NOT ANOTHER OPEN RP POST
Dec. 3rd, 2012 02:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wunderkind
an open rp post
(it is what it says it is)
-1-
pick a character
-2-
leave me a comment. maybe a scenario, maybe an AU scenario, maybe a picture, maybe a word,
maybe a request to resume old game canon, maybe just a comment.
i don't care. do your worst.
-2a-
helpful note: i am currently obsessed with the Walking Dead, Christmas, and vampires. can you combine those into one tag?
-3-
let's get it on
disclaimer: we probably won't get it on
+ there are no promises i will take this seriously
the not so secret space adventures of Tyke and her loyal friend Sirius (who is a girl)
Date: 2014-04-03 08:18 pm (UTC)Which is, in fact, a lie. Mirsam (who would have been born Sirius Orion Black in another life, but was saddled instead with the name of another star), in fact, knows the saying to be a lie.
If it is a saying. She isn't certain. She's heard other people say it with the familiar pitch of a well-worn set of words, but it's probably some cultural reference that's totally lost on her. Muggles, man. What are you going to do.
But so okay, to rehash: in space, you can definitely be heard screaming. You can also be heard whistling, clicking your teeth, tapping your fingernails on a desk (blunt and bitten-down or long and elegant, doesn't matter, it can still be heard), tapping a pen, rolling your chair back and forth back and forth back and forth... a thousand sounds can be heard in space, especially in the offices of security.
Well, "offices". Just one room, really, with chairs (no sofas) and compyuters and things. This is where Mirsam is, right now, on duty, keeping watch. Which she is doing, diligently, because she's got massive amounts of respect for Tyke. Not about to be found sleeping on watch, not for anything, even if she gets criminally bored at times, watching over a lot of nothing. In times of crisis, the Tranquility is anything but tranquil. In times of quiet, it's as boring as the bloody grave, and that's why, today, Mirsam has queued up some music that sounds very nearly like space punk, and is laying stretched out on the floor, boots off, jeans rolled up, bare toes wriggling in time with the music.
She's deaf to any opening doors, any entrance to the room. Perhaps there's some sense in her that's more doggish than girl, that suggests: someone is here, nearby, someone important; if she were Padfoot, she'd know by smell, she'd twist around and lick Tyke's hand. Sometimes Mirsam thinks about licking Tyke's hand even when she's not Padfoot.
That's another thought for another day. Today is just music, and eventual interruption.
because divination i don't know do whatever
Date: 2014-06-04 01:12 am (UTC)OKAY I'M THE FUCKIN WORST i forgot to track this post
Date: 2014-06-12 01:43 am (UTC)[Sirius mutters this at James, and kicks him under the low table in the Divination tower.
Just how James Potter and Sirius Black ended up just one course before Advanced Divination is beyond anyone, even Professor Imago. They just keep getting good marks, and excelling, and Seeing signs and portents, as if they've got two very keen Inner Eyes.
Hell, even Sirius doesn't know how they've ended up top of the class in Divination. He's not surprised, of course--schoolwork is incredibly easy for him, and Divination is just another school course--but it's still more than amusing. Peter was weeded out in fourth year, and Remus long ago left the dusty eaves and poufs of the Tower for the more sensible desks in the Arithmancy classroom--
But Sirius likes napping in the Tower, and James likes looking at Lily Evans, who doesn't like Divination but is, also, maddeningly adept. She doesn't take it very seriously but does the coursework, which is more than can be said for fellow Gryffindors Potter and Black.
Today is a day of reading tea-leaves. First they have to drink the tea--weak, not very good, could stand with cream and a biscuit, all of these things were privately agreed between James and Sirius. And then Evans had flipped her hair over one shoulder and that was the conversation lost for the day.
Sirius edged his pocket-watch out of his pocket and flipped it open. Forty-five minutes to go. Merlin.]
I know you think that you want her to look around at you, mate, but trust me: you don't want her to look around at you. Not today. Not now.
i am so sorry for every word
Date: 2014-06-12 02:47 am (UTC)He rotates from improbable large successes to horrible, horrific tragedies- leaning on a shoulder that's never too far out of reach, like he simply doesn't have the strength to go on talking about it. It's all in the theatrics, in making people buy it- most of the muggle borns especially like to lap it up. Like having magic is quite the same as having the Inner Eye.
Not of course, that if it wasn't absolutely ridiculous, that he would be bad at it. Even without studying- there hasn't been a subject he hasn't excelled at in some form. Magic like theirs- it doesn't really need to be taught, or harnessed, just directed.
And alright...He doesn't do quite so well in Potions, but that might have to do more with a lack of patience or interest in being precise. Why waste his time chopping roots delicately in little quarter marks, when he can just reach forward and tug the hair at the nape of Sirius' neck for his attention and flick still wriggling insect legs on the laps of Slytherin girls? Or substitute whole ingredients for something he thinks will be more effective?
And if it bubbled over, well, that was intentional. Nice to have a mess, every now and again.
He grunts a little at the kick, but hardly so much as glances in Sirius' direction, caught up in the gleam of long, red hair over a shoulder. He hadn't even known hair could do that- ripple like a wave, and still shine under the oppressive, lilac smog of incense. He's sure if he were close enough, it would still smell-
Huh?
Not want her to look at him? That's a slow blink and a curious twist of his chin on the palm of his hand to regard his best friend, his partner-in-crime, his totally shite spewing stalwart companion- there is absolutely no reason for him not to want that. He has it on very good authority (of his talking mirror, of his own trusty fingers) that he looks utterly fantastic. Truly windswept and dashing-
And a little sleep-warm, the thick smoke is heavy and too hot, and he's loosened his tie about thirty minutes ago- tea without any real kick to it. If he keeps crushing his knee under the other like he is, he'll lose all feeling in his lower half soon, and even the gravelly bean chairs will feel comfortable enough to sleep on.
But even in the midsts of a daydream- he's fantastic looking. Truly]
What's the bad news, then? You saw a lizard and all my hair's going to fall out, is that it? I can see it now- Evans devastated, the Quidditch season forfeit- I'll have to go into hiding, of course.
[Can't be seen out and about like that. There's half a moment where's too distracted to continue to be theatrical- she's just pulled her hair up and oh- But he'll refocus, he's even a little curious, forced anxiousness curled around the syllables]
What is it?
oh my god never be sorry never
Date: 2014-06-12 08:11 pm (UTC)Yeah, I don't think devastated is quite the word for what Evans would be feeling, if all of your hair were to fall out. I mean, I'd be devastated, but she might be able to carry on with her life.
[Because whatever hang-ups Lily Evans has got, they can't have anything to actually do with James' hair. James' hair is basically perfect--he could stand to do the finger-comb thing a little less, maybe, but that's just a stylistic difference and preference, isn't it. Just because Sirius was blessed with hair that looks absolutely perfect without being touched throughout the day doesn't mean that everyone was granted that same gift. The unruly locks of James Potter often require help.
(Also: the finger-comb thing really is a little annoying and juvenile, but that's about the start and stop of things on the list of what Lily Evans and Sirius Black agree upon.)
Anyways. He holds out the tea-cup to lovelorn James Potter, best mate with the questionable methods of fliration, staunch companion and steady righthand man--who is, coincidentally, doomed--]
Break your nose in the Forbidden Forest. It's right here, see, there's the dark waggly bit that's your nose, and the trees are here. That's what your doomed for, my poor lad. Also I think this bit here is the Maiden in Hat cluster, which means you're going to be laughed at, probably by a girl.
[In exactly the same tone, without breaking the line of conversation, he concludes:] And also you've got a bit of egg and tea on your upper lip. Just there. Does she find that attractive? Maybe your tea leaves will tell us....
too late i am, where should i deliver my profuse apologies
Date: 2014-06-13 01:04 am (UTC)What he settles on, after digging around the sentence some, is camaraderie]
Likewise, mate.
[He caves into the grin easily, reaching out with his free hand and tugging on the ends of Sirius' hair. He's certain the loss would spread the feeling out like a pandemic about the school in a matter of hours. It's always fallen utterly perfect, even when he's so much as just rolled out of bed. James doesn't even think it gets split ends which is just all sorts of baffling- but he can't be sure and likely, it bears investigating.
But he is appreciative, rather than envious. To be envious would imply that James lacks confidence, feels self doubt and insecure- which has simply just never been true. He thinks highly of himself, enough for three people to be sure, and more importantly- he subsists entirely on sheer force of will.
He behaves as if the world- as if the very laws of reality will simply bend themselves, rewrite and deposit the desired result right into his lap, for no other reason than he wants it to. Should that fail- Sirius will simply bend it for him, neat as anything, done and done. So really, the things James has any room for concern for, carry a lot more weight and gravity.
More disturbingly, to be envious would be to imply that James covets anything Sirius has, as if he deserves it less, and the concept is as foreign to him as the knowledge that muggleborns really do fly in little tin cylinders with wings. There is nothing that James has ever had, will ever, or doesn't but wants rather desperately- that Sirius can't have just as much of. So no, even at his most frustrated, when it won't simply conform to look windswept in just the right way, he has never been envious.
But a mutual appreciation for good hair, that is capable of devastating an entire population between them, is not enough to spare Sirius the dark look he receives moments later. James straightens immediately, wiping the back of his mouth and forgoing all discretion in doing so, a sharp rough motion.
One: How could you not tell him?
Two: How could you not tell him since breakfast?
Three: Merlin, what if she's already seen it? And that's why she won't look around at him now? What-]
That can't be my nose. It's not been that waggly since the last time I broke it, 'sides the trees are hardly going to crawl up into the tower, just to duel me.
[Because obviously, he would put up a valiant fight against the tree branches first, none of that idiotic stumbling over roots nonsense that Peter is always prone to, bless him.
So she could have looked at him now, if it hadn't been for Sirius and his dubious idea of what constituted important information to divulge and time frames to divulge them in]
If only they carried such wisdom, Padfoot. [He tips the tea towards him, eyes it critically, and sighs as if the leaves are both disappointing and utterly unconcerning] They're only mentioning the itching powder hiding unexpectedly in your cloaks.
um into my open and loving arms????
Date: 2014-06-13 06:31 pm (UTC)Never where it counts, of course. Loyal to the bitter end. But: occasionally laughing at him is definitely a pastime. Sorry, Potter.
Of course, that's no reason to go tipping itching powder into his cloaks, but Sirius isn't much bothered. Or at least, he gives the illusion of not being bothered: arms folded over his chest, leaning back in his beanbag chair to fix James with a sceptical look. There are few people in the world, wizarding or otherwise, who can manage an artful and cool lean back in a beanbag chair. Sirius Black is, of course, one of them.]
Your tea leaves are telling you that I'm going to fall victim to itching powder? Sure it's not warning you, as it's actually your cup and leaves? I mean, I'm just saying, mate--
[He shrugs, blithely. The friendly bearer of what might be bad news.]
And perhaps it's not trees that are going to break your nose. Could be leaves, right, they're a derivative of trees, and then--
[He sits up a little, suddenly, eyes wide--cuts himself off, staring right beyond James, right in a very Lily Evans-y direction--]
Don't look.
and i would wait a lifetime, for you;
Date: 2014-07-01 03:11 am (UTC)crying hard about this
Date: 2014-07-01 06:30 am (UTC)The subtle differences are what make Sirius and James perfect for one another, fit them together like interlocking pieces of a two-piece puzzle. The presence of James is like a magnet for Sirius, and he always looks for him in the crowd without seeming as if he's looking--and he'd never admit to looking, like that's some betrayal to his coolness. And he doesn't have to, really, because that's the thing about James, he knows without being told. He always knows things.
In first year, Sirius was standoffish about physical contact. Pureblood raised, where dry kisses on the cheek and forehead were affection enough, where people greeted one another with handshakes and bows, and nothing more. He wasn't prepared for James Potter and all his casual touches, the way he'd throw an arm around your shoulder or throw his legs across your lap when you were on the sofa. It had been startling, at first, and Sirius had very nearly punched him one or two times, out of sheer claustrophobia--but where someone else might have shrank beneath the puppyish intensity of that friendly affection, Sirius had made himself grow with it, learn how to invade personal space and learn to have his own invaded--until, now, sixth year, and he can worm his way onto the sofa beside James without thinking twice about it, tangle himself against James and shove his head under his arm and in the way of the book that he's reading and press himself heavily against his side and shoulder. And just sit like that, for a moment, unbearably, before he looks up at James with a little grin.
"Wotcher, Potter."
--And if there is ever a second thought about this affection, about what it means to worm very close to someone you love fiercely, without end--Sirius never thinks it. He doesn't allow it of himself. It would ruin this, this warm casual late-evening air, so close to summer and end of term and blessed freedom. It would ruin everything.
Instead, he squints one eye at James, surveying his face from this very close angle--the faint white scar on his upper lip, the scatter of stubble across his chin and jaw. "Are you having fun, pretending that you can read?"
i regret everything
Date: 2014-07-02 02:31 am (UTC)It was lucky then, that Sirius was the sort willing to adapt, because he'd never quite manage to wound James for long, if at all- with his stiff, claustrophobic behaviour, or the subtle shifts away from him. He'd always inevitably done something that had James reaching out to swing an arm around him, or all but crawl into his lap to make room on couch that dwarfed them both, but never seemed quite big enough to hold all of them.
And for all his love of being the centre of attention, he'd had to learn to adapt too. While he dispensed affection without discrimination to any that could be counted a friend, he'd never quite so thoroughly invaded anyone else's space- and never tolerated a lingering invasion to his that he hadn't invited, from anyone else. He'd adapted until Sirius was the most familiar part of him, until it was disconcerting if when James reached out, his fingertips connected with air, instead of his best friend. A frequent occurrence, his version of searching through the crowd.
In Sixth Year, it was bone deep, irrevocably apart him- but inexplicable, and carried no name. It hovered in the peripheral, and like most things- when he'd been chasing a dream so long, with a narrow minded focus- more in for the winning of it now, than an earnest desire- it fell to the wayside and garnered no further examination. For now, James was content in the knowledge that it existed, familiar as breathing.
All it accounts for, is the way that James shifts automatically on the couch, making space, legs shifting to tangle with another's before he's even properly registered the who. Once settled, he makes a non-committal hum in a return greeting, one arm leaning now against the groove between Sirius' neck and shoulder, instead of his own ribcage.
"Quite a lot, actually." They're close enough that James' nose almost brushes the hair that falls across Sirius' forehead, warm breath tickling across the bridge of a too perfect nose as he drawls, "What a delightfully pedestrian concept for sharing thought." It's a poor imitation of a Pureblood, aristocratic tone- something James had never encountered before coming to Hogwarts and something Sirius was born for.
A moment later, he shifts the book on his chest a little more to the side, so he can see the pages once more, but so that Sirius can as well. It's one of Remus'- because it's been long since established that what belongs to one of them, belongs to the other- all but James' cloak, which requires at least a note to it's disappearance. As such, he's been careful with it, and it's tediously academic, with little yellow squares dispersed across the pages with notes in Remus' careful, loopy letters.
Evans had once informed him they were called 'post-its' and they're easily the most interesting thing about the book, from reading the scrawl to place commentary on the work, to flipping them up to see actual text beneath, or mind-numbingly trying to see through the part of it that glues it to the page. The struggle to read, is actually, just a little bit real.
Which of course, begs the question of why he's bothering at all. Perhaps because he's bored, and it's the sort of evening where the summer heat is just starting to sink in, and the couch is extra soft and drawing his mind to a stand still is an enticing prospect. Perhaps it's a topic that interests, even if it's talking in circular methods or- perhaps it's to stave off the cloying sense of loss that always seems to loom over the ending for a term.
But there is Sirius, warm against his side, and James has never had to suffer his absence, not really- and so he doesn't falter. Flicks the page over with his mouth curved in a small imitation of a grin.
well i don't regret a thing except how long this took me
Date: 2014-07-09 06:04 pm (UTC)He turns against James a little, more to free up an arm and a hand so he can reach up and tweak the corner of one of those queer little yellowy papers stuck to the inside of the book.
"You have always been interested in the weirdest things, Monsieur Prongs, the pedestrian and the odd." His pureblood accent is far less affected. There's always the hint of it in the way that he speaks, for all that he tries purposefully to shake it--but it's exaggerated now, put on to make James laugh in turn. There's nothing that pleases him quite like making James laugh. "You should hear the way they talk about you in the social clubs. What the hell are these for?"
That's in reference to the yellow bits of paper. He pinches one right off the page and sticks it to James' hand.
"Bet I could make you a really bitchin' moustache out of these thingers."