌🏾️💜💚

4

Finally posting this even if it’s cheesy and sloppy because I’m tired of having it untouched in my drawing folder aghhh! 

I dunno, I’m just really a fan of Molly being wary about Draco at first but then she starts treating him as her own son. I adore fics like that, gimme all of em

2

♡(人⸝⸝⸝ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ◡ ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀⸝⸝⸝)♡ heartthrob song minho ♡(⸝⸝⸝ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ◡ ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀⸝⸝⸝人)

Enough - A Moriel Fic

(Not edited and maybe not even all that coherent this just sort of…happened and I went with them.) 

For @cuddles-and-chocolate-cake (thank you!! this got a bit longer than a small dabble so I formatted it properly like this instead of just answering your ask!) 

Title: Enough 

Summary: Prompt: Moriel + slowly. Projected towards the end of ACOWAR, the Second War is over and Mor and Azriel finally acted on their feelings. But Az still has some reservations over whether or not he’s ready to completely accept them. 

TeaserThe Second War washed away that line between them, like footprints on a beach, until it was as though it had never been, as though it had always been nothing more than an impression printed on both of their souls, the ghost of their demons trembling before them. Fear and battle and the threat of losing each other, of losing everything had shattered the illusion like a thin pane of glass struck by a hurricane. 

Link: AO3 

Five hundred years. Five hundred years they waited. Half a millennia they spent apart, their entire lives in limbo, watching, waiting, never daring to cross that line between them. 

He would have waited another five centuries, another hundred immortal lifetimes for her and thanked the Cauldron for every second he was allowed to just be in her presence. 

Now she’s told him that she feels the same way. That she waited. Waited for him. That she would have kept on waiting for him, for him to be ready, until her last breath if that had been what he had needed. Sometimes he still struggles to believe her. Sometimes he still wants to step back over to his side of the line where he still thinks he ought to be. But she gently holds his hand and keeps him by her side, always. And that is where he belongs. 

The Second War washed away that line between them, like footprints on a beach, until it was as though it had never been, as though it had always been nothing more than an impression printed on both of their souls, the ghost of their demons trembling before them. Fear and battle and the threat of losing each other, of losing everything had shattered the illusion like a thin pane of glass struck by a hurricane. 

He still does not know which of them moved first. Perhaps they moved together, as they always have, in dance or in battle, seamless, effortless, perfect. As though they were made for this, as though when the Cauldron forged them they were one; one being split into two but never forgetting where it came from, never forgetting what it ought to be. 

All he knows is that one moment that barrier was between them, a rippling veil of uncertainty beyond which lay something neither of them dared look at for too long in all their years. And then it was gone. Gripped by two hands; one large, one small, one callused, one delicate, one scarred, one smooth, and together they tore it down. 

Then his lips were on hers or her lips were on his but his fingers were in her hair and her hands were gripping his shirt and pulling him closer and…And he was kissing her. Her lips were parting for his tongue and her taste was filling his mouth and he was drowning in her. Azriel was no stranger to staring the waiting abyss in the eyes and denying it just once more. Death and he were old friends now, a friend he visited regularly, delivering others or himself it made little matter. But this.

 When his lips met hers he knew he had never truly courted death at all. Death was not a dark, cold apparition like the shadows that flitted about his skin, his soul. Death was not a hooded male shrouded in lies and gleeful smiles for the souls he could claim. Death did not taste of sorrow and bitterness and frozen ashes, no. 

Death was a lover. Death was a woman wrapped up in silks, gilded in sunshine and drenched in wonder. Death was warm and tender and gentle. Death tasted like the whiskey they had shared in his tent just before the call to arms was issued. Death smelled like citrus and cinnamon and cherry scented shampoo. Death was this moment, this kiss, rich and deep, that he had waited for for more than five centuries. Death was worth every second it had taken to claim him. Death was a love so deep he knew it would now be impossible to live without it, without her. 

Azriel is still afraid, still so afraid of everything. That kiss seems to mark a break in time, there was before that moment and there is after that moment and it feels impossible to reconcile the two.

 Before the kiss was safe, was structured, was known and familiar and comfortable. They had lived in that for five hundred years and it had been good. Not everything he wanted, not everything he secretly hoped for, not everything he had dreamed but…It had been enough. It was enough. His mantra for the five centuries they’d spent apart. Her mantra too, she had whispered to him one night as she lay curled in his arms. A position that felt, so right, yet his demons still hissed snidely was so wrong. 

After the kiss is unknown, unpredictable, and wild. Like trying to fly through a storm he has no say in where the sky will carry him to, he can only flare his wings and pray it does not let him fall. It has not yet but if it does some day, he thinks, he will gladly tumble into that waiting void and there will be a smile on his lips. He thinks that means they did the right thing, no matter what comes next. 

That does not stop him wanting to be careful. Always careful, always precise, and in this above all things…He wishes to handle her with care, with the tenderness and delicacy that she deserves. He wants to take his time and had quietly insisted they move slowly with this. The last thing he had ever wanted to do, and the thing he had been most afraid of, was doing something that she might later regretted. 

It has been almost a month since that first kiss and though everything has changed, in some ways nothing has. He still hovers, still hesitates, still resists her and holds himself back from doing everything he wants. She sleeps in his bed, in his arms, her head pillowed against his shoulder as though this has always been the way it’s been. But still he insists that they wait. He wants her, Cauldron he wants her more than anything in this world but…He swore to himself that he would give her time, time to change her mind, time to leave, time to realise she deserves better… 

Groaning, Azriel rolls his shoulder and flexes his wings, shaking out the stiffness that’s gathered in them. Meetings. In some ways, fighting in the war was preferable to sitting in all of these discussions listening to the High Lords and Ladies talk over one another as they debate politics. But he’s free now, free to seek her out. 

Opening the door to his, their, chambers, he pads inside and freezes in the doorway, blinking. Mor stands just inside, obviously waiting for him, obviously just having stopped pacing up and down his usual path in front of the fire. She looks stunning, the dress she has on a deep, rippling cobalt, the same shade as the siphons he bears. She also looks nervous. 

Shutting the door quietly behind him Azriel walks towards her, concern darkening his hazel eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He asks softly, reaching out to her and instinctively tucking a lock of her thick, golden hair behind her ear so he can see her face. So odd, so odd not having to fight those instincts, so odd to be allowed to touch her this way, intimately, lovingly, the way he’s always wanted to. 

She shakes her head, “Nothing’s wrong, Az,” she says, but her voice trembles slightly as she says it and he’s sure she’s not being honest with him. Before he can question her further however she stands on her toes, curling a hand behind his head, the tips of her fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck as she coaxes him down to kiss her. 

Each one still ruins him in a way he never thought anyone could. He never expected to give anyone else this power over him, only her, and he never expected that she would ever wield it in this way. Her tongue brushes his and he melts for her, every mask cracking and crumbling to dust, every bit of armour sliding from him as though molten, pooling on the floor at her feet and leaving him bare before her. 

Mor breaks the kiss between them but keeps his face cupped in her hand, her eyes searching his for something. He wishes he knew what it was, wishes he could gift it to her, wishes he could stop her looking so uncertain. But then a smile is spreading across her face, slow and warm and deliberate as the rising sun and he can’t help the ease that settles over him too in answer. 

“I love you,” she whispers softly, sincerely, without a trace of doubt or hesitation in her as she looks into his eyes. 

He swallows, blinking, startled at this. She hasn’t said those words to him, not since their kiss and never in this way and he can’t breathe. His chest is tight, as though his heart has swollen up and crushed his lungs, leaving no room for anything inside him but the way she makes him feel. 

“I love you too,” he breathes onto her lips. The words come without permission, without thought. Because they’re true. He loves her. He’s loved her from the moment their eyes met and she looked at him the way she did, smiled at him the way she did and he has never been able to deny her that love. 

That smile on her face broadens until it’s radiant and he feels like it could sustain him for years. Then she draws back slightly, fishing in her pockets for something he can’t see before she turns back to him. 

“I know tattooing is traditional,” she begins, her voice strangely breathless. “And we can do that if you want, I I’d like that,” he blinks at her, utterly lost as she moves closer. He’s never seen her so anxious, so unsure of herself before and he wants nothing more than to take her in his arms and make her feel safe and secure. 

“Mor-” He begins softly but she continues on, heedless of his interruption. 

 “But…I wanted to do it this way.” Swallowing she reaches out and takes his hands softly in hers. Placing one over the other she covers them both with her own and he jolts as the realisation of what she’s about to do hits him a moment before she does it. 

“Morrigan,” he rasps out in warning, his eyes wide, his throat constricted as he stares at her. 

She smiles, a hint of sadness in her molten brown eyes. “I’m sure,” she whispers, nodding her head. As though she’s heard every protest, every doubt in his head she goes on, one hand reaching up to caress his cheek, stroking with her thumb. “I love you, Azriel,” she breathes quietly. “I’ve loved you almost our entire lives. I will always love you, Az.” She kisses him then, quick and brief, as though she can’t help herself, as though she needs the contact, needs to express what she’s feeling in some physical way to try and make him understand.

Taking a deep breath she straightens, holding herself like a queen, like a goddess carved of mortal flesh, she looks at him, looks into his eyes and he knows she sees everything. She’s been there for it all, every shadow, every demon, every stain upon his soul and still. Still she looks at him like that. As though he’s as precious to her as she is to him. As though she might burst from the depth of her love for him, even as he thinks he will for her. As though…As though she truly means every word she’s just spoken to him.

“You don’t have to say yes,” she tells him quietly, “I know you,” she tells him quietly, “I know you’re scared. I know you don’t- I know you wanted to take it slow, to give me time to run, to change my mind, to find someone,” she breaks off, jaw tightening as she refuses to force the word out, the word that’s haunted him for centuries.

Composing herself enough she gets out, “But…I’m not going anywhere, Azriel.” She blinks rapidly and a single tear slips from her eyes. He brushes it away without thinking and she continues, “I’ll wait for you. For however long it takes until you’re ready.” He opens his mouth but no words come out, emotion clogs his throat and tears slowly fill his own eyes but he holds them back, watching her, awe in every fibre of him.

“I will wait for you, I promise. But I need you to know that…I want this. I’m surer of this than I’ve ever been of anything in my life.” She swallows, breathing deeply as she presses something small and circular into his palm then tenderly closes his scarred fingers around it. “I want to marry you, Azriel.” His heart stutters to a halt as he looks down at his hand, almost afraid to open it. “Now. In a month. In a decade. In a millennia. I don’t care. I just…I want to be your wife.” He looks up at her again in time to watch her say softly, “If you’ll have me.”

Swallowing tightly past the lump in his own throat he reluctantly looks away from her shining eyes and down to his hand. Slowly uncurling his fingers Azriel looks down at the ring in his palm. Simple, elegant, three thin bands of silver that are woven through one another endlessly with no clearly defined beginning or end. It had belonged to his mother and it’s the only thing he has left of her.

He glances back up at Mor again and finds her staring at him, visibly trembling as she waits for his reaction. “Az?” she whispers hesitantly, voice straining with nerves, hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.

Slowly, deliberately, Az moves forwards and lifts her hand gently and coaxes her fingers to unclench. Tears flow freely down both of their faces as he lovingly slides the ring into place on her finger, marvelling at how well it fits. Her face splits into a broad grin and she throws herself into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist and Azriel finds himself laughing as he slides his arms around her, holding her close. Her lips meet his in a deep, slow kiss and he folds his wings tenderly around them as he carries her slowly back towards the bed.

 Five hundred years. Five hundred years they waited. It’s been long enough.

5

58) Kankri wakes up with a jolt. He seems to have returned home. He can hear his brother urging him to get up. And he can also feel the dampness in his eyes.

59) As he is making himself look presentable, Kankri is looking all over the living room, trying to find the Nutcracker, his mind still filled with the events of the previous night. The toy is nowhere to be seen, leaving Kankri to feel incredibly uneasy. The boy cannot get the young man from the dream (?) out of his head.

Still restless, he overhears one of the children talking to someone in the foyer. It’s Uncle Drosselmeyer! Frantic, Kankri rushes over to ask the inventor about the fate of the Nutcracker.

60) However, he halts as soon as he reaches the foyer, his heart skipping a beat. Uncle Drosselmeyer notices and greets the boy, saying they have been expecting him. He introduces Cronus Ampora, his older nephew, who’d just come back from the military service for Christmas break. The dapper young man beside the clockmaker approaches the boy, as Drosselmeyer introduces the latter to him.

61) “hello, Kankri.”

62) “Hell9… Nutcracker.”

[start] // [prev] The Nutcracker Prince AU [FIN]

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Fic: When The Time Is Right

9.1k words, G rated

Albus is going to ask Scorpius to marry him on New Year’s Eve. That’s the plan at least, but first he needs to find a ring, and pick the right words to propose with. It’s all a lot easier said than done. 

This is a follow up to this little ficlet I wrote for @ohscorbus as a Christmas present. I didn’t really plan to write the actual proposal, but it seemed like a cute idea for a new year’s fic, so 9000 words later here we are! 

Thanks to @abradystrix for betaing this monster, and coming up with some brilliant critique. 

Keep reading

some women sew up the universe.


they select the stars from button-drawers, bolts of fabric in blue black and grey to make the skies and seas. they use small, elegant gold scissors shaped like richly colored birds to cut out the continents, and fine silver needles to sew them onto the globe.


this is not your work.

some women sew fate–shape the threads, break the threads, bind them to others. some women sew love–shape them, break them, bind them to others. and some women even sew life anew: shape it, break it, bind it, but you don’t do this either.


this is your work:


your work lies in the ways of the world, not creating it. you do not sew love, but you can fix it when it breaks. you can take your needle and thread, find the holes, match the patches, and carefully, tediously, hand-sew it, and you can knit life back together from where others have cut it.


it is hard work.


your fingers will bleed, your needles will break. people will fuss like children, and you will make mistakes. you will mend something too soon, and they will stretch it when they move in the same way, and it will tear again. you will reinforce it, use stronger thread–but if they don’t stop, your work will be endless.


or you might select the wrong patch–it might not be obvious, it might be only a second of a shade apart from the natural fix, but it will gleam after awhile, it will be so apparent that your heart will break at the sight of it, and though you reach for your needles, they may not want you to fix it again.


and no one can promise everyone will admire their seams at first, even if they are properly done. the women who sew the universe but do not live in it are lucky. they are blameless–they answer to no one. no one who calls out to the sky and asks why why why expects the sky to answer back.


your work might be thankless.


your work might be belittled.


men might say they have lifted the earth, that they have built the world with the sweat on their backs, but you have built it too. in finer ways, in ways that don’t catch the eye so well–you have mended others, you have taken what has come and sewn into it love, and you have done it with sweat on your brow and tears on your cheek and fear in your heart, and you have done it well.