#he commiserates his loses and he’s wrong

[yesterdayiwrote]

George’s tweet is STILL full of those ‘fans’ in the QTs sending him abuse? Like Jesus fucking Christ what do you want from the guy at this point?

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Your Touch Builds a Bonfire - A John Shelby/Reader One Shot Story.

Just a bit of John smut for my lovelies on this cold Saturday night! Enjoy, darlings :)

Words - 1,810

Warnings - Spicy smut below the cut, minors DNI!

The way he twirls a pencil between his fingers, watching how the phalanges bend so effortlessly has you in a trance. How he makes a teacup look so small in his grasp. How the veins in the back of his hands bulge when he flexes a hand in his hair, usually when something has frustrated him to the point of anger.  

When he notices you watching, though, that fiery temper of his never fails to cool.  

He knows how much you desire him. He sees it, he’s been waiting for you to make a move, seeing how far he can go in pushing you with little instances of tease. He always finds some way to lightly touch you, whether emphasising a point, sweeping a stray few strands of hair behind your ear, or brushing fallen eyelashes from your cheek, he finds a way.  

You want his hands on you in much finer detail, though. It’s only because he’s your boss and you’re scared to lose your job that you haven’t acted upon it, just in case you’re wrong. It makes you tingle to the tips of your ears, imagining giving him the come on only for him to stare at you incredulously and state that you are mistaken over his intentions.  

Leaving your daydream behind, you turn your attention back to the typewriter ahead of you, the chaos of the bookmaker's offices soon beginning to swirl as the races kick off at various locations around the country. By the end of the day, the final race leaving the men cleared from the space to go and either celebrate or commiserate their wins or losses at the local boozer, you are still at your typewriter, John across the space at his desk, scribbling in the ledger.  

You see him exit his seat without a word, leaving the room, your fingers tapping the final letters upon the page you need his signature upon, pulling it from the typewriter and gently shaking it to dry the ink. Placing it down, you see an arm reach over your shoulder, a whiskey placed upon your desk.  

“Worked hard today, you did,” he speaks, nodding to the glass as you turn to look up at him. “I ain’t in the mood for the pub, but I am in the mood for a few drinks with my favourite.”  

He winks, and heat prickles your cheeks, busying yourself with picking up the drink and taking a big sip, attempting to bolster your confidence a little. It’s what you want, but oh! How the man makes you nervous!  

He’s too gorgeous for his own bloody good.  

“Well, since your other favourite was disappointing today, I can scarcely blame you.”  

He grins, chuckling into his glass. “Yeah, you’re much less trouble than a thoroughbred with the desire to throw his fucking jockey.” He shakes his head, sinking the rest of his drink. “Bloody animal.” He reaches for the bottle he brought with him, refilling his glass, topping yours off too. “You’re still trouble, though.”  

Your face mirrors the confusion his statement makes you feel. “I am?” 

“Oh ar, love. Definitely.”  

Your heart hammers with nervous excitement, taking a long sip of the whiskey before replying. “Why is that?”   

“Because short of diving on you, I dunno what the fuck else I’m meant to do to show you how much I want to take you to bed. If we even got that far. Believe me, I want you so badly, I’d settle for tearing off all your clothes and bouncing you on my cock while sitting in a chair down here.”  

Oh god. There they are, his intentions, delivered with every ounce of cocky confidence you should have known would leak out eventually after his tentative flirtations thus far. John Shelby can only be gentlemanly for so long, though.  

It’s time to cease the wallflower routine.  

Standing up, you don’t take your eyes off him for a long, long moment, the weight of your mutual stare enough to crack the floor below as you gesture to the seat you rose from. “I think we were the wrong way round for that to happen.”  

His mouth curls into a smirk, finishing his drink and placing the glass down, seating himself. You move to him, excitement whizzing through your tummy, gathering the soft material of your summer dress and beginning to hitch it up, John’s hands reaching for you, running up your bare legs as you manoeuvre astride him, sitting upon his thighs.  

The feeling of his hands, hands you have fantasised about for so long finally running over your skin, gripping your hips as he pulls you closer to him causes little darts of warmth to flicker through you, the heat of his hardening cock right against your apex making you tingle with want. His lips press kisses across your chest, hands moving to cup your breasts, tongue running over the half-moon of each soft orb escaping the top of your dress, his soft groan hungry, fingers moving to lower the zip.  

The fabric pools in his grasp as the dress falls from your shoulders, his lips placing ascending kisses to your neck before your mouths finally meet, an exchange of filthy, blazing, hungry need, your heart somersaulting in your chest. His mouth is so ravenous upon you, it knocks you sideways, the urgency of his desire for you, hands clasping at your back, removing your bra will easy skill, like he’s done it a hundred times before.  

He probably has.  

You feel in nothing short of a hundred percent capable, knowledgeable hands, his mouth moving to suck upon your nipple, your head tipping back as you grind yourself against his hard cock, his teeth prickling in bite upon the pebbled bud in response to that. “Fuck, these are some fucking beautiful tits.” His breath flutters hot against you, summer breezing through a spring chill, warming you to your bones, his tongue running slowly from between your breasts and back to your mouth.  

Unbuttoning his waistcoat, your hands slide beneath his braces, levering them from his shoulders, unknotting his tie and unbuttoning his crisp, white shirt, thirsting to feel the skin that lies beneath pressing against yours. His shirt flutters to the floor, his arms tightening around them as your touch tours lithe muscles encased in pale, golden freckled flesh. His hand trails down your body, reaching the cotton of your undies, the fabric dampened by your want for him.  

Pushing you back, he moves you to your feet, pupils blown with lust, gripping those soaking undies and tugging them down. Shuffling the chair forward, he lifts your leg over his shoulder, scattering kisses up your inner thigh, the anticipation making you pant, a soft gasp fluttering over your lips as his mouth meets your folds.  

A hot lick rolls through the wet of you, the light fleck of stubble adding in delicious contrast, his tongue seeking your clit and circling, flickering, evoking your wails, your hands going to his hair, nails flexing against the shaven sides of his head as you mewl in delight. Each lick has your blood running hot, sends glimmers through you, little shocks of pleasure tingling your entire core as your cries rend the air.  

He has you panting hard, each skim of his tongue over your tiny, potent little bundle making your hips rock against his mouth, his arms wound around you, one gripped to your waist, the other squeezing upon the rounded orb of your bum. His full lips close in suck around you, your legs shaking, the heat of it snapping over your bones, the pleasure biting and full-bodied, a bright burn of warmth making the coil within you tighten sharply.  

Flattening his tongue against you, he lets you get off on the wide drag of it, the tip caressing your dewy opening as your clit throbs against the press, his hand moving to begin undoing his trousers.  

“I could fucking eat your beautiful little cunt forever, darlin’, but god, I need you on my cock.” You’re so aroused, you can barely form thought as he pulls it out, and it’s thick and perfect, running it through the slick petals of your sex as you sit back astride him before feeding it into your gaping little hole, filling you with a rumbling grunt.  

White hot pleasure sizzles up your spine, ascending like a flurry of champagne bubbles, the taste of yourself upon his sensuous mouth more erotic than you could have ever imagined, moaning against his tongue as your rock back and forth upon him. The sensations of your walls being split so wide around him has bolts of pure bliss skittering through you, your tender little clit grinding against him as his hips buck up against you, pushing you back to devour your breasts with kisses, nibbles and licks.  

The way his hands tour you, stroking ever rise and curve of your body, it has you just as mindless as the delicious drag of his cock over every sweet spot within you, scraping sparks through your walls, his groans deep and rich as he paws at you with unrelenting hunger. The heat of it roars like a forest fire, the embers sizzling over your nerves as your mutual moans fill the space, bliss tumbling through you both. It’s fervid and delicious, scorching and unrelenting, everything you knew sex with John would be now playing out in an illumination of utter sin.  

His eyes are a bonfire of blue fire as he stares at you, fingers tangling in your hair, kissing you again with urgent need as his cock sends glimmers fizzing through you. It becomes even more uncontained, the power of him beneath you incredible, hands tightening upon your shoulders as he forces you down upon the rigidity of him, making you to take the brunt of every hard snap of his hips, hitting you so deep, you’re sent reeling and mindless atop him as your thighs tremble.  

Your cries reach crescendo as the stars surge forth, entire nebulas glittering into decadent light, your walls fluttering around him, dragging his release from his sweaty body, cock spilling hot into you. You’re both rendered an entwined, panting mess in the wake of it, kissing softly, hands still roaming, John beginning to chuckle.  

“Yeah,” he breathes, nuzzling your nose, “definitely the least troublesome favourite of the day.”  

You beam, your chest still heaving hard. “Want to take me upstairs and see if I can change that?” Your tongue teases the outer shell of his ear, gently nibbling the soft lobe. “I promise not to buck the jockey off.”  

He laughs loudly, locking his arms around you and carrying you to the stairs, his hand smacking against your bum a few times causing your shrieking laughter. “I suppose it’d be fun if you tried to, love.”  

[dame-lazarus]

thinking about IWTV and how Daniel says of Lestat, “I’ve gotta meet this guy”…and how the sequel book is basically Lestat complaining how he’s misunderstood and how Louis’s account gets a bunch of stuff wrong, but also explaining his turning and some basics of vampire lore…a perfect framing device for the two of them meeting and commiserating in s3…reflecting on their makers and the fledgling bond…Lestat mentoring Daniel…Daniel chatting with Louis telepathically and driving Lestat insane…Lestat and Louis passing notes via Daniel until he loses it and makes them talk on the phone…Lestat offering to reach out to Armand for him but Daniel refusing…in-person Loustat romance rekindling in the season finale just as the well well if it isn’t the consequences of my actions pops up in the form of Akasha…but they’ll face it together…give it to me

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Sex witch, I don’t know if I need advice or commiseration, but I’m writing in anyway in case you/your followers can help.

So I (24M) am a polyamorous slut, a term I embrace. My current sexual partners are my fiancé (25M), my girlfriend (22F) and my boyfriend (25M). Fiancé and boyfriend aren’t currently having sex with anyone other than me, but my girlfriend has recently started hooking up with her friend R (21M).

Because I have multiple sexual partners, I tend to be more-than-usually strict when it comes to regular STI screenings. I ask that my partners all get screened regularly, and that they ask their sexual partners to also screen regularly. This hasn’t been a problem until now.

Recently, my girlfriend asked me to talk to R for her. Apparently he told her he’d been STI tested recently when in fact he’s never been STI tested at all. That already rubs me the wrong way, because it means that he lied to her in order to get her to agree to sex she otherwise wouldn’t have. GF doesn’t want to start a fight with R about the lie. She *does* want me to convince him to actually get tested. He refuses or changes the subject when she asks, and is apparently offended that my “tyrannical demands” are expected to dictate his behavior.

I don’t want to talk to R about this and would prefer to let him and GF sort it out between them, except that GF has continued to have sex with him in the interim and seems to have given up in getting him to listen to her directly. In short, it’s a mess.

My choices seem to be these:

—Have multiple lengthy and miserable conversations with an immature 21 year old who thinks I’m a sexual tyrant about why STI testing matters to me.

—Physically drag him to the local free clinic by his hair (I know better, don’t worry)

—Try to get my GF to stop having sex with him (I hate trying to control other people’s sex lives)

—Stop having sex with my GF indefinitely. (This is the current state of affairs.)

At this point, I think I’m too frustrated to have a clearheaded view of this issue. R seems to think that I’m upset that one of my partners is having sex with someone else, but it really, really isn’t that. I got along great with my GF’s ex boyfriend and my boyfriend and fiancé’s exes, all of whom were prepared to approach our dynamic with respect for everyone involved. I’m kind of thinking myself into angry circles about this one, I think. Please advise.

hi anon,

glad you decided to ask about this now that you've found yourself thinking in circles. it can be easy to lose perspective when you're up to your eyes in a problem, and getting someone else's input can be really necessary. I'm happy to offer that input, and it's this:

the last option, re: no sex with your GF, is not only by far the most reasonable option but also the only one that seems at all fair to you and your other partners.

I don't know your GF and I'm sure she's a lovely person, but from where I'm standing she's also being a huge dick about this. it's not her fault that R lied to her about having never been tested, but making the choice to continue having sex with him after finding out the truth, giving up on trying to get him to get tested, and pawning the responsibility off on you is unfair to you, your other partners, and anyone else who potentially becomes part of this dynamic

I want to be so clear here: wanting everyone to get tested for the safety of an entire group is not unreasonable, and it's not tyrannical behavior. it's an extremely reasonable request to make, and if your girlfriend wants to disregard that then that's her choice to make, but she's also an adult woman who can deal with the consequences of the choice.

in my pinned post I say that my answer to most requests for relationship advice is to talk about it or break up, and unfortunately I can't really see this situation ending any other way.

[mysteriouslyjovialcolor]

Germany 2019

-Oh the last German GP?

-Lewis and Max first row! Pierre in Red Bull. Lando and Sebastian last row?!

-Look at that, they’re racing in the rain. Albeit, starting under safety car

-“Safety car needs to come in already. Come on let’s go” Lewis’ beef against the safety car will never not be funny

-They’ve done like three formation laps or as they’re calling it: “exploration laps”

-“How are conditions Max?” “Yeah, perfect to go, I don’t understand why we are not racing”

Lewis 🤝 Max: wanting to go race

-Haha all of the cars glitched for a second before the start

-And now Max has somehow dropped five places, wth

-Kimi p3 🙌

-Sebastian too, making up many places! P20 to p14!

-Oh Max back to p3!

-Kevin and Checo squabbling…Checo’s in the wall

-This is giving Brazil 2016 with the multiple safety cars

(Try not to compare every wet race to Brazil 2016 challenge failed)

-Sebastian and Alex falling back to p18 and p19 after stopping for tires :/

-Almost every driver pitting now

-Mercedes double stack!

-Holy shit Kevin is p2 (That’s a rare sight to see)

-All of those pit stops shuffled up the lineup so much. Lance is p5, Nico p7, George p9!

-I don’t think the Williams pit because they’re somehow both in the points

-Yeah, George pit now

-Sebastian finally in the points

-Oh shit Danny p17?

-Aah Charles, Kevin, and Nico fighting for p4

-Pierre running wide! he’s fallen to p19 :((

-Kimi’s still as formidable as ever in that Alpha Romeo

-“Raikkonen turned a threat into an opportunity” yesss Kimi!

-“The three at the front are traveling much faster than anyone else”

-Aw I forgot this was Nico’s home race too

-Engine problem for Daniel :/

-Another safety car? Virtual safety car?

-More pit stop games

-“Just be patient Max” GP has got to be the calmest man ever

-“So you are the fastest car on track” Let’s go Charles!

-Carlos slipping off the track??

-“Sorry guys, that was unfortunate” Yeah, top ten to p14

-“Leclerc is now 7 laps off leading this race” Oh?? Are we about to get Max vs Charles??

-Ferrari trying a gamble with Sebastian’s tires

-“They’re in the clouds of the gods now” Sometimes these commentators go unnecessarily hard

-Red Bull playing a gamble too

-“Lando Norris power slide out of the pit” That looked very cool actually

-Max doing an involuntary donut. I’m not sure if that gamble played off

-Oh shit Lando’s lost power. VSC once again

-Charles p2! At least one driver’s strategies are somewhat working

-Ohmygodd he’s out!! I actually gasped out loud! That was so unexpected!!!

-Aaah that sucks so bad

-The actual safety car is back

-I’m still in shock

-Ohmygod this is all so chaotic!

-Lewis almost went into the wall and damaged his front wing!

-The pit crew weren’t ready for him!! They’re scrambling! He’s lost so many places!!

-Nico’s p3 now ohmygod

-This is still lap 30 of 64. We’re not even halfway through

-Valterri pitting as well, Max leading now

-Everyone’s on inters

-Nico p2 at his home race😭 (I’m going to cry when he loses that) (What do I have to do for him to just stay there???)

-I can’t believe Lewis got a 5s time penalty for going on the “wrong side of the bollard at the pit entry”

-How does that even make sense? It’s not like it affected any other car but his

-Alex though! In p4, holding Lewis back in that Toro Rosso

-??? Lewis under investigation again???

-Valterriiiii stay away from Hulkenburggggg

-Noooooo Valterri whyyyy

-Can’t even hope for p3 now because it’s Lewis who’s behind him

-At this point let him just finish the race please

-“Rare to see Kimi Raikkonen making a mistake” Yes, it was devastating (at least he recovered still in the points)

-Someone kill me, Nico’s out

-“That’s so terrible for him! I was just about to say what a phenomenal run he’s having. He would so have deserved to finally maybe have a chance even for a podium because we still don’t know what penalties Lewis is gonna have. Ohmygod, that’s heartbreaking. Poor guy” Me and Nico Roseberg commiserating together

-“I’m still looking forward to Lewis coming up to Bottas now though. That’s going to really really cause internal team battle there; coming up” And Nico R is now hoping for inter-team drama. He moved on pretty fast. I’m still here (crying over Hulkenburg and his dream slipping away right through his fingers)

-“Right call, right tire, right time” Max: the only one carrying me through this race now

-“Nico Hulkenburg never retired from his home race at the German Grand Prix before” Why must they keep rubbing it in??

-“Verstappen’s pitted 4 times in this race so far” This race is actually insane

-I’m actually still sad about Nico. He was so close! God, why does he have such bad luck!

-None of these commentators talking about how Alex casually made up 12 places and has stayed in p4?? In a Toro Rosso?!

-Ohmygod I should just shut up, why’d he loose a place…two places…and he’s gone wide and dropped down to p8; someone kill me.

-Max pitting again????

-Where did Sebastian randomly gain speed from? Ohmygodd Kimi too? They’re p3 and p2?! What is going on???

-Somehow Lance is in p5 all the way from p15. I did not see that coming. He was the only car who pit for slick tires with the safety car earlier and now with everyone pitting again, this has worked out great for him

-Holy shit Lance is leading the race

-Lewis, Kimi, and Sebastian all pit and now Lance is leading and Max is back up to p2 and somehow Daniil Kvyat is p3 and just set the fastest lap

-Wet races always bring so many surprises. This is all so insane. I feel like I’ve just hallucinated half of this

-Max leading again

-I forgot about Lewis’ penalty 😭 The grid positions changed so drastically, it almost feels like it got reversed

-“How has it got this bad?” Honestly Lewis I actually don’t know

-Aww kinda wanted Lance to stay p2, he missed out on it so narrowly last time he was on the podium

-Haha Valterri about to take p3 from him now, he’s the one who took p2 from his last time I think, if I remember correctly

-Checo looking on from the pit box>>

-Oh shit Valterri is out! God, Mercedes are not having a good race are they? Lewis in p14 (last) pitting again (his sixth time) and Valterri out

-This safety car probably not going to help Lance keep podium position, what with Carlos and Sebastian right behind him at the restart

-“Good for the smaller teams. This is their kinda day” Don’t I know it (maybe it’s something about pink teams?)

-Aah Sebastian right behind Lance now! If he makes podium now he’d have gone from p20 to p3!

-And he’s done it!!

-Oh bloody hell, Pierre’s gone off. He’s not having a fun day either

-Ohmygod Sebastian p2!!! Imagine if he wins?!!

-“And you’re either wearing orange this weekend or red” yesss, the orange army going wild!!

-It is so insane to me that seven cars are out

-Honestly, Lance p4 is cool too, his race did not start out well (and Carlos p5 🙌)

-I wish Sebastian was still racing 😢

-Genuinely didn’t ever expect to see a Daniil Kyvyat podium; when I was watching the races from the past few seasons he barely finished a race

-This podium is kind of a Red Bull family reunion if you think about it

-‘Tis very cute

(Would be better if Nico had finished the race but I’ll take my wins where I can get them)

(Also! I just looked up the race results again cause I forgot if Kimi placed 6th or 7th and he hasn’t placed either??! Apparently he got a post race penalty for some infringement!? That’s so annoying)

(Oh however, that means Lewis did end up in the points after all)

(The more you know)

(Ohmygod, I just noticed that Fernando is not here?!?? How did I miss that when I watched Brazil 2019?!)

(I’m crashing out. I need sleep)

[raayllum]

Teasers Timeline

With the teasers we've gotten this week, I want to try and assemble them into some kind of timeline. Spoilers and speculation ahead!

First off, there's the ones we know are taking place during 6x01 Startouched thanks to con spoilers, such as shots of the prison with Callum, his nightmare featuring Aaravos, Rayllum on the castle battlements, group discussion, them departing for the Starscraper, and Ezran comforting Zym about Zubeia.

Claudia and Terry is also probably from 6x01 (maybe Claudia commiserating with a flashback if it's from later on in the season) due to the beach location and her having to take wet/bloody clothes off. We can even see that one pantleg is shorter than the other.

Now onto the rest, with episode titles as a slight guideline.

This shot with Corvus, Zym, and Soren is likely from 6x02 Love, War, and Mushrooms, given they went looking for Zubeia and Soren meets up with Corvus at the Sunfire camp.

I also wouldn't be surprised if the "Ezran at the castle" and Janaya is around here. If Viren is alive, he could be showing up in Katolis (or Claudia is there to find the fake prison) and Janaya is preparing for war now that Sol Regem has the sun seed. Likewise, this is one of two places I could see the screencap of the Viren and Kpp'Ar flashback being; Viren may be heading back to try to free Kpp'Ar (and may do so with the staf?? If Rayllum didn't take his coin) and thereby reflecting on their past.

Then we get Rayla and Callum on the burning ship in 6x03 Frozen Ship. There's less fire when they're first there together and Callum needs to get his staff back, and significantly more fire when Rayla is there on her own despite being near the same hole in the roof and Callum not being in frame anymore.

Then they head to the Starscraper (and potentially face the big scary dragon along the way, though that could be a trial for 6x05 as well).

Rayla's line about "The fate of the entire world is at stake," her expression, as well as Stella's (almost angry?) expression makes me think she's trying to reason with Callum > telling the celestial elves what's going on, but it really could be either.

Big dragon could also be the trial or thing they're flying off too as well, after the infamous Chin Touch (and possible smooch) given that the clouds from what may be their room seems to match what we see in the background.

If the dragon adventure with Luna Tenebris' unsuitable heir is on the way to the Starscraper, I'd guess it'll have something to do with the moonstone collar its wearing (perhaps an enchantment that cloaks the starscraper from outside viewers?). If it's after, then I have no clue WHY beyond the celestial elves going "you gotta".

At the same time, Karim and Janai are preparing for war. The search for Zubeia must've been either successful or they had to give up and switch gears, as Ezran has 1) left Katolis to be here and 2) reunited with Corvus and with Zym, only to be captured and need rescuing from his favourite dragon pal (Zym's covering them, but it also seems Ez and Corvus showed up on horses so.. parlay gone wrong?)

The amount of Sol Regem regalia on their outfits and Karim's tent makes me think he's already used the sun seed to heal / ally with Sol Regem, or that he's very very close to doing so.

I do think he ultimately goes through with it, though, given that the next time we see Sol Regem, his eyes aren't healed but his wings are 100% patched up and Pharos is seemingly riding him into battle, with Janai and Amaya leading their ground assault.

Amaya still has her crown, and Aanya might show up to help -- the cliffs match the ones she's landing on -- at Ezran's behest, but it's probably not enough.

If she loses but lives, that could be why we see her almost in mourning at the sun seed tree

And I think that's it for now! More speculation and teasers to follow soon I'm sure

[sightkeeper]

I'm going to be staying off socials until noise drops off a bit, but only wanted to say I genuinely really loved the season, so much, and I am so incredibly happy to continue to create in this fandom for the future :)

(just a bit more Thoughts on the ending below the cut)

My hyperfixation character is Aziraphale and I was Beyond Worried that what I felt I remembered about the characters would be off, but I didn't. Yes even the end

Even without the coffee theory, the combination of Aziraphale not questioning Her but questioning the System makes sense to me as a motivation, but also the prospect of doing good, being able to have the power to protect (Crowley), I see the appeal for him

And the Metatron love bombing Aziraphale, commiserating on also enjoying Human Food so he feels accepted for something he's usually ridiculed for, just general manipulative methods of getting someone to return to the fold

Even if Aziraphale is making this wrong choice fully aware, deprograming is a process, so it doesn't shake my conviction that because it's not instantaneous or linear that it isn't happening, or that Aziraphale will lose all of his character development

I can deal with complicated, and I have faith :)

(Yes of COURSE I'm also IN PAIN but it's because I love these characters and the conflict SUCKS but I also think it's good TV! I'm angry but only in an anticipatory way!!)

[jomiddlemarch]

to be two chaoses 

The nightmares began after Rose was born. 

Resumed was the more accurate term, as Hermione had nearly become dependent on Dreamless Sleep within a few weeks of Harry’s victory over Voldemort, when the multiple years’ worth of trauma, especially the torture she’d experienced at Malfoy Manor, had come bearing down on her like the Hogwarts Express on steroids, an expression Harry would pretend not to understand and Justin would shrug at in commiseration. Her parents, sequestered in Mugglish obscurity in Melbourne, would not have been any help if she’d been able to get to them and restore their memories, something she repeated to herself as a mantra, since she couldn’t get to them and it turned out she couldn’t restore their memories, orphaned in a way no one around her grasped. There was a nightmare about that, but it wasn’t in the top tier, such that she almost welcomed its arrival; it was the only way she saw her parents when they knew who she was to any degree. Though it ended in devastation, it always started with her mum smiling at her.

*

If Ron hadn’t been able to help her, they never would have stayed together. She knew that in some deep, indefinite part of herself, just as she knew not to tell him. There had been lust, initially fierce and apparently unslakable, and the affection of their schoolyears together, the shared jokes, the homely memories of jacket potatoes and Madam Longbottom’s horrific flower-pot hats secured with jeweled pins that were nearly as deadly as a wand, the scent of the first snow, and so many recollections in candlelight, but none of it would have been enough if he hadn’t taken her into his arms and held her the first night she woke breathless from a scream she’d swallowed, the arm Bellatrix had cut burning terribly, the scar from Dolohov as heavy as the weights they’d used to press witches with in Salem. He’d said her name completely, not dropping a syllable, Hermione, and then I’ve got you and nothing else, letting his heartbeat and his breath be the only sounds she could hear. He’d grown into his frame that last year on the run when she’d starved in the woods, losing her period and handfuls of her brittle curls, and he’d somehow known how loosely to hold her so that she was able to nestle against him. The fragrance of the herbs his mother used in her laundry spells was faint but present, familiar. There was nothing sexual about his embrace then, but there was an intimacy greater than any fucking in the way he reacted, the inviolable memory of the agonized way he’d cried out when he’d heard her being brutalized that lived between them, as potent as the delight he took in her ecstasy.

She’d wondered that first night if it was a fluke, his ability to comfort her, and had told herself not to expect anything the next time but she’d been glad to be wrong. She put aside the sedative potions in their battered flasks and let herself fall asleep with a book in her hands, her hair still damp from the bath she’d taken, able to rely on his presence in the dark, the slight gleam of bronze in the moonlight that was his hair, the nearly grey blue of his eyes. They didn’t speak of it during the day, other than the infrequent mornings he greeted her with all right then instead of a nuzzled kiss to her temple or collarbone. The nightmares began as an onslaught and they waned slowly, slow enough Ron didn’t even ask when she might consider having children, though Hermione recognized the Weasley impulse to obscure their losses with babies, Fleur glowingly enceinte within a few weeks of Victoire’s birth, Ginny’s hand lingering over the small matinee sweaters her mother knit by the dozen. Percy’s return to the fold was eased by his hand at the small of his bride Penelope’s back, her radiance reflected in Molly’s face when they announced they expected a set of twins by the solstice. Ron gave Hermione what she needed to sleep and he gave her time to let the past become the past, her bloody, broken youth a shore increasingly distant. He couldn’t give her everything, but what he did was enough she’d been willing to let herself conceive the future he wanted so badly. He’d wept when she told him, burying his face in her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her instead of laying one large hand on her belly. It was his hands on either side of her spine that reassured her she’d been right.

*

The pregnancy was ordinary enough. Her only real dilemma was how to satisfy her cravings for Branston Pickle and Hobnobs without offending Ron’s mother or drawing too much attention from his father, whose fascination with the miscellany of Muggle life hadn’t declined with the end of the war. Ron, displaying the thoughtful observation she’d first found impossibly attractive while watching him play Wizard chess, maintained a calm affection towards her in company, a quiet tenderness when they were alone that made her worry sometimes he was trying to be someone he wasn’t just to please her. And then there were the times she found him gazing out a rain-streaked window at the Burrow. She knew he was thinking of Fred, of Tonks and Remus, of the scars on Bill’s face, the brother Ron most resembled, and she knew he’d been forged by grief as much as by victory. Hermione ate, she slept, she complained of heartburn and was told she must be carrying a ginger with curls as wild as her own. She read what passed for child-rearing books in the Wizarding world, nearly decapitated Harry chucking the third book across the sitting room in an only-partially hormonally mediated rage and bought every glossy paperback on the display at Foyles, which gave her some idea of what she might expect if she’d been a Muggle and included the concept of a birth-plan. Plans, as ever, held an irresistible appeal and were nearly as tranquilizing as Professor Binns.

*

When she mentioned that bit about the birth-plan to Ron while they were visiting his parents, George hanging about as usual, Percy working on some document at what passed for a desk over in a corner Hermione couldn’t remember previously existing, her mother-in-law just managed to keep from saying “Nonsense.” Hermione could clearly see that was what Molly had wanted to say and that she decided against it at the last minute after taking in at the book gripped tightly in Hermione’s hand and then Ron’s blue glare. Arthur kept fiddling with an immersion blender the way a Muggle child would handle a Rubik’s cube.

“A birth-plan is a very good idea, dear, but you’ll need to follow a witch’s plan and I do think, with the number of other witches you’ll require, you’ll be more comfortable at home or here at the Burrow,” Molly announced. Hermione glanced around and saw everyone present agreed with her mother-in-law.

“I’ll need to—or else what?” Hermione asked, curiosity outweighing her annoyance at Molly’s declaration.

“It’ll be too dangerous, for you and the baby,” Molly said. “Wild magic’s always an issue during delivery. For a witch as powerful as you and the baby likely to be the same—”

“It might be a boy,” Hermione said.

“Yes, I suppose it might,” Molly replied, her tone now entirely humoring-the-pregnant-daughter-in-law. She was convinced Hermione was carrying a girl, though Hermione and Ron had declined to find out when offered the chance at St. Mungo’s. “I meant the baby is likely to be magically gifted, considering her, that is, their parents. You’ll need at least four witches and seven would be safer. Obviously, Ginny and I will be there but you must decide who else you’d like.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. She’d never imagined childbirth to be organized like a tea-party. “I hadn’t thought to have anyone with me except Ron. And a midwife.”

Would she have wanted her mother with her, if she’d had the choice? She didn’t let herself wonder.

“If you don’t mind, dear, I’d suggest Augusta Longbottom,” Molly said briskly, making it clear that the if you don’t mindwas merely pro forma. 

“Neville’s gran?” Hermione said.

“She’s a very powerful witch and she’s quite fond of you,” Molly said. “She’s got better control than Minerva, though I’ll never admit that I’ve said that, and she’s no little experience with a laboring mother.”

“I’ll have Luna,” Hermione said. Ron gave her a quizzical look but knew enough not to say anything else, though she could see the effort if took for him to keep from mouthing nargles? at her. “That’s four, that’s enough.”

“Seven would be less dangerous—"

Who else would she ask? Part of her longed to throw up her hands and tell Molly to stuff it, she’d rely on the NHS to see her through, she still had her card, but then the baby kicked, sharpish, as if to scold her for being an absolute ninny, and Ron was still holding his tongue when she knew it cost him to be quiet. He worried about them both, she could tell he’d be a good father, and Molly was only trying to make sure they both came through it, privy to knowledge Hermione couldn’t easily learn from any book.

“I’ll have Luna, but I’ll ask Andomeda, in case Luna isn’t able to come,” Hermione said. “There’s no trouble with five if they both show up, is there?”

“No. There might be a wobble, but nothing Augusta and I couldn’t manage between us and Andromeda’s a light hand,” Molly said.

“A light hand with pastry?” Ron asked. 

“That too,” Arthur put in. “I believe your mother meant in channeling a magical surfeit, but she does make a very satisfying treacle tart. Not a patch on your mother’s, but close. Quite close.”

*

Molly was right.

Seven would have been safer, but Hermione and Rose bloody well squeaked through, as Ginny put it, earning herself a sharp glance and then an approving nod from Augusta Longbottom. The toucan-adorned hat had come off as Hermione entered transition and Madam Longbottom had had to exert herself to contain the burst of near Fiendfyre Hermione had unleashed. Luna had commented, with clear admiration in her usual dreamy tone, that Hermione was very equitable when it came to her elemental wild magic, as they’d had to contend with not only flames but a gale, a wave that overwhelmed Molly’s hastily conjured hip-waders, and a trembling underfoot that had made Arthur pop his head in and ask whether he ought to firecall St. Mungo’s or the Department of Mysteries. The gnomes had all cleared out and there was an ominous odor of brimstone seeping through the latched windows.

It was terrifying. What she was capable of and how proud they all were of her for it. She nearly burnt down the Burrow and Molly was as red-faced as she’d been battling Bellatrix Lestrange at Hogwarts by the time the baby was crowning, but she had a smile Hermione had never seen directed at herself before, a deep satisfaction that only grew more pronounced when Rose was delivered and discovered to be a little ginger witch, complete with a birthmark shaped like a phoenix’s tail-feather at the nape of her neck. Every peach on the trees Neville had painstakingly espaliered on the south wall withered in an instant and Augusta Longbottom only remarked, “Well done, you.” Luna had almost suffocated before she’d thrown up a Protego and her eyes were bright as she patted Hermione on the shoulder and Ginny had let out a long whistle, as if Hermione had captained the Harpies to a world championship when the Burrow had rung with the sound of the good china shattering.

A new marker appeared on Molly’s clock, the hand for Hermione pointing to “A Mortal Danger” instead of “in.” 

Ron grasped Hermione’s dismay, but he was more concerned with her health and Rose’s. Once reassured, he kissed her softly and then asked to hold his daughter. Something about seeing his big hands cradling the swaddled baby and the tears in his eyes when he looked back at her made Hermione think everything would be all right.

That was probably the hormones and the residual magic kickback.

*

She chalked it up to sleep deprivation, since she was nursing and Rose was a little colicky and Molly said, no, believe it or not, dear, there wasn’t a spell that was safe to use to help settle a colicky little witch. Hermione knew this meant there was some Dark magic that would do the trick, but she’d probably be sacrificing her pinky finger or years of her life or Rose’s, so she gritted her teeth and reminded herself she’d get to sleep again. At some point. Likely before Rose went to Hogwarts.

The first dreams to return were from her earliest days of Hogwarts. The troll, the bathroom, the terror of being alone in her curtained bed and hearing Parvati and Lavender chattering away, but now there was an overlay of Rose’s crying to mix with the tears Hermione had swallowed back or sobbed out silently. In the manner of dreams, the smallest details were vivid—the nap of the velvet bed curtains, the shimmer Moaning Myrtle made in the mirror above the sinks—and yet Hermione woke with only a sense of dread, no memory of the lengthy half-imagined conversations she’d had with Harry or Ron.

Those were the easiest dreams to deal with.

Days turned into months. Rose grew, her silky ginger hair showing a decided curl, her eyes the same warm brown as Ginny’s. She babbled and scooted, crawled and stood and ran, and only Hermione hoped it would be a little while longer before her magic manifested. Hermione’s dreams grew darker, more terrifying. There were a thousand Horcruxes. Harry didn’t survive the final battle. Ron turned away and didn’t come back.

Snape bled to death in her hands.

Fenrir Greyback took her in the flight of the Harrys.

Azkaban. Gringotts. The Room of Requirement.

Bellatrix, laughing, singing, coaxing. Cruciatus until Hermione woke with tears in her hair, afraid it was her brain leaking out. Ron calling out for her under the chandelier, Dobby whisking her away, the knife in Harry’s back.

Everything impossible that had never happened.

Everything possible that had.

They became less gruesome, more disturbing. She thought she might be losing her mind. She worried about having another child and leaving Ron with two children to raise alone, being locked up in the Janus Thickey ward. Not knowing she was locked up, trying to play the out-of-tune piano because she had once wanted to play Liszt’s “La Campanella” at Carnegie Hall. She couldn’t decide which would be worse.

She spent as much time doing Arithmancy as she could and walked away when the conversation turning to curse-breaking or the old days. Hugo was conceived, carried, and delivered with far less fanfare and commotion than Rose and he was a solemn-eyed baby who needed a lot of rocking in the night. She dozed but didn’t sleep deeply enough to dream. It was a respite.

She grew used to it. She perfected her glamour for the shadows beneath her eyes. She learned to manage her hair after a jaunt to a Muggle stylist in London who scolded her for using a brush and sent her off with a bag of oils and conditioners and advice on a silk head-wrap for sleeping in. She worked her way up in the Ministry and Rose levitated herself to their roof along with the seemingly immortal Crookshanks. Hugo made the apple trees bloom at Yule. She lived. She dreamed. She considered the alternatives she’d dreamed and tried to be satisfied with silence.

Rose began to resemble Hermione’s mother.

Hugo hummed off-key under his breath like her father.

Rose turned eleven, got her letter, found Hermione’s old copy of Hogwarts: A History and packed it first along with a set of Extendable Ears from her Uncle George.

They went to the station platform.

Hermione saw Draco Malfoy for the first time in over a decade. His wife fussed with their son, the strap of his satchel. Ron reminded Rose that the Hogwarts pumpkin pasties wouldn’t be as good as Nan’s but she wasn’t to let the house-elves know or that would be all she had to eat for a week.

Draco looked back at her.

He knew.

*

He sent the letter to her office at the Ministry and not their home, the thoughtful tact therein encompassed being the primary reason she responded. 

Yes, she would meet him at the coffee-shop he’d specified. The time was agreeable. No, she did not need directions in Muggle London. 

She didn’t tell Ron about the letter or her answer. There needn’t be anything to tell. She knew how much omission was required for their marriage. She loved him. There was no betrayal.

She wore Muggle trousers and a cashmere jersey that hadn’t come from Molly’s needles beneath robes she Transfigured into a Burberry knock-off trench. It was a kind of armor, like the wand holster strapped to her forearm, the leather charmed to feel like silk and be stronger than dragonhide. She left early, to get there first. She wouldn’t be taken by surprise again.

Draco was sitting at a table off to the side when she arrived. He’d left her the place backed up to the wall, leaving himself the vulnerable party, the nape of his neck bare, his kidneys neatly framed by the slats of the chair. When she got close enough, she saw his eclipse-bright hair had begun to turn grey. The cufflinks at his wrists were malachite, neatly secured.

There was a tea-service set between them. The steam smelled of bergamot and smoke, an Earl Grey made with lapsang souchong. Her favorite but not a secret, something it would not be difficult or intrusive to discover, something that showed attention, discretion, and care. Slytherin, as always. He rose when she approached, waited to sit until she’d settled herself. His old-fashioned manners were exercised without any awkwardness, the politeness he would have shown to any witch. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet, Madam Granger,” he began, using the title she had decided on after completing her Arithmancy mastery via correspondence under Professor Ergodic. When Bill had pointed out the more traditional address was Domina Nimue Granger, Ron had nodded and stopped making his incipient fuss.

“Do we need to be so formal?” Hermione asked. “We’ve known each other since we were eleven.”

“Whatever you prefer, Hermione,” Draco said, his voice giving a slight upward inflection to her name. She couldn’t recall him ever using it before, only Granger said with a sneer, but the boy who’d smirked seemed long gone from the solemn, careful man sitting before her. “You are the one doing me the favor—”

“Am I? What exactly do you mean?”

“You read my letter. You responded. You showed up,” he said. “You didn’t need to do any of it.”

“I read the letter you sent after the trial,” she replied. 

It had been delivered by a splendid eagle owl she did not recognize, the parchment hand-written in a perfect copperplate hand. The opening section had been rendered in ancient Etruscan, indicating the gravity of the statement, a Pureblood ritual she’d had to ask Ron, Molly and finally Neville’s gran to explain to understand the significance thereof: there was no greater level of ceremony invoked, the abasement of the writer compleat. If it had been a final examination paper for a mastery, it could not have been more exquisitely and thoughtfully written. It was a letter than required no reply and sought none, a detailed acknowledgement of Draco’s transgressions against her. Still, it went across her inarguably upper middle-class background to fail to send some kind of response, so she’d managed to find some monogrammed stationery her Aunt Judith had given her for a birthday gift and had penned a quick note in her crabbed hand to say Draco’s apology was duly noted and accepted. She had balked at wishing him well in his future endeavors, but to be fair, she had been eighteen, effectively orphaned, unable to sleep more than three hours in a night, and had been known to hold a grudge.

“Yes, I know. I didn’t mean that letter however,” Draco said. “I meant the one I sent last week. After the train station.”

“You didn’t say what you wanted to talk about,” Hermione replied.

“I thought you would be more likely to show up if I didn’t,” he said. “Your curiosity remains renowned—”

“Are you insulting me?” Hermione asked, without any of the heat of her girlhood. 

“Not at all, though I should be able to express myself more skillfully than this, if you’re wondering,” he said. There was a wryness in his tone that was new to her. “I wrote because of the dreams—”

“What dreams?” she interrupted.

“I have them too,” he said gently. 

“I don’t know what you mean, why you think we have anything in common, it’s mad—”

“They are a torment,” he said. Like four notes, the Tristan chord creating the opening between them, leaving her struck by the misery in his voice, the utter candor.

“I—they don’t—” She could not finish the sentence, could not think of what to say next. Draco picked up the teapot and poured them each a cup, stirring a lump of sugar into his own, never once hitting the china with the spoon’s lip.

“You’re not going mad,” he said.

“I know that,” she snapped.

“Then you’re ahead of me, as per usual. I’ve wondered, worried, for years. When Scorpius was born, I thought, maybe I’d be locked up in a straitjacket somewhere by the time his magic emerged. If it did, if he wasn’t a Squib,” Draco said.

“You were worried your heir would be a Squib?” Hermione said.

“I was worried the son of two Purebloods with known genetic disorders and curse-damage would be a Squib. I was worried I wouldn’t be there to defend him from the rest of the family,” Draco said. “You wouldn’t have had the same worries. Hybrid vigor, brightest witch, and the Weasley-Prewett line—”

“They thought we might both die in childbirth from my wild magic,” Hermione said. Draco cocked his head to one side and nodded. “We should have had seven witches present.”

“I did hear something about it,” Draco said. “My mother was quite impressed, though she did say they should have let the Burrow and all its tat burn to the ground and start over with the Ministry money.”

“What?”

“There’s money set aside for those situations, a fund. It’s because it only occurs when there is a surfeit of power. It’s in the Ministry’s interests to make sure a family with such a witch remains properly housed,” Draco explained.

“Oh. I thought maybe I’d die when she was born,” Hermione said.

“And then the dreams would be over,” Draco finished.

“Yes,” Hermione said. She took a sip of the tea, the universal panacea, unsurprised when once again it did nothing for her. It was properly steeped, she’d give him that, since he hadn’t been able to use magic in the Muggle café.

“It was Bellatrix,” he said. “You and I, I believe we’re the last sane survivors of her spells. That’s why we have the dreams, why they don’t attenuate.”

“Dark magic then,” Hermione said.

“Not exactly,” Draco said. “There was something wild about her even before she turned to Dark magic and you know the Blacks are given to madness, throw off restraint like a stallion bucking the bridle.”

“Is that all, then? I suppose it’s helpful, to have some idea why, though it’s not much of a relief,” Hermione said. She refrained from pointing out he was also of the Black line.

“Master Mamu at Uagadou has a theory we’ve been corresponding about,” Draco said. “Oneironautika, whether a charmed potion could function as an inducer, what a traveler could reliably affect within the dream structure, it catalysis is the only viable intervention. But Neville—”

“Neville knows? He’s been writing to Mamu?” Hermione exclaimed.

“They prefer to Floo. Such a mess, all that ash, but I suppose it’s nothing to the greenhouses and Bubotuber pus,” Draco said. “Neville’s been quite helpful, even though it’s not his area of interest. But his parents, well. He and his grandmother have years of observation to draw on.”

“Does Neville know about me?”

“Only if you’ve told him. He may have put two and two together, he’s quite brilliant for someone who was such a duffer,” Draco said with such fondness Hermione could not be roused to irritation. “I can’t imagine he’d ever speak of it to anyone, even if he suspects. Though if your glamour starts to fail, exquisite work, that, I shouldn’t be surprised if he sends along his alternative to Dreamless. He uses heather honey in it, it’s a revelation, but it’s not as much dream-lessening as muting.”

“You want my help,” Hermione said, having figured it out. It was what anyone ever wanted from her. “With Master Mamu, Neville, you want me to work the Arithmancy, perhaps to interpolate the runes—”

“No,” Draco said. “Rather, if you wish, you are most welcome, a witch of your caliber could only be a tremendous asset, but that’s not why I wrote you. That’s not what I wanted.”

“What do you want? Pardon me if my directness offends your Slytherin sensibilities,” Hermione said, tired, the tea in her cup cold, the broken night beckoning.

“I want to help you,” Draco said. “To make you feel better.”

“No one can do that,” Hermione said. Ron did what he could, steady now as he hadn’t been in their youth, astute enough not to speak of it.

“I can,” Draco said.

*

“You can,” Hermione repeated. “You can do something no one else can and beyond being able to, you additionally want to. There’s no life-debt between us, Draco, even if I believed you, there’s no reason for you—”

“I didn’t protect you when I could, Hermione,” he said. Had his eyes been lighter when he was a boy or had they always been this stormy shade, grey clouds over a grey sea?

“She would’ve killed us both,” Hermione said. 

For a moment, she was lying on her back looking up at the chandelier, the bare outline of a girl around nothing but pain. She couldn’t not have told anyone her name if she’d been asked. Ron had been screaming but his voice had been distant, as distant as the future and the past, while Draco’s eyes on her had been a tether. They’d been bound in that second, in hopeless, blameless recognition and agony, and there had been some tiny, inviolate spark of herself that loved him then in a way she could never love anyone else. “You do mean when Bellatrix cursed me, don’t you?”

“I didn’t protect you then. Not before. Not after,” Draco said.

“Well, we were enemies,” Hermione said. She waved over a waitress, asked for a fresh pot of tea and a plate of lemon biscuits while Draco stared down at his hands. They were well-made, beautifully shaped, the hands of a sculptor or a pianist. Neither was the career a wizard would undertake, certainly not an aristocrat like the heir to the Houses of Black and Malfoy. 

“No, we were schoolmates. Rivals. We were children and then teenagers,” Draco said. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, bowing his head. “I liked you—”

“You liked me?” Hermione snorted. “Is this revisionist history? Are you going to tell me you wanted to take me to the Yule Ball and buy me sweets at Hogsmeade weekends? Were you terribly fond of Harry and did you think Ron was a good chap whose family was just a bit down on their luck?”

“I liked you, Hermione,” Draco repeated, his voice low. “I wasn’t supposed to, wasn’t allowed to, but I did. I do.”

“You’re married. I’m married,” Hermione said. “Handfasted. Your family isn’t the only one to follow the Old Ways.”

(She would have married Ron at the Ministry, but Molly wouldn’t hear of it. Hermione’s own parents wouldn’t hear of it at all, so she’d acquiesced to the whole thing, the ring in the garden, the saffron yellow veil, the woad, the unsalted cakes she and Ron had had to bake in a solar oven without any magic. The only part she’d liked had been laughing together as they looked at the ugly lumps of dough, the gleam in Ron’s eyes as he’d told her they’d only have to choke down one bite each.) 

“I know. I’m not trying to interfere. Weasley’s a good man and I would never dishonor Astoria,” Draco said. “But he can’t do this for you. You know that. He’s done what he can and you’re still suffering.”

“You’d be my Healer then? Without any certification, Healing mastery, apprenticeship?”

“Your friend. A fellow-traveler,” Draco said. “Whatever you’d allow.”

“My friend,” Hermione said. 

“You are the same person who pledged her friendship for life to Potter and Weasley after being brought together in a bathroom by a troll,” Draco said. “It shouldn’t be that great a stretch for you.”

“Perhaps I’ve changed,” she replied.

“Perhaps,” Draco agreed, then hazarded a very small smile. “I don’t think so though. Not in this regard.”

“Will it help you with your own dreams?” Hermione asked.

“That’s not relevant,” Draco said. “That’s not why—”

“It’s relevant to me,” she said firmly.

“Of course it is,” he said, under his breath, as if he could get away with it sitting across from her, the café much quieter as the late afternoon rush had ended. 

“Well?”

“I don’t know. Possibly,” he said. For the first time, he sounded put out, frustrated. It was the throughline to the boy he’d been and she found herself liking him for it.  “Before you ask, it’s very unlikely to make anything worse for me. This isn’t some grand Gryffindor gesture of sacrifice on my part.”

“I think we’re beyond House identification, Draco,” she said.

“Is that a yes?” he asked.

“It’s a tell me more about how you mean to proceed. What this dream-walking entails precisely,” she said. 

“Will you let me show you something?” Draco said. Hermione considered. They were in a public place and she had faced greater horrors than a prematurely greying Draco Malfoy in his Savile Row suit. She nodded. Draco pushed the teapot and their cups to one side, reached over and took Hermione’s right hand in his own. His palm was warm against hers, his grasp charged with the familiarity one had with their wand, the tenderness of a long-awaited reunion. Hermione looked at their hands and then up, to find Draco watching her.

When she didn’t pull her hand away, he reached out with his left and took her other hand. Something surged between them, electric and yet sustaining, soothing. Something that was not magic but was of it, an ardent affection that sought only to give, to cherish, some fundamental realignment. Later, she would puzzle over it, scribble equations, then manipulate them with her wand, with an incantation of runes. She would find a way to explain it to Ron so that he’d understand. When he did, she might. 

“Yes?” Draco asked. She could tell what he hoped for and that he would wait as long as she wanted. She could tell he would let their hands fall apart if she refused.

“Yes,” she said. He held her more tightly then and the brightness in his eyes was like moonlight, like the first time she had cast Lumos and banished darkness. Between them, it was as if a cup was filled, spilled over. She could not, however, resist poking.

“You must’ve worked some part of it out. I’ll want to review your notes.”

“Certainly,” he said. 

*

Master Mamu authored the definitive text on oneironautika, but Draco wrote the introduction and Hermione the acclaimed chapter on runic expansion.

Draco insisted Hermione be the editor of the journal. He provided the funding for the first five years. After that, as he’d predicted, no financial assistance was required.

Ron wasn’t remotely put out, though he did scold her a bit for worrying he might be. “You the one always telling Rose and Hugo love’s not a pie. Well, that means you can’t get too full or lose your appetite for it.” At the service for Astoria, Ron told her to go over to Draco and played a three-hour game of Wizard chess with Scorpius he worked hard to throw stealthily enough the boy didn’t notice. 

They weren’t one big happy family. But they could be happy and they could be a family.

When Kimah was born, there were seven witches present.

Draco collected a handful of knuts warm from Ron’s pocket when Scorpius announced she had red hair, Transfigured them into a bouquet of apricot tea roses, and gave them back to his son for his daughter-in-law.

Hermione, who had been up all night, slept.

And dreamed.

@artielu you are my main Dramione mutual so I hope you enjoy this atypical offering!

[starsandauras]

Entry 1: Steer

FFXIV 30 Day Writing Challenge Prompt 1: Steer Brought to you by (one of) my latest hyperfixations! Also Streamer AU!

“But Stardew’s so boring,” Wuk Lamat whined, even as her character dodged one of Araki’s attacks. She was sat cross legged on the couch, Alisaie and Goro on either side of her. Araki sat on Alisaie’s other side.

It was in person game night for certain members of the streaming groups, this time at the Leveilleur Twins’ apartment. Alphinaud had quickly made himself scarce the moment his sister’s friends made their appearances, pausing only to make sure snacks and other refreshments were provided and within reach.

Alisaie shrugged, keeping on the edges of the arena. “The views are surprisingly good those nights,” she offered.

“I know, I know,” the other woman half grumbled, leaning towards the aetherscreen, as though she would get a better view from the fifty ilm screen that way. “It’s just, the animals, you know? It’s so tiring to just collect eggs, milk, and shear every day.”

“Have you considered the auto-grabber?” Araki asked, before a startled yelp left him and he leaned over, trying (and failing) to dodge Goro’s character, falling from the arena. “Dude!”

“Pay attention,” was the only thing he said, an almost frighteningly serious (one might even say, murderous?) expression on his face.

“I have to reach max on farming first, and then pay fifty thousand gold to get two of them,” Wuk Lamat pouted, then grinned mischievously as she saw her opening to sneak behind Goro’s character.

“And you lose out on friendship with them,” Alisaie commiserated, catching on to Wuk Lamat’s plan and laying down covering fire.

“And I like petting the animals!”

“Honestly, you’re not wrong,” Araki sighed, leaning back to watch the others fight it out. “The pigs are worth it at least, the truffles make serious cash, but once you get what you need for the bundles… yeah.”

“You can’t even eat them!” Wuk Lamat whined.

“Butcher mod,” Alisaie and Goro chorused, ignoring the looks from the other two.

“Butcher mod?” Wuk Lamat asked, once the moment of weirdness passed.

“Well,” started Alisaie, ducking behind cover, “it’s really called the Animal Husbandry mod. Changed the name awhile ago.”

Goro growled, eyes narrowing as both he and his character scanned for Alisaie’s. “People bitched, presumably. Oh no, the farming sim mod included butchery, we can’t have that in our pure wholesome fantasy!”

“…You’ve been spending too much time with Ann.”

“Shut up, Leveilleur.”

Alisaie only shrugged, ignoring him. “The story logic behind the mod is a bit dumb, but the important part is you can get meat from your animals and it comes with new recipes.”

Wuk Lamat paused, lips pursing in thought. “Does it come with a new kind of taco? I’m getting tired of the fish ones.”

Alisaie and Goro blinked, looking at each other in thought.

“I don’t beleive so,” Goro said, slowly.

“But Futaba could probably make a taco mod for that.”

[What, like it’s hard.gif?] appeared on Alisaie’s phone, which was ignored by the group.

“I’ll have to give it a try then,” Wuk Lamat decided, smiling as her character threw a grenade at Goro’s, laughing brightly at the ensuing explosion, which sent Goro’s character flying.

“What the fuck?!”

“Pay attention~!”

[sharkface-daydreams]

8 and 19?

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about:

Donut isn't a twink. He's just not. He's a Midwestern American Farmboy and he grew up dragging bales of hay around, shoveling animal crap and doing all kinds of manual labor. My boy is built. He might be a twunk at best if he's got a slim bone structure? But the best kind of Donut overall is Chubby. Put some fat over that muscle because that's working muscle. Look at this hunk that shattered world weightlifting records. Lasha Talakhadze from (the country) Georgia:

Put some meat on your Donuts, he needs his nutrients <3

19. you're mad/ashamed/horrified you actually kind of like…

I had to think really hard about this one because I've been trying to scrape the layers of imposed shame off of me from the past few decades... I'm gonna say I like the idea of Carolina/Tucker. I hate that of myself because he's really been such a pest to her (and literally every other woman on the show lmao) but it has the potential to be really cute I think. Playing chicken but it's flirting and they both don't really know how to respond to it. Commiserating over losing Epsilon. The potential for emotional growth for both of them and realisations they really only know about the kinds of relationships they DONT want. But it also feels a little cringe u know lol

[lowkeyorloki]

I have been missing asis loki more than a tad.

Possible melancholic moments (for him):

Finding out sweetheart isn't pregnant (I feel like he was a bit hopeful)?

The whole Nat situation (especially when it came to light).

Dealing with Narvi's questions after the break(up). I know Narvi missed her loads and that Loki had maybe started to (or did?) see her as a mother to Narvi by then.

I would happily devour anything asis related. I have considered getting it printed but I am worried you might add something new that I wish I could have put it the book too. If it's okay with you, of course?

Hey there anon! I understand missing the fic. It's quite nostalgic for me, as it spanned almost my entire collegiate career. Before I respond to the meat of your message, let me just say: YES OFC YOU CAN PRINT IT!! I don't think I'll add anything to asis, but I do want to revise it a bit more. I have no clue when I'll do that though, so I wouldn't wait or anything. Also... if you print it, remember my beta made a cover for the fic. Also also,,, I would love a copy 🥺🥺🥺

Anyway, onto your actual ask!

Finding out sweetheart wasn't pregnant was a very bittersweet moment for Loki. Loki loves sweetheart, and he knew even at that time that he would want to have kids with her. Meeting sweetheart made Loki ponder over everything he had given up hope for: marriage, a partner, more kids, etc. etc. When it became clear she may be pregnant, it made Loki realize he not only wanted kids, but he wanted them sooner than later due to Narvi's age.

Realistically, Loki knew it was selfish of him to want sweetheart to be pregnant. He also knew - especially after her reaction to possibily being pregnant and the whole breakup situation - that maturity-wise, she wasn't ready. Still, when she told him she wasn't pregnant, it was definitely hard for him to hear. He chose his words very carefully in that moment; recall he said "I'm happy for you. I know that's what you wanted."

In terms of the Nat situation, Loki found it unfortunate, but he didn't ultimately care outside of its effect on sweetheart. He was concerned that she was losing her best friend, but to Loki, who has only had himself, Thor + Jane, and Narvi, it may not have registered as big a deal as it should. Loki was completely fulfilled once sweetheart stumbled into his life, and so I think in a way, he subconsciously assumed it would be the same for her.

On top of that, while Loki can objectively understand he was wrong in the Clint situation (that was how I weaved his status as a villain into asis - I wanted to incorporate all aspects of his character), he made it very clear he didn't regret it. Because what happened with Nat is an offshoot of the Clint thing, Loki would have been even more apathetic to the whole thing. Both Loki and Nat have a bitterness towards each other from that, and it's a bitterness neither could fully ignore for the sake of their relationship with you.

Finally, as we saw in the Loki chapter, Narvi doesn't ask much about you/sweetheart. He simply tells Loki he misses sweetheart. Loki mentions the fact that sweetheart was a mother figure to Narvi during their breakup and the months after. Basically, Loki shut down anytime Narvi mentioned her. We saw him delve back into bad habits (such as the drinking of copious amounts of wine, or not eating) in the months they weren't together, and commiserate in general. I think in this time, Loki provided very little information to Narvi (which we saw him totally beat himself up over in the chapter he narrated). It was hard for both of them. Loki's response to devastating situations is definitely avoidance, and I think that carried over to any of Narvi's questions.

Let me know what you think of all this! Thank you for the ask and your compliments. Ily very muchhhhhhh 🫶

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

May I please request anyone in the Phantomhive manor with an s/o who’s a singer at a fairly nice establishment who specializes in jazz and blues? Bonus if s/o has a sultry voice.

aaaaaaaaa~

God, but he could listen to them singin’ forever. Their voice makes him feel like he’s right there in a crowd, sitting at the bar with a drink in his hand and just relaxing after a long day. That feeling is hard for him to come by these days, so it’s one more thing he can say he loves about them. It’s funny sometimes, because although he doesn’t think he has a great voice, he’ll often join in singing with them around the house if he knows the song. It’s a great way to bond, and… well, if he gets to wrap his arms around them and slow dance a bit, what’s wrong with that?

Yes, well, it’s… it’s not bad, he supposes. As someone who’s used to the finer things, he’s seen his share of high-end places which feature musical acts. He’s used to listening to crooners and songs which are meant to be calming or commiserating. So he brushes it off, at first; the truth is, he thinks his S/O’s voice is something special. It has an inherently soothing quality he hasn’t found in anyone else’s. Perhaps it’s because this is his partner, rather than a random singer he doesn’t know. While he doesn’t show it much outwardly, if they pay attention, they can notice the way his tension melts while he’s listening to them.

Oh… their voice is so beautiful… he’s surprised the flowers don’t all sprout up just so they can hear better! His enthusiasm isn’t masked at all, and when (Name) starts to sing, his face lights up. It feels like a treat to him, like some part of his old faraway dreams has finally snapped into place. If they decide to join him in the garden, that’s even better. However, if they want to be inside, he will still happily curl up on their lap and listen to them sing. It could be that he didn’t understand the words, and that wouldn’t stop him from very likely falling asleep to their singing.

Ah, they’ve got such a lovely talent, they do! Did they train a long time to sound that way, or is it completely natural? Either way she’s most assuredly head over heels, dreaming about what it must be like to listen to them at a club like that. Certainly she’ll never get to go somewhere so classy, but she almost doesn’t care since she gets this side of them instead. She daydreams about their voice, and gets easily distracted if she hears them singing around the manor. They better not sweep her up in a dance while they sing… she’ll lose herself entirely!

Well, certainly it’s not quite demon music. That said, this style paired with his darling’s voice… it has its own charm. He’s spellbound by it, as he is with most human things, although he takes care not to be obvious about that, especially in public. He’s rather sneaky in that he’ll find an excuse for a case that he and Ciel must visit the club his S/O performs at. This way he gets to see them showcasing their skills naturally. Of course, whilst at home and listening to them… he’s clearly more at peace than he usually is. What can he say? They’re captivating.

(How relaxing…) You said it, Emily. (How lucky you are, Snake! Most people pay money to listen to [Name] sing, but they do it for you because they love you.) That’s right… isn’t it? He’s stunned into silence every time his S/O starts singing, because he’s never been allowed to witness gorgeous things like that. This is quite possibly the most wonderful voice he’s ever heard, and he can’t bring himself to just not pay attention to them. If they’ll let him, he’d love to pass evenings by resting his head on their chest, listening to and feeling them sing. He feels safe wrapped up inside their voice.

[starofhisheart]

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR OFMD S2 EP6-7 under the cut

Ok, that was A LOT. I have so many feelings but no coherence so i'm gonna do this bullet point form but def not in order, just in order of me remembering wtf happened lol

-IZZY AND WEE JOHN IN DRAG!!!!! Wee John looked STUNNING with that Divine-esque appearance and Izzy had that transmasc drag king kind of thing going on (iykyk) that made me love him even more

-Izzy singing LA VI EN ROSE took me tf out!!! i'm glad he got to finish it after the *ahem* distractions bc Con's voice is so beautiful I could listen to it forever. We better get it in the album!!! Also someone posted the lyrics translated and i cannot get over the lyrics:

"It's him for me,/And me for him, for life/He told me, he swore to me, for life"

-But not only was he singing the second half had fucking gentlebeard doing the dirty in the next room asdfghjkl which.....was hot, ngl. The passion was electrifying. I'm sorta glad we didnt rlly see it with everything that happened after bc it all kinda left a bad taste in my mouth.

Also Stede Bonnet canonically gets turned on by violence confirmed

Or trauma. Whatever.

-What else happened in ep 6 cause all i can think of is drag and singing and sex-

-oh yeah there was that shortlived sexually-charged torturer who i distinctly recall him being in another scene in the promo so unless that got the cut perhaps he's not dead...?

-Lupete missing all the action cause they were doing the nasty all night lmao so real

-Jim best wingman (gender neutral)

-Stede...Stedey boy, can I call u that? Now i'm gonna say this nicely, but WHAT THE FUCK DUDE? Stede in his white guy w undue confidence era fr. Zheng Yi Sao was so right for what she did truly

-But in all seriousness i feel like this whole thing in ep 7 was such a parallel to s1 but also a very necessary bit of conflict in their journey together that was bound to happen. THey want different things and neither is wrong or right for that. Stede did react poorly tho but like he just had sex w the love of his life, his first man, and Ed the very next day is like "aight i'm out". I'd be pissed too. After killing someone which we know is a big trigger for him historically.

But Ed also had a valid reaction. He's wanted to retire for a while and stede knows this but it hasn't seemed to have sunk in quite yet. He fears that Stede only sees Blackbeard and...its fair of him to have that impression tbh. These are two messy, traumatized dudes who have never had a real relationship and there's gonna be bumps. I hope we get s3 so we can better explore that like Djenks wants.

-Ok back to the fun stuff:

-Izzy barging in on GB and the docking joke. love his cringefail ass.

-IZZY IS HAPPY FOR ED EVEN IF ITS NOT WITH HIM

#growth

-the edizzy apology which was so typical of them. i expected it but bc i'd been building it up in my head all week w twitter pals it felt a bit anticlimactic but thats not the shows fault. it was very much in character and if they're satisfied so am i. i always have fic for more

-stizzy commiserating over losing ed pls thats all i've ever wanted!!!!!

izzy: "when i told him i loved him he-"

stede, like he's heard this story before: "shot u yes"

and the look they gave each other after!!!!! stizzy nation how we feelin?!

-izzy being like "stede no" when he was on his macho bullshit w zheng yi sao (also motivated by trauma bc he just lost ed, he cant lose MORE family!!!). i just like how protective iz seems of stede now.

-izzy''s "you're good for him" CRYING THROWING UP ETCETERA

-ed catching 1 fish and deciding thats his life now. adhd realness fr

-the swede whew is it hot in here or is that just jackie's effect on her husbands?

-jackie and ed actin like old friends. swede highkey shading ed adfghjkl

-anyway im sure there's more but i need to rewatch. there r things i wont go into bc its possible spoilers for the finale (tho its mostly just speculation some is based on bts not everyone may have seen). i am looking forward to and terrified for the show to end next week thats all i'll say

[lorata]

Just had an important exam go awfully and I’ve been rereading everything you’ve put on A03 to cheer myself up. Just popping up to say thank you for everything youve posted. Over the years it’s become my comfort read whenever things go badly

one time in undergrad i crammed so hard for a final that on the day i blanked and literally wrote nothing. as in like, it was a japanese exam and i couldn't even remember how to write my name in katakana despite having studied for 5 years

WHICH IS TO SAY i send all my commiseration and i fully endorse stress relief through putting characters in situations

to that end, here's an old thing I wrote and i ..... think ....? i never posted, of Petra having a worse day than me

(and if i already posted it and forgot....... YOU'LL HEAR IT AGAIN!)

Petra expected the sleep deprivation tests. It makes sense, given everything else that the Centre prepares them for, that they’d want to see how their tributes perform when pushed to the limit. It makes sense because the Centre makes sense, because the rules make sense, because that’s how the world works and anyone who wants to get anywhere needs to come to terms with that. Petra has a long time ago, whether she likes it or not, and she knows better than to complain.

It’s just. It’s just. When she imagined the sleep deprivation tests, she always pictured taking them alone.

Petra closes her eyes, imagining not sleep but silence, beautiful and dark and filling the room with its wonder and pushing out everything else. Pushing out the irregular beeping and humming and whining noises coming from the speakers at the ceiling; pushing out the sound of her own breathing, rough and ragged and rasping and much too loud. But most importantly, pushing out the sound of her test partner on the far side of the room, who’s decided to deal with the lack of sleep by talking to himself non-fucking-stop.

“Lachlan,” Petra says in what the Centre should give an award for being the nicest voice a person could possibly manage in this kind of situation. “If you don’t stop talking I’m going to make you stop talking. I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

Lachlan ignores her, continuing on the steady stream of babble. The words don’t even register anymore; at one point he’d been talking about his sisters, growing up in the merchant part of town and how they used to drag him out to look at fabric in the windows and beg their father to trade for some. That didn’t even make sense — who gets excited about fabric, what is wrong with civilians — and so Petra eventually tuned out the meaning, but it hasn’t stopped him from talking. His voice has gone dry and scraping but he keeps going, hands fisted in his hair.

A shadow moves in the corner, and Petra tenses and curls her hand around her knife but doesn’t move. It’s not real. It’s not real, it’s her brain playing tricks, because the first ten, fifteen times it showed up she attacked it and wound up crashing into the walls with nothing. It’s just her and Lachlan in the room no matter what she sees, because the walls are solid and she would know if a door opened to let someone in. She would know.

(She would know, wouldn’t she?)

It’s not just the room. There have been other tests, agility tests and weapons tests; after 24 hours and 48 hours they had to spar with each other while the trainers counted out each time their moves went sloppy, and they had to scale the rope and the climbing wall and do pushups while counting aloud. They only had to count to ten but Petra could never get past three without losing count, and by the time she got there her muscles burned and her arms trembled and she’d practically made out with the floor more than she had all the girls in Residential.

The worst were the memory and calculation tests, lists of numbers to add together or words to remember and repeat back. Petra rattled off the death list well enough, deeply ingrained in her brain like that, but everything else is a blur. She thinks she got all the answers right — it feels like she did — but Petra knows that arrogance and cockiness are in her file so she needs to be realistic. Maybe she passed, maybe she didn’t; she won’t know her score until the end. Every few hours they’re brought out and given another round, and Petra hopes they don’t make her write anything next time because all she’s going to manage is KILL LACHLAN over and over and over.

Air brushes the back of her neck, and this is a sealed room and how could there be air if something isn’t moving — Petra whirls and slashes with her knife but there’s nothing there. She hisses, moves with her back to the corner and keeps tracking. Lachlan, on his end, hasn’t stopped croaking.

“Lachlan, if you don’t stop I’m going to kill you,” Petra says. He keeps going and so she raises her voice to match him, their words spilling over each other. “I’m going to go over there and I’m going to cut out your tongue and feed it to you while you choke on the blood, and then I’m going to cut out your eyes and stuff them down your throat but I’ll give you a tracheotomy so you can keep breathing because I don’t want you dead yet, I want you to suffer because you are driving me crazy. You’re driving me crazy and I’m going to get a bad score and it’s going to be all your fault and then I’m going to find you and make you sorry, or you could just stop talking —“

On and on and on, until Petra can’t tell her voice from Lachlan’s anymore, the two of them rasping away on opposite sides of the room. A few times the shadows move and something lunges but Petra throws her knife and kills it, and once she’s sure it’s dead she retrieves the knife and goes back to her corner. Don’t kill Lachlan, she reminds herself, he’s her ally and she hasn’t been given the signal to kill him yet and she has to follow the rules, but she tells him what she’s going to do as soon as she’s allowed and it soothes her, calms her, to have a plan because plans are good.

Finally the door opens and light floods the room; Petra leaps to her feet and so does Lachlan, and they’re both swaying but they stand at attention because that’s what you have to do.

“And that’s time,” says the trainer from a million miles away. “Good job, both of you. Go to bed and we’ll have evaluations tomorrow.”

Evaluation means there’s something to evaluate and tomorrow means she’ll be here tomorrow, and both of those mean she passed. Petra laughs and pumps the air with her fist, and the shadows still move and her trainer’s face is screwed up in a terrifying rictus — or is it a mask, a mutt-mask — but she passed and so did Lachlan. She staggers out the door and heads out down the hall to her room.

She doesn’t remember getting there but she must have, because she wakes up in her own bed, flopped on top of the covers. Someone took the knife, though.

Petra sleeps for fourteen hours and no one comes to wake her, which is another sign she did well. Once she wakes Petra drags herself up to the shower, and she scrubs her fingers through her hair and holds her face up to the spray, letting the cool needles of water bring the blood back. She looks like shit when she catches herself in the mirror, bloodshot eyes and dark, hollowed sockets, but one of the older girls showed her a trick for that. It takes a few minutes, but Petra turns the water in the sink on full cold and scoops up handfuls, pressing it against her face and gasping at the shock.

By the time she finishes and pats her face dry, the circles under Petra’s eyes have faded. She grins at her reflection, pinches her cheeks to bring back the blood flow, and runs her fingers through her hair to let it start to curl.

The last thing she wants to do after three days without sleep is worry about what she looks like, but no Two ever won the Games by looking unattractive. Nobody in the Capitol wants to see a Victor who looks like a mutt chewed them up and spat them out, and Petra heads back to her room to change into a fresh uniform before she makes it out to the cafeteria.

Not all the others in her year have made it, and Petra gives herself a small high-five. Selene is there, of course she is, and she’s not stupid either; she’s done the same as Petra, made sure she looks a little less like death before coming in, but some of the girls are slumped over the table, hair mussed and faces pale.

“Chipmunk made it, huh,” Selene calls out, poking desultorily at her plain oatmeal. There’s fresh fruit on the breakfast bar, at least, and Petra grabs herself an apple and two peaches along with the bowl of unappetizing mash and the mandatory protein shake. “Thought you would’ve chewed through the walls.”

“Ha, ha,” Petra says, dropping into her chair. Normally she’d be at Selene’s throat, but she’s tired enough not to care and just rested enough after her sleep to be charitable. “How’d you do? I wanted to kill Lachlan, he wouldn’t shut up.”

Selene grins, sharp and triumphant, and Petra raises her eyebrows. The last time she looked like that, she’d driven a girl out of the training room in tears and Sarah hadn’t come back the next day. “I actually did try to kill Adam. He flipped out, started screaming for the trainers. They had to come take him out.”

As a general rule Petra tries not to approve of anything Selene does, but Adam is the most annoying boy in her year. She’ll never forget being dared to kiss him when they played spin the dagger, how he’d shoved his tongue down her throat and then acted all boo-hoo baby when she chomped down hard enough they both choked on the blood. Adam is annoying and entitled and the only bad thing is that Petra wished she’d had the honour of driving him out of the Program.

Petra cracks up, and Selene is grinning and Petra hates her but she hates boys more, and Petra leans her head against the table and laughs until she can’t breathe. “We need to convince Lyssa to break into the office,” Petra says finally. Lyssa is the best at picking locks; she’s gotten them all their files so they can see exactly what the Centre has on them. If Selene had taken a shot for every time hers said insubordination she’d be dead now. “I would kill to see that.”

Selene tosses her a showy wink, and Petra snorts and picks up the peach, tossing it in her hand before taking a big, juicy bite.

Later the trainers tell her she got a high pass, and Petra revels in it for all of half an hour before finding out that so did Selene. It makes sense — in the Arena, responding to lack of sleep with instinctive murder is a pretty good reflex — but Petra still grumps and takes it out on the targets at the throwing range. The only consolation is that she catches Selene stomping over to the crossbows, which means she’s just as annoyed about Petra’s score as Petra is about hers.

That cheers her up, and Petra grins and gets the next bulls-eye with her eyes closed, just because she can.

[helix-enterprises117]

For the Sentence Starters, I went with one from each category but feel free to pick the one that speaks the most to you. Or throw them all in a blender and see what comes out, lol! Angst: 1, Fluff: 1, Misc: 7. Oh yeah, I gave you 117 because I am clever like that. 😂😂😂

I like that! 1-1-7!

I Can't Do Anything Right

The dust swirled around the training field as the final whistle blew, signaling the end of the Free-For-All Capture the Flag session.

Eight-year-old John-117 sat dejectedly on a crate, his small, muscular frame heaving with the effort of catching his breath. His MJOLNIR training suit, though downsized for children, still clung heavily to him, the dirt and sweat making it uncomfortably gritty.

Around him, other young Spartans celebrated or commiserated, their youthful faces flushed with the thrill of competition. But John was distant, staring down at his scuffed boots, a sense of failure gnawing at him.

"I can't do anything right," he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with frustration. He didn't notice Dr. Halsey approaching until she was right beside him, her expression soft yet analytical.

"What's wrong, John?" she asked, her voice carrying a gentle firmness.

John looked up, his normally bright blue eyes dimmed by defeat. "I lost, Dr. Halsey. Again. I didn’t capture the flag even once." He kicked at the ground, sending a small cloud of dust into the air.

Dr. Halsey sat beside him, her lab coat flapping slightly in the breeze. "John, losing is a part of training. What matters is what you learn from it. Tell me, what happened out there?"

He hesitated, running a hand through his short, sandy hair. "I almost had it once," he started, his voice gaining strength as he recounted the moment. "I was close to the enemy base, hiding just behind the ridge. But then Kelly came from nowhere, and she... she was just faster."

Dr. Halsey nodded, listening intently. "And what did Kelly do differently that you can learn from?"

John thought for a moment, his analytical mind turning over the events. "She’s lighter on her feet. Quieter. I think I make too much noise, and I’m not fast enough yet."

"There you go," Dr. Halsey encouraged, her voice warm with approval. "You’ve already started to figure out what you can improve. Speed and stealth. We can work on that, can't we?"

John’s face brightened a little, the spark of resolve reigniting in his eyes. "Yes, ma'am. I can do better. I’ll train harder."

Dr. Halsey stood, offering him a hand up. "That’s the spirit, John. Remember, Spartans never quit. They learn and they adapt."

John took her hand and rose, his posture straightening as if her words had physically bolstered him. "Yes, ma'am. I won’t give up."

As they walked back towards the barracks, Dr. Halsey's gaze lingered on the young Spartan. In him, she saw not just the child he was, but the leader he could become. Every setback was a step toward that future, a future she firmly believed in.

"Let's go review the video footage," she suggested. "We'll see exactly where things went wrong and how we can tweak your approach."

"Okay," John agreed, his voice firm and more confident. "I want to be better."

"And you will be," Dr. Halsey assured him with a nod. "You will be."

[letstalkaboutfandomsbaby]

Ok so imagine being an art student who wants to graduate and prepare for a good art career while you're there. you SEEM straightlaced but you're just focused on passing classes, creating art, and networking with artists inside and outside of campus. oliver thinks having you in bed would be perfect, if only you were in reach.

.... because youre literally and metaphorically out of reach. he thinks youre just focused on work or shy, but in reality You Just Dont Want Him. youve seen how women around him get their hearts nuked. you dont have time for that. art success is waiting for you, and you dont need to waste time.

so imagine you're trying to figure out how muscles move in different people. you check people from around campus, bringing around your phone and a tripod and observing people's movements as they go about daily activities. then you approach the athletes.

you try to get someone on the team who's not as in demand as oliver, but then most of the guys back off when oliver approaches you while you're talking to his teammates. you explain the situation so nobody gets it wrong, but then he offers to be your model. ok, you'll take it. you personally dont want to choose him, but he is one of their star players, which means you'll get the best footage.

he does a couple arm and leg flexes for you, close up footage that he puts 100% into, but all you can say is variations of 'fascinating. One more. huh. can you do the other side?' STONE FACED. hes a little impatient at how his obvious showing off isn't having any effect. he shoots a couple goals while your phone camera follows him around. when he gets back, all you can say is "that was enlightening. i wonder what happens when you're pressed on several sides and people are trying to gang up on you," still so... detached.

you want competition? he'll give you competition. he has at least 5 people trying to stop him from scoring a goal. he calls it a special favor for the art student trying to learn about an athlete's body. he ends up winning and what do you have to say?

"mhm. there's a lot of differences. more urgency. this was a great learning experience. i think i have everything i need." and this is the ONLY time you have any warmth in your tone. you're much sweeter when you thank his other teammates for participating. when you thank him again and say goodbye it's just so clinical.

..... like you don't care about him.

so he continues on with his daily life like atlas carrying the world, except the world is the very real possibility that you want nothing to do with him. he loses sleep. he doesn't want to be with any other girl. hes mostly focused on soccer but at one point a stray ball nearly knocks his head off at practice.

weeks pass like this.

at a party, he finds you commiserating with some of his teammates and your friends. the conversation goes to him. theyre talking about how oliver might like you a little too much.

You. Start. Cackling.

"oliver aiku? Oliver fucking aiku?? That guy? Ok, thanks for the cool joke, tell me another." someone's trying to say that they noticed he hasnt been acting right since your visit.

"Oh yeah, that one, that wasn't even a real project, one of my seniors recommended I do anatomy studies."

so you didn't even come to him as a part of coursework. you just came to him for fun. he would never have met you if you just didnt do something for fun. he would never have fallen so hard if you werent so focused on giving your work 1000%.

"Listen. Aiku isn't even my type. I sometimes forget he exists. To be honest, I prefer people who don't break other people' hearts and waste precious time for fun."

he didnt stand a chance with you at all.

Alessandra. You are ao so precious to me. I have been drinking and am feeling a lot of th8ngs. Thank u for sending me this, it will always be on my mind, i love when y/n isn't invested in oliver like he is with us.