#now the question is how to do a soil refresh

[solarpunkani]

In the past I’ve grown sunflowers, watermelon, basil, peppers, and tomatoes. I think the soil in them needs a refresh though, the stuff I planted last year didn’t do so great.

List of hobbies/crafts I have been tempted to do because of solarpunk stuff (or tangentially related to solarpunk stuff)

- Embroidery (patches + clothes decorations)

- Crochet (idek man)

- Sewing (diy punk vest and cool cloak)

- Leatherwork (seed collecting bag + maybe jacket + idfk)

- Building (with like wood and shit) (pallet benches and tables. I have made garden beds before. In my wildest dreams a greenhouse from reclaimed windows)

- Soapmaking (ok this has been one ever since a science lab sophomore year but I’m scared of messing with lye on my own)

- dyeing fabrics

- beekeeping

- stained glass

- fucking soldering (baby’s first solarpanel. I may be crazy)

And from my past experience I would be way too lazy/nervous to start/continue doing these after I start and yet I keep collecting Desires like a clown

[xylianasblog]

Let me show you my kind of love.



Pairings: AgedUp! Rotxo x Metkayina!Fem reader

Summary: He’s untouchable in every way that you aren’t, yet the pull to him you feel is crazy. The question is does he feel it too?

Word count: 2k +

Warnings: MDNI, dry humping, fingering, inexperienced Rotxo, fluff, I think that’s all.!

A/n: Okay babies this is slightly proofread, but do let me know if I missed anything.

♥18+ ♥ no minors!♥18+ ♥ no minors!♥18+ ♥ no minors!♥18+ ♥

< Previous, Next >

»——————⋆◦ 𖥸 ◦⋆——————«

Your back was pressed up against a rock, Rotxo between your legs as he pressed soft kisses against the skin of your neck. Your fingers entangled in his curly hair tugging gently here and there pulling soft whimpers from his mouth.

His hips rocked into yours in a slow yet steady pace, his hard length straining against his loincloth as he rubbed against your covered entrance. Your soft moans encouraged him to keep going, his movements becoming harder and more unsteady as his orgasm was approaching just as quick as yours ways. Each time he brushed against your clit it nearly sent you spiraling.

“Mfghh.. fu- gonna..” Rotxo couldn’t barley get the words out as he came, soiling his loincloth in his seed, the sound of him letting go causing you to follow after him, the feeling of his movements growing sloppy had you crying out with your own orgasm.

His hold on you only growing tighter as he held your sweaty body closer to his own, he peppered soft kisses along your neck before kissing down to your collarbone. You were content in that moment as you held him close, fingers playing with his short curly hair.

It had been like this since the moment you have him that blowjob, you didn’t mind in fact you loved when he got needy for you. He has been more attentive and extremely touchy, it’s as if he craved your touch in every way possible and you were more than happy to give him just what he needed.

“We have to head back soon..” you mumbled softly.

You only received a small hun in response, the bigger male was far to comfortable to even think about moving. He didn’t even care that he dragged you both away from your duties, he needed you. Needed to be with you away from the others.

“Shh.. a little more time yawne. I just need to be with you for now please.” He whispered against your neck as his hold tightened up.

You couldn’t help but giggle, letting your head fall back gently to rest against the rock. A small sigh especially from you before you began to squirm around, your hands moving to push at his chest. Slowly you succeeded in prying his body away from yours.

“Come on we gotta get cleaned up.. tonight you can stay at my place and we can lay with each other. But we must finish our duties first..” you said to him.

With hazy eyes the male looked at you before looking over your body, it was as if he was weighing his options before he reluctantly pulled away. Once he was up he grabbed your hand and pulled you over to the water so you both to take a quick swim.

The water felt refreshing against your heated skin, soothing as you let yourself bask in the serene sensation of the water flowing all around you. Looking up at your lover you couldn’t help but admire how beautiful he was as he swam around. The sight of him moving swiftly yet gracefully was unlike anything else.

You felt your heart swell, you couldn’t believe that he was yours to love, love in every way possible. Yours to love in your own way.

»——————⋆◦ 𖥸 ◦⋆——————«

After washing off and retuning to finish your duties the day seemed to drag on slowly, you were excited, ready to spend your time with your future mate in any way possible.

Once the way was nearly over you sat on the ground of your marui pod, staring and sorting through the different pearls and seashells you’ve collected during daily activities.

Your ears twitched at the sound of your flap being opened, your eyes looking up to see Rotxo with a basket in his hands. You tilted your head curiously and before you could even ask your question he was already speaking.

“Shh be patient.” He playfully scolded.

You rolled your eyes but said nothing else as you turned back to your task at hand, you were beginning to weave yourself a new top. This was a decent enough distraction as you let Rotxo get everything he was doing in that moment ready.

After about twenty minutes you had nearly finished your top just as Rotxo announced that he was finished. Setting down your things you looked up to see he had brought you dinner and a few pieces of jewelry. Scooting over to him you let your eyes roam over the arm bands and necklaces, one particular bracelet caught your eye.

It was a iridescent pearl that seemed to glow the same pretty color as his eyes, you gently picked it up to exam more of the designs of the braided and intricate weaving designs, a few more pieces of pearls entangled into different parts around the bracelet. Your eyes looked up from the bracelet to glance at Rotxo. He have you a genuine smile as he watched you examine all the things he had made for you.

“I bring you more courting gifts, I hope you will wear them proudly as a show to the clan that you are my soon to be mate.” He proclaimed proudly, his eyes shining brightly.

“I love them. I will wear them all.” You replied softly as you continued to look around at everything.

Taking some of the fruits he brought you took a bite as you let the flavors dance around on your tongue, your eyes widened when you realize he tasted like the sweet fruit, however you kept that thought to yourself.

“The necklace and armband match my armband, the beads and pearls on mine are the colors of your eyes while yours are the color of my eyes.” He explained as he picked up the armband, he loosened the tie before placing it around your arm and tightening it up. Once it was secure enough he grabbed the necklace and moved behind you to secure that. His touch was gently, sending shivers down your spine, he smirked as she let his fingers linger against your skin before they moved down your back. Sliding around to the front of you they rested on your stomach.

Sitting down he pulled you down into him, your back pressed against chest leaving little to no room between the two of you. “I love them a lot.. thank you.” You said.

He let out a hum as his hands rubbed along your smooth skin, his left hand wrapped around your chest while his right hand dipped down your bellybutton and straight to your loincloth. You closed your eyes as you squirmed a little feeling his fingers rub over your covered heat. You didn’t make any moves to stop him, your hand’s immediately flying up to grab onto his arm around your chest.

A soft moan left your lips as he teased your clit over the fabric. He smiled as he continued to tease you, drawing the soft moans and whines from your lips. He loved how he made you feel though through his inexperience he had asked a few pointers from the guys that you didn’t know about.

“So pretty.. I can’t wait till I mate you. Make you mine for forever.” He said sweetly into your ear as his hold tightened up, his fingers applying more pressure over the fabric. You sucked in the air your body released without warning as you felt his fingers rubbing you with that new found pressure before pulling his digits away.

You whines loudly ears falling back against your head as your tail slapped against the ground, he chucked as he watched you. “Shh.. patience baby I’ll give you what you need.”

True to his word his fingers worked at undoing your loincloth and throwing it off to the side. The cold air against your bare cunt had you whimpering a little. The cold air was soon replaced by the warmth of his fingers teasing your lips gently. Fingers that were soon dipping between your lips, coating themselves in your slick. You moaned softly, head resting back against his shoulder as your legs opened wide welcoming his gentle yet curious touch.

A deep rumble bubbled up from his chest as he pushed his fingers inside of you, he groaned softly feeling the way your walls tightened around his fingers. Slowly he worked thrusted them in slowly while his thumb gently rubbed against your swollen clit. Your soft moans and whimpers telling him that he was doing such a good job, your words jumbled up in your throat. Soon his free hand moved to your top, pushing away the nets and pearls. His fingers teased and lightly pinched at your nipples, tugging and rubbing the nubs between his fingers. His face buried in the crook of your neck as he placed kisses along your skin.

You had your eyes closed, lips parted as he thrusted his fingers in and out of you slowly. Your mind hazy as you silently begged him for more, you raise your hips in a silent plea for him to move faster to give you more of what you craved, but instead of answering he gently denied you. A small whine tore from your lips as he pulled his fingers from you, your walls clenching around nothing, instantly missing the feeling of his thick fingers buried inside of you.

“Needy girl.. I will ease it baby don’t worry.”

While you had been to busy whining he has undid his own loincloth, freeing his throbbing cock from its restraints. He lifted you up placing you on his lap, his length pressing against your dripping heat.

The position was different and the feeling was new, you squirmed around a little, rocking yourself against the length of his cock. He groaned loudly as he throbbed against your entrance, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he helps you move. Rocking you gently the position causing the tip of his length to wedge itself between your drenched lips. With each movement his leaking tip was hitting directly at your clit, pulling loud whines and whimpers from your lips.

The feeling was to much for Rotxo, the new sensation of pleasure had his cock throbbing and leaking precum. His hold becoming tighter nails pressing into your skin. He rocked you faster along his length, loving the way your juices coated every inch of him. He bit, sucked, and kissed on your as he moved you helping you rock your hips, your orgasm was approaching quickly and he was not far behind you.

His hold faltering for a moment as he groaned, you gasped loudly and without much of a warning he pushed his way into your dripping wet pussy. Forcing your orgasm from your body just as he emptied deep inside of you. Your eyes rolled back as your body trembled slightly, walls gripping onto his cock milking him for every last drop. The action pulling whimpering whines from Rotxo, his ears flattening against his head. The feeling was out of this world, your gummy walls surrounding his throbbing member drove him wild.

“Y/n… fuck.. it’s..” he couldn’t formulate the sentence as he bucked his hips up gently helping you milk him of his seed. He twitched a little inside you, his hold loosening up a little before he weakly lifted you off his cock.

You whined nearly protesting the loss of him filling you up. With a small sigh and deep rumbles from him he laid you onto your bed, his eyes traveling over your sweaty body. His eyes narrowed at the sight of his seed seeping out of your still fluttering heat. He took the time to admire you fully, feeling pride fill his chest knowing that he made you this way even only momentarily, he loved that even though he was inexperienced you still took the time to love him. To see him.

“Now you look beautiful.”

»——————⋆◦ 𖥸 ◦⋆——————«

(Let me know if you wish to be apart of the taglist.)

Tags: @cinetrix @otasia @blue-slxt @tiredmamaissy @oceanstar19 @pandoraslxna @strongheartneteyam @iwanttogohomeandtakeanap @ghostreadersthings @manumanulau @shit-i-say-shit-i-think @leelumenaura

[sailtomarina]

Let It Out

Hermione x Neville | @hp-yuletide-bliss Day 11: Warmth | “Are you cold?” | WC 1536 | Rating: G

Hermione shivered in the dappled light of the greenhouse. Even though sunlight streamed through to where she stood, she still felt the winter chill deep in her bones. It seemed like no matter what she did, no matter how many layers she wore or the number of times she refreshed her charms, she couldn’t get warm.

Healers said it was one of the many possible side effects from long exposure to the Cruciatus curse. In addition to the unbearable cold, she also exhibited occasional tremors and night terrors. She could only stand waking Ron up so many times before the stress wore them both down. Their decision to remain only friends had been the right one, even if it left her feeling lonely in the evening hours when darkness closed in.

That was even more true now that she’d returned to Hogwarts for her Eighth Year, the only one of the three to do so. Harry and Ron had taken up Minister Shaklebolt on his offer to enroll in the Auror program as recruits, while Hermione had opted to finish her N.E.W.T.s and seek a different path.

One she wasn’t so sure on, anymore.

Before, she’d been set to apply to the Ministry’s Creature division. She supposed she should feel even more fired up now that Voldemort was gone and public attention was the highest it had ever been on Muggleborn rights. She used to dream about tackling house-elf, centaur, and werewolf injustices…but now?

She winced at the ache in her fingers, and tucked them into her armpits to try and warm them up enough to handle her shears. The Holly bushes weren't going to prune themselves, and they had the entirety of Hogwarts to decorate.

“Are you cold?”

It took Hermione a moment to register the question. She looked up to find Neville looking straight at her, lips turned down in concern. He stood just close enough for her to pick out the moss green flecks in his light brown eyes.

“How could you tell?” she replied with a wry smile, doubling down on her stance and stamping her feet for good measure.

“Your lips are nearly blue," he said with a teasing smile.

Even though it was Neville and she knew he hadn’t meant to draw any attention her way, Hermione still felt an embarrassed flush rise up her neck.

At least some parts of her still had some life’s blood left.

“I’ll be fine; I just need to warm up my hands a bit.” She held them up in demonstration and wiggled her fingers. “See? All good now.”

Neville, however, knew Hermione. All too often, she forgot just how observant he could be.

He tutted and picked up her gardening shears before she could make a move for them. “How about you let me do the pruning, and you take notes?”

If it had been anyone else, she would have protested. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust others to do as good of a job as she; Hermione just couldn’t stomach the thought of being a burden. Every single one of them had their own weights to bear; who was she to be exempt of the same expectations?

There was something about Neville that bade her to accept his offer. She let herself pick up the odd feeling and examine it, paying just enough attention to his work and their conversation to take the necessary course notes.

Neville had grown into a fine wizard, and not just physically. Yes, he towered above her now, vying for height with Ron, and had the broad shoulders to balance it out after years lifting soil in the greenhouses. It was more than that. Everything she’d heard about him and the previous year was a testament to his kindness and bravery. He’e fought the reign of the Carrows in every way he knew how, helping and leading the many students left behind to survive and face another day.

She saw the truth of his courage for herself the day they’d returned to Hogwarts on that final day. She saw it in the Courtyard when he’d marched forward, then again when he’d pulled out the sword of Gryffindor. She saw it in the comfort he’d given his fellow students and teachers in the aftermath amidst the rubble.

“There we go. They look right as rain now.” He stepped away from the bushes to admire his work. As usual, Hermione had to agree with him. 

He’d accomplished in one sitting what would have taken her twice as long. The Holly bushes looked perky despite the removal of many of their branches and berries, which would both be used in the holiday decor. Hermione had a tendency of over-pruning in a quest for symmetry.

“And you? How are you doing?” he now said to her, stepping close enough for her to pick up a faint earth-like scent.

“I’m almost done. See for yourself.” She angled the parchment towards him, intending for Neville to read over her shoulder. He shook his head instead.

“No, I mean, how are you doing? Are you still cold?”

She blinked at the direct question. “Oh! That’s sweet of you to ask. Yes, I am, but we’ll be in the castle soon enough.” Not that she’d feel any warmer there.

It was to her utmost surprise that he began unbuttoning his jumper.

“Here, allow me.” He shrugged off the wool and, without any hesitation, laid the heavy material over her shoulders. It was several sizes too large, and she swam in the extra fabric. The wool retained his body heat and smelled what she now identified as petrichor. She tried to surreptitiously bend her head down in examination of the buttons, but really she was breathing in the soothing scent as deeply as she could.

“Oh, Neville, you really don’t have to–”

He cut her off as assuredly as he’d snipped the branches off the Holly bush by picking up both of her hands to cup them in his own. She watched in fascination as he lifted them to his face and breathed warm air into the hollow. A resulting bloom of heat zipped up her arms, and she shuddered at the delicious comfort it afforded her.

“Better?” he murmured, eyes intent on her.

Wordlessly, she nodded, too overwhelmed by his nearness to speak. This was Neville, for Godric’s sake, her dear friend. Her first friend at Hogwarts, if she was being precise.

She realized with blazing clarity that she felt more at peace now than she had in several months.

“You’re doing great, you know,” he continued to say, and she cocked her head at the unexpected comment. He smiled softly in acknowledgement. “What I mean to say is that it’s okay to still feel cold, to heal at your own pace. We all are.”

The cold was a distant memory now. In its place stood Neville. To her horror, she felt her eyes water. She attempted to duck her head, but he wasn’t having any of that. WIth a quick pull, she was in his arms, her face pressed against the firm contours of his chest and his chin resting atop her curls. He hugged her close, wrapping her in an embrace that strengthened her as much as it freed what she’d tried to hold back.

She cried for the pain of wounds both physical and psychological. She cried out of loneliness. She cried in relief. She cried in gratitude for the friend holding her now.

“Let it all out, love.” His voice was low, and Hermione recalled that class was still in session and they were not alone. Still, she listened and cried, anyway, accepting what Neville offered.

It wasn’t the first display of its kind within the school boundaries, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“Nev, I, I–” she sucked in a ragged breath to try and finish her thought.

“I know.”

Neville stayed with her long after class had ended and they were alone in the silence. She didn’t see the nod he sent Professor Sprout, nor did she see his eyes close as he leaned into her, absorbing her warmth just as much as she did him. 

She didn’t know he, too, suffered nightmares of a sword missing its mark and of a cackling Bellatrix standing over him, her wand extended and flashing green. Ever since he’d learned of Hermione’s torture at Malfoy Manor, he’d imagined what it would be like to see her in the same sterile room as his parents. She didn’t know the thought filled him with an equal amount of terror that revealed the depth of his feelings for her.

What Hermione knew was that she didn’t want to let go. She wanted to hold the warmth in and let it grow and fill her until it spilled outward, soaking the ground and calling forth its very own spring.

She didn’t have to worry. Neville wasn’t going anywhere. Gone were his hesitations and self-doubt. He tended to her and their friendship like he did to everything else that mattered most to him in life, and, when love finally poked its verdant shoots out of the well-tended soil, it found purchase and bloomed.

Cross-posted on Tumblr and AO3

I know I don’t write it often, but I am actually such a sucker for a well-written Nevmione. Something about those green thumbs and his early friendship with Hermione is just nnnnnnnnnnnnn, catnip to me.

[vynegar]

vyn rainy pickup SSR, part six & phone call

last part!

same disclaimer and notes from part one & two

youtube link to Sherry’s Game Notes‘ video of the card story

links to other parts: one two three four five

more tot translations here 

do not repost

[PART SIX]

[31:34] Four-Gate Loop Marketplace

The air after the rain was crisp and refreshing. I took a deep breath. Vyn held my hand.

Vyn: Let us go.

In the noisy marketplace, we walked side-by-side, strolling among the chirps of the caged birds and the brilliant flowers. We stopped in front of the huge square fish tank, where a bright red fish we didn’t know the name of swam in the glistening blue water. This place was like bizarre, colorful alternate world – as long as we kept walking in circles along the stone path, there would never be an end.

MC: That’s right, what should we do with these goldfish?

I raised the plastic bag. Several fish looked listless, probably from being in the bag for too long.

MC: We don’t have anywhere at home to put a fish tank.

Vyn: Those children have been staring at us for quite a while.

Vyn motioned for me to look to the side.

Vyn: They are probably interested in the goldfish. How about we give the fish to them?

MC: Okay!

--

After giving away the goldfish, we stopped by at the cabin again. Then we thanked Master Zhou once more and retrieved our sutang flower.

MC: This is great! The sutang flower looks a bit better now. Oh, I can’t wait to see the “nighttime glow”… I’m sure it’s prettier than it looks under the sunlight.

Vyn: Under the sunlight…

Vyn murmured quietly to himself, as if my words confused him.

Vyn: You actually like those sutang flowers from the flower shop. Why did put the flower back at that time?

MC: You mean back at the flower shop? Yeah, I liked them… But, if you’re insistent on the sutang flower, of course I’d rather grow a luminescent sutang with you.

As I was rambling, Vyn suddenly stopped in his tracks.

MC: What is it?

Vyn: I forgot something.

MC: Huh? Then let’s hurry back and look…

Vyn: There is no need. You… can go wait for me over there, I will be there soon.

Vyn looked a bit flustered. He easily pointed in a direction, shoved the sutang flower in my hands, then walked back towards where we came from. I didn’t have time to react. For a few seconds I just stood frozen in place, but after watching Vyn’s retreating figure, all I could do was walk in the direction he pointed at.

[33:23] Lakeside

MC: I've walked all the way out here...

When I turned back to look, I still couldn't see Vyn. The placid surface of the lake reflected my anxious face.

MC: What exactly is Vyn up to...

I decided I might as well sit down beside the lake, hands resting on my folded knee. Spacing out, I tried to remember where he could have lost something. Suddenly, a sutang flower in full bloom appeared before me.

I turned around in surprise and saw Vyn crouching next to me. His face was faintly flushed and his breathing uneven, most likely because he had just been running.

MC: Vyn?!

Vyn: A flower... for you.

MC: You ran back all that way just to give me a sutang flower?

Vyn: Luminescent sutang are subdued and reserved when in bloom. They are not as showy as this one. I did not want you to feel sorry that it wasn't passionate enough when it bloomed. Therefore, I wanted to give you that passion. I hope you like it.

There was that feeling again, a prolonged sound that rose from my heart and rapidly filled my entire body. Driven by that sound, I threw myself into Vyn's arms and buried my head in his neck.

MC: How could I not like it... You really, really know how to make my heart pound. Even in these tiny moments, you...

The sutang flower rested in our overlapping hands. I toyed with the white petals, then remembered that question I still hadn't answered – "Do you think of me as a sutang flower?"

MC: Vyn, you're not a sutang flower, because... you never just pick the "soil" that you're familiar with.

At some times I had mistakenly thought that he would remove himself from the market to gracefully, reservedly observe from the sidelines. But he was far more than that.

MC: No matter where you are, you always surprise me.

Vyn brushed my face and, as if responding to me, pressed a series of tiny kisses to my lips. We sat next to each other on the lakeside, enjoying the warm breeze. I closed my eyes and leaned against Vyn's shoulder, and he lowered his head to gently kiss my hair. Even though we were in the center of the marketplace, the lake was far from the sound of people, with only the occasional sound of birds.

MC: It's so peaceful.

Vyn: It is... At these moments though, I start to feel noisy inside.

MC: Huh?

Vyn gripped my hand and pressed it against his ear. Strands of his hair brushed against my fingers, the delicate feeling going from my fingertips to my heart.

Vyn: When it is an ordinary day but the moments feel brilliant, the clamoring in my heart is louder than the surroundings. Even if I block my ears, that sound echoes throughout my body.

MC: So I wasn't the only one... You feel it too...

I subconsciously placed my hand on my chest, as if that was enough to suppress the sound. What was it? I wanted to find a word to describe my feelings in that moment, but as Vyn spoke with his soft voice, my cacophonous heart was quieted down.

Vyn: Was it stimulation from my surroundings? Or is it solely from my own instinct? Or is it that...

Vyn pressed his forehead against mine. His thumb stroked my cheek, our breaths mingled together, indistinguishable from each other's.

Vyn: Experiencing everyday things with you that we normally would not notice, is filling up the clamor itself?

My chest swelled. I felt myself becoming light, as if I would be carried away with a gust of wind. In order to let myself stay in this moment, I subconsciously –

Vyn: …

I suddenly overpowered Vyn, gripping his sleeve tight while I pressed my ear pressed against his chest. Thump thump, thump thump. The sound of his heartbeat, and the sound of mine.

MC: Say, do you think our inner sounds will resonate?

Vyn: I don’t know… but in our long lifetime, there is bound to be a moment when our heartbeats are synchronized. I will always open my heart to you. Every time we embrace, you can hear the echo from my heart.

MC: Then… it doesn’t matter what the exact reason is. As long as I’m with you, all of the noise will quiet down… just like right now.

I slid my hand down his arm, then laced my fingers with his. From the corner of my eye, I saw that the white flower I had casually set aside was being blown by the wind toward some direction. I wanted to reach out to grab it.

MC: The flower…

Vyn wrapped his arms around me and rolled, so that I was completely wrapped in his embrace. Head resting on his arm, I looked up at his expression. Lying on the soft, spacious field of grass, I heard a quiet sigh.

Vyn: Nevermind that. Lie here with me for a while longer.

I felt the spring breeze as well as a bout of tiredness come over me. My thoughts became slow and sluggish, and I couldn’t help squinting my eyes. Vyn pressed his forehead to mine, gently stroking my hair.

Vyn: Sleep, MC. In this moment of peace… when the sunlight is weaker, I will wake you up.

[END]

  [Phone call video. Please note that the uploader Sherry’s Game Notes has their own Eng Sub for the video. Their translation and my translation below are not affiliated with each other and were created separately.]

Good evening. Did you just arrive home? You probably have not eaten yet. I ordered dinner for you, it should have just arrived.

Yeah, we can chat while you eat... I called to tell you that our sutang flower is going to bloom in the next few days.

I am not sure when exactly it will be. Would you like to stay over in the coming days, so we can wait together...

The flowering period is one week, so I can also call you when it begins... but I do not want you to miss the moment when it blooms.

Okay. Then I will pick you up after work tomorrow. We can buy some things before going home, is that alright?

They are not important. I wanted to buy some small night lights to place in the garden, to make it easier to admire the flowers.

Yes, I moved the flower into the garden. It feels strange to admire the flowers indoors.

Do not worry about the cold. I have already laid out a soft, cozy blanket that we can curl up in.

And you have never viewed luminescent sutang before, correct? I want this to be a special experience for you.

For example, I prepared a water boiler so we can make tea while waiting.

I heard that adding one or two sutang petals into your tea will have an unexpected effect.

While admiring the flowers, I will put out all of the lights around us then place a sutang blossom in your hair.

You will be the only starlight I see in the dark night...

Okay. I will stop there to preserve some of the surprises. Later, I will slowly reveal them to you.

It is getting late. Rest soon, I will see you tomorrow.

[generic-doors-ask-blog]

A dark blue-colored asker that was originally sleeping falls out of the box onto the floor with a small 'thump' causing them to wake up and look around the area in caution but ended up making their way over to figure, staring up at it. "E-excuse me..? Who are you?- if that isn't a-a bad question.." They sound like a child that had just woken up despite all the commotion that happened earlier.

Figure listened as The Askers finalized their choices and announced their decision. It wasn’t really surprised that they chose the upper floors, after all. It was quite nice up here.

Figure drifted further into its own inner tired world.

How had Screech found them again? Alone in..an attic of all places..? And the vivid and fanciful description of the attic…it sounded like something from a fairytale..so many odd things.. Figure silently wondered if the children could’ve really just have made it all up or not and simply found the new entities elsewhere.

Simply mixing up what the room might have looked like from something may have read somewhere. Now that sounded more plausible.…But...

It instinctively guided a hand towards its ribs.

Then again, stranger things have happened.

It thought about its child, Screech.. Seek was being too harsh on it. It’d have to have a talk with its partner later about that. Perhaps even in the morning if it wasn’t too exhausted.

For now, It was just glad Screech was okay.. (and Sally too, of course.) It’d have to have to have a talk with it about roaming the hotel when everyone was asleep.

Of course Screech could..sort of hunt on its own, but it was still not able to actually kill anything independently..Figure’s thoughts dripped into mush, unsure how to continue that train of thought without stirring up problems.

It caught small a whiff of dirt, herbs and wild onions. Figure clicked a few times and frowned. That Goblin was in the rafters listening in. It could hear his distant tiny, excited heartbeat as well.

He was smart to have chosen to hide up there. A few feet closer and Ambush or perhaps Rush would’ve caught scent of him. Now THAT would’ve been a sight to behold. It surmised as it imagined the sound of wooden foundations being excitedly torn to shreds and frightened screams.

That eavesdropper was lucky Figure didn’t want him dead..or perhaps he was just lucky that It didn’t crave goblin. It smiled just the tiniest bit at that thought.

Oh how it wanted a nice watermelon right now..Figure gurgled hungrily at the thought. So refreshing..it loved to crush them in its mouth as the juice dripped out between its teeth. It loved to plant the leftover seeds in some dirt and listen to their roots dig into the soil. Oh how it envied El-Goblino’s ability to just..go outside.

All the enterances and exits sealed and locked or kept secretly hidden in some deep and dusty place..oh..dear…no watermelons today.. perhaps it can ask-

The asker’s words interrupted its slurry mess of thoughts. It clicked a few times in confusion before managing to echolocate them on the floor. For a few seconds, it said nothing as it slowly lowered itself downwards to meet them.

Only quiet sniffing and making strange low-pitched sounds echoy sounds were audible to the small asker. The strange orange light in its mouth flickered and it clicked softy before making an effort to speak and took care while doing so.

“Oh..hello there..” It whispered. “My name is Figure, I’m the librarian here..”

Figure’s thoughts were scattered like messy little flies. A child? Oh, were they actually children?? It sounded as young as it’s own babies. Wait, if it’s a child..where were parents?? This was all going too fast..Figure shivered a little before raised its head to speak before being interrupted.

“Alright then, so it’s settled. The main floor it is.” Seek announced, before turning towards Ambush. “You. Take them to the old storage room. Their your problem now.”

“Ay! Seek come on I’m tired-!”

“Nope. I’m done with the shenanigans. Make sure their all nice and settled. Goodnight Ambush.” Seek dissipated and slithered off.

Figure whined softly in distress before shaking its head.

“I’m sorry little friend, I cannot answer any of probably the hundreds of questions you probably have right now..but my library is located at door 50 so maybe you can come visit me and we can find out what’s going on here..?” It clicked uncertainly, its body shrinking in rapidly growing discomfort.

Ambush picked up the small asker like a little chick and carefully placed it in its fog. “It’s eh..been a long night ain’t it?” Ambush said awkwardly, scratching the back of its head.

“Yea..” Figure gave the little ghost a comforting nuzzle before stumbling towards Seek, who slipped up its leg and headed towards its ribs before being blocked with a large talon-like hand.

“Why were you rude to Screech..? My father saw you..and I definitely heard that.” It hissed, its jaw widening just the tiniest bit.

Seek looked up with an exhausted eye before letting out a sigh. “I am aware, dear. I’m just so incredibly tired..-”

“That’s not an excuse at all, apologize please.”

Seek shrank a little, before continuing.

“I’ll apologize in the morning. I’ll Just please, for the night..?”

Figure made a grunt before lifting its hand and allowing its partner to continue its path up its body before coiling itself around Figure’s ribs. The many smaller eyes in its mass closed themselves sleepily.

“I promise..” it whispered before closing its main eye.

Figure yawned and started towards the library.

“Figure?”

“Mhm?”

“Do you..think that story was real..?”

“I don’t know, but it certainly does sound interesting..”

….

The room Ambush left you in was large and thin.

Small cubby-like shelves nailed into the wall and one large bed. It didn’t have much else other then a neatly folded pile of large, soft blankets and the complementary cheese sandwiches Ambush made for you. That and a singular dresser.

It wasn’t home, but perhaps you could make it that way…?

As you all settled to sleep, relax or eat something strange began to emanate a soundless vibration from the very walls themselves… calling you..in a way..not all of you felt it.. but to those that do..

——-

FINALLY.. CAN WE GET THE PROLOGUE FINISHED SO WE CAN FUCKING ASK THE REST OF THE HOTEL??? /j /lh

But yea all of these are super important. Have fun!

[onyxandemerald]

story time

hi friends, im still a little new here. i got back on tumblr bc idk this is where the witches are, and i think this is the first era in my life where its finally sinking in how real it all is. so im sure youre all gonna be like oh yeah ive been there 😎 but i am incredibly jazzed.

so like i have spirit guides and have spoken with my ancestors on a couple occasions, and i know my intuition and my clairs are super active, but im still wrestling with my doubt monster. i will actively pick up signs, dismiss them or im now practicing expressing curiosity, and then watch my premonition unfold minutes later like i had no idea what was coming. to try and exercise this ive been playing intuition games with my tarot cards; pull a card face down and try to guess if it's an even number or an odd number. ive been doing really well too! but thats another post.

ive also been trying to wear myself out psychically, in a way, because of how rapidly im receiving messages and signs and im kind of exhausted. so a friend and i went to a cemetery yesterday! ive visited cemeteries before, not for the Real Reason, just to hang out, but this is the first time ive been with two feet and both hands if you know what i mean: ; as a witch, standing firmly with intention.

my friend is even more green than i am so on the drive i refreshed his memory on graveyard etiquette. we both brought offerings and incense, brushed ourselves off before the gate, spoke quietly, and greeted everybody. hurricane helene had also just passed through so we cleared out any fallen debris from on top of graves and leaves from headstones.

as soon as we got there i noticed the oldest grabbed my attention right away. this is usually the case, as ik the eldest residents are typically considered guardians of sorts but this time it felt much louder than normal. we started at the front and worked our way back. its a tiny cemetery, maybe less than 50 headstones. a gay couple alongside their cats and his mother. a fair few of children, young children. my friend was more sensitive to them than i was i think.

when i finally made it back to the old headstone i noticed most all of them had needed repairs and the two i felt drawn to had no text left whatsoever. one of them had exposed rebar. a lizard sat on each marker and they hung out with us when i got my tarot cards out.

as my friend and i sat down and lit our incense, we started chatting and i could kind of feel somebody else join us. we both started feeling questions and conversation bubble up so we worked the deck together, i would shuffle, he would cut. i also didn't interpret upright vs reversed since we were sitting across from each other. it more felt like he was speaking to both of us.

i started getting the feeling that these two blank graves were a man and wife, and that they were really grateful to see some young faces and to be remembered. i only picked up the energy of the man.

we asked if they had any family left in the area, since they had been here so long. the emperor (my friend's signifier), king of wants and three of swords. we took tha as a no, or at least none that come by. my friend put his hands to the ground and i asked what he was feeling. he said the soil was nice and warm. we asked if they liked it here. three of wands (which in my deck is a young man in a field of golden wheat essentially caressing the sun) and three of cups. what we both interpreted was that they liked how bright and sunny it could be in the morning, and since the cemetery was so small and intimate, i think they had a sort of their own community and found comfort in each other. it was also hidden off the main roads, so there were lots of critters there. this made me think of the lizards watching us. i asked what it was like to be dead. four of swords, two of cups, three of pentacles. i cried.

it wasnt long after this that i started feeling drained and didn't want to overstay our welcome. i left the dried passionvine flowers that id collected from the yard a few weeks ago, one for each of our new friends and one for the cemetery's namesake and scooped some soil from near the entrance on the way out. i already really want to go back. all day afterwards, i kept feeling that (presumably) man's energy again, and the final question i had asked. the experience would replay in my mind and id just start crying into my sandwich.

i am just so blown away by the decisiveness of it all. such clear answers, my friend and i channeling the same interpretations of the cards and the vibes and the energy, even without the cards. its so real.

i love being a witch.

[animephantom]

Delicious in Dungeon, Episode 4: Stewed Cabbage/Orcs

I'm gonna put this in bold here. SPOILER WARNING. IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED THIS WEEK'S EPISODE, DO NOT READ.

Delicious in Dungeon is a lovely show. It's got some excellent pacing, and I really appreciate how the main characters all approach the problems the writers present to them. I'd call this a cozy show. The main cast is fun as hell, with Senshi and Laios being my personal favorites. I mean, how do you go wrong with a dwarven gourmand and a warrior obsessed with monsters?

I'd like to add that normally I'm a fucking snob about subs/dubs, but the English dub is lovely! The voice cast does an excellent job conveying their characters' thoughts and feelings moment to moment, and it's clear they felt some fondness for the party due to the warmth you can almost feel in their voices.

We start this episode on the third floor of the dungeon, the Golden Castle, and right away Laios is showing off his extensive monster knowledge, displaying the ability to determine what different kinds of undead are simply from their footfalls. It's here we find out that Senshi keeps camps all over the dungeon, and the third floor is no exception. The group asks if he lives here, and he replies that he hardly ever sleeps here. There's hardly anything to hunt worth eating, so he mostly stays on higher floors in the dungeon.

While there's nothing worth eating here, there's still value to be found! Our dwarven friend had an incredibly clever idea: Golems are 90% magically animated dirt, so why not use that soil to grow plants in areas where you couldn't normally? As Chilchuck, the rogue of the party so neatly puts it, "a walking veggie patch"!

And it's this kind of thing about this show that I love. Most of the dishes are just 'insert given meal here, replace meat with fantasy variant, add fantasy vegetable', and while that might seem lazy to some, I personally love it. How else are you going to contextualize fantasy creatures than with meals you already know? But it's how it does it that always makes me smile.

Like in the previous episode with the Living Armor, where instead of being inhabited by spirits, the ones the party finds are inhabited by a strange sort of mollusk! So rather than come up with an entirely new way to prepare this fantasy meal, why not treat the creature like you would any other mollusk?

Anyway, back to the dirt: I think it's a fantastically clever idea, even if it is an affront to farming and magical studies. Also, how fucking cool is it that he tends the golems by disabling their magical cores? He doesn't kill them to just leave the dirt, because obviously their magic would fade! (I also think it's great that his excuse for tampering with magical creatures is basically "But I'm not tampering!)

This episode's first recipe is a fresh garden salad and stewed cabbage, fresh from the Golem fields! In today's recipe...

Got you!

Joking aside, I really like how the meals the party prepares are related to what kind of adventure they're having. Obviously they're cooking what monsters they kill, but what I mean more specifically is the kinds of meals themselves. This fresh salad and stew is a perfect meal to refresh yourself after a hard day's labor. I imagine the vegetables to be so light and crisp, and the cabbage stewed with potatoes, onion, carrot and bacon sounds light and filling.

After a lovely meal, the party cleans up the mess from the meal and Marcille pontificates on who maintains the bathrooms this far down into the dungeon. The narrator advises that in areas with high foot traffic, adventurers sometimes designate bathrooms to keep things relatively clean.

We already know who maintains them, obviously. It's Senshi's base camp, why wouldn't he keep the nearest bathroom taken care of? And where else would he get the fertilizer for the golems?!

And it's now that a big question occurs to Laios. "Why not live on the surface? Life's easier up there and you can still be self-sufficient." to wit Senshi replies "But if I lived up there, who would maintain the bathrooms down here? Who would get rid of any zombies who get stuck? Who'd fix the golems if they fell apart?"

This gives us more clarity on who Senshi is. He loves the dungeon. He lives to take care of it. But with that clarity come more questions. Why is Senshi here? Does he actually choose to be here, or is he a steward chosen by the Dungeon? Am I engaging in wild speculation? You bet your ass I am!

Senshi goes on to tell us about how he used to maintain an honor system vegetable stand, but he had to stop because someone kept stealing the money. Marcille and Chilchuk exchange a nervous glance and they say under their breaths "So that's why that chest was always filled with money." I have nothing to add to this, it's peak comedy to me.

Oh fuck! Orcs! A tavern tussle is turned into a hostile takeover when these guys show up, impaling some poor bastard for the mere crime of being in the way (That's okay, he can be resurrected for a fairly cheap fee). Your typical anime brawl slideshow happens, but shock of shocks! They know Senshi! And they trade for veg! It turns out they've been displaced by the Red Dragon causing problems! But shit remains violent as the desperation of their situation leaves them unable to let the party walk.

Hark, our party has been kidnapped! And then Marcille experiences a racism. "It's an elf! Look at her face! How barbaric!"

Sure, it's a little funny that the stereotypically pretty elf is experiencing racism and disgust from the stereotypically pig-like orcs present in almost any fantasy anime. I wonder if there wasn't a better way to do this gag though? I dunno.

Then there's more fantasy bullshit. Orcs got chased to the underground by the humans and the elves, and the orcs wouldn't stop raiding the land around them, and the elves poured oil into their caves, but all orcs ever did was rob and kill and terrorize everyone.

But now it's time for BREAD! BREAD! BREAD! BREAD! BREAD! *womph* WE'RE KNEADING BREAD DOUGH! ONCE YOU GET IT STRETCHING EASY, IT'S TIME FOR PROOFING!

Aggression still barely concealed, we experience more 'typical human' bullshit, where humans are all the same, and they're just looking to become king of the UG, and honestly, this plot's already tired. It's nothing new, and I'd really prefer to get back to the nice, relaxing dungeon crawl to rescue Laios's sister please.

AND THE INNOCENCE OF A CHILD SAVES THE DAY! Orc Papa wanted to keep the bread, and his kid says "But daddy, we made it together, why can't we eat it together?" Breaking the father's will to resist.

The episode's second recipe is Freshly Stolen Vegetables with Chicken in Stewed Cabbage, Best with Stolen Bread.

Do... Do I need to say anything about how this meal relates to the matter at hand? No? Cool. As with all anime food, it looks delicious as FUCK and I'd love some. And now Marceille is slightly less racist due to spicy food!

Laios clears up the misunderstanding by revealing his grand quest, and thank the writers so damn much for this. I was so worried that the plot was going to become a grand quest to become the king of the underground. With this in mind, I'll give the mention a pass. I know it's going to come up again later, but I feel like it's going to be a byproduct of trying to save the sister.

Sent off with well wishes and some leftovers, we continue our trek into the dungeon, to be continued next week, February first!

Overall, I enjoyed the episode. While the fantasy racism is tired as fuck, I still enjoy how food brought everyone together. It's silly, and I wouldn't have missed this part of the episode at all, but the rest of it is still pretty good. 7/10 or whatever, I'd watch it again.

[separatedway]

She takes the hand extended to her, finding amusement in the gesture.

"My, aren't you the gentleman," Ada remarks, dryly. In truth, she was grateful for the aid, and in the man for allowing her the illusion of wellness that her stoicism was meant to convey.

But her shoulder twinged and ached, her thigh was sore and the muscles taut. Her other leg too, now, was starting to flare up and burn from the compensation to her gait. Ada had spent so much energy maintaining the image of strength that it was starting to injure her in other ways.

And she could feel the stitches she'd made herself around her abdomen pull, pus and blood leaking into her gauze. Under it all, she was falling apart.

Normal people wouldn't survive what she went through. Normal people didn't survive.

She brushes the thought away, leaning into Luke as he walked her back to her tavern room to allow her the time to pack. The medicine finally starts to kick in, and dull the pain enough to make her conscious of how exhausted the spy was. As much as she wanted to just spend the time laying down, it wouldn't do to keep her date waiting, and despite the quaint, provincial feel of Loire Village, this was not a safe place to lay her head.

She'd hardly unpacked.

But her 'work phone' needed special attention, especially since she was going off-track from either one of her employers' wishes. Ada disassembles the phone, and wraps the battery and SIM card separately, in an electrically insulated makeup bag.

Ada had several messages that she didn't bother to read. With either connection, she knew that if they really wanted to track her down, her last known location would be Loire's cell tower. For Simmons, it would appear that she was on track to find the G-virus. For Albert...

Albert had his own problems to deal with. He didn't know that Ada had already made a back-up of what he wanted, and was on his way to confront the Umbrella Executive Vladimir.

She takes a moment to double check, and make certain that the red compact disc was still in its case, unfolding a sweater that had cushioned it. It was her promised bargain chip, and even if she knew the mercenary would shelter her regardless... she had a reputation to keep, and wasn't fond of the thought of having to owe anyone anything.

Still there, still intact.

Finally, after all the traipsing about the room was over, Ada stripped down, folding up her clothes, and frowning at the blood that had started to seep through to the cloth of her top. She retrieves her medical kit out of her bag and a change of clothes, refreshing her bandages, and putting the bloody waste into her dress bag with the outfit she'd worn to the cafe.

She couldn't leave her soiled dressings for anyone to find. She'd rather avoid probing questions into her stay.

Ada retrieves her duffle, and returns the key to the tavernkeep, walking outside to meet her ride. Luke in the front seat, and his buddy, "Hawk" sprawled in the back of the car, arms folded across his chest and eyes closed for a nap.

"Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long."

"I'll let him know to make it up to you."

He's the driver.

He had the broken rib and knew exactly the kind of driving as to not piss off the broken rib. He couldn't do anything about the bumps and bruises the roads were about to bite at them with.

Nighthawk was an incredible pilot. Neither him, nor their new companion needed extreme stunts on the road right now.

So? He waits with her a few good long minutes and eventually gets up once some amount of medicine was in his system offered a placebo that he could have a full wingspan of movement.

He extends a hand to her to help her up out of the chair. When she picked the place to meet, he was more than happy to walk the small back road's distance to the instead of drive. Now he's not so sure about the walking distance no matter how short it was. Hawk could sit in the back for this one and sleep because their guest was going to ride shotgun.

Again, she's a damn good stoic, but he doesn't think she could run if push came to shove.

So he returns to his and Hawk's room, letting the two comingle and letting him know she's coming with them. A guest that needed some security. He'd explain in the car later.

"I'm going to drop her off. She's got to pack."

[witch-hazels-musings]

Heyo Hazel! Hope you’re doing well :) Can I request a wine stain reading for Kaeya with the symbols boat, star, and square?

aroma: wine (romantic) | symbols: star (protection), square (comfort), boat (unexpected visits)

:: kaeya x gn reader | sfw - fluff | tasseography event

“Ah, how unfortunate,” Kaeya lamented as the rain drops covered his gloved hand. Tiny splashes vanishing into the next droplet before rolling down his arm and onto the soiled ground at his feet. He might have braved the weather any other time but it happened to have an ample amount of it. With a dismissive sigh, he walked further under the thick tree, leaned against the sturdy bark, crossed his arms, and closed his uncovered eye. “Might as well take it easy,” he hummed. 

The rain wasn’t sudden but that didn’t encourage Kaeya to move faster. At least fifteen minutes ago he felt the first drops on his cheek, one catching on his eyelash and startling him. It was like he enjoyed the excuse to stay away from his duties and as soon as the downpour hit he was well protected by the leaves above him. 

It wasn’t letting up. He wouldn’t have minded either way. There was always an excuse to tie him up -- speaking of, here came one now. 

“Oh! Are you stuck?” Someone shouted from the drenched path. Kaeya peered out through the rain only to laugh at the sight he saw. There you were, shoes in your hands, clothes clinging to your skin as if you jumped into the lake, hair laying flat. He might not see as clearly as others with his eye patch but he certainly could see the smile plastered on your face. “W-Kaeya? Fancy seeing you here.” 

“I should be saying the same,” he pushed himself from the tree but didn’t leave his shelter. “You know you’re bound to catch a cold.” 

He looked you over and somehow he knew exactly what you were going to say, “Ah! That’s just a bunch of nonsense. You can’t catch a cold from being wet.” The rain fell in your mouth and you coughed, quickly brushing away the stream of water flowing across your forehead, down your cheeks, and cascading down your neck. He couldn’t deny how happy you looked even though you were sopping. 

“And just what are you doing?” he asked, laughing at the whimsy of it all.  

“I’m taking a stroll!” you beamed the brightness of your smile. 

“In the rain?” 

“Of course in the rain!” Stretching out your hands, you let your head drop back so you could soak up the droplets. After a moment you started to laugh and the sound filled his ears and made his skin ripple. 

In all the time he’s known you, no interaction has ever been boring. It was nice, and refreshing to see someone behave in ways that were in their way a little chaotic.

Once he found you pacing back and forth along the cobblestone railings. You swore to him you would traverse everyone that lined the levels of the city. It caused a few citizens a fright and encouraged unruly behavior from the children, but it was harmless. Another time he saw you mixing ingredients at the alchemy table. Nothing came to much, but the colors it turned your hair made him laugh for a week. 

You were odd, sometimes unpredictable like there was this driving force in your heart that nothing could tie down. Somewhere in his chest, he understood that feeling. It was one reason why he sought you out so often. 

Two birds of a feather, yours were just multicolored. 

“So, Mr. Calvary Captain,” you began as you sauntered toward him, not caring or minding the puddles you stomped your way through. “Would you care to join me on this stroll about the forest?” your accent changed as if you were playing a character in a play. Even your behavior shifted as you bowed before him before offering him your hand, waiting for his reply. 

“Why ever would I do that?” 

His question made you pause. Quickly you shifted so you could tap on your lip, thinking about the best answer that would convince him to join you. When you found an answer your face lit up as if someone just told you exciting news. 

"Because the rain is freeing," you breathed and, in the same moment, took his away. 

“My, my, I guess I must submit to that,” he hummed as he stepped out from the tree’s canopy, “either way, talking with you is certainly more interesting in the rain.” 

“How very right you are,” you replied as you took his hand, giggled like a menace, and dashed toward the open meadow. 

--

“See, I did warn you.” Kaeya teased as he removed the thermometer from your mouth. The blanket he wrapped around you slipped off your shoulder and exposed your bare skin. He lingered, a bit longer than he should before turning away to pour the tea he was brewing. 

“It’s your - ACHOO - fault!” 

“Now, whatever do you mean?” 

“You used your vision to turn the water into ice. It made me so c-c-col-” another sneeze cut you off which made you glare at him. 

“Yes, that.” He placed the warm cup near you, watching intently as you took it and began to breathe in the aroma before sipping the liquid, “yet you’ll have to admit, it was rather breathtaking.” 

“... yes, I’ll give you that,” you huffed, frustrated that he was right. With a pout, you pointed at him not noticing how much the blanket moved in your action, “you have to take care of me until I’m better. Your fault, your problem.” You emphasized, pointing at yourself energetically.

Kaeya’s eyebrows rose but only for a second. Instead, he leaned into the smirk that touched his lips, he took a step forward and pulled at the blanket you neglected, he let his breath wash over you as he replied, “I have no objections to that.” 

You sat a bit straighter and turned your gaze from him. He always wondered if you saw him as more than a friend, if his desire to keep you happy, safe, loved was more than just a fleeting feeling. Your response gave him the flash of hope he needed to dig deeper. “G-Good.” 

all works & ideas created by Hazel, recreations, reposts not allowed even with credit provided

[rainbowsky]

Hello! I’m a new turtle who’s silently been around for a couple of months and I’m not really aware of a lot of things. There’s a 🍭 (some people take it as) about “blue sky white clouds” and I am so so lost. Are there any posts you can link me so that I can understand what it all means or if you can explain it to me that would be helpful too. I’ve read a few posts but I still don’t understand anything, I want to know what this phrase/words mean, how they’re linked to ggdd, what was the interview about and why are some taking it as a 🍭? And I noticed it’s also your display name, wow, so I’m even more curious 😂

Hi new turtle! 💛🐢💛

I don't think I've done a post going over all of this before, and it's a question I get asked a lot, so here goes...

Fake, fan fiction, CPN.

Blue sky, white clouds is a bit of a BXG slogan or rallying cry that I first saw during an Untamed promo interview they did back in 2019. They were asked what they remember about filming and GG said, "Blue sky, white clouds." (Although fans have found references to BSWC from as far back as 2017).

GG and DD have repeatedly referenced BSWC in their posts and comments during interviews and events. Here are just a few examples:

June 5, 2020 GG posted a BSWC photo. Kadian 13:28 or "Forever love Bo." The message, "Blue sky, white clouds. What do you see?"

Some BXG believe they see a running shoe in the first picture.

The next day DD did a post with a pair of shoes (DD used shoes a lot in his posts to reference GG, because shoes in Chinese is xie zi), one of them red and the other blue with a white cloud swoosh.

The blue shoe model name is exactly the same wording as GG used in his post, "Blue sky white clouds." The red shoes are called Xing Zhan (using the same character as GG's name).

Hilariously, the next day Youku posted saying they felt that it looked like the Youku logo and savage DD replied, "your imagination is beyond imagination." 😅 (Never stand between DD and a candy!)

June 12, 2020, GG posted again "Look at the blue sky and white clouds... my hair has gotten long."

(Turtles were very 👀 by this post, because it closely resembled a post DD made way back in 2017, where he said, "Should I grow out my long hair?")

They've both mentioned BSWC at strange times, just randomly dropping it into conversations. For example during a SDOC hotpot episode Jackson was asking DD about filming in Yunnan (where he filmed Being a Hero), and DD replied, "The blue sky, white clouds there are really beautiful."

GG mentioned it in the Qingdao snacks video as well (the same one where DD's name was mentioned). When he was doing his end of the video wrap-up, talking about what Qingdao was like for him, he said, "I can see the sea, blue sky, white clouds, black soil."

And of course twice in the recent Mendale product launch event, GG mentioned BSWC. Once when asked if he'd seen the starry sky, and he replied, "Blue sky, white clouds" and the second time when asked about his ideal camping trip, he replied, "Blue sky white clouds, the smell of dirt, and I think there has to be insects, mosquitos."

A lot of the photos they post feature BSWC as well. I don't have room here to post them all, but just browsing their images, you'll see this theme come up again and again.

They've also worn a lot of clothing that seems to reference BSWC.

My CPN on Blue Sky, White Clouds

I think it probably started up totally by accident. Something that maybe they both like (sort of like the moon), that gradually became more of a thing as BXG took note of it, to where now it's something they use as a candy.

I know of at least a few popular Chinese songs that mention BSWC as well, which is maybe another thing they might smile about whenever they hear it.

I think, based on GG's referencing BSWC in that Untamed interview they did way back in 2019, that it's also a nod to that summer they got to spend together filming. Something that reminds them of a special time, that they can share with BXG.

I also just think it's a beautiful, refreshing, optimistic image. That's part of why I personally like it so much. It brings to mind all the things about GGDD that make me happy.

As a new turtle you might find my masterlist post helpful.

[indianamoonshine]

Girl Talk | Din Djarin x Reader | Oneshot

Summary: What does a gal do when she’s just been railed by the most notorious bounty hunter in The Galaxy? Call her best friend of course.

A/N: Just something to tide you over until the next installment of Strawberry! I have anxiety and I need to busy my hands without thinking too much! This takes place after season 2!

There’s a crackling on the other end of the receiver. The telegraph service majorly bites out here on Besiana, which has been dubbed “the trench of The Galaxy”. Getting connected to Gabriele at all is a miracle in itself, though not without exploiting a few (somewhat) illegal hacks by yours truly.

Hells, not even this shitty phoning service can put you in a sour mood.

When Gabriele’s voice sounds at the other end, it gives the air that he’s just awoken from a heavy sleep or he’s suffering a hangover. Probably both. “Now what the hell are you doing all the way out in butt-fucking-nowh…” he starts.

You’re quick to cut him off. “Take a guess.”

Gabriele groans and there’s a rummaging in the background. Something sounds as though it falls off a surface - his alarm clock, probably. He must be in the inner rim somewhere.

“Miss girl, I don’t have time to play these games with you. My head is pounding. Now tell me why you’re in the catacombs of The Galaxy’s ass and…”

Behind you, a body shuffles from outside the refresher door. Your heart thuds rambunctiously in your chest as you carefully peer through a crack of the opening. Din Djarin - The Galaxy’s most notorious Mandalorian- is taking a seat with his rifle in hand. You watch as he begins to disassemble it with great technical precision. Something about watching him take apart his weapon causes your stomach to flutter.

And your knees to weaken.

“I just had sex,” you tell him in a whisper.

Gabriele is silent on the other end for a moment and then lets out a sigh of great disappointment. “Congratulations. I’m going back to bed. Goodnight.”

“The best sex of my life.”

There’s another pause. “Oh?” His interest has piqued, voice more alert at the prospect of juicy gossip. After all, what were best friends for?

You let this linger in the air for a minute, just to marinate his curiosity, and then peek at Din again. He’s taking a rag and wiping the barrel of the rifle; if it weren’t for the helmet upon his head, you’d swear he was concentrating with furrowed and ascetic brow.

“Do you remember that Mandalorian who made a giant fuss a couple of years ago?” you inquire lowly, eyes unable to leave the steadiness of Din’s deft hands.

Those hands. You have to stop yourself from moaning at the recent memories. You swear you can still feel the ghostly sear they left in their wake. The naked skin upon your hips tingles at the sheer recollection, the slick still upon your thighs all-too prevalent.

“You’re lying,” is what Gabriele gasps, absolutely scandalized. You imagine him shooting up in bed and covering his mouth in awe. He was always so dramatic but you couldn’t blame him if he did. This was the exact reaction you were hoping for.

Din grabs another piece of his rifle and starts up again. You have to tear yourself away from looking at him and instead surmise yourself in the mirror. It isn’t very big in any sense of the word but it’ll do. You take a look at your face (blushed and bright) and then your eyes (dazed and dick-drunk). Hells, this man has ruined you.

“I know you have questions,” you reply, tapping at your cheeks. They feel softer somehow.

Gabriele squeaks a bit under his breath. “Did he take off his helmet?”

You shake your head, though he can’t see it. “No. And I think it awoken something in me.”

He tsks. “Damn. I wanna know what he looks like. Okay…”

“I know he’s a brunette,” you say slyly.

Gabriele shrieks at the other end and you have to angle the receiver away with a laugh. “Is it big?”

You recall the tactical consideration- albeit brief - it took to get his dick in your mouth. You did it though, ‘ole girl. You tap yourself on the shoulder with a proud grin.

“Oh, it is. It’s…it’s very nice.”

You find yourself looking out the door again. Din’s moved onto another gun - he’s already put together the last. You grow weary at the sight of his gloved hands alone, but when your eyes trail downwards you find yourself swallowing something thick in your throat. Which in turn, of course, reminds you of the tanginess still lingering upon your tongue.

“Gabriele,” you say seriously, voice so low you can barely hear yourself. “I came eight times.”

“Shut up. You did not.” Gabriele sounds more than just excited - now he sounds jealous. You can’t help but giggle.

You raise a hand to your chest in a show of honesty. “I mean it. Eight times. He went down on me for an hour.”

“I thought you said he didn’t take off his helmet?” Gabriele asks suspiciously.

You chuckle lowly. “Oh, that’s where it gets really good.”

Gabriele - one of the biggest sluts in The goddamned Galaxy - was no stranger to sex. So when you tell him that you were blindfolded during this portion of an absolute wild ride, you’re shocked to find him screeching once more.

You’re about to continue - to confide in him about the brutal rhythm of the ordeal - until a knock startles you. You press the receiver against your chest, still flushed and naked from the previous romp.

Din calls your name from the other side of the door. “Are you alright?”

You freeze, contemplating on everything you could say to this most bland of questions. “I’ll be out in a moment!” you decide, scolding yourself for being so timid. You were at the end of his dick a half-hour ago.

Din mumbles something and then departs. After he’s within a safe distance, you quickly raise the receiver and say, “I have to go. But I’ll tell you everything later.”

Gabriele gawks, “Was that him?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes. Now I really have to go.”

“Oh my gods, okay. Fine.”

You smile, clutching at the durasteel of the phone. “Promise. Love you.”

Your best friend sighs theatrically. “Love you too. Be safe, okay? I don’t even know who I’d call to go after him if something happened to you. No one would be stupid enough.”

The idea of Din doing anything to put you in harm’s way is inconceivable. You’ve only known him for a short amount of time - a couple of weeks at most - but you already trust him with your life.

“I’d die a happy woman,” you joke.

A short while later, you exit the refresher with sopping, clean hair and any traces of sex scrubbed away from between your legs. Din’s allowed you to wear one of his night shirts (an honor in itself) because your clothes had been soiled.

Din is placing his rifle upon its rack when you sneak by for the kitchen. You pour yourself a cup of Java - black, unfortunately, because of Din’s lack of sweet tooth. The liquid is steaming hot so you blow on it before bringing it to your lips.

“Do you want one?” you ask him, taking a sip. It burns. “Oof.”

Din turns, armor somehow so dexterous in its bulk. “No, thank you. But…”

In a surprising move, Din reaches for your hips and pulls you flush against him, ignoring the mug altogether. You shriek, worried it might spill, and set it upon the countertop, but he pays little to no mind.

“You took awhile,” he mumbles, hands grasping at the flesh of your hips. They’ve already been treated so roughly today, and now you were sure there’d be bruising. Good.

You chew at your bottom lip, desperate to know what his eyes might look like. You imagine he has dark eyes - like the color of the sky at nightfall. Maybe they became brighter in the light of the suns. Maybe they crinkled when he laughed - if he were capable of that, anyway. You’ve yet to hear such music.

“I didn’t realize you were waiting for me,” you confess, avoiding the steel gaze of his faceplate.

Din hums under his breath and taps your chin, lifting it just barely so that you can meet his stare. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You shrug, fluttering your lashes in a vain attempt to remain mysterious.

Din reaches for something behind you and reveals a scrap of fabric. “How about we try for nine?” The modulator of his helmet crackles a bit, causing his voice to sound more severe than what he may have liked.

But it does something to you.

You nod sweetly, a tiny grin threatening to sneak its way upon your face, before he takes you within his arms and lifts you upon the counter.

A shrieking, but playful, giggle bursts from your lips. “Din!” you chide, but tie the fabric around your eyes all the same.

The hiss of his helmet sounds, notifying you that he’s revealing himself to the elements now. You can hear his natural breath and feel the way it fans against your collarbones before he kisses you fiercely.

“Let me give you something to really talk about.”

[what-even-is-thiss]

Persephone

Every year she arrives at the start of Autumn with new seeds for the garden and Hades helpfully holds the basket for her as she gets her hands dirty.

He appreciates the kind of filth she brings with her. It's active, proactive, helpful. Not stagnant and rotting. Not the kind of filth that sits and develops with death that needs to be removed for the sake of the still living. A kind of filth with its own merit, but not why she’s here. The kind that comes with her is getting dirt on your pants and dust in your hair. The kind of filth that comes from burning yourself on a pan or mowing the lawn or climbing a tree. Active, alive, dirt that gathers under your nails and nourishes as well as hurts.

Every year as she gets him to put on clothes a bit more practical for gardening and gets to sowing her seeds, and she tells him stories as they work. He is quiet and not one for this particular kind of hard work, but he’s a good listener with a warm laugh, and that’s good enough for her.

Every year they have done this since before humans could write and every year as they do this she tells him what the humans think of them this time, and every year he gets a good laugh.

“Who’s the primary suspect now?” he asks as he puts on his boots.

“You, I think.” she says with a smile. “Mother/daughter relations theory.”

“Again?“ he asked. “Don’t they have anything new?”

“I’m sure they will by the time I get back.” she said, adjusting her sunhat. There is no sunlight in the underworld but she wears a sunhat anyways.

After what needs to be replaced in the garden has been replaced she puts on something a little more formal. Something a little less farm girl, which she is fine with and he likes much more. Hermes, who knows everything and everyone, may or may not come by with a letter from her mother and his sister, addressed to both of them, which they may or may not read right now.

They sleep in separate rooms except for when they don’t, and they talk together late into the night except for when they don’t. Despite being gods they cook together, except for when they don’t, a lot of their time spent with her talking and him talking sometimes and a lot of their time spent in complete silence. Sometimes in the evenings she sits on his lap and they read. Sometimes he sits on her lap and they watch a movie and play with each others’ hair. Sometimes they sit in different rooms thinking about everything they are worried about. Sometimes they speak to other people. Together or apart.

She is content with this. Rarely elated, rarely upset. But the goddess of spring is fine with contentment. Letters from Demeter speak of snow. Persephone rarely sees snow. She never liked it anyways.

In the spring she sees it melting and that is that. She stands on her toes and leaves Hades a kiss on his jaw, getting a facefull of scratchy black hair before putting on her farm girl clothes and running into her mother’s arms.

Every year her mother visits all corners of the northern hemisphere, taking her daughter in tow. They bless fields or lay them bare. In her spare time she leaves her mother and visits corners of the wild to speak with gods that still hate agriculture but love the goddess of spring. They speak with her and tell her to tell her mother that she should do better. She rarely does.

Demeter is organized and opinionated. She’s loud and stubborn. She carries a long scythe that she uses on plants, humans, and animals alike. Around her Persephone is the quiet one. Something that is also fine. Demeter just likes it when her daughter is there. Warm and ready to be a steady hand. She’s gentle with a little wrath. She’s smart and carries the hopes of the dead with her. The sort of hope that turns corpses into good soil and manure into carrot stew. That turns death into life for other things. A sort of complicated darkness that follows her around as tightly as air and gives a deep, refreshing rest.

Some nights they sleep on Olympus, some nights they don’t. Some nights they fight, some nights they don’t. Both kinds of nights have their merits. Both are ones that they go to sleep knowing that they will see each other in the morning.

There isn’t much to say between them. They know everything that the other wants to say. They talk business, mostly. When Hermes comes they gossip about family. Sometimes he brings a letter from Hades. Sometimes he brings business or a gift from Hera that clearly illustrates that she doesn’t know them. Sometimes Hermes just comes to ask how she is doing. She always answers him honestly.

She is content with this. Rarely elated, rarely upset. But the goddess of spring is fine with contentment. Letters from Hades speak of danger and organization and how much he hates his brothers. Persephone understands. She hates them too, whether that is earned or not.

It has been like this for a long time. All sides feeling just fine. Love from all directions, but not love that is full of a passion. It is barely there, but comfortably so.

Demeter used to be disorganized, Hades used to be louder, and Persephone... she wasn’t quite sure yet. She had gotten to the age where she should know what kind of flaw she had but she didn’t. She didn’t love anyone or anything, except for maybe the feeling of living dirt beneath her feet.

She knew very well what was inside the cave. What brought her downwards wasn’t love or curiosity, but a need for change. And change things did. He wouldn’t let her go once he had her. She was a ticket out of questions. Something to keep the rest of the family away. She realized too late the consequences of her impulsivity.

After the initial shock and hunger strike she actually started looking around and got to talking. If not with him, then with the dead and the spirits of the rivers. They said that he was weird and needed someone to teach him patience. She said that was something he had in common with her mother.

He was very clear with her about what would happen if she ate that specific fruit. She ate it, very clear with him what her intentions were.

After a thousand years the plants could no longer survive without the cold and Demeter saw this. Slowly, slowly, she began speaking to her siblings again, and stopped holding her daughter’s hand. Winter still came. She never told them that this time it was for the good of the plants and not out of spite. Only Dionysus seemed to understand why. Thankfully, he could keep a secret.

After centuries passed Persephone transformed the underworld, little by little it became just a little less dark. He let her come to him on her own time. The first time she touched him, she asked, and almost every time after that she asked, until enough time had passed that she just knew from a glance. Once that time had come he began to ask as well and they both had slightly bigger beds placed in their rooms. Who did it first, they don’t remember.

The mortals always wanted to make this simpler than it was. Say that it was his fault or her fault or her mother’s fault. Really though, it had just happened. Then over and over again it just happened, falling into place over a thousand years.

She didn’t know when she started loving her mother again, or her husband, or even how much she loved them, but that part didn’t matter. Neither the earth, nor mount Olympus, nor the underworld was perfect, and neither was she, and neither were they. Sometimes a set of unusual circumstances leads to another set of unusual circumstances and sometimes a young goddess gets caught in the middle of it. And maybe in the beginning the young goddess was confused by it all.

And maybe now she’s just... content.

[mqgriett]

Crosshair- It Won’t Stop

Prompt: “Hey, look at me. Focus on me alright?” and “I didn’t know where else to go” requested by @bluehumanknightzine !! Thank you so much for the requested

Pairings: Crosshair x Fem!Reader

Warnings: blood and being shot

Summary: Crosshair will never pass up on an opportunity to teach a shiny a lesson, so when someone insults Echo he has to take charge. It doesn’t always go as planned.

Notes: this is based off of @sorry-but-no-sorry ‘s art!! Please go check them out!!

79’s was basically deserted, mainly because it was pushing 0300 in the morning, but Crosshair couldn’t sleep. Not after what had happened earlier that night. 

Typically the callus sniper wasn’t easily pissed off. Odd looks and judgemental whispers from regs was something he was used to by now. He developed thick skin, learned to just enjoy a night of drinking with his brothers and let loose a little. He was used to the rude remarks, Echo wasn’t. 

None of the regs recognized him anymore, his robotic legs and the bolts screwed into his head along with his pale skin made him difficult to recognize. The normal clones would never intentionally bully the lost 501st member, but they would happily bully a bad batch member. 

Crosshair scanned the room for the 312th trooper, knowing he would still be here. Worst thing was, the trooper was a shiny, and he had only identified his battalion by association. 

Sure enough, he was still in the back booth, lips practically swallowing a young twi’lek dancer. He rolled his eyes, strutting over to the pair in the back. 

The shiny seemed to feel Cross’s icy presence, taking a break from his makeout with the dancer to move out of the booth. 

“Back so soon?” asked the trooper, crossing his small arms and jutting his chin out. 

The sniper of Clone Force 99 didn’t waste any time with small talk, he withdrew his fist and landed a punch to the jaw of the shinty. It was so strong that it even knocked the reg back, the only thing that was preventing him from falling to the ground was catching himself on the table. 

The clone rubbed his jaw, eyebrows arching to form a cold smirk on his face. “Lose a touch of common sense in your test tube? Eh, defect?” he grumbled. 

Crosshair didn’t reply and calmly pulled a toothpick from his pocket, sticking it in his mouth and allowing it to methodically roll from side to side. He prepared to charge, but what he didn’t expect was for the shiny to pick up his blaster and shoot him in the side of the stomach where his armor didn’t cover. 

Cross stumbled backwards, hand already gripping the underside of his stomach. 

The trooper had no clue what he had done, he had reacted out of pure instinct and hadn’t calculated the consequences when he fired. He froze momentarily, proceeding to toss the blaster to the side and sprint out of 79’s. 

Crosshair still couldn’t believe what had happened. Even as he started down at the crimson liquid beginning to stain his blacks, he refused that he had been shot. 

He couldn’t go back to the Marauder, he wouldn’t make it back alive. 

There was only one other person on Coruscant he knew he could get to before bleeding out. 

***

At first you thought it was a dream, when you heard the knock at your door. You rolled onto your opposite side, flipping the silk pillow to have the cold side press against your face. 

Another knock made its way to your bedroom. 

If there’s a third then I’ll get up,

Five seconds pass, and the third knock sounds weaker than the first two. 

Swinging your legs off the side of the bed, you reach for your housecoat and move a few pieces of hair out of your face. “Coming!” you shouted, voice a little groggy.

As you enter the living room, you catch a glance at the clock and see how late it is. 

The small droid in your room beeps in attention, it’s different colored panels lighting up. “It’s alright R4, I’ll see who it is.” 

R4 chirps in response, rolling to the kitchen and out of view. 

You opened the doors to your room, the cold chill of the hallway hitting your bare legs. Squinting, you could hardly make out the figure in front of you. “Crosshair?” You yawned, wrapping your robe around your torso. 

His words sounded difficult to push out, “I’m sorry.” He sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth, something falling and hitting your foot. 

“For waking me up?” you responded tiredly, reaching down to pick up whatever he dropped. 

As your hand touched the fallen toothpick, you found that something was dripping from his armor. At first you perceived it to be nothing but sweat; however, the putrid smell that met your nose told you otherwise. 

“R4 turn the lights on.” You said sternly, within milliseconds you could fully see him standing in front of you. 

“Shit.” You mumbled, finally seeing the huge gash in his stomach. 

His entire face was pale and he was obviously nauseous, yet he still refused to let you help him onto the couch. He stumbled his way to the sofa, collapsing once he got there. Every movement that Cross produced was followed by a muffled groan or wince.

You crouched down next to him, starting at ripping all of his armor off while calling out to your droid, “R4, get me the emergency bag.” 

Your hands tore the soiled fabric away from his torso, leaving him with nothing but a sad excuse of a shirt and his pants. “Dank Farrik, Cross.” You said out of pure frustration, seeing just how bad the wound was. 

His head lulled to the side, a small stream of tears falling down the side of his face as his eyes closed. 

“Crosshair, no.” You reached up and pinched his chin, jerking his head to face you. It woke him up, “hey, look at me. Focus on me alright? I need you to tell me what happened.” You were no medic, but every senator was required to know basic medical skills. 

“79’s,” he began as R4 handed you a bottle of alcohol, Cross winced as you poured it onto the gash and shifted uncomfortably, “shiny made-“ he groaned loudly, “- shiny made fun of echo.” His brother’s name was clouded by his shaky breathing as you poured more alcohol. 

“What’d he say?” 

You placed a clean rag on top of his wound, cleaning around it as he tried to continue, “Went back and he shot me.” He ignored your previous question, not wanting to say it out loud. 

“This is going to hurt, but you need to stay still.” You commanded, the threaded needle lingering over the exposed and seared skin. 

Without looking up, you heard him speak again, “what’s happening?” 

“You’re bleeding out.” You sighed, “I need to give you stitches.” 

“No, this,” he wiped his face with his bare hand, examining the clear liquid dripping down his palm. 

“You’re crying, you got shot.” 

He shook his head and tried to sit up, “no, what is happening? This isn’t possible.” He wiped his face again, over and over. “It won’t stop,” he sobbed, “why won’t it stop?” 

You wanted to console him, but you had to get this gash closed. You stuck the needle through his skin, and it was almost like he didn’t feel it due to how preoccupied he was with the fact that he was crying. 

Cutting the thread with your teeth, you handed the needle back to R4 and placed a strip of bacta over his wound. “R4 comm Tech. Tell him to come down here immed-“

“No!” Cross jumped, “he can’t see me like this.” 

You placed your hand on his knee, “he’s seen you hurt thousands of times.” 

He pointed to his face, “Like this.”

His eyes and cheeks were stained red from crying. Blood was dried in his hair and it stained all of his body. You knew how embarrassed he felt because he understood how helpless and weak he looked in the moment.  

You calmed your tone, not wanting him to jump again and possibly burst the stitches, “R4, comm Tech that Crosshair drunkenly stumbled to my quarters in the senate building and is now sleeping on my couch.” 

Beeping in approval, your small Astro droid excused himself to your room to fulfill his duties. 

Your hands would most definitely be tinted red tomorrow morning, rather this morning, at your meeting with Bail Organa. 

Wiping your forehead, you stood back up to inspect the damage that had been done. 

Your white couch was now a lovely red tie-dye, as was your white nightgown. 

Crosshair refused to look at you, “I didn’t know where else to go.” 

“I’m glad you came here.” You ran your hand up and down his thigh, just as a gentle touch to remind him that you were still there. 

“I need a shower.” he mumbled. That was his way of asking you to help him get cleaned up. 

Carefully, you helped him to the refresher. Your back was turned to him as you drew a bath, wanting to give him as much privacy as possible as he undressed. You poured a small amount of salts in the water, to help rid his body of any bacteria that had already begun to settle in his wound. He rejected your offer to help him into the bathtub, his ego not allowing him to accept. 

You sat behind the marble tub, just so you could see the back of him. Placing your hand on his forehead, you gently pulled his head back and poured water over hair. His dusty green eyes fluttered shut each time you did this, his shoulders finally relaxing. 

Once his hair was rid of blood, you moved onto his face. You wetened a clean cloth, and benevolently wiped it under his eyes and neck. He sighed heavily, “he called him a deficient defect.” His jaw clenched under your grip. 

You froze momentarily, feeling your own anger bubble up at the thought of Echo having to hear that. Echo had always been tough, but you knew that that probably hurt him. If it didn’t, Cross wouldn’t have gone back at 0300 to teach the shiny a lesson. 

After wiping the final strip of blood off of him, you turned your head and helped Crosshair up. He wrapped a towel around his waist, flinching as it touched the wound. Luckily the medicated bandage on top of it kept it numb, making it easier for him to do things on his own. 

It wasn’t unusual for the bad batch to randomly stop by whenever they were on Coruscant. When General Kenobi would ask for their aide in a mission they often needed to wait a few nights for approval from the council. This usually led to all five of them sleeping in your bed with you. In the morning Hunter and Tech were frequently found on the floor though. 

You set a fresh set of black pajamas on the edge of your bed for Crosshair, leaving him in your as you went to choose a new nightgown from your closet. You chose the same sleepwear you had on now, just in black and not covered in blood. 

It felt immaculate to shower, and with enough scrubbing all of the blood successfully left your hands. 

Crosshair had already situated himself on your bed, flicking through the holodramas you had recorded. You wrung the excess water from your hair, tossing the dirty nightgown into the trash can and doing the same with the towel once you were finished. 

Once you were comfortable, Crosshair turned his head towards you while his eyes were still fixated on the holo. “What’s the one you, Tech, and Wrecker watch?” 

You raised an eyebrow, “I thought you said it was annoying.” 

He didn’t answer, facing his head back towards the colorful projection. 

“Ails of Alderaan.” you smiled, pointing to the title he was about to skip. 

Despite his lack of core strength in the moment, he still managed to pull the blanket underneath you to get you closer to him. He gently pressed his head on your shoulder, gingerly touching at your fingers before intertwining them with his own. “Don’t tell the boys, please.” 

Crosshair wouldn’t care if you told them he was shot, he was referring to the fact that he cried earlier. 

You moved your head to the side and kissed his temple, “I won’t.”

[creativesparksart]

We interrupt our regularly scheduled art posts, for a rant on Introductory Level Classes in College & Advanced Classes in High Schools

***Disclaimer – this is largely based on my personal experience and the experience of those around me. I know this probably isn’t the case everywhere, but its still worth being shared***

1.      For any high schoolers out there, here’s a tip from your friendly college senior who was an overachiever “gifted kid”TM  in high school and is about to enter the field of education: All of your teachers who every told you that your grades are the most important thing for getting into college and insanely overworked you in advanced courses because “that’s what college is like” is so incredibly full of shit. I spent years of my life having so much sleep deprivation that I did not dream for like two years because I was struggling to balance all advanced classes, travel sports and school sports, a stupid number of clubs, two honor societies, later a job, and let’s not forget whatever family drama wants to join in on the parade. I graduated high school 4th in my class with a fucking 4.54 GPA and you know what has done literally nothing for me in college? Any of that crap. I applied and got rejected from Princeton and ultimately chose my university for the price and that I could graduate with a Bachelors in History and a Masters in Education since I was going into a shitty paying career path (teaching high school). You know how all that hell I went through with overloading my schedule in high school? My first semester at college I was actually BORED. I was confused at the concept of having free time and the ability to get enough sleep that I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had time for art, I had so many things that I could do for fun that I never had time to do in high school because I spent it “being prepared for college.” WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK.

2.      Now, I wish I could say that was my entire college experience, however, there are still college professors out there who are definitely the ones that set the stereotype your high school teachers believe all college professors are like. And I hate them. The further and further I get through the education major (and mind you, I’m in graduate courses now), the more you notice how full of shit some of your professors are. The biggest pet peeve I have are how some college professors approach Introductory level classes.

A little PSA for Professors and Teachers: INTRO LEVEL COURSES SHOULD NOT BE A FILTER THROUGH WHICH TO WEED OUT THE WEAK, ESPECIALLY IF IT IS PART OF GENERAL EDUCATION REQUIREMENTS. NEWS FLASH: THAT’S NOT TEACHING, THAT’S GATEKEEPING.

I am not saying I want students to be able to breeze through the course and get an easy A. But what I am saying is that if you are going into a class like French 101, the first level of learning French, they should not be expecting you to hold a conversation in French by the end of the semester. You should not walk in on day one and be terrified that you walked into a refresher class for French 202. You should also not be terrified out of your wits to take an introductory Chemistry class required for your major in GEOLOGY because everyone has told you the professor makes the class awful to prepare you for the rest of the major. We go to school to LEARN. I went to a goddamn liberal arts college so I could do the gen ed program and take some classes that interested me outside of my major to LEARN and push myself.  I didn’t come to relive the hell that was cramming for a Biology SOL and taking it on test day and learning that your teacher had skipped the unit on evolution because “oh yeah, we didn’t get to that.” I didn’t take a science class to get the whole question wrong and no partial credit, not because I got the soil layers wrong, but because I perfectly listed the soil layers for Virginia which we were TAUGHT and not North Carolina – which we were NOT taught. History and other Bachelors of Arts classes are no better. We constantly put students through intense 100 and 200-level courses that are required to get them to their major classes, and again the courses are made artificially difficult and work and reading intensive. My high school history teacher told me when he was in college, he had to read 8 books a week for ONE of his history classes. That is asinine.

I hate this stupid idea that a 4 year university intro level course – you know, the university you already had to apply to get into and get weeded out from thousands of other applicants, needs to be hard so that it weeds “the weak” students out from aggressive fields like the sciences. Why do we hurt our students who just want to push themselves into a different field for a General Education requirement and explore Chemistry because they liked their high school chemistry class? Why do we treat our honors students like shit and decide they don’t need study guides or help because “well its an honors class”? We go to college to learn and explore! We should not be punished for wanting to explore, and we sure as hell should not be scared out of a major just because some professor thinks we need to handle a 40% on a midterm to prove we deserve to help people. Are you telling me I don’t deserve to be a pediatric nurse because I couldn’t remember the exact chemical equation of a compound? I can’t be a history teacher because I can’t remember the exact year the radio was invented. I have been pushed away from exploring topics I find interesting and wanted to learn more about from Human Anatomy to Costume Design because of the horror stories of the experiences that people have had. And at the same time, I hear professors and teachers complaining that students don’t want to do the work anymore and that so many of them are failing classes because they don’t put enough time and energy into the class.

The vast majority of students, want to learn. Even amidst the hellscape pandemic and virtual classes that have affected the bulk of my undergraduate learning, I have always wanted to learn. Its not fair to students or to the later professors that would have loved to have those students in their classrooms to discuss a shared love of genetics, or Medieval History, etc. to gatekeep your field or make your test obscenely difficult just because you want to “prepare students for reality.” ESPECIALLY when we are getting quite the unhealthy dose of reality with the major historical events and crises we’ve been dealing with thank  you very much. I didn’t put myself in thousands of dollars of debt in student loans to be in tears at 3 AM trying to cram for an exam that I know I’ll still feel unprepared for, but my anxiety won’t let me sleep and I got off work at 10 to be told by a professor that I didn’t study hard enough.

fuck this toxic mentality, and I will do everything in my power as a teacher to dismantle this bullshit

[bloodredx]

Day 12: Garden

Roses. Always roses. Roses filled every possible space, every open crevice, every mosaic, carved motif and relief throughout Sacred Lancet. Some places were more subtle than others, but any empty corner had a bouquet or small bush potted, sitting happily. None ever showed need or want for care, not even the false ones, despite how ancient their carved petals and tangled vines seemed to course through hallways centuries older than almost anyone on the premises. Almost.

The fated flower had to be her favorite, right? After all, roses made out part of Lady Serena’s name, why shouldn’t she hold reverence for it? A concrete notion of identity to hold one tight throughout the years, a simple plant, timeless as she was. Or a fixation that bordered on obsession. Whatever the truth, Icarus was growing tired of the damn flower. Yet again he found himself outside in her private courtyard. And yet again he was asked to tend to roses. At least there were some other species out here. Native flowers mostly, morning glories, ivies, crocuses. Somehow she even managed to get her newest addition, some “super fickle” lilies from near Reedsdale, to survive the frostbitten winters of Glacidea last year. If she was so talented, why did he need to be out here helping her?

To the Lady’s credit, she was always there with him, it wasn’t just a chore she set upon him just to keep him out of her hair. It was dull work, moving soil around roots, pulling weeds, even just watering. Everything was so precise and just to her specifications, much like everything else around the hospital. Did keeping up with all of the gears drive her mad? Or was that what drove her? He couldn’t tell, and it was probably a waste to think on it at this point. The answer didn’t change the fact he was here, his mentor a few feet away busy clipping dead leaves from a shrub with roses redder than her lipstick.

They had been out for a few hours, and in that time they hadn’t spoken a word. Each contemplating their task, or at least Icarus was. When he could, he tried to steal glances, to try to decipher to microscopic movements on her stoic face. She was just as carved as the stones that built the place though. Occasionally she would knit her brows when measuring cuts, but no other hints to her mood were apparent. He felt like he had to say something, right?

“Is everything alright, Icarus?” Lady Serena’s calm voice seemed to match in tempo to the water pouring out the fountain behind them. “You haven’t moved in a few minutes.”

He dropped his trowel at the words. “Uh- no. I mean, yes. I’m fine.”

“Would you still have a heart, it would be rocketing in pulse.” She noted flatly as she clipped another stem, no hint of pleasure or disgust to guide his response. “If you have something to say, you should.”

He swallowed hard, all the thoughts he once had left him, scattered to the wind. “It’s just- no, that’s not, well-“ She raised a brow, locking her garden shears with a single swift action as she waited for Icarus to collect himself. “Is this, well does this make you... happy?”

A slight frown was her immediate response, followed by a few steps over to the edge of the fountain, where she sat gently, and motioned for him to join her. He did so, with little fanfare, uncertain if he was about to be lectured once more. The stone edge of the fountain at least was cool, comfortable. The Lady gazed up to the stars, gently speckling the skies in their gentle shining, each one like the dew now forming on the leaves all around them. “You ask a strange question.” She began after a moment. “But not a bad one.”

“Why would it be strange, that I ask if you’re happy?”

“It’s not a concern that’s been commonly posed.” She confirmed bluntly. “Somehow, that’s refreshing. Ha.”

Was that a… chuckle? Did she just laugh? “Well, if I’m going to be here for a long while yet, it would do me some good to know you better.”

The sides of her lips curled up, an actual smile, if ever so slight and delicate. “You’re a good Glacidean, yes. Raised polite, so polite that you’d never directly prod the point you want, the answers you crave.” She closed her eyes, head still tilted to the stars. “Happiness, I think, is grown, maintained, and tended to. Happiness changes, it flickers and shifts like fires, moves with seasons. I do not change. I can no longer claim happiness; no that is a right of the living. But I can claim calmness, sturdiness, order. To be the trellis which others can use to reach their leaves out to cause their flowers to bloom. If by some token, being in proximity to that growth grants me a taste of that…” Her tone wavered ever so slightly. “warmth… then by that I shall call myself happy.”

Should he have needed the oxygen, Icarus would have passed out from the breath he was holding. Instead, the sudden tightness reminded him to exhale, slowly so as to not inspire any more attention to himself. “Do you believe you’re that far gone?” His tongue moved without his permission, but he didn’t immediately regret it. Not this time.

Lady Serena plucked a single rose from a nearby bush, caressing the petals between her expert fingers. “It doesn’t require belief if it is determined by fact.” No, there wasn’t somberness there, it wasn’t quite detached either. Just acceptance.

Another wash of silence crashed over them, dulled only by the burbling of the fountain and the sound of petals shifting under her fingers. Soon it had been tousled enough to expand what tightness remained in the bud to a full blossom, which she then sat to float in the water behind them. “I hope you don’t walk down the path I did, Icarus.” Serena smile continued as she watched the flower float across the reflection of the sky, through the moon and around the collection of stars. “It took a long, bloody road before I could grow this garden here. I can only ask the gods that your existence is easier. I’ll do anything to assist in that.”

She stood in one swift motion, collecting her shears and then folding her hands in front of her. “I think that’s enough for the foliage tonight. You did a good job, Icarus.” Her features iced out again, thawing for but a moment as she turned to look over her shoulder at him. “Feel free to enjoy this space at your leisure. You’ve earned it. Take the time to…” she tutted her tongue. “Think on happiness.”

With no other words, the Lady made her way down the path, presumably back to her office, back to work. Even though each of her steps were carefully, precisely measured, the world still moved on around her, the only permanent fixture here being her. Icarus cast one last glance to the flower floating behind him before standing himself to return to his own room. Yes, the only permanent thing here. Her, and roses.

(OC-tober challenge by @oc-growth-and-development can be found here)

[god-of-dust]

after much deliberation, i decided to post what i wrote of chapter 2 and 3 of Trick Me here. this will probably never end up on ao3 because of Reasons, but someone might enjoy reading it and i definitely enjoy the validation. (also, leaving this to rot in my folder seems like a waste.)

this is rated T, no particular warnings apply besides tom’s occasional murderous thoughts.

-----

There’s no sign of Potter. Figures. Tom glares at the suit of armour as if it’s the one meant to carry the blame for this situation.

Disillusionment Charm firmly in place, he leans on the rough stone wall and resigns himself to wait.

“You’re early. Why am I not surprised?”

In a split second, Tom turns in the direction of the voice and points his wand towards... the empty corridor?

Then Potter’s head—only his head—emerges from thin air.

“Jumpy, too. Again, not surprised,” Potter says, smirking. Then he moves, revealing the rest of his body and the rippling fabric of a cloak.

An Invisibility Cloak. No wonder Potter can get wherever he wants without getting caught. “Where did you get that?” Tom asks, envy colouring every word. That kind of Cloak is worth thousands of Galleons, which is more money than Tom has ever possessed in his entire life.

The things Tom could do with one... he’d have no need for permission to slide beyond the wards of the forbidden section of the library. While certainly tame compared to what a collection from a Dark pureblood family would hold, there are also many old books there that Tom has been dying to get his hands on since he’s seen their titles and felt the power they contained.

“Family heirloom,” Potter says with a shrug.

Of course Potter has a family that provides for him, and of course he has the gall to shrug, like it’s absolutely normal to carry around an object this valuable and use it to go to the Quidditch pitch at night. It’s maddening, to witness this utter lack of ambition in someone who has so much at his disposal and wastes it so pitifully.

He reaches out to touch the fabric. It’s soft and perfect, spells woven so beautifully that it appears not to be enchanted at all. He refuses to believe that this Potter is the one who cast them. “What kind of spells does your family use to prevent the magic from fading? How frequently do you have to refresh them?”

Potter only smiles and shakes his head. “You and Hermione would be amazing together if you just stopped being an arse to her.”

Tom glares at him. His thoughts on that particular topic must be crystal clear, because Potter laughs that full-bellied laugh of his. “You haven’t answered my question,” Tom insists.

“Do you want to stand in the corridor all night discussing my cloak? I thought we had Quidditch to play.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Tom says: “Fine.”

“Get under here, then,” Potter beckons, holding a side of the cloak open for Tom to slip under and cover himself.

Sliding in the offered space, Tom instantly becomes very aware of how close they have to stay for them both to be concealed. Wonderful, he thinks, just wonderful. Just what I needed: more contact with him.

He lets Potter lead the way outside; after a bit of fumbling, they find a rhythm that allows them to walk in sync without constantly bumping into each other’s shoulder.

“Thank Merlin you’re shorter than Ron. His feet try to peek out all the time, it’s an absolute nightmare.”

Are his friends all he can talk about? Tom vaguely wonders, before noticing the route they’re taking. “The Quidditch pitch is the other way.”

“We’re not going to the pitch,” Potter replies.

Tom stops in his tracks, making the cloak tangle around Potter’s form; unsurprisingly, it only takes a moment for the miraculous Golden Boy to recover his balance. Tom, voice strained with the effort to keep it under control, hisses: “If you’re trying to trick me, Potter, I swear—”

“I’m not,” Potter interrupts. “The pitch is too open and couples go there to shag all the time, so the chances of someone seeing us are too high. I’m taking you to a place only I and my closest friends know about.”

Again with his friends. “Are you really so arrogant as to believe you’re the only one that knows anything about Hogwarts?”

This time, Potter is the one who stills abruptly. He turns to face Tom, noses almost touching under the cloak, eyes ablaze with an emotion that Tom has never seen on him: genuine, unfiltered anger. “Listen, Riddle. I offered my help, but what I didn’t offer was being target practice for your fucking abrasiveness. You want to learn Quidditch? I can teach you. You want to act like a bastard? Go do that somewhere else, because I’m not afraid to punch you in the face if you insist on constantly accusing me of imaginary crimes.”

“As if I’m not able to defend myself from your punches,” Tom snarls.

Potter’s eyes narrow. “Were you even listening to me?”

There’s nothing stopping Tom from hexing Potter into the next century; nothing, except for the fact that he’d be expelled and then the whole Potter clan would ensure that he’d rot in Azkaban for an indeterminate amount of years. Right now, it seems like a minor price to pay.

He keeps his twitching fingers away from his wand. He needs to hold himself in check if he wants to avoid Potter’s suspicion. After a steadying breath, he says evenly: “I was. My words were... out of line. I apologise.”

Silence stretches while Potter stares at him. Then he turns on his heels, facing away, and they resume their walking.

It takes them a few minutes to reach the boundary of looming trees that students are supposed to never cross. “Is this secret place of yours really inside the Forest?”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m reasonably sure that no one else has discovered it. A wrong turn would take them either into an Acromantula nest or in centaur territory,” Potter explains, navigating with sure steps amidst trunks and twigs and weeds and bushes as if he owns the place.

Both options are incredibly dangerous, for many different reasons. Not even the Headmaster has jurisdiction over the creatures in the Forest, and any reckless student who wanders too far is responsible for their own fate. Over the years, Tom has done a little exploring of his own to gather herbs, shed fur and other potion ingredients, but he never went as deep inside as wherever Potter is taking them now. “How did you discover it, then?” Tom asks while memorising the convoluted trail so that he’ll be able to return later. The potions he could brew with even a small vial of Acromantula venom, or some eggs... he has to find out more about those supposedly wrong turns.

“I followed my nose,” Potter says with a mischievous smirk, previous anger washed away like a leaf in a river. “And perhaps I had a bit of help.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, sorry, but I’m not going to divulge my secrets to anyone who asks... besides, you’re smart enough; perhaps with time you’ll figure it out on your own.”

Focus still firmly placed on their surroundings, Tom ignores the compliment. He has no use for Potter’s pretense.

A large clearing suddenly materialises before them, encircled by towering trees whose foliage forms a protective half-dome high over their heads. Ancient magic caresses Tom’s skin, making him shiver with anticipation. There’s a circular area in the center, large enough to hold a dozen people, empty of any grass or stone; Tom is certain that someone has built it that way on purpose. He steps closer, prudent and fascinated in equal measure. “What is this place?” he wonders, eyes wide and searching as he studies the stone while taking in the feeling of rightness and inspiration the space emanates.

“Somewhere where we can have all the privacy we want,” Potter says lightly as he slides off the cloak from their shoulders. To him, this secret spot humming with magic that vibrates in Tom’s blood and bones must be just another day, just another priceless thing dropped on his lap that he wields without a care.

After enchanting a few Lumos spheres to hover around them, Potter extracts a small object from his pocket, lays it on the even ground and enlarges it with a wave of his wand, revealing it to be a trunk. Then he points to a twisted root that peeks out from the soil and transfigures it into three Quidditch hoops, about three meters high.

“I assume you know about Quidditch roles and rules even if you’ve never played, correct?”

“Yes.” Tom’s skimmed through a Quidditch book, if only not to be completely unprepared when it came to playing his part in this charade. He will carry his plan forward and rip the rug from under Potter’s feet, even if it involves studying a few tedious rules of a tedious sport.

“So, you can probably imagine that every role requires different skills, which is why we’ll explore every one of them and gradually build up your stamina and reflexes while you discover what you’re naturally good at.” He scratches at his head contemplatively. “When was the last time you rode a broom?”

“First year flying classes. I was average at the basics and never tried anything more elaborate.” Tom isn’t eager to recall most of those memories because, in truth, it had been humiliating to realise how far behind his peers he was. Unlike them, he’d never had a broom of his own to practice and his confidence had faltered when he needed it the most. The broom’s magic had caught on his hesitation and thus his performance had been lukewarm at best.

“Yeah, I can imagine it wasn’t pleasing for you. Hermione was the same. You really can’t stand it when you don’t excel at something, huh?”

“I doubt anyone enjoys the feeling of being incompetent.”

“Good point,” Potter admits, “but that’s not the attitude you need right now. You always have to start from somewhere and build from there, even if that starting point isn’t as glorious as you’d like.” He squats to open the trunk; it contains a clearly well-loved yet also well-kept set of Quidditch balls.

Tom eyes suspiciously the Bludgers struggling against the chains holding them in place.

“Since we’re starting from the basics, tonight we’re both going to play Chasers, which means that we’ll pass the Quaffle between us and do our best to score through the goals. Of course, there’s more to being a Chaser than this, but it will be enough for now. Before that, though, I want to see you on a broom.”

“I don’t have one. I presumed we’d use one of the school brooms,” Tom says, crossing his arms, mild irritation colouring his tone.

Unbothered, Potter reaches again into his pocket to produce two shrunken brooms. “I brought my Nimbus. It’s very good, especially for a beginner, with quick responses and great stability.”

He holds out his hand and Tom takes the now appropriately sized broom. “...Thank you.”

“Wow, you’re really making an effort into being polite. I appreciate that,” Potter says, apparently pleased. “But now, Riddle, show me how you ride.”

There’s nothing in Potter’s smile and in that particular phrasing that Tom could possibly care for. He straddles the broom and pushes himself to hover in mid-air, one meter from the ground and then one more; feeling how precarious and uncertain his posture is, he does his best to correct it.

“Good. You don’t seem to be struggling much. Are you afraid of heights?”

Tom shoots him a venomous look. “No.”

“That’s one less thing we have to worry about, then.” Potter jumps on his broom and rises too, graceful as a phoenix. Bastard. “Let’s try some loops.”

Tom nods and watches as Potter demonstrates a few simple figures: circle, spiral, figure-eight. They seem easy enough, but when Tom tries to follow Potter’s directions his broom moves in shaky zig-zags instead of the smooth curves he expects it to perform.

“This broom isn’t working,” Tom snarls. He looks at Potter, who’s certainly dying to make fun of him... only to find no trace of sadistic glee on his expression.

Potter circles around him, examining him from head to toe with furrowed brows, almost hawk-like in his focus. “You’re clenching your thighs and hands too hard. The broom reads that as a sign for ‘straight line’ and ‘speed’, and right now that’s not your objective. For curves like these, you have to flow with the movement and lean into the direction you want without overbalancing.” His posture is relaxed, bordering on lazy, as he flies in a large, slow circle for Tom’s sake. “Like this.”

Tom imitates him as best as he can, loosening his grip. “What if I want to achieve a fast curve?”

“Fast curves are more advanced. We’ll try those later.”

Tom tries again with a figure-eight, and he’s surprised when he finds that the broom’s following the path he intended with increasing ease.

“See? Way better,” Potter beams. He looks like he’s genuinely enjoying this.

After a few minutes of loops, Tom’s acquired a mild amount of confidence in his form; at least the feeling that he’ll tip over every time he steers the broom has lessened until it’s nearly gone. Seemingly satisfied, Potter instructs him on how to repeat the same figures with a single-handed grip, then handless, as he explains: “You’ll need your hands free for the Quaffle.”

Even while going through boring drills at this insignificant height, there’s an undeniable thrill to flying, to acquiring control over something as elusive as air. “One day,” he declares, “I’m going to invent broomless flying.” Perhaps a variation of Wingardium Leviosa, combined with a Feather-Light Charm... yes, he’ll do it, and succeed.

“That would be amazing. And honestly, if anyone could do that it would be you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Tom scoffs, close to amused. Does Potter really think that compliments will have any effect on him? Tom’s too acquainted with the subtle art of manipulation to take any of Potter’s amateurish attempts seriously.

Potter rolls his eyes. “It’s not flattery, it’s me making an observation. Every single person in Hogwarts knows that your knowledge and control over magic are impressive.” Smoothly diving forwards, Potter reaches for the trunk and grabs the Quaffle inside it.

“Catch!” he says, and throws the ball at Tom.

Instincts rearing up before he can think, Tom steers sideways to dodge, but he’s too quick, too sudden, the broom refuses to cooperate—fuck, he’s lost his balance, he’s going to slip off and fall on his face like a bloody—

An arm slides around his torso, holding him up. A steady hand over the handle of his broom stops its lurching. Tom is barely breathing, his mind catching up to the fact that he’s not going to become one with the forest soil.

“Shit, Tom, I’m sorry, I thought you were ready, I should have warned you—”

Heart still finding the way back to its regular beat, Tom interrupts Potter’s rambling: “It’s fine. Nothing happened.”

“Well it was a stupid thing to do, and I won’t do it again,” Potter insists, wide eyes painfully green even in the dark.

“Just drop it, will you?” It’s embarrassing enough that he ran away from a Quaffle like it was the Killing Curse; Potter’s self-flagellation is just rubbing more salt on the wound. As if he hasn’t done it on purpose anyway, the fucking prick.

With a sigh, the arm around Tom tightens briefly before Potter releases him. “Do you want to stop? We’ve done a lot already. You’ve been great.”

More useless flattering.

“Let’s try again,” Tom orders. He wants to challenge Potter, confuse him, shock him, give him a lesson that he’ll never forget. The plan to ruin his reputation isn’t enough; the matter has become personal.

Uncertain, Potter nods. This time, when the Quaffle comes towards him Tom catches it, albeit unsteadily. A victorious glint in his eyes, he does his best to throw Potter off-balance by flinging the ball back at him.

The back-and-forth of the Quaffle between them slowly acquires a flow. Potter accepts Tom’s viciousness and in turn pushes Tom’s limits, building his reflexes with progressively more elaborate throws, flying around him in circles like an annoying snidget. Tom fumbles, stumbles, grumbles, but he manages to avoid another fall, and he even scores a few points through the unprotected goals.

By the end of the lesson they’re both sweating—disgusting—and Potter is positively radiating joy.

Tom can’t say the same about himself. His performance’s been nowhere near satisfactory, his dexterity and form nowhere near Potter’s. While he still holds no interest for Quidditch, he also can’t stand the thought that Potter can have this golden opportunity to gloat over him. There’s no way that Tom will accept being considered inferior to anyone.

“So, uh... how was it?” Potter asks once they’ve dismounted, self-consciously running a hand through his hair. It looks like a habit of his.

“You’ve been patient,” Tom concedes. It’s true, at least on the surface: Potter’s been nothing but helpful and tolerant of every mistake, adapting his teaching to Tom’s pace with flawless precision. “I could have done better.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Potter says, “will you stop with the self-deprecation? You’re learning. It’s all part of the process. Believe me, I’ve seen worse.”

Tom hands the Nimbus back to Potter, who’s extinguishing the enchanted lights and reverting the goal posts back to their original shape. “You’ve also seen best, I reckon.”

Potter huffs in annoyance as he takes the broom and stores it away along with the rest of the equipment. “Yes, and it doesn’t matter. This isn’t a competition. The whole point of us being in the middle of the forest instead of the pitch is that you can be away from judgemental eyes, so could you please stop being your own worst critic?”

“We should go.” If Potter considers having standards the same as self-deprecation, then Tom has nothing else to say. “I can find my way back.” He turns to follow the hidden trail that led them here.

“Wait,” Potter says, interrupting Tom as he was about to cast a wordless Disillusionment Charm on himself. “Do you want to do this again? More lessons?”

Does Tom want to? Is the headache of spending time with Potter worth it?

Like a sharp edge, a thorn stuck in his side, Potter’s words echo in his head. This isn’t a competition. But it is, in a way—it’s Tom’s endurance against his desire to chalk up the whole plan as a failure and sweep it under the rug.

And Potter is still an issue—he still needs to go down in flames, and Tom is the one who has to ignite that fire.

He straightens his back. I won’t quit now. “Same time, next Saturday?”

“I’ll be here,” Potter says. It sounds like a promise.

##

[missing scene with Tom and snake-Harry]

##

At half past eleven on Saturday, Harry prepares to slip away from the Gryffindor dormitory under his Cloak.

“Ron, hey,” he whispers in the darkness of the dormitory, shaking his friend’s shoulder.

Still more than half-asleep, refusing to open his eyes, Ron mutters, “What?”

“I’m going out, will probably be late again. Don’t wait for me, okay?” He’s a little ashamed of taking advantage of Ron while he’s in this state, knowing that he won’t ask questions.

“Yeah, yeah—g’night, mate,” Ron says, words slurred as the dream world ensnares him again.

Then Harry leaves, sliding through the many corridors of the castle as if he were in his Animagus form, until he crosses the entrance; outside he can run, free, breathing in the cold wind that chills his face and lungs. He feels so light, like the world is full of exciting possibilities, like he’s on the hunt for something marvellous.

Yes, he hates hiding these nighttime escapades from his friends. However, he also loves the secret thrill of this undefined thing he and Tom have, this strange agreement that’s neither friendship nor rivalry, while not being neutral either. He knows, he can see that Tom—and how weird it is, that he already thinks of him as such—still despises him... yet he’s also invested in Harry in a way that goes beyond simple hatred or spite.

He could have used many excuses to get his hands on Harry’s Firebolt and sabotage it. He could have cursed Harry himself, especially with how close they’ve been, and Harry has no doubt that Tom possesses a sizable arsenal of slow-building, undetectable curses that would have sent Harry to his grave with no one the wiser.

But then, how absurd it is that Harry’s still not afraid to know that a part of Tom, a loud and powerful one, would rejoice in his pain and in having caused it?

He’s certain that Tom Riddle’s bite is deadly venomous, and he’s been thirsting for Harry’s blood for a long time. The bane of his existence, indeed.

Yet Harry saw something else during their time together: the fierce competitiveness, the stubbornness, the drive towards excellence, the desire to be greater than anyone... and also the insecurity, the self-loathing, the fear hidden behind harsh perfectionism, the sense of not being enough, of having to push himself harder, of not belonging anywhere, of being unloved and unlovable.

Tom Riddle is human and flawed. And he has bite, yes, but along with the venom comes a blazing fire that he keeps carefully concealed under his detached, polished façade. Harry wants to witness more of that fire, wants to bask in it, wants to revel in the privilege of being the one who can bring it out.

He knows what Tom could do, the potential of his cruelty. However, night after night, he discovers an inescapable curiosity for what Tom will do.

A laughter, full and thrilling, shakes Harry’s body as he skips through the forest, jumping over traitorous roots and avoiding thorn bushes intent on drawing blood.

Tom, of course, has already arrived.

Harry admires the transfigured goal posts, smoother and more symmetrical than how his own half-arsed magic would ever mold them, and thinks, This is going to be fun.

“Eager?” Harry can’t help but tease.

Tom gives him one of his looks. “I don’t like wasting time.”

“Of course. Let’s get to it, then.”

Like last time, Harry offers Tom his Nimbus; they warm up by playing with the Quaffle, letting Tom reacquaint himself with the feeling of flying by revisiting a few of the trickier turns. Tom’s control over the borrowed broomstick is still shaky and hesitant, which he clearly hates with a passion, but he’s also improved considerably in a small amount of time.

This may be the one thing in which Tom Riddle isn’t a natural. However, for some reason he’s actually putting in an effort to learn, which leaves Harry wondering why. Merlin knows Tom’s mind works in mysterious ways, and even after spending a few nights with him as a snake and witnessing his unfiltered rants Harry’s not closer to understanding his convoluted reasoning.

“Tonight I think you could try your hand at playing Keeper.”

Tom, always straight to the point, immediately flies towards the transfigured hoops and circles around them. “On a practical level, how is it different from playing Chaser, anyway? The ball is the same, it’s just a matter of catching it as we’ve already been doing.”

Harry feels an appraising smile rise on his lips. “Interesting question,” he replies, turning the Quaffle in his hands. “I believe the main difference is in the freedom of movement. As a Chaser, you can follow the trajectory and position of the Quaffle and other players in the way that’s most convenient for you, while as a Keeper you have to stay in a confined area, since leaving the goals unguarded equals failure. You need sharper eyes and quicker reflexes, which is why I considered it more advanced.”

“But the smaller area should make it easier, not harder,” Tom says with a small frown.

“Theory is theory, practice is practice. You’ll see by yourself.”

“Let’s begin, then.” He looks impatient, and Harry privately thinks that it’s kind of adorable. Perhaps my love for Quidditch is rubbing off on him. Or perhaps he’s just that competitive.

So Harry begins throwing and Tom begins to understand Harry’s point as the Quaffle slides under his guard and passes easily through the hoops time after time. With sweaty hair plastered to his forehead, eyes aflame and gritted teeth, Tom struggles to prevent Harry’s craftiness from allowing him to score yet another point. He’s only managed to catch five out of twenty-four throws.

“You have to keep in mind that I’m not an actual Chaser myself,” Harry says, immensely enjoying the murderous look on Tom’s face. “This could be way worse.”

Tom stills, holding the ball as if he wants to strangle it. “You do so love to make fun of me,” he snarls. “Idiot Tom Riddle, who’s never learned to play Quidditch, who can’t even catch a bloody Quaffle. Must be so nice to sit on your throne and laugh at my pathetic attempts.”

The aggressiveness in Tom’s tone makes Harry feel all kinds of ruffled, and perhaps he should be keeping his mouth shut, but when has he ever listened to reason? So he says, “I thought you had more spine than this, for someone who sits on his throne and laughs at others all the time.”

“What?” Tom says, eyes narrow and voice sharp as a potioneer’s blade.

“You heard me. Is it fun, being an arsehole to Hermione and who knows how many others? How does it feel when you are the one whose efforts feel inadequate, Tom?”

“It’s Riddle, to you.”

“Well then, Riddle: how does it feel? And mind you, I was teasing you as I would with a friend, but I could also be cruel and cutting like you. I could get on the same level of ‘polite bastard’ you seem to revel in.”

The look Tom gives him is utterly blank, which could be seen as an improvement over being murderous, or could also mean that he’s so much more murderous than usual that he’s already on the phase where he’s choosing how to dispose of Harry’s body.

Harry sighs. This is all pointless. Tom hates him, will always hate him, and they’re just dancing around each other waiting for the perfect opportunity to... what? Tom is most likely waiting for Harry to lower his guard enough for him to strike undetected, but what does Harry want? What’s his excuse for being here?

Perhaps this time his curiosity is better left alone.

“Forget what I just said. I’ve been an arsehole,” Harry says. “We don’t have to do this if you’re so frustrated it makes you miserable.”

“Is this what you think of me? That I go around lording my knowledge over people?” Tom doesn’t sound angry—he just stares at Harry like he’s speaking in a different language.

“From what I’ve seen of you... well, yes,” Harry says, uncertain. He feels like this whole conversation is balancing on a very delicate thread. “It’s not overt, but you do act superior and rub your grades on other people’s faces, with those condescending smirks and such... and I don’t believe that you don’t do that on purpose.”

“I—do that,” Tom admits quietly, almost disturbed by the revelation. Even more interesting, he appears to be honestly considering it. “Perhaps... it’s a bit excessive.”

“We all know you’re the most skilled student in this school anyway. It’s not just about grades—you clearly have a touch, a passion for magic that can’t be found in books and that most of us can’t hope to replicate.”

Tom’s eyes catch Harry’s then, a blazing intensity passing between them that makes Harry feel… funny. “You’re telling the truth. You do think that.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Not coming from you.”

Harry frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You—” Tom pauses, raking a hand through his already mussed-up hair. He looks more unbuttoned than Harry’s ever seen him. “I’m not sure.”

“That you wanted to murder me in my sleep, probably,” Harry says unthinkingly. He knows that Tom has never been confused on his opinion of Harry; he’s heard enough dramatics when Tom’s spoken to him as Ezra, long tales on how insufferable Harry is, and how much of an attention-seeker, how brainless and privileged, and so on.

Surprisingly, Tom laughs. It’s brief, blink-and-you’ll miss it, but it’s happened.

Tom Riddle has laughed.

“I might have considered it, yes,” Tom confesses, not even remotely apologetic.

Harry is shocked and more charmed than he’d like to admit. “I don’t know what to do with this sudden honesty.”

Tom shakes his head, and he’s still smiling—not smirking, but smiling—and he looks as unbalanced as Harry feels. “Neither do I.” He locks eyes with Harry, and for a few brief seconds there’s that intensity again; then he breaks the spell to Accio the Quaffle from where he’d dropped it. “Let me try again.”

“Sure,” Harry says, quietly thrilled.

##

[missing scene with Tom and snake-Harry]

##

The trunk containing Potter’s Quidditch equipment sits on the forest floor, lid open. Tom studies the set of chained Bludgers and lifts an eyebrow. “Last time you said that in this lesson I was supposed to ‘learn my way around a Beater’s bat’.” The unspoken question of why Potter hasn’t handed him any bat yet hangs in the air.

“Yeah, I said that, but then I realised that Bludgers might not be the best idea right now,” Potter admits, shrugging. “You’re probably already familiar with how they work from a spectator’s point of view, but this is another instance of theory being very different from practice.”

“In short, you believe I’m not able to undertake this particular task,” Tom says. Of course Potter wouldn’t consider him worthy enough for the scary, angry balls, not when Tom still struggles with inconsistent balance and shaky steering at the best of times. Furthermore, Potter’s famed superior abilities allow him to keenly judge the depth of Tom’s incompetency and find him wanting.

Unimpressed by Tom’s logic, Potter rolls his eyes. “Is it necessary for you to be so dramatic?”

“Don’t bother with lying. We both know it’s the truth,” Tom insists. He has no patience for this display of futile denial.

“It’s a distorted version of the truth, so you can beat yourself up for not being perfect enough, or some crap along those lines. Yes, it’s probably not safe for you to engage with Bludgers yet. No, it doesn’t mean that you’re useless of whatever you’re telling yourself.”

“You seem awfully confident in your ability to interpret my thoughts.” Out of ingrained habit, Tom reinforces his Occlumency shields. While it’s unlikely that Potter has the wits and finesse to master the delicate art of Legilimency, he’s also revealed himself to be unpredictable in many occasions. Better safe than sorry.

“Maybe you’re just obvious,” Potter says dismissively, before tapping his wand on the small set of chains that holds the Golden Snitch in place at the center of the trunk. The ball springs free, only for Potter to catch it immediately with practiced ease and a gleam in his eyes that promises nothing good for Tom. “Tonight we’re Seeking.”

“Will the Snitch’s movements be restricted to this clearing, or will we have to follow its path amongst the trees?”

“Only the clearing,” Potter confirms with a small smile.

Tom lets his gaze roam to evaluate the length and breadth of the space. The shiny surface of the ball would be easily discernible against the dark background. “Seems feasible.”

The smile on Potter’s face grows wider. “Let’s begin, then.”

What followed were blurred hours of Tom fumbling his way through sharp turns, desperately trying to keep himself from losing his grip, then losing it anyway at every attempt to catch the blasted ball, then trying to regain his balance, then remembering to loosen his posture, then failing at commanding his limbs to go on a single direction, thus dipping downwards at uncontrollable speed until he would have surely eaten grass if not for Potter’s steadying hand.

Once they finally touch the ground, Tom flings away Potter’s broom, rage painting his world in red. He doesn’t give a single fuck about the bloody stick of wood and the bloody Snitch, he’s bruised all over the place and he’s sick of this, he won’t stand a single second of humiliating himself any further, he’s utterly and completely done. “How do you fucking do this?” Tom roars. “Why would you willingly subject yourself to this torture?”

“Uh, T—Riddle—”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Tom goes on, ignoring him. “Why I even considered to accept this whole ordeal as if it deserves any of my time.”

“Riddle, I told you, this isn’t an obligation,” Potter says. “We can stop, it’s okay.” He’s dismounted too, and he stands there, slowly and cautiously inching towards Tom.

‘It’s okay’—as if Tom needs to be soothed or, worse, coddled. The infantilising undertones make Tom want to tear Potter to shreds. There’s a Cruciatus on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be unleashed, waiting for him to reap Potter’s pain for witnessing Tom making a fool of himself and daring to treat him like a volatile child. I doubt he’ll be so entertained when he’s contorting on the ground, screaming his lungs out, he thinks savagely, extracting his wand from its holster.

As the first syllable of the curse leaves Tom’s mouth, red light charging on the tip of his wand, Potter is fast—he crouches and rolls away from its trajectory, touching down over the stone in the middle of the clearing and drawing up a Shield Charm strong enough that Tom can hear it crackling like lightning. “What the fuck, Riddle?” he snaps, but there’s no surprise or fear on his face, only the sharp focus of a seasoned duellist.

Unfortunately for Potter, a mere Shield Charm isn’t enough to deter Tom; many Dark curses are designed to eat through them like a parchment set aflame. He smiles, all teeth, and Potter seems to sense his intentions, eyes narrowing.

Then the unthinkable happens.

Potter casts non-verbally at the same time Tom’s spell almost strikes home; the jets of their magic meet in midair and twine together in a single stream of pure gold light. Birdsong erupts, filling the space with an otherworldly melody, while luminous threads of magic are birthed from the stream like a spiderweb, surrounding Tom and Harry in a dome until the forest disappears beyond the shimmering brilliance.

What in Salazar’s name is this?

The entirety of Tom’s world is reduced to this moment in time, to Potter’s green eyes reflecting the light. Mesmerised, Tom watches as beads of light appear in the stream of their magic. His wand vibrates and he clutches it harder; the beads gets closer and closer to its tip, and Tom feels the light whispering at him to accept sanctuary in its song, to let it wash away his anger, to cease fighting, to surrender, and his whole body becomes weightless, being gently lifted from the ground by this invisible, absurd, liminal force—

And suddenly it ends.

The light disappears, leaving them to adjust to the night again: the link has been broken. Tom aches for it, deep in his bones. He can already tell how the echoes of that melody will haunt him for many nights to come.

He and Potter stare at each other, feet back on the ground, eyes wide, breathless and at a loss for words.

“What was that?” Tom breathes. “What did you do?”

Potter shakes his head, bewildered. “I have no clue. I just—stopped it.”

“You stopped it?”

“I think so.” Potter crawls towards a point to his side, scanning the grass back and forth until he recovers his wand from where he must have lost it when he interrupted the contact.

“Why?” Tom asks, unable to keep the word inside his still pounding chest. Why would you commit such a blasphemous act?

“Because—whatever it was, I’m not sure either of us was prepared for it.” He’s holding Tom’s gaze, straight on, in a way that reaches deep under his skin.

Unnerved, Tom skims the surface of Potter’s mind and finds a confusing jumble of... something. Too many somethings, all swirling in dizzying patterns. Wonder, doubt, curiosity, wariness, joy—all underlined by the same pure bliss that has enveloped Tom under the dome.

This magic is messing with my senses. “Don’t speak to me ever again. We’re done,” Tom says, with as much vicious strength as he can muster, rising on wobbly legs.

Potter sits in the grass and says nothing, making no move to stop him.

Tom can feel the weight of his gaze all the way to the castle. Once he reaches the dungeons, the Slytherin common room and finally his own bed, he realises how not a single part of his plan has worked out as expected.

His wand, who’s been a faithful companion since he was eleven, has acted in a way that was absolutely mystifying. Still shivering with the residue of that golden magic that doesn’t let go of his limbs, Tom performs a series of spells only to have the proof of what he already expected: the wand responds as usual and nothing is out of the ordinary—not now, not anymore. But if that unreal... thing wasn’t a malfunction, or caused by a curse, then what was it? He’s never heard of anything like it.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Tom’s out of his depth.

He thought he’d ruin Potter’s reputation, only to end up tired, bruised, with his magic acting up unpredictably and his thoughts scrambled beyond recognition. He thought he would teach Potter a lesson, and yet he lost himself in birdsong and light, giving away his power like an utter fool, until Potter was the one to separate them. And isn’t it funny that the reckless Gryffindor poster boy was the one who acted appropriately, while Tom has been too weak, too compromised? Weak, his mind provides.

How could it all have gone so wrong? How could Tom have lost the guidance of his own compass so completely?

For the briefest of moments, he wishes for Ezra’s presence; the snake has no interest in what he calls ‘complicated human affairs’, and his snark would help to keep Tom grounded. And isn’t this another sign of Tom’s weakness, to need another—an animal—to recover his balance?

He rubs his eyes, feeling both keyed-up and drained to the bone. A restless night awaits him.

However, he refuses to surrender to the hold of these thoughts. It’s completely useless to wallow in defeat and waste any more time contemplating this utter failure. Whatever happens next, whatever stunt Potter pulls that could interfere with Tom’s position in Slytherin, he’ll deal with it. Tom is cunning and capable enough to adapt to what fate has in store for him, as he’s always done.

He digs into his potion stash for a vial of Dreamless Sleep.

Potter can rot.

##

Harry crosses for the millionth time the opening sentence of his Potions essay. His parchment has turned into a blot of ink and he sighs, his wand to vanish the black stain. Then, he stares at the blank scroll, mind empty of coherent thoughts, unable to string together the meaning of a single line in the open book before him.

“I need help,” he finally says to Hermione, almost begging. They’re sitting, along with Ron, in their usual corner of the library. “I know, I know, I should write my own essay, but this isn’t—Hermione?” Harry hesitates, as he sees her casting a sturdy Muffliato around their table, the usual sign that a serious conversation was about to happen. Harry shoots a questioning look at Ron, but for once his friend appears to be on the same page as Hermione, leaving Harry out of the loop.

“Harry,” Hermione begins, with a concerned tone and furrowed eyebrows, “what’s going on? You’ve been distracted and spacing out for days, like you can’t focus on anything. It’s the third time you’ve asked for my help this week—even with difficult assignments, it’s not usually that bad.” She’s studying Harry’s face like she would a particularly complex Arithmancy equation, looking for the familiar tells that will betray his secrets.

Even though he knows perfectly well that she’s right, and that he did in fact intend to have one of those conversations, Harry protests on principle: “It’s Potions, you know how much I struggle with it! These essays are an absolute nightmare!”

“Yeah, mate, but maybe it would help if you read from the Potions book, instead of the Defense one,” Ron suggests, tapping his index finger on Harry’s book.

Harry stares at him, mild horror creeping up on his face, before letting his eyes fall on the book. He closes it and, sure enough, the battered cover doesn’t lie. “Fuck,” he says, defeated. He pushes up his glasses to rub at his face. “No wonder it didn’t make sense.”

Unlike Hermione, Ron doesn’t seem bothered by Harry’s behaviour; he shakes his head in playful disbelief, but he seems more curious than worried, which is relieving.

“So, what is it?” Hermione says.

Here it is, the moment Harry’s been dreading since this whole ordeal with Tom has started: telling the truth to his friends.

Like many other times, he doesn’t have a proper explanation for acting the way he does; in true Marauder fashion, he’d just acted on impulse, following the trail of fun. Unlike those other times, however, an explanation will be needed at some point.

This doesn’t mean that he isn’t also feeling quite defensive about this particular issue. After all, it’s not just about him; this is Tom’s business as much as it’s Harry’s, and Hermione won’t be happy to discover that her rival is involved. Harry still isn’t prepared for the fuss she will undoubtedly kick up.

And of course, predictable as the sunrise, Ron asks: “Is this because of whatever you’ve been doing when you sneak out at night?”

“Why are you being so secretive, Harry?” Hermione questions, leaning forwards and lowering her voice even though the Muffling Charm protects them from eavesdroppers. “Are you doing something that could get you expelled?”

“Hermione, I do things that could get me thrown in Azkaban on the regular.” Like being an unregistered Animagus, for instance.

And isn’t that another guilt-flavoured train of thought? The list of people that will need an explanation does include Tom himself. He’s warming up to Ezra in a way that he would have never allowed if he were aware of who hid behind the snake’s form. Yeah, Harry can’t say he’s looking forward to confessing that particular secret to Tom. After all, how can Harry admit to him that’s listened to his unfiltered rants and musings without Tom murdering him in cold blood? The Slytherin is already mistrustful enough, and lying by omission is one of the most dangerous things Harry could do, especially considering that Tom is a Legilimens.

Hermione waves an impatient hand to dismiss Harry’s point, snapping his attention back to the conversation. “You know what I mean, and you’re deflecting.”

Harry begins to open his mouth, but before he’s figured out what he’s going to say Hermione interrupts him again, voice gone soft: “Did you break up with your partner?”

“My what?” Again, Harry looks at Ron and finds none of the confusion he expects on his face.

“You have been disappearing a lot,” Ron offers with an half-shrug. “It was the most obvious conclusion.”

Harry gapes, stunned by the turn the conversation has taken. “Did you two really think that I have a secret lover? Why in the name of Merlin would I hide that?” If only they knew who my supposed ‘lover’ is. And isn’t that a thought, Tom being anyone’s lover, and Harry’s lover to boot? It’s too absurd, too unthinkable to even consider.

Yes, Harry can admit that Tom is handsome, and that he certainly doesn’t lack admirers; even with his poor eyesight, he’s not that ignorant of the Slytherin’s charms. However, Tom’s usual regal demeanour creates a distance between him and the rest of the world. Like a marble statue, Tom Riddle is meant to be admired while staying unreachable, and Harry can’t imagine him letting his shields down for anyone.

Except he did with me. Harry has been a witness to Tom’s temper, his cruelty, his smile. As obstinate as Tom has been with his will to drag Harry into the mud and his constant misinterpretation of Harry’s motives, he’s also let Harry see unflattering, vulnerable sides of him that many others would kill for.

How did that happen? What does this say about us?

“You’re spacing out again,” Hermione sighs. “But if it’s not a secret lover, then what is this all about?”

“I’ve been seeing someone. Not in that way,” he adds, before they can say anything. “But we kind of, uh, had a disagreement, and our magic reacted strangely and I was wondering if you knew something about it that I don’t.”

At the mention of an intellectual debate Hermione perks up, her posture instantly straightening. Harry tells them an abridged version of what happened in the clearing, glossing over the more incriminating details that could reveal Tom’s identity or the reason behind their fight.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve read about something like this before,” Hermione says, tapping her index finger to her lips. She bends to the side to rummage inside her magically expanded bag where she keeps a ridiculous amount of books—though Harry has to admit that, on occasions like this, having a portable library does come in handy. “I believe it was on a wandlore book I got last year. It’s hard to find any useful information on the subject because wandmaking is passed on through apprenticeship and very few masters have bothered writing down their knowledge, but I lucked on this tome that was gathering dust on a corner at Flourish and Blott’s, I’m fairly sure they didn’t even remember having it—ah, here it is!” she exclaims, showing them an ancient leatherbound volume whose title has faded completely. After a few minutes of leafing through the yellowed pages, she says: “I was right! Priori Incantatem, an extremely rare phenomenon that manifests when two practitioners bearing twin wands—that is, wands with the twin cores—attempt a duel.”

“So my... acquaintance’s wand has a phoenix feather core like mine?”

Hermione studies the book again. “Not just any phoenix feather, apparently. It has to be a feather from the same phoenix as yours, which I guess is why most wands don’t have a twin at all, or never meet their twin.” She lifts her gaze from the page to meet Harry’s eyes with her bright ones. “Harry, who is this person? This could be an amazing opportunity to study something that—”

“I can’t tell you, and they made it very clear that they don’t want me to speak to them ever again,” Harry says. Classes with the Slytherins have been... something. While outwardly nothing had changed between them, as they’d never interacted in the first place, Harry could feel the spiky coldness radiating from Tom as if it were alive and ready for him to try and cross it.

“But mate,” Ron interjects, gesturing vaguely at Harry, “wouldn’t they like to know about this? If my wand started shooting weird golden light during a duel, I’d be freaking out and thinking that my magic isn’t working or something like that.”

“I think they’re perfectly capable of researching this on their own.” Maybe that’s the reason behind their odd connection. Their wands... attract them to each other, or something.

Would Tom even want to know? The truth is... Ron is right. Someone like Tom, who prides himself on knowing everything and always being in control, must have been utterly shaken by his magic going haywire all of a sudden.

Harry’s choice is made.

##

A week after the last encounter with Potter, Ezra reappears in the dungeons just as Tom’s Prefect rounds come to an end.

Tom wonders at the snake’s ability to be so precise about his routine. Ready to cage his wayward almost-but-not-quite familiar again, this time with no intention of letting go, Tom lifts his wand in lieu of a greeting.

“Put that away, human,” Ezra hisses, and his tone is enough to still Tom’s tongue. He sounds stiff, his muscles tight and struggling against his obvious distress.

Eyes narrowing, Tom asks: “What happened to you?” If someone had dared to hurt his snake...

“Too many questions.”

“That was one question.”

“Pointless details. Follow me,” Ezra commands, before slithering down the dimly lit corridor, wasting no time to check if Tom is going after him.

Tom curses under his breath. Disrespectful, disobedient creature. He casts a silent Disillusionment Charm over himself and trails behind the sinuous shadow; the snake avoids the treacherous staircases, leading Tom behind faded tapestries and secret passages that he’s never encountered before. Spelling away the cobwebs to prevent them from sticking to his skin and hair, Tom finds himself thinking that not even Potter would have discovered these places—then banishes the reminder of Potter’s existence from his head entirely. The bastard doesn’t deserve a single crumb of his attention.

At this point he’s also wondering if Ezra is trying to get him in trouble on purpose. While the snake has never been particularly talkative and often acts oddly even by reptile standards, this mysterious demeanour is unusual and bordering on suspicious.

Ezra halts in front of a familiar, half-open bathroom door, flicking his tongue at the air; then, apparently satisfied, he slides inside.

More and more confused by this bizarre pseudo-adventure, Tom follows.

Once they’re under the greenish, dim light of the Chamber of Secrets, surrounded by snake-decorated pillars that hold up the vast ceiling, Ezra melts into the shadows and disappears from sight. The last shreds of Tom’s patience evaporate. “Ezra, what is going on?” he barely refrains from shouting.

He hears rustling from behind him, and when he turns in the direction of the sound his eyes fall on the pavement. There’s a book in front of him that hadn’t been there before. The cover is clearly old, black and unassuming, but it means very little for Tom. Wary, he extracts his wand. The Chamber is not a place in which one can trust random books appearing out of thin air.

It’s enough to distract him.

“Incarcerous,” a voice says—a treacherous, insufferable voice—and Tom is bound and constricted by ropes of warm magic that bring him to his knees. As if the humiliation wasn’t enough, he watches, powerless, as Potter waltzes in his field of vision and oh-so-casually disarms him.

“You utter bastard,” Tom snarls, like a flesh-eating curse, “release me.” The spell holds strong against his attempts to free himself wandlessly.

With a grin that shows too many teeth, Potter replies airily, “I don’t think I will. We have a lot of things to discuss, you see, and I don’t fancy being hexed.” His gaze turns sharp and he crouches in front of Tom, mockingly. “Besides, you deserve a little taste of your own medicine. Going around caging random snakes? Very rude, Tom.”

“What have you done to my snake?” No ropes will protect Potter from Tom’s ire. His magic is beginning to flare up, warming his skin, ready to set ablaze everything on its path.

Potter feels it, but all he does is sit cross-legged before Tom, unbothered. “Your snake?” he laughs.

“I caught him. He’s mine.”

“Putting me in a glass case and having a few one-sided conversations about how much you hate me is hardly enough to call me yours.”

Tom’s thoughts screech to a halt. The implication behind Potter’s words dawns on him, like curtains closing at the end of a play. It can’t be true, can it? Tom couldn’t have been so foolish—but wasn’t he the one who’s compared Ezra to Potter more than once? Oh, the irony. The cruelty of his misplaced belief that he could be himself with anyone, even an animal.

And then, Potter’s face opens, and his expression morphs into a genuine smile. Something travels down Tom’s spine at the sight. “You’re surprisingly warm, though. And you smell good under that posh cologne,” he says.

“You knew,” Tom says. “You knew all along that I wanted to sabotage you. That I despise you.”

“Yes.”

“You had no right.”

“You put me in a difficult position, Tom. On one hand, I was very aware of the fact that I was taking advantage of you; on the other hand, however... what was I supposed to do? Let you harm me out of the goodness of my heart? I’m not that self-sacrificing.”