#and the necklace made everything look cluttered when I tried to draw it

[tinyetoile]

I made a Zelda to go with this Link I drew a while back. Her princess outfit is on the left, her adventure outfit is on the right.

I wanted her adventure outfit to use all the same parts as her princess outfit, she just modified them for ease of movement (those pants are, in fact, her skirt, cut up and resewn. Don’t worry about where the jacket came from.)

[sunflowersteves]

Can you do smut 1 & 17 with din djarin?

author’s note || of course, babe! I hope you enjoy ;) I’m not even gonna lie i think this is my favorite prompt duo. 

smut prompts || “do you think of me when you touch yourself?” “do you want to come on my fingers or mouth?”

warnings || afab!fic, smut!! so 18+ only, rough sex, oral, fingering, voyeurism, squirting, some fluff, minors do not interact

masterlist

You had completely lost track of time, your mind hazy from the pleasure rising in your stomach. It had been such a long day without the Mandalorian around. He had been tracking a bounty and told you it would only take a few hours and that he would be back by sunset. 

Well, it was way past sunset, and it was way into the night. You knew you shouldn’t worry unless it's been a full 24 hours like he had told you in the past. But, it was hard when you wanted him back into your arms. The child was already asleep in his hammock, probably softly snoring and snuggled into a blanket. 

You had decided to stay up and wait for him, your mind going off into thinking he may have been stabbed or worse. For precaution and to let your mind be at ease, you stayed up and waited for him. It had probably been about four hours before you realized just how bored you were. You had tried anything and everything to entertain yourself, but nothing would prevail, and you definitely didn’t want to wake up the kid. 

You had taken it upon yourself to walk into the Mandalorian’s bedroom. You knew that this would be a mistake—a terrible mistake. Even if you were gone by the time he got back, he would know that you were rummaging around. He always just knew. But you couldn’t help it. It was like something was drawing you in, whether it was the fresh smell of his clothes or the curiosity of if he had little knick-knacks. 

The room was smaller than the cockpit; a small cot sat in the corner along with a little nightstand. Your eyes move to the other side of the room, where there was just enough space for a dresser. The room was pretty bare and empty, minus a few items like vibroblades and gear. 

However, something caught your eye as it gleamed against the light of the room. On top of his bare dresser was a shiny silver necklace. One that looked like a beast of some sort thag was molded from metal. You knew it was Mandalorian, maybe even from Mandalore itself. 

A smile reaches your face as your fingers trail the edges of the necklace. It felt cool to the touch; it looked important, as though there was some meaning behind it. You let your fingers run along the string attached to it and pick it up, placing it right over your head. 

You thought about him, the Mandalorian. You thought about his stoic nature and deep voice that always made you shudder. You thought about his light chuckles and soft touches. You thought about the one time you were so close to him, the two of you stuck inside an enclosed space as you hid from imps. 

Maker—you remember that day vividly, it was ingrained into your brain. You remember the breaths that fuzzed through the modulator. You remember the way your heart beat out of your chest just being so close to him.

You could practically feel his body pressed up against yours, your head almost touching the cool beskar. You could feel his chest heave up and down, his arms wrapped around you out of instinct. The closet was stuffy and hot, your mind seemingly fuzzy from his close proximity. 

You could feel yourself heat up at the thought, your body aching to get items of clothing off. You had to go sit onto his cot, just to try and get yourself to calm down.

But before you know it, you find the mounds of your breasts as you grope and grab. Your mind immediately wishing that your hands were his. You slip off your shirt in urgency, your hands reaching your nipples and teasing them by rolling them against your fingertips. 

His room overflows with your whimpers. The once quiet and quaint room now felt obscene and lust-filled. You almost felt... dirty, but it felt freeing. You felt alive. His scent was completely surrounding you, the musk smell of oak and leather. 

You feel your hand slide down your pants, and your finger goes to feel the slick that was already running down your lips. Quite quickly, you shoved your pants off of you with your panties down with it. So urgently, you had become desperate. You were whining and pleading. You wanted the sensations of him to satisfy you fully.

You fully insert a finger, your head rolling back at the feeling of some relief. You wished it was his finger. You wished it was his tongue that was pleasing you as you so desired. 

You didn’t hold back though, your finger moved in and out at an ongoing pace. Your moans were loud and high-pitched, probably echoing into the hallways of the ship. Your pussy was leaking, slick spreading onto the silky sheets. 

“Oh, Mando-”

You were engrossed, so focused on what you were doing that you didn’t even hear the Mandalorian enter the Razor Crest. You didn’t hear him call your name, trying to find out where you were, either. 

“Where are you- oh.” He couldn’t find himself doing anything but stare right at you, at your very naked body. Your fingers were plunged deep into your cunt, your thighs slightly glistening from the amount of slick. He could feel his cock twitch at sight. You looked beautiful—utterly divine as you laid across his own cot, pleasuring yourself to oblivion.

His modulated voice made you go still, and the fingers lodged into your cunt grew stiff. You tried to hide yourself immediately and grabbed a fist full of the sheets to cover yourself. You tried to think of something—anything—to say, but your mind was blank. 

What didn’t help either was that all you could see was his visor. You could tell that his gaze was locked onto yours, but you couldn't point out an expression. Your mind raced to think of what was going to happen now. Now that he had caught you red-handed in the middle of pleasuring yourself on his bed, in his room. You had just gotten to know him, to let him trust you.

“That’s my necklace.” Your heart plummets as you realized that you still had it on. You hadn’t meant to keep on nor pleasure yourself with it on. Sudden embarrassment flooded your whole body, and you couldn’t even get your mind to speak. Dread then entered your chest as you thought about his creed. Had you broken some sort of Mandalorian code?

After staring at each other for long moments, you finally speak. “Oh.” You look down to see it right in the center of your chest. You try to let the covers shield you even more. “Oh. Mando, I’m so sor-”

“Do you think of me when you touch yourself?” His head cocked to the side in amusement while he watches you squirm at the question. You definitely didn’t hide the surprised expression on your face either, which prompted a deep chuckle to rise in his throat. 

“Because I think about you, cyare. I think about you as a pump my cock in my hands. I pretend it’s your tight pussy sometimes, cyare. Tell me. Tell me if you think of me.”

Your pussy clenches at the thought of the Mandalorian thinking of you as he touched himself. You could picture it, even. You could picture his breath hitching and low grumbles escaping his throat as he thrust his cock between his hands. You could picture him whispering your name in the depths of the night, wishing that his hands were your mouth.

“I think of you all the time. When-When I’m in the shower, I-I think of you. I push my fingers in and out wishing that it was your big-”

Your eyes widened at where he stood. You don’t know how you hadn’t noticed before, but he was much closer to you, now. He was halfway in the room, and it looked as though he wanted to be even closer. 

Your heart was beating a mile a minute as he continued to stare, not uttering a single word. You guess he didn’t need to, you didn’t know, but his mind was cluttered and loud. his chest was heaving up and down in anticipation. He didn’t know you wanted him as much as he wanted you. 

He was towering over you by now. His helmet tipped down so that it stared straight at your thinly covered body. 

“Do you want to come on my fingers or mouth?”

Your eyes widened at his question, your pussy clenching at the thought. You imagined his fingers deep inside of you and filling every inch that you can’t. But you could also imagine his soft lips suck and lick your aching clit.

“Oh, sweet one, you want both? You want my mouth on you while my fingers spread out those pretty little lips?”

You don’t know how you’re alive at this point. He searched for any part of you that seemed hesitant, but he found none. He could see your eyes were clouded and dilated with lust. 

“I need an answer, cyare. I need to know if you’re okay with this.”

“Yes! Please, Mando, I need your fingers and your mouth.” He didn’t waste a single second as he flipped off the light, leaving the two of you completely in the dark. You could hear the fast movements of his gloves being torn off and the clunking of his helmet laying on top of the nightstand. 

Your body shivers at the feeling of his touch, his rough calloused hands feeling the crevasses of your hips. You could feel him move his head in between your legs due to the hair tickling your inner thighs. You could feel his breath fan up against your entrance, the sensation already cold from your wet cunt. 

“Fuck, I can smell you, cyar’ika. I can’t wait to taste you.”

You let out a whine from his fingers teasing your lips. He only entered his fingertips, letting you feel the fullness of his thick digits. Just as you thought he was going to fill you even further, he yanks out his fingers and stuffs them in his mouth. 

You could hear the obscene sounds as loud as day. His tongue was lapping, and his mouth, maker, his mouth. It was sucking every single drop of your wetness. Finally, he moaned, your heart stuttering at the pure sound of it without the helmet in the way.

“You taste so good, like fucking desert. I could leave my mouth on you for hours, cyar’ika.”

All you could do was whimper, all while whispering his name like a prayer. He let himself lick between your folds sliding up to swirl around your tender clit. Your hands grab onto his fluffy hair and pull, prompting him to gruff on your nerves. 

One hand is gripping the center of your hips that most likely left indents into your skin; the other was teasing your wet entrance. He continued to press open-mouthed kisses on your clit, making sure that you’re already writhing underneath him.

“Mando, please. I-I need you. Please, please,” he shushes you all while continuing to praise you in delicate whispers. You could even hear a language that you didn’t understand, most likely mando’a.

“What do you need, cyare? Just use your words.” A part of you wished you could see how he looked. You knew it would’ve been a magnificent sight to see his face hovering over your mound or his lips buried between your sensitive and quivering cunt. But that thought only ended there. You would never break his creed.

“I need your fingers! I need them, please. I need to be stuffed with your fingers.” He didn’t waste a single second as he plunged two fingers inside of you. Your back arched forward immediately into his fingers. You moan quite loudly; his fingers were more than you could ever imagine.

They were thick and full. They stretched you up in places you didn’t think could be reached. He started to pound his fingers into you, and you mewled, hands clutching his hair even tighter. 

The Mandalorian on the other hand was practically melting below you. Your pussy was warm and slick. Some of your juices leaked out and onto his hand. His fingers curled slightly into you with each pound, with each fuck. 

“You’re so good for me, sweet one. S-so fucking good.” When he went to attack your swollen clit, you would’ve sworn you blacked out right there. Everything just felt so good—your body just writhed for the feeling of him. 

“Stars, Mando. I-I, Maker, you feel good. Your fingers are s-so big and full.”

Your pussy clenched around his large fingers, prompting a low groan from his throat. He could feel your body reaching its limit, the way your thighs shook around his head, and your breath becoming more and more shallow. 

“I need you to cum on my mouth, yeah? I need to taste your sweet cunt.” You let out a whine when he took out his fingers, but when he moved his head, and his wet hot tongue delved straight into you, you were no longer complaining. He lapped and sucked, your body thrashing from the new impassioned touches.

His hand came to wrap around your torso and hold you in place. The lewd sounds of your pussy being ravaged only make him work even harder to feel your release on his tongue. You could feel that familiar coil start to build like lightning about to strike. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails leaving indents through his undershirt. 

His finger started to pinch and swirl against your nub. You screamed his name, over and over, your mind fuzzy with only the pleasures of him. Finally, everything came to a halt. Your body seized before everything crashing before you. Everything felt hot and firey, his tongue never ceasing to encourage you through your high. You could see stars all around you, and the feeling of pure bliss rested on your stomach.

“Oh, fuck, Mando.”

You had released everywhere—absolutely everywhere. It was scattered all over his cot, and the Mandalorian's face was dripping. He didn’t say a single word, and you thought you were done for. You hadn’t meant to cover his face with your juices. He was just that good. 

You open your mouth in surprise, you instantly feel like you have to apologize for your body’s reaction. He’s breathing so hard, and you couldn’t tell by the darkness of the room, but his eyes were wide and filled with lust.

“That was the hottest, most beautiful thing I have ever seen. If I can make you do that every time, I will.”

You couldn’t help but grin as large as you possibly could. You knew that what he just said was a promise, and you weren’t about to complain. His lips came up to connect to your forehead, the gentle feeling making you shiver with delight. 

After you calm down from your high, Mando pulls you forward and lets you lean on him, your head resting on his chest. You feel the beating of his heart, taking note of how fast it was going. 

Then, you remember that you still had his necklace on. Your hands go to reach the string and pull it off of your head, but you feel a hand stop you. He then intertwines his fingers with yours, giving a gentle squeeze. 

“Keep it. It looks good on you, cyar’ika.”

~~

star wars: @marvelous-capsicle @mudhornchronicles @cutebubblylmp @3strogen @met4no1a @writingletterstothefire

mando: @marvelous-capsicle @mudhornchronicles @cutebubblylmp @3strogen @doozywoozy @met4no1a @writingletterstothefire

permanent: @captainchrisstan @angstysebfan @teenagereadersciencenerd @rebekahdawkins @hailmary-yramliah @stardust-galaxies @wiccanmetallicrose @keithseabrook27 @hereforthesunrise 

[sukunahz]

i.  been away .

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞: what would you do? / a03

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your old friend, eren yeager had been gone for almost an entire year and you and your friends have all but moved on with life. in fact you have barely given him a second thought -- but when he returns, he's not the same passionate frat-boy you once knew; he's a stranger now.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.6k words

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, oral, fingering, eren is kinda’ mean, mentions of alcohol, intoxication and drugs. based on the absolute banger been away by brent faiyaz. i posted this on a03 two months ago and i swear every week my writing changes and when i look back i’m ashamed. i swear the chapters get better 😩

You were barely paying attention to the conversation around you, you were idly fiddling with your completely empty cup since Sasha and Connie had been arguing about the same thing for the past 20 minutes. You knew it was because they had both been tiptoeing around something; they were keeping something from you. What did you expect from the two people closest to you, but you weren't a sensitive, little baby bird? In fact, you had forced yourself to not shed tears over a night that was so insignificant that there was no point for these two to continue on with this desperate charade. “He’s back. Isn’t he?” You stated bluntly, your words were viciously slicing at their conversation. They both remained silent; their clear discomfort was painted vividly onto their expressions as they exchanged worried glances between each other. Eren had been gone for so long that he had faded from you and your friends’ lives completely, he was so easily displaced from your thoughts in such a short amount of time and you had felt the least bit of guilt for it. Time marches on, not even Eren would be able to bend time to his will. Your friends had adjusted to life without their friend, but you could sense the discomfort in celebrating Connie’s birthday in his absence.

“Apparently.” Sasha replied, her gaze darted towards the door as if his return was some impending doom, like a devastating natural disaster that would upset the balance of everything. You wanted to be confused as to why they were hiding this from you, but you knew full well that with the way he disappeared – you would be counting down the days till he returned. Sasha and Connie knew that you were now a minefield and one misstep by anyone would illicit a violently ruinous reaction from you.

“He’s not the same.” Connie added, interrupting your train of thought. “You know how he left… he's -- he's not the same guy.” There was a silence after that, you had lost the energy to keep fighting them about Eren. You could see the disillusion drain into Connie’s face, you weren’t the only one who Eren left, in fact – it was everyone in this room that he had left behind. Those two were inseparable a year ago and now it seemed like Connie could barely string together a sincere sentence about Eren. You couldn’t keep recounting your history with them, a history that was so minuscule that you had no right to expect anything from him -- right? You forced the two to return to their idle conversations, doing anything to drag the conversation away from someone that you had tried so hard to put behind you. There was load music droning through the common area accompanied by smoke from Jean’s vape that was dancing wistfully near the window.

You heard a pause in the atmosphere in the room, there was a break in the cluttered chatter of the house. There he was, speak of the devil -- Eren had finally returned after an entire year, surrounded by a group of people who carried the same troubled and unsettling demeanour as him. You had to force every muscle in your body not to respond to him, since all he did was glance languidly your way before he joined a group of people in the other corner of the room. You felt nimble fingers press a comforting touch upon your thighs as she was still engrossed in her conversation with Connie. “Don’t.” Sasha whispered to you; her gaze was still straight ahead. You scoffed at her warning; she knew you all too well, just how easily you were able to get tangled into Eren’s web.

“I won’t.”

You weren’t over Eren because there was nothing to get over, you had no feelings for him, and not a single thing would change just how much of a brazen jackass he was. The timing of your pep-talk with yourself couldn’t have been better since Eren and his friends found themselves occupying the vacant furniture around Connie, Sasha and yourself. It had been a while since you had even been able to soak in his presence, but you could tell there was a different air to him, he seemed indifferent now, his lids drooping low and he barely paid any attention to the conversations around him. You could hear Armin’s attempts to draw Eren out from his shell, his repeated calls to invite him to participate in the conversations but all Eren could do is brush him off or reply with a simple mumble. How did he manage to be so magnetic; he was surrounded by friends and yet he was completely withdrawn and isolated?

“Hey—” Zeke called out to you, his words were already slurring, and the smell of beer was swimming around the air around him. He was just as rugged as his younger brother and you could tell that he was a part of Eren’s recent downward spiral. Despite bearing the same haunted resemblance as his younger brother, Zeke’s blonde hair is tidy and taken care of in contrast to his unruly facial hair. You could tell that Zeke bears no regard for taming his beard or his alcohol intake, you could also tell that just like Eren, he probably didn't care about much at this point. Lost in your observations, you realised you must have been staring too long as Zeke’s gaze met your own. “You know he almost used up his one phone call at the station on you!” He wrapped his arm drunkenly around Eren’s shoulder. Station? You thought to yourself, did that idiot get himself arrested? You glanced quickly towards Eren and you could see the shame and irritation across his demeanour. He had barely even said a word since he arrived, yet he already looked drained and exhausted.  

“Why would he waste a call on me?” You muttered with a roll of your eyes. Your short temper was also about to blow. Why does everyone connect you two together, you were friends before he left and nothing more? No amount of history between you two would change anything, not even one alcohol-fuelled mistake. Eren didn’t owe you anything and he didn’t fail to hammer that notion into you when he left.  

“Eren, you might wanna’ take care of your wasted brother before he embarrasses you anymore.” Sasha jested with a tilt of her head, a futile attempt to diffuse the situation. With that, you decide that it would actually be you who embarrassed themselves if you stayed any longer.

“I’m gunna’ get a drink.” You whispered to Sasha before forcing a reassuring smile across your features in order to ensure that she doesn’t follow you. You weren’t in the mood to talk about Eren or whatever the fuck he’s been up to in his long absence. A better person would be concerned for him but all you could do was feel irritation, you heeded Sasha’s warning, you’ve been living your life – dealing with your own baggage and Eren doesn’t get to just return out of nowhere and take the reins of your life again. You pushed yourself onto your feet towards a familiar friend in the hallway.

“Not joining the welcome wagon?” You teased; a conceited sneer etched upon your features as you can see the displeased expression on your friend. You were provoking the obvious bad blood between the two, it was rather petty of you to seek him out for the sole reason of loathing Eren together, but who better to understand than Jean

“My bad, I better hop in the line and give that asshole a proper welcome!” Jean quipped back, his tone was overly dramatic and topped off with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. “I’m actually getting out of here; Connie’s got some weird black pepper flavoured vape that I’ve been dared to try – wanna’ come?”

“Yeah – I’ll join you in a sec’, let my grab my jumper first.” You replied, accepting any invitation that would lead you as far away from the impending disaster that lurks outside the hallways. As Jean made his way downstairs, you entered your room before the comfortable silence was interrupted by an all too familiar voice. The voice was deep and steady, but you noticed it lost its notable flare, the usual effervescence had lifted from him, all that remained was something dark and troubled. You couldn’t recognise who the man standing before you was. He had stray, brunette locks falling on his forehead while the rest of his hair was hastily tied into a bun. His broad physique was framed by an almost entirely black wardrobe with the exception of his large gold key necklace that sat perfectly upon his chest.

“What’s wrong with you?” He dimly asked, he crossed his arms as he pressed his weight against the wall. He had an air of disappointment surrounding him, as if he couldn’t believe that you wouldn’t want to be in his presence, he couldn't believe that you didn't press further on the comment that Zeke made earlier.

“What’s wrong with me?” You challenged him, was he so self-entitled that he thought he could guilt you from walking away from a conversation that you did not want to be a part of. You didn’t want to know what changed Eren and you didn’t care what it was that pulled him away.

“Wanna’ tell me why you’re so pissed?” His expression, or lack of expression didn't change. As your temper rose, Eren’s voice and demeanour stayed the same. Despite his words showing a genuine interest, his voice and mannerisms displayed nothing but a disregard for absolutely anything going on around him. This wasn’t the Eren that you knew, the man that you had known had life and zest spilling from his expressive eyes, he cared about the smallest things around him despite being just as haunted as you were. In fact, it was Eren who was able to keep you from falling into a dangerous spiral, but it looks like he wasn’t able to save himself.  

“Fuck off, Eren. Maybe if you could take a hint, you’d realise that you’re the one pissing me off.” The words came carelessly fumbling out from your mouth -- at this point you knew you were overreacting; you could tell he had gone through something, but he owed you much more than he was giving you and you relished the thought of humbling him.

Eren didn't respond to your rant, instead, he drew in a long, sharp breath of air before he stepped towards you. Your chest rose and fell, almost out of breath from your last sentence as you stumbled backwards from his advances, your back crashing against the wall behind you. His arm extended to reach out for the wall behind you as his face creeps in closer towards you. “You and your short temper.” He mumbled to you while you soak in his scent. At least there was something familiar about him, this same scent that you were once tangled in. It’s embarrassing just how easily he’s able to bend you to his will. Just like that you were under his spell again, itching to give him a proper welcome back even though you know he doesn't deserve it. But he was so close and tempting, covered with a new and mysterious aura, maybe it was your distaste and resentment for him that fuelled your next move.

Your hands tugged at the ends of his shirt to pull him closer to you as you connected your lips with his. It was a long and messy kiss when he slipped his tongue inside yours. Eren's movements were hungry, as if he had been starving for days and this was his first taste of food. You could see his features were radiating with passion, the colour from his eyes seeping back in. His movements were so robust compared with the apathetic display he had put on earlier. Just for a second, you could see the person you once knew before. Your arms travelled from the bottom of his shirt to wrap around his neck and Eren slips his arms around your upper thighs, inviting you to wrap your legs around his waist. He didn't break his lips away from you but instead he sends a wet trail of reckless kisses along your neck before he lowers you onto the desk nearby, your legs still wrapped around his body. You were ashamed that you wanted more, didn’t you promise yourself that you wouldn’t let him come back and take over your life again, you put him in the past the second he chose to walk away.

“We shouldn’t do this.” You mumbled; Sasha’s prior warning seemed to have fallen upon deaf ears. There was a room outside full of your friends and one stray noise could end it all for the both of you. Despite your weak attempts to convince yourself that you could walk away from this encounter, your body seemed to have a mind of its own and was telling him the exact opposite. Eren’s lips trailed lower and lower from your neck, to your chest and falling all the way to your thighs. Almost every inch of your skin was covered in his wet trails. Your neck and back arched as soft moans spilled from your unruly lips.

“Tell me to stop then.” He breathes, you peered down on him as his hands rest on your thighs while he was on his knees. You remained silent; however, your hands travel to his hair as an invitation for him to continue on. Eren inches closer and closer towards your centre, his fingers pushing the thin fabric guarding your core to the side. His tongue draws intricate and wet lines across your slit as you emit a loud moan at the sudden sensation. You could feel a forceful wave of euphoria rush through your spine while he keeps a tight hold on your thighs to stop you from squirming. He was assiduous with his ministrations and he didn't remove his tongue when he introduced his fingers to your wet centre, teasing your entrance to get a reaction out of you. You inhaled sharply at the newly added sensation, his tongue and fingers massaging your clit effortlessly.

“Ere—”

“Just shut up…” Eren interrupted, as he pushed two of his fingers into you, dangerously close to being knuckle deep inside you. As if your calls of his name were distracting him from his intricate work. His familiar cockiness has returned, the jovial frat-boy that you once knew was zealously tasting you. His ministrations contained a heightened bravado now and you were finally starting to recognise who the man before you was.

“You’re tighter than I remember.” He observed, his fingers were frozen inside you as his piercing eyes were connected to yours, you knew that he was about to have you wrapped around his finger again.

“Maybe I’m just not as turned on as you think I am?” You challenged, forcing yourself not to bite down on your lip in front of him. With your remark, he quickly pulled his index and middle finger out of your pussy. The movement was so abrupt, and it left you craving all the more from him, just when he was pushing you to arrive to your peak, you came crumbling back down. A punishment for your quip at his sexual prowess.

“Oh really? Why don’t I show you just how wet you are then?” The devilish smirk spread across his lips was almost maniacal, a gesture of his sudden surge of confidence. He wrapped his already wet fingers around your own and lead them towards your now notably, wet pussy. Your fingers lingered there, unsure of what to do as you refused to make eye contact with Eren.

“See for yourself, since I apparently am not up to the task.” You still stalled for a moment, heat racing towards your cheeks, despite you baring your entire body to him, were you so shameless that you would pleasure yourself right in front of him?

“Go on — touch yourself.” This time, Eren’s tone was posed as a dominant command than it was a request. Just when you had thought you had the upper hand; it took just one minute for him to have you at his beck and call again. You hesitantly began to rub around your slit, shame soaked into your thoughts as you realised that you are just as wet as Eren stated.

Quiet moans fell from your lips as Eren smugly watched you have a taste of your own medicine, it was bittersweet since despite the pleasure you were giving to yourself, all you were doing was proving Eren right. Once your high started increasing, he softly wrapped his fingers around yours to stop you from what you were doing before he rammed two fingers inside you abruptly, eliciting a high-pitched yelp from you. His other hand was still wrapped around yours, pinning your arm to the desk to stop you from squirming. “Jealous, are we?” You provoked him; your eyebrow raised to match your goading sentiment.

His pace begun slow as he pulled in and out of you in long and detailed movements, he knew exactly how to build you back up as you responded to his movements with moans and your back arched up against the wall, your arms still pinned down by his free hand. “God, stop playing around.” You called out in frustration, he was playing with you and you knew that he was keeping you just below your boiling point.

“I thought you weren’t turned on?” He questioned; his fingers were moving just slow enough within you. You sat there silent, breaking your eye contact with him and refusing to fuel his ego anymore. However, Eren can see the way your body responds to him. “You want it that badly? Then beg for it.” He removed his fingers from you hastily as he rose from his kneeling position, so his face and body were hovering over you. He was just high enough that the tip of the key hanging off his change was resting comfortably on your chest. Your fingers reached out for the collars on his shirt as you carelessly pulled him even closer to you, your lips angled towards his ear.

“I’m begging you… Don’t you want a taste of me?” You successfully coaxed Eren into returning to your core, however, it was not his fingers that revisited you but his tongue. Your game of cat and mouse continued on as his tongue explored every single crevice of your pussy, his hands were keeping your thighs spread apart and pinned to the desk. Your back arched higher and higher as you quickly approached your climax, your fingers were tangling themselves into Eren’s hair and your chest rising and falling as you were getting ready to cum. Eren’s tongue was hitting all the right spots, it was as if he could read your body like the back of his hand, someone with barely any experience with your body could still bend and twist it to his will. Your body finally released the cluster of sexual tension that Eren had so diligently built up with within you. As you fell back against the desk, Eren rose from his position again, standing up this time as the pad of his thumb narcissistically grazed the bottom of his lip, cleaning up the excess remains of your orgasm.

“You’re right, I did want a taste.” He buttoned the bottom of his shirt back up and ran his hand smoothly through his hair, a futile attempt at cleaning himself up. You knew he was about to walk out, and you should have known better than to try to stop him, you loathed him at that moment and yet your body and perhaps even your heart was yearning for him.

“Eren.” You sat up quickly and reached out for his arm. He stopped in his tracks, not a word left his lips just his wide, emerald gaze staring at yours. “I think you should fuck me—” Before you’re able to provide any explanation his lips had crashed onto yours, yet he remained standing, his arms were cupping your upper neck as you are pulled up to meet his height. You responded instantly; your arms wrapped around his torso as your tongue eagerly crashed against his own.

His lips met your neck, and you knew he was about to plant a blue and purple reminder of this very moment. Despite Eren’s greedy reaction to your kiss, you could sense his hesitation in his movements, and you’ve experienced this before, he’s going to walk away – again. “I can’t…” He whispered into the crook of your neck, halting for a moment before he pressed one final kiss above your now growing bruise before he straightened himself up and walked out of the door. He didn’t even give you one final glance before leaving you alone on your desk and once again you could see all the colour drain from him as he exits. He was about to return to the same brooding and apathetic person he had become. It was embarrassing that you thought one hate-infused tryst in your room would change that, you were never able to change Eren.

You had barely adjusted to the change in pace, one second ago he was tasting every inch of you and the next he was leaving you dazed and confused on your desk. How quickly the loneliness crept into you, why did you need him around you so badly? Hadn’t you just sworn to yourself that you would resist him, you wouldn’t make the same mistakes that you did before? You forced yourself not to delve into the dark mystery that was Eren’s year away, but you know he wasn’t relaxing and getting back in touch with his brother, he had lost himself, getting himself arrested and God knows what else – but for some reason he’s back now?

[sherlockmonkeesstartrek]

If You Could Only See Me (Part 1)

(Posted this on ‘Some Small Fics’, but decided to put it on here instead.)

Rating: Mature

Fandom: Based on the Hollies, mentions the Beatles

Finished: Yes!!!

Summary: Niki grew up with a boy named John in Liverpool. Spending much of her life with him and his band, in 1966 she fell in love with the front man of another band.

Or… Did she?

Chapter 1: The Present

The first thing I become aware of is a cut down my bottom lip. I don’t remember when I got it. My lips haven’t been broken, though it’s cold enough to make them all chapped. It doesn’t hurt. I gnaw on it slightly, but nothing. All I feel is the sensation of skin missing, broken in one place. I run my tongue over it, tasting the tender inside flesh.

I don’t recall it bleeding, nor anyone biting it. Aww, that would be hot. I’d run my tongue over it and know exactly who’d done it to me, who’d made me bleed. Alas, things like that haven’t really happened for a while. Allan’s been decidedly vanilla, if he’s been at all interested in that, and I’ve been ok with it. We’re just too tired at the moment. This week has been non-stop. We were on tour. We only got back yesterday in the early hours of the morning and yet we both had to work once we’d gotten a bit of sleep. Today, we’ve nothing to do, and though it might be nice to finally be intimate, since I’ve missed that a lot, I can’t even bring myself to sit up, never mind wake him and make out. Even if I were to wait for him to wake up, I’d probably fall back to sleep and forget. Really, it’s bad at the moment, not between us, just together, we’re hopeless.

That doesn’t stop me from dreaming, however. As I turn onto my stomach, my eyes shut tight, my bones creaking, I think about having him. I ache for it, I do, almost as much as I ache for sleep. I think about him having me, pushing me up against the cold walls of the shower while a hot spray cleans us both, yet I am content in the prospect of being turned on my side, my leg hooked over Allan’s and him lazily fucking me like that. I feel his body over me, a leg up by my butt, an arm over my shoulders, his nose buried in my neck. His warm breath spreads over the base of my skull.

You know what? I’m perfectly happy to just fall back to sleep now, imagining all the wonderful ways Allan could have me. I imagine that he already has and we are drifting off in the wake of a post-climax glow.

Content, I shuffle onto my side, careful not to move Allan too much. He is deep in a well-earned sleep. I would hate to be the one to wake him. I cannot, however, ignore my urge to press a kiss on his cheek. I pry open my sleep-lined eyes to make sure I’m aiming for the right place, and the sight that greets me causes my brain to falter. It’s quite sunny and bright. I must’ve slept for much of the morning. My eyes take a moment to adjust, but even before they have, the blurry, unfocused view presents something very wrong.

Fair hair in place of dark brown. Facial hair where I know there to be none. A mouth like that of a hamster’s and a thin, pointed nose and a long face, all of which I recognise, but not as Allan. No. I find myself in bed, about to kiss the cheek of his best friend. My eyes dart around. I realise I’m not even at home. What the hell!

Groggily, I sit up. My stomach turns. Am I that girl? Am I such an awful person to have unconsciously slept with my boyfriend’s best friend? I am well aware of the fact that I’m not a particularly ‘good’ person. I’ve had my fair share of selfish, rude and generally awful acts, and not all of which I can attribute to the fact that I live in an era now where certain things are more accepted than others- after all, I’ve been surrounded by rock stars all my life, bad behaviour taught or learnt, I’ve always been around it. This, however, I don’t remember at all. I’ve always been loyal and faithful. I’d never sleep with anyone other than Allan (unless he said I could, of course) least of all with Graham fucking Nash. Of all people!

Was I drunk? Was I high? I seriously consider it, though I don’t drink nor take drugs. I don’t even remember being anywhere I could’ve got spiked at. I was at home last night. And Graham hates me as much as I do him. Why would he even try to spike me? Perhaps he didn’t, and the night was just so awful, I blocked it from my memory. But what, what in the world would have persuaded me into Graham Nash’s bed? Why am I even at his house?

Oh, this is all too weird. I feel sick to my stomach with shame and guilt, though I’m sure I didn’t knowingly sleep with Graham. No one is going to look at this situation and see where I am coming from. Everyone will think me a liar.

While I try to think up some way out of this awful circumstance, I consider the big bedroom, the double bed. Actually, I’ve got to say, this doesn’t look anything like Graham’s place. Are we at a hotel? The leaking, built in wardrobes and messy cluttered beside tables tell me no. Are we at a friend’s place? The fact that I see trinkets belonging to Graham, as well as several clothes I’ve seen him wear, I guess that is a no too. Weird. More than weird. The nauseous feeling doubles. Nothing, nothing is right.

On the bedside table closest to me, I’m shocked to find my usual assortment of necklaces and bracelets I hardly ever wear. They’re all presents I keep in the draws of a small mirror jewellery box I’d had since I was a young girl. That sits at the very back of the table. In front, my two slender watches are dumped, one with a gold face that my sister gave me, the other with a grey, leather strap from my dad. They curl around each other like intertwining snakes, the grey one on top, as it was the last one I wore. In front of those are my two current notebooks. One is a hardback with gold polka dots on its cover, while the other is leather bound with engraved silver letters reading ‘notes.’ Both mine, both half full of meaningless scrawls written in my special black and silver fountain pen which sits atop the leather bound one, diagonal with the lid off. My wallet and keys are piled beside a lamp with a pearlescent white shade.

Not everything is mine, though. Attached to my keyring is a key I don’t recognise. It doesn’t open any door I’ve ever had to unlock. And there is a ring on top of my jewellery box. It has a twisted effect on it that makes it look similar to rope. I was never gifted anything even remotely like that, and I’d never buy myself a ring. I don’t wear them.

This is so uncomfortable. So unsettling. Why the hell is all my stuff here? Why would I have brought it? Even if it was just one of these things, why would I have had the impulse to bring it with me?

It gets even worse when cast my gaze to the floor. I had hoped to see a set of clothes I’d taken off last night- because it becomes apparent to me very quickly that I am not actually clad in anything apart from the bedsheets right now- which would make a speedy exit more possible. Unfortunately, I am faced with several day’s worth of my own clothes, dumped on the floor. I may be untidy, but I rarely leave that much lying around. And I certainly don’t leave my things all over someone else’s bloody floor. The clothes that aren’t mine, mixed in all the mess, I know to be Graham’s, about a week’s worth.

My tired, overwhelmed mind asks, ‘did I say here all week?’ I shake that thought away. I know what I’ve been doing all week. The band has been on tour and I went with them. Technically, Graham’s stuff shouldn’t be here either, unless he leaves his stuff all over the floors when he goes away. But that opens up even more questions I don’t have the capacity to even consider.

I have to prevent myself from screaming in confusion as I look up at the wall. A calendar hangs on a single, bent pin pushed into the wall paper. It shows a lovely sunset over some American horizon, as well as telling me that it’s September 1967, the same month, year, even day- since someone has ticked the days past- as when I went to sleep. Just… what?

As I stare helplessly at it, I feel something crawl up my back. The mattress behind me dips and a pair of arms wrap around me, lips brushing the back of my ear.

“You know we don’t have to get up yet, Luv.” Graham’s distinctive voice tells me that this is no dream. It’s as real as it can get. I feel his breath hitting the back of my neck, his words vibrating into my skin. He called me ‘luv.’ I shiver.

“No.” I mutter, “I do.” I go to toss the duvet off my body, when I remember that I’m still naked. No way Graham is going to get to see any more than he has already. I reach down beside and grasp a thick, grey jumper to cover my nakedness. As I put it on, I push Graham’s hands off of me. I see the surprise in his expression, but he still tries to be cool.

“Oh, at least don’t get dressed.” He groans. I shoot him a filthy look as I pull the duvet from me and kick my legs off the bed. Before I stand, I see a mixture of confusion and concern in his eyes. It looks very uncharacteristic for him, really unsettling. It’s like he genuinely doesn’t get why I’m suddenly so angry, like he doesn’t remember who I am, not only to him, but to his best fuckingfriend. Why, why would I ever be so friendly to him the morning after I’d cheated on the man I loved with him?

My legs feel weak as I stumble around the bed in search for a bathroom. Upon getting to my feet, a great pressure as heavy as an elephant weighs down on my bladder. I need to pee, yet have no recollection of where the loo is.

From behind me, Graham pipes up, “What are you…” I hear the swipe of the duvet being dragged off him too. The floor creaks a little as he stands up and his bare footfalls pad across it, heading towards me, “Are you ok?” With him trying to follow, I quicken my search, finally catching glimpse of tiles glinting in the low light feeding in through an ajar door. I push it open and leap in. The lock on it looks ancient and squeaks stiffly as I try to put up a wall between me and him. After putting all my weight behind it, I manage to pull it closed, finally feeling safe.

That is until I flick the light on and turn around. On a shelf on the wall, shower products are lined up. Many are brands I use, including a perfume I (try to) wear every day. My toothbrush stands in a translucent red cup beside the sink, with another one crossing over it.

As much as I need to pee, I also need to have a good scream. I don’t, I just knot my fingers in my hair and pull. I must be going fucking crazy.

But so is Graham. He calls in a half joking, half concerned tone, “Will you open up, Luv? I need to piss!”

“Fucking wait!” I squeal furiously. I cannot believe he’d think I’d ever open the door. Having sex is one thing. Doing your fucking business in front of someone is entirely another, something most people never do. Even angrier, I add, “And stop calling me ‘luv.’”

He falls silent. I pee in peace, though I can feel his bloody presence on the other side of that door. I can practically hear his brain struggling to find something else to say. To calm myself and try to piece together what that fuck is going on here, I recall the day previous.

In the early hours of Saturday morning, Allan and I had gotten home and fell asleep on the sofa. Neither one of us, once the acceptable morning hours came, wanted to wake, yet we heaved each other up with false words of encouragement and kisses. We almost made out when we shared a shower, but once more we were too tired and to concerned about the rest of the day for it to turn too interesting. I went to work dressed in the few clean clothes that awaited me at home after the tour, was hungry as soon as I got there as I’d skipped breakfast and I didn’t end up eating until lunchtime. When I came home, Allan was making dinner. We sat in front of the TV and promised each other we’d do nothing tomorrow, since we really had nothing on. Before conking out once more on the sofa, I persuaded Allan it was best we actually got into bed, so we dragged each other up the stairs, took off some, but not all, of our clothes, and lost consciousness almost as soon as our heads hit the pillows.

I didn’t go out. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Graham, or any of the band, since those early hours of the morning we came back from the tour. I certainly didn’t turn up at his… or whoever’s house, nor did I bring all my stuff with me to throw all over the floor… or set up on the bedside table… or stand on the shelf of the bathroom. This doesn’t make any sense at all.

Ok, if it weren’t for all my shit being here, I could explain this whole situation away, chalk it up to my first experience with sleepwalking or- more likely- an awful lack of any judgement. Even though the implications of that is pretty bad, I’d take having to get down on my knees and beg Allan to take me back despite me having slept with his best friend over… whatever I can call this fucking mess.

I dread heading out of the small, cool room into the oddly cosy bedroom, where Graham stands in wait for me, but I do, without hesitation. I’ve decided, I’ve got to see Allan. I have to explain to him what happened, even if I don’t know myself. I just feel like everything will fall into it’s right place if I see him. He’s always been the sensible one, the shy, sane one out of us two. Even if he’ll kill me, I’ve got to see him.

As I walk passed Graham, he caresses my cheek tenderly. Something else that I don’t get right now is why he’s being so… nice. Has he fallen for me? Poor boy has slept with me once and cares about me now? How sad. I brush him off as I look for a pair of trousers; I won’t bother with underwear. I just want to get the fuck out of here.

“Are you ok?” He asks again, his voice now displaying an undercurrent of frustration. I don’t answer, which doesn’t shut him up as I had hoped, “Bad dream?”

A wash of defensiveness rushes over me. Had I the ability to form coherent sentences I would’ve retorted, asked why the fuck he’d think I’d ever tell him if I’d had a restless night. He should assume as much. I have been in his bed after all.

Then he adds, “You used to get them when you were a kid, didn’t you?”

And I can’t hold myself much longer.

“What?” I spit. He looks wholly bewildered at my reaction, unable himself to think of an answer. I turn back to pulling on a pair of leggings just as he pulls be back into conversation.

“Niki, seriously, are you ok? You’re scaring me.” “I’m scaring you?” I parrot, furiously, then calm a little, “Look, whatever happened last night, can we forget about it. I’ve got to…”

He cuts in, “What happened? Are you sure you didn’t have a bad dream?”

“No, I fucking didn’t!” I cry. I’m getting nowhere! I want to get the fuck out.

Still stunned, he tries to calm me by suggesting, “Look, let’s just get up… have some breakfast, ok? I’ll cook.”

It’s in that moment, I realise he’s not going to get it, he won’t leave me alone. I don’t know what’s got him so clingy, but I have to take a different approach to this. Without saying anything, I nod in agreement and slowly sit on the bed as though I’ve calmed. He then tells me he’s just going to pee, giving me a small kiss before he goes. He doesn’t close the door properly- fucking gross- but he can’t see me, so I dart with nimble, silent movements, picking up a pair of socks off the floor as I make for the corridor outside of the room. I hurry down the stairs so quick I almost trip over my own movements.

Luckily, the front door is right at the bottom of the stairs. Unluckily, I’m stumped once again by what I see. There are two other doors, one leading into a living room, the other into a kitchen. More trinkets, more clothes, more décor meet my eyes. In the space between them, the tiny hallway at the bottom of the stairs, several coats hang on metal hooks. Some I know to be mine, one I wear practically daily, a blue trench coat with deep pockets big enough to hold A5 notebooks, which hangs in front of all the others. I pick that coat up, pull it on, then look despairingly below the others. There is a messy rack of shoes, again, a mixture of Graham’s and mine. I choose a pair of boots I can slip on and walk in without doing them up.

Suddenly, I hear Graham’s footsteps pound down the stairs. I peer over my shoulder, panicked. He stands three steps from the bottom floor, pulling on a flowy beige shirt, decorated with a series of hippy bead applique around the neck line. Other than that, he’s naked. Like a kid- and for the first time in my adult life- I shy away from the sight, instead looking desperately at the door.

“Niki, come on, it’s Sunday. Where the fuck are you going?”

Worked up, panicked and desperate, I clear my tear-clogged throat to reply, “To see Allan,” before swiftly pulling up the latch of the front door and squeezing through the tiny crack I open it to. There are a small set of three steps I almost hurl myself down, but I manage to grasp hold of a banister and safely get down onto the pavement.

Shit. I didn’t quite think this far. I’m faced with a street I don’t know, a set of houses I’ve never seen, no informative street signs and no sense of direction. I don’t even know if I’m in London! I mean, I assume I am. I look around at the other buildings surrounding and… I guess I am. But I’m hopeless. I’ve no idea where I am, I’ve no idea where Allan is, I’ve no idea where my home is. Basically, I’m lost, running from someone I think I’ve slept with. Graham will no doubt be following me out any second, so I have to be gone, but I don’t know where. Fuck!

I thrust my hands into my pockets and speed walk in a direction that looks as though it might lead to a main road. If I can get a taxi, I might be able to try and work out where the hell I am and go from there.

Then, as I’m hurrying along the quiet street, my fingers clasp around something in my pocket. I can feel coins, a tissue, and then something hard, like cardboard, with a dip in the middle. The dip seems to be made up of sections, many, thin section. I recognise it just by its feel. It may only be that old address book I got given a while back, but it feels like a lifesaver. I’m so glad that, not only do I always have it on me, I always have a pen too. I write down the details of all my friends in it, anyone important that I’ve met, anyone I want to stay in contact with. I also have mine and Allan’s home address in there, because I’m awful at remembering it. For once, I’m so glad I can be absentminded and write everything down. I pull the book out and flick through it’s pages.

Allan is there! My god, I could cry. I don’t, because I’m on a mission, but I could. I really could just sit down on the side of the road and bawl my eyes out. To stop myself, I walk a little quicker and glance, every so often, at a different page of my book. There are names in there that I do not know, people I’ve never met before. By Allan’s name, there is a someone called Jen with no address, no number, no last name. On the ‘E’ page, Eric Haydock is written in my handwriting. He was the old bassist for the Hollies before Bern, before I’d met the band. I was never acquainted with him, so why was he in my book, with a number scrawled there too? That’s not too weird, I guess. Of all the things that has happened today, finding a name in a book is hardly even shocking. What is annoying, however, is the feeling that I’m missing people. I can’t think who. It’s like they’ve been wiped from my book, so they’re wiped from my memory too.

It takes me a while to find somewhere I can hail a cab. One pulls up and the driver, a rough-spoken man, seems to know the address as I read it out to him. He knows the street.

“’s not too far from here.” He says and pulls out onto the road. The amount of traffic is minimal. People don’t usually go out on Sundays. I’m thankful, though I also half wish the journey would’ve taken longer. As soon as I’d done my part of speaking, placed my mission in someone else’s hand for the moment, a tear runs down my cheek. Once the first one is out, a whole stream follows. I bawl helplessly into my hands, unable to organise my thoughts, unable to see a clear course of action. It dawns on me, as does everything else, that seeing Allan may solve nothing. I don’t know what could possibly happen.

Mostly, I wish the journey was longer, so I’d have enough time to dry my tears before I go and see Allan. It is, however, not too short so that I don’t get to take in the surroundings. This is London, of course. The black cab gave it away. It’s a part I’m not properly familiar with, but at least I’m somewhere, a city, that I know. That narrows the number of unknowns down. Not too much, still too much to count, but I’ll take anything, anything that makes me feel more comfortable.

We end up down a street that looks pretty much the same as the one I’d escaped from. The driver helps me find which house exactly is Allan’s- I lean over to the front of the cab and show my address book to him, while he points out homes in hope that I can read the number beside the front doors. I then get out and find myself alone, standing on the doorstep of a nice looking home, beside a car in the driveway. I get that feeling, as if it ever left, that something is very wrong, but I’m still full of hope. I knock on the door.

Allan opens it pretty quickly. God, I almost cry when I see him, his dark, curly hair, his narrowed brown eyes adjusting to the light from outside, the half-smile on his lips. Without thinking twice, without even looking at him twice- I don’t need to, he looks so normal, which is such a pleasant change for me- I throw my arms around his neck and bury my face in his chest. I manage not to cry.

“Erm… hey Niki.” He mumbles, awkwardly. Almost instantly, that feeling of normality, the comfort of familiarity fades away. His arms hang loosely around my waist and he parts the embrace really quickly. He has yet to kiss me or even invite me in. “Are you ok?”

“Yes…” I say automatically, before my brain kicks in, “No… I’ve really no idea, Luv. I just need to see you and…” tears threaten again, so I bite my lip.

Allan seems like he doesn’t know what to do. It’s very unsettling. He knows me… or knew me, so well. Unsteadily, he steps aside and gestures, “Come in.”

How can he be as confused as I am? I hate it. As I walk through the dark hallway, I glimpse him to make sure he is my Allan. He’s dressed in a button up shirt he probably slept in and a pair of dark, soft-looking trousers with an elasticated waist that he no doubt pulled on to answer the door. He rarely wears much in bed, or, at least, he never did with me. As he shuts the door, I notice faint lines in his hair, which looks to me like he’s brushed it a little. He must’ve been awake before I turned up, yet it’s early on a Sunday. What reason would he have to be up?

He slips in front of me and guides me into what appears to be the only lit room, a joint kitchen/living space. A low, orange light beats down over in the living area, where two brown sofas are positioned at 90-degree angles from each other. The windows are all covered with brown blackout blinds, but floral curtains are already drawn letting in a little sunlight from outside. The rest of the room is mostly in darkness until Allan stands in the door way and lets me walk in. He flicks on the rest of the lights.

“Sorry.” I hear him say, “Jen’s not up yet.”

Jen? That girl in my address book. That’s why she didn’t have an address or number attached to her name. She lives here? With my Allan? My heart thumps like Bobby Elliot banging his drums on stage of a Hollies concert. Still, I don’t have much time to connect all the dots. Allan continues talking.

“Take a seat. You want something to drink?”

Allan hasn’t sounded this much like he was playing host since that first night he asked me round to his place. That was early 66. He was so stupidly shy, and sweet. So nervous. Probably because he knew I was taken, technically, by John Lennon.

John. The Beatles. That’s who was missing in my address book. That’s who I’d forgotten. My John, my Paul and George and Ringo. The boys I’d grown up with. How could I? How could they be written out of my history? My whole existence, my past, I could feel it slip away and nothing replaced it. I have no idea who I am.

Allan’s voice steals me away from my sudden crisis, “Niki?”

I realise I haven’t answered him.

“Erm, no thanks.” I say, taking a seat on the sofa by the arm. He’s very awkward and cautious and quiet as he perches on the other end, facing me. I try to smile at him. The best he can do back is half grin.

“I… um… just got a call from Graham.” He tells me. He sounds oddly calm about it.

“Oh God,” I groan in embarrassment and shame, “What did he say?”

His eyes dart away from mine, “He said you weren’t feeling yourself. And… you wanted to see me?” He sounds confused about the latter.

“Why would I not?”

“Well, Graham…”

Before he can continue, I roll my eyes in frustration and snap, “I’m sorry, but last time I checked, Graham wasn’t my fucking keeper.” Allan looks taken aback. It must be the first time I’ve ever spoken to him like that. We’ve rarely ever fought, and I’ve rarely ever been so angry. He has, but he hardly ever has taken it out on me. I feel bad. Quietly, I add, “You were,” in an attempt to remind him of us. But he takes a moment to reply.

“I don’t… understand.”

This is all very wrong. I can’t keep my cool much longer. I throw my head into my hands and mutter to myself, “Of course, you don’t, just like Graham suddenly actually cares about me and I fucking…” My voice trails off and my eyes begin to squeeze tears from the corners. I must look insane, but Allan is too polite, too caring to butt in. Calmly and fondly, he shuffles up closer, still a bit uptight, and he places a hand over my own.

“Graham… loves you.” He chuckles, lightly, though warily in case I take it the wrong way. I manage not to explode at him.

“You did.” I insist helplessly.

He doesn’t get it, of course. This whole day is so fucked up, I can’t take it anymore. I cannot stand the way he smiles softly at me, patronisingly as though I’m a kid talking nonsense.

“Of course, I do.” He says, “But in a different way. Come on,” He laughs, “Graham would kill me if I loved you like that!”

“Since when!” I growl.

Still calm, Allan responds, “Since 1950. For, like, 17 years.”

“But…” I feel my whole past being rewritten, “I only met you guys last year. I was… with the… Beatles”

Embarrassment washes over me, pinks my cheeks and laughs at me as Allan, very kindly, explains that I never met the Beatles, not properly. I’d seen them once or twice at the studio, they all had, the whole band. The only one who’d properly talked to them was Graham. That was before the whole ‘If I Needed Someone’ situation. Now the bands refused to talk to each other, and I refused to talk to them too. I didn’t know them, I didn’t have their numbers or addresses, I’d never been withJohn Lennon. Four wonderful men, huge parts of my life, my teenage years, my childhood in Liverpool, the early 60s in Studio 2. All gone, explained away. And Allan had not only summed up my entire new, confusing, alien life in around five minutes, but he isn’t as big a part of it as his best friend is. The man I had practically hated, or at the very least, tolerated on the rare occasion, was now my boyfriend, my partner, had been since we’d been old enough to understand the word.

Meanwhile, Allan was married.

A medium-heighted, wide-smiling girl with dyed blonde hair came padding slowly down the stairs, her steps so soft we hardly heard her. Jen leans prettily in the doorway and waves hello, blowing a kiss at Allan before she sees me.

“Hello Niki!” She cheerily exclaims, “I didn’t know you were coming round.”

I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge her. My eyes darted from her to down to Allan for an explanation. Then I caught sight of a glinting gold band around his ring finger.

My heart stopped beating.

“Is Graham here too?” She innocently asks. I see Allan shake his head furiously, telling her to change the subject, but the damage is already done, I’m already hurt, just by her presence, not even by her words.

“No, just Niki. Will you get some tea?” Allan deflects the question and Jen, smiling, walks over to the kitchen area. While her back is turned, he tries to ask if I want to go into another room, but he can’t even catch my gaze. I’m staring at him, not seeing. Tears burn the back of my throat.

I have to leave.

Without a word, I get up. I wrap my coat around me, hands thrust into the pockets, and I head for the door.

“Niki.” Allan calls after me. I hear Jen turn around and ask what the matter is. Allan doesn’t answer her. He follows me into the hallway. I pull open the door and don’t look back, I can’t stand to, I can’t stand this Allan, this version of him who doesn’t know me as he should. This whole world is fucked. My life is now fucked.

I hop out into the street, turning my coat collars up to hide my tear stained cheeks. I’ve no idea where I am, not only physically, but mentally too.

Why, if this is my life, do I remember another as though it were real? Why, if this is not my life, do others think that it is and why has everything changed overnight? And why, if this is a dream, have I not woken up by now? Why, when I can feel very real pain right now? My chest aches, my lungs burn, my head throbs with all these questions swimming inside it. And what can I do now? I don’t have Allan to talk to. I can’t imagine unloading all this onto Graham. I don’t have the Beatles, nor Bri- Brian Epstein- who I adored. Who, who can I look to for a slice of normality?

I open my address book while standing across the road from a telephone box. I’ve walked a few blocks from Allan’s home and I’ve decided I need someone I can vent all my frustration onto, someone who could also pick me up, perhaps. A friend whose relationship with me could not have changed over the course of this switch. I file through the names in my book. They go back as far as Allan and Graham’s childhood in Salford, most I’d heard in passing conversations, almost always from Allan’s mouth, his friends, even some of his family. Being written in would suggest that I knew them too. Others, I really have no idea who they are. I skip over them. The pages fall to the ‘H’ section and there is scrawled an answer to who I could call.

Tony Hicks.

God, that boy would listen. I’m sure of it. He’ll listen to me, even if only because he is too polite and sweet to tell me to shut up. He’s kind, a good laugh, a good friend, as well as being a fucking epic guitarist. I hurry across the road, dip into my coat pockets to find some money and dial his number as I get into the phone box.

He picks up in a few rings, though it feels like forever between the last number I press and the sound of his voice. I don’t bother with pleasantries, I’m too desperate, too excited.

After he says hello, I ramble into, “Tony, it’s Niki. Do me a favour. I really need to come and talk to you, ok?”

“Ok…” He sceptically replies. He’s quiet. I think he’s been asleep. I feel bad for waking him, if I did.

“Please, if Graham or Allan phone, don’t pick up! They think I’m insane, and I might be, but I have to talk to someone.” I sound so desperate, my tone choked and hurried. I think he picks up on it. He sounds a little more awake when he speaks again, as though the fear in my voice has jogged his brain into gear.

“Are you ok?”

God, if I hear that question one more time! No, I’m not ok, I’m not. I know he’s trying to be nice. I know that everyone is, but it’s a dumb fucking question, because everyone expects you just to say yes, and if you don’t, if you say no, you look like you’re just grasping for attention. Still, maybe I want attention at the moment, just someone to listen.

“No,” I admit, “Just… please. I’ll be over soon.”

“Where are you? I’ll come and get you. That means I won’t be here if the others call.”

I sigh. It’s the first time I’ve felt content since this morning, before I turned around and realised I was locked in a hug with Graham Nash. I could cry from the relief. This may not bring my life back, it may not change anything, but Tony’ll listen to me and help straighten things out, even if he too thinks I’m crazy.

“Ok,” I say, “Ok thank you.” Then I tell him the name of the street, “It’s near Allan’s. I’ll explain once you get here.”

“OK. See you in a minute.”

I’ve no way of telling the time- I didn’t bring either of my watches. I forgot underwear, never mind a watch. It’s cold out. Bracing September air blows past me. Everything seems to hang in it, every uncertainty. I won’t know when Tony shows up; I don’t know which car is his. I don’t know what he’ll look like, who he might be with. God, he could be married for all I know.

I just let time tick by, not thinking of how slow or fast, hardly thinking at all. I watch every car that passes, every person as I stand rigidly against the wall of someone’s home. My arms are crossed over my chest, my legs crossed at the ankles. I find myself rocking to keep me warm, like a madman. A song plays in my head, ‘If I Needed Someone.’ I always liked both versions of the song. I always thought the Hollies did a good job of it, almost as good as the Beatles. I remember when they were recording Rubber Soul, I’d beg the three boys, John, George and Paul, to do the beginning of Nowhere Man for me. It was the first time I’d consciously listened to people do a three-part harmony until I started listening to the Hollies. But none of this happened.

As I say, I’ve no idea how long I stand there. Perhaps half an hour. It’s of no really matter, however, and regardless of everything, a car pulls up to the pavement down the road a bit and, though I’m several yards away, I can tell that the man stepping from it is the young-looking Tony Hicks. I practically run at him, bawling into his shoulder.

“Hey,” He croons, “What’s up?”

“Oh God,” I cry when I manage to make coherent sentences, “I’m no idea, I think I’m going crazy.”

“I highly doubt that.”

[lilopls-blog1]

TASK 2 – PART OF YOUR WORLD !!

I made a general floor plan so you can get an idea of the size of her room as well as the layout. Her door is the first coming up the steps, if it’s open and you keep going straight you’ll walk right through her doorway.

Right beside of her door is a her wooden green-painted bedside table, and between it and the wall is her bed. It’s a tight fit. She tried to design her room to look like the bedroom she had at their old house, but it’s a bit smaller which made that a complicated process. 

She has a twin sized wooden canopy bed, with a flower necklace strung around the bottom left pole and a glow in the dark star and crescent moon stuck to the top right pole. The canopy sheet is plain white.

On her bed you can expect to find one of three bed sets -- a floral blue Hawaiian inspired, a red and white pattern or her favorite that she doesn’t use as often because it’s old, tattered and a bit kiddish; the yellow rocket sheets she’s had ever since she was just a few years old. 

Underneath her pillow is a family picture with her parents. She keeps it there for good luck, and with the hope that it will soak into her dreams and she can see them again, even if just for a split second.

Her bedside table is hardly ever clean. The first drawer is shoved full of knickknacks and sewing supplies, and the bottom is filled with more knickknacks along with her favorite rocks from her rock collection. (There are more boxes of them pushed under the bed.) The top is cluttered with random objects. Needles and thread, gum wrappers, crumpled up sticky notes. The staple items on display are her Hula Dancer lamp and a conch shell that she found on a family beach day. Scrump is usually there or tucked into bed.

On the other side of her doorway -- so close that when flung open, the door hits it -- is her wastebasket which is also, if you hadn’t guessed, Hawaiian themed. 

Directly across from her bed are three small steps leading up to what might be her favorite part of the room. In the far corner rests her easel and art supplies, though she sketches more ‘suspicious’ strangers and different versions of what Elvis may look like now than making anything aesthetically pleasing. There’s another flower necklace hanging from the side of the easel. Behind it you can find the typical conspiracy theorist wall where she has strung red yarn from an array of pictures, sketches and notes. The coolest part is that she can store all of her useless drawings, photo albums and more rocks and knickknacks underneath where she’s standing as there is a drawer by the steps that pulls out to reveal more storage room.

Also there is her window, where she has a perfect view of the stars and if she really listens, she can hear the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Another glow in the dark moon and star sticker can be spotted on the windowsill.

Between this part of her room and the door is a small bookshelf, filled with more children’s books, notebooks and magazines than young adult novels. Beside it sits a terribly uncomfortable wooden chair that she’s only kept this long because it is another piece from her childhood home. She could trade it out for a beanbag or put a cushion on it but she sits on her bed ninety percent of the time anyway, so it’s kind of just... there. On the other side of the shelf is a much shorter wooden box with her collection of Elvis vinyls. Her record player, laptop and camera all sit on the top of the bookshelf, though her camera is usually around her neck. She doesn’t have a TV because she watches Netflix on her laptop from the comfort of her bed.

Her floors are wood panel, like in the floor plan, and she has a large round rug in the middle of her room. It has a red ring on the outside, then a blue ring, then in the center a yellow circle.

There are three plug-ins in her room. One behind her bedside table that her lamp stays plugged into and that’s where she chargers her laptop if she’s using it. Another by her bookshelf. And one by the window, on the side with the steps.

Strung from the ceiling are fishing nets, for reasons I cannot fathom, and there are obviously a few Elvis posters hung up on the walls. The wall her bed is next to is covered in taped up polaroids that are her pride and joys, ones she likes too much to stick in her photo albums. They are mostly pictures of random people’s stomachs or unattractive candids of her friends and family.

The walls are also wood panels and painted a light blue color that’s chipping. It needs to be repainted but she likes how it looks. She finds beauty in broken things. It looks exactly like this. Her surfboard is usually propped up in the corner by the steps or the bottom of her bed. It doesn’t have a specific spot.

In her closet -- the door located below her bed -- the floor finds the pile of her shoes, mostly sandals and flip flops of course, and the majority of her clothes are on hangers. (Sometimes when she’s in a hurry a few shirts will fall and she doesn’t bother to pick them up.) She has a three drawer container for her socks, bras and underwear.

Her room can be a bit of a junk hole from time to time, with everything from rocks and seashells to records scattered about, but it’s really just how she likes it.

[katsitting]

AN: This is my volunteer contribution to the Tomarry Dark Spring Exchange for @darklordtomarry! I saw someone else volunteered and even picked the same prompt! Well, I was already 10k words in so I hope I am not stepping on toes for posting it. Also, because this fic is 56 pages, I will be posting the rest on AO3 and will tag the link accordingly!

I hope you love it as much as I loved writing it :)

Warnings: Graphic depiction of Violence, Gore, Explicit Torture, Manipulation, Character Death

-----------

Harry scrunched his nose when the strong smell of mildew hit him, the stench enough to draw an unwilling sneeze from Harry as he maneuvered his way through the cluttered space. It should not surprise him that the room was in such a state, there was a reason it was called the Room of Hidden Things in the first place.

He could see the towers of junk dwarfing him in their grandeur, sturdy despite the obvious wear and tear of some of the pieces. He could see where moths had eaten through some of the fabric, where termites had nibbled their way into the wooden frames of some dressers he passed as he moved. But it was not at all surprising that the mounds of lost things managed to keep themselves together. It seemed that there was little magic could not do―even for items long since abandoned and forgotten by their owners.

There was something about being lost among these items that gave Harry some sort of peace. Sure, it was chaotic and smelled rather offensive to his nose most of the time, but this room was one of the many that Harry visited when he needed time to himself.

He had found the room when he had been stuck in a particularly prickly situation―out past curfew and Professor Snape hot on his heels. Harry had made the mistake of taking Malfoy at his word when they had agreed to settle their score in the Trophy Room. Only to find that the slimey professor had been waiting there instead of the equally as slimey student of his.

It was a miracle in and of itself that Harry had managed to survive that chase unscathed, but he had lived to tell the tale.

He was quite the survivor when he put his mind to it.

Harry turned his attention back to the bleak room, noting that the room had not changed since the last time he had been there. The same items were still piled on top of one another. The more valuable ones, still very much neglected, but tucked away in their own corners.

The sight of the chaos of the room should have been enough to deter Harry from coming back, but really, it was just so bloody cool and he had the room all to himself really. He had mulled over the idea of telling Ron and Hermione about it, but knowing Hermione, she would most likely tell a professor about his find. He loved her, truly, but she was too by the book at times. It was near impossible to pry her away from her books and from the framework of rules she clung furiously to.

Harry could have told Ron, but Ron was horrid at keeping secrets. The ginger-haired boy tended to shove his foot in his mouth more often than not―so much worse than Harry when was stuck in the same room with Malfoy.

So it was really only Harry’s secret room, even if the room was not ideal.

He paused when he saw something flash at him from a tight corner, the light forcing him to blink furiously to melt away the spots that danced across his vision. Harry was not used to things flashing at him from the dim light of the room―the few once pretty trinkets were so tarnished from disuse that Harry had yet to see anything glimmer.

Until now.

It was curious that there was something in there that still had some light to it, and like a moth to a flame, Harry chased after the source. He almost tripped in his haste to reach it, eager to learn just what the object could be.

After tripping countlessly over some small piles of clutter on the floor, Harry was finally rewarded with the source of the light.

He stood before a flat square object, the width and length of it so grand that Harry had to step back for a moment to take it in completely. It was hidden underneath a gray rag, but there was no mistaking that this was the source. Harry could make out something glittering through the moth eaten holes in the fabric, and he tried to breathe in deeply to calm the excitement he was feeling. He could see something smooth and clear from behind one of the larger holes, and it was with great eagerness that Harry finally tore the offending fabric away from the object of his desire.

He did not know what he was expecting when he unveiled the object, but it was definitely not a mirror. Harry was frozen with disbelief, annoyance quickly overtaking him when he realized he’d almost killed himself tripping over rubbish for a mirror.

Nice job, Harry.

Though admittedly, the mirror was rather beautiful. Its frame looked sturdy, the patterns carved into the wood intricate and unlike anything Harry had ever seen before. He was familiar with runes after spending years training in Hogwarts, but none of those symbols were engraved into the wood―the patterns looked more like squiggles than an actual design. Harry could not help reaching out to touch them, a jolt of something shooting up his arms where his fingers made contact with the mirror.

It felt smooth to the touch, the varnish relatively intact despite how old the mirror had to be. Everything in the Room of Hidden Things looked like it was ready to break to pieces, to melt into tiny puddles of sand if it were breathed on too harshly. But this mirror was nothing like any of the other items in the room.

When Harry tore his gaze away from the carvings on the wood, he was met with his own reflection in the glass. Not a speck of dust to be found.

The glass was immaculate. As if decay was not permitted to touch it.

It made him pause, unsure and pensive as to how this particular piece was left untouched by the atrophy that had consumed every other thing in the room. Golden lanterns and silver jewelry had all been made the home of tenacious bugs and vermin―forgotten by owners long since dead, but not abandoned by the whims of decay.

But the mirror was unspoiled, radiating a kind of elegance that made Harry’s lungs feel tight with awe.

Harry was seized immediately by curiosity, his fingers reaching to touch the glass. He didn’t care that he was most likely going to smudge his dirty fingers on the glass. It was a habit his mother often chastised him for when he could not resist sticking his fingers on all the pretty things at the markets. It was a dangerous habit―one he should have kept in check after one of the girls his year had been cursed when she had found a beautiful necklace. But he could not help himself, there was just something about the mirror that spoke to him.

He sighed at how cold the surface felt against his fingers, the ice of it chilling him to his core. But it did not deter him despite it.

His hand grew numb from the frigidness, but it was hardly a concern for Harry. No one could come upon him and see him touching the mirror. This was a private moment for him to satisfy his own curiosity. And give in to the strange compulsion squirming in his gut.

“Harry.”

The boy jumped, snatching his hand quickly away from the mirror to survey just where in the room the voice had come from. Harry was sure he had been alone; no one knew about the room, save himself. He was absolutely sure of it.

He was tempted to search the room to uncover just where he heard the voice, but there was a nagging in the back of his mind that begged him to remain where he was. It was that strange sensation again, a tingling that reminded him that there was something of interest behind him that he should be more interested in than who could possibly be in the room.

Harry waited with baited breath for the voice to speak again. But the seconds that Harry waited stretched to minutes, and those minutes stretched to an indeterminable amount of time without a single sound. Harry was wary of the room now, distrustful even of the space he had only moments before been savoring.

It left a bad taste in his mouth, but something had said his name.

It was with great reluctance that Harry turned his attention back to the mirror, his own reflection staring back into his own. Harry could see the suspicion in his own eyes, a tenseness to his shoulders that had not been there moments prior.

Harry was afraid to admit that he was unsettled, but he refused to let it show. To let the voice in his mind dictate how he should conduct himself.

Nothing could be dangerous here. Dumbledore had made sure of it when he had defeated Grindelwald and saved the wizarding world from chaos. It only made sense that his protection would extend to the school as well.

Though Harry was not sure that also applied to hidden rooms too.

But that did not mean that Harry was going to leave.

Harry reached out once more, pressing his fingers against the glass as he had been earlier. It still felt cold, but it was somehow warmer? Harry knew there was something different this time, his fingers still felt numb, but the glass was not a glacier.

“That’s odd…”Harry murmured to himself, concentrating on the room reflected by the glass rather than himself. Everything looked the same.

It made Harry wonder if the mirror was somehow enchanted. It had to be if time refused to touch it. In some way, all of the items in the room were magic, so it only made sense that this mirror would retain its own glamour too.

But what kind of power could it have?

“Is there a particular reason you are touching me so? It is quite rude.” Harry froze, snatching his hand back as if he’d been burned. There was nothing reflected in the mirror, but Harry was quite sure he had heard something speak from it. The tone had been soft, curious even, but not one Harry had ever heard before.

“...You can talk.” Harry managed to choke out, but only just. Looking for some sort of person behind the glass, to see his own self speak to him as the enchanted mirrors in Hogwarts often did. Except he had complete control of his own reflection and there was nothing in the clutter reflected that revealed anyone else.

Harry was alone. Or at least, he seemed to be.

After a long pause, the mirror spoke again. It felt like it was trying to gather enough to strength to speak.

“…yes. It has been a long time since I have had the strength. You are the first person to come across me since I came to be here.”

Harry pursued his lips at that, drinking in the rich sound of the man’s voice. It was beautiful, almost like a melody Harry had long forgotten. It was odd though, because Harry was sure he had never heard this voice before, in both his time in Hogwarts and on the radio.

“How did you come to be here?” Harry was curious, plopping his arse on the dirty floor to wait for the mirror to speak. He wanted to hear its story, charmed by the idea of an object somehow retaining some sort of sentiency.

He faintly recalled the warnings of his own parents when he was a young boy, even of the Weasley’s, urging him to steer clear of objects that seemed autonomous. Very rarely did good things come out of it, but what his parents didn’t know would not hurt them.

The mirror was silent for a moment, just as it had been earlier when it answered, before the rich sound from it came again. Harry wanted to close his eyes to listen, but he refrained. It was embarrassing how a voice could make him feel so at peace and intrigued.

What would Ron say to that? Harry almost snorted at that thought.

“…I used to be a student just like you. I had dreams and aspirations. Plans prepared for when I would graduate and set out to explore the world…” Harry’s breath hitched at how sad the voice sounded, the melancholy clinging onto him like a second skin. The mirror had grown silent, but Harry somehow knew that the mirror was not finished telling its tale.

“…I was an avid scholar. I wanted to learn the secrets of the world. But then, I made a mistake when conducting one of the many experiments I did in pursuit of knowledge.” Harry listened avidly, drinking in the words as they were said. He did not understand why he felt so empathetic. It was almost as if he himself had been trapped in the mirror, his own dreams crushed through no will of his own.

“The experiment went wrong. And I somehow ended up here, in this mirror. No one knew I was here…this room was my haven from the prying eyes of my peers.” The mirror’s voice sounded strained at the end his phrase, and Harry felt an unexplainable fear coil in his gut at the prospect of the voice never speaking again. “Lost… forgotten. Until you found me.”

The voice sounded happy then, and Harry could not help smiling in response. Harry was surprised at how much he wanted to help the mirror then. He didn’t know a single thing about this sort of magic, but he had to help. He couldn’t just leave this person trapped in the mirror for Merlin knows how long. He steeled himself for the difficult task and sat up from the floor, careful not to touch the mirror after being admonished for it earlier.

“I’ll help you get out of there.”

Harry spoke with conviction, his eyes staring into the mirror as if to convey just how readily he’d act. He could not help that he was a bleeding heart, often picked on by the Slytherins for his habit of helping those in need. His parents had taught him the importance of helping others, and this mirror was not any different than Neville when Snape was particularly cruel to him.

There was no ifs, ands, or buts. He was going to help even if the mirror did not want it.

“…you would help a perfect stranger? I could be dangerous.” The voice sounded almost amused, and Harry grimaced at the wisdom in the mirror’s comment.

“Stranger or not, you need my help! I can’t just leave you like this.” Harry was stubborn, lifting his chin despite the likelihood that the mirror could not actually see the gesture. “You used to be a person, I'm sure there is a way to bring you back.”

The mirror was silent once more, but Harry knew it would respond. It just had to.

Even if it did not agree, Harry was simply going to help it anyway. He’d get Ron and Hermione here post haste to get started on their plan.

They’d probably call him an idiot, but they’d help him all the same.

“…You’re too kind. It seems that you are bent on helping me regardless of my wishes. Then please, help me. But I have a few conditions.” Harry nodded his head eagerly, pleased that the mirror did not put up a fight.

“You are to tell no one about me…my predicament is one of its kind. I might be carted away to the Ministry to be experimented on, otherwise.” Harry was shocked, understanding dawning at the reality that that would definitely be his fate. The Ministry was at peace now, but that did not mean the same thing for a lot of magical items. Harry recalled the many raids into wizarding homes for dark objects---for things that had been a part of generations of families, to be dissected and never to be returned to their true owners.

Harry did not want that for the mirror. He refused to give it up to the wolves when Harry had only just found it.

“Okay, I won’t.” Harry almost nodded his head before he caught himself, recalling again that the mirror could probably not see him.

“What was your name before you became trapped in the mirror?” Harry almost kicked himself at not asking earlier, feeling rather rude that he had practically forced his help on the object but did not bother to ask the most simplest of questions.

“…Tom Riddle. I was a seventh year…what is the name of my savior?”

Harry melted at the sound, intrigued by the name.

It suited the mirror. It was definitely a riddle.

“My name is Harry Potter, and I am also finishing up my last year here at Hogwarts.”

Harry grinned back at the mirror, entirely too trusting of the mirror he had found.

[goingtosee-theworld]

CHARACTER SHEET: JANE CATHY PORTER

“I wanna see the whole world / I dunno how I’m gonna pay rent / I wanna see the whole world ... / I should tell them I’m not afraid to die” -- My Body’s Made of Crushed Little Stars, Mitski

STATS:

Birthday: 13 December 1992 (Sagittarius)

Myers-Briggs: INFP

Hogwarts House (Primary): Ravenclaw

Hogwarts House (Secondary): Gryffindor

Enneagram: Type 7

Height: 5’3

BACKGROUND OVERVIEW:

Mother: Dr. Eleanor Lily Day Porter (deceased)

Father: Dr. Archimedes Quentin Porter

Mother’s Occupation: Professor in anthropology—concentrated in biological anthropology, specifically primatology—also photographer

Father’s Occupation: Professor of zoology—specifically in large African mammals and conservation efforts

Family Finances: Upper middle class; her daddy’s family has quite a bit of money which they allocate to further the education of their family

Birth Order: only child

Other Close Family: Cousins—Ruby and Bobby, Aunt Rose, Uncle Richard, Grandmum (mum’s side), Gran (dad’s side), Grandfather (dad’s side)

Best Friend: does Jane have a best friend, tbh I guess Simba is the closest thing not that he considers her his best friend lol—although ok actually, she probably does consider Milo her best friend and partner.

Other Friends: wow does Jane not have friends lmao jk—Brad, some work colleagues, Ellie, Amelia, Mel…?

Enemies: none, really. She thinks Belle hates her bc they haven’t really talked since HP, where Belle probably did hate her.

Pets: Will-o-Wisp named Daisy, step-mum of Fluffy (Fluffy is not too fond of her)

Home Life During Childhood: Mostly happy, her parents encouraged learning and exploration. It was just tinged with the fact that her mum was sick and when her mum died, Jane fell into a bit of a depression that she never did quite recover from.

Town or City Name(s): London, England—specifically Bloomsbury

What Did Her Bedroom Look Like: yellow walls, had a day bed with black iron wrought frame and a canopy decorate with fairy lights, one wall was all postcards/National Geographic cut outs/travel magazine pictures, another wall had a big map with little pins in it, lots of stuff from her mum and dad’s travels, a shaggy purple rug

Any Sports or Clubs: Theatre in secondary, art as well, also did like school band for a bit (played flute)

Favorite Toy or Game: she had a ton of stuffed animals, but like those realistic looking ones from WWF or whatever

Schooling: went to some good public schools for primary and secondary, University College of London for her undergrad, BS in zoology, now she’s getting her masters’ in Magizoology

Favorite Subject: Biology/science, but also fond of art/history/literature. She wasn’t the best in physics or math.

Popular or Loner: Loner, she always was like adopted by friend groups but was never really close with all of them one-on-one, just like one or two people

Important Experiences or Events: Mom died when she was 16

Health Problems: Huntington’s Chorea, depression (side effect of dying lmao)

Culture: English

Religion and beliefs: Mum’s family is Anglican, but dad’s family was never religious so she’s not religious really, just does Christmas and Easter

PERSONALITY:

Bad Habits: peels her skin on her thumb when she’s nervous, can be a bit of a nervous talker, on the naturally flirty side, avoids problems and tries not to acknowledge them, but also wallows in her feelings when she’s feeling particularly down

Good Habits: kind-hearted, very good artist, humble for the most part, when she loves you, she loves you fully and deeply, daring, passionate

Best Characteristic: brave—she will look a tiger in the eye and walk towards it

Worst Characteristic: impulsive—she makes rash decisions sometimes

Worst Memory: her mother’s death, but also the day she told Tom she loved him and then he said he was dating someone else, and also the day she rejected Milo

Best Memory: tbh that moment like RIGHT before they woke up the mummy in Egypt, when they were all really happy and passionate and just acted on a whim

Proud of: she has one painting from school that some member of Parliament brought, she got A’s on all but one of her A-levels

Embarrassed by: sometimes she can kinda remember some of the people she slept with and she’s like welp that was embarrassing

Driving Style: she does not have her license

Strong Points: brave, passionate, daring, intelligent

Temperament: melancholic

Attitude: may seem a little far-off or not really there, but get her talking about something and she’s very grounded and passionate

Weakness: threaten Milo or her dad or her close friends and she will crack

Fears: not living a full life

Phobias: uh idk man how is this different

Secrets: only a few people know about her Huntington’s, also lol she doesn’t know that Milo doesn’t know she remembered who they were in the time jump

Regrets: probably turning Milo down the first time

Feels Vulnerable When: confronting her inner problems directly

Pet Peeves: CULTURAL APPROPIATION, people who are mean to animals :C

Conflicts: the constant fear of death around the corner

Motivation: a desire to live fully

Short Term Goals and Hopes: get her master’s, get a good and fulfilling job!

Long Term Goals and Hopes: live a life she is proud to lead

Sexuality: like 89% straight

Exercise Routine: she walks everywhere and rides her bike a lot and rock climbs/cave excavates, she doesn’t like set out to exercise, her lifestyle is just pretty active when she’s not in a bad depression spell

Day or Night Person — Night.

Introvert or Extrovert — Introvert.

Optimist or Pessimist — Optimist, believe it or not.

LIKES AND STYLES:

Music: twangy indie, usually favors female singers; big Carpenters fan too; also the Smiths; also Fleetwood Mac

Books: likes classics, generally, but also weird off-beat novels she finds in sales sections and used bookstores

Magazines: National Geographic, primarily; probably some art and lit magazines too

Foods: she likes a good curry; makes a great orange-glazed salmon; she’s one of those people who liked avocado before it was cool. She’s a pesceterian at home, but she will eat meat when she’s traveling.

Drinks: Earl Grey tea! Lightly sweetened, honey not sugar, and a pinch of milk. As for alcohol—rum. Spiced rum specifically. She likes mojitos, that’s her cocktail of choice.

Animals: oh gosh where to even begin! She’s fond of large Arican mammals (her dad’s speciality), but she really cares for all creatures and believes that it should be her duty to help them all. She knows she kinda gave domestic farm animals (cough, sheep) some shit for being “boring” because she didn’t really wanna be working with sheep for the rest of her life, but she’s had a new outlook on life and her passion for animals has been found again.

Sports: she probably watches football (soccer) casually; likes watching cricket though

Social Issues: big environmental activist, since dating Milo has been more aware of Magick-rights and that stuff

Favorite Saying: she knows its cliché at this point, but she liked it before it was cool: “Not all who wander are lost.”

Color: she likes purples and yellows and also reds

Clothing: she has a more boho look, wears a lot of flowing skirts and loose tops. Doesn’t really like to wear pants on the day to day, but will when she’s out adventuring. She likes wearing sunhats a lot.

Jewelry: she has a lot of traditionally made jewelry that she bought from local vendors in the places she’s traveled, lots of beaded necklaces and bracelets

Games: was a big Zoo Tycoon fan in her youth, doesn’t really play much now, except for like the occasional game with friends; likes board games though

Websites: casual insta user, has a tumblr that she scrolls through but rarely posts on

TV Shows: huge huge huge Doctor Who fan (Tennant was her doctor and also her first celebrity crush)

Movies: she likes classics—her favorite is Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Her mum was a huge fan of Audrey Hepburn so Jane has seen a lot of Hepburn movies. She’s also fond of The Mummy movies (though lately a bit less lol) and Indiana Jones and that sort of genre of adventure stories

Greatest Want: to travel as much as she can, to see all of the world, to experience it all

Greatest Need: to be happy

CURRENTLY:

Home: you know she and Milo haven’t officially moved in together yet but, like, they basically are over at each other’s places all the time—anyway, she has a single bedroom in one of the places by the uni

Household furnishings: she’s messy, but not in like a gross hoarder way, but she has a lot of casual clutter, her place looks like an antique store. There’s lots of trinkets around, the coffee table is covered in candles. She has a lot of pillows on the couch, lots of throw blankets. Her bedroom is pretty much the same way. There’s a lot of books, everything has its place but in its place it may be a bit of a mess lol. In her living room is a telescope by the window and an easel. There’s also a record player on a side table.

Favorite Possession: her record player (passed down from her mum) and her telescope (a  gift from her dad)

Most Cherished Possession: her journal—it’s like a sketchbook/diary/memento book, she writes down everything

Married Before: Nope.

Significant Other Before: Tom Crawford

Children: n/a--though she was pregnant, briefly, last August

Relationship with Family: very close with her father, pretty close with her extended family too as they are a small bunch

Car: n/a

Career: on track to becoming a magizoologist

Dream Career: tbh being part of the Rescue Aid Society would be perfect for her

Dream Life: traveling around the world as part of her job—be it helping Magicks, helping magical creatures, rescuing lost relics, searching for Atlantis, with Milo at her side

Love Life: very in love with Dr. Milo James Thatch

Hobbies : drawing, riding her bike, spelunking, exploring, reading, going to antiques shops and flea markets

Guilty Pleasure: those Harlequin romance books (shh don’t tell anyone)

Sports or Clubs: n/a

Talents or Skills : good artist (not super professionally trained, but very solid)

Intelligence Level : very intelligent—curious and passionate when it is a subject she is interested in, quick learner

Finances: solidly middle class, her father helped her out with rent till she was back on a steady job, but she makes enough to provide for herself—she spent most of her savings after uni on her travels

[teencenterspl]

All American Boys

Authors: Jason Reynolds & Brenden Keily

ABOUT:  In this book co-written by Jason Reynolds and Brendan Keily the #blacklivesmatter movement is confronted directly and intensely. Quinn and Rashad go to a heavily populated high school and have some acquaintances in common, but don’t float in the same circles. Rashad is a black teen trying to keep his dad off of his back about “turning out” like his older  brother Spoony, who by the way is dependable, has a steady job and girlfriend in law school, but  in his dad’s opinion “looks” the wrong way, i.e.  dreadlocks, over-sized shirts, baggy jeans… Rashad joined the junior ROTC program at his school to appease his dad who is more than proud of his own past military and law enforcement service. Quinn is the oldest son of “Ma” who was windowed by the war in Afghanistan. After his father dies, Paul Galluzzo, the older brother of Guzzo, Quinn’s best friend, takes Quinn under his protections and tries to act as a proxy for Quinn’s father. Paul Galluzzo joins the local police force and a banal event involving Rashad, that Quinn witnesses, instantly escalates into a catastrophic situation.

Stephanie says:

Technically, this book was written in late 2015, but its theme is one that is ALWAYS relevant and should be read about, and openly discussed. Rashad and Quinn are both reasonably happy teenagers, who like many of us, would rather keep their heads low and live their lives, but they are both put in a scenario that forces them to open their eyes and see, really see, even if they can’t process or understand what it is they are witnessing.  Now, they have to decide whether to be active or passive.  I loved how the authors used the connections to the military as an abstract purifier, or an exonerator of antagonism. Before the #blacklivesmatter movement some viewed law enforcement in a similar manner. Reynolds and Keily force us to ask ourselves WHAT is All American and WHO is All American? This book will ask you to conjure a mental image of an “all American boy”, and you might be surprised by what your mind visualizes.  I kept getting goose-bumps while I was reading this and I am getting them now as I’m writing about this extremely affecting story. I can’t recommend this book enough. You don’t need to be an activist to have insight and understanding, but the temptation will be there.  

 The Smell of Other People’s Houses

by Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock  

ABOUT: In Alaska, 1970, being a teenager here isn’t like being a teenager anywhere else. Ruth has a secret that she can’t hide forever. Dora wonders if she can ever truly escape where she comes from, even when good luck strikes. Alyce is trying to reconcile her desire to dance, with the life she’s always known on her family’s fishing boat. Hank and his brothers decide it’s safer to run away than to stay home—until one of them ends up in terrible danger.   Four very different lives are about to become entangled.

Stephanie Says: I fell in love with this book when I first read the title. Smells always induce nostalgic feelings. Usually, when I read a book I don’t experience it with all my senses. This book made me feel as if I were a by-stander in all the scenes, experiencing all the smells and tactility that the characters were.  I love when stories have a way of weaving the individual stories within them together displaying an impressive tapestry at the end. That is the way this book made me feel, as if I were watching beauty being created before my eyes. My mushy feelings aside, I never knew that there was so much contention about Alaska transitioning from a territory to a state. The backdrops for many characters in this story begin in 1958 when many Alaskans were fighting against statehood. This novel perfectly reminds me that struggle begets grace.  

 The Serpent King

By Jeff Zentner        

ABOUT: Dillard Early is a very recognizable name in Forrestville, Tennessee. His father, Dillard Early, Jr. and his grandfather, Dillard Early, Sr. made quite the impression upon their small town. Dill, as he goes by, is constantly trying to avoid the stigma of his name while also completing his senior year in high school. His only two friends, Travis and Lydia have very different lives, although they still have problems of their own. Lydia, who is “internet famous” for a fashion blog she runs Dollywould is trying to reconcile the space between the two worlds she resides in: 1) the mega interesting world of young fashionistas who shop ivy league colleges and attend fashion weeks in New York and 2) Forrestville, Tennessee, where she was born and raised and her only two REAL friends, Travis and Dill, are destined to continue their lives in the sad, pathetic town that she believes they are all better than. Travis is choosing to escape the troubles of his reality by becoming completely engrossed in a book series called Bloodfall. He wears a necklace with a dragon charm and carries a staff everywhere Lydia will allow it. They all know their lives are going to change soon. How they cope with the changes approaching will determine their futures.

 Stephanie says: This book really challenged some realities for me. First, I am also from a small town outside of Nashville, Tennessee, so the proximity of where this story takes place to where my hometown is caused me to devour this book. I knew all the references that were unique to Tennessee: the way he described the light on a September afternoon, or the style of homes on a rural street, or even East Nashville’s cluttered coolness. What was so affecting to me though was the way Mr. Zentner approached place and questioned how it defines you, or if it does. Dill and Travis both feel their destinies are defined by Forrestville. Lydia, on the other hand feels that Forrestville is the only thing keeping her from her destiny. I think everyone can relate to one of these two feelings, maybe both of them. Each character is trying to carry their individual burden their small town has bestowed upon them. Lydia wants more for Dill and Travis then they want for themselves, but how could she possibly know what life was really like for either of them? I absolutely LOVED this book. There are only a few books in my memory that have stuck with me so deeply. The characters in The Serpent King will embed themselves in your brain and you won’t be able to shake them.

 The Last True Love Story

by Brendan Kiely

ABOUT: The point of living is learning how to love. That’s what Gpa says. To Hendrix and Corrina, both seventeen but otherwise alike only in their loneliness, that sounds like another line from a pop song that tries to promise kids that life doesn’t actually suck. Okay, so: love. Sure. The thing about Corrina—her adoptive parents are suffocating, trying to mold her into someone acceptable, predictable, like them. She’s a musician, itching for any chance to escape, become the person she really wants to be. Whoever that is. And Hendrix, he’s cool. Kind of a poet, but also kind of lost. His dad is dead and his mom is married to her job. Gpa is his only real family, but he’s fading fast from Alzheimer’s. Looking for any way to help the man who raised him, Hendrix has made Gpa an impossible promise—that he’ll get him back east to the hill where he first kissed his wife, before his illness wipes away all memory of her. One hot July night, Hendrix and Corrina decide to risk everything. They steal a car, spring Gpa from his assisted living facility, stuff Old Humper the dog into the back seat, and take off on a cross-country odyssey from LA to NY. With their parents, Gpa’s doctors, and the police all hot on their heels, Hendrix and Corrina set off to discover for themselves if what Gpa says is true—that the only stories that last are love stories. (from publisher)

 Stephanie Says:  If you are a music junky this book will speak to your soul; even if you aren’t the rich story that emerges from these broken characters will draw you into this story. Teddy, Gpa and Corrina are all extremely lonely. Teddy because his father is dead and his mother travels for work a lot, so he is left alone most of the time, Gpa because he has Alzheimer’s and is losing the company of his memories, and Corrina because she longs to know about her biological parents and life in Guatemala, where she was adopted from as a baby.

I love Kiely’s descriptions of the very specific places Teddy, Gpa and Corrina stopped at   while trekking across America. From his detail I knew this must have been a trip Kiely himself once took.  I also loved that he put two sensitive and thoughtful teenagers in the roles of caregiver for an Alzheimer’s patient. They made him feel safe and often played music from his younger life that inspired memories of his late wife.

The ending was a surprise to me and I was glad that is didn’t turn out the way I predicted. I encourage all readers to be sure to read his acknowledgements at the end.

[maxaroha]

Task 001 // The Reaping

A burst of cold woke Kali up from a rather deep sleep. She had reached her bed at the time of night where it was deciding if morning was a better name for the shrinking darkness. Her window was still wide open, the window blowing her makeshift curtains inwards to her small room.

Her mother stood over her, a little bucket hanging from her hand that looked empty. It was only then, that Kali realized her face and hair were soaked. She glared at her mom and closed her eyes willing the day to transform into night so that she didn’t have to face this particular day. Natasha smiled inwardly, before shaking her daughter’s eyes open again.

“You’ve got to get dressed and cleaned up. There’s some warm water and soap in the bathroom,” she explained, hitting her daughter with a pillow before retreating out of the messy, cluttered room of her daughter.

Kali sighed loudly, trying to reach her mom’s ears. She heard a chuckle from the kitchen and smiled. She pried herself out of bed, checking on the drawings she had deposited on her desk that sat under the other window that peered out of her room. Kali had recently acquired some coloured pencils, along with a few coins, from the Hob in exchange for a couple of drawings of the merchant’s spouse meeting secretly with a Peacekeeper.

Her drawings were finally in colour and they were absolutely breathtaking. Kali couldn’t stop looking at the colours that dotted the pages, wanting to tack them up on her wall immediately, but deciding to get cleaned up first. She scrubbed the soot off her skin, washed the leaves and small twigs out of her hair, and tried to get the charcoal out from under her fingernails. Emerging, she was dressed in her finest light purple cotton dress, a pair of scuffed Mary Janes on her socked feet, and her hair styled as much as she could. Kali made her way over to their small dining room table, a pile of potatoes and an egg on her plate.

“Thanks mom,” Kali said, stuffing a forkful of food into her mouth.

“Tonight, are you working?” she asked, her eyebrows raised, always a little concerned when she went to spy on whoever was next on her list.

Kali swallowed, her eyes glistening with excitement. She nodded, shoveling another mouthful in her mouth. It was their ritual to ignore the Reaping that dominated the day. It helped them deal with the fact that she might not be coming home. Plus, her odds of being Reaped were so much lower than so many people in Twelve, particularly the Seam.

“Well, I also need you to help me mix some more tinctures and some anxiety-reducing mixtures. I’m sure tonight there will be families that need them,” she added, non-chalantly. “Oh and can you go see it the Mellarks are willing to part with some bread for a little bit less than normal?”

Kali cocked her head in surprise, wondering why they would need to pay less than normal. “Why? They’re still mourning. I can toss in a few coins to help if you want.” Kali had wanted to save her extra coins from spying for a new set of paints or a new shirt to replace the one she had ruined a few nights ago when she had caught it on a nail and it ripped upwards. There was also some blood on it, so Kali had reduced it to rags. But she would give her coins to help her mom, everytime.

Natasha smiled at her daughter. “You don’t have to. You’ve got your ways.”

Her mother was not wrong. She had some information on the Mellarks, nothing too damning but it could hurt their business. Kali, although a spy, didn’t like to use her skills for things like this. “I will see what I can do, but I can also toss a little bit in, mom.”

“I know, but you’re still a kid -”

“No, we are a team, mom.” Kali gave her mom a look and she fell silent.

“Are we having dinner with the Jamesons tonight?” Kali asked, filling the silence and urging her mom to accept that Kali was more than capable to help now.

“I think so. I will talk to Cara and see if they are okay with that.”

“I definitely think Etta would like it, she was bugging me to come over and play a couple of days ago.”

The two fell into a comfortable conversation, talking about the shop and some of the innocuous secrets that Kali had discovered when she had sat in the Hob, blending in with the crowds and sketching. Surprisingly, no one had caught on to her or her business, unless they really needed her. A lot of people often forgot about her when she finished their transaction, focused on the secrets they now held in their hands.

They headed down to the Town Square, pausing in front of the Jamesons before turning towards the hustle and bustle.

Kali separated from her mom and was placed near the back of the group of teenagers. She had wanted to bring her sketchbook, but she knew the Peacekeeper would have confiscated it when she entered the square. Kali watched and listened, looking at some of the other kids that she knew, smiling at some and looking proud at others. She needed this air of mystery, confidence, and kindness. It made her shift into the shadows sometimes and stopped some people from coming to speak to her. It was a hard line to walk, but Kali had perfected it as the years went by.

She found Levi in the crowd, his blonde hair glistening in the sunlight. She passed over him and found the Jamesons and her mom standing in the crowd together. Her eyes flickered back to the stage and watched as the crazy Capitol lady spoke to them. Kali barely paid attention until the woman placed her hand in the female stack of names.

“Kaliope Hilade.”

Her world tilted as her brain processed what was happening. She walked purposefully out to the path up to the stage, trying to act as confident as she could. Kali needed to look strong, someone that people would want to help. Maybe someone would volunteer for her, but at the very least she could look good for the Capitol. Her mind was whirling as she adjusted herself to the situation. The walk seemed to last forever and as she got to the stage, she went numb. Her mother was in the crowd, she was aghast and seemed to be wishing for a different future. Cara was holding on to her and Kali barely registered the next name that came up.

“Levi Jameson.”

Kali could not believe it. She saw Levi walk up and shook his hand, like normal, but saw a look of fear and disbelief come over his face, one that reflected what Kali felt.

They walked Kali and Levi into the Justice Building, depositing Kali in a room by herself, with a window that looked out over the Square. She started to shake a little bit, but tried to quell it as much as possible.

The door creaked open and her mother stepped in. Kali turned to her, running to give her a hug. Natasha held her tight for a few minutes. They were revelling in each other before they had to face the undeniable future that had been chosen for them only a few minutes before.

Natasha broke the hug, stepping back and looking at her daughter.

“I was saving this for your eighteenth birthday, but I’ve been bringing them to the Reaping for the past couple of years. I couldn’t -” a sob escaped from Natasha’s mouth, but she swallowed it, her eyes glistening with tears. “But, I couldn’t not give it to you if you - if you weren’t coming home with me after the Reaping.”

She held out her hand and in it lay a small silver necklace with a little leaf adorning the end of it. Kali picked it up and held it tightly in her hand, looking up at her mother. Her mom placed her hand on her daughter’s cheek. Kali closed her eyes, wanting time to stand still.

“You are my little leafbud.” Kali opened her eyes and saw tears streaming down her mother’s face. Kali couldn’t hold it in anymore and a sob that sounded like the cry of an abandoned bear cub came out of her. She fell into her mother’s arms, clutching at her shirt as she cried into her shoulder.

“But, you’ve grown into a rose, my dear. Beautiful, but dangerous.” Natasha pulled away, wanting to look at her daughter’s face before she was taken away. “I will miss you every second that you are away.”

“I will come home, mom.”

Natasha’s eyes darted around her daughter’s face, trying to take in everything about her. Kali stared at her mom, her partner, her best friend. Everything that she had was here in this one person. She would come home, no matter what.

The door opened and a Peacekeeper walked into the room, ready to lead Kali away from home. Natasha kissed Kali on the forehead, grasping her hand. “I love you, Kali.”

“I love you, mom.” Kali pulled away, her hand still clutching her necklace. The door closed behind her and her mother collapsed on the ground, pounding the carpet in anger and sadness.