#to be fair i read all these passages within weeks of each other before i gave up

[mourningmaybells]

The Lost Weekend by Charles Jackson / The Exorcist By William Peter Blatty / Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

[pinkhairedlily]

Chapter 8 - Student Council President Sakura

SCPS AO3 | PREVIOUS CHAPTER

“Oh, hello there Sakura.”

She almost lost her balance when she saw her next customers. Standing beside Kakashi with her arm entangled in his was a brunette, a spitting image of Dr. Aki Nohara, a giveaway that this was her sister. Sakura’s surroundings dimmed out of focus, and her hearing became muffled as if she was submerged underwater.

“Couldn’t mistake that green eyes for anyone,” Kakashi continued. “I’ll have a caramel butterscotch with extra whipped cream – make it super heavy – and Rin –“

“That’s supposed to be my order, you dummy,” the woman replied beside him. He chuckled in fascination and tightened his hold on her arm. “Besides, you don’t like sweets.”

“You’re still on a specialized diet so allow me to eat and drink whatever you want while you stick with – “ Kakashi glanced at Sakura, and she immediately mustered a tight-lipped smile. “One iced americano in your smallest size please. Thanks, Sakura.”

She took in a deep breath, suddenly aware that she wasn’t able to acknowledge her teacher and his companion, but so many things have been running through her head – like how did he know it was her? Why was he with Rin? Did he propose already? She hasn’t even confessed yet.

Somehow, in the dragging silence in her ears, she heard Sasuke cleared his throat. That was enough to break her from the spell, and she put on her bravest mask. “Hi Kakashi-sensei. Nice of you to drop by! I’ll have your order ready in a jiffy.”

Kakashi turned around and waved lazily at Sasuke. “One of my students is here too. Are you on a red eye advance study?”

“Can’t sleep so might as well have caffeine.”

“You’re too young to have this energy.”

Rin jokingly slapped Kakashi on the arm. “You talk as if you’re old already.”

“But aren’t I?” The pair slowly drifted away to find a table, but Sakura noticed the flash of recognition when Rin took a long good look at Sasuke, but her friend stared at them like he was throwing sharp draggers.

“He looks happy,” Sakura noted as she fixed their drinks.

“I want your favorite coffee,” Sasuke quipped out of nowhere.

“There’s a thing called palpitations. It’s caramel macchiato.”

“Might do me some good while I wait for you to finish your shift.”

Sakura sighed, feeling the tiredness come upon her all of a sudden so she relented. “Just take it to-go. I want to get out of here.”

She quickly asked permission from the manager, saying she felt sick and fatigued, and with her clocking overtime in the past few weeks, her request was immediately approved without deductions. The mixed winter and spring air hit her lungs as soon as she stepped outside. Sasuke waited for her across the street, a gesture that implied she could go to him or separate ways right now. As she vied for time to decide, she took one last look through the window.

It was a foreign sight. She has never seen Kakashi’s attention torn apart from his books. Even if he was talking, there would be an open page on his side, stealing glances on passages when the conversations got boring, yet there he was, fully attuned to whatever Rin was saying with no book around him…like she was his favorite book and he enjoyed reading every letter of her.

And Sakura realized she could never be the story he would even want to pick up.

She felt the tears coming so she started her pace on the same road. Across from her, Sasuke got the signal and went the other way.

--------------------------------

The last term of their second year came like a bazooka. Sakura threw herself on her pet project as a sort of coping mechanism. The announcement was done during the general assembly which did not generate the intended buzz or reaction. After all, it was a tricky topic to handle and many facets of which were still stigmatized when talked openly in public. Naruto, ever the people magnet, broke the agitated atmosphere in the auditorium with a slow clap and was soon joined by many others.

The council created a Google form which allowed students to anonymously register, and they get assigned a schedule on the day their contracted psychiatrist comes to visit. All they had to do was provide their designated client number. The council further complemented this with short programs that serve as mental health breaks for the student body. Sometimes, this would be as light as a block screening of a coming-of-age film or heavy like a conference with faculty and teachers and questions and concerns are remotely flashed.

Then came Valentines’ Day, and the council organized this some kind of literary showcase that presented the opportunity to mingle woes of personal sadness and griefs with confessions that would have been left unsaid. Naruto and Sasuke both helped in constructing the makeshift stage in the middle of the soccer field that would be used later that afternoon.

“Cookie points for my crush,” Naruto grinned as he hammered away. “Thanks for picking the poem I will be reciting tonight, grumpy. Didn’t know you were into literature.” He jokingly elbowed the raven-haired beside him, and he got a death glare in return.

“Do it properly. Look at that nail sticking out like your porcupine hair,” Sasuke grumbled. “And yes, I’m not as uncultured as you are.”

“But I still don’t understand it though.”

“Ugh, just use the internet to search its meaning, idiot.”

“Meanie!”

A fellow runner peeked into their work area and knocked on wood. “Hey Uchiha. Some girl is looking for you.” Her face expressed grimace, having done this for more than five times already within the span of an hour. If it wasn’t Sasuke, it was one of Naruto’s fan girls or boys.

Sasuke went to her and fumbled around for cash in his pocket. “Next time someone looks for us, tell them we went home for the day. Here’s money for your date later. If you have anyway.”

“Whatever grumpy.” The runner replied, still half-angry, half-frustrated, but she took the money all the same and told the girls that ‘They told me to tell you they went home for the day so shoo shoo.’

Naruto laughed at Sasuke’s successful attempt at bribery. “Look at that rich money. I wonder whether Sakura will give us chocolates.”

“Have you seen their office?” Sasuke flipped open the curtains that will be hang as backdrop. “Their desk is filled with chocolates from her admirers – platonically, romantically, whatever. Some people from other schools dropped by too. You got serious competition.”

Naruto chuckled nervously. “As if I do not know that already. Haven’t you told me before- she likes everyone and everyone likes her.”

Not really true at all now, Sasuke thought to himself. But ignorance is bliss, Naruto.

--------------------------------

The three sat on the grass beside the stage, having full view of the student body listening to the reciters. Throughout the program, Sakura went through each package given to her, visibly stressed with evident signs of sleepless nights under her eyes.

“Before I forget, happy Valentine’s day you two. My council-mates told me you didn’t get any chocolates,” Sakura gave each of them a pouch of small chocolate bars. Sasuke didn’t have to guess if it was store-bought or homemade based on the cuts on her fingers.

“Sakura, stop eating. I almost gagged at the seventh chocolate,” Naruto complained. He tried to get the basket of sweets from her, but she just moved it away from his reach.

“Everything tastes bitter,” she muttered under her breath. “I need sugar. My energy can’t keep up with the countless interviews. I understand that the school board liked the exposure, but the burden falls on me. At least have a teacher back me up?”

“Heard Kakashi-sensei volunteered to accompany you in interviews?” Sasuke was too late in shutting Naruto up, but the most that question got out of Sakura was an eyebrow raise.

“I need more sweets.” She proceeded to jam the rest of the Hershey’s kisses in her mouth.

“Okay, we have a submission from Uzumaki Naruto,” the announcer said. “Shout out to our rookie MVP!” A round of applause. “And who might be the recipient of this poem? We heard through the grapevine that he hid from his admirers all day. I know several people are waiting to confess to him!”

Sasuke instructed him earlier to send the poem anonymously and address it to Sakura, but the dumbass blonde mistakenly exchanged it. He rubbed his forehead in annoyance, but he can’t bring it up right now.

“Just read the poem!” Naruto shouted on the side, clearly embarrassed now. Sakura looked up at him, genuinely curious now, and her sticky chocolate-filled mouth was on the edge of firing him questions.

“Sasuke and I sent in poems! Just to support your program, nothing really too deep into it ehe.” Naruto glanced at Sasuke with slightly widened eyes. “Right, Sasuke?”

“Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare,” the person started.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

Sakura slapped Naruto on the arm. “Didn’t know you read Shakespeare! What a romantic!”

“Isn’t it a tragedy?” Sasuke remarked, a look of disgust in his face when Sakura mindlessly offered him a toblerone. “No sweets for me.”

Sakura guffawed at Sasuke’s remark, and her laughing was a rare sight recently. She was in too deep in her student council functions that they barely see her. And when they did, she’d be a little bit closer to fatigue.

“What’s funny? Who’s Shakespeare? Let me in on the joke!”

“Let’s call on Kakashi-sensei, our very own student council advisor and youngest teacher in the university. He’ll be reciting a poem by Pablo Neruda. A man of culture, we see,” the emcee announced.

Sakura stopped laughing as soon as she heard his name. If Sasuke could glean into her thoughts, she’s probably making up excuses to escape right now.

Kakashi stood in the middle of the stage, holding an open book. “Let me just ramble on here for a bit. Neruda is a Chilean poet and a politician, but just as much as he is a revolutionary, he is a romantic and a worshipper of ideals and ordinary things. He often compared his muses to earth and nature – basic providers of our existence. It’s interesting to see. Now, this poem is what I would have wanted to say to someone who is fundamentally part of my existence, but she won’t listen to me.” Kakashi smiled even more at the onset of outburst of giggles from the students. “So you’re gonna be the audience whether you want it or not.”

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the color of a savage harvest,

hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

hunting for you, for your hot heart,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

A thundering applause followed Kakashi’s poem and random shouts of, “Drop her name sensei!” “Good luck to your love life!” “Happy for you, sensei!”

As the lights went out on the stage, Sakura fished another pouch from her vest pocket, and Sasuke knew at once that it was Kakashi’s. She popped a bar into her mouth, staring blankly ahead.

“God, it’s so bitter.” Her lips started to quiver, and she started to cry.

Naruto threw a worried glance at Sasuke, but his expression must have given something away because the blonde didn’t prod, and he looked as if all the puzzles fell into place.

Sasuke just didn’t expect to be confronted about it as soon as the program finished. He was carrying blocks of wood to the shed when Naruto dropped the question – a question he already knew the answer to.

“You like Sakura.”

Sasuke inhaled sharply and halted his steps. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stacked the wood against each other and turned to face the blonde. “Besides, shouldn’t you be worrying about exams?”

“What exams? We’re exempted from it,” Naruto bristled.

Sasuke smirked. “No, you’re not. You didn’t qualify for finals.”

“Oh shit.”

--------------------------------

“What do we get in return?” Sakura asked as she munched on her bento box. Shouts of the practicing dragonboat team filtered through their space.

“But last time you volunteered!” Naruto said.

“We’re friends so my services don’t come free anymore,” she chided back.

Naruto glared at Sasuke. “If she’s not gonna do it, you’re gonna do it.”

Sasuke nonchalantly shook his head as he skimmed through Naruto’s notes. “What she said.” They weren’t notes per se, but doodles of Sasuke and Sakura and interestingly, projections of different batting stances. “I’m also not gonna forgive you with the duck butt hair.”

“But you have a duck butt hair!” Naruto crossed his arms and huffed menacingly. “Ramen?”

“Same old, same old.” Sakura finished her lunch and started to sip her cranberry juice. “Give us something new.”

“Ramen and…..karaoke?”

Sakura brightened up at the prospect. “Deal.”

“At least add snacks to your place,” Sasuke interjected. “And not just ramen. Put some nuts or fruits in your fridge.”

Naruto grumbled but raised two thumbs up in defeat. “Deal.”

--------------------------------

Sasuke has thin patience when it came to teaching Naruto, Sakura observed. She didn’t know how these two managed to do the supplementary math lessons when she wasn’t a part of their group yet. She didn’t mind teaching, but Naruto’s short attention span was a devil of its own. He would be attentive to her for 15 minutes and then drowse off so Sasuke and her agreed on non-negotiables.

“No ramen break for you if you don’t finish this set of problems,” Sakura told him.

“You’re demon spawns,” Naruto cried out in defiance.

“If you don’t get a passing score on this sample test, no kani toppings for you.” Sasuke raised the stakes.

“Demon spawns,” Naruto repeated.

“You won’t call us demon spawns if you see your name on the list of passers.” Sakura started the stopwatch on her phone. “Now go.”

This took her mind off things, from Kakashi’s public confession to the blank career form hidden within the pages of her history textbook. It was a good distraction until the penultimate exams day. Naruto came in with a bandana on his forehead with FIGHTING written in the middle of it. Sasuke, as usual, breezed through it, already finished by the thirty-minute mark.

And she? Well, she liked exams. The time limit and the pressure allowed her the reprieve to shut the rest of the world out so she relished answering each number until the bell rang. It was a moment where she can focus fully on the paper in front of her, the sound of her pen scribbling, and her mind working full force to cull out the answers in her memory. Her utmost concentration on questions suspended her own questions on her feelings for a teacher, on her parents’ divorce, on her future.

When the school plastered the results on the bulletin board, she couldn’t help but release a satisfied chuckle. She turned to Sasuke who was surprisingly stoic about the results. “First place! The bonus point really helped.”

“Why should I bother with a teacher’s middle name for the bonus question?” Sasuke grumbled back. “Congrats. Stop rubbing it in my face already.”

Naruto was too busy pointing his name on the board and bragging about it to the student body, most especially the freshies. When he found them on the back of the crowd, he rushed to them and placed his arms around their shoulders “Drinks on me!!!!!”

--------------------------------

“He really shouted drinks on me in the middle of the school, sauntered in here like he’s loaded, and ordered two pitchers of iced tea.” Sakura kept bringing this up since they entered the karaoke room ten minutes ago.

Naruto was preoccupied with inputting song numbers on the machine to respond to Sakura’s banters. “Technically, they’re still drinks!”

Sasuke was on the phone with the kitchen, and from what she could hear, he was ordering almost everything on the menu. When he sat down on the adjacent couch, Sakura leaned forward to him. “Are you gonna finish all of that?”

He jutted his index finger to Naruto. “No, but he will.”

The first notes of Michael Jackson’s Thriller wafted through the room, and the blonde made a quick impression of the artist’s famed moonwalk.

“Why are you opening with that?” Sakura cried out in amusement. “It’s not even Halloween!” Sasuke watched Naruto try to dance with a straight face, but she thought he was itching to face palm the whole time.

Naruto kept beckoning Sakura to join him in the middle of the room, but she was busy laughing at him and taking videos. “I’ll send these to Haru as a pick-me-up. I think this is the best remedy.”

Next was Sakura’s pick – Heaven is a Place on Earth by Belinda Carlisle. She couldn’t contain her laughter in between verses when the two boys finally heard that she was tone deaf. Naruto joined her with the other mic, trying to drown out the off-key notes. By the bridge, Sasuke stood up with them, a glass of juice in his hand, and mouthed the words.

“You know this song!” Sakura said excitedly.

“I don’t live under a rock!” He yelled back amid the loud music.

“OOOH BABY DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT’S WORTH OOH HEAVEN IS A PLACE ON EARTH. THEY SAY IN HEAVEN, LOVE COMES FIRST. OOH HEAVEN IS A PLACE ON EARTH!”

“Okay who’s next?” she asked when the next number flashed on the screen. Sasuke silently took the mic from her and faced the monitor with a hand in his pants’ pocket.

Naruto gripped the mic harder when the song started. “I’ll be your second voice, grumpy!”

She immediately went to the front and started recording. “One for the road.”

“No videos, Haruno,” Sasuke warned.

“Come on, it’s my remembrance,” she whined. He wasn’t able to clap back when the lines started to move.

“Turn around…” Naruto sang.

“Every now and then, I get a little bit lonely and you’re never coming ‘round,” Sasuke’s baritone voice filled the room like an empty coliseum.

“The fuck. You can sing?” Sakura gasped out loud. “How can you have that voice and not sing - like you know, every day?!”’

Sasuke gestured her to stop as he belted, stoic-faced, through the chorus with Naruto singing like a slaughtered pig in the background. Sakura stopped recording and joined them for the rest of the song.

Two hours and three pitchers of orange juice later, they finally settled on the couch and munched on Naruto’s leftovers of fries, buttered chicken, nachos, and calamari. On the karaoke monitor was David Bowie singing Heroes.

“Can’t believe we’re already seniors two months from now.” He stared at the ceiling, his eyes following the tag game of disco lights. “Elections of officers will be tomorrow which means Captain Haru will be formerly stepping down.”

Sasuke reached out and shook his hand. “Good luck next captain.”

Naruto immediately pulled out from his grasp. “What do you mean next captain?”

Sakura chuckled and patted his back as assurance. “Everyone knows it’ll be you. Have you seen how your teammates look at you when you’re discussing strategies?”

In the dimness of the room, she saw the flush on Naruto’s cheeks, and she found it amusing how he cannot take compliments.

Naruto scratched the back of his head. “Well, everything is possible, right? That said, I still haven’t filled out my college form, but I’m really set on getting an athletic scholarship and eventually be part of the national team! How about you grumpy? Changed your mind yet?”

“About what?” Sakura glanced at the silent raven-haired guy beside her. To be able to see this much of him was a nice privilege.

“I’m moving away after high school.” Sasuke fiddled with his half-empty glass, his eyes trained on the slushing juice. “I already sent applications to some universities in Europe.”

“We also have good medicine programs here. I don’t get why you have to move away so far. I’m so bad with converting time zones.”

Sasuke scrunched his nose in annoyance. “Are you dumb? The schools you listed are also out of this district.”

She seemed to be moving farther and farther from their exchange. Like an outsider peeking in, she understood the frailty of the moments in front of her, and by the time the next two months set in, the stopwatch would have started running its last lap. The bonds she has made so serendipitously were in danger of being cut off by dreams. She breathed in, engulfing the noise and scent of this room, panning every color and shape assembled like supercut in her head, praying that someday if she would lose herself, she’d come back here right at this frozen memory and relive the wonderful indecisiveness of adolescence and the chance to say I don’t know without repercussions.

“Sakura to earth?” Naruto’s voice.

“Idiot. It’s earth to Sakura.” Sasuke’s voice.

She blinked fast, returning to the moment that wasn’t finished playing out yet. She quickly brushed her hands on her eyes as if something got into her eyes, hoping they don’t see the small droplets of tears that have formed. “Oh uh, I have a list of prospects, but I’m not quite sure what to take.” The form was still blank actually.

“That’s a usual problem of anyone who’s too good at everything,” Sasuke replied.

“Are you complimenting me?” I wish I was.

“Should I take it back?” He proceeded to gulp down the remnants of his glass.

The monitor suddenly turned off, indicating their time has run out. “Hey guys, for our last term, let’s make the most out of it, all right?” Naruto asked. “I’m so happy we became friends.”

“No hugging please,” Sasuke said, but it was too late. Naruto’s arms were too strong to pull away from so the two allowed him a few seconds of skinship.

Naruto’s words struck a chord in Sakura; it was a resolve she tried to form and disfigure for several months now. Before they could stand up to fix their things, Sakura blurted it out loud before her courage took the best of her.

“For our last term.” She flexed her fingers and curled them up against her palm, placing weight on her lap as she ground her fists onto it. “For our last term, I’m gonna confess to Kakashi.”

AO3 LINK | NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER 9

[yeojaa]

( ROSERAIE. )

What you had - so brilliant and beautiful and bright it was almost impossible to look at head-on - was what was tearing you two apart.  It was your love that would be your demise.  

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.   my take on a hanahaki!au.  pretty heavy on the angst.  general.

tags / warnings.  mention of minor character death, breaking up, soulmates, angst, unrequited love, sick character (hanahaki), bittersweet, non-idol.

wc.  3.2k

beta reader(s).  my forever queens, @hobi-gif​ @snackhobi​!  you both bring such hope and joy (hahahaha) to my life!!!  and of course, the loveliest angels @joheun-saram​, @pars-ley​, and @ditttiii​ for reading through and giving me excellent feedback!

author note.  this is a part of @goldenclosetnetwork​‘s 23 | jungkook’s birthday project.  it’s my first time writing a hanahaki au so...  i have a lot of headcanons for it but i’m not sure whether it all came across in the story.  😰  eep.  anyway, please enjoy and feel free to leave any feedback.  i would love and appreciate it!  most importantly:  happy birthday, kook!  💖

Your parents were a young match.  Together from the tender age of eleven, they’d shared pieces of themselves readily, trading secrets in tree houses and blanket forts.  Nothing was held back - a childhood crush brought to life by playful ribbing and sugar-coated snacks.  Where your mother went, so did your father;  she was his light as much as he was her shadow.  Two halves of a destined whole, earnest and pure.  Friends first.  

It made perfect sense when they shared their dreams - the same one they’d had since they could remember - and it was identical:  swimming in the ocean with a faceless friend, families on their respective four and three-week long road trips.  They’d recognised each other immediately, felt the click the moment they stepped off the camper van.  Your father had called it cooties;  your mother said butterflies.

It didn’t matter that they’d never seen each other’s faces until that moment.  There was the spark.  Recognition.  The rest was history. 

Jungkook’s parents have been soulmates since the early 2000s.  His father had lost his wife - his first soulmate - exactly one year prior to their meeting.  He didn’t have his recurring dream until a fortnight before he met his wife.  Hadn’t expected it, either.  He’d been talking about his day in his local support group (it never got easier, he’d discovered) and he’d mentioned it in passing, glossing over the details of the vivid new pictures painted against his eyelids.  His second wife - his second chance - had attended after losing her son.  A complete chance.  Serendipitous. 

It wasn’t always simple, though.  The heartbreaking endings came just as often as the happy.  

There were people who lost their soulmates before even meeting them.  They’d never know they’d lost their first one until the next dream came - if it came.  If they were lucky enough.  

There were message boards and dating sites.  Places people stripped themselves bare and spilt their secrets to the world.  Desperate for love, they detailed their dreams and hoped that their other half was somewhere out there, reading those same words.  

Some, though, never found their special someone.  Life came at you fast and from all directions - or it never came at all, caught somewhere across the globe in the form of someone you’d never meet.  Those were the most painful circumstances, as if fate was cheating the system.  Here’s a love you know you have, but that you’ll never experience.  It was terribly cruel. 

(But when was life ever fair?)

There were stories about those that never found their puzzle piece and how it felt, whether it hurt.  Most said it was a quiet ache, something you never really noticed until you thought too closely about it, like a scar that had healed over or a loved one gone a long time.  Painful in an explicable way and only - luckily, miserably - softened by ignorance. 

Others spoke about it like death, missing an integral part of themselves.  It played a large part of their life, shaping and changing them with each passing day.  They couldn’t fully live without their person, even if they’d never met them.  It was simply the principal of the matter. 

You’d never quite existed in either camp.  You’d always wanted to find love but you hadn’t rushed it.  You figured you’d meet your happily ever after at some point.  Maybe at your work - caught between the shelves or returning an overdue book - or maybe out with your dog, walking the same route you took every day.  They’d show up one day.  You were sure of it. 

Love had a way of surrounding you. 

Your best friends - because of course the two of them would fall for each other (it was nauseating) - had found each other young too, on the grounds of the elementary school you all played on.  They’d been bonded since the beginning, secrets exchanged in art class and atop monkey bars.  You’d cheered them on the whole way, giddy in a way you couldn’t describe.  Being around it  felt like standing beneath the sun, scorching heat warming you all the way to the core.  It didn’t matter that you didn’t have it for yourself (yet). 

They’d come.  Eventually.  You felt it in your bones and later, you’d learn, in your shins.

He’d come around the corner fast as a bullet, headphones in and hood pulled over his head.  You’d barely have time to avoid him, poor coordination lending itself to disaster when only one of your feet would make it out of his path of destruction.  

BANG!  

It was something right out of a campy romance novel.  Guy goes jogging, runs headlong into his dearly beloved and nearly gives her a concussion.  He feels bad for her scraped knees and falls in love with her dog.  His morning runs become theirs and six weeks later, over a late night bite of contrasting gelato flavours - green tea for him, bubble gum for her - they fit the pieces together.

Jungkook’s the faceless boy you’d always dreamt of, one hand on the wheel, the other resting easily on your thigh.  He was the one with the slick black AppleWatch and long fingers.  You’d never imagined he’d be covered in ink, immaculate designs running the length of his forearm all the way back and across his shoulders.  In fact, you’d never thought about tattoos at all. 

You get your first and only one with him - intricate red looped around your wrists and over your pinkies.  Your own, very real string of fate, sealed and signed forever in rouge. 

He was your Prince Charming, your best friend, your bonafide soulmate.  You’d done everything together - skydiving, snorkelling, silly photos atop the Eiffel Tower.  He’d adapted to your distaste of onions and took them all, meticulously picking them out of stir fries and sauces until not a single sliver remained.  You’d learnt to tolerate his unbearably fast driving, white-knuckled and silent when he’d tear around corners too fast in a car too low. You fit perfectly, filling all the spaces he could never, keeping him whole even when he was broken.  

Your love was of fairy tales but it was better than that too.  Real.  Concrete.  Solid.

Until it wasn’t.    

The two of you had never had any other choice.

That’s what it feels like, at least.  He’d done his best - tried every little thing he could’ve possibly imagined - and it’d all amounted to nothing.  He’d gone through all the motions, explored every avenue, given everything he had.  It wasn’t working.  This thing he wanted with every fibre of his being, that he’d hoped for his whole life, just wasn’t working.  It wasn’t for him.

“I’m sorry,”  he cries, and he knows you know he means it.  You can read it between every line of his expression, tucked among the neatly scrawled india ink in faded red, underlining the passages you’d written together.  He is sorry.  He’d never meant to do this to you, nor you to him.  He’d wanted to give you it all - make all your hopes and dreams come true.

Sometimes, fate just had other plans.  

Because what the two of you had - so brilliant and beautiful and bright it was almost impossible to look at head-on - was what was tearing you apart.  It was your love that would be your demise.  

And he can’t bear to hurt the one he loves.  

He’d tried so hard.  Really, he had.  You had too, more than he ever deserved. 

There was simply no other option.  You’d always come up short.  You weren’t the one for him - not anymore - no matter how badly you wanted to be.  You weren’t the one meant for him.  You’d fumble for that ledge - held so impossibly high, just barely out of reach - before falling right back to where you began.  The bottom.  He couldn’t stand to see you there, brought to your knees once, twice, a hundred times.  

He’d lose count if not for the petals.

Little ones, at first.  Tiny pieces of silk you’d found on your pillowcase, outside the shower, in your water glass.  They’d been unassuming - reminders you could easily ignore.  

Then they’d grown, velvet softness that made it hard to breathe, that had him rubbing soothing circles over your skin, earnest vows winding like vines around your airways.  Neither of you had had any idea why it was happening.  You were soulmates - bound to each other and destined since the beginning.  Your love wasn’t unrequited. 

“We’ll figure it out,”  he’d said.  Sworn.  “We’ll get through this.”

Your heart had broken with each promise;  his had too, differently, but in perfect tandem.  

(Spring still came, steadily, with a rose garden blooming within your insides and freesias in your nose.) 

It wasn’t his fault.  You would never blame him, even when it was his fist that broke yours, splintered it into a million pieces that cut worse than the thorns in your lungs.  You knew this was just as hard for him.  He’d had to watch you wither away, even as a patchwork of flowers blossomed in the spaces he’d thought he could keep safe.  He hated it - could barely take it.  It kept him up all night, tears in his eyes.  Even when he slept - managed it, every few days - it’d prompt him awake in a cold sweat.

If he’d known then what had changed, maybe he could’ve fixed it sooner.  Maybe he could’ve saved you the heartache.  (Weeks later and during a coffee break with the new girl at his startup was not how he’d expected to find his answer.)

“I love you,”  you tell him, an ocean of sadness.  He loves you too, more than anything, more than there are stars in the sky.  He loves you with every part of himself - and yet he knows now that’s what’s causing this.  He loves you, but not in the right way.  Every touch he offers is wrong, leaving you bruised, broken, barely breathing.  It’s a disease - a venereal infection that seeps beneath skin and bone, settling within the marrow.  It changes you from the inside out, realigns your DNA until you’re mutated and miserable. 

The realisation is devastating:  his love causes more harm than it heals. 

So he stands there now, caught in the distance between you, eyes melancholy blue.  His composure is frayed, crippled beneath the weight of your circumstance.  He tries to memorise your face in these last moments - the colour of your hair, the shape of your stare.  How you sound in the morning - voice raspy with sleep, dust caught in your eyes.  The way you hold him close and the feeling of your eyelashes against his neck in the early hours.  

Jeon Jungkook doesn’t want this to end.  He doesn’t want to lose you, give you - this - up but he has to.  He has to, for you.  To give you a chance.  

Even after having so little - only five short years - you were about to lose the rest of your lives.  

You pack your bags - he helps, folding your favourite sweater (one of his, in truth) alongside your toiletries and undergarments - and you prepare to do the thing that you should never have to do.  You sign papers, dot I’s and cross T’s, and put all your treasured memories away into cardboard boxes to never be touched again.  You label them neatly and dress tape over edges;  Band-Aids meant to hold together the deepest wounds.

You’re going under by anaesthetic and he’ll be here, where he has everything he wishes he could give you.  A love he doesn’t deserve, within arms he wishes were yours. 

He wonders whether he’ll still feel the pull once it’s done or whether his heart will stay there, tucked somewhere beneath the dug up roots.  Whether it’ll be safe, undiscovered like a long lost treasure.  

It’s best this way.  He tells himself that - loops it on repeat until it’s the only thing he can think.  It has to be better.  For you, for you, for you. 

He knows he’ll carry you with him forever.  Like the air in his lungs, you’ll keep him going.  

He’s snapped back to the present, to the small hallway of the home you’d built together.  The traces of you are gone - all the photos hidden away, your row of shoes missing from beside his.  It’s strangely bare.  He knows it won’t last long.  She’ll be here next week.

Your hand pushes against his cheek, thumb caressing along the seam of his bottom lip, right where the freckle sits.  He’s a thief - a criminal, a sinner - when he dips his head, presses back into the warmth of your palm.  This isn’t for him to take but he does anyway, eagerly and with deep regret. 

“I love you.”  Your voice cuts through all the white noise and agony - a beacon in the night, guiding him home.  

He smiles, half-hearted and weak and not even his.  Every part of him screams at him to beg you not to do it, to accept him for the man he is - lost and weak and sorry.  He almost drops to his knees - fights tooth and nail against his aching limbs not to - and brings a hand to yours.  The red threads looped around your wrists fit perfectly together, the ends of inked rope caught around your pinkies matching when his fingers slot between yours. 

Don’t do this, he pleads, without words or hope. 

“I’ll love you forever,”  you tell him - promise like he had you.  “You’ll always be the brightest star in my sky, Jeon Jungkook.”

He almost cracks - seams near splitting, adhesive tearing from skin - when you return his smile and he can see how hard it is.  You’re already broken, all the pieces of your puzzle in terrible disarray. 

You’re trying, for him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he answers, because that is kinder than an I love you that doesn’t mean what you need it to.  Because you deserve better - you deserve it in the same way you mean it. 

So he’ll let you leave and he’ll pray this isn’t the worst decision of his whole life.  

“I’ll see you.”  

He hopes so.  He can’t bear the idea of losing you again.  He doesn’t think even she could fix him if he had to. 

“Be safe,”  he whispers, in a voice that stutters your stare and shatters what little resolve you have left.  He sees it in your eyes - all the crystallised parts of your composure turned to ash.  He wishes he could be sorry.  He’s not.  

“I love you,”  you repeat with an air of finality. 

Jungkook does the same:  “I’m sorry.” 

You leave, ushered into the back of your mother’s tiny sedan.  She helps you with your bags and your seatbelt, rubbing your shoulder carefully when baby’s breath slips past your lips and falls all over your lap.  She meets his stare when she climbs into the driver’s seat.  He tries to read her expression.  Understanding?  Resentment?  Gratitude?  

The car pulls away with a groan, disappearing down the tree-lined street.  Jungkook stands in the doorway for far longer than he should.

He’s moved on - settled down with the girl of his dreams.  Literally.  

She’s nothing like you, sarcastic and stubborn with a staunch refusal to ever come second best.  She laughs maybe a bit too loud, giving him shit when he orders in another car part.  She’d eat an onion raw, if she could, and takes showers hot enough to slough the skin from her bones.  They have a home together and in a year’s time, he thinks he’ll propose.  He’s not in any rush, though, because he knows she’s his forever.  

(Knows it, even though you’d once been that same shining star to him.  He has to believe it won’t happen again.  Life can’t screw someone twice, right?  Lightning never strikes the same spot or something like that?)

Still, he tries to forget the feeling of you.  

It isn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be.  The love exists as it always has, just differently, in the palm of his hand and not the space behind his ribs.  You’re his best friend and he is disgustingly, unbelievably lucky.  

He’d gotten his second chance.  Even if he’d once resented it, he had everything now.  

You still go for your morning runs and he still changes your oil because you’d never learnt how to.  His parents invite you for Sunday dinners;  you’re gracious enough to decline them.  You don’t see it as pity - you just don’t want to intrude.  (It isn’t your place any longer.)  You accept all the changes readily, without regret.  You promise you’ll go by one day.  

Your parents never speak to him.  He doesn’t blame them.  At the supermarket, on the street, in passing when he’s coming and they’re leaving - it’s radio silent.  

It’s been six months and you haven’t dreamt at all.  They’d hoped - prayed - that you’d find someone new after him, someone to treat you right.  You don’t mind, you tell them.  I’ll meet my special eventually, you say (again, again).

He wonders whether you resent them for it - their concern, perhaps a bit overbearing and offered with a heavy hand.  If you do, you say nothing, playing along each time they suggest you meet another friend’s son, another junior at your father’s accounting firm.  You don’t understand the sad way they watch you. 

“I’m sorry,”  he mumbles one night, seated at the neighbourhood cafe you’d frequented on your first date.  Your idea, because you loved coffee and, in your old words, this was your place.  The start of it all, where he’d knocked you hard onto pavement and stolen your heart in the process.

You don’t remember it now.  Not in the same way. 

This is somewhere you come for their great matcha lattes, where you waste a few too many evenings when you just want to get out of the house.  It isn’t the place he’d told you he loved you or where you’d resolved your first fight.  

(It’d been stupid.  He’d forgotten to pick up groceries for your first dinner with your parents.  You’d been so stressed you’d snapped at him, carrying tension into the rest of the evening.  He’d apologised with an almond croissant and your favourite green drink.)  

It’s like a wall has gone up, splitting your heart in two.  The part of you that’d once been Jungkook’s remains out of reach, caught behind a gate neither of you have the key to.  

“For what?”  You quip, a milk moustache presenting itself over the rim of your mug.   

Jungkook shrugs.  He can’t make you understand.  “Y’know,”  he mumbles into his red bean mochi bun.  It sticks to his teeth and coats them in soft white flour.  “Just— everything.”  It’s not enough, either as an explanation or an apology.  It falls terribly short, barely worthy of a participation trophy.  

“It’s fine.”  You say it every time, clockwork in response to the same apology he always gives - out of the blue and vague.

“No, but I’m—”

You level him with a glare.  It might’ve hurt once but now it settles like a scolding from a sibling.  He reminds himself this is how it should be, you there and him here - two parallel lines.  

The guilt never goes away. 

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​​​ @snackhobi​​

[pinnithin-writes]

newfound information

I have a running theory that Goemon Ishikawa is legally blind and decided to write something about it. This is some of the gayest and most pointless shit I’ve ever written. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it. 1778 words. 

“I’d like to know,” Goemon said, “what color your eyes are.”

Thick silence wrapped the room like a blanket. The scratching of Lupin’s pen on a notepad stilled. For a while, the only sound was the tic tic tic of the radiator.

“Which one of us?” Jigen asked. The leather of the couch creaked as he leaned further back in his slouch.

Today marked a full week they’d been crowded together in a drafty apartment in Zürich - the morning had passed with Jigen smoking and Lupin planning and Goemon untangling the knots within him. The coffee table had been shoved aside to make room for a cluttered spread of maps and books on the floor. The heist was days away, and Lupin was audibly puzzling out their approach as he cross-referenced the recon notes his partners had put together.

Goemon wasn’t facing either of them; he had his forehead pressed against the window, eyes unfocused. The street below their hideout was a brick red blur. I’ve never seen Switzerland before, he’d commented upon their arrival, and Lupin had chuckled at his joke.

“Both.”

“Oh,” Lupin answered brightly. “They’re brown. I thought you knew.”

He did, in fact, know they were brown. Lupin and Jigen had both mentioned their eye color to him before. There were a lot of things about his partners’ appearances Goemon had pieced together over the few years they’d been working together. 

It wasn't that he couldn’t see them at all. He just saw them at a distance that usually reduced them to a collection of colors and shapes. To Goemon, Lupin was a bell-tone laugh and a flash of bright red and a courteous hand on his elbow when he passed in the hall. Jigen was the smell of Marlboros and a longsuffering, gravelly sigh and the steady click of leather shoes on hardwood. They were whole, complete people to him already. 

But lately he’d been hungering for details he wasn’t sure he could have. Certain things that required a proximity Goemon rarely permitted. 

“What?” Jigen interjected suddenly. “They are not. They’re gray, right?”

A soft rustle as Lupin set his notepad aside. “Really, Jigen? How long have we known each other? You don’t know what color my eyes are?”

“They’re gray. I swear to god they’re gray.”

“It says ‘brown’ on my birth certificate!”

Goemon wordlessly listened to their argument as he turned away from the window. He leaned back on the sill in preoccupation, the cool glass chilling his neck. He should just ask. It beat staring at the street and dwelling on it for hours. 

He ran his thumb in distracted circles against Zantetsuken’s sheath. “Can I see them?”

“Lupin’s birth papers? I’m not sure they’re legitimate,” Jigen said, ducking quickly to avoid the pen Lupin chucked at him. It clattered harmlessly behind the couch. 

“No,” Goemon clarified sharply. “Your eyes.”

“Oh.”

A beat of silence passed, which Lupin broke first. “Well, sure you can,” he answered. “Then you can vouch for me.”

Goemon imagined he was shooting Jigen a barbed look as he said this. A stack of papers shifted as he unfolded his skinny legs and stood, and then Lupin was crossing the room toward him. Goemon felt his heart rate tick up - he hadn’t expected his odd request to be honored. Lupin’s visage grew clearer as he approached, until Goemon could easily clock his lopsided smile and tweaked eyebrows. 

Lupin tucked his hands in his pockets and leaned in close. “What do you think?” he asked. “Brown or gray?”

“Hold still.”

Narrowing his eyes, Goemon raised a hand to grasp the other man’s chin, tilting his face this way and that. The light from the window fell softly on his cheeks and the slope of his nose. Lupin blinked expectantly. He was close enough that Goemon could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

Gray was his first impression. Silver, really, like a pair of shiny round coins. Lupin’s gaze was restless, darting back and forth between Goemon’s own eyes as he allowed himself to be examined. His skin was startlingly soft.

“Hold still,” he ordered again, tugging Lupin closer.

This time, Lupin obeyed, fixating on a single point and staying there. His previously cheeky grin disappeared when his jaw went slack, and Goemon felt a tiny puff of air as Lupin exhaled. 

He could see now that his irises were also flecked with shades of brown, ringing his pupils in a lovely starburst. Goemon studied Lupin’s eyes a moment longer, taking note of how they settled from ink to fawn to ash from the center out, committing the image to memory.  He observed his facial structure - how it was soft and sharp all at once, unique and conspicuous. Lupin’s fondness for disguise made more sense to him now.

Goemon was sure the man could hear his pulse thudding in his neck at this point, so he finally released him. “Both,” he said conclusively. “Probably varies with the light.”

Lupin was slow to step away, cheeks rosy. “Oh,” he managed to say. “So… we were both right.”

“Indeed.”

Jigen was uncharacteristically quiet from where he watched on the couch. Goemon heard him tap ash idly from his cigarette before taking a contemplative drag. “Sounds like a cop out to me,” he murmured as an afterthought. 

Goemon slanted him a glance. “You could see for yourself,” he challenged, brows raised.

“I’ve seen ‘em already,” he grumbled. 

Lupin took another step back, melting out of focus to his usual blur of black and red, and folded his arms. “Jigen, dear, I believe it’s your turn.”

Jigen coughed. “Excuse me?”

“You're up next. Let the man see your eyes.”

Sensing his hesitance, Goemon’s mouth softened from its steady set line. “Only if you want-” 

“No,” Jigen was already interrupting him. “I’ll do it.”

The couch protested as he leaned to set his cigarette in the ashtray, elongating into a dark capital I when he stretched and stood. The approaching tap of his shoes was slow and familiar.

“No need to look so nervous,” Lupin teased, leaning impishly into Jigen’s personal space as he pulled to a stop.

Goemon prodded Lupin out of the way with the sheathed end of his sword, resting it against his sternum in a silent warning. Lupin retreated, smirking, while Jigen drew in an almost imperceptible breath and let it out slow. The same technique he used before pulling the trigger on an impossible shot. Goemon reached to remove his fedora with as much care as he could, pressing it delicately against his chest.

“Hold this, please.”

Jigen nodded. The tips of his fingers trembled where they touched the felt.

“His eyes are definitely gray,” Lupin commented, angling his chin at Jigen. “Oh my god, are you shaking?”

Goemon gave Lupin a pointed tap with Zantetsuken in lieu of reprimand. He fell silent.

Out of respect for his trepidation, Goemon was gentler with how he handled Jigen’s face, nudging his jaw one way and then the other with the backs of his knuckles. Stubble prickled his skin. He was struck by how sharp his cheekbones were at this distance; he had never really noticed their prominence before. He was certain they’d draw blood if he ran his thumb against them.

Jigen’s eyes were significantly darker than Lupin’s. Storm clouds gathered around his pupils, shades of slate and black bleeding into one another. Instead of meeting Goemon’s stare, he determinedly stuck his gaze at an indiscriminate point somewhere past his left ear. These were marksman’s eyes, sharp and steady and missing nothing. Shame he hid them under his hat all the time.

Goemon dropped his hand from Jigen’s face. “They are gray,” he agreed. 

The swiftness with which Jigen stepped back and replaced his headwear was possibly the fastest he’d ever seen him move. He cleared his throat, adjusting the hat’s brim. “Great. Glad we worked that out.”

Lupin jabbed him with an elbow. “Congrats on surviving the ordeal.”

Jigen grumbled something indistinct, tipping his chin and hiding his eyes further. 

Goemon kept his expression carefully neutral. Now that he possessed this newfound information, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. He had learned quite a bit more about the others than intended; not only about their appearance, but their mannerisms, as well. Their relationship with closeness. He didn’t know there was a way to turn off Lupin’s motor mouth. He didn’t know Jigen became so mystified when touched.

These were things he would file away for later, additional pieces for the frustrating jigsaw that was his feelings.

“Thank you,” he uttered finally.

“No problem,” Jigen responded at the same time Lupin said, “That’s what we’re here for.”

Goemon scoffed with disbelief. “Is it?”

Lupin paused and moved out of the way to allow Jigen passage. Goemon caught a whiff of smoke - he must’ve resumed his previous task of mangling the cigarette he’d been working on. Lupin leaned easily against the window beside Goemon, not as close as before but close enough he could tell the master thief was examining him. Embarrassment creeping into the back of his neck, Goemon lifted a prompting eyebrow in his direction.

“Sure it is,” Lupin went on. “I ask you two for weird favors all the time. It’s only fair.”

“Hm.” Goemon was skeptical.

“We’re a team,” he insisted. “It’s good for a team to know each other really well. Right?”

“...Right.”

“Useful for recognizing each other in disguise.”

Grateful for Lupin’s valiant effort to spare his dignity, Goemon allowed a small smile. “Sure.”

Lupin grinned back, tilting his head to the side until his temple touched the windowpane. “I’d never really looked at your eyes this close before, either,” he admitted, some of the bravado leaving his voice. “They’re really… intense. Super dark.”

“Pretty,” Jigen added around the cigarette in his mouth.

“Pretty,” Goemon echoed, caught off guard by the compliment.

“Pretty scary,” he clarified hastily, and Goemon couldn’t hold back a soft laugh.

Silence settled on the group, introspective rather than discomfited. Goemon’s heart rate was beginning to return to normal. The atmosphere in the room had shifted into something thick and unnameable, and he was definitely responsible for the change, but it didn’t feel bad. Just new. Unfamiliar. And while Goemon was out of his depth, it was reassuring  to know the others were just as bad at navigating this as he was.

“So,” Lupin clapped his hands together emphatically. “That was a nice break. Let’s get back to business, shall we?” He swept a gesture at the paper nightmare on the floor.

The team murmured their assent, but not much else was accomplished that day. 

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Wildfire

Chapter 3: Oath-Breaker

Sorry for taking so much longer than I thought I would! But I hope it was worth the wait! Please let me know what you think- your comments are seriously what keeps me going. love you all sm ❤︎

word count: 4108

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

It was fresh, and completely unmistakable. Within the past few hours, Lorcan Salvaterre had passed by Mistward, heading for the sea.

Rowan immediately swooped low, following the scent to where it meandered over the forest floor, his heart pounding in his chest. The trail skirted around the edge of Mistward’s perimeter, following a path that was just out of their sightline, but close enough that in the morning, the scouts would find it immediately.

It almost felt like a message.

Rowan shifted in mid-air, landing hard on his heels and already drawing the wind towards him from all directions, searching for anything, any whisper of a dark form, flitting between the oaks, quick as a shadow –

But there was nothing. Only the memory.

Rowan began to run, following the trail westward. Even though Lorcan had passed through these trees barely a few hours ago, the wind couldn’t sense him. He was already gone, miles and miles ahead. Out of the reach of Rowan’s wind.

As the trail solidified before him, Rowan’s stride lengthened, his footing becoming more sure with each step. And he longed to be able to shift again, to use the wind to propel him over the land.

He could fly so much faster than he could run, but then he risked losing the scent – a chance he could not take. So instead Rowan dug his feet into the earth, tearing through the forest mists. A predator on the hunt.

Only one thought in his head.

Why in rutting hell was Lorcan Salvaterre trying to get his attention?

···

Fenrys wasn’t there when she found out.

He was out on a run, hunting through the forests around Doranelle. Chasing down after whispers of the forest-spirits. He knew they were here: the elemental beings, as ancient as the very stones and mountains and valleys. Older than history – than time itself.

Fenrys would hear them in the night – sounds of crashing rock and tearing metal, the felling of trees when no wind blew. Still fighting their ancient wars, either uncaring or ignorant of the affairs of lesser beings. But Fenrys had never seen them, nor did he know of anyone who had.

Every now and again, he would glance a fairy or two. One of the Little Folk, going about their little-great-deeds. But it was never when he was looking for them.

It was something he and Connall used to do as young ones – charge through the forest, hunting for fairies. For the heroes of the tales their mother would tell them, over glasses of sweet fruit juice on lazy summer afternoons. Stories of battles and warriors and the hidden magic of the land. To this day, Fenrys didn’t know whether the stories were true, or if she had made them up herself.

He knew it was only purposeless distraction, and one that he would likely pay for when he returned. But he just had no idea how much.

So no, Fenrys wasn’t in the palace when Maeve found out.

But Connall was.

···

The trail was nearly a straight shot through the woods, barely deviating for trees and boulders. Lorcan was really hauling ass. And as he drew closer and closer to the coastline, and the little market town that was waiting for him there, Rowan felt his suspicions begin to grow.

It was nearing evening when Rowan finally began to hear little signs of approaching civilization – the neighing of horses, the soft thumps of an axe chopping wood. But the trail pushed on, breaching the edges of the trees, following over the cobbles through the market, out towards the end of the main street, until it came to a stop. Right at the end of the long wooden dock.

Rowan stood at the brink, right where the path met the sea. And he could feel fury coiling in his gut.

Lorcan had left. And Rowan thought he might be able to guess where his former commander was headed. But before he decided anything, before he made a plan, he needed to be absolutely sure.

Rowan turned on his heels, headed back into the village. His cloak was pulled high over his head, hiding much of his face. He let his body fall into a slump, hiding its powerful shape. Evening was coming on, and if he kept his movements sloppy and wide, he could be just another traveler, coming to wet his throat with watered-down ale.

Outside the pub, a young maid was lighting the lamps, her hair neat and apron clean. When she looked up at him, Rowan caught the glint of sharp eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to go inside the tavern.

“Hello miss,” Rowan said, ever so slightly shifting his accent, letting the words fall from his mouth like marbles. “Might you be able to tell me where I could hire passage on a ship?”

Her face twisted shrewdly, and she gave him a quick once over as she straightened and said, “Depends on where you’re goin’. And how much coin you’ve got t’ spend.”

Rowan nodded, making sure to keep his clothes hidden with the cloak, knowing that an accidental glint of silver from one of his hidden blades might be enough for her to call for help from inside the tavern. And that last thing he wanted was trouble. “When was your last ship headed for Adarlan? And when will you be expecting the next one? It doesn’t have to be fast, or comfortable.”

Her expression tightened, but she answered reasonably enough. “We get a fair few ships headed to the western continent this time o’ year – the sheep’ve just been shorn and ships head that a-way bearing wool to trade for furs from the north, and steel from the south. I’m pretty sure we had a ship go through this morning.”

“And the next?” Rowan prompted, his expression schooled into neutrality.

“If you ask around the dockyards, I’m sure you might find another ship headin’ that way – once the tide comes in. And if not, then I’m sure there’ll be another come tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Rowan slipped the girl a coin. “By chance, you didn’t catch another traveler come through here today, heading the same direction – asking questions? Tall, dark hair, harsh look?”

The shrewd look fell into a scowl. “Maybe. Either way, my answer’ll cost more’n just a copper.”

Rowan slipped her another couple of coins, and she pocketed them. But her scowl didn’t soften.

“I might’ve seen your man. Came through around mid-morning, in a massive rush. Massive man, at that. Huge. Musta been six, nearly seven feet? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that tall. And he nearly knocked me over coming in the pub to ask after passage to Rifthold. Kept his face covered though, so I couldn’t be sure.”

Rowan nodded again, but before the maid could turn to leave, he asked, “Oh – and do you happen to know a place where I could send a letter?”

“If you give it to me, I can get it to my mother and she’ll give it to the courier when he comes ‘round in the mornin’. You gonna come in for a pint?”

The maid held open the door, and Rowan followed her in, thinking it much easier to just go along with the girl, and far too wrapped up in his thoughts to come up with a polite refusal that wouldn’t leave her even more suspicious than she already was.

The tavern wasn’t bustling, but it was far from empty either. A few farmers sat at a table in the far corner, enjoying a few beers after a long day’s work, while a few younger boys, perhaps their sons, were laughing and joking across the room. There were a few other individuals – travelers like himself, or people who lived and worked in the village. But the majority of the bar was filled with sailors – teasing and joking and climbing all over each other, celebrating their last night on dry ground for many weeks to come.

Rowan headed for a quiet corner, flagging down the waitress and settling onto a creaky wooden bench. He ordered some bread and ale, which she had brought over in mere seconds, and he began to pick at it mindlessly.

There could be no doubt. Lorcan was heading for Adarlan, for Rifthold. For Aelin.

Maeve had sent him to go after Aelin. And she had ordered him to pass by Mistward, Mistward specifically, so that Rowan would be drawn into the conflict. Maybe they were planning on using him to get to Aelin, to follow him in order to find her.

The question was, why only Lorcan? Where were the twins? Gavriel? Vaughan? Would they follow Lorcan? Were they already headed for Adarlan?

Rationally, Rowan knew that Aelin was safe. That she was still somewhere in the middle of the ocean, on her way to Rifthold. But it took all of his self-control to keep himself from shifting right there, in the middle of this tavern filled with mortals, and fly out into the ocean skies to find her.

What really worried him was the idea that he would get there too late. That even if he got on a ship right at that moment, he would get to Rifthold after she had already been found, taken, overwhelmed. The idea that there were already forces there, waiting to seize her.

And no matter what, Lorcan would arrive in Rifthold hours or days before Rowan would be able to, and well before Aelin could read any letter he sent. Not that he even knew where he could send a letter. All he knew was that she used to own a hidden apartment in the slums, and that for the past six months, she had lived in a stone tower in the castle.

It seemed unlikely that she would return to either. Both were compromised, the castle being an obviously insane choice. Unless of course she had something hidden up her sleeve that she had kept from Rowan. Which felt distinctly possible. And Arobynn had to know about the apartment. She had nowhere safe to go, and Rowan had nowhere safe he could send a warning.

So the only way he would be able to tell her about Lorcan would be to go there himself. To break his oath.

Rowan knew that he could, and without much difficulty at that. But it still felt wrong – a violation of trust. If he left Wendlyn without being told to by Aelin, he would be going against her wishes. He would be taking advantage, both of the flexibility of their bond and of her trust in him.

And it definitely didn’t make things any easier that he so desperately wanted to leave in the first place. It felt like he was exploiting the opportunity to be close to her again, no matter how rationally necessary it might be. And there was a chance that she might not forgive him for it.

But no matter how much that might sting, he couldn’t live through following her requests to the letter, and Aelin dying because of it.

So, Lorcan was headed for Rifthold. And soon, Rowan would be heading there as well.

Rowan tore into the bread, newly reinvigorated. He didn’t see any reason to return to Mistward, there wasn’t anything there worth sacrificing another day for. But he did feel bad about leaving without any notice. Deserting Emrys and Malakai, and…Luca.

So as he ate, Rowan dug out a piece of paper from his pack and began to write.

Emrys,

I’m sorry. Something came up. Tell Luca to remember to practice swings off his left side just as much as his right, I don’t care if they hurt more.

When I see her, I’ll tell her you say hello.

Then he folded up the paper and sealed it, leaving it unmarked. Hopefully, even if someone – such as that suspicious maid – opened the letter to see what it said, what he wrote would be meaningless.

He spent the rest of the evening listening to the sailors’ conversation, until he heard mention of a crew headed for Rifthold. The barmaid hadn’t lied – it was a ship bearing crates of wool heading to Adarlan to trade for steel. This was their last night ashore, and they were setting sail sometime in the early morning, just before the tide shifted.

So Rowan waited a few minutes more, then left the waitress his fee, gave the maid his letter, and walked out into the lamplit village, his jaw squared and his shoulders set. Determined.

···

Fenrys returned to broken furniture. Splintered wood and broken glass. Twisted metal and shattered stone. That was the first thing he noticed.

The second thing he noticed was the silence. It stretched its fingers through the walls and corridors and archways, until it brushed through to his skin. Until it was the only touch he could feel.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Where there should be sound.

The third thing he noticed was the bodies. Their touch was even colder than the quiet. There was no red, no black. None of the usual gory signs of death. Just nothing. An absence.

Fenrys worked his way through the wreckage, his hands empty of feeling, his heart a stone in his chest. His intestines resting somewhere near his toes.

Until he reached their rooms, and found Connall in a dark huddle across the sea of space, and he was still breathing and it felt like Fenrys could breathe again too, but then Connall spoke and sound returned to the world, “Why did he leave? Why did he leave us?” and his voice was so full of fear that Fenrys felt tears sprout from his eyes like wings.

“Who?” Fenrys asked. “Who, Con? What happened?”

But then the palace stones began to thunder, and the questions that had seemed so important only a moment ago fell from his mind on a scattered breeze.

···

Rowan flitted into a dark alleyway around the back of the tavern, and once he was sure there was no one there to see, he shifted into his hawk and flew out over the small village.

From his eavesdropping earlier, he had learned that the ship headed for Rifthold was an old galleon vessel near the edge of the docks, bearing white and yellow flags. It had a large enough cargo bay that hopefully Rowan would be able to find a place to stow away, but wasn’t so large that the journey would take even longer than it should. Which was already far, far too long for his liking.

Rowan circled high above the ship a few times, making sure that he appeared as nothing more than just another sea bird, hunting for its dinner. Although most of the crew, including the captain and first mate, appeared to be drinking away their pay on the floor of the tavern in the village, the ship wasn’t completely empty.

His winds told him that at least three men were asleep below decks, their rumbling snores echoing through the wooden beams. But a few lamps still shone, and with their light Rowan could see a few flickering shadows just beneath the upper deck that made him think not all of the sailors were yet asleep.

So Rowan would have to be extremely careful in making his approach.

He waited for long minutes for those lights to vanish, and shadows to disappear. And the second they did Rowan was sailing down among the rigging, twisting and turning around the sails and masts until he could be absolutely sure that there weren’t any watchful eyes to mark his presence.

Then Rowan was swooping down into the maze of rooms below decks, making sure to avoid the various sleeping quarters, kitchens, and officers’ cabins. Heading towards the hold at the very bottom of the ship in as straight of a path as he could.

Rowan found a dark corner behind a case of flour and barrel of barley, and then shifted back into his Fae form. Once they passed the halfway mark between Adarlan and Wendlyn, magic would stop working, and he wouldn’t be able to move between forms. He had to find a place he could hide in during the day that was large enough for his Fae body. A task far easier said than done.

A ship like this had a crew in the dozens, and quarters were cramped all to hell. Every piece of available space was used, from every corner to closet and even the toilets. Only the captain would have room to stretch his legs, and even then, it was barely by a few feet. Nothing like the space he would need in order to not attract attention.

Rowan looked over the hold once again, scanning for anything that could possibly be large enough. Then he nearly huffed a laugh when he realized exactly what he needed to do.

···

When morning came, Rowan was crammed into a wooden case lined with wool. The back panel carefully pried out and its nails removed, but then leaned carefully back into place to allow him a quick exit. And the majority of the wool was now taking a trip down the coastline.

He had spent an hour or so that night carefully removing armfuls of the fiber and tossing it overboard, using his wind to propel it from the shipyard and out to sea, leaving only just enough room for himself. It was crammed, scratchy, uncomfortable, and smelled like sheep dung, but it would do.

Now, as the ship slowly meandered its way through the reef and out into open ocean, with the occasional shouts and curses of the sailors toiling above, Rowan had nothing to do but think.

For the next month.

It might just be the longest month of his life. At least he couldn’t complain about not having enough time to plan.

Aelin certainly would have a strategy, and by the time he reached her, she would have been working away at it for nearly two weeks. And while he could only guess at her aims, he knew that when he reached her, he would do whatever he could to help her reach those goals.

The question was, should he reach her at all?

Rowan knew he needed to warn her about Lorcan, but once he was actually in Rifthold, that could be done in many ways – not just by contacting her in person. And deep in his bones, Rowan knew that Lorcan had dragged him here on purpose. That the male had wanted him to follow, to pursue. There were faster ways to travel from Doranelle to the sea than to go by Mistward.

So wouldn’t it be playing right into Lorcan’s hands to join up with Aelin? Giving him exactly what he wanted?

Lorcan wasn’t familiar enough with Aelin’s scent, nor with the city of Rifthold, to track her down by himself. He would be digging in the dark – except for the trail that Rowan would give him, as easily as handing over their lives like so much coin.

Perhaps Rowan could go to Rifthold, warn Aelin anonymously, and track down Lorcan by himself. And the faster he rid himself of his former commander, the sooner Rowan would be able to reunite with his Queen.

The pain of that future made him physically flinch.

And it wasn’t only the idea of being in the same city, or even just on the same continent, as Aelin and not being beside her. It was the thought of Lorcan, Lorcan, his commander of nearly three centuries, someone he had almost once thought of as a brother, or even a friend, Lorcan, as someone he needed to dispose of.

Someone who was his enemy.

It was a heavy, uncomfortable weight. It felt strange, and wrong, to have someone he had so trusted become such a dangerous enemy. No matter how necessary he knew it might be, Rowan couldn’t really think of killing him.

It would be like destroying a part of himself, an old part, but a necessary one.

Without Lorcan, he wouldn’t have become the person he was today, wouldn’t know the things he knew, or understand what he now did. About war and sacrifice and leadership and teaching.

Lorcan had been a pillar in his life when he needed one. And while Rowan hadn’t loved him, he had respected him.

And now they were enemies.

Rowan scowled, the crate somehow becoming even more uncomfortable.

What he did know was how Lorcan worked, how he operated. If Rowan did decided to reunite with Aelin, then he would have to keep his distance. Because Lorcan was expert at finding pressure points, and using them to his advantage.

Lorcan already knew that Aelin had turned Rowan away from Maeve, knew that Rowan had chosen her over his oath, over his life.

Idiot. He was such an idiot when it came to her.

If Lorcan found out that there was anything more, that there were other, deeper feelings –

No, Rowan could keep his distance. He could keep those thoughts under control because he had to. Not only because they did no good, but because they might get Aelin killed. Or worse, captured and taken back to Maeve.

But Rowan knew that he wouldn’t be able to deal with Lorcan without her – that he wouldn’t be able to return to Rifthold without reuniting with her. No matter how much easier it might be to keep her safe if he stayed away.

The only thing that was keeping him sane was the thought that at the end of this journey through hell, stuffed in this tiny rutting box that smelled like dung, unable to lay down properly for weeks, was an image of Aelin’s face. Even if she wasn’t happy to see him, even if she didn’t forgive him breaking his oath.

For the first time in weeks, he was heading towards her, instead of away.

So Rowan curled up and turned on his side, and tried to get some sleep, as the shouts of the sailors above him faded into the rising dawn.

···

Across Wendlyn, Emrys was stirring a large pot of rabbit stew, listening to the potatoes crackling as they fried on the stove. It was a lot of work, feeding this many people each and every day. But Emrys loved it, caring for this large family of his. Making sure they were all fed. Taking in strays.

Aelin Galathynius had been such a stray, and he couldn’t say that he didn’t miss her. But he knew that she was where she was meant to be, doing what she was meant to do. No matter what that prince said, or how much he tried to hide, Emrys knew that Aelin had survived her encounter with Maeve, that they both had escaped. Together. And now she’d moved on to other – perhaps even greater – foes.

Even when she was all the way across the ocean Emrys was worried about her.

The old male just sighed, then shuffled over to the counter to begin chopping scallions to add to the stew.

But before he could start, he was interrupted by the afternoon courier, bearing a letter for him – of all people.

Emrys wiped his hands off on his apron, and took the letter from the boy’s fingers. It was unmarked, but the paper was old and worn. As if it had lived in someone’s saddlebags for some time.

Emrys ripped it open, then read through it. Unable to keep a smile off his face.

That scoundrel.

He began to untie his apron, then headed out of the kitchen to go find Luca. Emrys couldn’t really find it in himself to be disappointed in the prince, even if he had abandoned them. Had left Luca with his grief and his guilt.

The boy had finally told him and Malakai about what had happened, and they had talked and cried together into the wee hours of the morning. Even so, Emrys had really hoped that Rowan might be there to help Luca through that grief. He knew that Luca had too.

But it was not to be. Perhaps they might see each other again, in years to come. Perhaps Rowan might even be their king one day.

Emrys almost wanted to laugh. He could already see the scowl that would twist Malakai’s face when he told him the news. Rowan, gone off to chase the future. Leaving them to tend to this little piece of the present.

When Emrys told Luca what was in the letter, the boy smiled too.

···

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[laurenmm62017]

Lights on Yavin 4

This is for the Kalluzeb Reverse Bang! @kalluzebminibang

Art is by the talented @drunkenmantis! Go check out their piece~

Summary: Kallus and Garazeb finally spend some quality time together on Yavin 4 after the Battle of Atollon. Zeb gets called away for multiple missions in a row, and what does Kallus do about it?

Pine like a love-sick teenager, of course.

Kallus knew it wouldn’t be easy, openly joining the Rebellion. He had given more than a decade of his life to the Empire, and just because he was a spy for the Rebellion for a year doesn’t mean people have forgotten his origins.

The higher-ups of the Rebellion had interviewed him for any information they thought was valuable to the cause. Clearance codes, secret bases, anything he could remember. Oh, and did he mention the lie detector that they strapped to his chest? Because that was very efficient and smart of them, honestly. He was impressed, especially by their intelligence director, General Davits Draven. He was the one who strapped the machine to him, the one asking the most questions about his intel, the one pressing him more and more and more until he was ready to pull his hair out.

General Draven was… not cruel, really. Just extremely wary of him.

Which is wonderful for the Rebellion, but couldn’t they at least give him some bacta gel for his leg? They kept him in “debriefing” for a few more hours after that, and by the time he was released, he was utterly exhausted. All he wanted to do was get some bacta on his leg, some food in his stomach, and then pass out for an entire year.

As he walked out of the meeting room, ready to find the medical tent, or room, or whatever, he spotted the most unexpected person waiting for him.

Zeb stood against a stack of crates, obviously pretending to inspect his bo-rifle. As soon as the door opened, he looked up and his eyes immediately landed on him. His heart skipped a beat as Zeb walked over to him.

“Finally freeing you, eh? What do you say we head to medbay and then we can head back to the Ghost?”

“You must have read my mind, because that’s exactly what I was thinking. Lead the way?”

Zeb grabbed his hand gently (no, he is most definitely not blushing, thank you very much), and led him through the winding passages of the enormous temple that the Rebels had made their base. There were so many twists and turns, it was hard to keep track. Strategically sound, in his opinion. If anyone infiltrated the base, they would be hard pressed to find the most vulnerable people on base.

The medic who attended him was kind, but exhausted, since they were still looking over other victims of Atollon. He just asked for some bacta, but the medic brushed him off and began a full medical examination of him.

Zeb stood out of the way, but he was always in the corner of his eye as the medic poked and prodded and slathered in bacta and his leg set in a cast. Then he was told not to put too much pressure on it, come back in a few days to get it removed, and was sent off with Zeb to the Ghost.

He spent his recovery aboard the Ghost, while everyone recovered from the Battle of Atollon. Most of that time was spent in Zeb’s room, the galley, or the cockpit with Hera.

Kallus got to know the remaining members of the Spectres as well as he could in the week that he spent recovering, and in return, allowed the walls around his heart crack just a little bit.

He learned that Hera liked her caf with a splash of milk and a pound of sugar. She found and repaired Chopper herself during the Clone Wars. She liked to hum to herself while doing repairs on the Ghost. She’s not quite forgiven him for his time in the Empire, but he didn’t expect her to.

He learned that Rex, one of the few clones left in the fight against the Empire, was great at teaching. He had spent his time on Atollon running drills and such with new and old members. He was friends with, or at least knew of, everyone who came from Atollon. He spent his spare time talking with those two clones from Seelos on a secure channel.

And Zeb.

During his time as both an ISB agent and Fulcrum in the Empire, he had basically memorized Zeb’s file and could recite it backwards. But here on the Ghost, with Zeb taking care of him, he found he had known nothing about the Lasat.

Sabine may be the artist of the group, but Zeb could make a fair number of trinkets and other items. He had made custom chronometers for everyone. He made most of the silverware and utensils onboard. He had programmed their dejarik table.

Zeb was attentive to him, especially during the first few days of his recovery. He assisted with changing his bandages around his ribs and made sure he never had to walk too far.

Zeb didn’t linger on unimportant things. Sure, the obvious thing was Lasan, but like he had said on Bahryn, it was behind him, and he’s moved on. The next thing was Atollon. Zeb was just glad that Kallus was here now, and that the majority of Atollon’s personnel were now of Yavin 4.

Zeb worried a lot. Not about little things, about things that mattered. Do they have enough supplies, rations, ammo, and the other essentials? What was the Empire’s next move? Were Kanan, Ezra, and Sabine alright? They should have checked in by now.

Zeb was funny. They spent their final rest day in the common room, Kallus plunged himself into any intel that the Rebellion could throw at him before he was assigned an official position. He sat at the dejarik table while Zeb and Rex were neck deep in a game, throwing snippy remarks at each other. Kallus occasionally tuned in and chuckled along with them, causing the two to stare at him the first couple it happened. He stared intensely at his datapad, and tried his best to ignore the reaction of his laugh. But every time it happened after, Zeb grinned fiercely at him.

On Kallus’ last night aboard the Ghost, he and Zeb were in the common room, eating one last meal together before he was assigned to a section within Rebel Intelligence. Everyone else was off doing other things to prepare for their first mission off of Yavin 4, but Hera had given Zeb the night off, but they knew it was so that they could spend time together. Who knows when is the next time their schedules will sync up and they can sit like this again.

“Hey, up for a little hike?” Zeb asked, standing up after finishing up his portion.

Kallus blinked, before shoving the rest of his ration into his mouth and standing up from the table. “Of course, I am. Where to?”

Zeb grinned and motioned for him to follow him off the Ghost. The two of them disembark and Zeb walks straight into the jungle. Kallus hesitates at the edge. “Zeb?”

“What? Scared of the dark?”

Kallus smirked, thinking back to the ice cave. “Of course not. But we don’t know what lives in this jungle. It could be dangerous.”

“Kallus. Do you trust me?” Zeb comes back to the edge of the forest, and holds a hand out to him.

Kallus stares at the extended hand, takes a deep breath, and takes hold. “More than anyone else.”

Zeb leads Kallus into the darkness for a few minutes before they come to the base of a smaller, more hidden temple, similar to the one the Rebel base is now in. The pair follow the base a little bit before Zeb boosts himself up onto a ledge not far from the ground, helping Kallus climb up and together, they scale the side of the temple until they are above the treeline.

“Yer leg alright?” Zeb asked, steadying him on the last step, where it led to a platform covered in leaves and moss. It seemed like it’s been a while since anyone has been up here.

“Yes, it’s fine, I just need to sit for a bit.” Kallus replied, rubbing it a little, following Zeb over to a small rock, and settled there, before turning out to face the night sky.

“Oh wow…” He breathed in awe.

It was a completely clear night. Millions of stars sparkled behind the single ring of Yavin 4, framing a moon off in the distance perfectly. Down below, he could see the lights of the main temple, housing the largest Rebel cell currently active.

Emotion swelled in his chest. “How did you find this place?”

“Went to clear my head that first night we were here. The brass kept ya so long, I was getting antsy. So I just… wandered and found this place. Wanted ta show you before we left tomorrow.”

Kallus felt tears begin to build behind his eyes, but he refused to cry, to show weakness in front of his closest friend. “Thank you, Zeb. This is a gift I couldn’t have hoped for.”

“Any time, Kal. Any time.”

Read the rest on Ao3!

[bush-viper-cutie]

“The Grim Attacks” || YEAR 3 – Ch.35 (HP au)

                              Chapter List

<-- Last Chapter                          Next Chapter -->

Day posted: 12/15/2020

Word count: 3, 393

Relationship: EVENTUAL severus X oc (slow burn)

Rating: E for everyone

Warnings: none

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A/N: This is my first fan fic I’m writing mainly as a way to practice. This is a retelling of the hp books with an inserted character. Although most every character will be written about, this is mostly for the pro snape fandom. Please do not fear, although this is a severus x oc story, it is an incredibly slow burn as I do not intend for them to get together at all until after the final book events. Chapters will be posted twice a week.

This derivative work follows the events of the Harry Potter books by Jk Rowling and is intended as a fun way to practice my writing. Thank you for reading :D

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~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

Hagrid started pushing them away from the window and towards his back door. “Yeh gotta go! They mustn’ find yeh here – out the back, out the back.”

Heather threw the cloak over everyone as Hagrid pushed them out the door into his back garden. Buckbeak looked up at Hagrid from the center of the pumpkin patch and chirped.

“Good Beaky… I’ll be righ’ back… I promise,” Hagrid’s voice broke and he cleared his throat. “Now get goin’ yeh four.”

Harry pulled the cloak over his head. “We can’t leave. . .”

Ron stuck his head out too. “We can tell them what really happened. They can’t kill him – it’s not fair.”

Hagrid sniffed and pulled the cloak back over their heads. “Nothin’ no one can do now. Don’t worry, alrigh’? Beaky knows how much yeh four care about ‘im – I’ll tell ‘im again. Don’t yeh worry no more. Now go,” Hagrid said fiercely. “No point in you lot gettin’ in trouble fer this too.” He stepped back into his hut and shooed them away with his hand.

They turned and shuffled out around the left of his hut as Professor Dumbledore, Fudge, and the executioner, Macnair, knocked on Hagrid’s door on the opposite side. They waited until they heard the front door open and close with a snap before setting off back to the castle in a slow silent trance. Even Scabbers kept still in Ron’s pocket as they climbed over the sloping lawn.

They stopped at the highest hill and looked down at Hagrid’s small shack. Only a single large pumpkin was visible over the curve of the hut’s roof from their distance. Hermione was sniffling as the last of the sun reflected off something shiny in Hagrid’s back garden. The shiny object lifted higher, and dipped back down behind the roof in a fast swoop.

A thick thud echoed over the grounds.

“No,” Heather sobbed and hugged Harry tight.

He hugged her back and pressed his eyes into her shoulder. Macnair’s axe had undoubtedly cut clean and swiftly. Heather pulled back and placed a hand on Hermione, who was clinging onto Ron, sobbing hard.

There was a howl in the distance. Poor Fang must be so upset to lose a friend, and to see Hagrid in such a sad state as well… Heather wanted to burst into loud uncontrollable cries but held herself together, clinging onto Harry’s arm.

Ron wiped his tears and grumbled. “Scabbers – stop moving! Ow – Someone’ll hear you.” Ron pushed Hermione away and wrestled with his pocket.

“We’ve got to go,” said Hermione, wiping away a tear. “Dumbledore’ll be out any minute to walk Fudge and Macnair off the grounds.”

Ron shook his head. “Well he – won’t – stay – down – ”

Heather couldn’t keep her eyes off the hut as the sun finally dipped below the trees, and the deep purple set over the whole of Hogwarts. As Ron struggled with a clearly terrified Scabbers, Harry pulled on Heather’s sweater sleeve.

She looked over at him, and saw, in the reflection of his glasses, the wide yellow eyes of Crookshanks, slinking out from the shadows of a nearby bush, slowly approaching the high pitched squeals of Ron’s rat.

“Oh, Crookshanks!” Hermione gasped. “No, no, get out of here. Not now!”

Ron fought harder to keep Scabbers down in his pocket, but it was too late. Crookshanks jumped onto the cloak, knocking them all down.

“Ow! He bit me!” Ron screamed. “Scabbers – NO !”

The rat had wriggled free in all the commotion, and was now bounding away as fast as possible while Hermione held onto Crookshanks tightly. Before Harry or Heather could stop him, Ron had thrown the invisibility cloak off himself and bolted after Scabbers into the darkening night.

“Ron!” they all yelled after him.

Crookshanks vaulted after its prey. Harry threw the cloak off of them and the three of them ran after them, wands lit. They could hear the clacks of rocks hitting against other rocks as they tumbled on the path ahead and the distant shouts at Crookshanks.

“Stay away! Leave him alone! – Get – Scabbers this way!”

They ran onto a grassy part, following Ron’s shouts and heard a thud.

“Gotcha! Get away before I kick you!”

They slowed as their wand lights illuminated a grass-stained Ron clutching Scabbers to his chest and kicking madly at Crookshanks.

Heather panted. “Ron, get up – We need to get back to the cloak before – ”

Hermione screamed and pointed at a dark mass hurdling towards them with inch-long teeth bright and bared up to the gums. “The Grim!” she shouted.

They ran towards Ron but jumped back as the giant jet-black dog leapt between them and growled ferociously, saliva pooling under it.

Heather aimed her wand, “Alarte Ascendare!”

The hound jumped out of the way as the purple flames shot out of Heather’s wand and hit Crooshanks, sending him ten feet into the air. The massive hound sprang towards Heather, mouth aimed at her wand.

“Flipendo!” she panicked.

Sparks erupted and the dog was knocked back behind Ron and howled as Crookshanks landed claws down onto it.

Harry ran forwards and grabbed Ron’s arms, trying to pull him up before the dog could get its bearings back. The hound shook its head and clamped onto Ron’s leg, dragging him back quickly.

“Ron!” Heather and Hermione grabbed hold of Harry’s waist and pulled, but it was Ron who let go of Harry hand.

“AHH!” Ron let himself be dragged back, the pain in his leg too great to have held onto Harry for much longer.

They ran to keep up with Ron, but he was being pulled away too fast to keep up with, as if he weighed nothing more than a few lumps of feathers. Harry dove forward to catch Ron’s outstretched hands and missed by an inch.

“Harry!” Ron whimpered as he was dragged down towards the base of a large trunk, down between a gap in its enormous roots, into a hole.

Harry looked up as the Whomping Willow curled its thick branches ready to smash him into the ground.

Heather and Hermione grabbed hold of each of Harry’s legs and pulled him back seconds before the tree pounded the ground with all its strength.

Harry stood and fixed his glasses. “Ron!”

No answer.

Heather shined her wand brighter at the hole they hadn’t ever noticed before. No one ever dared go near the tree – they were probably the only to have ever gotten so close to the Whomping Willow, except for last year when they had crashed into it. No one would risk getting pummeled to death.

“Harry,” Heather breathed. “This is – the – Fred and George mentioned the Whomping Willow was planted over one of the secret passages.”

“What does that mean!” Hermione cried. “That Ron’s being dragged out of Hogwarts?! Where does it go! I told you three – I told you to hand the map over to – !”

“We don’t have time!” Harry hissed. He stepped forward, trying to spot an opening between the pounding branches.

Heather pulled him back before he could dash forward. “Harry! Are you mad?”

Hermione was anxiously dancing around. “Think! Think!”

Crookshanks, who had been sitting next to Hermione swishing its tail, trotted towards a big knot on the willow’s trunk and pressed it in. The tree immediately stopped moving and held its branches frozen in place.

Hermione gasped. “How did – ”

“They’re friends. They walk the grounds together.” Harry glared at Hermione, as if further accusing her of owning a monster of a cat.

Crookshanks slithered between the roots and slid down the gap. They covered the distance within seconds and crawled into the hole. First Harry, then Hermione, and Heather last, keeping her wand in hand, just in case.

Eventually the tunnel became large enough to stand in, and they did, holding their wands out and ready. They walked on fast but silently, listening intently to every sound of the cave.

It felt like the first time Harry and her had gone into the witch’s tunnel. The same eeriness of what lurked in the shadows made Heather’s throat tight as her heart pounded like crazy in her ears. The dog, Sirius Black, Ron… It could be anything waiting for them just beyond.

“W-what if this is how Sirius Black lures us to him?” Heather’s voice trembled. “What if that’s his dog and – and Ron’s the bait?”

Hermione sniffed.

“Then we get Ron back and – and you two take him to the castle.”

“And you’ll what, Harry? Fight him alone? Kill him yourself?” Hermione sobbed. “He’ll hurt you and then it won’t just be Ron who we need to worry about.”

Heather nodded, though no one could see her. “Harry, we’re not leaving you. So don’t make us stay any longer than we have to.”

They stayed silent the rest of the way. The tunnel felt longer than the one to Hogsmeade, and Heather wondered if they would pop up around there, and in which shop – if it was a shop at all – or . . . or the home of Voldemort, brought back by his most devoted servant. Heather shook her head, remembering what Professor Lupin had said.

Harry’s footsteps picked up, and they were now sprinting down the tunnel as it sloped up. They stopped below what was dim light seeping out from a wooden square. They caught their breath and together pushed the wooden board up. They pulled themselves out of the opening and rolled onto the dust-covered floorboards of a long-abandoned room.

The room was greyed from all the dust, and the furniture was all smashed to pieces – though none looked newly-broken. Cobwebs covered the ceiling and weaved between the cracked railings of stairs across the room.

“Could this be – ”

“The Shrieking Shack,” Heather cut Hermione off.

“Nowhere but out or up,” Harry pointed at the boarded up door and broken stairs.

“Up,” Hermione whispered.

They held their wands up and made their way to the stairs, wincing at every creak and groan of the steps. They heard thumps coming from one of the rooms, and a loud groan.

“Knox.”

“Knox,” Heather and Hermione followed Harry’s lead.

The hallway went dark, and a deep creaking echoed throughout. The two closed door in the hallway groaned while the one at the far end swung ajar and back closed as the wind seeping through the old wood of the house and swept through the rooms. They crept forward and stopped, listening to a loud purring coming from beyond the last door. They exchanged a last look and nodded together, ready with wands up and pointed.

Harry took a deep breath and kicked the door open. They all jumped in and saw Crookshanks lying on a large king-sized bed with moth-eaten hangings and beside him, on the ground, sat Ron gritting his teeth and clutching his bloody leg.

“Ron!” Heather screamed.

They dashed across to him and Harry pulled back his hand to assess the damage.

“We need to get you to Pomphrey – where’s the dog?”

Ron winced and opened his eyes. “H-he’s the dog – He’s an Animagus!”

There was a creak behind them and they turned, standing quickly, as Sirius Black stepped into the room and closed the door with a push of his finger on the doorknob.

His eyes looked sunken in and dark grey circles surrounded his eyes. His wax-pale skin was pulled tight around his face as he smiled, showing brown-stained teeth. His elbow-length black hair was matted and ridden with twigs and leaves and dirt, matching the filthy striped uniform he wore that draped off him much worse than Professor Lupin’s clothes ever did. He was a walking, breathing husk of the man they’d seen on the cover of the Daily Prophet.

“Expelliarmus!” Sirius Black croaked, pointing Ron’s wand at them with a jittery hand.

Heather’s wand shot out of her hand along with Harry’s and Hermione’s. Her heart dropped as she watched their wands land in Sirius Black’s. His skeletal fingers wrapped around them.

“Figured you’d come running in to save your friend, Harry.” Sirius Black’s voice was hoarse and scratchy, like a vintage battery-drained radio recently brought out of storage. “James… would have done the same for me… Brave of you to not run for a teacher. Everything will go much more smoothly like this.”

Heather felt a tear drip off her chin. He’d said the name so easily… Her fists clenched and she saw Harry stiffen with a boiling hate, so hot it radiated off him. Hermione put her hands on both their shoulders, ready to stop them from acting on Black’s taunt.

“I-if you want to kill Harry – ” Ron gripped a bed post and hauled himself up, gritting his teeth through the pain in his leg. “T-then you’ll have to go through us.”

“You shouldn’t be on that,” he whispered. Sirius Black’s eyes drifted down to the bloody mangled mess that was Ron’s ankle.

“Did you hear him? If you want to kill Harry – ”

Sirius Black barked a sharp laugh, interrupting Hermione and making them all take a step back.

“There will only be one murder here tonight.” Sirius Black focused his crazed eyes at Ron, and grinned.

“No there won’t.” Heather said firmly and held on to Harry’s arm as he stepped towards Black.

“No. He’s right,” spat Harry, struggling against Heather and Hermione. “There’ll only be one murder… AND IT’LL BE YOU!” Harry broke free and lunged at Black, knocking him over onto the ground.

Heather gasped and ran forward, clawing for their wands as Harry held Black’s arm down with one hand while his other attempted to smack the man’s face but was held back by the man’s thin boney hand. Heather ripped the wands from Black’s grip and looped her arm under Harry’s dragging him back with her as he kicked and screamed.

Hermione helped drag him back and they all grabbed their wands, pointing them directly at Black’s chest. Harry’s lips began to move when –

“Crookshanks! No!” Hermione hissed.

Crookshanks had jumped onto Sirius Black’s chest and curled up, claws stuck onto his black and white shirt.

“Wingardium Leviosa,” Hermione whispered, and her cat began to levitate.

Black plucked his shirt off the floating cat’s nails and crawled towards the wall and sat up. A deep purple bruise was beginning to form on his chin, where Harry had kicked him.

Harry stepped forward, wand pointed at the very center of his chest. “You murdered them. Our parents trusted you and you betrayed them, and murdered dozens of innocent muggles and Pettigrew…”

Heather saw a twinkle in Harry’s eyes. A spark of hatred so deep it sparkled on the tip of his wand. “Harry,” she whispered.

Black saw it too, and his grin widened. “Going to kill me, are you Harry? You don’t even have the right story.”

Harry stood over him with a steady hand. “You killed our parents.”

“I don’t deny that…” Black stared up at him from behind his sunken eyes, and then turned to Heather. “But if you heard the whole story – ”

“What whole story?”

“Don’t listen to him, Heather.” Harry turned back. “The murders were all over the news. You gave them up to Voldemort. That’s the whole story.”

There was a creak from the floor below.

“No – You’ve got to listen,” Black said, dropping his grin and sat up urgently. “You’ll regret it – You need to understand – ”

“I understand plenty!” Harry choked.

“Harry!” Heather screamed. Her breaths were coming out as huffs and her wand hand trembled as she pointed it at the crumpled man before Harry’s feet. He was going to do it. He was going to murder Sirius Black right in front of them, with his own wand. No – he wouldn’t – he couldn’t. That wasn’t Harry – Harry would never… Heather waited for Harry to step back, to turn away.

Harry’s grip on his wand strengthened, turning his knuckles white. Crookshanks, levitated high above their heads, cried out as Black closed his eyes. Harry breathed, held it… and let out a sob. He stepped back and droped his arm. Heather’s grip on her own wand strengthened and she stepped forward as Harry turned his back to Sirius Black and walked back to them with tears streaming down his face.

She stood over Black and watched him scan her face. If he made any move at her, at Harry, at an escape… she’d make him wish he hadn’t. Although she knew she couldn’t avenge their parents the way Harry wanted, she wasn’t going to let him run off again. He was going right back to Azkaban to rot away the rest of the years he had left. After tonight, the next time she saw him was going to be when he’d finally withered away into an old sad skeleton.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs, and before Harry could finish wiping his tears, the door to the room burst open in a flurry of red sparks. Professor Lupin charged through and took in the scene. Ron was sickly white gripping his bloody leg, Hermione had fallen to the floor in the commotion, Harry was in the corner drying tears, Crookshanks clawing at the air, and Heather threatening a crumpled and bruised Sirius Black.

Hermione sat up quickly. “Someone needs to alert the Dementors!”

“Expelliarmus!” Professor Lupin yelled, and caught the four wands in his hand.

Heather gasped and stepped away from Sirius Black, joining Harry and Hermione as Professor Lupin took her place over Black.

He raised his wand at him, and for a second they just looked at each other. “Sirius… Where is he?” he spoke in a pained, quivery whisper.

Sirius Black looked at Ron and pointed. Professor Lupin turned to look at Ron along with Heather and Harry. Ron looked bewildered.

Professor Lupin turned back to Black. “Why hadn’t he shown himself? Why – Unless… You switched with... You didn’t tell me,” he whispered, and dropped his arm.

“What are you doing?” Why was he dropping his guard? Heather looked at Black, who had started to get up.

The heat inside Heather’s body flared as she watched, open-mouthed, as Professor Lupin clasped Black by his arm and pulled him up to his feet, holding him as he wobbled. She watched Professor Lupin embraced him like a long lost brother leaving her empty and dizzy. All the heat drained from her body as the realization set in.

“YOU’RE WORKING WITH HIM?” Hermione screamed. She was pointing with a wild look of betrayal in her eyes.

Lupin turned to them and raised his hands. “Now, kids – listen – ”

“No! I’ve been keeping your secret – covering up for you! And you’ve been helping him.”

Lupin shook his head and stepped forward. “Hermione, let me explain – ”

“Don’t get any closer!” Harry yelled, shaking. His tears had dried now, and his fists were clenched down to his sides. “We trusted you! – I TRUSTED YOU! And all this time… you’ve been his friend.”

Lupin shook his head furiously. “Trust me Harry. I’ve been the farthest thing from a friend to Sirius – but I am now and if you’ll just let me explain – ”

Heather turned to Harry, unable to keep watching as he defended a murderer, blocking Sirius from them as if THEY were the dangerous ones. “Don’t trust him… He’s a werewolf.” She spat the word out like a thorn.

The room went quiet. It was plainly obvious neither Harry nor Ron had suspected a thing, not even after Snape’s essay. Ron moved farther back, with a terrified look on his face. Harry’s mouth hung open in shock. He had easily spent the most time with Lupin, at least once a week for several hours until he had produced a good enough Patronus, and the whole time he’d had no clue.

Heather glanced at Lupin. She should have told everyone the second she’d found out. That’s what Snape had wanted and tried to do with the essay. He’d wanted everyone to know, for their safety. If she or Hermione had told, then Lupin would have been taken away and Sirius Black wouldn’t have had all these chances to attack Harry.

Lupin met her eyes and she could see a pained fear in them and in the way he hesitated standing before them. He wanted to run.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

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[liberty1776]

Troubling Worldview of the 'Rapture-Ready' Christian by Bill Barnwell

Well, actually, it does matter. I will submit that the popular doctrines of the Left Behind series When the subject of the "end-times" comes up, many Christians and non-Christians don’t want to talk about it. Some Christians, annoyed with all the competing theories and terminology just say, "What difference does it make? Jesus is coming back and I just need to be ready." Non-Christians just assume that since Christianity isn’t true, then the whole issue doesn’t matter.pose very real threats not only to Christianity, but also to the wider culture.

Probably most conservative Protestants (though not all of us) believe that humanity is certainly in the final generation of life on earth as we currently know it. Not that we "could be," but that "we must be." That’s a big distinction. They believe this because of their views on a couple key Biblical texts. The first is the Olivet Discourse. This discourse by Jesus about the "end of the age" can be found in Mark 13, Matthew 24, and Luke 21. Dispensationalists – a group that believes God has two separate prophetic programs for Israel and the Church and generally believes that Christians will be removed from the earth before a final tribulation – see all of the events or signs spoken of by Jesus as referring to events that are happening now or going to happen very soon. Never mind that Jesus was first and foremost referring to events that would occur within his own disciples’ lifetime (Matthew 24:34). They believe that nothing past chapter 3 in the book of Revelation has occurred yet. It is all in the future, and all relates to the tribulation period, which true Christians will avoid.

But the New Testament says nothing about a seven-year tribulation. The book of Revelation refers to a 3.5–year period – five different times. They are most likely referring to the same time period. Dispensationalists believe by prophetic necessity a number of things. First, they assume that the world must get worse in just about all ways. Second, they assume that Daniel 9:27 calls for the rebuilding of a Third Jewish Temple at the site of the Dome of tAnother key text is Daniel 9:27. It is from this verse alone that we get the idea of a "seven-year tribulation" during the end times.he Rock. Therefore, prophetic necessity demands that the current Islamic al-Aqsa mosque must be torn down to build this new Jewish Temple. Halfway through the tribulation period, the antichrist will come and exalt himself in the new Jewish Temple, stop sacrifices in the Temple, break a peace treaty he had earlier made with Israel, and proclaim himself to be God. They get all this from cutting and pasting Daniel 9:27, Matthew 24:15, 2 Thessalonians 2:4 together and then associating those passages with everything that will be going on in Revelation 4–19.

There are all sorts of problems with these interpretations. First of all, the New Testament says nothing about a "pretribulational rapture." To see how bankrupt that position is,  The evidence for a "pre-trib" rapture is not just weak, it is non-existent. Regarread my offering on the subject here.ding the key verse of Daniel 9:27, see my refutation of the dispensationalist position here. Read those, especially if you are a dispensationalist who already presupposes that I’m wrong.

Once you begin thinking of the implications involved, you begin to see why this doctrine is so dangerous to everybody. Dispensationalists seem to have a preoccupation with war. In fact, right now, dispensationalist mega-church pastor John Hagee is preaching that a war with Iran is not only the right thing to do, but is prophetically inevitable. Apparently, Bible prophecy demands a showdown with Iran. You see, if you aren’t on the side of war, then you aren’t on the side of God. Talk of peace now becomes irrelevant. It’s God’s will that we be militarists. In fairness, not all dispensationalists are militarists. Our own Laurence Vance is an example. But they are in a definite minority. The prevailing worldview of dispensationalism glorifies war, militarism, and the State.

The dispensationalist view of Daniel 9:27 provides some troubling implications as well. They don’t care that tearing down the al-Aqsa mosque would result in a regional war and cause all sorts of global distress. This would not be a bad thing in their minds. They believe that it was all foreordained and is a sign that the end of the world would be soon upon us.

And who will be the one bringing peace to the Middle East in this popular end-time paradigm? Not Jesus, but the Antichrist. Therefore, talk of Middle East peace during this current "dispensation" is not from Jesus, but the Antichrist. WhenAlso, if you buy into these interpretations, talks of peace in the Middle East are futile. Jews and Muslims must continue killing each other at high rates. dispensationalists hear talk of peace summits or treaties in the Middle East, they assume it must have evil origins and be antichristic. If that’s the cause, why bother trying to make the world a better place? All we need to do is be good Christians and wait for our ticket out of this earth and make way for the Antichrist.

Dispensationalists are numerous and popular. Well-connected preachers like Hagee have political connections. Dispensational preachers and lobbyists have the ear of the White House and are directly trying to influence foreign policy based on their very questionable theological views, which, by the way, are less than 200 years old. This is more than just a quirky theology that doesn’t affect those who do not hold it. Dispensationalists want to bring about world events that would have catastrophic implications for other Christians and for non-Christians.

If they are correct, why should any of us bother trying to make the world a better place? Dispensationalists get very annoyed at this question. They say, "Final peace on earth will only come through Christ!" They basically insist Christians trying to do good in the world should only focus on "spiritual things." Trying to change social institutions for the better is futile and presumptuous. Apparently the only two options are handing the world over to Satan or believing that humans can do everything in their own strength. Not much room for nuance here.

Ironically, many dispensationalists are involved in the Religious Right movement and want to stem abortions, ban gay marriage and make America more Christian. But at the same time they believe in a theology that says the world can only get worse, that there’s nothing any of us can do about it, and that it’s about to get so bad Christians are going to be taken off of the earth. If the ship is irreversibly sinking, why try and patch up the leaks?

If you need more proof that many dispensationalists hold troubling worldviews, just take a visit over to the Rapture Ready message board. The main site is one of the bigger dispensationalist/pretribulational sites on the web. You can read for yourselves how they view the world, how they can’t wait to escape it, and their obsession with war.

One angry pre-tribber wrote me a few weeks back. He had this to say:

When the RAPTURE of the CHURCH takes place, and mark my words it will, maybe them you will see the light!  After you have been left behind you are going to look back on all the people that you deceived, who will probably be in your face at that time, and hopefully repent of the false gospel that you were teaching!  It's not to late to be saved during the 7 year tribulation period but it will be harder when you hear that Christians, who become Christians after the Rapture of the Church, are being beheaded for the witness of Jesus!  Hopefully you and those who partake of your beliefs will see the light before Christ comes for the Church!

Notice in his mind I’m not even a real Christian. The reason? Because I happen to have a different position than he does on the issue of the "rapture." I’ll also apparently be too much of a coward to "convert" during the "7 year tribulation" because other people who become Christians after the pre-tribulational rapture are being beheaded. Ever notice with people who so strongly believe this doctrine that they assume everyone who will be "left behind" is going to be absolutely clueless? Maybe I too will just assume aliens came and abducted the "true Christians." Apparently I’d be too scared to be beheaded, even though I’d find myself instantly in heaven along with all the real Christians who were taken up in the rapture.

Finally notice the great confidence of this guy. He is so convinced of his position that only an idiot or heretic would disagree. Well, I challenge people like this, and the crew over at Rapture Ready to actually put their interpretations up against the Scriptures and think about the logic and implications of their beliefs.

The logic and implications are clear. Society is going to hades in a handbasket. There’s little we can do to stem the tide of evil. The Middle East must further deteriorate. Anyone who disagrees with Israel’s foreign policy is opposing God. The third most important site to Muslims must be crushed to make way for a new Jewish Temple. Good Christians should support the building of a new temple with new animal sacrifices taking place inside of it (compare Hebrews 10 to the theology of Darby and Hal Lindsey). And in a strange sense, war is kinda good and peace is kinda bad – since war is a sign that the end

[countessofbiscuit]

The Captain & the Resident’s Daughter: Secret

. . . . . . . . 

Rexsoka Week - Wednesday - Secret

“Let me see your face.”

. . . . . . . . 

Part the First

Part the Second

Part the Third

Part the Fourth

(This is Part the Fifth)

Part the Sixth

Part the Seventh

In which the author is very late and attempts to atone with a kiss.

N.B. this story is two-thousand words in length and contains period-typical (1800) attitudes and language.

. . . . . . . . 

Dona Olga’s largely Portuguese blood beneath her lovely portly frame did not answer to the swell of the sea — nor did her mind, stomach, or complexion. Despite the surgeon’s professional opinion that she did not have one foot in the locker, she remained in a frightful way — and, he intimated in confidence to Miss Tanough, in the family way as well; it brought Ahsoka to wonder, if the woman should perish before they reached Rodrigues, whether she would be obliged to run the final stitch through her nose as Mr Bonterry had hinted, and whether her elementary needlework would answer to the solemnity such an occasion would require.

With such morose thoughts had Ahsoka been oft lying in her cot, eternally closeted round by mirth, with the gunroom below, the great cabin above, and the coaches of General Skywalker and Captain Rex abutting her quarters; for the Gloriana’s timbers and cabin-bulkheads were not so solidy oaken as to insulate her from the merrymaking of military gentlemen. To be sure, the officers (Skywalker lately included) had been all politeness, encouraging her to remain after the last remove; to delight them by playing upon Lieutenant Waxer’s Spanish guitar; or — when Colonel Kesting was of the party — to read their horoscopes. But Ahsoka had a dread of making herself unpopular by delaying their port and knew well when to excuse herself.

This state of affairs would not have been intolerable but for the impossibility of walking upon deck for the thick rains. A week had Ahsoka been staring out the stern windows, privately praying for any sign of Admiral Trénche that she might bear witness to a great thumping by Commodore Ferris (and perhaps even see action herself); she could not even fish from the stern chasers, so great was the swell that the gunports must remain closed; and there were only so many turns about the great cabin one could take before the exercise produced a dizzying sickness of its own.

One evening, unable to bear the confinement a moment longer, eager for the total ablution of body and mind offered by a monsoon storm, hardly carrying if she lived or died if she might go ten minutes without hearing Dona Olga groan, Ahsoka gathered herself in a twill pelisse and opened the cabin’s starboard door.

In the dim passage, she found another door also open: that of Captain Rex’s coach, having apparently spurned its latch and swung free in a loll. Warm lantern light spoke to its being occupied, though she had not heard the Captain’s boots beyond her door, nor his movement behind the bulkhead.

With even greater surprise did Ahsoka immediately discover Captain Rex himself within, completely bared to the waist as he engaged in his toilette, washing himself methodically with the luxury of fresh water — and, with his broad back to the door, full oblivious to his exposure.

What sensations coursed through her agitated frame to espy him thus!

To say Miss Tanough was fond of the Captain would be to understate the matter. From the first moment of their acquaintance, she had esteemed him greater than any of General Kenobey’s society. He had been all selfless kindness — had stood up with her without diffidence and then with evident pleasure; had comforted her by exposing his own fears and troubles; had shielded her from the worst of the General’s initial churlishness; had even brokered the agreement which saw Commodore Ferris share the history of his scar for her account of the tiger’s demise.

And there were other considerations which ensured her high opinion — namely, the sum of his attractive features, in which there was no deficiency; and how the whole was crowned by his kingly bearing, at once commanding yet eager to oblige.

Indeed, in that moment, Rex’s physical recommendations perhaps weighed disproportionately in her regard; for the sight of his warm flesh and well-formed back was not only pleasing to behold, but she had also a moment to admire his expansive tattoo; the dampened fabric of his thin shirt after the excitement with the shark had first betrayed its presence, if not its particulars, and Ahsoka had been wild to see it ever since.

It full engulfed his right shoulder, formed by generous, swirling spirals of alternating bare and darkly pigmented skin; it was extremely detailed without any discordant parts, but had the appearance of being somewhat stretched — of having once been more mathematically correct, though nothing about it could be called geometrical. The design would have been alien to Ahsoka but for illustrations in her father’s books, for he was an avid collector of narratives of sea exploration and histories of foreign peoples; she recognized it to be Pacific in origin, and it looked neither fresh, nor perfect, nor degraded by exposure — a matured stamp of origin preserved under Rex’s woolen Company coat, known perhaps only to a few; certainly, he was not in the habit of removing his shirt, even when he did not have Miss Tanough’s sensibilities to consider.

Since first confirming her suspicion that he was not wholly English, Rex had touched but sparingly on his personal history. But so open and established was their acquaintance, any long omission of his parentage from their conversation would have created more romantic conjecture than the plain truth could merit: his father had been carried as a boy from his native New Zealand on an English whaling vessel; of his mother, Rex knew even less — which is to say, he never knew her at all.

While Ahsoka reconsidered the Captain’s ambivalence at the prospect of reuniting with his father — who might yet be living or long since dead, for Rex had never a line from him in ten years — the impropriety of her present occupation forced itself upon her mind suddenly, as Rex’s cloth splashed into the washbasin and he reached for his towel.  

She could not tarry here — but neither did she wish to return to her melancholy cabin or socialize with any soul but him.

If Ahsoka walked on, the sentry would surely acknowledge her, or question her movements in a voice that might be overheard. Might Rex himself be drawn out, curious about her reasons for going about in a squall? These motivations would be difficult for Ahsoka to recall; for the need to be anywhere else had given way to a strong desire to remain only here, in this spot, where an encounter of the most absurd but interesting nature might occur. Might she cough? Would a ‘good evening’ be too impertinent? How conscious of self was he, truly, that he might resent her having seen him intimately?

Ahsoka might also have asked herself why the prospect of Rex’s bare chest set her heart beating so, when she had never before been missish about the male form — indeed, she had lately been surrounded by every conceivable example of it, she might have supposed her feelings to be neutral, tending even toward apathy.

For once in her life, Ahsoka was not quick-witted enough to prevent the evil which she anticipated; the tiger had not found her standing agog, but Captain Rex did when finally he turned from his washstand. He became fixed in astonishment.

To run would be cowardly; Ahsoka had simply to address him as if indifferent to the novelty of their situation. “Your door, sir — it appears the latch needs mending,” observed she, feeling foolish. But heroines did not linger in passageways under mortification when they might charge forth and obtain their prize. Ahsoka hurried into his coach — the dimensions of which seemed to decrease exponentially with the slight addition of herself — and closed the door with as much studious deliberation as if she were the carpenter’s mate.

To her relief, the mechanism did not answer; the latch had failed, not her stratagem; she said a few insipid words more on the subject, but quite lost her theme when Rex stepped forward, his brow contracted.

“You were not going above?” asked he, more concerned by her attire than the door which her body now secured.

“I could not sleep and was desperate for air.”

Rex had to advise against it — the weather was very bad, she would be soaked through, would the cabin’s windows not answer? — but Ahsoka did not attend. She was overpowered by the essence of him, which, magnified by his nearness, his recent washing, and this confined space with few draughts, crowded her senses most deliciously; and in her effort to keep her eyes at decent latitudes, Ahsoka found herself staring at a string of shark’s teeth he wore around his neck.

He twigged her distraction with a hand on his collar. “Ah — I have spoiled my surprise, Miss Tanough. I well remember your passion for fanged jewelery.” Still heedless of his half-nakedness, Rex produced a small pouch from his dressing chest, drew forth a necklace similar to his own, and, taking her hand, draped it across her palm. “This had been meant for when you crossed the line. I bespoke more than my fair share from your shark, I confess, but jack tars will barter their mother for hasheesh, so I had no need of any dubashi tricks; and when I learned the sailmaker’s mate was an artist and a reputable cove, I engaged his services directly.”

Each tooth had been cleaned and polished into pearly beauty; and on the reverse of each Ahsoka found an finely etched letter, which together formed the words, ‘Gloriana’s Empress’.

“He was careful to pierce the crudest part of the tooth, so the holes might not offend if you have them mounted in London. My own attempt at engraving would have ruined them,” — here Rex’s mode of address became less certain — his speech, already quiet, became almost hushed — “and although not my hand, I hope you understand my … — I hope the sentiment is still felt.”

Ahsoka felt too much to speak; for a moment she could only admire the smooth bones between her fingers, before smiling broadly and saying, “Indeed, I feel it so keenly, I cannot conceive parting from it for a moment, least of all to have it spoilt by ormolu or gold — no, I shall wear it exactly as it is, strung with true sail thread from my floating empire. But pray, if I am empress, where does that leave Commodore Ferris?”

“Codry remains God.”

“Omniscient?”

“Let us pray not,” replied he, throwing out an arm against the door to steady himself against the mounting swell.

Situated so beneath a cavalryman whose entire being seemed to marry the brilliance of gold and the warmth of honey, it is little wonder Ahsoka began to lose much presence of mind; but still could she count, and she observed the teeth of his own necklace, equally buffed and perfected, numbered six. Her imagination, though active, was not wild or predisposed to invent self-flattery, yet Ahsoka felt emboldened to finger his own strand and ask innocently, “And what is spelt on yours?”

The dim light would not betray any flush of cheek or twinkling of eye, but the manner in which Rex dropped his head spoke to a desire to conceal — the answer could not be nothing. “That is a secret.”

“If you tell me and chase it with a kiss, it is sure to remain so.”

An embrace between two young people, unrelated and unmarried, can never be really chaste, and this couple did not even attempt to colour it so. The author will be discreet where they were not, and say only that the chief effect of their misconduct tended somewhat to the good; for if Miss Ahsoka Tanough could ever to be prevailed upon to consider marriage — outside odds still, to be sure — Captain Rex was fast becoming the only man in the world with a chance of success.

[sonicringbond]

Sonic Ring Bond: The Journey - Scene 40

XD

It’s been a while since I wrote one of these and I feel like I forget everything I said last time. Oh well. Rosy and friends are actually in Radio Point for this scene, and it’s a bit of a long one. They may be here for a reason, but I still had to throw in some Rosy sightseeing to keep the traveling theme going. I hope everyone has as much fun in Radio Point as Rosy in...

    “Oh my, I hadn’t expected you to get into Radio Point, before I arrived.”

    It was hard to tell with Blister’s deliberate and sleepy sounding way of speaking that she was actually surprised, but she did seem energetic enough for it to be believable. Rosy however, with her waging tail and nigh inability to stand still was far easier to read. “Well, we just had to!”

    “Though they got mad at us for running up the cables,” Draw made sure to dampen Rosy’s enthusiasm with a reminder of the trouble she caused. She puffed her cheeks up at him, but it was Sonic who spoke next in the airship port at the top of one of Radio Point’s many towers.

    “I’m not too fond of waiting, and as she says,” Sonic explained as he pointed a thumb back at Rosy, “we had a reason to come up here quickly.”

    “I bet you were disappointed when you found out the trains are entirely for the maintenance crews then,” Blister the Mouse allowed herself a chuckle at the group’s expense.

    “It’s a good thing you have an airship,” Sonic agreed, though Rosy got mad at him.

    “Hey, we may have had to wait, but even you can’t argue there was plenty to do while we did!”

    ~Radio Point was a really unique town. Asides from the trains, which Blister already pointed out weren’t for tourists or civilians, there was movement all through the air as airships came from far and wide to reach the city. Of course, the locals used them too so they could get around between towers.

    ~Outside of the internal steam works, which I bet Tails was able to visit, there were spectacular views no matter where you went in Radio Point. From the airship docks to as close to the treads as the villages went down towards, there was either a view of the crystals jutting up out of the lava belching grasslands or a view of the pit itself where an even more enormous number of crystals erupted out of the earth. It looked kind of like the pit was full of rows and rows of scary giant teeth. Hee-hee! It’s a good thing it’s not a big mouth.

    ~The ground wasn’t the only pretty thing to look at either. Thanks to all the airship traffic, the skies above the pit were an array of shimmering confetti. At least from the lower levels. Up here in the airship dock it was clear to see all the ships that carried advertising banners as well as those that offered in flight services, like dining and cleaning. There were even hotel airships that were designed to stay in the air for weeks. It was the most airship friendly city I had seen since wandering around in the lands under Yolk.

    ~As advanced as the city was though, there were still plants growing nearly everywhere. Most of the moving equipment that I saw was relatively clean, but the steam pipes and buildings all throughout town were still covered in a wide array of plants. It’s just so weird to me how even on these big moving towers of metal, plants found a way to grow. I wonder if there is a reason for it.

    ~That’s a mystery I’ll have to wait another day for. Today, the opportunity to find my best friend has appeared before us and I can’t wait to meet the man who Tails helped out. Hopefully, he’ll be friendlier than the last member of the Engineers I talked with.

    ~Oh, I hadn’t mentioned that, had I? Oops!

    ~Well, from Blister’s airship, which was like a cut in half avocado in shape with the main balloon comprising the body of most of the vessel, it was easy to see the Engineers’ banner flying. The white and blue flag with the gear and wrench on it was almost everywhere. The pirate flag that Blister flew almost matched it, except hers was a blue flag with her gear, two wrenches, and a human skull set on a white stripe that ran from top to bottom. It really makes me feel uncomfortable flying on a pirate vessel and I’d really like her to give it up. But… well, she’s helping today even though she was supposed to be looking for her friend who is supposedly a Ring expert. And the Engineers are still mad at me, I think, so having her introduce me to Tails’ friend is probably for the best.~

    The Dish that hung above the pit, supported by the giant radio towers and spikes that anchored it, had a similar tower of its own in the center of it. But it was the underside of the dish where the next dock awaited Rosy and her friends. Here, the facilities that monitored almost every radio signal under Yoluku were situated. The utilitarian design stripped the facilities of any comforts, but it was natural considering the location of them above the pit.

    “I wonder how they account for Ring Shifts,” Rosy mused while poking her cheek as they were led into the facility’s inner workings. As she had a clear view of the pit below the metal grating that made up the catwalk floor they walked along, it was little wonder that she would be curious to how they managed not to fall in.

-|-

    “Sure enough,” a rough looking sapient grizzly bear remarked as Rosy and the others were led into his cage like office. Even his desk was little more than a plank of wood laid across pipes and conduit. “You really are from the picture. But what about the other two?”

    “Draw and Blister here are friends,” Sonic introduced the koala and mouse, respectively. “One’s a troublemaker and the other’s a pirate. I’ll let you guess which is more trouble.”

    “Sonic!” Rosy chastised her blue companion and he smiled at her playfully.

    “And that would make you Rosy then,” the grizzly concluded at Sonic’s unplanned introduction. Standing up, he revealed he inherited the tremendous size of his non-sapient cousins and offered his own name. “I’m Over, chief communications technician here at Radio Point. It may not look like it from here, but I’m pretty respected among the Engineers. Pretty high ranking too. I carry enough weight in actuality that even those troublesome Preservers acknowledge me.”

    Rosy stared intently at the grizzly bear’s round form and quietly agreed with him that he carried a lot of weight. His massive arms assured her though that it was likely all muscle. As much as her attention was on his girth however, his was on her.

    “A pink hedgehog…”

    “Eep!” Rosy squeaked and earned a curious look from Sonic. It was Blister though who provided the next words of their budding conversation.

    “I’ve heard she was supposed to be doing a seven-day Ring gathering job for the Engineers when she up and disappeared. I wonder if you can really help her…”

    “Blister, please!” Rosy pleaded with the pirate and their playful smile.

    Draw held no fear or wisdom that he perhaps should and addressed Over bluntly. “It was a boring job anyway, and we ended up saving a bunch of fairies from some autogolems after we left.”

    “You what?” Over questioned in surprise looking at Draw. “If the autogolems weren’t powered by Rings… Those would have been Preserver autogolems. And near a lookout and Ring gathering sight no less. Do you have any proof of what you’re saying?”

    “Just this little weirdo.”

    Opening his fur coat, Draw allowed the yellow fairy he had a Ring Bond with, Mote, to peak out from within. The look of disbelief on Over’s face worried Rosy a fair bit.

    ~And then he laughed. I hadn’t been expecting that. It didn’t clear up the suspicions that the Engineers have of me, but it was enough to convince Over that we could see the Ring Radio that they used. And it was amazing. Amazingly big that is.

    ~Unlike the ones in the wrist devices that Sonic and I wear, this one was a massive room full of machinery, and a ceiling of shifting, glowing geometric lined blocks like in a Ring Gate Beacon. It’s obviously much more primitive technology than what I’m used to using, but due to the nature of our world that doesn’t tell me a thing about how old it is. But…~

    “Wow! Tails really made this work!”

    “That he did,” Over stated, proudly putting his hands on his hips. “He also taught me how to maintain it while he was here. Since then, I’ve been growing more and more familiar with it. It’s kind of become like an old friend.”

    “So, it’s been sometime since Tails was here?” Sonic asked as he folded his arms, recognizing the telltale speech that marked a passage of time beyond what could be properly observed under Yoluku.

    “It has been,” Over nodded seeing Sonic’s impatience. “Long enough that I probably would have forgotten him if not for the picture and notebook we filled out together while working on this wonder. He’s as much a part of my life as anything now. Unlikely I’ll forget him as long as I live.”

    “That’s wonderful!” Rosy chirped up, adding some good cheer to counter Sonic’s souring mood. “It’s great to hear Tails made a friend! He’s normally so bad with people!”

    “Yeah, but him having already passed through, and some time back, means we’ve missed him, kid,” Sonic ignored Rosy’s positivity to get his complaint out.

    “Well, we can still try to contact him,” Over suggested surprising everyone in the group.

    “How’s that?” Draw won the question race and followed up with more than he should have. “These two have really good Ring Radios that are a lot smaller than this one and they can’t reach anyone but each other.”

    “Tails had the same problem,” Over managed to dismiss Rosy’s fast growing concern by revealing that he already knew about her and Sonic’s. “It’s part of why he left. He spent a good while here trying to boost the signal using the crystals.”

    “The crystals?” Blister poked her nose into the conversation. “I thought they must have been rather valueless considering no one seems interested in gathering them.”

    “On their own they are,” Over agreed with the mouse’s presumption. “But gathered together like they are here, and according to Tails likely amplified by the pit, they are able to drastically improve radio signals and their distances. It’s why Radio Point persists here. If not for this pit radio communication would be far less reliable than it is.”

    “Not like Tails to give up on tech,” Sonic remarked wondering what was going through the fox’s mind.

    “He didn’t actually. He left with the goal of finding another pit, or perhaps meeting up with the Queen of the Sky and brainstorming with her about a solution. I’ve no idea if he’s achieved either goal though. The pit is pretty unique, and the Queen of the Sky is a she-devil who even the clouds part for when she races.”

    “It sounds like Zooey’s been having fun,” Rosy laughed nervously. “But if you can get in touch with Tails…”

    “Don’t worry,” Over reassured Rosy of his intentions, “we’ll be trying to now.”

    Per his word, Over began working countless buttons and knobs around the room. From a console with a handheld mouthpiece and a speaker, a horrible static sound came across and filled the room.

    “Static? Sonic verbalized his curiosity. “Ring Radios work across dimensions. What could be causing the interference.”

    “Maybe that thing in the sky,” Over hinted at Yoluku, but offered nothing more as he worked some more dials.

    A high-pitched sound came across the speaker and cut the static for a moment, but the static soon settled back in. However, a green light lit up on the console and Over smiled. “We’ve got him!”

    “Really!” Rosy jumped up with her question and stared at Over with urgent pleading.

    “Go ahead and see if he can’t here you.”

    With Over’s permission, Rosy dashed to the console. After only a moment of studying it, she picked up the hand piece and depressed the button in its side. From there it was a moment longer as she fought to contain her excitement and actually managed to speak. “TAI~LS~!!!!!”

    -…o…sy- -I… …at y…?-

    “Ah, ah, ah… TAI~LS~!!!!!”

    ~It was really him. It was really Tails! I was so happy I could cry finally hearing Tails’ voice again after so long. But… Well, unfortunately the signal wasn’t good. We could hear each other, but it was impossible to hold a conversation. I just couldn’t make out what Tails was saying through all the static. Sonic checked to see if our Ring Radios could connect to Tails’, but they didn’t even pick him up like the one connected to the big dish.

    ~Ooh! It’s so frustrating. I finally had a lead on Tails, but he was out of reach and I had no idea what to do. Over tried to improve the signal, but in the end, we lost it and any chance to find where Tails was. Still… Still, we actually talked to him. He was alright.

    ~The last time I saw Tails he was fighting those mean old pirates who want revenge against him. But he wasn’t there when I found Sonic and helped him beat them. And even though pirates like Blister are inspired by them, as far as I can tell, Tails hasn’t gotten involved with any more pirates. And while that’s good, it means we have no leads again.

    ~But you know, I was able to talk to him and that means Tails is okay. As long as Tails is okay, Sonic and I can find him. And we will! Sonic promised after all. He was going to get all of us home!

    ~…Though, I’m actually enjoying this little adventure and don’t feel the need to go home yet.~

Scene 40 · CLEARED Radio Link, End

-----

How’s that for a little treat! Tails has finally appeared for the first time since the Prison Prairie chapters. Well, at least over a really shaky radio connection XD I also introduced an OC I expect to be a one off, but I’ll see if he gets any positive attention and demand to see more of him. For now though, this scene wraps up the last of my survey based scenes. The next one is going to be purely off the top of my head. So that means adventure, mystery, and maybe some plot progression. Please look forward to it!

-----

Special Thanks to Cutegirlmayra Story by @JoshTarwater/SonicFanJ Inspiring Song – Lumacie Archipelago: Mystic Woodland – Tsutomu Narita – Granblue Fantasy Original Soundtrack

Fair Use Disclaimer

Sonic the Hedgehog and all affiliated characters and logos are the express property and Copyright© of SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS used without permission under Title 17 U.S.C Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976 in which allowance is made for “fair use” for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. “Fair use” is use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be considered copyright infringement. The Sonic Ring Bond: The Journey alternate universe (AU) consumer written work of fiction is a non-profit transformative work primarily for personal use and can and will be taken down without warning or prior notice at the request of the copyright holder(s) should it not be recognized under “fair use”.

*Sonic Ring Bond logo created by DEE Art – twitter.com/daryliscute.

Sonic Ring Bond AU and Sonic Ring Bond: The Journey are the creation of Joshua David Tarwater/ynymbus/sonicfanj/@Joshtarwater and is to be, including all contents herein considered for all legal purposes the property of the Sonic the Hedgehog intellectual property (IP) and copyright owners, SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS. All story contributors via prompt, suggestion, written scene, art, and all and every other contribution acknowledge that all contributed material is forfeit for legal purposes to SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS upon official request from SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS.

[lost-in-austen-books]

Belgravia by Julian Fellowes

Synopsis: Belgravia is a novel by Julian Fellowes aka the man behind our beloved Downton Abbey. Belgravia is mainly set in 1840, although the story opens with a faithful night in 1815 in Brussels before the battle of Waterloo. Certain events take place that night which will begin to unravel 25 years later in London. The story focus around the family of Trenchard who are moving up within the London society through Mr. Trenchard’s business. He used to be a supplier for the army but as the years have passed he has been able to grow his trade and he is in fact a partner of Thomas Cubitt who is indeed a real historical person and in the book (as Cubitt did in real life) they are planning and building a new wealthy district in London called, you guessed it, Belgravia. It is difficult to say much about the plot without spoiling it. Let’s just say that this is a book absolutely filled with secrets, misunderstanding and improperly acting characters. Much what you can expect from Mr. Fellowes, I dare say.

Analysis: I gave this book a 3,5/5 stars, which is the lowest one yet this year but still a decent review. So let’s look into it a bit closer!

Well, the book is filled with all sorts of characters, you have the snobbish old-money folks, the new money social climbers, those who perhaps would rather just stay where they are without trying to improve themselves despite other people around them having big dreams, those who are limited by the social rules and then there are those who can’t see their own privileges and pitfalls and those who are simply pure and good for the most part anyhow. So as you can imagine from Fellowes it is a book filled with characters with different backgrounds and aspirations working against the backdrop of class and social rules. I haven’t seen the tv-adaptation yet, but it’s actually coming to YLE (which is basically the Finnish BBC) this week! So I don’t have much to wait anymore, and the tv-series was actually the reason I wanted to read this book this year. I had actually started it few years back when it first came out but quite honestly - did not have the strength to finish it at the time.

Why I managed to get through this book now is probably because I listened to it as an audiobook narrated by Juliet Stevenson whom I thought narrated this very well. The book is surprisingly lengthy as there are so many characters in it and they all must “do their bit” and have their own version of events take place so to speak. As in - they all got things a little muddled a lot of the time and so they are all anxious about different things and we spend a quite a fair bit of time with each character and seeing the plot from their point of view. It all adds up to over 400 pages, which to be honest is not that much considering a lot of the books I read but I don’t know, reading this one just felt a bit exhausting. Juliet Stevenson however kept the story fresh and light and added a nice bit of color to all the different characters by giving them all a distinctive voice and accent. To be quite honest I would’ve dropped at least half a star had I merely read the book and not listened to Stevenson’s narration of it. But it was a nice book to listen to whilst preparing food or baking or cycling to work in the summer!

What I must say is that Fellowes certainly knows his audience well, however, I do think he does his best work writing for screen not for well - covers? I believe that Belgravia will work well on screen and I’ll be able to share my thoughts on that soon enough. I just feel like Fellowes’ language or style weren’t anything game changing or enlightening. There wasn’t anything particularly enjoyable in it, nor any great passages I might return to. Sometimes his descriptions were rather blunt which makes me think that they might work better when portrayed by an actor instead of simply stated in the pages of a book. He knows how to build up intriguing plots and how to carry plot lines with multiple characters and he knows how to work against the period background and he knows how to tell stories of class but the format his stories take works better in a tv-series than on page - in my humble opinion.

So if you’ve enjoyed Fellowe’s works before in any format, be sure to give Belgravia a go, but don’t feel bad if you can’t actually get through the book - try the audiobook instead! That way it isn’t half bad and does offer a nice way of passing the time of day.

[lavender-hemlock]

All of them that don’t get asked, Bwhahaha! -fom K.V. Good luuuuuuuuck lol.

Mun Ask Prompt  + Challenge because of course you would

1: How tall or short do you wish you were?

I wish I was as tall as my attitude. 

2: What’s your dream pet? (Real or not)

A German Shepherd named Bruno or Nasus. 

3: Do you have a favorite clothing style?

Casual/Classic. 

4: What was your favorite video game growing up?

Ratchet & Clank/Kingdom Hearts

5: What three things/people do you think of most each day:

Friends. Coffee. College. 

6: If you had a warning label, what would yours say?

Caution: Her words hurt. 

7: What is your opinion on [insert person/thing here]?

It’s Valentine’s this week so.. I think love is deserving for yourself before others. 

You’re worth that. 

8: What is your Greek personality type? [Sanguine, Phlegmatic, Choleric, or Melancholic]

Melancholic. 

                        (Break inserted here for the sake of others.)

9: Are you ticklish?

Dreadfully.

10: Are you allergic to anything?

My skin gets irritated if wax rests on it. I wax my eyebrows. 

11: What’s your sexuality?

Pansexual. 

12: Do you prefer tea, coffee, or cocoa?

All three? 

13: Are you a cat or dog person?

Dog, if I had to choose. 

14: Would you rather be a vampire, elf, or merperson?

Vampire. I’m nocturnal enough. Sun already hates me. 

15: Do you have a favorite Youtuber?

Creamheroes. (It’s a youtube channel about an owner that has 7 cats.)

16: How tall are you?

5′0. 

17: If you had to change your name, what would you change it to?

Claire. 

18: How much do you weigh? [Only ask this if you know the user doesn’t mind!]

125 

19: Do you believe in ghosts/spirits?

Sometimes? 

20: Do you like space or the ocean more?

Ocean. 

21: Are you religious?

Yes! Christian. 

22: Pet peeves?

Hearing people eat, attention seeking. 

23: Would you rather be nocturnal or diurnal [opposite of nocturnal]?24: Favorite constellation?

Cygnus

25: Favorite star?

A registered one my best friends gave me for my birthday. It was named something stupid.. Like “cloud”. 

26: Do you like ball-jointed dolls?

No. 27: Any phobias or fears?

Height phobia. Fear of needles. 

28: Do you think global warming is real?

Yes/no. Effects are proven, but media/proof is watered down by subjectives. 

29: Do you believe in reincarnation?

Not really. 

30: Favorite movie?

Princess Bride. 

31: Do you get scared easily?

No, it varies on my energy. If I’m very awake, sure. If I’m dead tired, I’m not phased. 

32: How many pets have you owned in your lifetime?

Four. All have passed due to old age only, and I’m thankful for that. 

33: Blog rate? [You’ll rate the blog of the one who’s asking.]

10/10 for your “extra” personality. @kazexvoss 

34: What is a color that calms you?

Cerulean. 

35: Where would you like to travel and/or live?

Travel to Italy, live somewhere cold. 

36: Where were you born?

Somewhere hot. 

37: What is your eye color?

Green.

38: Introvert or extrovert?

Both. 

39: Do you believe in horoscopes and zodiacs?

I think they have coincidences and they are fun to read. 

40: Hugs or kisses?

Hugs.

41: Who is someone you would like to see/visit right now?

@palaceofthedeadmemes needs a hug before I beat him for not sleeping. 

42: Who is someone you love deeply?

My fiance. 

43: Any piercings you want?

Nope, fear of needles. 

44: Do you like tattoos and piercings?

Nope, fear of needles. I like looking at others who have either. 

45: Do you smoke or have you ever done so?

I do not smoke anymore. It was weed for awhile. 

46: Talk about your crush, if you have one!

My fiance is smart, patient, and fair. He’s able to stand his ground when I’m being stubborn, and knows when I just need caffeine. True love is when offers to make coffee just because of how I seem. 

47: What is a sound you really hate?

Chewing. Lip smacking. 

48: A sound you really love?

A violin singing. 

49: Can you do a backflip?

Maybe to break something. 

50: Can you do the splits?

Yeah! Probably really slowly. 

51: Favorite actor and/or actress?

Mark Hamil / Johnny Depp . 

52: Favorite movie?

53: How are you feeling right now?

Melancholy. I wish I was writing atm. 

54: What color would you like your hair to be right now?

Lavender. I would want to dye it if there was a lack of care for “professionalism” with my job. 

55: When did you feel happiest?

December 26th 

56: Something that calms you down?

Music, dogs, tea. 

57: Have any mental disorders? [Only ask this if you know the user doesn’t mind!]

Anxiety. 

58: What does your URL mean?

Lavender-Hemlock symbolizes the color of her infamous hair, and a poison that looks like a flower. 

59: What three words describe you the most?

Empathetic, analytical, passionate. 

60: Do you believe in evolution?

Of course. 

61: What makes you unfollow a blog?

I don’t do it often, but I’ve unfollowed when someone put their foot in their mouth on a topic they shouldn’t have spoken about. 

62: What makes you follow a blog?

When the content is similar, if I’ve seen them in my notes a good bit. It doesn’t take much. 

63: Favorite kind of person:

Someone who is just caring of others. Humans that are aware other people are human. 

64: Favorite animal(s):

Lions and tigers and bears- oh my! I tend to like owls too. 

65: Name three of your favorite blogs.

@palaceofthedeadmemes, @kazexvoss, @tiergan-vashir. 

66: Favorite emote:

:ok_hand:

67: Favorite meme:

Ugandan Knuckles. 

68: What is your MBTI personality type?

INFJ. 

69: What is your star sign?

Libra

70: Can your dog roll over on command, if you have a dog?

No, he only wants to play. 

71: What outfit out of all your clothes do you like to wear the most?

My cardigan over a t-shirt with jeans.

73: Do you have platform shoes?

Nope. 

74: What is one random but interesting fact about yourself?

75: Can you do a front flip?

I couldn’t do a back flip- how could I do it forward? 

76: Do you like birds?

They are so loud.. 

77: Do you like to swim?

Yes!

78: Is swimming or ice skating more fun to you?

Swimming is fun, and ice skating would be painful.

79: Something you wish didn’t exist:

Racists. 

80: Some thing you wish did exist:

Better healthcare. 

81: Piercings you have?

N o n e. 

82: Something you really enjoy doing:

Doing content on games. RP is fun- but sometimes I do just want to do roulettes or something with others. 

83: Favorite person to talk to (Pick someone you didn’t name):

@passage-of-arms 

84: What was your first impression of Tumblr?

Everyone devotes to the pool of creativity with tons of writing and different perspectives. 

85: How many followers do you have?

518

86: Can you run a mile within ten minutes?

Barely?

87: Do your socks always match?

Yes. Always. 

88: Can you touch your toes and keep your legs straight completely?

Yes!

89: What is your birthstone?

Opal

90: If you were an animal, which one would you be?

Caracal. 

91: If a flower could aesthetically represent you, what kind would it be?

Hydrangeas

92: A store you hate?

Claire’s. Like a rainbow of fake plastic sequins threw up. 

93: How many cups of coffee can you drink in one day?

Three. Though I am advised this is not good for your health. 

94: Would you rather be able to fly or read minds?

Read minds. Though it would probably be concerning to hear the things people don’t say.

95: Do you like to wear camo?

Not particularly. 

96: Winter or summer?

Winter. Snow. Cold. Ice. 

97: How long can you hold your breath for?

30ish seconds? 

98: Least favorite person?

I can only see this question as a target for a bullseye, so.. 

Someone who is extremely fake in their behaviors to negate any past actions of abuse they have inflicted on other people. The type of person that spends their time taking primarily lewd photographs to get attention without regards of decency for any amount.  

99: Someone you look up to:

Not sure. 

100: A store you love?

Yankee Candle. I love candles. 

101: Favorite type of shoes?

Boots

102: Where do you live?

USA. 

103: Are you a vegetarian or vegan? If so, why?

Nope!

104: What is your favorite mineral or gem?

Amethyst. 

105: Do you drink milk?

Yep!

106: Do you like bugs?

No. 

107: Do you like spiders?

NO!

108: Something you get paranoid about?

If I said something wrong. 

109: Can you draw:

I can! I just haven’t in awhile. 

110: Nosiest question you have ever been asked?

Probably about a name basis on something, like, “So who are ___?”

111: A question you hate being asked?

I don’t have one? 

112: Ever been bitten by a spider?

I can’t recall?

113: Do you like the sound of waves at the beach?

Absolutely. 

114: Do you prefer cloudy or sunny days?

Cloudy

115: Someone you’d like to kiss or cuddle right now:

Fiance. 

116: Favorite cloud type:

Storm clouds. 

117: What color do you wish the sky was?

Blue is fine!

118: Do you have freckles?

Yes, so many.

119: Favorite thing about a person:

Compassion. 

120: Fruits or vegetables?

Fruits!

121: Something you want to do right now:

Write

122: Is the ocean or sky prettier?

Depends on the time and weather. 

123: Sweet or sour foods?

Sweet!

124: Bright or dim lights?

Dim. 

125: Do you believe in a certain magical creature?

Sadly no. 

126: Something you hate about Tumblr:

Everyone is a critic, and some feel entitled to their opinion. 

127: Something you love about Tumblr:

The many views and varying content.

128: What do you think about the least?

Probably something I’m not thinking about right now. 

129: What would you want written on your tombstone?

“She was loved.”

130: Who would you like to punch in the face right now?

Uhh..

131: What is something you love but also hate about yourself?

My brain.

132: Do you smile with your teeth showing for pictures?

Sometimes. 

133: Computer or TV?

Computer. 

134: Do you like roller coasters?

Kinda..? I go on them, but I’m terrified. 

135: Do you get motion sickness or seasickness?

Motion sickness with a migraine. 

136: Are your ears lobed or attached?

Lobed. 

137: Do you believe in karma?

Yeah.

138: On a scale of 1-10, how attractive would you say you are?

7

139: What nicknames do you have/have had?

“Bean” for coffee bean. Starlight. 

140: Did you have any pretend or imaginary friends?

Nope. 

141: Have you ever seen a therapist/shrink?

Nope. 

142: Would you say you are a good or bad influence to others?

I’d like to say good. I encourage others to speak freely and just be themselves- unless you’re just rude. 

143: Do you prefer giving or receiving gifts/help?

Giving. Receiving gives me anxiety lol. 

144: What makes you angry?

Ignorance. 

145: How many languages do you speak fluently?

1. 

146: Do you prefer boys, girls, and/or non-binaries?

I prefer boys. 

147: Are you androgynous?

Nope.

148: Favorite physical thing about yourself:

Eyes. 

149: Favorite thing about your personality:

150: Name three people you would like to talk to right now in person.

@aurorahawklight, @impure-ivory, @sangria-fangs

151: If you could go back into time and live in one era, which would you choose?

Renaissance   

152: Do you like BuzzFeed?

Too many ads. 

153: How did you meet your spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend/partner? [If you have one.]

I met them working a temporary retail job. He was working temporarily there with a bachelors. We had no business ever meeting or ever working there for all our experience- but we did. Its so special to have that coincidence to be in that right place and time. 

154: Do you like to kiss others’ foreheads or hands for platonic reasons?

Forehead kisses are so so endearing- but I don’t give affection freely. 

155: Do you like to play with others’ hair?

Yes.

156: What embarrasses you?

Falls in confidence that brings insecurity. 

157: Something that makes you nervous/anxious:

Crowds. 

158: Biggest lie you have ever told:

I’m fine. 

159: How many people are you following?

300- even. Wow. 

160: How many posts do you have on your blog(s)?

1,911 

161: How many drafts do you have on your blog(s)?

4

162: How many likes do you have on your blog(s)?

5, 817

163: Last time you cried and why:

Two days ago. Stress. 

164: Do you have long or short hair?

Long!

165: Longest your hair has ever been:

Mid-lower back.

166: Why do you like, dislike, or have neutral feelings about religion?

I like religion because it is the sacred beliefs that are worshiped or dedicated to. It’s a choice. 

But, I dislike religion because it brings all manners of people who disrespect other religions, or cause people to react hatefully. 

167: Do you really care how the universe and world was created?

Yeah. 

168: Do you like to wear makeup?

Just eyeliner. I just gotta wing it. 

Get it?

169: Can you stand on your hands or head for more than thirty seconds?

Maybe? 

170: Did you answer the questions you were asked truthfully?

Yeah!

@kazexvoss, another example that I am no coward from any challenge posed. 

However, I’m not going to lie, pretty sure I lost like 1/3 of my energy doing this. Thanks for the ask nerd.  

[rapha-reads]

1 and 6 for the quarantine asks? :)

Hello! Thanks for dropping by. :)

1. what weird new hobby have you picked up?

Does baking bread count as a weird hobby?

Actually, there's something else : on Instagram, from Monday to Friday each week, I post a story each day, with a photographic theme and an artist of the week. Last week, the artist was Two Steps From Hell and the theme was black and white pics of roses and flowers with the only colour being the flower. Week before, it was Within Temptation and tea and flowers. This week, it's raining and I'm out of ideas, so we're following a couple of miniature cats on adventures in the house with my favorite French band, Boulevard des Airs.

I am VERY bored.

6. learned anything about yourself?

Well. I think I finally found out what I want to do with my life. I want to be surrounded by books, to works with books and for books. And this means a lot of things. I want to help kids find their way in a library, but I also want to be in charge of a bookshop. I want to organise book fairs and I want to organise archives and collections of knowledge for future generations. Preserving knowledge and history and transmitting them to our children and our children's children is extremely important and crucial for the survival of humanity.

I'm re-reading Dragonriders of Pern right now, and one of the biggest problems the Pernians have is that, by forgetting where they come from and everything their ancestors knew and could do, they are often defenceless when a new danger that's actually an old one arrives on the planet. Like, say, an epidemic that strongly resembles flu but no one knows what flu is anymore because every record of the illness has been lost...

And how do you do all of that? You compile books and you make sure you have as extensive and clear and comprehensible a reserve of knowledge you have. A library that will survive the passage of time, or can be reconstructed when needs be (and that's why technology is important too) and can be understood even when languages evolve and change (dictionaries, people).

Anyway, I'm rambling, but you can see where I'm going. Other thing I rediscovered is that of you give me the chance I'll talk your ear off about things I'm passionate about. Nothing new here.

Ask me : quarantine asks.

[darkobsidianquill]

Harry Potter and the descent into Darkness..

Chapter 32

Harry felt notably down for the next few days. Tom noticed but didn't remark on it. They both knew why Harry was feeling the way he was feeling, and they didn't need to discuss it.

Now that exams were done, Hermione and Ginny had returned their focus full-swing to translating the last few passages of the Old Aldric book. It had taken a backseat to the mountain of homework that had lead into revision and then exams.

The day before the end of term feast, Hermione and Ginny gathered Harry up after breakfast and hid themselves away in an abandoned classroom as they pulled out the last of the translation and handed it to him.

With a mixture of anxious trepidation and excitement, Harry picked up the bound parchment notebook and began to read.

The Record of Tarsang the second, son of Morac.

G.t 14407

I have spent much time studying and recording the details for prosperity, of the greater magical creatures of this realm in preparation for our final departure. I wished to understand the actions that had been taken by this worlds Magic in its attempt to save it's Children and I think I can finally sum up my findings into something simple, to serve as my contribution to this text.

Goodness and understanding was needed in this world's greater magic users. Empathy, justice, and freedoms would help the half-creature Men thrive, and so those strong in the magics of Light were given the task of empowering these attributes. But Magic saw that those powerful in the Light would be more lenient towards the non-magical Men. They would fight for these non-magical beings 'rights', since they are the underdogs. They are weaker, and will forever be in need of someone to stand up for them and protect them, and it would be in the nature of the Light wizards to take up such a task.

It was foreseen that it would be the Light magical half-breeds who would risk true exposure of magic to the non-magical Men. They would believe that all humans had the right to magic, because it was the just and fair thing.

However, the fact remains that if non-magic Men gain the power to wield magic, then the End will befall this world and all will perish.

And so Dark magic was given power to keep the Light magic in check. To keep the Light from getting too powerful, and from exposing everyone, and thus, losing the magic for all.

It is in the Dark's nature to covet the power of magic and keep such a power to themselves. To seek it out in every form and to hoard it. The Dark would not want the power to spread to the non-magics because it understands that they are not worthy of the power, and them gaining such a power would be disastrous for all.

This world's End will come in one of two ways. The non-magical Men will steal magic, and use it to destroy all that exists, or the non-magical Men will destroy themselves with their own strange brand of magic, conjured from their too-fast-gained knowledge of sub-physical world and their 'science'. If the End is brought about by the non-magic sciences, the magical creatures of the world will have the chance to shield themselves from the fall-out and they will have the chance to survive. However if the end is brought about by the forces of magic, no one will be saved. All will die.

It is a tragic end, and one I hope this world will manage to escape. I wish them my best as my family and I make our final preparations for our departure. I am saddened that I will never know the fate of this world and it's inhabitants that I have grown so fond of.

Harry sat there staring at the page for several long minutes after he had finished reading it. It didn't really give him any new information. Basically a rehash of what he'd already figured out or at least guessed at.

Harry was broken from his pondering by the sound of Hermione sighing heavily and sinking down into a chair opposite him.

"I don't even know what to think about all this..." she said with a slightly dejected tone.

"It's not really anything new," Harry said shrugging. "Basically repeating what we'd already read earlier in the book."

"Yeah, I guess... it's still just difficult to take it all in. Do you really think it could be true?"

"Honestly?" Harry said, looking at the two girls, who were looking back at him expectantly. "Yes. I think it's true."

– –

The end of term feast was as spectacular as all of Hogwarts feasts always are and Harry collapsed into bed that night with an extremely full stomach. He had slipped down into the Chamber once that early morning just to make sure he didn't leave anything behind down there that he would want with him. He had hardly gone down there at all in months though, so there really wasn't anything he was in need of.

The next morning when Harry and his classmates made their way across the grounds to the front gates where the magical carriages were lined up to take them all down to Hogsmeade Harry came up short as he blinked owlishly at the skeletal horse-like creatures pulling them. He'd never been able to see the things pulling the carriages before, and for several moments he was completely confused.

It took him a minute to realize that no one else saw anything different at all. Then his brain turned back on and he finally recognized what the deathly looking creatures were.

"Thestrals..." he breathed under his breath as realization dawned on him. Once considered death omens because of their rather horrible appearance and the fact that they can only be seen by those who have witnessed death.

"Hmm?" Hermione had asked but he shook his head, dismissing it and pretending that nothing was up.

Of course he could see them now. He had killed someone in a rather brutal and horrible fashion. He was rather intimate with death now. He had caused it. But it made him wonder why he'd never seen them before. He had, after all witnessed his parents death, and if that couldn't count because he was too young, there still remained the fact that he'd witnessed Quirrell die... again, by his own hands. Hell, he had literally killed Quirrell with his own bare hands.

So why the bloody hell was he only able to see the thestrals now?

Harry shrugged it off. It didn't especially matter much. It was just one of those illogical things about magic that never really made much sense no matter how hard you tried to work it out in your head. Although, Tom would probably have a perfectly reasonable explanation for it.

Harry followed his friends onto the train, wishing he could just bypass this part and simply take his portkey to the manor house, but knowing he couldn't. Ginny hung out with them for a short while before heading off to meet up with some of her friends from her own year, leaving Harry alone in a compartment with Ron and Hermione.

"Oh hey, before I forget –" Harry started after the other two had been talking for some time about summer plans, "you two can send me owls to this address." Harry pulled out two pieces of parchment and handed one to each of them.

They both looked at him curiously before unfolding the notes and looking at what was written.

Hermione was the first to speak. "France?" she gasped.

Harry chuckled and shrugged. "Yup. Did you know that France has no restriction for underage magical use?"

"I – wait, it what?" Hermione asked, coming up short.

"Yeah, witches and wizards can use magic all they want in France – as long as it's not being done in front of muggles, of course – and they won't get punished or anything, even if they're not 17 yet."

"Wait," Ron started, "so you're running off to France so you can perform magic during your holidays? Do you even speak French?"

"No, and that's not why I'm going anyway. It's a coincidence really. It just so happens that the place I'm going to is in France and therefore I can perform magic this summer. Besides, that address isn't where I'm actually staying. It's a hired post box. A house elf will be retrieving my mail every few days and when I have outgoing mail, I give it to the elf and she'll bring it to a public post and sending it out with one of the owls there. Hedwig is just going to hang out with me all summer. She'll probably get a bit bored, not being able to deliver any letters, but the grounds are supposed to be pretty big so she'll have plenty of flying room."

"Wait, I don't get it... why are you going through all that?" Ron asked.

"The wards around the place I'm going to be staying doesn't allow owls to come in to deliver post."

"And... why?"

"To prevent anyone from using an owl to track me. No owls, no risk of tracking charms."

"Wow..." Hermione said, blinking in surprise. "Whoever you're staying with is willing to do all that just to make sure no one tracks you down with an owl?"

"They had those wards up already. I told you guys way back when I first mentioned all of this, that the place I'm going has some of the most powerful wards a private property can have."

"And you really can't tell us where you're going or who you're staying with?" Hermione asked, clearly looking worried.

"No can do. Merlin, chances are you two will both be getting visits from Dumbledore within the week as he starts desperately trying to track me down and haul me back to the Dursley's before the wards completely collapse there. If you don't know where I'm going, there's no way he can find out from you. It's just easier this way."

Hermione sighed and folded her arms over her chest but didn't persist in arguing. Ron just frowned.

"You can pass that address on to Ginny for me, right Ron?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, sure," Ron grumbled.

"What's up, Ron?"

Ron ducked his head, still scowling a bit and mumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"It's just you've been spending a lot of time with my sister this year and now you're going to be writing with her over the summer too?" Ron finally said, raising his head.

Harry blinked at Ron and had to fight to refrain from rolling his eyes. "Ron, she's a friend. She can write to me if she wants to. I mean, it's not like you have to worry about me fancying your sister or something. She's got the wrong plumbing, and I'm already pretty attached to someone else."

Ron's face went red and he blanched a bit before looking away embarrassed. Suddenly understanding seemed to dawn in his eyes. "You what?"

"Huh?"

"What do you mean you're attached to someone?"

"Oh well... I'm sort of seeing someone."

"What? Since when? Who?"

"Er... for a while now. I mean, it started out as a friendly thing but sort of slowly morphed into something else. And as for who, I can't tell you who for the same reason that I can't tell you where I'm going this summer."

"It's one of the Beauxbatons boys!" Hermione exclaimed suddenly with a gasp. "The mystery boy you refused to tell me and Ginny about – it wasn't a boy from any of the houses, it was a boy from Beauxbatons!"

"Er... no, actually. But... well, nevermind. Like I said, I really can't give you any details that might lead you to where I'm staying, Hermione."

"Huh? Wait a minute, Hermione. You knew?" Ron exclaimed looking at Hermione and then back at Harry with hurt. "How come you never told me?"

"The only reason that Hermione and Ginny know anything about it is because they caught me sneaking in after having met up with him. If that hadn't of happened, even they wouldn't have any idea. I've kept this super secret because I don't want to risk his identity getting out."

"Wait, Harry!" Hermione yelled, suddenly. "No clues to where you're staying? I thought you said that his family didn't know he was, you know... But it sounds like you're going to go stay with him this summer. How..?"

"Oh his mum knows now. He told her. She's good with it, and with me being there. Don't worry, this is going to be fine. Still, we don't want to risk his name getting drug through the tabloids as Harry Potter's boyfriend so I'm still not willing to let it get out who he is."

"So you didn't trust me to keep it a secret?" Ron interjected in, still looking hurt.

"It's not that Ron, but we still have no idea how Rita Skeeter was spying on us, or if whatever method she used is still available to someone else. I just didn't want to risk anything. And then there's the whole Dumbledore questioning you two thing to try and figure out where I'm staying..."

Ron didn't look entirely appeased, but he did at least let it drop. Conversation turned to Hermione's plans for her holiday with her parents and she was startled to realize that while she and her family would be in Italy, she would be legally allowed to use magic. She'd had no idea and found the idea thrilling.

Draco did not pay Harry his normal Hogwart's Express visit, but Harry wasn't the least bit surprised by that. He doubted that Draco would know how to act around Harry right now, anyway.

Finally the train pulled up at King's Cross station and the three of them collected their luggage and exited into the platform. Harry shrunk his trunk using it's automatic shrinking feature, since he technically wasn't supposed to be able to use his own magic away from Hogwarts without getting caught, and then he grabbed Hedwig's cage. The Grangers were waiting there and found Hermione right away. Harry bid her farewell, and wished her a good holiday. By that time, Molly Weasley had appeared and had started gathering up her brood of gingers.

"I'll see you September first Ron!" Harry called out as he began to slip away.

"Oh, wait, Harry dear!" Molly Weasley called out and Harry groaned internally before turning around and giving her an innocent but confused smile.

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley?"

"Are your relatives here?" she said looking around the crowd curiously.

"I'm meeting them further away from Platform 9 ¾. They don't feel too comfortable this close to so many of 'my lot'. You know how they are."

"Well if you'd just wait a few minutes we can walk out with you."

"No, that won't be necessary Mrs. Weasley. Besides, Uncle Vernon will get upset if I keep him waiting."

Molly Weasley looked torn as she looked back and forth from the twins and Ginny, and Harry.

"I've really got to get going. Thanks for the offer though," Harry called out as he resumed walking away towards the archway that would lead into muggle King's Cross. "See you in the fall Ginny! Ron! Bye Gred and Forge!"

"Bye Harry!"

"See ya later!"

"Have a nice holiday!"

"And thanks again, Harry! We really owe you one!" one of the twins called out as Harry grinned back at them over his shoulder and finally disappeared through the arch. Harry had given the twins his winnings the morning after the impromptu awards ceremony and from what he understood, they had already started to owl order loads of different ingredients and things. If nothing else, the twins would be good for a laugh.

Harry quickly made his way through the crowds of muggles before seeing an 'Employees Only' door, propped open slightly by a broom. Harry slipped his cypress wand down his sleeve and into his hand and discreetly cast a 'notice-me-not' charm on himself as he slipped in through the door. Once he was positive that there was no one around to witness anything, he made sure he had a firm grip on Hedwig's cage, turned on the spot, and apparated away.

He reappeared with a soft crack! in the entry hall of Riddle Manor. He grinned and heaved a big sigh of relief. It was summer holiday. He was free. It had really worked.

"Shall I be taking master's luggage up to his room?" a squeaky voice sounded from behind him, making Harry spin around in surprise. Standing there was Mixey, looking up at him with those huge tennis ball-sized eyes and big flappy bat ears. Harry grinned down at her.

"I can do it myself. I've already got my trunk shrunk down in my pocket."

"Then gives it to Mixey and I's be taking it up to master's room," she insisted with a nod of her head.

Harry grinned in mild amusement down at her and shrugged. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the matchbox sized trunk and handed it over to her, followed by Hedwig's cage. She graciously took them, bowed low, and disappeared with a soft pop.

Harry chuckled quietly, but it turned into a relieved sigh as he felt the familiar magical presence behind him.

"You're not wearing your ring," Tom said.

"Gah! I knew I forgot something," Harry said, smacking himself on the forehead and reaching into his pocket where he had stored his glamor ring. He slipped it onto his left-hand index finger as he was turning around and smiled up at the handsome man that had come to mean such an immensely different thing to him during the last few months.

Tom was looking down on him with an amused smirk as Harry shrugged sheepishly.

"How was your train ride?"

"Long and annoying," Harry said rolling his eyes. "I can't even tell you how many times I wished I could have just used the portkey or apparated straight here instead of having to bother with the damn train."

Tom chuckled and took a few steps forward. Harry felt his skin tingle with anticipation as the other man drew closer and instinctively gravitated towards him. Within the blink of an eye, Tom had gathered Harry up in his arms, one hand behind his neck and tangling long slender fingers into the long, shaggy fringe at the base of Harry's neck, and the other in the small of Harry's back. Harry's arms came up and wrapped around Tom's neck, his fingers lacing together where they met.

"All mine for two whole months," Tom breathed as he pulled Harry's face mere inches from his own.

"I'm yours forever, if you want me," Harry breathed back; the words escaping his lips before he even registered them in his mind.

"Of course, I want you, pet. But that's not what I meant," Tom said pulling back and smirking down at Harry with mild amusement.

"It's still true. I'm yours," Harry said, looking up into Tom's deep red eyes with such an intensity that it almost gave the elder wizard pause. They shared a long, lingering look before Tom bent down and gently brushed his lips against Harry's.

§Mine.Tom hissed, causing a powerful shudder to course through Harry and a wide grin to spread across his lips..

§Yours,§ Harry hissed back.

Tom pulled back completely and took a step away.

"Come, Pet. We shouldn't linger in such a public place. It isn't likely, but my followers have free reign to come and go in this part of the manor and I would rather not be seen by them while in this form."

Harry blinked at the sudden shift and realized that Tom was still, well, Tom. Harry smiled softly, realizing that the man had stayed in his natural form to greet him, even at the risk of being seen that way by someone else in what he considered his 'weaker' form.

Harry nodded his head, smiling softly up at Tom, the other smirked back and headed up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, Tom paused and turned to look at Harry over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"Welcome home."

– End –

[anthracenes]

Passion-Based Learning | Chapter 3

Tags/Trigger Warnings: Non-Con/Rape, Hypnosis, Hypnotism, Abuse of Authority, Conditioning, Dehumanization, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Dom/sub, Brainwashing, Praise Kink, Anal Sex, Manipulation, Objectification, Creampie

[read on AO3 here]

Wilfred runs his fingers through the soft, brown locks of his sleeping victim. There was just something charming to him about how childlike the boy is. For a supposed eighteen-year-old in college, Isaac was barely into adulthood: lean and unbelievably tiny. If it weren’t for the college ID strung around his neck, Wilfred would have no trouble believing the boy to be fifteen at most. 

 Itching to see just what he was working with, he lays the boy on his back and removes his clothing from him, one by one. His shirt, sneakers, socks, pair of jeans: the tutor peels them all off within a matter of minutes, discarding them onto the floor, with the boy’s underwear placed at the very top of the pile. Wilfred finds with no surprise that, much like the rest of his lean body, Isaac’s is near hairless underneath those tight boxer briefs—with just the lightest dusting of hair covering the base of his slim, pretty cock.  

 “What a dream…” Wilfred’s whispers, pressing tongue onto naked flesh. He brushes his lips against the shell of his ear, the nape of his neck. Lavishes attention on the boy’s chest, his waist, and down—slowly, further down still—all the way until he’s buried his face inside Isaac’s warm, inviting thighs. Wilfred drinks in the way Isaac react to his touch even in his sleep, skin flushing and prickling underneath his lips as the tutor slowly peppers kisses throughout his vulnerable body. 

 “So pretty… and so, so small . If I didn’t know any better, Isaac, I’d say you haven’t even started puberty yet.”

 He nudges the sleeping boy’s thighs apart, suckling at the pale, creamy skin…

 … and smiles when he hears the boy gasp from underneath him, followed by a soft, sleepy moan. 

 “Mmm… fuck . You're going to be so much fun to break into, I can already tell,” Wilfred breathes, licking his lips.

 From the way he’s reacted to the slightest compliment, all flustered and pink, to the way he eagerly scarfs down what’s placed in front of him in a stranger’s house, the tutor can already venture a guess as to the kind of upbringing Isaac’s grown up with. Sheltered by wealth and strictly success-oriented, no doubt, with little room for any warmth. The prestigious school, the double-major, the tell-tale dreams of becoming a doctor—it all tells him just as much, as well: the all-too-familiar story of a child, overcompensating to impress the whims of his despotic parents. It’s no wonder the poor thing is all too eager to trust, running headfirst towards the first hints of the love and affection he’s never had growing up. 

 Right into the waiting maw of a predator like him.

 He has no one to thank more than the kid’s own parents, really. With Isaac at hand, naive and none-the-wiser, he could do so, so much to the boy. Corrupt him; groom him. Brainwash him into happily serving Wilfred on his hands and knees, instead of whatever shallow career his parents had meant for the boy to pursue. The tutor remembers fondly what that was like: the thrill of the time he had finally brought Alex home permanently, after going through their final session together. He feels himself getting hard in his slacks, thinking about getting to do it all over again.

 Two lovely pets, all to himself. If he plays his cards right, Alex will finally have a cute little playmate to join him in no time.

 With that in mind, Wilfred climbs onto the couch. He situates himself next to the boy and began whispering in his ear the same soft, calming tones that had lured Isaac in before. As always, the tutor takes great care to use the ticking of the clock to aid him, flowing the tempo of his words to the heavy swing of brass.

 To and fro. 

  To and fro.

 “Doesn’t this feel nice, Isaac? A nice, relaxing little study break, just for you. You deserve it, after all, after working so hard.”

 Without opening his eyes, the boy lolls his head forward, nodding. 

 “You never get a break from studying at home though, do you? You work so hard at school—but do you ever get a chance to stop? Sit back, relax, and just rest for a little while?”

 “Mm, no,” Isaac mumbles. “Not really…”

 “And why is that?”

 “Mother— Father... they’d just… have tutors ready for me, waiting at home after school…”

 “I see... And they don’t think at all about how exhausted their son would already be, coming home after a long day of learning, do they?” The tutor smiles, wolfish and predatory. “Poor dear. I just don’t know how you manage it, Isaac.”

 Isaac frowns—almost a pout. “I have to, to become a doctor… It’s a lot, but… can’t let them down…”

 Just as he suspected. And what a waste that would be—to throw away all that youthful innocence on something so painfully uninspired. He’ll definitely have to change that, won’t he?

 “I see. Well, Isaac, you’re always welcome to take a break here ,” The tutor pauses, letting the suggestion settle before continuing. “A little study break, once a week: where you get to relax and rest . Getting enough rest is important, after all—no matter what anyone else may insist.” 

 “From now on, let’s take a little study break like this, shall we? It’ll be a normal part of our tutoring sessions: something you can do to rest after a long week’s worth of studying and classes.”

 “Study break… rest…” the boy softly repeated.

 “Yes, Isaac. A nice, sleepy little study break ,” Wilfred smiles, gently stroking the boy’s cheek with his fingers. “And you won’t even think about it, will you Isaac? No, thinking’s too hard… The whole point of breaks are to rest your pretty little head, after all. Best to just rest and let go in these little study breaks— relax and let go to the sound of my voice.”

 A shiver travels through Isaac’s body as he absorbs the new suggestion.

 “Do you understand?”

 The boy nods. “Let go… Thinking... too hard……  sleepy…”    

 “That’s right… thinking is just too difficult, when you’re so very sleepy like this. ” Wilfred drawls, “During these breaks, it’s so much easier to just sit back and listen, isn’t it? Just leave all the difficult thinking to your tutor from here on out.”

 Isaac’s body sags even further at that, as if to wholly surrender himself to the perverted tutor. 

  “That’s it… just listen and let me help you, Isaac. Empty your mind of anything other than my voice. Just listen, obey, and let your tutor make you feel so much better...” 

 With that, Wilfred takes out the bottle of lube that had been warming in his pocket for the past hour. He squirts a generous amount onto his fingers before setting it to the side, making sure to apply more than what’s necessary. There’s just something about Isaac that screams to be taken apart slowly, savored and played with every step of the way—small and delicate as he is. 

 He just can’t help but indulge the sweet boy a little.

 “In a moment, I’m going to spread you open right here,” he murmurs, spreading Isaac open and  lining slick fingers at the tight, pink entrance. “Make you feel so good during your study break, just like you wanted.”

 Wilfred traces the rim with the flat of his digits sensually, teasingly, until the hole is winking with anticipation. 

 “Tell me: have you ever done this to yourself before?”

 He hears Isaac’s breath hitch from underneath him. “No…” 

 “No?” The tutor chuckles. He leans forward, whispering over the boy’s ear.  “Oh, you’ll love it, Isaac. I’m going to make sure of it, one way or another…” 

 The tutor slides his fingers inside. He works them in nice and slow at first—pressing against the tight ring of muscle and feeling out Isaac’s virgin-tight passage, as he gently spreads the boy open on his fingers. 

 “God, you’re so tight… It’s as if your body is just sucking me in here,” Wilfred whispers. He eases his fingers in and out of the boy—quickly, efficiently, picking up his pace once the boy adjusts to him and filling the room with the slick, sloppy sounds of it. “... Like your body is just hungry for it.”

 Isaac is panting, ragged and breathy. Already Wilfred sees him starting to respond favorably—his little waist bucking as if it had a mind of its own; his pretty cock beginning to fill untouched. Eyes closed and lips parted open on a moan, the sleeping boy on his fingers looked no different than the image of someone lost in pure and utter bliss.

 He can’t wait to see what the boy looks like, spread open on his cock.

 “Look at you: so desperate to be filled you’re practically drooling for it,” the tutor smirks, reaching for his own zipper. “What a hungry, hungry boy you must be, Isaac.”

 He kicks off his own slacks towards the pile of Isaac’s discarded clothes and grabs the bottle of lube off from the side. Wilfred dribbles a fair amount on his hand, palming at his erection as he prepares himself to fully ravish the boy in his sleep.

 “The cookies weren’t nearly enough for you, were they? No, no—it looks to me like your body wants something even more to fill you up.

 “Something… more….” the boy mumbles.

  “Yes, something more. Something bigger, and thicker, and with even more protein to fill you up with. Yeah, you want for nothing more than to be filled up to the brim with all of that, right here.” 

 Isaac whines, drool pooling down his chin in thin little streams. With all of the capacity for thought siphoned out of his head, the boy is left utterly helpless to the whims of the tutor—unable to refuse the suggestions taking hold of his otherwise empty little mind. He has no other choice but to listen and obey: wanting for nothing else than what Wilfred dictates he does at the moment.

 “Open your eyes, Isaac. Beg for me properly. Spread those legs wide open and show me just how much you want me to stuff you full.”

 The boy follows immediately, lifting his legs up high and holding each in place by the back of his thighs as dazed, brown eyes fluttered open. Isaac’s body is nearly folded in half this way, giving the tutor quite the view as the student obediently awaits further commands.

 Placing the boy’s raised legs atop his shoulders, Wilfred lines himself up with Isaac’s hole. 

 “What a good boy,” the tutor coos, gripping Isaac’s hips as he slides himself inside the tight, wet heat. It doesn’t escape Wilfred’s attention just how positively the boy responds to even the slightest praise: the way he flushes scarlet all over, moaning—or the way his slim, pretty cock stood tall at his words, even despite the pain the boy was surely in. 

 “ Such a lovely, pretty boy for me, taking all of me so, so well.”

  “You love this, don’t you sweetling?”

  “This is what you were hungry for all along: nothing feels better to you than something big and thick inside of you like this, filling your slutty, hungry hole.”

 Isaac mewls—tiny, breathless little sounds as the tutor fucks the suggestions into him. The boy is stretched taut around his cock, and with each praise he gives him Wilfred could physically feel him more and more: clenched around him, tight and vise-like, as if his body was trying to draw him deeper in. 

 As he pounds into him hard and relentless, Wilfred comes across the little bundle of nerves inside of Isaac that pries a loud, desperate cry from the boy. He gives a quick snap of his hips, hitting the same spot again and again—making his student all but melt underneath him. 

 “There you go, sweetling. Doesn’t this feel so, so good? You want this to happen during each and every one of our sessions, every time we meet. You’ll grow to crave it, until it’s all you can think about during your classes. Until all you’ll want to do is rest, relax, and surrender your mind to me as I stuff your hungry body with what it really needs…” 

 He takes Isaac’s leaking cock in his hand, earning a choked moan from him as he wraps his fingers around it and strokes the boy off to the pace of his thrusts. 

  “Just let it all happen, Isaac. Accept it. Just let your tutor make you feel so much better…” 

 All at once, Isaac groans. The boy is trembling around him as he cums harder than he’s ever had in his life, painting his chest and tummy white. The sensation of Isaac clenching down around him only brings the tutor to quickly follow suit, spilling his seed inside the boy as he fucks his orgasm deep into him. 

 Wilfred collapses on top of the boy once he’s finished, laying there together for a little as they both catch their breath. When he finally regains his strength, the tutor pushes himself up and off the couch, putting his slacks back on and admiring how wrecked the boy looks, his puffy hole twitching, leaking cum onto the leather couch. 

 Eventually he’ll teach the boy to love getting on his knees and cleaning up after his fun little messes. For now, however, the tutor is content to just have Alex lick the upholstery clean for him after the session today is over.

 “ Good boy, Isaac. You’ve been such a good student for me today,” Wilfred says to him, not at all missing how Isaac practically glows under the praise. He helps Isaac get dressed, slipping his underwear, pants, and shirt back on—over the boy’s filthy, cum-splattered body. 

 He pats him on the cheek, smiling.

 “Close your eyes, Isaac. In a moment, I’m going to count down and have you wake up from your study break. When you do, nothing that we’ve done so far will seem strange to you, because this is everything you want from a session isn’t it?”

 Slowly, Isaac nods and shuts his eyes.

 “That’s right. You’re so stressed and hungry from your day-to-day classes that you have no more energy to even think when you get to these sessions,” he reiterates, driving the point home to the boy. “You come here to take a break from all of that: a nice, little study break, where you can let everything go and have your tutor make you feel so much better.”

 He sits Isaac upright on the couch, arranging his body to be exactly the way he was before the boy had fallen asleep on his lap.

 “Now, Isaac: wake up for me, in three…”

 “... Two…”

  “One.”

[monisse]

Goodbye Yesterday

Pairing: Brianna / Roger (Mentions of Claire, Mandy and Jemmy) Spoilers: Missing scene between A Breath of Snow and Ashes and An Echo in the Bone, set in 1978 Summary: Nothing had prepared Brianna for the heart wrenching feeling of taking Mandy and saying goodbye to her parents, losing them for what would likely be forever. Brianna reflects on choices and home in the 20th century.

Boston, 1978

The fluorescent lights, high above in the ceiling of the pediatric ward, were intense in their incandescence. Brianna had grown unaccustomed to artificial brightness, a consequence of living for the past years in a world lit by sun and candles alone, and she felt her red rimmed eyes burning again. One of the lights flickered persistently and in any other circumstance its constant buzz would have been exasperating, but in contrast with the turmoil already rampant inside her, that irritating event was of no consequence.

In the last few days, Brianna had barely been able to remove her eyes from the baby cot containing the small form of her daughter, and only allowed to be pulled away, albeit with some resistance, when her body demanded rest. And even then, on the brim of complete exhaustion, sleep would not come easily.

In contrast, Amanda rested at ease even among the steady noises of machines, leaving Brianna constantly marveled at the peacefulness of her child, as if she had not spent hours under the skilled scrutiny of surgeons just a few weeks ago. She had counted the days since then, all of them an excruciating passage of time while observing only small improvements and expecting the words that would relieve the weight on her chest.

Among the general numbness that filled her body these days, she most acutely felt her breasts painfully heavy with the milk she could not yet feed to her demanding daughter. That new inability to provide for her own baby only added to the sense of uselessness when all she could do was watch and wait. A demanding effort for someone who had struggled with patience all her life.

Eager to provide at least comfort, Brianna leaned forward and touched Mandy’s little hand. She gripped back fiercely with newfound strength, her little nails no longer purple as they had been when her mother made the diagnosis that sealed their fate and carved a fear so deep within her that it was yet to leave.

She had once traded the commodities of the 20th century for the comfort of family, until she was faced with a pain for which comfort alone would not suffice. So, before they left, Brianna had begged her mother to spare no details explaining the surgery, because if she could deconstruct and rationalize the information in her mind towards all possible outcomes, perhaps then the fear of the unknown would not be so crippling. Back then, in her mother’s distinctive analytical voice, the steps had been laid out before her, setting her and Roger’s lives in motion again with no choice but to leave a time that was not their own.

And since then keeping track of time had been a tricky business when one’s life revolved around a hospital room. When day and night became indistinct from each other, and rest would not come easy, she attempted a brave smile, would take Jemmy by the hand and step out into the burning sunlight. In those brief moments when Brianna sat alone with her son, she tried hard to temporarily pause her worries and allow Jem to fill the silence with a stream of questions that her foggy mind struggled to assimilate all at once. And all she could do was hold him through the waves of wonder as he absorbed the brand-new world that surrounded him. Had the world been this loud before? She kept wondering as she found herself a little in awe as well in spite of the immediate shock of being back to the 20th century.

As certain as she was that it would only take a short while for her, Brianna was not quite sure Roger would ever be completely at ease in this time again, for even in the few weeks since they had arrived, she noticed Roger struggling to conciliate both worlds, a shocking antithesis of each other. It was also clear that he was holding back his thoughts, afraid that it would crumble the impeccably strong pretense he wore every day to support her and Jemmy. But Brianna saw the worry firmly etched in the wrinkle between his eyes, which had not left since the diagnose. She read it in the desperate manner he often sought her hand for comfort, and in the soothing whispers in Gàidhlig to Mandy in the middle of the night. And as a sort of escape from the concern running freely through his mind, Roger consumed newspapers voraciously every day as he sat beside her, distilling the world he once knew into comprehension again.

But right now, Brianna did not care if the world was headed towards destruction and humankind had learned nothing whatsoever in the past centuries. She barely took notice of her surroundings while being completely absorbed in the consuming worry for her child. A part of her world lay in that cot, so terrifyingly helpless among modern medicine.

As she held on to Mandy’s small hand, a familiar smell rose once more in the surrounding air, which forced Brianna to twist her nose to get rid of it, though it filtered through her pores nonetheless. The constant coming and going of nurses made the room smell of that sort of antiseptic that had mingled with her mother’s perfume a lifetime ago. Memories of her childhood often came as an amalgamation of senses, and this one stood out vividly. Brianna had despised that scent while growing up, for it reminded her of the place that consumed her mother’s attention and often left her waiting hours for her to come home, valiantly fighting sleep. After a while Brianna learned that waiting was futile and accepted, begrudgingly, the few moments of undivided attention she would get. And as time went on, Brianna found that she would rather be surrounded by the stuffy scent of her Dad’s study, of hardwood, pipe and paper, comforting scents in the absence of her mother. Their time spent together made Brianna fiercely devoted to her father while her mother was sometimes dethatched from the surroundings, inhabiting the privacy of her own thoughts.

Brianna sighed. Even after all this time she was not being completely fair. She spent the early years of her life resenting her mother based on a hidden narrative, while she found refuge in what she loved to do in order to hide a broken heart. All the while she tried hard to build a family with a man that, even though was dear to her, could never substitute the one she had loved the most. Now, through the perspective of time and truth, Brianna understood that her mother had done the best she could with the choice that had been made for her. Just like Brianna was trying to do as a mother, now for the second time, and finding for herself that it meant the ability to be selfless as she matured and grew into her own self.

She missed her mother terribly, and even though she had always seen herself as independent, she now realized how much she truly leaned on her mother, on both her parents really, for support. She even missed the new scent of herbs her mother had acquired, which in hindsight was much more fitting to the kind of woman she was, like she had always meant to belong to the earth itself, looking more at home than she ever had.

The absence of her parents burned in her chest and her arms felt oddly empty with the desire to hold her mother. Instead she took a fussing Mandy from the cot and held her carefully against her chest, feeling the strong heartbeat vibrate through the little body. Mandy’s features were fuller than before with a soft pink glow constantly on her round cheeks. As Brianna looked down, her daughter’s eyes, already vivid and fully aware, stared back at her as if fully trusting the comfort and support her mother would always provide.    

She held in her arms the baby she had yearned for quite a long time, although she came with the bittersweet cost of leaving part of her family behind. Brianna had lived a thoroughly sheltered life as a child, which left her painfully immature to her own world, let alone an 18th century one. The growing pains had been hard and numerous, though nothing had prepared her for the heart wrenching feeling of taking her baby girl and saying goodbye to her parents, losing them for what would likely be forever.

“Oh, mama…” She sighed with closed eyes as she kissed Mandy’s silky black hair.

She felt a large hand closing gently on her shoulder then, while a smaller one came to rest on her arm. Without opening her eyes Brianna knew that Roger and Jemmy had returned and stood reassuringly beside her.

“It’s alright to miss her.” Roger said softly.

Not for the first time she was surprised at how in tune with her thoughts he was, or perhaps they were just so clearly visible on her face that it was hard to miss.

“I was once used to be apart from her, to be on my own.” She said looking into his eyes. “And we had said goodbye before, so I thought it would be easier this time, but now I find myself wishing she was here with me.”

“Aye, I miss her too. Both of them actually.” He paused for a brief moment then began again nervously. “Do you regret our decision?”

“Absolutely not!” She said vehemently. “I’ll miss them for the rest of my life but will never regret this.”

Roger nodded silently, visibly relaxing, and surrounded her shoulders with his arm. He placed a tender kiss on her forehead and waited patiently for her to fully empty her mind of some of the pain he knew had roamed it for days.

“It’s just that mama’s still so vivid to me, you know?” Brianna said looking down again at her daughter. “As if we have only moved to a different place, but the fact is that right now she's-"

Dead? Gone? She could not bring herself to complete the phrase and no word seemed suitable to describe the novelty of leaving loved ones 200 years in the past. In a sense she was mourning all the people they had left behind, altogether in one dreadful, all-encompassing moment.

Silence filled the room as the three of them came together around the baby in Brianna’s arms, so lost between memories of the past and the uncertainty of the future, that they were unaware of the sound of footsteps that came towards them. The arrival of the doctor caught them off guard with the news they had all been silently praying for. Amanda was sufficiently healed already and they could finally take a healthy daughter home, and after a brief discussion they were left alone once more.

“Home?”

She heard Roger’s rough voice questioning no one in particular, as if the word itself was absolutely foreign to him in this context.

Home. A strange concept indeed. A surge of panic gripped her heart and made her hold Mandy even closer. She suddenly became painfully aware that there was no home to go back to.

Brianna looked around her. A pair of small blue eyes and another pair of green ones stared at her with that sort of innate determination that burned deep in the Mackenzie bloodline. Her frightened heart slowed down a little under their equally intense gazes and the solid weight of the baby in her arms. It dawned on her then, as clear as their love for each other that wherever, and whenever home was, at least they were together.