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vancouverkitchenrenovation · 1 year

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How to Retile Fixer Upper Bathrooms

Whether you’re in the market for your first fixer upper or looking to renovate a home that needs a little work, there are a few things to consider. First, you should create a plan before you begin. This way, you can make sure that all the elements you need are there before you begin.

Make sure the shower is clean

Whether you are renovating a fixer upper home or moving into one, make sure the shower in the bathroom is clean. This is the place where you will be washing your body and teeth. If you don’t clean the shower, you can create a mold-friendly environment.

You can clean the shower using vinegar and baking soda. Mix the two ingredients together and apply it to the surfaces in the shower. This will help to loosen up clogs that are inhibiting the flow of water. It also works on tub rings and hard water deposits. Once it’s dry, you can wipe away the residue with a cloth.

Install a chandelier

Having a chandelier in your fixer upper bathroom is not only a bold design choice, but it can be a good way to add some shine to a room. Chandeliers add light to a room, making it feel bigger. The lights can also add a rustic charm to a room.

A good place to start when looking for a chandelier is the Home Depot. The home improvement store has a mobile app that will allow you to search for products, identify tools, and see inventory.

If you’re looking for the cheapest option, you can purchase budget pendant lights for less than $20 each. If you’re looking to upgrade your chandelier, you may want to consider hiring an electrician to install it for you. You can expect to pay between $300 and $2,000.

If you have a little more money to spare, a luxury pendant light can cost upwards of $6,500. You can also install a track light for less than $800.

Tile the floor and walls

Whether you’re a novice or a pro at tiling, retiling a bathroom is a great DIY project. However, you’ll need to follow some basic steps if you want to make sure the job is done right. These tips will help make retiling a bathroom a breeze.

Start by removing the current tiles and wallpaper. This can be done by using a wet saw. Using a hammer is also a good way to remove the current wallpaper. If there are any small holes, you can fill them with plaster repair. You can also seal shower joints with water-proof silicon.

Next, apply a thin coat of adhesive to the area. The adhesive should cover the tile, so be sure to spread it evenly. Using spacers is also a good idea to ensure the tiles are evenly spaced. After the first row of tiles is completed, you can remove the spacers.

Hide the toilet from view

Whether you’re remodeling or building your own, you’ll want to know how to hide the toilet from view. It’s a tricky business, but there are some good ideas out there. You can use clever design elements, such as the toilet niche or a cleverly positioned vanity to keep your poop in. The best part is you won’t have to see it unless you want to.

One of the simplest ways to hide a toilet is to install a pedestal vanity. Pedestal vanities have all the benefits of a cabinet without the drawbacks. This is especially true if you have a small bathroom. You’ll also save on sink space.

Tip: Avoid white tiles

Using white tiles in a bathroom is no sin, but using a white tiled shower can look unappealing if the rest of the room is filled with dark colored fixtures. While white tiled showers are more sanitary, they can also look drab. The best way to make the most of the space is to stick with a neutral color scheme. The whites will look best when paired with a shower enclosure in another color or a patterned tiled shower surround. The bathroom is where you spend a fair amount of time so you want to make the most of the space.

There are many ways to do this. A budget friendly solution is to simply replace the shower with a tiled enclosure, then use a neutral color showerhead to match the rest of the room’s decor. If the thought of installing a shower enclosure is unappealing, then try installing a shower wall instead.

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The bathroom is often the most overlooked room in your house. It’s easy to see why it’s usually small and hidden away, and it’s probably the last place you’d expect to spend a significant amount of time. But the truth is, the bathroom is one of the most important rooms in your home. It is a functional space for bathing and washing and a social hub for your entire household. So it makes sense that you want to ensure it looks its best. That’s why Vancouver Kitchen Renovation specializes in bathroom renovations. Whether you’re interested in updating your current bathroom or building a brand new one from scratch, we can help you create the perfect space for your whole family. We believe that bathrooms should look spa-like, sustainable, and modern. In addition to being practical spaces, they should also feel warm and inviting. With that in mind, we strive to incorporate natural materials, open floor plans, and lots of light.

We understand that to be successful is to stay ahead of the curve. That means staying current with the latest technology and design trends. We always want to improve our products or services without breaking the bank. That’s why we stay connected to the latest technologies of NKBA, National Kitchen and Bath Association. In addition, at Vancouver Kitchen renovation, our primary focus is providing sustainable bathroom design and renovation packages, and we believe in sustainable living. Sustainable living is a way of life in harmony with nature. It is a lifestyle which focuses on the preservation of our environment. Sustainable living is a philosophy emphasizing respect for the environment and concern for its well-being. This means we should take care of the planet and treat it as if it were our home. We should try to preserve what we have and protect it from destruction. If we do this, we will enjoy the benefits of the earth’s resources for many generations. Whether you’re planning a major remodel or adding finishing touches to your current bathroom, we’d love to discuss your project. Book your showroom consultation online.

Main Areas of Service in British Columbia:

Vancouver

North Vancouver

West Vancouver

Burnaby

Coquitlam

Squamish

Whistler

Frequently Asked Questions

What time does it take for a bathroom remodel in Vancouver, British Columbia to complete?

A bathroom renovation takes between four and five working weeks. Permits and inspections can make the project take longer. Keep in mind that your renovation’s size and complexity may affect the timeline.

What is the most expensive part of a bathroom remodel?

Labour is the most expensive part of bathroom remodels. Professional labour can cost anywhere from $10,000 to $15,000 depending on the size of your project. This doesn’t include the cost of materials, which can vary widely depending on the type of fixtures and finishes you choose.

How can you make a bathroom more sustainable?

There are many ways to make your bathroom more environmentally friendly. Low-flow fixtures such as showerheads and toilets can be a way to make your bathroom more sustainable. This will conserve water. Another way is to use green cleaning products, which are less harmful to the environment. Finally, you can try to use recycled materials in your bathrooms, such as recycled glass or metal. Your bathroom can be made more sustainable by simple modifications.

How can I make my bathroom beautiful?

You don’t have to spend a lot to beautify your bathrooms. Below, we give you some tips:

Paint Your Bathroom Walls. This will create a feeling of freshness and cleanliness in your space.

Add some Mirrors – A bathroom can be enhanced with mirrors. Mirrors can also reflect light into dark areas. If you’re looking for a cheap way to improve your bathroom, consider adding mirrors.

Use simple accessories – Accessories can help you create a trendy appearance. You can, for example, place a basket containing towels over the tub. For a decorative element, add a few candles to the mirror.

Hang a Picture – A picture can be hung to update the decor in your bathroom. You should choose one with a bathroom theme. If you live near nature, consider a photograph of a mountain landscape.

Create An Artistic Look With Stenciling – Stenciling is another easy way to make your bathroom look nice. You can simply use stencils to cut shapes and place them on your walls. Before you start to paint another shape, be sure to give it several coats.

Purchase a New Toilet Seat Cover – When people think of changing their bathrooms, toilets are often forgotten. Toilet seats are inexpensive and can be easily replaced.

Change the colour of your sink faucet – You also have the option to change its color. Switching colors can make your bathroom stand out.

Install a laundry hook – Laundry hooks can transform bathrooms. You can hang items like clothes or shoes from the ceiling and not put them away in drawers.

You can add plants to your home. They can also be used to conceal unwanted items. Plant plants near windows so you can take in the view.

Replace Old Towels With Baskets – Instead of keeping old towels in the cupboard, put them in baskets or other containers. You don’t need to worry about guests arriving in a mess.

Add Storage Space – Storage space can help keep your bathroom tidy. Consider adding shelves to the top of the sink, along the wall, or under the countertop.

Improve Your Lighting – Lighting fixtures can make your bathroom appear more spacious. Instead of using track lighting, recessed lights should be installed under the vanity.

Get creative with Tile Designs – You can create unique designs for your bathroom using tile designs. You can incorporate different patterns and textures using this technique.

You can create a peaceful bathroom by getting rid of all the clutter. Everything should be removed from the cabinets and counters. Clean off surfaces and remove anything that could get wet.

Upgrade Lighting – Install new fixtures and bulbs to your lighting system. This will transform your bathroom.

Paint Walls: A white bathroom can feel brighter and cleaner with the help of paint walls. They can also provide an elegant backdrop for artwork.

Add Mirrors On Cabinets – Mirrors add light without taking up much space. Mirrors can reflect natural lighting into dark areas of your bathrooms.

Hang Pictures and Artwork. Adding beauty to your bathroom with hanging pictures and artwork is a great way to add visual interest. Find pieces that go together and compliment each other.

Statistics

According to the EPA, a conventional toilet uses 1.6 gallons per flush, but that old pink one could use between 3.5 to 7 gallons per flush. (elemental.green)

2023 bathroom design trends: Windows above tubs were favoured by 51% of those surveyed. Skylights were selected by 37% of those surveyed. (https://nkba.org)

If possible, allow a 15 to 20% contingency fund so you’re prepared for the unexpected. (loveproperty.com)

2023 bathroom design trends: Digital showering allows users to program their preferred flow rate, and the temperature was a 23% preference. 44% wanted the ability to start their showers with their phones. (https://nkba.org)

According to a 2019 remodelling report from the National Association of Realtors, 70 percent of consumers “have a greater desire to be home” after a bathroom renovation, so read on and soak up the secrets. (housebeautiful.com)

Other sustainability instruments developed by Noken include an ‘Eco cartridge’ (its two-position switch makes it possible to use 50% less water and energy), and a water ‘flow rate limiter’ (that uses jets and air to reduce water consumption). (decoist.com)

The average midrange bathroom remodels costs $27,164, according to the latest Remodeling Cost versus Value report, and it’s projected that you will recoup 58.9% of that cost when reselling your home. (architecturaldigest.com)

2023 bathroom design trends: Floating vanities were favoured by 71% of those surveyed. (https://nkba.org)

NKBA estimates that broken down, most of this cost comes from fixtures and plumbing (about 29 percent), followed by counters and surfaces (21 percent), labour (20 percent), and cabinetry and hardware (16 percent). (remodelista.com)

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had someone call and say they have an existing old tub (which, 99% of the time, is 60” wide once they’re pulled out) and want to convert the bathtub to a shower. (blog.innovatebuildingsolutions.com)

Glass tile is one of the greenest bathroom flooring options because it can be 100% recycled. (caddetailsblog.com)

Outdoor showers can dramatically increase the value of your home—according to a 2018 report from Realtor.com, homes with outdoor showers tend to list for nearly double the asking price of other homes! (housebeautiful.com)

External Links

nkba.org

Home – NKBA

Bathroom Remodeling Costs: A Real-World Budget

homeadvisor.com

Learn how much it would cost to remodel a Bathroom

What is the Best Place to Spend Your Money on a Bathroom Remodel? | HomeAdvisor

How To

Here are 10 things nobody tells you about renovating your bathroom

The bathroom is often neglected when it comes to home improvements. The bathroom is an important part of any house. There are many things you can do to improve your bathroom.

Here are some ways to transform your bathroom immediately without breaking the bank.

Soften up the Walls – Painting the walls in soft pastel colours like light blue, pink, yellow, or white makes a huge difference in the bathroom’s look. The effect is very subtle, but it adds a lot of charm to the room.

Add some lighting – There are many types of lighting fixtures available. They can be used to modernize your bathroom. A suitable lighting fixture will help brighten up the area and bring out the colour of the paint on the walls. For a less costly option, you can use string lights or small fluorescent lamps to achieve the same result.

Add Storage Space – If your storage space is limited, shelves can be installed above the toilet or beneath the vanity cabinet to provide additional storage. These shelves can be used for towels, toiletries, and other items that are close to your heart.

Install a Shower Curtain. – A shower curtains is a useful and practical addition to any bathroom. They come in many styles and colors and can be customized to match the decor of any bathroom.

Make Your Bathroom Stand Out – If you don’t have a towel rack, towels can make your bathroom look more interesting. Hang some bright towels from the rod instead. This way, you won’t only get fresh towels but also a bit of fun out of your bathroom.

Bring in Nature – It may seem strange to put plants inside the bathroom, but it creates quite a pleasant atmosphere. It is important to avoid insects by choosing plants.

Relaxing in the Bathroom: You can create a relaxed atmosphere by using oils and scented candles. These affordable additions can make your bathroom feel calmer.

Go Green. It doesn’t take a whole new bathroom to go green. For example, you could replace your toilet paper roll with a reusable one. You could also switch to eco-friendly cleaning products.

Transform Your Vanity Cabinet – Vanity cabinets are usually made of plastic, wood, or metal, so you can customize these as you wish. You can alter their design or add new features to the cabinet, or even replace it all.

Upgrading Your Toilet Paper Holder – The toilet tissue holder is a key part of a clean and organized bathroom. It is time to change its appearance. This can be done in many ways, including changing its shape, size, and colour.

Did you miss our previous article… https://vancouverkitchenrenovation.com/bathrooms/lighthouse-and-ship-ornaments-for-nautical-bathrooms/

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slothgutierrez61 · 1 year

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mdhc2022 · 2 years

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wintinnovative · 2 years

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Nuk hard spout sippy cup

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stylistiquements · 3 years

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Introduction : three older brothers

𐐪𐑂 Pairing : Sapnap x fem!reader {Playlist} 𐐪𐑂 Summary : When Sapnap learns the news, some questions are resurfacing.

𐐪𐑂 Word count : 1.1k

𐐪𐑂 Warning : none (for once lol)

Masterlist | Next

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・　　 .・゜゜・　　・゜゜・

I’m coming to see you in Florida, your voice plays again and again like it’s some kind of song stuck in the back of Sapnap’s mind.

In the lull of the afternoon, a nest of merriment peaks in the crest of his chest and threatens to overflow, but honestly it’s more a promise than anything; bare feet stomping euphorically against the wooden floor without a hint of withhold and the humid air twirls around his fists as he punches a not so silent victory.

Fifteen years of friendship, two years of longing and four months until the world both crumbles and harmonizes again.

129 days until my best friend comes home, Sapnap processes ecstatic, acidic. Peonies hatch in the depth of his heart, where light shouldn’t reach but still does somehow.

The heel of his palm presses against the phone a little tighter, where your voice ringed high and low just minutes ago. He forgot to ask how long you were planning on staying with him and Dream. Somehow, he forgot how to think about anything else but the fact that, soon, late night texts and virtual calls are to be bad dream-ish flashes. But it’s so easy to put everything behind, so easy to dismiss when you’re about to appear in front of him, soft as a smile and real.

When the celebration falls breathless, Sapnap isn’t sure what to do with himself, throwing his body over the bed that bounces up and down and the movement is so swift he’s left tasting all fuzzy. He’s transported overseas, heart streaming over the sheets. They wrinkle and frame his body like a restless picture.

This could just be a dream, he reasons; he waited so long for you to say those words that, for all he knows, he might have been asleep all along. The threads of lights that escape the window fondle his hair and wash up two soft cheeks and, in an attempt to seal the wish, he closes his eyes and lets the sun flood the back of his eyelids.

What is printed there, between orange light and imaginary shapes, is an old memory that slowly unfolds; a brushed wound on your knee during one of those skateboarding afternoons.

Sapnap huffs. God, you used to love skateboarding so much it drove him crazy.

But it was, after all, his duty to carry you home. Like a princess, you said, eyes sparkling and smile so promising. He whined, complained the whole time about you being heavy, but it didn’t matter; what colored his skin was how important you gave him the opportunity to be. And the truth, although diluted, remains indelible to the passing time.

It’s funny, he recognizes, that the memory decided to collide with this very moment. Just as if a boiling impatience molded itself into a wave of memories. And when the nostalgia fades away, he imagines what it would be like if you were right in front of him; the shape of your eyes and the curve of your smile. Something old, something new, something blue, he thinks ironically, though it probably only makes sense to him.

“What the hell, Godzilla?” The door cracks open and welcomes a swirling breeze. Dream fakes the annoyance, but his tone betrays; boyish amusement. His silhouette intertwines with rays of lights and though his shadow elongates enough to hide Sapnap from the merciless sun of Florida, one glance at the man forces him to squint in order to not be completely blinded. Sapnap tunes into reality once again, heels sinking into the mattress.

“129 days,” he mumbles, willing to answer a question that hasn’t been freed yet, knowing it’s not too much of an answer yet everything he’s capable of for the moment given, still stuck into the ethereal.

“Cryptic,” Dream sighs. His scoff stops when he lies on the bed next to his friend, a small rattle falling out of his lips.

In the interlude, met by two green eyes and the chirping of the birds outside, he gives in, “I haven’t seen y/n in two years and now she’s coming back in 129 days.”

Dream’s head rises effortlessly, unimpressed, little birdie tells Sapnap he probably knew much before he did.

“Then why are you not as happy as you should be?”

“I’m not sure,” Sapnap shrugs. “I mean-- I am, but it’s weird. It’s like super long and super short at the same time.”

Dream’s hovering smile twitches slightly devious, slightly smirk-ish. “Maybe you’ll finally be able to tell her how you feel.”

Betrayal, he noticed the way his lashes flutter when your name is mentioned in a conversation, the way he secretly flusters every once in a while when the boundaries between what is and what could be are drawn too blurry. Sapnap’s eyebrows arch in a hypocritical confusion.

He gulps with a little bit of coyness, “It’s just not the right timing.”

“Things don’t always need to be complicated, you know.”

His jaw clenches in a sour agreement, but to be so desperately in love with his best friend, there is only room for difficulty.

It’s like magnets with the same polarity. Sometimes, too caught up by the pursuit of your own selves, sometimes kept apart by the fear of losing the most precious thing life has given the two of you. And if one second he thinks he could catch a glimpse of hope, too tangled with the force field to think, the next he never even dares to think about it.

“I’ve heard how you interact with each other, being all flirtie flirtie and stuff,” Dream notes high and daringly. The smirk blooms, Sapnap flinches.

“Right, as if. She also has three older brothers, you know? Kinda don’t want my ass to get beaten.”

“You’re being a giant baby.”

“You’re a giant baby,” Sapnap repeats to mock. “Shut up.”

And soon the air is filled with hands aiming to attack each other, weltering between a mound of sheets and choked out laughter. The introspection blows in the wind for a second before reappearing as easy.

Once Dream’s power has made its own point, Sapnap surrenders, “Fine. Oh my god, you’re so annoying. And if I tell her that I’m in love with her and she rejects me, what then?”

Heaving chests and remains of chuckle, the sun fades out for a moment to give them a rest.

“And if you tell her that you’re in love with her and she says ‘me too’, what then?”

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・　　 .・゜゜・　　・゜゜・

Taglist : @open-minded-chip-101 ; @itsoakaa

A/N : I'm so happy to finally post something again I feel like it's been years lol!! Hope you guys appreciated the intro. it's a bit shorter but once again its just the intro and if you're used to the length of the sorcerer's chapters then this is gonna defo be a lot shorter. Anyway lmk what you think!! I think I'm going to publish one part every sunday but can't really promise anything. Until next time (ɔˆ ³(ˆ⌣ˆc)

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yueyimold · 3 months

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cherrywoes · 3 years

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crimson king. [i. cruor.]

i. cruor.

♛

“The Prince of Flame, dark of heart, is

Said to be one of immense power, the

Only demon which makes the entirety

Of Devildom tremble in fear. Whether

Or not this is simply speculation or a

Well known truth is yet to be known.

I, however, aim to find it for myself.”

— the diary of Maddi, High Witch

♛

prologue | masterlist | ii. dignus.

a/n: contains nsfw content, blood, death. read at your own risk.

“MY PRINCE!” A GASPING, pleading cry, sent towards the heavens—the sweetest of sounds, muffled by a set of long, calloused fingers shoved between pink, plush lips. Drool collected around those fingers, studded with exquisite gold rings and tasting of iron, and collected in the basin of protruding collarbones, dark and blue and littered with bite marks from unnaturally sharp teeth. “Please—”

“Silence.” Another hand gripped her jaw fiercely, pushing it shut over his fingers. She gurgled pitifully over them, tongue sliding over gold and rubies as she gasped for air. Her lungs heaved, her back arching high as he forced her head back, blood running a sinuous path down the swanlike curve of her throat and over her breast, collecting upon a pert nipple in a tantalizing bead. He dipped his head to collect it, suckling the aroused flesh ever so softly and with a nick of razor sharp teeth, the bead dissolving on his tongue and vanishing between his lips. “Your whining is getting on my nerves.”

Her responding whimper, high pitched and needy, sent a wave of frigid cold through him. He abruptly pulled his fingers from her mouth with a wet pop, his other hand abandoning her jaw and leaving fingerprints in their wake. Her whimpers immediately silenced, eyes opening as her pleasure abated from lack of stimulation, legs slick with cold sweat. Her chest rose and fell, blood trickling down her body from his bite marks, and while he might have once been aroused at the sight of a high and mighty demon girl covered in his marks and her own blood, it sparked nothing in him but disgust.

“My Prince,” she demurred, carefully propping herself up from the desk under his gaze. His seed spilled from her and onto the polished hardwood, ruining all of his hard work in an instant. His eyes flickered up from between her legs, his mouth settling into a grim line as she carefully worked her way to her feet. Her knees shook from aftershocks of multiple orgasms, but she managed to approach him, pressing a hand to the golden skin of his chest, raking sharp claws down over his pectoral. “Do I not please you?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He reached up and enveloped her throat in his large hand, squeezing against the arteries and her esophagus, stare darting up and down her abused body in contemplation. He paused momentarily on the shape of his hands on her hips, such a deep blue they were almost black, admiring, but that admiration quickly faded as he took in the wanton, power hungry aura surrounding her, and his grip tightened.

“M-My Pr-rince—” she croaked, her hands coming up to claw at the skin of his wrists as his grip grew tighter and tighter, bones grinding and cracking underneath the pressure. She choked on her own air when her esophagus gave out, the vertebrae in her neck snapping clean.

The life left her eyes and he allowed her to slump to the floor, her nude body crumbling into char black ash at his feet before she ever touched the ground. He rolled his neck and shoulders, huffing, and rolled the rug beneath his chair over the ash with his foot. His tongue prodding his cheek in thought, still tasting her blood in his mouth, he pulled his pants on, fumbling idly with the button and buckle. His eyebrows furrowed when he found the ashes smeared where he had stepped, and made to wipe it off on the rug, when a knock sounded at his door.

“Another one, my lord?” Barbatos entered his office smoothly, making nary a sound as he approached the mound of ash in the rug and his master. “You do know you can’t kill human girls as is custom here, I’m certain?”

“Of course not, Barbatos.” Prince Diavolo was all teeth when he smiled, but this had genuine joy behind it at beholding his favored servant and friend. “I would never kill human women.”

“As you say.” The butler nodded his head and with a snap of his fingers, the ashes and rug were gone, likely on their way to the laundry room for the maids as they spoke. The teal of his eyes sparkled when he produced a letter from thin air, stamped with an unfamiliar seal. “Greedy demonesses aside, the official roster for the Bride Hunt has been drawn up and awaits your approval. Queen Cordelia seeks your approval before she officially recognizes the competitors in any capacity. She is… concerned some of the girls may not fit your tastes.”

Diavolo’s eyebrows rose. He took the letter, which was quite heavy, and sat down at his desk, flicking it open with a letter opener. Inside, there was a letter, penned by the Queen along with a few names, as well as photos—albeit somewhat grainy photos, but better than he would have expected humans to be capable of.

Unable to make heads or tails of which girl was who, he skimmed the letter’s contents, Barbatos reading over his shoulder inquiringly.

‘Dear Prince Diavolo,

It is my pleasure to announce that the girls for the Bride Hunt have been selected. It is truly an honor that you have decided to pick a girl from my kingdom—they are all quite lovely, I assure you. I send this correspondence to affirm that they are to your tastes and that the Hunt may proceed as advised; please let me know your answer at your earliest convenience.

The first girl is Navena Dane, of House Dane. She is quite the spitfire but has the mouth of a sailor—”

He found the picture of the girl, the first in the pile. Pretty but plain, with dark hair and even darker eyes. There was a cruel twist to her mouth that he didn’t quite like.

“The next is Kalliane Fairchild of House Fairchild. She is bookish and keeps to the stacks, I hear, but there is a streak of defiance I believe you might admire within her.”

His opinion was strong: mousy, meek, unbecoming of a Queen. Defiance does not a queen make. He skipped past two other names with equally as boring descriptions, but paused on one, slight interest alighting his visage.

“The last is [Name] Gascoigne of House Gascoigne. Not only does she have a rich dowry, she was ill for most of her season, so she is a year or so below your specified age range. However, she is quite opinionated, and does not fit the mold of nobility here. Should she not succeed in the Bride Hunt, I fear she will accept no man of her own standing—if this decision does not interest or please you, I will withdraw her at your will.

Swift prayers,

Queen Cordelia.”

“Gascoigne,” Barbatos noted, familiarity in his tone. “An old and ancient family. Mammon dealt with them heavily a few decades ago, I remember; had quite a time with the daughters of that house, I recall. He was never quite the same after that—he shuddered any time they called for him.”

Diavolo picked up the photo of the girl in question, curiosity in his surprised grunt. [Color] hair, [color] skin, with a tilt to her head that did not suggest arrogance, but demanded respect, unlike the other photos; there was no sultriness, no deception. She almost appeared as if the whole affair was beneath her. “I wonder what could have possibly made Mammon, Prince of Greed, shudder in fear.”

“Who knows with him.” Barbatos shook his head and scooped up the photos and letter, tossing them into a bin and setting them on fire with a candle. When Diavolo sent him an inquiring look, he explained,”We wouldn’t want any vindictive witches finding photos of these poor girls, would we?”

“Ah.” He nodded in understanding, then. “Yes, I… forget about her, at times. Very well. Send a letter that the matches are fine and that we will arrive on the morrow.”

“The morrow?” The butler parroted back, surprised in his tone. “May I ask why, my lord? That’s nearly two weeks ahead of schedule, and the Queen will not take kindly to your intrusion so early, I believe.”

Diavolo shrugged, leaning back in his chair. He was the very picture of an indolent king, running his tongue over his teeth in thought. “I see no reason to wait any longer, and, besides, the sooner I’m out of Devildom, the faster I’ll be away from power hungry demonesses.”

“I see.” Barbatos nodded. “Very well. I will pen the letter; and, my lord, if I may?”

“Hmm?”

“Be wary,” he advised. “Humans can be the cruelest creatures of all if given reason enough.”

taglist (open): @cuteunicorns11 @yakus-yakult @crashica

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suoyou · 3 years

Text

[wip] 凤凰涅槃; phoenix rising

incomplete wip. 9034 words, rated t.

wangxian court intrigue + wuxia + wingfic au, in which wwx is the lost phoenix and lwj is royal scholar. this is actually a collection of scattered scenes through the first act of the fic!

dwell too long in the fire and even the phoenix will burn.

Wei Wuxian holds a rotting mango in his hand.

Pungent, slippery as an oiled wok and twice as dangerous, it’s just a few days too old for optimal flavor—but he does not plan to eat it. No, he’s going to throw it.

A well-aimed piece of fruit and the right audience and a stomach just empty enough that the metallic edge of hunger has begun to bite makes for a good show. Wei Wuxian teeters like a gargoyle on the upturn of a roof, all his weight balanced in a crouch, waiting for the fishmonger to pass by beneath him. The market teems with citizens who have come early to buy the freshest kills and produce that the morning has to offer, the smell of frying jianbing wafts in thick curls up to Wei Wuxian’s perch. His belly rumbles. His last meal had been during sunrise the day before.

“Fresh fish!” shouts the fishmonger. His mule’s head bobs dark and feisty as it tugs his cart along. Behind them, their wagon is crammed with quivering tubs full of water and writhing fish. “Fresh from the docks this morning! Fresh caught! Carp and eel and shrimp! Killed and scaled and gutted if you ask! Fresh fish!”

Wei Wuxian rocks up onto the knobs of his knees. The tiled roof digs into his skin--what are you doing here, flightless bird? His weapon of choice bleeds a thin, honeyed line of juice from his wrist to his elbow. He takes aim.

A little commotion in a crowded market goes a long way. One spooked mule, one fishmonger, and a wagon full of uncovered tubs of live catches? What could go wrong? The sun hammers on his back, asking him what he’s waiting for. The mule’s flanks are exposed around its saddle and harness. Wei Wuxian screws one eye shut and sticks the tip of his tongue between his lips as he raises his mango, and--

“I’ll bet my daughter!”

A disturbance rises above the cheerful twang of the market below. It comes from the gambler’s stall, tucked away by the liquor stand. What a smart, slimy placement.

“Is this man crazy?”

“What kind of father are you?”

“How disgusting, to gamble with your daughter’s life!”

Wei Wuxian frowns. Below him, the fishmonger passes, and the crowd molds around his wagon like ants around a snail. A pustule of a man hunches over the gambler’s stall with a girl of no more than nine or ten in his grip as he snarls in the proprietor’s face. His clothes are stained and dirty, and his eyes are yellow with jaundice. Anger flares hot as a kicked hornet’s nest in Wei Wuxian’s belly, muting the hunger, when the drunkard yanks on his daughter so hard that she trips into the table.

Without thinking, Wei Wuxian shouts, “Hey, you, ugly dog at the gambler’s table!”

Dozens of heads turn to stare.

Wei Wuxian lobs the mango with all his might.

It whistles over the street like a lumpy, bulbous pigeon, dripping as it goes. The man is too drunk, or too hungover to move out of the way--he simply watches, jaw slack, not seeming to realize that he’s in the way until it splatters him square in the face and explodes in a shower of golden muck. He howls, clawing at his skin, and in the process lets his daughter go. She falls because she’d been unbalanced, hard into the street on her elbows. Some of the mango carnage had splattered onto her. Orange-brown bits drip off her chin like fat, gummy tears.

The drunkard points a trembling, furious finger at Wei Wuxian. “You--!”

“Me? What about me? Worry about yourself first. Worry about your daughter!”

A small crowd has gathered to watch the spectacle--this man, covered in sticky mango goo and attracting flies, and this vagrant shaking with laughter on the roof. He is so close to the edge, yet balances in place without any unsteadiness, with the surety of someone who is always in high places.

“You are a coward, staying on the roof! Get down here and fight me with your fists, like a man!” shouts the drunk. His daughter tugs on his sleeve behind him as the crowd thickens.

“A-die, A-die, let’s go--”

“Let go of me, you useless girl.” He shakes her off. “Good for nothing, waste of space. Not even good enough for gambling money.”

Wei Wuxian frowns. A hushed gasp races through the bodies below as he stands and tips from his perch on the roof, tumbling once before alighting in the street. His shoes stick to the pavement from the tack of juice. The man barely makes it up to his chin, and his skin is splotchy from alcoholism; his clothes are patches which means he had family members whose kindness he did not deserve at home.

“What,” says Wei Wuxian, tucking his hands behind his back. He’s not above mango-throwing, but he’s not going to fight a man in front of his young daughter. Now that’s just bad manners. “You really want to fight me? Just take my advice, sir. Go home. Take your daughter and your money and buy some food, and go home. Don’t make me throw another mango at you. That was going to be my lunch.”

“I’m not scared of men like you. Arrogant and scornful, just looking for a fight! I ought to break your--”

Wei Wuxian intercepts the man’s fist before it can connect with his face.

He fights like a commoner would, crude and unpolished, with his thumb tucked inside his fingers. Rookie mistake. His eyes bulge like a frog stepped on as he tries to force his way through Wei Wuxian’s grip, face turning the color of puce as he fails comically. Wei Wuxian digs his nails into the back of the man’s hand, trembling with the effort of holding him in place, and then he shoves him back.

The man goes sprawling in the street, and the crowd shuffles back, as if to avoid a particularly filthy swine.

“A-die,” says his daughter, trying to help him up, but he swats at her. “A-die.”

“Go.”

Not without spitting at Wei Wuxian’s feet. He simply laughs, because it’s such a silly, juvenile thing, and then, like an infection clearing, the citizens around him scatter back into the day.

Wei Wuxian claps his hands together, then wipes his palms on the seat of his robes. “You really ought not to entertain patrons who have clearly started to lose their control,” he says to the proprietor of the gambling stall. They wipe down the edges of their table with a dusty rag where the carnage of fruit clings. “Soon he will trade his whole family away for nothing but a nugget of gold.”

The proprietor scoffs. “And who are you?”

“Someone nice enough to clean his mess up. Sorry for this, by the way,” says Wei Wuxian. He starts straightening sacks full of supplies--coin bags, a set of rings, vases clinking fluted and musical against each other. They must run a games stall elsewhere in the city; Wei Wuxian has seen these prizes before.

“Who asked you to be a vigilante, anyway.” The proprietor shakes his head. “You look for trouble, boy.”

“The only thing sweeter than trouble is justice,” says Wei Wuxian, laughing at the distaste the proprietor levels at him. He chases a few escaped scrolls that have tumbled from their sack. “Ah, don’t be like that. I really am sorry, I didn’t mean to interfere with business, okay? I just don’t like to see--”

One of the scrolls has unfurled enough for Wei Wuxian to catch a glimpse of the ink painting. Beneath the glimmer of midday sun the paper is so buttery that Wei Wuxian expects for his fingers to come away slick when he picks it up, letting the scroll’s weight pull the painting the rest of the way open.

The brushwork is unfamiliar. Mountains studded with frosted clouds, a lake, a tiny figure of a man at the silver waterline. A spray of peonies cradles the scene in its petals, done with a brush so fine that the artist could have drawn it with a single human hair. Wei Wuxian doesn’t recognize it--not the art. He hadn’t opened it for the art.

A red seal dots the corner of the painting like a button of blood. Wei Wuxian would recognize it anywhere--anyone should recognize it anywhere. Being in possession of something with a seal like this, without explanation, could earn an axe to the neck.

“Sir,” he asks, staring at the painting, “how did you come across a painting done by the imperial family?”

The proprietor’s eyes widen, and they make a wild lunge for it. Wei Wuxian is taller, though, and jerks it out of reach, rolling the scroll back up so the paper won’t tear. “Give it back!”

“Aha! What is it? Tell me. How did you come across a treasure like this?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Hmm. So if I simply walk away with it, you will also simply shrug, and let me be on my way?” Wei Wuxian raises his eyebrows when the proprietor glowers. “Ah, so it mustn’t be nothing. Not with a look like that. Do tell.”

“It’s none of your business.”

Wei Wuxian chews on his lip, smiles. His stomach rumbles, already two cartwheels ahead, but he needs to slow down and think. “Can I pawn it from you?”

“I’d like to see you try, boy. Give it here!”

Wei Wuxian sighs. “I would not try. I would give it back to you, if you asked nicely, but oh--oh, the danger of another person knowing that you have a painting with an imperial stamp on it, with no way to explain how. Unless you’d like to tell me. But you’ve made it clear as day that you’re not interested in letting me know, so you’ll just have to let a stranger go, knowing he carries this secret, not knowing who he is, not knowing what he’ll do.” He holds the scroll out now. “But of course, I cannot take what’s mine. Shame. Here you are.”

The proprietor had listened to him speak with a vague, mounting fear in his eyes, and when Wei Wuxian shakes the scroll at them, they shrink back as if he’s shaking a dismembered arm at them.

“What, don’t want it now? Didn’t you want me to hand it over?”

“What are you playing at,” the proprietor asks. “Are you a palace spy? What do you want?”

Laughter leaps from Wei Wuxian’s mouth. “Me, a palace spy? Oh, no, no, no. I’m afraid not. Palace spies have much more important things to do than to sniff out thieving proprietors. Tell you what. I take this off your hands and you don’t have to worry about your neck, or your family’s necks, and in return, I won’t tell them where I found it. Hm?”

“You plan to give it back to the imperial family?”

“Of course,” says Wei Wuxian. “All things return to where they belong in the end.”

So as it goes, Wei Wuxian is one mango poorer, but one imperial painting richer, and he cannot tell if he is better off for it. He tucks the scroll into his knapsack and the key that hangs around his neck back into his collars and scans the market for weak spots, opportunities to win more food than he has money for. The rotten mango had been stupid luck, and luck is a finite resource which Wei Wuxian does not have much of to begin with, so he’s going to have to work for the rest of his food today.

A surreptitious scrap of pink peeks out from behind the liquor stall and Wei Wuxian only catches a glimpse of the girl before she tucks herself behind the wooden beams again. Oh--the drunk’s daughter. She’s alone now. Irritation bubbles in the pit of Wei Wuxian’s stomach when he pictures the man shaking her off, lumbering towards another gambling stall that will entertain his time, and he has half a mind to--

“Fresh meat buns! Made this morning. Pork and chicken and mushroom!”

Wei Wuxian catches up to the bun cart, falling into step with the vendor. “Shifu, how much for one?”

“One bronze piece for three.”

“Can I get five for one bronze piece?”

“Are you deaf or just stupid? No. Get lost.”

“Please, shifu,” Wei Wuxian says, he gestures behind himself in the direction he’d seen the little girl, “my daughter, she hasn’t eaten in days, and we’re here to see the doctor and he turned her away on account of the fact that we have no money, and she’ll only get sicker if she doesn’t have any food in her system, our family is still waiting at home, please have mercy--”

“Heavens! Good heavens, fine, here! Take these misshapen ones, they’re an eyesore, anyway.”

“Thank you!” Wei Wuxian fishes the bronze piece out of his money pouch, fingertips poking through the holes in the bottom like eyes, and collects his spoils. “Thank you, Shifu!”

“Get outta my sight.”

Wei Wuxian holds his armful of buns to his chest, and their heat warms him through his clothes down to his bones. It’s a relatively cool day, even for autumn. When he turns around again, the girl scrunches herself back into the safety of the shadows, and he chuckles to himself. The liquorist eyes Wei Wuxin warily when he approaches, but he simply seats himself on the other end of the stall and opens his carrying cloth full of lopsided buns. Ugly, unwhole, but still good for hunger. Still good.

“Could I interest you in a bottle of rice wine?”

“Ah, no, it’s fine,” Wei Wuxian flaps his hand. “I am not wont for liquor, but perhaps some company to share these buns with. I have far too many to finish on my own. But I don’t know who’d want these ugly buns. Certainly not you, Shifu, I’m sure?”

The girl peeks out from behind the stall, and Wei Wuxian smiles. “Want one?”

She scampers to sit down in front of him, reaching out with sooty hands for a bun at the top of the bile. The skin of it is pearly in the noon sun, giving under touch, the way only fresh steamed buns are. Then she hesitates, looking into Wei Wuxian’s face as if expecting to be struck.

“Go ahead,” he says, holds the bun out. “Eat.”

She snatches it and crams half of it into her mouth, and Wei Wuxian chuckles again. He knows hunger like this, and takes his own portion to tear into. The sweet smell of pork and mushroom and oil floats up into his eyes, and for a moment the meat sears on his tongue before it settles into a taste.

“Is it good?” he asks.

She nods.

So it’s good.

“Where have you been? Wei Wuxian, I ought to cut you off at the kneecaps! A-Jie’s been worried sick, you were supposed to be back over a shichen ago.”

“I ran into a friend, Jiang Cheng. Lighten up, will you? Here, I got buns.”

“Keep your stupid buns. Where’s the fish you were going to get?”

Wei Wuxian scratches at the back of his neck. “Ha. Well, about that.”

“Seriously? I can’t believe you. If it weren’t your birthday, I really would cut you off at the legs.”

“But it is, so instead, you need to be nice!” Wei Wuxian crows triumphantly.

Jiang Cheng sighs, a gust of hot summer wind that picks up stinging sands. A wisp of his hair flits with his breath. He’s wearing his nice clothes, no doubt because A-Jie made him, with a polished belt tucked around his waist like the coil of a sleeping snake. It’s a formality that they hardly ever bother with anymore, not in such a provincial town as this, leading a life as threadbare as theirs. The shine of the buckle comes off of him in bright flashes.

“Whatever. Come on, A-jie made noodles. Where’d you get buns?”

“Oh, so you do want one. Here, I know you like chicken.”

“Don’t tell me you managed to snatch all of these,” Jiang Cheng asks, but he takes the one Wei Wuxian offers anyway. “Who likes chicken,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

“I just harnessed a talent that you have never quite mastered, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says. “Charm.”

“I ought to smack you.”

“There was a hungry kid. I didn’t want her to go hungry.”

Jiang Cheng is quiet. “We all are, why go help a stranger?”

“Wouldn’t you have wanted someone to help us back then?”

At this, a grunt. Which, coming from Jiang Cheng, is as enthusiastic a yes he’ll give, so Wei Wuxian smiles to himself and slings his sack of food over his shoulder. He’s down to two now, and he figures he’ll just give both of them to A-Jie who deserves much more than two pork buns, but it’s the best he has. One day he’ll get her expensive candied mangoes and hawthorn berries that the baker makes in the market in the next city over--the one that glitters.

“A-Cheng, A-Xian! You’re back!”

“Found him scaling the wall back into the hutong,” Jiang Cheng grumbles. “Punk.”

Jiang Yanli, too, is wearing her nicest set of robes today, with a hair ornament that Wei Wuxian hasn’t seen her with since the new year. Her face clears of worry when she sees them, and she reaches up, straightens a lock of Wei Wuxian’s hair where it’s caught over his ear. “A-Xian, you’re not--you know that you shouldn’t--”

“Scale walls, climb to great heights, jump off roofs, I know, I know,” Wei Wuxian says, vividly recalling that he has done all of the above and then some today. “Sorry to make you worry, A-Jie, I’m fine! I got you buns. You can have them both.”

“But what about the fish? A-xian, we were going to make one for dinner for you.”

“Ah, fish or no fish, it’s no matter. Noodles are good enough. As long as I can live a long life, luck will always come back around.”

“What if your whole life is plagued with bad luck?” asks Jiang Cheng as they duck back into their hut of clay and brick. The curtains are open, a rare moment of Jiang Yanli letting daylight peek inside, and it lights up their matchbox home in a wash of sunset. Bowls of steaming noodles are set out on the rickety slice of table, with the biggest in front of the seat where Wei Wuxian always sits. His heart swells. He’ll be forcing mouthfuls of noodles into his siblings’ bowls when they sit down, he’s sure, but for now his heart is the pulse of afternoon sun in the window.

“Then my next life,” says Wei Wuxian. “My next one won’t be nearly as bad.”

The Lost Phoenix is lost. I think that’s the point. No one will ever find them. You will die looking for them.

Wei Wuxian is built from broken things.

He sees rubble and thinks, that is a home. He sees blood and thinks, that is a heart. He sees himself reflected in the slow meanders of swamp-green lakes lazy with dragonflies and skeeters and tries to remember, that is a human, that is a human, that is a human.

“You may not be human, but that is what makes you worth loving,” is what A-Jie says.

“You? A human? With an appetite like that? It’s like trying to feed a void with you,” is what Jiang Cheng says, which is basically the same thing.

Wei Wuxian is built from broken things, but the uglier, eyesore-pork-bun truth is that he is born from destruction. He is born from the fire of things, and the ashes of himself; his body waits for the wither.

The Lost Phoenix is dead. His ashes were scattered in mountain, sea, and sky.

The Lost Phoenix is alive! Everyone knows that leaving behind but a single ember can spark a wildfire. Fire has wings.

No human, ghost, or demon has ever seen the Lost Phoenix. If they had, wouldn’t we have heard by now? They are only a legend.

There are scars on his back to prove what he once was and never will be again, and Jiang Yanli tells him, The world was not ready for you. The world, perhaps, will not be ready for the Lost Phoenix to return for as long as we still walk upon it, A-Xian, but maybe when one day when everyone is gone, when A-Cheng and I are gone, you’ll--

He always cuts her off there. Usually he can’t see her face, because she’ll be sitting behind him and rubbing oil into the muscles that can never seem to loosen around his shoulder blades, the ones that line the edges of the scars like mottled mountain peaks. Just two of them, in straight lines as long as a hand, glaring at each other over the expanse of his back, the winding groove of his spine. Phantom pains. Human or not, the body will miss limbs when they are gone.

Tonight, Jiang Yanli does not tell him the world isn’t ready for him. It hurts to listen to her say it, because it’s not a pain that Wei Wuxian can beat away with his fists or even his words. There’s a quiet noise of the bottle being unstoppered, then the cloying scent of liniment oil wreathing around him as he sits with his back bared to her, hair swept over his shoulder.

“A-jie,” he says.

“Hmm?” Her hands are small and warm against his back, and he hisses in pain when her finger catches on a tight knot immediately. “Sorry, Xianxian.”

“It’s okay. Uhm, I have a stupid question.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. Ask.”

“Which birthday did we celebrate tonight?” he asks quietly.

The inside of their hut is a dark, uneven indigo now, the fires of the village filtering in through their window. Jiang Cheng has gone to bathe, so the only answering noise above the sound of a city settling in evening is Jiang Yanli’s soft laughter.

“Your thirty-first, A-xian.”

“How many years have passed in this life?”

Her hands disappear as she dabs more liniment oil onto her fingers. “Since your reincarnation?”

“Yeah.”

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen,” Wei Wuxian repeats. “Thirteen.” He rolls it over his tongue, trying to figure out how it tastes. Bitter, a little. like medicine. Maybe it’s the liniment. Jiang Yanli runs her thumb down the edge of one of the scars, massaging out a few particularly gnarly knots there.

“Is there something wrong?” she asks.

“Not wrong, exactly.” Wei Wuxian pushes his fingers into his folded robes in his lap, pretends the fabric is sand and silt at the bottom of a lake. He almost expects handfuls of snails when he pulls them back out. “It’s just that, with every passing year, I think maybe this is it--this is the year I’ll remember. This is the year I’ll remember the things about my life before this one. Remember when I tried to teach you and Jiang Cheng how to catch fish with your hands, in the river, A-Jie? You said you could see them beneath the surface, but when you’d reach in to grab it, it was like the fish were never even there.”

“I remember,” says Jiang Yanli. She is quiet, waits for him to go on.

“Trying to recall my first life is like that. I know it happened. I can see it right there, flickering under the water, but. But each year comes and goes, and not only do I not remember anything, it feels like more and more of what I thought I could remember slips away,” says Wei Wuxian. “I was excited in the eighth year of this life. Then I was excited in the twelfth. Thirteen is no good, is it, A-Jie? I’ve run out of lucky numbers to count on.”

“Would it make you happy to remember, Xianxian?”

“I think so. When I think about it--it’s funny, you know. Maybe you know. I can’t recall memories from it, exactly, but when I think about my first life, I think I remember being happy. Like when you roll over and the sun is already up. You can feel the warmth on you even if you don’t see the light.” Then Wei Wuxian snorts. “That doesn’t make any sense. Sorry, ignore me, A-jie.”

“It makes sense. Of course it makes sense. Is that all you remember, a feeling?”

They’ve been over this before. A hazy, murky image of something from Before, dredged up from packed soil. Jiang Cheng will always say, “Who knows? Why do you think I would remember?” waspish, and Jiang Yanli would always give him a soft, “Perhaps it was, A-xian.”

“I remember,” he says, “that we were in a noble family, once.”

This is an easy one. She always says yes to this one. “We were.”

“I remember that the palace walls were lined with bronze, not gold like a lot of the common folk think.”

“Yes, they are.”

“The accident.” The one that has turned him into this.

“I wish you did not,” says Jiang Yanli.

“I don’t--not really. I just remember the pain. My body does, anyway.”

“Muscle has memory,” she says. “But because you are who you are, so does your blood and bones.”

Wei Wuxian fiddles with the gap-toothed key that swings from his neck. It thunks hollowly against his bare chest without the robes to hold it in place, and he tugs the deerskin rope that loops around his neck so that the knot tying it together comes down, down, down, through the hole in the key, up, up, back up again, a miniature comet’s orbit.

“You were a princess,” he says, quiet again.

“Princess is a strong word.”

“But you were.”

“In my own way.”

And then, the most solid memory he has—a figure in white, with hair that fell to their waist, holding a smudge of pink in their hand. Solid, but blurred, like Wei Wuxian is trying to see them through a sheeting waterfall. The lines of their body were straight and crisp, except for the pink. The pink was always soft, parting the mud of his memory.

He doesn’t mention this one, usually. Wei Wuxian holds it close to his heart where it has roots. Year after year, no matter the rains, nothing has flowered. Seasons have passed.

“A person,” Wei Wuxian murmurs.

Jiang Yanli’s hands slow. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” says Wei Wuxian. “Just a person. Their back is to me, so I can’t see their face, but it’s too blurry for me to see them, even if they’d been right in front of me. And they were just standing there--just standing. Nothing else. I don’t even really know if they’re real, but it’s the best memory I have.” He digs his nail into an indent in the key’s teeth. “Do you think they were real, A-Jie?”

“As real as the Lost Phoenix is.”

Wei Wuxian laughs weakly. “The Lost Phoenix is as good as myth.”

A myth meant to scare people.

A cautionary tale.

“The Lost Phoenix needs to stop squirming, or I will poke the sensitive parts of his scar, and I know he hates it when I do,” Jiang Yanli says.

A story about a monster.

“Maybe it’s better to forget some things, A-Jie.”

“A-Cheng and I only want you to be happy, Xianxian. Whatever that means to you. Whether that means remembering or forgetting.”

“I want to remember, because your happiness is my happiness,” Wei Wuxian insists, turning around. Jiang Yanli lifts her hand away as he rearranges his legs in a half-lotus, one foot stretched out onto the floor. “I want to remember because I know this life isn’t one you and Jiang Cheng would have chosen if you both had a choice. You can’t say I’m wrong about that. No noble family member would choose to live in a rundown hutong if they had a choice.”

“A-Xian--”

“I know you won’t tell me what happened before my reincarnation,” says Wei Wuxian. “I know you want to forget. But if anything ever happens that means we can go back to it--you have to say so, okay? You both are the only family I have left. Let me do something for the people who have somehow kept me alive for thirty-one years. I can’t remember eighteen of them. As if I started reading in the middle of the story. There are things I know without knowing how I know them.”

Whether it be a story, a tale, legend, or myth, one thing was certain: the Lost Phoenix is the last known survivor of the Phoenix Rising, once the most revered noble family of the imperial city, the warrior family that protected the throne.

Forged from the Sacred Fires of Scarlet Mountain, the Phoenix Rising once was so formidable that simply meeting one of them in their true form was a sign of luck and good fortune. They were, as their family name suggested, bewinged humans who lived and died and rose again from their own ashes. They were skilled in combat, nimble in war, with the ability of flight. They harnessed Taoist magic that was only spoken of in books.

A secular world did not have room for magic.

“Our A-xian,” says Jiang Yanli, shaking her head, “always hurts himself trying to make us happy before he remembers he has a heart, too.”

“Ah, what good is a heart if I can’t deal it out in pieces for my didi and my jie?” says Wei Wuxian. “It’s not like anyone else has any use for it.”

“That’s not true,” Jiang Yanli murmurs.

“Hm? What’s that?”

“Nothing, Xianxian.”

“You have my promise, A-Jie,” says Wei Wuxian. “It’s us three until the end. Never apart. If I can bring you and Jiang Cheng back to the glory days before this life, then I’ll do whatever it takes.”

She’s quiet, then dabs a light gauze over his skin to absorb the excess liniment oil. Both of them know it won’t be possible--even if they were a lower noble family, there wasn’t a ticket back into the royal city unless you saved the emperor from death or something equally as momentous. Save the empire, or something. Wei Wuxian dreams big, but he’s realistic.

“Thank you, Xianxian,” she says, finally.

“It smells like old people in here,” Jiang Cheng announces, as absurdly loud as new year firecrackers when he comes back inside. He smells of freshwater and sand, and he tracks an inky line of water where his wet shoes stamp footprints into the floors. “I know you’re another year older now, but you’re really getting started early.”

“If I’m so old, then you better talk to me with respect, punk,” Wei Wuxian says. Jiang Cheng may be loud, may be messy, but he chases away the strange, yearning sadness that tugs like a deep saltwater current on Wei Wuxian every time his birthday comes and goes. He loves his stupid, loud brother for it. “Hey! Where’s my kowtow? Where’s my ‘ge,’ then? Where’s my ‘Wei qianbei,’ huh? I’m so old, Jiang Cheng, pay your respects!”

“Screw you, Wei Wuxian. I’d sooner call you Old Man Wei. You’d have to rip out my tongue first.”

“Okay, come here then, my hands are free.”

“Gross! What’s wrong with you?”

And so night falls on another day, another year, and Wei Wuxian feels a little empty and a lot full, like a planet is breathing inside him. Jiang Yanli tugs on Jiang Cheng’s hair, makes him sit down so she can wrestle the tangles out of his drying frizz, and Wei Wuxian holds the lantern for light.

It’s enough.

So what happened to them, the Phoenix Rising? Why have they disappeared?

Because they had power. Because they were loved, feared, and respected, all things an emperor should be.

In the beginning, it was an honor to be the emperor that controlled the Phoenix Rising, for it took an equally distinguished ruler to command such a family, and for generations, the Phoenix Rising served the throne with grace. For generations, the empire was a glowing, golden city upon which the sun glittered, and the common folk called it the City of Gods.

But at the end of a weak dynasty, the throne was seized by a bloodthirsty family that feared the Phoenix Rising and the power they held. People, monsters, kings, or gods? Did the citizens respect the throne? Or did the loyalty of their hearts lie with the strange, winged family that had for centuries been revered as the beacon of luck and fortune?

Humans fear what they do not understand. Humans seek to destroy what they fear.

And so the Phoenix Rising paid the steepest price.

“Did he mention it to you at all yesterday?”

“No! He never brought it up. That punk. I’m gonna wring his sorry little neck.”

“A-Cheng.” A rustle of wind through paper. Then, “We need to ask him where he found this. He could’ve been caught. He could’ve been killed.”

Wei Wuxian wakes to his siblings whispering. Whispers always come through dreams like shouts, and he’s having a very strange dream about walking through wire, except instead of coals at his feet, there is ash, and in the ash there are hundreds and hundreds of keys glinting red as squirting cherries. His feet are burnt and blistering, but he can’t run, can’t turn back, can only walk forward.

There are no secrets in a single-room shack. No matter how quietly Jiang Yanli whispers, Jiang Cheng speaks loud enough to wake the whole town.

“Nicked it, probably,” says Jiang Cheng now. A grudging respect colors his voice. “That’s probably why he took so long to get back yesterday.”

The bamboo sleep mat crackles beneath him as Wei Wuxian rolls over, then sits up. For a moment the world is a spinning top. Jiang Yanli turns, lowering something, and smiles when she sees him awake. Jiang Cheng, of course, is already swinging.

“You dumbass! Where did you get this? If someone comes looking for it and finds it with us, do you know how dead we are?”

Then Wei Wuxian sees it--the painting that he’d charmed out of the hands of the gambling proprietor at lunch yesterday. Jiang Yanli holds it like a broken bird in her lap, and Wei Wuxian ducks when Jiang Cheng aims another swat at him. Mostly half-hearted, but he leaps to his feet and skips out of reach.

“I was going to surprise you!” he says. “I didn’t even have a chance to tell you what I was planning. You don’t know how much money this could bring in the black market, Jiang Cheng, an imperial painting? Just think about it. I can just disguise myself, go at night--cover my face, you know--and we could stop living here. We could live in a real house, and we wouldn’t have to all share one sleeping mat.”

“A-Xian,” Jiang Yanli gets to her feet, too. Always graceful in a stark contrast to her two brothers, the lantern from which two wild tassels would dance in the wind. She lifts the painting up high so that she can point to the red seal in the corner. “Do you recognize this?”

“The imperial seal, right? Sure. Everyone does.”

“I’m going to puke blood,” says Jiang Cheng.

Jiang Yanli ignores him. “You’re not wrong, A-Xian. But this is an imperial seal of a concubine.”

Wei Wuxian blinks. “Of the emperor?”

“Yes. Judging from the seal design, not just any concubine--she must be a consort, at least.” Jiang Yanli holds the paper closer to her face, trying to discern the characters. “Mo,” she mutters, unsure.

“So we could sell it for even more money,” Wei Wuxian concludes.

“No, we are not going to sell it for money,” says Jiang Cheng. His face has darkened.

“Are you crazy?” Wei Wuxian asks. “You said it yourself, if someone finds us in possession, it’ll be our heads. The faster we get rid of it, the less likely anyone is to know it ever passed through our hands at all.”

“Yeah, well, you probably should have considered that before you nicked it, genius,” Jiang Cheng snaps. “It doesn’t matter. Now that we have it, we’re going to use it.”

“Use it how, if not for money, then?” Wei Wuxian struggles to keep his voice low. Jiang Cheng is not making any gods damned sense--isn’t he the one who constantly talks about leaving this hutong under the guise of hating how cramped it is, when really, he and Wei Wuxian agree that they should move closer to the imperial city where there would be better houses and perhaps a respectable man for their sister to marry if she so wanted?

“We’re going to use this to return to the imperial city.”

A silence falls like a tree toppled in storm between them.

“A-Cheng,” Jiang Yanli begins.

“We are?” asks Wei Wuxian. “How would that even work?”

“You’re the best at telling lies.”

“Well, yes, I’m glad you have seen the light.”

“Think about it,” says Jiang Cheng. “An emperor's consort. It means she must have been in favor with the sitting emperor, Jin Huangshang. A painting with her seal on it. How would a painting by a favored concubine of the emperor end up out here?”

“Wound up in a gambling stall, no less,” Wei Wuxian says. Now that Jiang Cheng puts it that way--it’s more than a little strange. “Fine, say that we could use it as our golden ticket back into the imperial city. We’ll be lucky if the consort is dead. She won’t be around to ask any questions if there are holes in our story. What if she’s alive? What if she’s not a consort? What if she was hated, what then?”

“A-Xian,” says Jiang Yanli, setting her hand on his shoulder, and the touch is firmer than he’s used to. “Stop. You too, A-Cheng. Returning would be dangerous for us.”

“Dangerous how?” asks Wei Wuxian. There it is--that gap of the first eighteen years of his life rearing its mangled head. Sometimes it’s like trying to read a page of text with half the words blacked out, the ones left behind still beautiful, but without meaning. “A-Jie, I thought we were…”

“We were a lower noble family then, Xianxian. But it does not mean that the court is a safe place for any of us.”

“Jie!” says Jiang Cheng.

“No, A-Cheng. We’re not going back. It’s not just for A-Xian’s safety, it’s for all of us.”

“Would we really be in that much danger?” asks Wei Wuxian. “If no one knows I’m the Lost Phoenix but the three of us, nothing would happen.”

Right?

“Jiejie,” says Jiang Cheng, his voice quieter than Wei Wuxian has ever heard it, “the Crown Prince has never married.”

Jiang Yanli’s face, for a dizzying heartbeat, is stricken. Something like pain and longing flashes through her eyes quick as the swing of an axe in cloudy morning, but then it’s gone, and she sighs.

“What does the Crown Prince have anything to do with A-Jie?” asks Wei Wuxian.

“That isn’t any of our business. Not even yours, A-Cheng,” she says. Wei Wuxian has never seen his sister like this, drawn up tall with her chin held high, and for a moment he sees the princess that she must once have been. Jiang Cheng, who is easily a head taller than her and twice as broad, crumples under the weight of her gaze. “We left because we wanted to. We’ve lived by this choice and we will continue to live by it. Now, both of you listen--A-Xian will do as he planned, sell this painting for whatever sum that traders will offer, and we won’t speak of it again. Understand?”

The tension swells like a fever between them.

Wei Wuxian should be happy that his sister is on his side for this--when is it that she ever picks sides whenever he and Jiang Cheng argue? Any other time, he’d be hooting with laughter, rubbing it in Jiang Cheng’s face, but there is a deeply strange, melancholy expression on his brother’s face that does not suit him at all.

“Fine,” says Jiang Cheng. He takes the scroll from Jiang Yanli, rolling it up with care, then shoves it into Wei Wuxian’s chest with considerably less care. “Get this shit out of my sight. I’m going out.”

Wei Wuxian watches helplessly as Jiang Cheng moves around their hut with jerky movements, jaw set with the pulse of anger. He gathers his knapsack and what meager rations of buns left over from the day before, no doubt stale and hard by now, and loops it around his shoulder.

Then he’s gone, without another word.

Wei Wuxian gnaws on the soft inside of his cheek. “A-Jie--”

“Don’t think too much about what A-Cheng said, Xianxian,” says Jiang Yanli. “He won’t show it, but he worries. You needn’t take what he said to heart.”

Jiang Yanli will say no more, no matter how hard he presses. He’ll press anyone until they give, but not her. She ducks her head when Wei Wuxian turns to her with his confused, hurt silence, as if she is waiting for his anger. He’d never be angry with her.

“I don’t understand, A-Jie.”

“A-Cheng and I simply have different ideas of what it means to keep our family safe. He thinks it means returning. I think it means to stay.”

“But why would we be in danger?” he asks. “Does this have something to do with the Crown Prince? Did he know who I was? I guess so, or else why would Jiang Cheng bring him up? Did you know him? Could he help us?”

“No, he couldn’t.”

Wei Wuxian sets his mouth in a line. “Well, I should be off too,” he says. The sun has already started to burn back the clouds; he needs to find tonight’s dinner for the three of them. Maybe he should go after Jiang Cheng, press him for more details. Their sister, despite what anyone might think, gives far less easily than either of them.

“Be careful, Xianxian,” she says. “Oh, are you taking the painting with you?”

“There’s no way I’m going to leave it here in case anyone finds it and you’re here by yourself. Worst case scenario, I throw it away, and we can pretend none of this ever happened.” He takes Jiang Yanli’s hands in his, squeezes them ruefully. “I’m sorry, A-Jie. I just thought it would help. I didn’t want you to argue with Jiang Cheng.”

“It’s okay.” She tucks his stray hairs over his ear. “Go. Come back safe, A-xian.”

He waves at her once when he steps out, and once more when he makes it to the end of the hutong and she becomes little more than a quilted patch of terrycloth in the distance, as he does every morning when he leaves. Jiang Cheng can’t have gone far in the time that he’s gone, unless he took off at a sprint, so Wei Wuxian lets the scented chill of autumn fill his lungs.

The Crown Prince. What a strange person to bring up. Wei Wuxian rifles through what he remembers hearing in taverns and pubs, filtered through the thick veil of alcohol. The Jin family sits upon the throne now, after staging a coup against the Wens and seizing power just over a decade ago. The Crown Prince would have to be a Jin prince. The Jin Emperor was said to be quite the philanderer and had more than enough sons from too many concubines to choose from. The Crown Prince must be quite a favorite, for an emperor with so many sons would not pay any mind to choosing the Empress’s sons if he so liked one from his concubine better.

And this Crown Prince, according to Jiang Cheng, has never married.

The look on Jiang Yanli’s face--frozen, bruised, a bird shot from the sky before it begins to plummet--was not one Wei Wuxian expected to see when she heard this news. If they’d known this prince, then he must have been around even before Wei Wuxian’s reincarnation. Jiang Yanli must have spoken of him.

But all his memories can offer him are vague smudges of color and a person with pink like a fire in their hands.

It’s too early for the fishmongers just yet, but the market brims with life as it always does. Wei Wuxian narrowly dodges a cart full of fresh flowers, a toothless grandfather with a bamboo hat pulling it along weakly. One of the wheels is crooked, wood squeaking against the stone pavement.

“Shifu, your wheel,” says Wei Wuxian, plucking the canteen of oil tucked low against the cart. It dribbles out in a black splash. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

“Thank you, young man,” says the grandfather, and Wei Wuxian waits for him to turn his back to the street before plucking a lotus from the back of his cart and tucking it into his knapsack. For A-Jie, as penance for upsetting her so early in the morning.

Jiang Cheng is not hard to find. He is poor at concealing himself, both in body and in voice, and he really is very bad at haggling. Wei Wuxian sidles up to him at a fruit stall, arguing with the vendor over a particularly ugly dragonfruit that looks more like a leathery handful of meat left too long in the sun than any respectable fruit.

“Now I think,” says Wei Wuxian, plucking it out of Jiang Cheng’s hand and ignoring his indignant scoff, “shifu, if you let this fruit sit out in your display, it would ruin the look of all the rest of your fruits. ‘Ah, look at this lovely display of dragonfruit. But what do we have here? A misfit! A miscreant! A monstrosity, really!’ And then you lose business. So really, we’re doing you a favor.”

“A favor?” says the vendor with disbelief. “What gall.”

Wei Wuxian laughs, then tosses the fruit back and forth between his hands and gives a quick jerk of his chin. “What do you say? Half off?”

“I can’t believe you weaseled him into giving it to us for less than half off,” says Jiang Cheng five minutes later. “You could talk your way out of your own--”

Wei Wuxian tosses his dragonfruit from hand to hand. “My own what?” Jiang Cheng’s knapsack hangs flat and sad against his back, crumpled like a dead leaf, so Wei Wuxian holds it open and drops the fruit inside.

“Nothing. Never mind. What are you doing out here with that--thing?”

“Do you think I was going to leave it with A-Jie? No way. Imagine if she were alone and someone found her with it.”

Jiang purses his lips, nods. He tucks his thumb into the strap of his knapsack, a deadknot slung over his shoulder. “Have you thought about any stories?”

“What stories?”

“About what we’d say, if we brought it back to the imperial city.”

Jiang Cheng resolutely does not meet Wei Wuxian’s stare.

“You want to go?”

“I just think that if we have a plan, A-Jie might be more willing to go. To be honest with you, if it were just to the two of us, it wouldn’t matter as much. We could sell the stupid painting, use the money. We could eke out an existence. It would fucking suck, but we could, and I wouldn’t feel guilty about it.”

“Ah, Jiang Cheng. You’re finally talking sense!” Wei Wuxian claps him on the back. When Jiang Cheng doesn’t shake his hand off, his smile falters. He must actually be worried. “Okay. We have to consider multiple scenarios, then, if we want this to be foolproof. We don’t want to make up a story where the concubine is alive when she’s dead. Or vice versa. So the first order of business is to figure that out.”

Jiang Cheng nods. “And what kind of favor she’s in with the emperor. The better, the easier for us.”

So, like peddlers, they spin their stories.

The night blooms blue and foggy, the moon dropping light in handfuls of glass through the forest, and Wei Wuxian straightens to see that he is not alone.

Someone else is in the mist with him. It’s thick enough that he cannot see their feet, so they could be floating. A man--just a bit taller than Wei Wuxian himself. His sword is drawn, lowered, as if he’d been pointing it before Wei Wuxian sensed him and stopped. The folded steel blade flashes.

Blood sheets heavily down Wei Wuxian’s leg where the muscle has torn around the arrowhead, and haze sloshes in his skull. His brain is an upended bowl of goldfish. He grasps for words, for his thoughts, but they slip through his fingers. The stranger stares at him a bit in shock, a bit in horror, mostly in surprise. He opens his mouth. He closes it. He is wearing so much white he could be glowing, a star abandoned by its galaxy, and Wei Wuxian is the only one to find him.

They stare at each other in the gloom.

Wei Wuxian’s scattered goldfish thoughts say, Pink.

“Are you here to kill me?” asks Wei Wuxian. His words come out slurred even to his own ears. He needs to find Jiang Cheng. They need to get back to A-Jie. He needs to get out of here.

“No.” The stranger steps towards him. “We mistook you for a prey animal. Are you badly hurt?”

“This? No, no. I’m fine. I need to go.”

“Your leg is injured.”

“It’s fine. I need to get back to--my wards,” Wei Wuxian says, catching himself before he says anything too revealing, pats himself on the back for staying in line even as his thoughts unravel. He picks his favorite story and sticks with it, hopes to any god that is listening it won’t get any of them killed. “My wards. They were with me. I was looking for Jin Bixia.”

The stranger has come so close that Wei Wuxian can make out every stitch of his robe. “What business do you have with the emperor?”

“I have a painting,” he mumbles around the haze. It’s a dark one, now. “My mother’s painting.”

Then darkness kisses his eyelids, and the night pulls him under.

The scroll unfurls with the quiet hush of paper that has gone undisturbed too long. Even mounted on fine silk, the edges of the hemp and mulberry fibers have begun to wither, time nibbling as cruel and hungry as moths. The paper stretches on forever, nearly as tall as him fully unfurled. The cherrywood stick clacks upon the floor.

Wei Wuxian’s mouth goes dry. He stares with seeing, then without comprehending, then without believing.

The ink color has faded, like the paper, with age. Once the red might have leapt off the page, the greens so bright that spring grew from the painting itself, but all of it has flattened. It’s a simple composition. Where Mo Fu Ren had let her human subject be lost among the trees and sweeping landscapes, this painting is only one person, draped in textured golds and silk brocade embroidered with dragons.

Simple, perhaps, but done by the hand of someone who held them beloved.

His fingers shake when he reaches out. They hang back, and he pulls away, afraid that touching it might make the entire painting dissolve in his hands.

Smiling serenely back at him is his own face, thirteen years younger, thirteen years less hungry—but it is him. His eyes are downcast, with a rabbit cradled in the crook of his elbow and a bird perched upon his shoulder. Without a doubt it is him. Even if he could not recognize his own face, the characters that march in little terracotta soldiers down the paper leave no room for guessing.

The black ink is fresh, as if someone has run a brush through the strokes every year so that they can never fade.

Wei Wuxian, they say.

This can’t be right. He must be misreading. He blinks hard.

His thoughts trip over each other’s ankles. They come in a clamoring flood, each wanting to be heard first, pored over first. Wei Wuxian. Had there been another before him? It is not a common name. It is not a name that would show up twice in the royal city if every noble family had the names of their descendants planned out for generations, no matter if the Phoenix Rising had been slaughtered by order of the emperor. Why is there a painting of him rolled up and locked away in the private study of Hanguang Gexia, second head of the scholar house to Emperor Jin?

Did they once know each other?

How could it be that a key that Jiang Yanli gave him would unlock this desk?

There are corpses sleeping under their feet. This earth has been burnt and salted.

An old ache starts in his spine.

We were a lower noble family then, Xianxian.

Fire without coals.

There was a person. Just a person.

Do not exhume these bodies.

We left because we wanted to.

Something terrible must have happened to him.

#fic wip #incomplete #wx

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resinatingbeauty · 3 years

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I’ve had a lot of requests from various people at different times who are just learning how to use resin to create with and wanted some tips and tricks. I have wanted to make this post for a while, but I wanted to acquire more experience myself before giving others help. This first post is just going to go over some really basic tips and tricks and subsequent posts (if they’re found helpful) will elaborate. This is for all of you who are like me and get the least amount of benefit from watching Youtube tutorials these days because EVERYONE has one, and half the time they’re drawn out for ad revenue so an hour long video will only contain 20 mins worth of information with the kicker being you can’t even fast forward through what you know or rewind through ads to get back to where you need to be. So, for those of you who hate that like me, this text post is for you.

If you’re just starting, choosing which resin you want to purchase is intimidating. Craft stores like Michael’s and Hobby Lobby rarely offer more than one or two brands, typically over priced due to the fact that they’re labeled “art resins”.

Epoxy resin is by far the easiest to start with for beginners. It is the most forgiving, has the most consistent results, most brands use the same 1:1 ratio and the overall technique is the same. I am not affiliated with these brands/companies in any way other than I have used their products and have written reviews for several on Amazon.

Start with small packages (4oz-8oz kits / 8oz & 16oz hardener + resin). A quick Amazon search for epoxy resin will give you many results. This is one of those cases where you really don’t get what you pay for- boat, tabletop, etc. epoxy will yield the same results at more reasonable prices per fluid ounce than art resins. I recommend going with brands like FanAut, Puduo, Let’s Resin, Craft Daddy, etc. which often offer kits with gloves, craft sticks / stir sticks, measuring cups, and even additives at reasonable prices. All these items are things you’ll need to start off, so any extras are appreciated. I recommend Puduo, as it is relatively inexpensive compared to similar brands, yields consistent , crystal clear results, and has a somewhat faster curing time than other epoxy resins for the price. If none of these brands ring your bell, here are the qualifiers for a “good” epoxy resin:

Self Degassing- This is pretty much the standard expectation of epoxy resin and one of the reasons it is considered forgiving for beginners. When resin and hardener are combined, gases are trapped and form air bubbles which have a tendency to multiply as you stir your mixture and the combination heats up. But it shouldn’t be taken for granted that all epoxy resin does this, so try to look for “self degassing” in the item description / label.

Self Leveling vs. Doming : Doming resin is great for the magnified look on pendants and other flat projects, but self leveling resin is where you should be starting as doming requires the build up of surface tension to achieve. While “doming “ resin may achieve this easier than others without this feature, it is pretty irrelevant if you don’t know to dome resin in the first place.

Art Resin vs Other Epoxy: Art resins make claims of being ideal or a better choice for arts & crafts, but the reality is that you can achieve the same effects from table top or boat resins such as Mas- are just as capable of casting, coating, doming etc. as art resins especially if you’re looking to take on a larger project you will pay less and get more with these brands than smaller quantities of art resins. Make sure they are crystal clear, hard type, self degassing, and self leveling. Keep in mind that cure time relates to the size of your project and the ambient temperature of the environment, so don’t waste money on products that charge more for touting faster curing time.

What about 2 part epoxy in syringes? (Ice Resin, Gorilla Glue) Personally, these pre prepared epoxy resins are more complicated than they look. You can’t save combined resin and hardener, so once you mix the two or pop the seals to both you have to use the lot of it in one shot. Ice Resin in particular is quite expensive and doesn’t offer the clear, glossy results I expected it to when I used it, so I would avoid these if you are just starting out.

Additives & Extras- Don’t waste a lot of money at the start funding your would be creations until you have at least seen one entire project through from start to finish. I made the mistake of investing in silicone molds, glitters, additives like rhinestones, craft papers, transparency films etc before I really found my niche and what I was really using epoxy for the most. There are some great deals for 100+ piece silicone mold kits that include gloves, stir sticks, silicone measuring cups, and the like available cheaply for those looking to make smaller things like jewelry, keychains, figurines etc. the one I have just linked to even includes the epoxy for under $20. These kits are offered by Amazon and even Etsy and are a great place to start as they provide you with everything you would need to create at least one full project. They are also a great activity to do with your kids (ages 10+ would probably be ideal) as you can add pretty much anything that isn’t silicone, wax, unsealed paper, alcohol, or water based into resin, which opens up a world of possibilities!

Tips & Tricks That Will Save You $

If you’re itching for purchasing pigments to add color to your resin projects, try purchasing or reusing some old or cheap mineral eye shadows. Not sure if your eye shadow is mineral based? I’m willing to bet it is, though some colors may not look the same when mixed in resin as they do on the pallets, they will color it nonetheless, just pick a small amount up on a popsicle stick or toothpick and stir it into a small batch of resin to see how it turns out. Dollar Tree eye shadows will work just as well as expensive pigments, so consider this before investing in expensive mica pigment sets!

While silicone molds are probably the easiest and are reusable, you can also use plastic molds, carve your resin block with carpentry tools or by hand-or even make your own molds! There are simple recipes utilizing dish soap and corn starch out there, or you can use silicone or even hot glue! Flexible silicone molds won’t require a mold release, but plastic and other molds will or you may end up cutting your project out. You don’t have to purchase a mold release product for this, either- olive or vegetable oil spray on a paper towel will suffice, just remember to let your mold sit for a few hours to demoisturize.

Can’t find gloves because of COVID19 hype? Finger cots are even better than gloves as they allow for more dexterity even when they get sticky, are cheaper, and readily available in bulk online!

Pretty much anything compatible with homemade “slime” can be mixed into or embedded in resin, so there is that. However, be careful how much glitter, pigment, etc you add as you can throw off the chemical balance that allows your project to cure properly. Refer to the directions included with your specific resin kit as most will tell you what ratios must be maintained for proper curing.

Everyone that works with resin knows the arch nemesis that is the bubbles. There are times where it seems like, no matter what you do, your perfect clear cast of a dandelion goes to shit because of some stray air bubbles. There are a few tricks to avoid this from the start:

Use a separate cup to measure resin and hardener. Pour the combined mixture into a fourth cup after the first 3-4 mins of stirring (half time) scraping the sides and bottom. This helps what was on the bottom get integrated into what was mixed on top. Always make sure to pour resin first when mixing and mix slowly, scraping the sides and bottom, for the time listed on your instructions. You want your mixture to be almost water consistency, clear, fluid, with little viscosity, and no streaks visible. Allow it to sit for a few minutes to natural degas and get rid of the bubbles.

Use a torch or grill lighter to pop surface bubbles. You can also do each one individually (as the grill lighter suggestion may not always be a good idea- be careful using this on large projects and molds that may ignite) with a tooth pick. Using a blow dryer or heat gun will also help bubbles rise to the surface to be popped.

Make sure that you keep contact with the bottom of your mixing cup with your stir stick-try not to lift it too much as this can introduce air into the mixture (“whipping the resin”) this can also occur if you are stirring too quickly. If you notice a lot of bubbles, let your mixture sit for a few minutes and resume stirring at a slower pace.

Make sure you start your project at a temperature of 74 degrees +, if your bottles are cold to touch, place them in a plastic bag and let them sit in hot water to warm up. You can also roll them (slowly) on a counter top.

You know, if all else fails you could always make ocean or nautical themed projects :)

That’s all for now- let me know if this helped you or someone you know working with resin or experimenting. Feel free to comment with any questions you would like answered in my next post! I also recommend the Resin Obssesion blog- they have a lot of useful information and tutorials with photos that were really helpful for me starting out!

Xo Samantha

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shay3blog · 3 years

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Diabolik Lovers Headcannon: How He Fell For You

Reiji:

*Due to his need to be know all that occurs within the household Reiji was the first brother you encountered when arriving. You were taken aback by Reiji's breathtaking features, you found them to be dark, enchanting and alluring. Your heart almost stilled on sppt when it felt as though the strict vampire's crimson orbs were peering into your soul. You tried not to show that you were intimidated by his stoic demeanor, albeit it wasn't hard to tell on Reiji's end. He could hear your rapid heartbeats and your hitched breathing. It was music to his ears, it fed his ego, making him feel like he was completely in control of things. At first glance Reiji thought you were like any other human and you'd be replaceable like the rest. Much like his older brother he believed you were only good enough to satisfy his needs in terms of his blood lust. He couldn't find a single redeeming quality about you. However he also assumed you could be changed to behave and act how he wanted, you were at his mercy to train and mold as he seen fit. Humans were disgusting creatures with many deplorable habits after all.

*Your next encounter took place when you showed up to Reiji's lab in the evening looking for a place to hide to avoid having a run in with Ayato and Laito. The two were lurking around the living room and wanted to "play" with you. Since he was clearly the one that handled the issues around the house you figired reiji wouldn't mind assisting you. Reiji, who was clearly annoyed, allowed you in to avoid having to interefere later on. You were intrigued by the set up of Reiji's room, it felt like you gained some form of access to the closed off man that sat before you, like you were getting a minor peek inside his mind. Little by little you learned things about Reiji: his interest in science showed when your eyes laid upon the complex scientific equipment stationed around his room, his love for reading made evident by the many books in his possession and his admiration for tea was as clear as day when yoi spotted his expensive looking tea set. You felt a jolt of joy shoot through you, though you were unsure why this made you happy. Reiji scolded you as he sipped his tea, making the aforementioned situation more your fault than his brothers. You snap at him feeling offended that he wasn't more understanding of your situation. You exit the room afterwards leaving Reiji at a loss for words. Normally he would never allow someone to speak to him in such a way, he should have had a clever comeback but he didn't. You made so much sense when you put him in his place, it angered him yet sparked his interest in you and your ways.

*As time went on Reiji studied you from a distance, watching your every move. He was uncertain why but after that evening in his lab he felt an urge to learn all about you. He observed your actions throughout the day, he noticed you were more kept to yourself mostly. You spent a fair amount of time in your room, perhaps to avoid the riff raff outside. When you did come out of your room you were often found by yourself in a specfic spot like the library tucked in the corner or path in the rose garden that isn't often ventured. He respected the fact that you weren't as much of a troublemaker as he prevously believed and were actually well behaved for a human. Reiji took note of the fact that there was almost always a book in your hands, it fascinated him to know that you were a reader as well, you read all different genres not just sappy love stories. You even fell asleep with a book in your hands when tucked away into bed, this amused him. You weren't needy and you never seeked the attention of others, this was another trait he found favorable. He wanted to know the "why" answer to everything you did: Why do you shy away when you receive a compliment of any kind? Why do you unconsciously bite your bottom lip? Why do you tilt your head slightly to the right when deep in thought? After a while Reiji accumalated so many "why" questions that he found himself doing the unthinkable; knocking on the your door one evening and inviting you back to his study for tea. You were stunned by this but agreed none the less. Once seated he began his line of questioning, to which you'd answer with no hesitance. You had gathered up enough courage to ask him about the books on his shelves, you had noticed he had one of your favorite author's books. If Reiji actually had a heartbeat he'd swear it would have stopped, a woman actually was familiar with a book he read time and time again? The way your eyes lit up when talking about the book replaced the coldness within him with an unfamiliar warmth he never felt before. The two of you spent the rest of the evening talking about books and whatever elae came to mind. Reiji even made you a cup of tea to keep you in his prescence longer. Unbeknownst to you, behind Reiji's cool exterior, a frenzy lurked with within him that rapidly grew with each passing moment. The taste of tea coated his tongue, substituting for the taste of you that he desperately yearned for in that moment...

*By now you and Reiji spoke to one another on a regular basis. You spent most of your time in his lab keeping him company or strolling with him through the garden talking about whatever came to mind. This became so normal to him that it felt weird when you weren't there. You couldn't believe how close the two of you had become over time. You had felt so comfortable with him, it was an adjustment for you seeing as you were so used to being independent and on your own. Because of reiji's need control everything he'd often keep you at his side. You often stargazed together, Reiji thought you were looked breathtaking amongst the stars. The moon shined against your skin, making Reiji desire you all the more. Trapping you against the railing of the balcony Reiji caught you off guard by taking his first bite from the sensitive skin of your neck. It was a bit painful at first but it wasn't as bad as you originally thought. You pull away from him and stare into his dark gaze, it sets your heart ablaze and warms your body. Disregarding the thin trickle of your blood streaming from his mouth you pull him into a kiss...

*Reiji is absolutely the type to define your relationship, he wouldn't tolerate his brothers overstepping the boundries. Once you're his, you're just that and may god help whoever doesn't heed that warning. He'd his usual blunt and practical self but he always makes sure he's available and there whenever you need him. Though he can be a bit overbearing at times with his strict ways you know he only does it because he cares and wants the absolute best for you. Once Reiji trusts you enough he reluctantly tells about his past little by little. Seeing that not a bit of judgement leave your lips and how willing have reiji with a reassurance that Reiji made the right choice when he chose you. He was more than grateful that you came into his life, you're like his breath of fresh air. You bought color to his mundane life, you are the definition of what beauty is if he was asked to describe it; not the superficial physical beauty but all the unique features and quirks that make up you. Know that the connection you built with Reiji is one that will last life time. Be prepared for the long hall because this guy's old fashioned and isn't planning to let you go. In fact he'll eventually want to put a ring on it to seal your union for good.

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sweet-savvy-slytherins · 3 years

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Hi, everyone!

Developing characters is something I really enjoy, so I had a lot of fun putting together a twin set of MCs! This is the first of the two, Evangeline! I’d love if people would give her a read, and let me know what you think of her!

For clarification, I used the Classified Text Generator in a few spots. That way, I didn’t have to leave any information out, and those who had reached that part of the game would recognize what I was talking about regardless, but those who hadn’t wouldn’t be spoiled.

Name:

Hypatia Nadine Linwood, originally

Evangeline Nadine Desrosiers, currently

Usually goes by Vany

Initials spell “END,” which she finds hilariously ominous

Gender: Cisgender female

Age: 16 years old

Birth Date: October 20th

Species: Human (despite her mother’s insistence that they’re part Veela)

Blood Status: Pureblood

Sexuality: Openly homoromantic and homosexual

Alignment: Chaotic good

Ethnicity: Afro-European

Residence: A condo in Bristol

Myer Briggs Personality Type: ESTP-A, the Entrepreneur

1st Wand: When she was eleven, Evangeline was matched with a dogwood wand that was nine inches in length, with a dragon heartstring core.

2nd Wand: In her fifth year, after she unwisely challenged Madam Rakepick and had her wand broken as a result, Evangeline found herself paired with a spruce wood wand, this one nine and two thirds inches in length with a phoenix tail feather core. While she resents Rakepick for breaking her first, Evangeline does admit to feeling like her second wand suited her better.

Animagus: Evangeline never becomes an animagus.

Miscellaneous Magical Abilities: Unlike Jacob and Enola, Evangeline is not a born legilimens. However, just like her mother, she is a Seer. (Because that is just like her mother, isn’t it? To pass on the world’s shittiest super power?) Most of the time, this ability manifests in the form of a vague sense or a murky dream. To this day, she’s only had one proper vision, and it was when she was very small.

Boggart Form: Her mother showering her with praise, and saying she was proud of the witch she’d grown to be. This tends to confuse her peers, since it seems so positive—but Evangeline knows her mother. The narcissist that she is, Mireille would never have praised her like that unless she molded Evangeline into her double. That is Evangeline’s worst fear: becoming her mother.

Riddikulus Form: Mireille more or less being turned into a cymbal-banging monkey, with a kazoo in her mouth, cymbals in her hands, and a silly hat.

Amortentia: When Evangeline smells amortentia, the scent is a combination of broom handle polish, leather, and buttered toast. If someone’s amortentia were to smell like her, it would smell like cherry lip gloss, orange pekoe tea, and, again, broom handle polish.

Patronus: A crow. Although they’re best known for supposedly being an omen of death, they’re also believed to symbolize destiny, flexibility, and mischievousness.

Patronus Memory: About a month before Evangeline turned nine, there was a night where her entire family—Aunt Felicienne, Jacob, Enola, and Casper—all let her paint their nails. They all talked and laughed the entire night, drinking cocoa and admiring their nails, and it was the first time they felt like a proper family.

Mirror of Erised: Her family not only together again, but being treated with the respect they deserve. Her brother’s bad reputation erased, the whispers about her aunt for being a squib silenced, and the ghost of their parents’ actions exorcised.

Specialized/Favorite Spells: Evangeline has an affinity for fun spells, like Colovaria and Orchideous. They may not be the most practical, but is that such a crime? Not every spell can serve a greater purpose.

Physique:

Athletic build, due to her involvement in Quidditch

Strong limbs and a toned figure

5′8 in heigh

Eye Color:

Dark grey in color

Always decorated with pristine eyeliner and a light brush of mascara

Hair Color:

Deep brown

Occasionally experiment with different hair colors using Colovaria

Naturally curly, but is often straightened

Hip length (when straightened)

Skin Tone:

Light brown

Warm undertones

Body Modifications:

One piercing in each ear

Scarring:

Extensive burn scars on both forearms — gained at 7 years old

Thin scar directly across the bridge of her nose — gained at 25 years old

Inventory:

Her favorite cherry lip gloss

A bag of butterscotch candies

A hair clip or two

Her treasured leather journal.

Fashion: Though Evangeline consciously tries not to be vain, knowing it was one of her mother’s vices, she does take pride in her appearance, and enjoys looking good. When not outfitted in her school robes, she usually tries to aim for a classy, feminine sort of style. More often than not her outfits consist of trendy sweaters or turtlenecks (never t-shirts), tea length skirts, and oxford pumps. As for accessories, Evangeline is quite fond of dainty earrings and delicate silver rings, as well as pretty hair clips. The one exception to her style tastes is Erika’s sweaters: they’re over-sized, a little more traditionally masculine, and more worn out than Evangeline likes to let her clothes get. Still, she absolutely covets them.

Hogwarts House: Slytherin, house of the cunning and ambitious. It’s garnered such a reputation for being the “mean house” that people always seem to be surprised to learn that Evangeline was placed there. But, as she’s always quick to remind them, “mean” is not a requisite for being in Slytherin. It’s just an unfortunate trend.

Ilvermorny House: Thunderbird, house of the soul, home to the adventurer.

Affiliations/Organizations: Obviously, as first a student and then an alum, Evangeline is affiliated with Hogwarts. She also joins ███ ██████ ██ ██████ out of support for Enola, and, later on, is a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

Professions: After working as a spy for the Order during the second wizarding war, Evangeline builds a career as a grief counselor for magical children.

Class Proficiencies:

Astronomy: A

Charms: E

DADA: O

Flying: O

Herbology: P

History of Magic: A

Potions: A

Transfiguration: E

Electives:

Divination

Muggle Studies

Both are total goof off classes, considering she’s a Seer who was raised in a muggle community

Quidditch:

Seeker on the Slytherin team from third year onward

Played one season as a beater in her fourth year

Extra Curricular:

Art Club

Frog Choir

Favorite Professors:

Professor Hooch — fellow Quidditch lover

Professor Trelawney — endearingly kooky

Least Favorite Professors:

Professor Snape — killjoy

Professor Sinistra — uptight

Brother: The eldest of the Desrosiers children is Theron, who renamed himself Jacob after his parents’ death. Of his three younger siblings, he’s arguably closest to Evangeline, since she shares his charisma and occasional haughtiness. Evangeline understood, better than any of the others, how badly he wanted to restore both the Kastellanos and Desrosiers family names to their former glory. No, actually, not their former glory—a new glory, built on talent and respect, rather than on the subjugation of those considered “beneath” them.

Other Siblings: Older than Evangeline by six minutes, Enola is the second oldest Desrosiers sibling, and easily the one Evangeline is closest to. People can dismiss the notion of twin ESP all they want, but Evangeline believes it. Different as they may be, her and Enola have always been finely attuned to each other. They can read each other easily, and always know exactly what the other needs. There isn’t a chance they could ever be as close with someone else as they are with each other.

Evangeline also has a younger brother. Helios Kastellanos, renamed Casper by their Aunt Felicienne, is five years younger than the twins, and truth be told, Evangeline’s never had too strong of a relationship with him. It’s not like they argue, or they hate each other. They’ve just...never connected. He’s always clung to Enola, so Evangeline figures that it’s a trade off she had to make. She gets to be close with Jacob, at the cost of being close with Casper. Enola gets to be close with Casper, at the cost of being close with Jacob. It evens out.

Father: Truth be told, Evangeline remembers very little of her father, Proteus. Beyond not spending a lot of time at home, Proteus was more concerned with his male heirs than either of his daughters. Everything Evangeline knows about him, she’s learned secondhand, and even then, it’s very little. Felicienne and Jacob always waved off her questions, telling her she didn’t want to know about him, Enola remembered as little as she did, and Casper was only three when he died. Evangeline knows that he was a Death Eater, and that’s more or less it.

Mother: Now, her mother, Mireille, on the other hand...Evangeline remembers her quite vividly. Mireille was a woman who prided herself on beauty more than anything, and wanted to raise her daughters to be just the same—as long as they were never more beautiful than she was. Though she came from a family of blood purists, Mireille was the first Desrosiers to become a Death Eater, and Evangeline suspects that she got in over her head. It’s her theory that the stress drove Mireille crazy, and that was why she was so prone to paranoia and explosive bursts of anger. One of Evangeline’s most vivid memories of Mireille attempting to throw a pot of boiling water in her face when she was seven years old; Evangeline threw up her arms to defend herself, and she still bears the scars from the attack all these years later.

Love Interest: Evangeline has a big, fat, gay crush on Erika Rath, and she’s not ashamed to admit it. She’d already been attracted to her on an entirely physical level, and then Evangeline had to seek out her tutelage when the Slytherin team was short a Beater. Discovering the awkward, uncertain girl that existed beneath the gruff exterior completely sealed the deal. They bonded over their love for Quidditch, continuing to train together even when Evangeline switched back to playing Seeker, and with time, came to find that they really enjoyed each other’s company. Evangeline could make Erika laugh like no one else, and Erika felt like one of the only people Evangeline could be entirely herself with, even if that meant exposing the ugly pieces of herself as well as the polished ones. Finally, Evangeline asked Erika to the Celestial Ball, and the rest was history. It’s rather funny to see them side by side, with Erika, perpetually dressed in her jersey and scowling, towering over Evangeline, with her pressed skirts and sunny smiles.

Best Friends: One of Evangeline’s dearest friends at Hogwarts is local contraband dealer, Jae Kim. Truth be told, he was initially quite intimidated by her. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but despite Evangeline’s bubbly disposition, something about her always struck him as distinctly...eldritch. Like she was something unusual, and not entirely human. Maybe it was just the way she could flip her emotions on a dime, entirely of her own volition. Watching her be seething mad and then slap on a bright, sunny grin as she turned away, easy as flipping a switch, was unnerving. Regardless, the two bonded throughout their time spent in detention, and Enola is quite proud to boast that she’s one of the few people that can almost wrangle Jae into following the rules.

She’s also quite close with Penny Haywood and Diego Caplan, two Hufflepuffs who share Evangeline’s popularity and social skill. Evangeline likes to joke that she’s “Penny, but with edge.” Penny gets a kick out of it. Diego, on the other hand, did initially have slightly selfish reasons for befriending Evangeline—namely, his hope that she could help him get closer to Enola, who he had a crush on—but ended up genuinely bonding with her somewhere along the way. She’s his favorite dueling and dancing partner, and they trust each other more than anyone seems to realize.

Rivals: Some people might not understand how two people on the same team can be rivals, but Evangeline and Skye Parkin make it work. It’s not a mean rivalry by any means, but it’s an intense one, with both of them aiming to be the star player on the Slytherin Quidditch team. Evangeline also considers herself rivals with Emily Tyler, who reminds her uncomfortably of her mother, and Merula, who competes with her in, well, everything.

Enemies: Logically, Evangeline knows that there’s really nothing wrong with Talbott Winger. He’s an entirely decent guy, who minds his own business and keeps his head down. She has no reason to dislike him the way she does. But she just can’t help it. Maybe it’s his aloofness that rubs her the wrong way—Evangeline’s always liked to be liked, not to mention the nosy streak she possesses and she finds people that reserved and guarded frustrating. Maybe it’s the fact that she thinks he has eyes for her sister, when Enola could definitely do better. (Of course, this is only Evangeline’s perception. If she really wanted to know who had eyes for Enola, she’d have better luck looking at her best friend, Jae.) Either way, Evangeline isn’t a fan.

Dormmates: Evangeline shares a dorm with Rowan Khanna, Liz Tuttle, Skye Parkin, and her twin sister, Enola.

Pets: On the record, Evangeline has only one pet, and it’s a very old, exceptionally grumpy, melanistic Sphynx cat named Toodles. Despite being more or less a crotchety old man in cat form, Toodles is absolutely the light of Evangeline’s life, and she dotes on him like he is her actual child. The amount of money she’s dropped on Toodles is honestly kind of staggering, but Enola insists that it’s entirely necessary. Sphynx cats require a lot of careful care, and if Evangeline has her way, Toodles is only going to get the best of the best.

However, off the record, Evangeline has also grown unusually close to one Thestral in particular. She’s been sneaking into the Forbidden Forest to study them since she was in her 2nd year, and during one such excursion, she witnessed a Thestral foal being birthed. Since it provided a prime opportunity to study the life cycle of a Thestral, Evangeline focused most of her observations on that foal, which she named Melinoe, after the Greek goddess of ghosts and spirits. It took some time to build trust, but eventually, Melinoe and Evangeline were thick as thieves, and Melinoe greeted her like an excited puppy whenever she came to visit the forest. Leaving Melinoe behind is perhaps what Evangeline’s dreading most about her graduation from Hogwarts.

Closest Canon Friends: Jae Kim, Penny Haywood, Diego Caplan, Nymphadora Tonks, and Tulip Karasu.

Closest MC Friends: Outside of Enola, none yet, but looking!

Pre-Hogwarts: Hypatia was born the third child of Proteus and Mireille Kastellanos. She spent the first eight years of her life in Greece, living on her father’s family estate, roaming the grounds with her siblings, enjoying the abundance of wealth at her fingertips. It should’ve been a charmed life...but it wasn’t. See, Proteus and Mireille were both Death Eaters, and neither were much suited for parenthood. It was a household strife with unease and contempt, and if the ruthless mental (and occasionally physical) abuse Hypatia experienced wasn’t enough, her childhood was also plagued by terrible visions. In this visions, an explosion burst in her family parlor, leaving both her parents dead on the floor.

Then, when she was eight years old, the premonition came true. Aurors raided the manor, and in the ensuing fight, both Proteus and Mireille were killed, with their two young daughters bearing witness. The children were whisked away from the home, and eventually sent to live with their maternal aunt, Felicienne Desrosiers. A squib who had fled her Pureblood-supremist family to live in England, Felicienne was hardly equipped to take on four young, magical, traumatized children, but still, she stepped up to the plate, determined not to fail them the way that their parents had.

The first thing she did? She sat them down, and helped them choose out new names. While her family name wasn’t exactly sparkly clean, it carried less of a stigma than their father’s. And thus, Hypatia Kastellanos died with her parents, and Evangeline Desrosiers was born.

From that point on, Evangeline grew up to be a rather well-adjusted girl. Or, as well-adjusted as a girl with her experiences could be. The only real point of concern was the fixation she began to develop with death; she played funeral director far more often than she ever played princess, and was prone to checking out books on embalming methods from the local library. However, she wasn’t hurting anyone or thing and showed no desire to, so Felicenne decided it wasn’t anything to worry too much about. It was simply Evangeline’s way of coping. Throughout the years, Evangeline found happiness with her new family, and despite Jacob’s disappearance, despite Felicenne’s failing health, Evangeline is determined to protect that happiness.

2nd Wizarding War: As the war starts picking up steam, Evangeline establishes her allegiance to The Order of the Phoenix, and starts working as a spy, able to rely on her charisma and family heritage to gain the trust of dark wizards. She’s not accepted into the inner circle, not nearly, but she’s silver-tongued enough to get information from those that are. During this time, she secretly elopes with her long-term girlfriend, Erika Rath. She fights in the battle of Hogwarts, and in doing so, gains a scar directly across the bridge of her nose.

Post-War: Following the war, Evangeline finds that her ambitions have changed. Despite having wanted for years to be a mortician, she finds that the idea now lacks the appeal it did when she was young. Perhaps she’s just seen enough death. Still, she’s determined to put all of her years of research to use. She ends up finding her calling providing grief counseling to children, and, specifically, to magical children. She makes the unconventional choice to train Thestrals as a sort of therapy animal for children who have witnessed death. Her and Erika, now going public with their marriage, also adopt a set of siblings—an eight year old named Winifred, and a six year old named Josephine, the daughters of a friend of Erika’s who was, unfortunately, killed in the war. It’s difficult, considering both girls are old enough to remember and miss their parents, but Evangeline’s grief training comes in handy in helping them cope with the loss. It may take time, but eventually, they do truly feel like a family.

There's a lot more to Evangeline than there appears to be at a glance. Upon first meeting, she seems...well, vivacious. She loves to laugh and lights up a room with her smile alone, and is playful and a little mischievous by nature. She's also quite the hopeless romantic, and ultimately wants to end up happy with someone she loves. Some may say that this makes her pathetic, but she doesn't view it that way at all. What's so wrong with wanting to be happy?

Though Evangeline may not hand out her trust too quickly or freely, she is always willing to provide a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on. Her loyalty to those who find a place in her heart is admirable, especially when it comes to her family, and she would willingly fight to the death to protect those she loves. She always finds some way to show her affection, whether it's through a warm hug when one is needed or a good laugh provided when sadness seems to be taking over. She’s charismatic and enigmatic and attractive, and most everyone she meets consider her to be a delightful young woman.

And then her smile sharpens just slightly, glinting like light on the blade of a dagger, and all of a sudden, it’s abundantly clear why she was sorted into the house of the cunning.

Now, the image Evangeline puts forth isn’t a lie. She is genuinely friendly and outgoing, and the majority of the time, everything she says and does is sincere. However, certain traits are exaggerated because she wants to present a specific image of herself—or rather, she wants certain parts of her to go unnoticed, so she emphasizes the ones she wants people to see and lets the other ones slip out of the edges of their perception.

Beneath the girlish laughter and perfect grins is a master manipulator, always poised for battle, whether they be fought with words or fists. The sweetness, the flattery, the pretty little smiles, they coax information out conversations faster than threats ever did. A true Slytherin at her core, Evangeline has long since learned how to use her beauty and natural charisma to get what she needs out of people and accomplish her goals, which are, fortunately, mostly altruistic. Who knows what sort chaos she could wrought, if she put her mind to it?

Total theater kid. She attended muggle primary schools prior to Hogwarts, and you can bet your bippy she jumped on every opportunity to get on stage that she was offered. Notable roles include Belle in Beauty and the Beast, the Wicked Witch of the West (ironically enough) in The Wizard of Oz, Wendy in Peter Pan, and Queen Zixi in Queen Zixi of Ix.

It’s no secret that Evangeline’s one premonition was of the raid that her parents died in. Her siblings all know, and none of them blame her. She was just a child; she didn’t understand what she was seeing. The secret is that, even if she had understood, Evangeline doesn’t think she would’ve warned anyone.

#hphm oc #hphm mc #jacob's sibling #hogwarts mystery #hphm #harry potter #hogwarts #slytherin #evangeline desrosiers #evangeline and enola #hogwarts mystery mc #hogwarts mystery oc #oc

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capsized-heart · 4 years

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Warbirds

Pairing: Carol Danvers x Reader

Summary: Ships and planes and weapons of war named after women and dubbed she, her. Powerful, deadly. Yet, the real thing, the real body is demeaned and made less than man. When you and Carol are up in the sky and screaming through the air in your metal birds, they will see just how fragile you are.

Following Carol and Reader throughout their training in the Air Force.

Word count: 4.6k+

Warnings: smut, mild violence

A/N: It feels so good to post again! I’m so sorry I haven’t written anything in a bit, my finals this semester have been c r a z y, I’ve written 20 pages worth of papers and I still have one more left before I’m fully on winter break :’) but almost there!

I’ve had this idea for a while and....I honestly had too much fun with this. I did a lot of research and watched some documentaries on what trainees experience through basic training and I find military uniforms more attractive than I should so I didn’t hold back on this one.

Please enjoy my girl Carol!!!

“Wake up! Wake up! Open that day room door! Lights on! PT uniform of the day, PT shorts and shirt!”

The piercing voice of Dorm Chief Williams shatters the air. Fluorescent white blinds you, pulse thundering as you’re jerked from sleep, kicking off your covers. Your muscles scream, vision blurred and swimming and you stagger to your feet.

Cadets around you are already making their beds and changing into their gear. You reach for your own combat uniform, pull on the deep navy tracksuit with the reflective insignia of the U.S. Air Force glowing over your left breast.

You turn and see your bunkmate starting to stir. You feel your heart hammer in your throat and push at her shoulder.

“Carol. Get up. Hey, let’s go, Warbird.”

Williams, a tall and intimidating woman personifying dread itself, marches over to your bunk.

“Danvers, am I keeping you from your beauty sleep?” Williams barks with the most intensity you’ve ever heard from her at 0600. “Should I call the canteen and have them bring you breakfast since you’re so busy slowing down my whole squadron?”

Carol jolts to attention. “No, ma’am!”

“Then get the hell away from me and into gear. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Williams scowls, watching Carol fly to her post to dress before she turns on her heel and makes her rounds through the rest of the dorm. Finished with your own tasks, you help with Carol’s bed, smooth out her uniform, secure her hair in a tight bun. She gives you a tired smile.

“Fall out!” Williams calls.

You’re out the door in a minute flat. The short, sharp blasts of Reveille drive motion around you as you fall in line with the male recruits.

The morning is brisk, stimulating, turning your breath into puffs of steam as sweeps of indigo crack open the sky like the pearly, iridescent insides of seashells. It’s pretty, the color reminding you of waves and ocean.

Maybe you should have joined the Navy instead, Carol would say, a quick quip about how you would make such a charming sailor girl bobbing away on a ship. She always likes to tease you for your love of beautiful, superficial things.

From the moment you shed your civilian status, the Academy taught you to appreciate the little things in life; the glow of morning that tints the clouds with amber and cream as you watch the world from your cockpit. Chirping birdsong, a sort of secret you like to think that exists only between birds and Airmen, the few humans capable of sharing the sky.

You loathe how much Carol affects you, since day zero, the very start of BMT. How you can hear her voice in your mind this goddamn early.

Your MTI picks up a cadence and you match your step to the young men and women beside you, your wingmen. You feel unity, harmony beating through your bloodstream as you jog in time with your sergeant’s calls, the crisp air making you feel well rested and energized despite getting your usual four hours of sleep.

Moments like these that give you purpose, the indescribable excitement of being a part of something bigger than yourself. Of belonging.

“Lookin’ good and feelin’ good! Who are we?” Your drill instructor booms.

“USAF! Aim high! Fly, fight, win!” The squadron sounds off in unison.

You’re three weeks into BMT. Twenty-one days of primal shock, verbal abuse, blood, sweat, tears. Four weeks, twenty-eight more days until you graduate from the ranks of cadet, four weeks until your MTI awards you your dog tags and the title of Airman. The start of your career as a fighter pilot.

But until then, you’ll have to survive the next twenty-eight days.

You’ve learned more about yourself in these three weeks than you have in your entire life, your mind and body hardened with discipline. Broken down psychologically and physically and molded into the young woman your squadron needs you to be.

You and Carol are reminded of your womanhood every day. You and the others have to push yourselves harder, faster just to prove you can keep up. O’Neill, a petite little firecracker of a girl and fresh out of school, had gotten her period last week. You’d watched her wretch up bile after morning drill, the exertion and stress and cramps too much for her body to handle. The MTI had screamed at her, blue in the face, ordered her to drop on her stomach right there and crank fifteen pushups.

You cannot separate your femininity from your body, even in a military unit that declares that all are treated equal as soldiers. You are not an equal by default.

It’s belittling. Exhausting.

But you’ve shown that you can hold your own against the boys. You’ve learned how to shoot clean and fight with your bare hands, how to assemble, disassemble, and repair your M-16. You could do it in your sleep, the sharp click-click of a reloading magazine heard in your dreams.

This week, along with your usual physical conditioning, you have CBRNE training, MOPP training. You’ll be exposed to CS gas and simulations of biological warfare, your leadership skills put to the test.

You can do this. With Carol by your side, you feel like you can do anything. Little fledglings earning your wings, pushed from the nest, learning to fly when the ground is rushing up to meet you. Make or break.

Twenty-eight more days.

The gas is meant to simulate suffocation, they tell you.

“Masks off! Break the seal! Break, break, break!”

You’re already dizzy, head spinning from the chamber exercises when you stick your fingers in between the small space of your mask and pull hard.

The seal breaks with a sharp hiss.

Fire floods your eyes, your sinuses, down your throat, constricting tight like smoke and flames and hellfire. You taste fireworks, poison. Your eyes instinctively shut, blurry with tears and you cough hard, sputter, hear the echoes of other cadets hacking and gasping.

The simulation is meant to put trust in your equipment, to make you vividly remember that your mask and gear will save your life. And as you stand there with your lungs struggling to expand and the MTIs rounding on each of you in the hazy, cloying smoke, you believe it.

“Airman Recruit Danvers, Division 164!” You hear Carol pant somewhere in the fumes, along the walls of the chamber where you’re all lined up. You keep your mask raised above your head as instructed, waiting, suffocating in silence until it is your turn to state your name and division number. The MTIs move down the line with their masks still fixed. Haunting, weaving through the gas and toxins like plague doctors. The image of death. Vultures tearing fledglings apart with pointed beaks and white bone as you watch cadets choke on their own breath.

The primal impulse of fear trickles from your hypothalamus as the minutes tick on, until your lips and tongue buzz like fire ants, until you can no longer feel the tips of your fingers. You’re sweat-slicked and gasping when an MTI turns to you, screams for your identification.

You sound off. Your entire body is shaking, fevered. You are the last in your row.

You burst through the doors and out into the afternoon air with a stream of cadets behind you, taking flight as you thunder on the asphalt to the open courtyard.

You all cough, spit, clear out your lungs with curses and muted laughter as your squadron stands together beneath cotton clouds and blue sky.

Carol finds you in the mix, the few precious seconds where you’re not forced to fall in line. Seconds to catch your breath. Her skin is flushed and wisps of hair fall to frame her face, her bun messy. She grins and the two of you bump fists, playful.

Your cheeks redden, lungs tight with something other than CS gas. It’s strange seeing Carol disheveled when you’ve been so hardwired with self-control, down to how you’re expected to wear your hair, present yourself.

You like seeing her like this.

“Do we have confidence in that gear?” MTI Galloway emerges from the chambers and asks of you all.

“Yes, Chief!” You roar.

Carol calls you Phoenix after that, running so fast out the chamber and looking like a fire had been lit up your ass.

The nickname is fitting for a duo like you. Raptors, birds of prey, fierce and skilled and yet simultaneously embracing and shielding your femininity with unfurled wings.

Have women not been compared to birds in art and literature throughout history as a means to show fragility? Fleeting beauty?

Why not strength? Why ever not for sleeker attributes, or as hunters?

It’s curious. Ships and planes and weapons of war named after women and dubbed she, her. Powerful, deadly. Yet, the real thing, the real body is demeaned and made less than man.

When you and Carol are up in the sky and screaming through the air in your metal birds, they will see just how fragile you are.

You hit the ground so hard that the air rushes out your lungs in a loud wheeze. You can’t breathe. Your face burns, ears ringing. You can hear the screams of your MTI. You’d rather die of embarrassment right here.

The rope dangles in front of you, fifteen feet straight up, still swaying from where you’d fallen, taunting. Physical conditioning for your Basic Expeditionary Airman Skills Training examination next week, fittingly dubbed the BEAST. Rope climbing and complicated field obstacle courses after you’ve crawled through miles of sand and dirt, navigated through tactical drills with your full pack of gear.

Your arms tremble, your entire upper body drained of all strength, skin biting from the sand. Weak, exhausted. Your palms raw from the rope. Tears of frustration sting at your eyes as your MTI screams out your surname in another bloodcurdling roar to get your ass up out of that dirt.

Yet, the low scoff of a nearby cadet is what piques your attention.

Dalquist. A boy a few years older than yourself with an ugly, crooked grin and sandy hair. A show-off, a boy who thinks himself a man. He smirks again with crossed arms, tuts his tongue as his eyes flicker over you.

“They’ll never let you fly.” He snickers.

Then, Carol is there beside you. She grips your waist strongly, shifting your weight and the two of you slowly rise together amidst the swirling dust. You draw in a shuddering breath.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe they’re all right. Maybe you don’t belong here.

You feel Carol’s muscles tense and manage to squeeze her arm in a silent warning. The entire squadron watches the three of you. The last thing you need is falling to Dalquist’s level and getting punished for it.

So she hits him with a reply quite enough only for the three of you to hear.

“You better hope not.” She rasps.

Your time in the classroom is a welcome break from the stresses of field training. You meet Dr. Wendy Lawson, an incredibly gifted and terrifying brilliant quantum physics scientist when she’s brought in to give you post-deployment training. She teaches you flight mechanics, squadron resources and financial management. You learn about her research on quantum energy.

Lawson is especially kind to you and Carol upon hearing your aspirations to take to the skies as fighter flyers. Her standards are higher for you and she encourages you to speak out when you’ve been too timid to respond to the whole class, the twinkle in her eye giving you courage, a voice for the first time in your life.

Together, Lawson and Carol work to coax you out of your shell.

The days trudge on. You throw Dalquist’s remark behind every new simulation you’re given, every mile, every pushup of your physical conditioning.

And it shows.

Your endurance and stamina have nearly doubled, bringing out new muscles in your back, your arms. You’re stronger than you’ve ever been, strong enough to grapple an unsuspecting Dalquist to the ground during field training. He stares up at you in humiliation and horror and you push him harder into the dirt, until your MTI snorts and tells you to let him up.

The mile and a half lap you take known as the Airman’s Run the week of your graduation is a breeze. Your body is familiar with the motion and exertion, the rest of the cadets who’ve made it through BMT with you dressed in new uniforms of pressed blue shirts and the trademark navy garrison cap.

Family and friends watch as your squadron marches in a parade of waving flag and timed step. Your heart swells with pride, with unparalleled accomplishment.

You’re finally presented with the Airman’s Coin and your dog tags. You’ve completed Basic Training. You are no longer a cadet, a trainee, but an oath-sworn member of the Air Force. Next weekend, you’ll be moved into dorms and officially begin your pilot training.

And then you’re free. For the first time in seven weeks, you are dismissed after the ceremony and to spend the rest of the weekend however you please.

Free time. Privacy. Privileges you took for granted as a civilian. You feel giddy, excited.

“We did it, birdie.” Carol’s voice sounds from behind you. You turn, her smile radiant as ever and mirroring yours.

She looks like she was born to wear the uniform, her shirt crisp and cap perfectly straightened atop her pinned back hair. Your pulse stutters, you find it difficult to swallow.

“We did it.” You laugh, a little too breathless with the way she’s looking down at you with that mischievous glint in her eyes. Her gaze catches your lips, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

God, so self-assured. So confident.

Honestly, you could use a little of that confidence.

“What do you say we get out of here? Go see what this city has to offer aside from base?” She says.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have a feeling that you know what will happen off base, at least, what you hope will happen.

Technically, you wouldn’t be breaking protocol.

And with the two of you buzzing with adrenaline and boosted egos, how can you even think of saying no? You deserve to celebrate.

You leave Lackland Base and head to downtown San Antonio for the rest of the weekend, for two whole days all to yourselves.

You visit the River Walk and explore as much of the fifteen-mile long city park as you can, strolling along the banks and gorging yourselves on street food and local cuisine. No curfew, no officers screaming orders, just the two of you leisurely enjoying a Friday night beneath a soft sunset and twinkling fairy lights.

You have dinner and drinks at a quaint little steakhouse with a live band and music, the musicians donning cowboy hats, boots, chaps and all. It’s corny. It’s absolutely perfect.

The lime juice is sharp and bitter on your tongue as you throw back your third shot of tequila, lap up the salt you’ve sprinkled over your knuckles. Carol isn’t far behind you. Pretty soon, the tavern lanterns swim pleasantly before you and you sway gently to the music in your seat, blissed out, flushed, content.

Carol’s fingers fondly brush your cheek and she laughs, her eyes crinkling and you think it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. You grin back, a bit too eager and lopsided, lean across the wooden table to grasp her hand.

You drag her to the attached karaoke bar next door and slide a few quarters into the jukebox before she can stop you. The two of you belt out your renditions of Nirvana, Heart, Elastica. Your blood is warm and Carol dances beside you with wired microphone in hand, laughing so hard you’re both crying, pulse pounding behind your temples until finally the jukebox clicks with the last of your change and the next requested song is queued up.

The hotel you check into is just down the street and you practically fall through the doorway trying to get each other out of your uniforms. It’s jumbled and chaotic as you slip out of your combat gear, tripping over boots and pants as you finally touch overheated skin, giggling like children.

Disorderly when your lips meet, her hands coming to cradle your face, holding you still with a low groan, a grip that surprises you. It heightens the flush of alcohol sitting in the pool of your lower belly as you kiss her back, wind your arms around her.

You gasp when she tightens a hand in your hair and pulls, mouth ravaging the skin of your neck with tongue and teeth. She walks you blindly until you’re flush against the wall, turns you around with her frame pressing hard against your back.

Her fingers are sure and true when they cup, caress your heated flesh, not an ounce of hesitation in her. You keen, circle your hips hard into her as she works at unraveling you, forearm circling your neck, leaning to put her lips at your ear, breath hot.

“So pretty. My birdie is so pretty.”

It’s been so long since you’ve last been intimate. The military discipline over your physique has made you forget what it’s like to treat your body with love, to feel pleasure, to be touched by a young woman you’d do anything for.

“Let’s see you fly high, hmm?” She breathes. “You want it faster? I wanna see my little birdie soar. Can you do that for me?”

It’s so easy to let go.

Your flesh clenches around her and you sigh, your entire being quivering. Carol braces you, holds you close as you tremble with aftershocks, burning and burning.

Your world is hazy, melting when Carol leads you to the bed and hoists you on top of her, thighs straddling her lap. The liquid courage returns, coy when you grasp the cool metal of the dogtags between her breasts and yank her forward for another breathless kiss.

Her arms are strong, hard with muscle and hands splayed against the naked skin of your back as she coaxes you to earth shattering heights again and again. Until the grey light of day.

Sunday morning, you sleep in until ten o’clock, roused by streaming sunlight and birdsong. Peaceful quiet, a treat in itself with Carol’s arms lazily draped around you.

Your stomach drops when the sergeant cracks open the C-17 door and the atmosphere shrieks into the aircraft. Your gear is heavy, you’re sweating hard, and your Airborne Division is about to jump. You find it hard to breathe and try not to lock your knees, try not to faint. Gut wrenching, everything inside you screaming that this is suicide. Leaping from a roaring aircraft with nothing but a kevlar sac to break your fall.

You see the Airman in front of you subtly cross himself, pretending to scratch his chin.

You feel like you’re going to be sick.

Fingers grip your waist. Carol stands beside you.

It’s too loud for conversation, the air and engine pressing down on your eardrums with tight pressure, but she gives you a nod, another squeeze of your hip. Her lips mouth a single word.

Fly.

Then, the men in front of you are rushing towards the yawning mouth of the plane and you and Carol are running together, side by side, fearless. And then you jump, spreading your arms, dive like hawks.

The sky is a dome of robin’s egg blue, sun shining and tipping the edge of your gloved fingers with liquid gold. You fall fast, hard. Wind rips through and around you, weightless as gravity pulls you to earth.

Pulse ramming, pure adrenaline, ten agonizing seconds of freefall. You pull the pin and your parachute deploys, rocking you backwards as the fabric unfurls and catches the air. You grip your harness tight, float through the heavens and watch as dozens of parachutes dot the horizon around you.

You whoop, shoot Carol a “hang loose”, smiling wide, goofy and vibrating with excitement.

Her laughter carries across the sky.

You’re there beside her when the two of you are promoted to officer rank. First in your class, looking out over a sea of grim, bored looking faces that stare back at you with quiet hostility.

Your officer uniforms are sharp, handsome. Crisp navy suits decorated with shining medals and visible proof that you have fought tooth and nail to be on the stage where you stand now. You wouldn’t want anyone else here with you but Carol. Your wingman. Your everything.

Your names are called and you rise together in unison as Senior Airman Dalquist pins your new patches to your uniforms.

Weeks later, you learn that Dr. Lawson’s plane has gone down. It punches a hole straight through your chest, wrenches up your insides when the news is broken to you.

After BMT, you’d lost contact with her. You wish you could have told Lawson that you’ve done it, that you and Carol are dominating the skies.

And now she’s missing.

You’re in the hangar and up in the air before anyone can stop you.

The crash site is still smoldering when you touch down at a hidden lake surrounded by a halo of pine and sand. You and Carol rip off your helmets, jump out of the cockpit as soon as your wheels are on solid ground, racing towards the wreckage of an eerily familiar F-16 Fighting Falcon.

Lawson lies slumped forward, still strapped into her seat. The glass of the cockpit has exploded all around her, leaving her open and exposed. It looks grim.

“Doc?” You say. Your voice shakes a bit, but you quickly will all fear out of your mind, take a deep breath and allow your body, your muscle memory to take over. Let your training come back to you.

You push back at her helmet visor, sit her upright. Press three fingers against the artery of her neck.

Cold. No pulse.

Then, you see the smoking hole in her chest, where plasma energy has burned through her jacket and blood drips bold and blue onto her lap.

You exhale hard, ignore the strangeness of the latter to check Lawson’s dashboard for any working electrical machinery. No luck. All fried, all scrambled from the crash.

“Carol, we need pararescue stat. Get them here.” You order.

Carol nods wordlessly, composed, turns on her heel to radio them from your own plane.

You brace yourself against the frame of the cockpit, hang your head in shock. You can’t bear to look at Lawson like this. You don’t want to remember her like this.

In those tense moments of silence, a soft, strange humming reaches your ears, seeming to emulate from the F-16 itself. You take a step back to fully survey the wreckage.

The crash has exposed most of the plane’s wiring and paneling, including the engine. Though, this is no engine like you’ve ever seen.

Monstrous, pulsing with blue light and an aura that draws you closer, pulling at your curiosity. It distracts you long enough for you to almost miss the approaching silhouette of a man from behind the suffocating smoke.

He’s dressed in a bizarre emerald jumpsuit with a blazing yellow star in the center of his chest. His step is charismatic, unfaltering.

And what scares you most is the unholstered gun in his hand.

Carol calls your name in a frantic shout.

You put two and two together. Lawson’s killer.

“We have no interest in hurting you.” He tells you, finally pausing at the crest of the crash site. His voice is surprisingly charming and it sends a chill straight down your spine.

We?

You’re afraid. Your old commanding officer, one of the strongest women you’ve ever known, lies shot and killed with blood the color of toxic waste. Her engine looks foreign, otherworldly. Your mind begins to race.

“The energy core. Where is it?” The man asks and brandishes his gun. You force your breathing to steady, to find a sense of calm. You have to focus. Questioning will make him irritable, panicking will get you killed.

Intuition is enough to tell you that the core is not to leave in this man’s hands by any means.

You catch sight of the glinting handle of a pistol resting between Lawson’s knees. You flicker your gaze away and to the proximity of the engine. Then, you look to Carol.

Her eyes shine with tears in the shimmering heat. Her body is tense, drawn tight like a bow, fight-or-flight. You fear she’ll run to you, that she’ll get herself killed trying to protect you. If the roles were switched, you know you would do just that.

So you act before she has the chance to. In one fluid motion, you draw Lawson’s gun and fire a single shot at the exposed engine.

It explodes like heat and magma. Azure energy engulfs you in a millisecond. Like lightning striking your bones, fire that scorches through your entire being and condemning a blazing death of unbearable, burning power, collapsing like a supernova reborn.

Your nerve-endings detonate, a fusion of flesh and skin and pyro that incinerates you to your very core, destroys you from the inside.

You scream, high and horrible. You’ve never felt such pain.

Your eyes ignite in crimson, red hot, flaring with light. Everything inside you rushing upwards and expanding until your mortal frame can no longer contain this threshold and you burst, combust with starfire.

The blast hits Carol next, lifting her up and dissipating, coiling like mist through her skin in synergy. She glows like an iridescent comet, blue light rolling off of her like water and waves, her own eyes flaring turquoise, then white.

When the two of you hit the ground, trees and sand bend and blow around you, knocking the man unconscious as the inertia from your combined energy throws him backwards.

You cry out as you try and hold yourself, crumpled. You are charred, your body humming with poison, radiation and flame, eager to crackle out of you at your slightest impulse, eyes still flaring powerfully.

“I-It hurts..” you gasp weakly.

A true phoenix. Broken and born from ashes.

Carol is there cradling you as tears leak down your face. Wisps of magenta and teal ripple around her with every movement, glittering with cosmic potential, like she contains her very own galaxy. Achingly beautiful.

“I know, birdie.” Carol murmurs as you choke, sputter from the pain. “Fight it. Give it to me.” She says and reaches for your hands.

Carol yelps softly when you push a bit of your glowing gold into her, as she trades starpower for fire and you watch the cage of her chest bloom like a lantern, veins and eyes rimming with ember. She does the same, giving you the moon and stars and the gleaming, lavender milky way.

You let go and Carol gasps as she absorbs a new piece of you. Your mind clears, the pain nothing more than a dull ache.

Exhaustion and shot nerves finally set in as the two of you lie there, quiet enough to hear the wind whistling through pine. You throw your arms around her, your kiss tasting like tears and sand and flushed sunlight.

Carol braces you against her, hoists your arm around her shoulders and lifts you upright. Side by side until the very end.

Then, you take to the skies, blazing like comet streaks and crimson hawks.

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