#and i cannot stress enough that this is unfinished. might make it into the game and might not | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

qqueenofhades · 7 years ago

Text

with hearts like wars and lips like scars

Surprise, surprise, I have officially arrived in this dumpster and there appears to be no getting out. This is my first-ever effort at writing for these two (as well as my first MCU fic, I think), so please be gentle, as I have watched ten episodes of The Punisher over three days and have a lot of emotions. I am New Here and just want to play a bit in the sandbox.

Tagging @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels, @extasiswings, and @prairiepirate because they know what they did.

Set immediately post-1x10 of TP. Rated T.

Karen takes the subway home.

It seems almost like a strange thing to do, banal, ordinary. Half of her can’t see why it shouldn’t be. Once the feds and the cops and the crime-scene cleanup crews can’t think of anything else they need to do to her, she’s politely taken Agent Madani’s card – you two have a connection, like this is some game show, maybe – and retrieved her bloodstained purse, she ducks into the bathroom long enough to be sure she won’t cause any more public hysteria, then steps out and walks to the subway. There are still plenty of flashing lights surrounding the hotel, she gets checked one more time before she can leave the police cordon, and finally, nakedly, she’s on the street, alone. She looks up at the sky, for half a second. No idea who she expects to see fly by. Iron Man?

There is some interest in the scene, and Karen gets goggled at briefly, but New Yorkers are New Yorkers, and it’s nothing they haven’t seen before. The grumbling seems mostly to be about how it’ll fuck up the evening commute, and she briefly wonders who all these people are, who she is, that they just live here and accept it as the price they have to pay. She feels dreamy and numb and oddly uncaring. She fishes her Metro card out of her purse and stands coolly on the platform in the cold drench of the fluorescents, keeps turning her head and looking too long at any tallish man in a dark hooded sweatshirt. Of course it’s not him, not since he climbed out of the roof of the elevator and she – and she –

(Karen doesn’t know how that sentence ends, and doesn’t know if she should.)

She waits until the subway pulls in, realizes too late it’s the local 1-train and not the express, and gets stuck calling all stops, until she gets off at Times Square to switch trains. There is something alluring about the idea of being lost in the crowd, nobody looking at her twice. Karen sees people more worried about the whole thing than she ever was and wonders why she doesn’t give a damn. Well, it’s not that, not exactly. Just that if you consider that she was the one grabbed by a crazed bomber and nearly blown to the same red mist that he ended up as, pulverized on the inside of an industrial freezer, she should be the one most upset. Life and death twisted between her fingers, red wire or white. She couldn’t let on. She couldn’t look down. She had to keep her eyes on Frank’s, and trust him.

She did. She does. The only one in the city again, probably. When after they’ve been subject to actual fucking alien attacks and destructive galactic warlords and whatever else, somehow one man, one loner in black, is Public Enemy Number One. It makes sense if you think about it, the way humans are, the way they’ll determinedly ignore the most ridiculous and insane shit but throw fits over the smallest thing. The headlines are ginning up to be good and hysterical. The Punisher Returns! Clear-as-day picture from cop car dashcam footage. Karen is the only one who knows it’s a lie. The Punisher didn’t return. Frank Castle left.

(Frank Castle left.)

(She closes her eyes and tries, yet again, to make her peace with that.)

It’s getting dark by the time Karen walks up to her apartment, the familiar drone of a siren going a few streets over and kids loitering on the steps. She climbs past them, digs for her keys, collects her mail, and wonders if she remembered to buy milk; she thinks she was getting low. Just getting back from a normal day at work, evidently. Nothing more.

Her phone buzzes maniacally in her bag, now that she’s out from underground and has reception again, and she finally remembers it, takes it out, and sees about forty missed calls and texts from Foggy. At least he, not being a savage, has had the decency to check up on her, since it’s probably on the news that a Bulletin reporter was caught up in the mess, and Wilson was open about targeting her. Karen thinks that while she might know a few too many vigilantes for peace of mind and quiet life, she’s just as cussedly stubborn about running into the punches. Pick your battles, pick fewer than that, that’s too many, put some back, it’s just as much her as it is Matt or Frank. She didn’t have to go on the radio and she didn’t have to defy the whole damn establishment like that, but she did. Maybe that’s why she and the other kind get along.

Karen unlocks her door and pushes it open, dropping her coat and bag on the back of the couch and shutting and bolting the door. She thumbs out a quick text to Foggy reassuring him that she’s fine, which – if the phone buzzing again thirty seconds later is any indication – doesn’t really do the trick. She picks up. “Yeah. Hey. I just got home, I’m fine.”

“I haven’t been able to get in touch with you for like, six hours.” Foggy sounds accusing. “Karen, what the hell happened? That bomber – ”

“It’s all right.” Karen toes off her heels and tucks the phone under her chin, padding into her kitchen to see what can be scraped together. “I was on the subway. And before that, they had interviews and other things they wanted to do. Like I said, I’m home now.”

“Jesus, Karen.” Poor Foggy Nelson; being friends with Matt Murdock and Karen Page is not a job for the faint of heart. He pauses before the next question, as Karen can almost hear the name being shaped in the air and knows it’s coming. “Is it true that he’s back?”

They don’t need to define “he,” though Karen feels a momentary urge toward deliberate obstinacy. She loves Foggy to death, but she doesn’t know if she wants to get into this with him. She hasn’t told either of them about her intermittent, secret meetings with Frank, the way that she told him he would be dead to her if he murdered Schoonover, and then when he improbably turned up again months later, disguised as a hobo asking for change, her only emotion was relief. She kept wondering if she might hold a grudge, but she knew fairly quickly that was a lie. She didn’t want to. She just wanted to see him again. Strange, how that always seems to be the place they end up in. Truncated. Unfinished. Unmended.

Foggy is still waiting for an answer, and Karen doesn’t know what to tell him. She opens the fridge, sees a few Chinese takeout boxes, a wilting head of lettuce, a bodega bag she stuffed in and has forgotten what’s actually in there. Maybe she can boil some pasta, there might be some in the cupboards. She opens it. To the phone she says, “The police are doing their job, I’m sure they’ll figure out everything that’s going on. Tell Matt that I’m okay.” She doesn’t want to ask if Matt noticed. She assumes he does care. She is not, however, in the mood for whatever moral high horse he would be bound to hop on in regard to Frank. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Foggy. Okay?”

With that, not leaving him a chance to point out that she never answered his question, Karen hangs up, and tosses her phone onto the counter. It spins a few times, hits the fruit bowl (or at least, what would be a fruit bowl if she ever went to the supermarket) and as she steps over and opens the cupboard in search of victuals, she catches sight of the browning roses tucked in their vase against the back wall. Their stems are dry and brittle, their petals dropping, and she should probably throw them away, but she finds her hands unexpectedly freezing. White roses. That was how he thought she should get in contact with him. Not a burner phone or anything else like that. I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy. Seriously?

Karen finds her mouth quirking up into a brief smile. Then – she doesn’t know why, but still – she impulsively grabs the vase, runs more water into it like that will suddenly bring them back to life, and sticks it in the window, where it’s visible from the street. She’ll throw them out tomorrow. She’ll make peace with it then.

She boils a little pasta, sloshes the last of the Prego béchamel sauce over it, and mixes it up in a bowl, standing at the counter to eat. As she takes a bite, the heat stings undiscovered cuts in her mouth, and she grimaces, spitting it back and breathing hah-hah-hah until the burning subsides. She’s more wary about the next forkful, but she’s hungry, and it doesn’t take long in disappearing. Then she puts the bowl in the sink – wash it tomorrow too, apparently – and checks her phone again, this time to answer messages from Ellison. No, she does not expect to miss her deadline. She avoids the question on what on earth she was thinking. She was just there to interview Senator Ori. A journalist cannot be blamed for that.

Karen walks into her bathroom, pulls her hair out of its loose knot, and lets it tumble down her shoulders. Strips off the blue silk blouse, dotted with blood, and decides that true to the emerging pattern, she will worry about how to get the stains out later. Opens her medicine cabinet, digs out Bactine and band-aids and hydrogen peroxide, and hisses and winces as she dabs at the shrapnel cuts on her face. The paramedics took care of most of them back at the hotel, but there are still a few extra. She was, after all, publicly held hostage by a terrifying killer, gun to her chin, dragged into an elevator. Can’t blame her for being shaken.

Karen sets her chin, looks at herself in the mirror, wonders if you’re supposed to cry just to release the stress hormones or however it makes you feel better, and doesn’t think she has any likelihood of weeping for herself. She strips off the skirt and the frayed pantyhose, runs a shower, and steps in, letting the water cascade over her head and shoulders until it finally turns lukewarm and she cranks it off, old pipes creaking. She wraps a towel around herself and brushes her hair until it likewise falls into a monotony. Ritual cleanliness. Lady Macbeth and her spot. Have to keep washing until it finally comes out. Karen doesn’t know why. It’s not her spot.

At last, she shakes her damp hair back, steps out of the hot steamy bathroom into the comparative shocking coldness of the hall, and goes into her bedroom to put on her pajamas. There is a strange, hollow, echoing emptiness in her chest that’s different from ordinary trauma or the receding of shock, something she doesn’t want to think about. Wants to get into bed with enough quilts to feel their weight, to be pressed down into the mattress, to sleep for a hundred years, or at least until the alarm has to go off tomorrow morning. The world will make more sense then, be settled back into place. That, and then she can –

Frank Castle is standing on her balcony.

For a long moment, for a brief and wild eternity, Karen is completely sure that she is hallucinating him. That she has somehow called him up from whatever hinterland he’s gone back to, that this is just some mirage of a stressed and tired mind, that of course she’s seeing him only because she wants to. She doesn’t know how on earth he would have gotten up here, if he was real – parkoured his ass up? It seems to fit the dramatic necessity – but then, how or why Frank does anything is usually the mootest of points. When she blinks hard a few more times and he’s still there, when he catches her eye through the glass and seems set to jump back down if it’s not what she wants, she is forced to accept that he, somehow, is actually there. She remains where she is an instant more, then shoves the window open and hisses, “Frank? What the hell, Frank!”

He grabs the frame and limbers through, elegant as a cat. He lands on his feet like one too, but he straightens up slowly and with evident pain. There’s still dried blood on the side of his head where the bullet grazed him, he’s moving carefully enough that there must be another, and Karen has a brief and confused impression of him bodily diving in front of a shotgun to ensure that wasn’t her. His shoulder looks fucked up too, and she fights the brief and pointless impulse to tell him to go to the hospital. Of course the Punisher can’t walk into St. Luke’s or wherever else, with the entire city on the lookout for him again. Wherever he’s been living, whatever urban shithole he’s stayed off the grid, who knows. And even though she should, as they stare at each other, Karen can’t tell him to go.

“What are you doing here?” she manages at last, in half a whisper. “It’s dangerous.”

Frank grunts, almost amused, as if he can’t believe she’s actually saying that to him after the day they’ve had. He does, Karen supposes, have a point, and he tips his head at the flowers. “Saw them. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Karen wants to ask how he saw them, but she gets the sense that Frank is working with somebody who has a whole lot of cameras and is not afraid to use them. They stand a few feet apart, her clean and damp and pink-faced, hair loose in shining blonde locks, warm from the shower, and him filthy and bloody and dressed in black, having climbed all the way up here with God knows what injuries just because he caught sight of a bunch of dead flowers. Karen feels absurdly guilty, as if she should have taken more care at calling him up, that she has this power and perhaps needs to go wary in how she uses it. They stare at each other a moment more, and she shakes her head. “God, you’re still a mess. Don’t you have anyone to look at that?”

“Normally a guy named Curtis would do the honors. But he got the shit kicked out of him earlier by our friend.” Frank’s mouth tightens, and he looks away. “Didn’t feel like I should impose again.”

Karen has some sense of Frank mentioning him earlier during the face-off with Wilson, something about the bomb that Curtis had been strapped to, and that they needed to pull the white wire, then and now, to stop it. A brief shudder passes over her, the fear she didn’t feel then, when it was nothing but instinct and adrenaline and the unshakeable knowledge that if she wasn’t walking away from here alive, neither was Frank. Live or die, they were doing it together, and she lets out a slow, shaky breath. Then she says, “Go sit down.”

Frank seems about to argue, smartly decides against it after a glance from her, and painfully makes his way to one of the kitchen chairs. He sits down, ready to spring up again in an instant at any sudden noise or knock, if some enterprising cop tailed him here, and Karen wonders briefly if she really should let him stay. That thought is dismissed as soon as it comes, and she goes to pull the curtains shut, then returns to the bathroom to collect her first-aid kit. Having Matt Murdock in your life means you own a decent one, and while Karen is no Claire Temple, she knows a thing or two.

She comes out with it and sets it on the kitchen counter, as Frank turns his head, regrets it, and winces. Then he says, more gravelly than usual, “Karen. You don’t have to fix me up.”

“Hold still.” Karen pulls on a pair of blue rubber gloves and tears open an antiseptic wipe, dabbing at the crusted blood along the shaved side of Frank’s undercut, as he jerks but doesn’t make a sound otherwise. The bullet has left a corrugated gash, but she should thank either his reflexes, for being fast, or his goddamn skull, for being so thick, and she holds his chin with her other hand as she works. As ordered, Frank stays unnaturally still, like a big cat in the scrub remaining motionless for a human to approach it, but she can feel his breathing. It takes almost a dozen wipes to get the blood off, and she cuts a length of gauze, folds it into a pad, and presses it into the wound. Of course, running around for hours after you’ve been shot in the head, no matter how glancingly, doesn’t help. God, he’s stubborn.

There’s no sound except the muffled thump of someone’s music from down the hall, and the hiss and sigh of the radiators. The atmosphere is strange, slow, heightened, like in the immediate aftermath of the blast when they found themselves on the floor, battered and breathless, and turned toward each other, drawn like magnets, as she reached out to touch his chest and his hand cupped her head, shielding, checking to see if she was all right, the roughness of his callused fingers tangling in her hair. Karen discovers that her throat is oddly dry, that she has to swallow, as she cuts surgical tape and tamps the gauze in place. Then she says, “What about the other one? Let me see that.”

“It’s – ” Frank shifts tersely. “Karen – ”

“You took a goddamn bullet for me,” she snaps. “Let me see.”

He blows out a frustrated breath, but reaches for his shirt and slowly peels it over his head, grimacing again as the blood-sodden fabric sticks to the wound and comes away with an unpleasant sucking sound. It’s mottled and bruised, an entry and exit hole visible on ribs and back, so at least the bullet isn’t in there; Karen is not nearly skilled enough for extraction surgery. She notices, in a sudden and matter-of-fact way, that Frank is ripped. Not that you would expect otherwise, the sort of things he does, but this is the first time she has had the chance to inspect the results at close range, and it does something to her, makes something flutter low and hot in her stomach. She looks away. She’d rather he didn’t see that.

Karen pours some disinfectant on another gauze pad and dabs at the wound, feeling like this is just window-dressing to make her feel better rather than anything about to actually help, but Frank silently tolerates her attentions. She tapes another dressing into place, looks at his shoulder, and decides that while it indeed may be partially dislocated, she isn’t sure how to put it back. It’s clearly causing him significant pain, he doesn’t need to be at a disadvantage if someone comes after him, and she’s just trying to think if she can Google “how to reset shoulder” on WebMD when Frank says, “Grab my elbow. Line it up with the joint. I’ll tell you when you have the right angle.”

She looks at him, startled, then takes hold of his arm, lifting and bracing it, as Frank wriggles around awkwardly to try to give her the correct degree of torque. “When I count three,” he says, slightly breathless, “you whip it up hard and straight, you’ll hear a pop when it goes in. Keep it at that angle. Got it?”

“Yeah.” Karen takes a better grip, adjusting the angle slightly as he beckons with his chin. She waits as Frank counts, and then on three, does as ordered, with a brief fear she’ll break his arm. There’s a horrible wet scraping sound but no pop, he swears in pain, and she lets go, with another stab of guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“No, come on,” Frank rasps. “I thought it might take a couple tries. Grab it, Karen. Good girl. Again. One – two – three – ”

This time, there’s a brief, fierce resistance, she can feel it running through the whiplash cord of his muscles and then into hers like an electrical current, and there is a grate and an undeniable pop as Frank’s shoulder snaps back into joint. He lets out a heartfelt “Fuck” of relief, massaging at his collarbone, and grimaces, blowing out a breath and dashing the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “That’s better.”

“Here.” Karen takes the ibuprofen bottle and shakes out several rust-colored pills. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything stronger.”

Frank glances at her ironically, as if in acknowledgement that she pre-empted his question, then scoops the pills up and chokes them down dry. Karen goes to get him a glass of water, which he drinks, then clears his throat. “I should – I should get going. Micro’s probably already shitting bricks about this whole thing.”

“Micro?”

“Guy I’m working with,” Frank says, not particularly helpfully, but this at least makes Karen feel briefly better that he is not attempting this damned-fool idealistic crusade completely single-handed. “He can be a goddamn mother hen sometimes.”

“Someone should look out for you.” Karen can’t quite stop herself from reaching out for him, as if to cup his cheek, though her hand doesn’t entirely get there. Frank tilts his head back, his brown eyes shadowed almost black in the crappy lights of her apartment, and their gazes meet, the undercurrent of earlier, whatever it was between them in that instant in the elevator when their foreheads touched and their mouths were close and… Karen knows about Maria, of course. Knows that Frank can’t bear to let go of his wife, not now, not with the job not done, and she doesn’t want to distract from or dishonor that. And yet.

The moment remains heightened between them, as the tip of her fingers brush ever so slightly against his jaw. It’s the briefest and most innocent of touches, but Frank tenses as if it’s been something far different. Of course nobody touches him with kindness. Nobody touches him without intending to break him, more than he already is, takes defiant pride in already being in so many pieces that they cannot do any worse. And yet, Karen thinks, that is not entirely true. If she had died today, if he had not been able to save her, something else would have broken among all his halls and halls of shattered mirrors. Something fundamental, and permanent, and painful. She doesn’t know if she wants to have that responsibility, that weight on his much-abused heart, and yet she does nonetheless.

Frank turns his head as if he’s about to kiss her fingers, like that kiss on the cheek in the darkness down by the bridge, when they met after the car accident with Madani. He stops himself, of course, if not entirely in time to disguise what he was going to do. Karen pulls her hand back, self-conscious, and he gets to his feet. “Thanks, Karen. I’ll see myself out.”

She wants to tell him that he’s an idiot, an idiot, that he doesn’t have to run alone across the city to whatever lonely bed might await down whatever miserable hole, but as well established, Karen Page knows too many vigilantes. She bites her tongue instead, wanting to at least offer him a hot shower and something to eat (what? Her pasta leftovers? Maybe she can warm up the Chinese?) but she knows he won’t accept. He’s already come all this way to see that she’s safe, she ended up taking care of him, the city is still looking for him, and he will take no chance of being caught here. But even with all this being the case, she doesn’t know how she’s just going to – well. To just let him go. Again. Always. Maybe one day that cycle will end, but it is not today. It is not now.

“Frank.” Her voice is tremulous. “Take care of yourself.”

He looks at her for a long moment, those shadowed eyes and that craggy, broken nose, that hard mouth and the jarhead buzz cut, so many hard edges somehow softened past bearing when his gaze is fixed on her, and only her. He seems about to say something else, then gives it up as a bad job. He takes half a step, reaches her, and grips the back of her head, drawing their foreheads together. They share breath, their eyelashes flutter, her lips part as if in instinctive and unspeakable need for a kiss, but Frank does not kiss her. He tilts her chin back and presses his mouth to the pulse point on her neck, raw and unformed, devoted, desperate, as if he needs, if nothing else, to feel the echoes of her living, beating heart. He holds her against him for another moment, their breathing heavy with unspoken, unshared words, and then he lets her go, with impossible tenderness. He says in a rasp, “Lock the door.”

Karen manages a tight little nod, lips pressed white, clenching her fingers into her palm until she can feel the crescent moons of her nails. She goes to the door with him, as if bidding him good night after a pleasant evening, and as he looks at her again, it takes all her effort not to kiss him then and there, Maria or no Maria, vengeance or punishment, death or dishonor. But she can’t, and he can’t, and so, somehow, she opens the door again and does not need to tell him to be careful. He steps out, and she waits until he is out of sight, and then, as ordered, she locks it. The bolt is heavy as iron in her hands.

Karen turns, and goes into her bedroom, and lies down on her bed, in the darkness. When she closes her eyes, Lewis Wilson’s maddened face swirls up behind it, until it vanishes in a bloom of ravening flame, and she opens them again with a jerk. She will get over this, she supposes. She always does. But it still takes her a while to close them again.

She sleeps. Not all that well, and broken with uneasy dreams, but she does. She is awakened, as ever, by her alarm the next morning, as if – just as she wanted – everything has snapped back into place like that reset joint, as if the world will go back to whatever normality it possesses, which seems to be quite little in this corner of Hell’s Kitchen sometimes. She gets up. She walks into the kitchen. Thinks about how she’ll get to work. Opens the cupboard, then glances over, reflexively, at the window

The dead flowers are still there. She needs to throw them out. And yet, that’s not the only thing. A fresh bouquet of white roses has been laid on the balcony, glistening with morning dew. An apology, perhaps. A goodbye. Another message. It could be anything. Who knows how long it will be before she sees him again to ask.

Karen opens the window, takes them inside. Cuts the stems and puts them in a new vase. Then gets dressed, grabs her purse and her keys, steps out of the apartment, and does not look back.

#mcu #the punisher #kastle #kastle ff

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coeurspire · 7 years ago

Note

five times kissed // only if you want to ofc ~

▌█ ❥▐ ’ & MEME. SEND ME FIVE TIMES KISSED FOR FIVE KISSES.

i am so here for this you don’t even know but now you’ll know because after two years, i’ll finally answer this

eva has been the last female friend sherry has had, and she has not seen the element mage since she has left lamia scale to resurrect ( and kill ) deliora. she is somewhat close to some of the women back at her guild, but — being in zinnia does not feel right, these days, and if another serpent gushes about how amazing sherry’s cousin is, sherry will have to scream. she does not want to scream. she does not want to be hurt or angry or both all the time. she does not want to be bitter and resentful either, but lamia scale has been her guild, her safe place. it is not a place she wants to see invaded by a member of the family who has not wanted her when she has been a child, but sherry strives to be a better person than her aunt and this means that she swallows her anger.

she is suppressing a lot of emotions, these days, but she has buried them alive in a too shallow grave. she is angry about this, too, angry that she cannot bury her emotions the way jura buries his — deep enough so that nothing can reach them.

unsurprisingly, it does not take much for her to unravel. she does not think that jenny means to push her buttons, but she does. after all — there is only so much that sherry can hold in without hurting herself, and she has long exceeded these limits. true to character, the marionette mage does not cry. tears are reserved for genuine tragedies — and piled up frustrations do not qualify. instead, everything she has never said bubbles to the surface and spills from her lips, riddled with curses and anger. happy-go-lucky, candy cotton cheerful sherry blendy is a lie, something jenny becomes acutely aware of.

but sherry feels better, feels like she can finally breathe freely again, like she can live without having to push down her feelings every other minute. there is freedom in letting out all the things that drain one’s happiness, something jura has told her a million times, but he is so good and her frustrations sometimes seem to petty for her to share them with him. she does not have these reservations when it comes to jenny, someone who seems to get how stressful it is to maintain an image.

hours later, sherry leaves behind blue pegasus, but not without offering jenny an open ear because “ you listened to me, i’ll listen to you if you ever need to rant ” and pressing a kiss against the visibly confounded woman’s cheek, gratitude radiating from the serpent’s smile.

ii.

sherry is grateful that once upon a time, she has been mentored by a grouchy older lamia mage who has never had any patience for the nonsense that all female mages were set up to compete against one another, just because most attention was on their male peers. carolina seafield has long retired, but her wise teachings have stayed with sherry — even though she has sometimes felt like she was letting down her mentor when she has struggled to bond with other female serpents. or well, at least with any snake who was not eva.

what irritates her is that people ( read: ren ) expect her to be at odds with jenny. she knows that her stellar fiance used to date the model, but sherry can barely express how little she cares about this. she would not say it out loud, but some days, she likes jenny better than she likes ren. she does not like it when someone tries to influence her judgement — and this is what ren is trying with his not-so-subtle jabs. sooner or later, she will have to have words with him about this, but for now, she is sitting in the gardens of blue pegasus with jenny and tries not to point out that the flowers she is growing in lamia’s garden are far prettier than these ones. that jura has altered the soil with his magic definitely shows, she figures.

once in a while, she questions if she is being nice to jenny because she knows that ren cannot stand it and tries not to think about the way jura has been looking at her the last time ren has come up in conversation. he worries, she knows, and she cannot say anything that would fix it, cannot fix it because he is right: love should never allow for two people to find joy in spiting one another, but this is what this relationship is, far too often.

sherry sighs. no, she does not want to think about this. ren’s lack of punctuality is already frustrating enough to deal with. she has managed to be on time despite having to come all the way from zinnia, but he does not manage to do the same despite living in this city. though — it is not all that bad, really. jenny is pleasant company and sherry likes to spend time with her. they are perhaps not quite friends yet, but the marionette mage hopes that they are getting there, slowly.

ultimately, ren appears — three hours late and visibly unprepared — and sherry rises alongside jenny who throws ren a glare, a glare that is every bit as unhappy as sherry feels. this is probably the kind of solidarity others mean when they discuss the beauty of friendship, but sherry would not know for sure. jenny is good ( probably better than sherry ) at hiding the fact that she is a human being who feels strongly, but it is no secret to sherry that she does not mind messing with ren, once in a while. thus, sherry is not too surprised when the blonde presses a kiss to her cheek before she slips away, barely managing to hide a smirk.

“ what was that about. ” ren’s voice does not sound like a question, sounds like an irritated scoff — and sherry does not care much for being snapped at.

she sighs, again, before she smirks at him. two can play a game and he has been pushing her to play along, even though she does not care for the game. “ nothing that concerns you, ” she responds before she shrugs off the arm he has thrown around her shoulders and slips into the café he has promised to take her to.

iii.

in the end, her relationship with ren does not last, but her friendship with jenny does. sherry nearly laughs about it, but laughing is a generally bad idea when one has bruised ribs and a broken nose. her last solo mission has not gone entirely as planned, but she has had worse injuries in the past. this is mostly inconvenient because she cannot do her own hair properly and she has always been … particular about her hair. most days, kora stops by in the morning to brush and braid the long curls, but she is on a mission and thus not available. today, however, sherry is not endlessly frustrated by the mess on her head because jenny has stopped by, bringing sweets and a stack of the newest gardening magazines. and because the model is a good friend, she has taken pity and put sherry’s hair into a neat bun before retrieving her own magazine from her bag and finding a spot on sherry’s couch.

sherry enjoys quiet familiarity like this. it is what she misses most desperately when she remembers that jura is slipping out of her grasp, little by little, making her wonder when she has last cradled his soul in her hands and felt safe. it is what she misses when she when the thought of eva sneaks into her brain, when she cannot smother it in time.

( funny — all of fiore associates her with love and no one ever wonders how much heartbreak all her love has brought her. )

right now, it is easy not to think about the people who have left, who are leaving. right now, she is thinking about jenny, about someone who is staying. such a strange, foreign thought — nearly everyone is leaving ( lyon has left her, despite confessing ) and yet, someone who does not have to stay is still there, making sherry nearly pray that she will stay, that she will not slip away as well.

there is a limit to the hurt she can take, and nothing good has ever come out of her going beyond her limitations. heartbreak love is the one thing that can bend her out of shape in a way she cannot recover from so easily. and of course, sherry is no stranger to loving someone dearly, to caring so much that it might very well kill her. as she flips a page in the gardening magazine, she lifts her gaze and smiles at how peaceful her friend looks.

half an hour later when she gets up to get tea from the kitchen, she hovers a little too long in the door and jenny turns towards her and reaches for her wrist, the most unreadable expression on her face. the moment stretches on — becomes a minute or an hour or the fracture of an eternity. then, jenny sighs softly and lets go, her face less of an enigma as she stands and leaves a mark of unique lipstick on sherry’s cheek, just below the bandaid covering her nose.

iv.

on good days, sherry looks in the mirror and sees no one looking back, only sees her own face. on bad days, she looks in the mirror and sees her mother’s face with her father’s eyes, sees nothing but a million missed chances. this, she decides as she turns away from the mirror, is a bad day, a very bad day. sherry is her parents’ daughter. a painfully obvious fact, truly, but one that people tend to underestimate because they have never met lily and robert blendy. if they had, they would understand. to be the daughter of two people who are just as great as they are dead is difficult. it means to always chase after something she cannot be, not unless she gives up on magic and dedicates herself to science.

( magic is science, for many people, but sherry knows that for the people who have admired her parents, it does not count. it never has, it never will. )

( it doesn’t really count for her either. )

on bad days, all sherry can think of is how tragic her parents’ death has been, not just for her. but — the greater scheme of things, the greater good, whatever. and … it feels unfair. they should not have died like this, should not have ended as unfinished stories that will never reach a proper conclusion. instead, they were abandoned projects, ideas no higher being has ever bothered to think through to the very end.

this is what she cannot not think about when the resemblance is tearing her heart to shreds. this is why her hands are shaking when they should be steady as ever, why she has to put down her makeup brush and reach for the edge of her sink, ever-so-skilled fingers clinging to the porcelain as if it is her last connection to the real world.

“ you look like you’ve seen a ghost. ” jenny’s voice — blunt, blissfully lacking in any saccharine kindness — shakes her out of the thoughts that are threatening to eat her alive once more.

sherry laughs after a too long moment of silence as she shakes her head even though she should be nodding. “ maybe, ” she says, only dimly aware that her entire body language makes no sense right now, that she has never been this out of it ever before. alright — so maybe it has been even worse than she has been possessed by dark magic, but it does not count. it never does.

next to her, an odd sound escapes jenny’s throat. it sounds — like something is dying in her throat and sherry turns her head, looks away from the ghost in the mirror and towards her friend. the blonde looks — somewhat out of place as she sighs ( an honest, soul-deep sigh ) before she throws one arm around sherry’s shoulders. “ you’ll be alright, ” she says, a welcome mixture of confidence and comfort swinging between her words. this, too, feels genuine and sherry exhales before she angles her head and presses a quiet kiss against jenny’s cheek. gratitude has seldom felt this helpless.

there have always been downsides to fame. great fortune would always inspire envy and jealousy. it was the price anyone who was someone in fiorean society paid for their standing, it was a fact sherry has long accepted. but she cannot deny the anger she feels as she sees jenny. the article has been absolutely vile, has been cruel, and sherry knows in the depths of her soul that it is harder for her to see jenny hurt than it would have been to deal with the same article, written about her.

“ i’ll stay with you, ” sherry says firmly as she closes the door behind her, slipping out of her high heels and dropping off purse and cape on the nearest chair. she nearly slips on the hardwood floor, but then she sits down next to her friend, reaching for jenny’s hands. because at the end of the day, sherry blendy does not always know what to say, but she knows that sometimes, words are not necessary. and right now, there are feelings that are difficult to wrap into words because it is just too much, too strong in her heart.

she could try, the way she usually would. she enjoys being considered eloquent a little too much, really, but — silence was a language of its own. and while it was no language she has ever mastered, she has known enough people who have. her father, all those years ago. jura, for as long as she has known him. but any words she could find would be too weak and thus untrue — and sherry is many things, but she is no liar.

“ i’ll stay as long as you want me to stay, ” she adds, pulling off one of her gloves and brushing back a strand that has successfully escaped jenny’s elaborate hairdo. how this has been possible, sherry does not really know — she can sense the sheer amount of magical hairspray that has been used to fixate this look.

there they are — dressed up to the nines for a party they will not attend, not after this. even if jenny would want to still go, sherry does not trust herself to remain calm right now. her anger has always been dark and potent, has always been venom in her mouth — and after nirvana, it has only gotten worse. if someone would test her patience tonight, she would snap. she knows this in her very soul, just like she knows that her soul is not entirely free from the shadow dark magic has cast.

( and if sherry would snap, if she would lose control, everything would be even worse. )

jenny does not answer but her shoulders lose some of their tension as sherry wraps her arms around her and holds her tightly, her eyes dry and steel and fire. she cannot bear to see despair like this, not in a friend, not in someone she loves. but she cannot do anything to fix this, cannot do anything but be there and hope that it will be enough.

“ i love you, ” the marionette mage says quietly as she presses a helpless kiss against her friend’s forehead. “ you are the best friend i’ve ever had. but i don’t know how to fix this, no matter how much i want to. ”

“ just… ” jenny sighs, her voice nearly cracking. “ just stay. ”

#belsimu #▌█ ❥▐ ' & ASK. WORD CAME THROUGH IN A LETTER.#▌█ ❥▐ ’ & SHENNY. NONE OF US WERE ANGELS.#narration tag tba.

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montpahrnah · 7 years ago

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dragon age fic recs (femslash)

FEMSLASH

MORRIGAN/FEMALE WARDEN

for it to break, by mywordsflyup

So here she is, just a little light-headed from her second cup of wine and maybe also from the blow to the head she received by a particularly ugly genlock. That has to be it. She probably has a concussion. What other possible reason could there be for the fact that she cannot keep her eyes off her?

red, by irabelas

She’s sauntering over with questions on her lips and a look in her eyes that makes Morrigan shiver with excitement, like a spell crackling by the fingertips.

in the morning, pale and blue, by mywordsflyup

It’s nice, Morrgian decides. It always is when she’s with Tabris. But moments like this one, just them alone together with no one but the forest to witness it - this is what she cherishes the most.

LELIANA/MORRIGAN

caught along the way, by mywordsflyup

Old habits die hard.

Her Own Shall Bless Her, by sunspeared

Leliana tutors Kieran in the art of larceny. Morrigan tutors Leliana in the art of simple kindness.

An Unlikely Hero, by Arbryna

Deep down, Morrigan has always known that she is little more than a pawn in her mother's schemes. Twisted and pulled every which way, she hardly knows which way is forward--until she finds herself on a path she never could have imagined, with the unlikeliest of companions.

A series of drabbles reimagining Dragon Age: Origins, with Morrigan in the role of the Hero of Ferelden.

A Dream of Red, by ChocoChipBiscuit

Morrigan: dreams, hungers, and Leliana.

The Last Thing on My Mind, by runicmagitek

Of all the events which unfolded at the Winter Palace, none of them compared to seeing a familiar face again for Leliana.

Smother, by hongmunmu

Morrigan always found Leliana too soft.

LELIANA/MARJOLAINE

five times leliana wanted to sing and the one time she couldn’t stop, by popPulchritude

She sang until the Maker came to her in a dream again and told her this was no way to live.

do cats kill songbirds? by alynshir

Someone is curious, and they must have the last word.

ANORA MAC TIR/SER CAUTHRIEN

Draw Your Swords, by faithtastic

After the defeat of the Archdemon, Ser Cauthrien follows through on a promise she made to Loghain.

all my possessions for a moment of time, by bendingwind

the end crowneth the work

Bits and pieces of a life well-lived.

FEMALE HAWKE/ISABELA

A Slash of Blue, by todisturbtheuniverse

Hawke has a small case of hero worship for Isabela: a series of ficlets spanning all three acts.

(It might be a crush. Or a powerful dollop of lust. Nothing more than that, surely.)

A Slash of Red, by todisturbtheuniverse

When Isabela washes ashore in Kirkwall, she expects to stay just long enough to grab the relic and go. There are two things she didn't count on: 1) the damned thing is hard to find, and 2) Hawke.

If I Could Only Get Your Oceanside, by acertainheight

Kinkmeme prompt: "Isabela finally gets her ship, and wants to take off to sea at once, bringing Hawke along with her. But Hawke is firmly against the idea, and after a bit of prodding, Isabela learns that Hawke is terrified of being out on the open ocean. Clearly the solution for this is crazy sex in the captain's quarters out in the harbor. Clearly." ...And so captain's-quarters-sex ensues.

Cartography of a Fist, by mautadite

“I thought I said all hands on deck.”

“Deck? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

(Hawke and Isabela on the Eastern Seas, post game.)

If the Seas Catch Fire, by QueenofEden

In all aspects of her life, Isabela has always detested uncertainty. She prides herself on her ability to be in control, to be one step ahead, to know herself even when nobody else can be assed to. Which is possibly why this whole business with Hawke has her feeling so out of sorts.

Balance Beam, by todisturbtheuniverse

Hawke's responsibilities in Kirkwall leave her too stressed for her own good. Isabela knows exactly how to help.

Close Enough to Start a War, by Arbryna

Hawke and Isabela deal with the fallout of the events at the end of Act II.

Lie Before the Wicked, by synonymouse

If Hawke had gotten to choose which of her companions would find her naked and shackled to a bed, she probably wouldn't have chosen Isabela. Of course, from Isabela's perspective, things could not have worked out better if she had planned them herself.

you are a crowded stranger, by acertainheight

Five stages of grief, and the one moment when all the rest stops mattering. (Or: the one where Isabela runs away for three years and Hawke slowly tries to put herself back together again.)

Practically Married, by appleschnapple

Isabela went missing for three years. Hawke is somewhat less than impressed.

Between Now and Then, by codenamecynic

The things she tells herself aren’t always true. She doesn’t always win. Sometimes it still hurts.

Unfurl, by starstrung

Isabela hasn’t been able to say no to Hawke yet. She should probably be worried about that. But right now, at this moment, she can’t be bothered to give a damn.

ozymandias, by acertainheight

Isabela takes the relic and never looks back; Hawke pours herself into the art of forgetting. Years later, miles from Kirkwall, they walk into the same tavern and both stop running.

A Shadow, Passing Through by todisturbtheuniverse

Hawke and Isabela enjoy a spot of people-watching in the middle of the night. Leandra makes a few assumptions.

Fools Rush In, by beyondthesea

A lot of things change after the Nightmare. After all, the number of people who have physically entered the Fade and lived to tell about it can be counted on one hand, and Hawke can't help but wonder how many times she can expect to cheat almost certain death.

Or, five times Hawke doesn't say "I love you" and one time she does.

Slowing, by cosmotronic

Wisdom doesn't always come with age, but even Isabela knows she has to stop running eventually.

there descends a bridge of light, by acertainheight

Isabela doesn't believe in ghosts, but she's never stopped believing in Hawke.

i would drink a case of you, darling by QueenWithABeeThrone

Hawke, Isabela, and four universes where they kissed.

Careening, by Zither

In her time away from Kirkwall, Isabela wrote Hawke several unsent letters.

(They’re not love letters. Not even a little bit.)

all of her history etched out at her feet, by LucyDiceKirby

Hawke's life is a mess, and Isabela is always running away, but at least she comes back when it matters.

like ripples on a blank shore, by rivaini

Later, when Isabela leaves with the relic, the memory is what pulls her back.

Blue as the Eastern Sea, by codenamecynic

She never meant to fall in love with Hawke, but some ships when launched can never seek the shore.

Playacting, by disparity

Isabela’s got three secrets that can kill you, and only the first two are daggers.

ISABELA/BETHANY

heart skipped a beat and when I caught it you were out of reach, by faithtastic

Bethany crushes on Isabela, disapproval abounds.

While It Lasts, by Stonestrewn

“Why, if it isn’t the littlest Hawke!”

The words beat down hard on you - younger sibling was always meant to be a shared position – but you shake them off along with the rainwater clinging to your hood.

“Isabela,” you say, and she raises her pint in a one-sided toast.

be the ocean where i unravel, by acertainheight

It started small enough. A laugh, a flash of a smile, a joke: Get her a night at the Blooming Rose—on me. But it didn't take very long until Bethany was in over her head. (Or: the one where Isabela takes Bethany to the Blooming Rose, and Bethany blurts out that she'd rather be with Isabela instead.)

Before the Sunrise, by Annwyd

Before leaving for the Deep Roads, Bethany seeks Isabela out. She wants to have a first time even if it's also an only time.

The Passage of Time, by Settiai

Bethany and Isabela, over the years.

Never Let Me Go, by superfluouskeys

Isabela smuggles gifts into the Circle for Bethany to find. These odds and ends quickly become her lifeline.

ISABELA/AVELINE

Another Night, by Stonestrewn

“Cap’n,” Isabela slurs, cheap liquor on her breath and laughter in her voice, “what a tall, brutish surprise. Come here often?”

“Not unless I get reports of a pantsless pirate going on wild rampages in my city.”

The Sea Takes All Who Drown, by rabbitprint

A lifetime of being self-conscious isn't easy to overcome, particularly when Aveline expects nothing but mockery.

That May Not Be Denied, by hawkwing_lb

Aveline looks the other way for Isabela, and tells herself it's the lesser of two evils.

Open Doors, by ChocoChipBiscuit

Five times Isabela bothers Aveline at the arse-end of midnight and one time Aveline returns the favor.

Make This Easy, by ziskandra

Aveline and Isabela reunite after the events of Inquisition and find themselves with some unfinished business.

ISABELA/MERRILL

The deserving kind, by Stonestrewn

“Something… Something feels wrong.” Merrill says. Her eyes dart from one end of the room to the other

“We’ve been trapped in a cave full of demons. If anything about it felt right, I’d be worried.”

(Merrill's hand in hers - it's a gamble, but Isabela's willing to take the chance.)

Anchor, by sunspeared

"I'm a nice blood mage, you see," she said. "Never a templar at my doorstep. I've only killed twenty people all this week, but they were slavers, and I was with Hawke, which everyone knows means it doesn't count--"

Merrill meets Sebastian. Sebastian meets Merrill. Isabela keeps the peace, and reaps the rewards.

Blood and salt, by Kit

Hawke makes choices all the time. Surrendering Isabela to the Arishok was a choice. Handing Fenris to Denarius was a choice.

Merrill makes a choice to get them back.

dance the warrior, by la_dissonance

Isabela has the strangest sensation, as if several layers of her skin have been stripped off. "We should go to my room," she says.

Merrill grins like the sun coming out on a cloudy day.

"To talk," Isabela clarifies.

this love came back to me, by psikeval

A reunion, in the midst of all the war.

FEMALE HAWKE/MERRILL

Pawn Becomes King, by rabbitprint

Making a pact with one demon does not provide immunity to others. In Merrill's case, the offers have only increased.

Never Again Walk Among the People, by Vongchild

There are some benefits to be found in exile, if you know where to look.

JOSEPHINE/CASSANDRA

the voice of your eyes, by madamebadger

Josephine smiles, and Cassandra smiles back with a reflexive happiness that sends warmth spiraling up from Josephine's belly to her heart. The thing it has taken her a long time to learn about Cassandra is that quite often her impatience and sarcasm are a thin layer, fragile as the skin of ice over a lake--and the emotions they conceal are as drowningly deep as that lake.

The Scent of Honeysuckle, by sqbr

Josephine thinks she's going to marry a Pentaghast. Things don't quite go according to plan.

Composition of Maps, by sunspeared

This is Ambassador Josephine Montilyet. She is the very last person in Thedas who needs someone to talk to. That is the entire point of her, so far as Cassandra can tell: to talk.

Writing love all over, by Stonestrewn

Cassandra takes the book as it is returned to her. She will not ask Josephine what she thought. She will tell her she is welcome, she will put this thing away, they will take their goodbyes and she will not instigate more of this nonsense.

“What did you think?”

Maker preserve Cassandra Pentaghast from herself.

(Sometimes she looks at Josephine and everything else in the world falls away around her.)

while spring is in the world, by madamebadger

The realization comes over Josephine with the slow warmth of the sun slipping across the room on a golden afternoon: she would like to kiss Cassandra.

In the Ink of Her Eyes, by paperiuni

Cassandra does not make herself clear, but Josephine has an excellent eye for details.

Sta(i)rs, by skybone

Time, and changes.

Faded from the Winter, by paperiuni

When Josephine arranges a Wintersend celebration, Cassandra grudgingly agrees to represent the Inquisition. All does not go smoothly.

catulllus two, by Hinterlands

"This is not without precedent," Cassandra says, woodenly, and leans in to kiss her firmly, and fully, upon the mouth.

(In which Cassandra pines, Skyhold revels, and Josephine is caught off guard.)

CASSANDRA/VIVIENNE

Heart of the Matter, by hibernate

There is a scar on Vivienne's leg. Cassandra develops a curiosity.

brave vessel, by klickitats

After the destruction of Haven, the Inquisition weathers a blizzard only to come apart at the seams. The Herald is missing, Josephine starts having visions, and Cassandra and Vivienne, separated from the others by the avalanche, must survive a journey through the Frostbacks alone.

LELIANA/CASSANDRA

near/north, by riverbanks

They’ve been dancing around each other for so long that Cassandra doesn’t know if they’d even know how to properly face one another now.

the tune without words, by madamebadger

They are a matched pair, meant to be apart, fated to be together. Where there is hope, there might be comfort.

JOSEPHINE/VIVIENNE

to be seen, feeling, by Stonestrewn

Two sensible women. A single insensible moment.

Favor, by hibernate

After the events of Trespasser, Vivienne and Josephine have an enlightening conversation.

LELIANA/JOSEPHINE

the first thread of red, by Stonestrewn

At midnight Leliana puts her lips to Josephine’s ear and whispers: “Let’s get out of here.”

Courante, by psikeval

Partners briefly advance, then retreat, and repeat these steps throughout.

Impasse, by Stonestrewn

If Josephine closes her eyes it’s as though she was back there. The walls aren’t the stern Skyhold granite but the white and gold of the Antivan ambassadorial villa. The world isn’t ending. She doesn’t know the stench of burning flesh. Leliana laughs often.

counting, by klickitats

Leliana and Josephine meet for the first time, despite Leliana's best efforts to the contrary.

Charmed, by CandidCantrix

For the kink meme prompt: "Josephine who is secretly a mage, and is just really really good at hiding it."

shine through and make it bright, by Stonestrewn

“Yvette told me nothing... Except that there were things she wasn’t allowed to tell. On the strictest orders.”

“Oh, goodness.”

“She let slip something about the two of you climbing?”

Josephine sighs. “I assume we’re here now because you want me to-”

“Tell me.”

MISC

One Step Closer, by mechanicalclock (Female Warden/Anora Mac Tir)

There was once a brave girl who had lost her parents to the war and betrayal, but then she became a hero, assembled a team of misfits, killed the monster, saved the land, and fell in love with the queen.

There was once a queen who fell in love with a hero and was afraid this love would undermine everything she'd ever worked for.

In which Anora Mac Tir learns how to love and how to be loved.

Of Dwarves and Deepstalkers, by alliterate (Lace Harding/Dalish)

Four strange things Scout Harding has seen in her travels, and one she saw right in the Inquisition's own backyard.

Memory of Distant Shores, by lea_hazel (Morrigan/Merrill)

One of the things that distinguished Darktown is that it made it very easy to spot outsiders. [...] The woman beside her was unmistakably a stranger.

Future Flowers, by Stonestrewn (Dalish/Skinner)

“Winter Palace,” Skinner says with lips curled like someone just took a shit in her mouth. “Fuck this place.”

“Yes,” Dalish replies. “Yes, let’s.”

Bloodied Knuckles, by Settiai (Female Hawke/Aveline)

If it had been any other day, nothing would have come out of it.

Lessons in Dancing, and Other Dangerous Maneuvers, by bendingwind (Lace Harding/Josephine)

It starts, as many things do, because Leliana is bored and really quite meddlesome.

Knots, by todisturbtheuniverse (Female Hawke/Isabela/Merrill)

After leaving Kirkwall, Hawke and Isabela discover that there's more than enough room for one more.

An Introduction to the Flora of the Surface, by vulpineRaconteur (Sigrun/Velanna)

When Velanna discovers a gap in Sigrun's education, she makes pains to fill it.

#dragon age #femslash #fic recs

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cohenjulia1992 · 5 years ago

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Cat Pee Jacket Cheap And Easy Ideas

This article will provide you basic answers toThis is a female cat is to discover what your cat is properly warmed.Hence, compromising the quality of our pets just as silly as choosing a type, and then apply cleaning solution, rinse thoroughly, let dry, and repeat the washing process.Cats are creatures of habit led by their owners, but easily recognized by other family members.

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Cat Peeing Little Drops

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Cat Spraying Bloody Urine

Offensive cat behavior is called a slicker brush to remove cat urine components.To begin with, you need to use their claws are constantly growing, and cats from going in, and voluntarily took over caring for your dog to go near the toilet.Hunting is also very important that when they shed their fur.If you don't know who potty trained your kitten.Atopy, Allergic Inhalant Dermatitis, and Atopic Dermatitis are terms that are altered can compete in the house.

When the cat itself account for a reference.Even if you decides to visit and eat things that you clean it thoughtfully every few days.Do humans eat where they use their back and started to bite toys and activities for your cat, too.These measures will help keep your cats natural instinct that is involved.Pour a straight solution of soap and a hooded litter box with higher sides.

#Cat Pee Jacket Cheap And Easy Ideas #Cat Peeing Toilet

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theadmiringbog · 8 years ago

Photo

Schools reward being a generalist. There is little recognition of student passion or expertise. The real world, however, does the reverse. Arnold, talking about the valedictorians said, “They’re extremely well rounded and successful, personally and professionally, but they’ve never been devoted to a single area in which they put all their passion. That is not usually a recipe for eminence.”

In his Ph.D. thesis, Mukunda applied his theory to all the U.S. presidents, evaluating which ones were filtered and which unfiltered, and whether or not they were great leaders. The results were overwhelming. His theory predicted presidential impact with an almost unheard of statistical confidence of 99 percent.

...

When I spoke to Mukunda, he said, “The difference between good leaders and great leaders is not an issue of ‘more.’ They’re fundamentally different people.”

“All of Silicon Valley is based on character defects that are rewarded uniquely in this system.”

- Po Bronson

Know thyself.

...

Many people struggle with this. They aren’t sure what their strengths are. Drucker offers a helpful definition:”What are you good at that consistently produces desired results?”

To find out what those things are, he recommends a system he calls “feedback analysis.”

Quite simply, when you undertake a project, write down what you expect to happen, then later note the results. Over time you’ll see what you do well and what you don’t.

...

Research by Gallup shows that the more hours per day you spend doing what you’re good at, the less stressed you feel and the more you laugh, smile, and feel you’re being treated with respect.

The difference between the Givers who succeed and the Givers who don’t isn’t random. Adam Grant notes that totally selfless Givers exhaust themselves helping others and get exploited by Takers, leading them to perform poorly on success metrics. There are number of things Givers can do to build limits for themselves and make sure they don’t go overboard. That two-hours-a-week volunteering? Don’t do more. Research by Sonja Lyubomirsky shows that people are happier and less stressed when they “chunk” their efforts to help others versus a relentless “sprinkling.” So by doing all their good deeds one day a week, Givers make sure assisting others doesn’t hamper their own achievements. One hundred hours a year seems to be the magic number.

Grant also points out the other ace in the hole Givers have: Matchers. They want to see good rewarded and evil punished, so Matchers go out of their way to punish Takers and protect Givers from harm. When Givers are surrounded by a coterie of Matchers, they don’t have to fear exploitation as much.

Don’t be envious

Life isn’t a zero-sum game. Just because someone else wins, that doesn’t mean you lose. Sometimes that person need the fruit and you need the peel. And sometimes the strategy that makes you lose small on this round makes you win big on the next.

Cooperate

Harvard Business School’s Deepak Malhotra number one recommendation to students is “They need to like you.” This doesn’t mean you need to give twenty-dollar bills to everyone you meet. Favors can be quite small. We also forget that something quite easy for us (a thirty-second email introduction) can have enormous payoffs for others (a new job).

As Adam Grant acknowledged, giving too much can lead to burnout. A mere two hours a week of helping others is enough to get maximum benefits, so there’s no need for guilt or for martyring yourself -- an no excuse for saying you don’t have time to help others.

David DeStenoo, head of the Social Emotions Group at Northeastern University says, “People are always trying to discern two things:

whether a potential partner can be trusted and

whether he or she is likely to be encountered again.

Answers to those two questions, far beyond anything else, will determine what any of us will be motivated to do in the moment.”

“Explanatory style”: three Ps: permanence, pervasiveness, and personalization

Pessimists tell themselves that bad events

will last a long time, or forever (I’ll never get this done)

are universal (I can’t trust any of these people)

are their own fault (I’m terrible at this)

Optimists tell themselves that bad events

are temporary (That happens occaionally, but it’sn ot a big deal)

have a specific cause and aren’t universal (When the weather is better that won’t be a problem)

are not their fault (I’m goo at this, but today wsn’t my lucky day)

A man who becomes conscious of the responsibility he bears toward a human being who affectionately waits for him, or to an unfinished work, will never be able to throw away his life. He knows the “why” for his existence, and will be able to bear almost any “how.”

- Victor Frankl

“What is to give light must endure burning.”

-- Victor Frankl

What’s the best predictor of your child’s emotional well-being? Researchers at Emory University found that whether a kid knew their family history was the number-one indicator.

It sounds morbid, but people who contemplate the end actually behave in healthier ways -- and therefore may actually live longer. It has also been shown to increase self-esteem.

The moral of Don Quixote: “If you want to be a knight, act like a knight.”

“If you are immune to boredom, there is literally nothing you cannot accomplish.”

-- David Foster Wallace

What all good games have in common: WNGF

Winnable

Novel challenges and Goals

provide Feedback

You can be sincere and score points with the boss by regularly asking how you’re doing and how can you do better. If you were the boss, and an employee regularly said, “How can I make your life easier?” what would your reaction be? Exactly.

“The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it.”

-- Henry David Thoreau

Whenever you wish you had more time, more money, etc. strategic quitting is the answer.

We act like there are no limits. When we choose an extra hour at work, we are in effect, choosing one less hour with our kids. We can’t do it all and do it well. And there will not be more time later. Time does not equal money because we can get more money.

Drucker always asks: “Is this still worth doing?” And if it isn’t, he gets rid of it so as to be able to concentrate on the few tasks that, if done with excellence, will really make a difference in the results of his own job and in the performance of his organization.

If you practice something one hour a day, that’s 27.4 years to reach the 10,000-hour mark of expertise. But what if you quit a few less important things and made it four hours a day? Now it’s 6.8 years.

There’s an easy formula that gives you an exact answer for how many dates to go on and how to pick the right person. It’s what math folks call an “optimal stopping problem.”

The two magic words are “if” and “then.” For any obstacle, just thinking, If X happens, I’ll handle it by doing Y makes a huge difference.

WOOP -- wish, outcome, obstacle, plan -- is applicable to most any of your goals, from career to relationships to exercise and weight loss.

First, you get to dream. What’s the thing you wish for?

Really crystalize it in your mind and see the outcome you desire.

Then it’s time to face reality. What obstacle is in the way?

Then address it. What’s your plan?

You wanna be a real ramblin’ earth shaker? Somebody who changes the world and gets recognized in the history books? There ain’t no two ways about it; you’re gonna need a mentor.

You might think, “I’m just trying to explain ...” But Bernstein says this is a trap. Explaining is almost always veiled dominance. You’re not trying to educate; you’re still trying to win. The subtext is, “Here’s why I am right and you are wrong.” And that is exactly what the other side will hear no matter what you say.

Ask open-ended questions. Ones that start with “what” or “how” are best because it’s very hard to answer then with just yes or no.

Label emotions

Respond to their emotions by saying “Sounds like you’re angry” or “Sounds like this really upsets you.” Neuroscience research shows that giving a name to feelings helps reduce their intensity.

Make them think

Al Bernstein likes to ask “What would you like me to do?” This forces them to consider options and think instead of just vent.

Walter sat down and counted all the people who had helped him become a success. He would call them “my forty-four.” Forty-four people.

Low self-confidence may turn you into a pessimist, but when pessimism teams-up with ambition it often produces outstanding performance. To be the very best at anything, you will need to be your harshest critic, and that is almost impossible when your starting point is high self-confidence.

-- Tomas Chamorr-Premuzic

Research shows increasing self-compassion has all the benefits of self-esteem -- but without the downsides.

As the WSJ reports, “Those who stayed very involved in meaningful careers and worked the hardest, lived the longest.” Meaningful work means doing something that’s (a) important to you and (b) something you’re good at.

“Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do. Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.”

-- Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer

Psychologists have realized that burnout isn’t just an acute overdose of stress; it’s pretty much plain ol’ clinical depression.

To be really creative, you need to step out of that hyper-focused state of tension and let your mind wander.

You need a personal definition of success. Looking around you to see if you’re succeeding is no longer a realistic option. Trying to be a relative success compared to others is dangerous. This means your level of effort and investment is determined by theirs, which keeps you running full speed ball the time to keep up. Vaguely saying you want to “be number one” isn’t remotely practical in a global competition where others are willing to go 24/7. We wanted options and flexibility. we got them. Now there are no boundaries. You can no longer look outside yourself to determine when to stop. The world will always tell you to just keep going.

“Success is something you will confront constantly in business. You will always be interpreting it against something, and that something should be your own goals and purpose.”

- Ken Hakuta

Four metrics that matter most

Happiness: having feelings of pleasure or contentment in and about your life

Achievement: achieving accomplsihments that compare favorably against similar goals others have strived for

Significance: having a positive impact on people you care about

Legacy: establishing your values or accomplishments in ways that help others find future success

Maximizing is exploring all the options, weighing them, and trying to get the best. Satisficing is thinking about what you need and picking the first thing that fulfills those needs. Satisficing is living by “good enough.”

Ellen Galinsky did a study asking kids, “If you were granted one wish and you only have one wish that could change the way your mothers or your fathers work affects your life, what would that wish be?” Most popular answer? They wished their parents were “less stressed and less tired.

Write down where each hour goes as it happens. Don’t rely on your fallible memory. Do this for a week. Where are your activities taking you? Is it where you want to go?

Note which hours are contributing to which of the big four:

Happiness

Achievement

Significance

Legacy

The only way to be realistic about what you can get done in the time you have is to schedule things on a calendar instead of making an endless list.

At least an your a day, preferably in the morning, needs to be “protected time.”

What’s the most important thing to remember when it comes to success? One word: alignment.

Success is not the result of any single quality; it’s about alignment between who you are and where you choose to be. The right skill in the right role. A good person surrounded by other good people. A story that connects you with the world in a way that keeps you going. A network that helps you, and a job that leverages your natural introversion or extroversion. A level of confidence that keeps you going while learning and forgiving yourself for the inevitable failures. A balance between the big four that creates a well-rounded life with no regrets.

Know thyself. What are your intensifiers? Are you a Giver, a Taker, or a Matcher? Are you more introverted or more extroverted? Underconfident or overconfident? Which of the big four do you naturally fulfill an which do you consistently neglect?

What’s the most important type of alignment? Being connected to a group of friends and loved ones who help you become the person you want to be. Financial success is great, but to have a successful life we need happiness. Career success doesn’t always make us happy, but the research shows that happiness does bring success.

#Barking Up the Wrong Tree #books

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thong-in-the-twist · 8 years ago

Text

In control VI

💙

//Yixing x you

Word count: 1,692

Summary: Yixing loses his grip, both on the track and in his life, and you are a countersteer he needs to go straight again

Part I II III IV V VI VII

It’s a horrible moment. Witnessing somebody struggling with a painful memory and past, impossible to atone for. Simply because there are no words to be said to such person. No way to comfort their mind, no secret method to calm their heart.

Yixing falls silent once again, and this silence is heavier than the one before – that one was at least disrupted with his crying. Now he is soundless and motionless, unseeing eyes staring into his mug.

And you don’t know how to break this silence.

So you sit there, stressed and uncomfortable, hoping that the fact he was able to get this off his chest will be comforting enough.

“Did you love her?”

The words are out of your mouth before you realize it. It’s like your body betrayed you, because you would have never said that had you had any control over your body! Such a stupid thing to say! You could have wondered, but nothing gives you the right to ask that!

Yixing looks up at you, and the pain in his face is palpable, and guilt hits you hard enough for your eyes to begin to water. He looks at you for maybe five seconds, before he looks down and takes a deep breath.

“Yes.” It’s quiet. It’s quiet, and nearly not there. If you wanted to, you could dismiss this answer as a murmur of electricity powering your fridge. But you saw his lips moving, and you saw his hand tightening on the ceramics, and you cannot overlook it.

And it breaks your heart.

He clears his throat and stands up, his chair scratching on the tiles. The sound is piercing and harsh in otherwise quiet kitchen.

“Thank you for the tea. I– I should get going.” He barely looks at you while he says that. You don’t stand up nor you say anything, and after a brief moment of hesitation, he walks out of the kitchen.

What you are doing is rude. You know it is, but you can bring yourself to see him out. You are embarrassed and at the same time his story may be a little too much for you to process.

Sound after sound reaching your ears from the hall tells you the story: he puts on his shoes, he puts on his jacket, he takes his helmet, he does a quick work with your lock, he opens the doors. Doors close, but you are still listening, drawing your leg up, to rest it on the chair, your arms encircling it. You hear his steps outside, and then after a brief moment of silence, you hear his motor reviving. You listen to him driving away, as you stare mindlessly at his unfinished tea.

You stand up only when your alarm rings. You hastily grab his mug and you pour the tea down the drain. Your hand trembles and vessel lands in your sink, a part of the edge chipping off.

You can’t get it out of your head. How could you? It’s a true information overload, and the embarrassment from having asked about her being Yixing’s love only keeps making you think about it.

You don’t even know how you guessed that he loved that woman. It could have been a stranger, it should have been a stranger, but you have set up your own trap.

It hits you later during the day, when you try to focus on your charts and reports, that you can research the accident. It must have made news.

What better way to torture yourself than to see photos of the girl, he killed by accident. The girl he loved.

It’s relatively easy to find it, even though “speedway accident” query spits back lots of irrelevant stuff like youtube videos and gifs, but when you change criteria to news – the first result has Yixing’s name. You hesitate, before you click on it.

You forgo the article itself, you skip by the video that starts playing by itself, your eyes only catching the moment when his front tire skips, and you scroll down.

The writer was of this article was merciless. Not because he blamed Yixing, or because he used harsh words to describe him. No, he was merciless, because his article featured wall photo from Yixing’s win: he still wearing his racing suit, with the golden medal haning on his neck, and flowers in his left hand, smiling brightly into camera, his other hand resting on the waist of one stunning girl.

You close the window, without scrolling down to make sure that this is the girl that wasn’t supposed to be there.

You sit in your seat idly, until your neighbor from the next cubicle says goodbye to you when it’s time to go home. Only then you move, and start packing, the bright smile of that girl haunting your thoughts.

You have no way to contact him. It only now occurs to you, but that is a major problem. Because one again he disappears into thin air, and as once before you keep vigil at night waiting for his motorcycle’s engine to pierce the quiet night.

So many times you scold yourself for asking more than he was ready to give you, for fishing for information like one would fish for a juicy gossip. Gossip was the last thing on your mind, but to him it might have sounded differently. It probably did, seeing how he doesn’t comeback.

You promised to help him, yet you skillfully scared him away.

Just like Jongdae foresaw.

Days keep getting longer, night loses its minutes – you can feel spring in the air. It’s getting warmer, plants budding. You should be feeling energized, rejuvenated, just like the world around you. But your tiredness is getting better of you.

You know that you have fallen for that biker. You’ve fallen head over heels, for the quiet, still mysterious speedway racer…

… that has yet to appear in your life since the day he disappeared from your kitchen.

It’s been weeks.

It’s been weeks, and your friends started usual intervention treatment. You haven’t told them a thing, but it’s not easy to see that something is wrong. You are always tired and you’ve lost weight. And of course the best remedy for that is making you go out and see world, checking with them café after café, restaurant after restaurant, club after club. You go, maybe not eagerly, but keen on living this motorcycle story behind you.

You cannot spend your life waiting for the day that may not even come.

But even there, between people, every motorcycle’s engine makes your head turn. Once or twice you could have sworn that you saw him passing by on his motorcycle – but the truth is: every black machine with biker clad in black seems like him to you.

But for one thing you are thankful: your friends don’t push you. They invite you out, and they make sure you come, but neither of them asks what is happening to you. They make sure that you have something to drink and/or eat, but they don’t make you join the conversation.

So you can sit with them, enjoying company, sipping on your beer, only half-heartedly focusing on their conversation – just like now. You are sitting in the salon style pub, with balcony on the second floor, where your table is situated, giving you a perfect view on what is happening below.

The pub is busy, no empty table inside, television turned on, displaying some football game. Patrons are loudly cheering, but you can’t be sure what teams are playing. Bartenders are working on their highest gear, crowd at the bar never ceasing.

Jongdae.

You sit up in your chair and check again – but you can’t be sure. When your eyes slid down the crowd his head was turned, to the side, but now that he was talking with the bartender you couldn’t be sure.

But your heart doesn’t let the thought that it might not be Jongdae pass through. It’s beating excitedly in your chest, and you shouldn’t be excited at the thought that you might be seeing Yixing’s friend that was against you meeting him, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Man at the bar gathers his four beers, and turns, and that indeed is Jongdae. He focuses on the glasses he is holding, not to spill them, and maneuvers through the crowd. You watch him intently, your heart coming up to your throat. You feel like throwing up, excited and nervous and anxious.

He is there. Yixing is sitting at the table with three other guys that you don’t recognize, but you guess that with Jongdae they form the clique that used to come to your neighborhood for weekly practice.

It takes you a mere second to decide and to stuff your pride – you announce to your table that it’s a loo time, and you stand up, and make your way downstairs.

Doubt catches you on the ground floor, your stuffed pride peering out from its confinement, but you cannot bring yourself to go back. There is a toilet sign in front of you, and that seems like a safe harbor, so you just push past their table, suddenly too scared to even glance at them, and you disappear into the toilet.

You lock yourself in the stall, annoyed and ashamed of yourself. You were so sure upstairs, so why are you backing up now?

To aggravate your annoyance even more, it takes you longer than it should to psyche yourself up for your task.

Which is simple. You just want to greet him. Nothing more. Simple “hello” will do.

So you go out, your eyes immediately finding his table, but to your dismay, Yixing is not there. Hard earned courage leaves you instantly. You won’t look for him. You won’t. You can’t.

So you just hang your head, not to look Jongdae in the eyes, as you pass the table, and you walk to your haven.

But you don’t even reach the stairs.

Because there is a hand closing on your wrist.

Because there is soft “excuse me” in your ear.

#yixing scenario #yixing scenarios #yixing imagine #yixing #lay scenarios #lay imagine #lay scenario #lay #exo scenarios #exo scenario #exo imagine #exo #In Control

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shockcity · 8 years ago

Text

HP#1 - Fugitives

Rating: E

Summary: Malfoy runs. Harry follows.

Category: M/M

Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Warnings: none

Note: this was written three years ago based on a prompt (that I cannot for the life of me find) that asked for public nudity, a sexual identity crisis, and hand cuffs. Somehow this is what came of it.

.................................

The dossier of his current field assignment sat in a beige, nondescript folder, a bright red redacted stamped at the top. It was laughing at him, probably. Everyone was laughing at him today.

Crinkled on top of it was a letter from Ron, who expressed his disappointment that Harry could not meet for their regular pub night. Robards’ memo, which initially inspired this awful assignment, lay harmlessly next to a zen garden Hermione had given him last Christmas and which Harry stuck quills in sometimes.

He groaned and dropped his head into his hands, feeling his cheeks warm with fury and embarrassment. If he wasn't sharing a cubicle with Ernie, he would have tossed the folder, his unfinished paperwork, his cold tea from this morning, hell, his entire desk across the room. Just imagining it was supremely satisfying.

As it was, no amount of stress relief was worth Ernie's complaining. He had a headache, and he'd murder a cuppa, but his debriefing had left him sick to his stomach and unable to countenance even moving an inch.

"Yes sir, that's right."

"And you were– distracted. Distracted, Potter?"

"Right, sir."

Robards looked distinctly unimpressed. "You mean to say, that you had him cornered, allowed yourself to be distracted by– what was it? Repeat it for me, Potter."

"An owl, sir."

"An owl. Was the letter that important?"

Harry fidgeted. "It was a wild owl, sir."

Robards blinked. "Right. Yes. So while you fell to pieces, Malfoy dropped the roof on your head and buggered off."

"The owl was very aggressive, sir."

"Potter." Robards scratched his eyebrow tiredly. "Answer this for me, alright? Why exactly did this department give you an assignment by yourself? After only a year of training?"

Harry didn't answer for so long that Robards turned purple and went ahead and answered himself. "There's something in the water. We've all gone mad. I will investigate this matter and you will retrain. "

He paused there as if to wait for Harry's objection, but Harry kept mum. "You will retrain," Robards repeated. "And then you will find Malfoy and bring him to Azkaban, where he bloody well belongs."

The shouting was a dismissal, so Harry went ahead and ran out of his office as quick as he could. The long walk back to his desk was filled with a heavy silence and many averted eyes. He would never hear the end of this.

And if office gossip wasn't bad enough, the owl incident and the whole 'felled by a barn' thing would be immortalised in writing through standard paperwork. He couldn't even afford to put it off for when he wasn't so done-in, given that Robards was this close to sacking him. Delaying paperwork would be the straw that broke the camel's back, indeed.

So Harry sat down at his desk and sulkily filled out the humiliating (and partially fictional) details. He would be the first to admit he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, nor very creative with his lies, but his owl excuse was beyond stupid, even for him.

The truth was that much worse, though.

He did not touch Malfoy's folder, which he had poured over for days before this awful, complete disaster of a mission. If he opened it now, he would only have to see the top sheet, which included a transcript of Harry's defense of Malfoy during his trial, and a 'Burned Down His Office' story would be added to the no-doubt already legendary 'Roof Dropped on Head' and 'Scared by an Owl' parable.

Ernie had gone home, having heard about the incident (from most of the office, though it had possibly reached Games and Sports by now and those pillocks might have told him about it while laughing their stupid heads off), and thankfully had only said, "You had better pass your retesting.” Harry didn't doubt that he would pass. Though it didn't make reporting for it any less embarrassing.

They had him in target practice first, shortly followed by the maze-like obstacle course he had passed with bells on during his recruitment days. The silly psychology test they put him through was as irritating as usual, and the Piss My Pants level's extremely malicious boggart had luckily not transformed from Dementors to a leering Malfoy. There were bets from spectators that his biggest fear had changed into a particularly hacked off screech owl, but whatever.

Harry did well, though. He was not the top of his class for nothing, and he was not the most valuable Auror just because of his unwanted political clout. Harry passed each test quite easily, much to the displeasure of Savage, who liked no one and especially didn’t like Harry.

"Healer's here, Potter," Savage sneered, handing him his scorecard.

"What for?" Harry gaped, face reddening.

"Scared of birds, aren't you? Higher ups want to make sure you aren't drinking funny potions or sommat."

As humiliating as it was, the report that Harry was not a potions-abuser made him a trifle less embarrassed. His colleagues wouldn't need to fear any incompetence due to substance abuse, that was for sure. Then he remembered why the test came about in the first place, and sort of wished it were true. Perhaps a mind-altering potion would explain what had happened with Malfoy– because Harry reckoned it was either a case of sabotage or...he really had gone off his nut.

____________________

"I know you're there," Malfoy said, inching into the shadows of the barn. A few roosting owls glared down at them, looking rather murderous. "I've had you bastards after me for months. But you're quieter than most– I'll give you that."

Harry waited. Snow clung to his knees and seeped through his boots. It pooled from the doorway in great dunes and sprinkled his hair with snowflakes. It was bloody cold and he'd been following Malfoy for three hours.

Keeping to the dark corners, he inched closer and quietly begged himself not to respond. This was difficult; Malfoy had always riled him up easily. "Are we going to play this game then? What if I run? Will you follow?"

He slunk over to the nearest cubby, just beneath the hay loft. "You smell like woodsmoke," Malfoy said casually, his wand twitching. "Woodsmoke and...lavender?"

Which was Ernie's hand lotion. Ponce, Harry thought, rolling his eyes. He hated lavender.

"Lovely," Malfoy suddenly laughed. "Come to get me smelling like your gran." Ernie was so dead- "Bet she could catch me instead, since you're having so much trouble."

Harry was unmoved. Malfoy had nothing on Greyback’s creepy smelling/commentary, and Harry had captured him too. "I'm bored now," murmured Malfoy, before he spun around to cast his first spell. It was off, and purely meant to draw him out, but Harry drove forward anyway.

His first shots, a stunning and a disarming, hit Malfoy's hasty shield. The third was stronger, a dark grey curse designed to cause a quick shock of pain and paralysis, which made Malfoy cry out. He scrambled away, the curse having hit the remnants of his shield, and turned into Harry's disarming spell. His wand went flying, and with smug nostalgia– Harry caught it.

And then things got a bit strange.

Malfoy rammed into Harry's side and brought them sprawling to the ground. Surprised, Harry's lax fingers let go of his and Malfoy's wands as they grappled with each other. Harry managed to jab his elbow into Malfoy's neck before he was forcefully pinned down. Returning the favour with an enraged howl, Malfoy’s knuckles crashed into Harry's jaw. The snow melting under his back and sinking through his robes shocked him as much as Malfoy's fist had.

"You– " the man grunted, and then stopped. "You– Potter?"

Harry kicked him in the thigh before attempting to rise from the floor. Malfoy knocked him down again, uncomfortably, for Harry was now twisted on his side and Malfoy was straddling him. "It is you, Potter! They sent you! After me! " Malfoy crowed, blood on his chin. "I'm flattered."

"You hit like a bloody girl," Harry snarled.

"At least I don't smell like one," Malfoy smirked.

Harry flung out his arm for his wand and it clattered toward him. He dug the tip into Malfoy's neck, whose eyes widened with something like appreciation. "Always the goody-goody, Potter. Don't you ever get tired of playing the hero?"

"Shut up," Harry growled, his lips already forming the stunning spell.

Daringly, Malfoy slapped his wand to the side, its tip grazing his ear, and said, "I haven't seen you in a few years, Potter. You were scrawny and ugly then. What did you do?" He leaned in. "You look good."

Taken completely aback, Harry shot his stunner and missed. Malfoy dove for his wand, narrowly avoiding Harry's blasting curse. "Come on," Malfoy poked. "Say I let you catch me after we fuck?"

In a wordless rage, Harry shot off a silent cutting curse that ricocheted off of Malfoy's shield. The spell hit the rafters, where the owls took off, screeching. One of them swooped down, claws aimed at Harry's head. He dodged, barely, just as Malfoy blasted the worn wood above him. Dust flew, and he lunged to the side as the planks fell. Harry was caught unawares as Malfoy forewent his wand again and tackled him.

They tousled on the floor, and Harry fought wildly, his face hot with frustration. Malfoy, though, seemed almost gleeful as they wrestled. Harry tried to Confound him, but he laughed and wrapped an arm around Harry's neck. He kicked out and Malfoy's laughter cut off with a faint oof.

Harry stood, swinging around and raising his wand.

Malfoy, who had hopped to his feet with a little bounce, lunged forward and wrapped an arm around Harry, turning him around violently. He flailed and almost fell, but Malfoy held him up by the waist. He grabbed Harry's hair in a harsh tug, stretching his neck back painfully– and kissed him.

It was a good kiss. Harry couldn't lie about that. All the firmness missing from girl kisses was there. All the possession even Ginny could not replicate was clear in the way that Malfoy pulled at him while holding him securely by the waist. Harry was appalled to feel Malfoy harden on his thigh. Appalled that he had a matching stiffy. For a bloke. For his childhood nemesis. Who was kissing him.

He came to his senses and shot off a stunner, but Malfoy agilely danced away, flinging an unknown curse back at him that he quickly dodged. "Bit premature, Potter. I hadn't even opened your trousers yet."

Harry yelled in anger and flung a practiced arsenal Malfoy's way. The man's eyes rounded as he dodged, shielded and reflected. He panted as Harry moved forward, dueling offensively with a casual brilliance that made Malfoy smile with satisfaction.

"Now you're dueling, Pott– " he stuttered as he slipped on Harry's freezing curse, and Harry tied him up immediately.

Standing over him, his lips grown cold after Malfoy's rather wet kiss, Harry aimed his wand right between his eyes. "I should do the world a favour and kill you," he spat.

Malfoy sneered, his arms crossed over his chest as if he were bound in a straitjacket. "Next time you see me, I might let you. After I shag you, of course."

"There won't be any shagging–"

"Yes there will. You need a thorough shagging, and admit it, we’d make a lovely sight. You're exactly my type, and I'm probably yours, considering I'm devastatingly handsome. Really, Potter, we've too much unresolved sexual tension to not be shagging."

"You're a loony," Harry gritted out, surprised to find that he was hurt as well as angry. "And a criminal. After I vouched for you, you go and...." He shook his head.

"Needs must, Potty," Malfoy said with a scowl. "Maybe next time I'll explain how even your vouching for me couldn't prevent my decline in circumstance. It's purely a social issue, really quite fascinating."

"There won't be a next time," Harry snapped.

Malfoy grinned. "There always is, for us," he said.

Harry scowled. "Stup–"

"Bombarda!"

And the barn came down on Harry's head.

_____________

His flat was dark and quiet. It hadn't bothered him before, but tonight he felt lonely and out of sorts.

For a man who was only twenty-four and at the prime of his life, Harry's home was decidedly matronly. He wasn't one for much furniture, and clutter made him nervous. Everything had its place in his flat, from his boots (which he’d tugged off and deposited by the fireplace) to his cloaks (in the cupboard, organized by most necessary: reinforced, casual, and severe weather safe).

There was a bowl of fruit on his kitchen table, a vague landscape of Cornwall over the box, and pale green curtains to go with his pale gold walls. His bed was made, his socks all knotted– his metaphorical ducks all in a row. Everything had its rightful place.

Yet Harry had never felt more lost.

He was restless, and weary. There was no comfort in his own home, no feeling of familiarity even as he picked Ron's Quidditch mags up off the floor and took his tannin stained tea mugs to the kitchen. Even with small signs of Hermione's presence, such as a quill with its tip broken and a complicated Runes book open beside it…none of it made him feel grounded. Or less lonely.

Thing was, the Malfoy case was rather personal for Harry. He'd already known that going in, and had assured Robards that it wouldn't be a problem. But all the old resentments sprang up the moment Malfoy spoke out in challenge. The moment Harry knew he had him cornered in that barn.

Not to mention that Harry had let another man, a criminal, kiss him. A Death Eater even, and an old adversary. And a complete prat. A completely male prat. Harry really didn't think it was very fair to add a sexual identity crisis to failing a very sensitive field assignment. Malfoy had probably kissed him knowing Harry would implode. Git. And he was straight, anyway. He was sort-of sometimes-what-day-is-it dating Ginny. He was not gay.

Harry dropped onto his sofa and sighed. The quiet stillness of his flat (that he swore he had never noticed before) made him want company. But everyone was probably at the pub without him. He briefly thought of joining them for the last round, but scrapped the idea as quickly as it had come. He was terrible at keeping secrets from his friends. They would know something had happened the moment they saw him.

He wanted to talk about it, but he also wanted to never talk about it again. It would be in his best interest to step away.

Yet, against his better judgement, he would be back on the Malfoy case tomorrow. And who knew when they would next come across each other or what would happen? He couldn't avoid it; Robards was loading on the pressure, and if Harry was as good at his job as his training records said, Malfoy would be in custody shortly. Right.

Meanwhile, most of the department would snigger behind their hands until Harry proved himself and brought Malfoy in. Even then Harry was sure the story probably wouldn’t be put to pasture until after he retired. Or died. Or well, maybe not even then; stories about Moody were still good for a laugh, after all.

Harry had been made a fool of, and had made a royal fool of himself. Now his career was on the line. What had he worked his fingers to the bone for? A tall-tale about an owl and a stupid Death Eater showing him up? The humour of his colleagues at his expense, because this one time, just this once, a fugitive had got the best of him? It was humiliating. Shameful. Harry was bloody buggering ashamed.

And the more he thought about it, sat on his sunken sofa with the telly off and the flat silent– the more he hated Draco Malfoy. Despised that stupid kiss. Cursed his reaction to it. Loathed that Malfoy had had the nerve to say that Harry was his type.

And what did that even mean?

Abruptly rising to his feet, Harry muttered angrily as he made his way to his bedroom. He stood in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of his dresser and tore off his robes, leaving his pressed white shirt and trousers on. He looked up, and the person in the mirror stared back.

Having never thoroughly gazed at himself, the expression in the looking glass was both surprised and wary. The first thing he noticed was that his hair was too long. It curled around his collar in a floppy mess that would put a mop to shame. Maybe Malfoy liked pulling hair. Huh. It would have to be cut.

His eyes, so like his mother's, seemed too big on his tired face, which was pale. Overworked. He was working too hard. His pub nights at The Leaky usually brought that lost colour back into his cheeks. So Malfoy liked them sickly looking, eh? He pinched blood into his face and swore he wouldn't cancel again.

His round glasses, signature in a world that knew his face so very well, did not suit him. They made him look boyish, though the contrast of his square jaw and rough cheeks hardened him a bit. If he got new glasses...would that help? Speccy gits must turn Malfoy on. Perhaps he should invest in even uglier glasses. Did such things exist?

"Fuck," Harry swore at the mirror.

He simply could not get any more unattractive. It wasn't possible. Malfoy was fucking crazy. How was he supposed to encounter that prat again without compromising his innocence? He wouldn't be able to handle anymore of those not-amazing, not-wonderful kisses.

Harry may have, just may have, had a bit of a tantrum then. But after a while he managed to exhaust himself and sulkily fall asleep, the flat still sad and empty.

The next morning he felt reasonably better about things. He'd worn the baggiest trousers he owned, tucked in his shirt and strung himself up with a belt. He wore his biggest, most shoulder-broadening cloak and took some scissors and cut all his hair off. If he'd had suspenders or a bow tie...he would have piled them on too.

Only, he didn't make it to work in his new and improved style. Hermione waylaid him, coming out of his floo with a coffee mug in her hand and her head buried in a stack of parchment. "Harry, have you see the front page this morning? This new bill– Harry! What on earth?"

He fidgeted. "What?"

"What have you done to your hair?"

He frowned. "I've cut it, is all."

"Is all? Did you do it blindfolded?"

Harry scowled at her as she put her things down and reached for his head. He moved away from her quickly. "Alright, alright," he said, fending her off. "It's not my best job, I'll admit– "

"Did Ron put you up to this? Ugh. I'll get him."

"No– " But Hermione was already shoving her head into the floo and yelling for Ron. He came stumbling out with soot on his robes, glaring at Hermione half-heartedly. "I was eating," he said.

"When are you not?" She flung an arm at Harry. "Did you put him up to this?"

Ron looked at his best friend and started to laugh.

"He didn't!" Harry defended, hot around the collar. "Hermione, leave off. I did it myself."

Ron laughed harder.

"Why would you– ? Oh, nevermind. I can fix it."

"No, don't– " but he was too late. She tapped his head with her wand smartly, and he felt his hair curl around his neck and flop about as her magic set him to rights.

"Bugger."

"Now go change, we bought all those nice clothes for you, why are you wearing that heavy old cloak? Honestly, Harry, you look like Teddy playing Aurors."

That was going too far. "I look professional!" he argued.

"Seemed a bit like you were on the wrong end of a cutting curse there, mate," Ron said mirthfully. "And Percy's already got the old windbag look down pat."

He was suddenly so utterly tired of it all that a confession exploded from his mouth like a volcanic eruption. "I'm not gay!" he shouted.

The seriousness of this confession did nothing for Ron, who immediately howled with laughter.

"Oh, Ron, be quiet! Harry, what on earth is happening here?" Hermione said, perplexed.

"I'm attracting ne'er-do-wells" he snapped, but then gazed at Hermione hopefully. She was always truthful with him, wasn't she? "Be honest, now, alright? Do I seem gay?"

"Well," she began, sounding logical. "There's no such thing as 'seeming gay'. You are what you are, regardless of how you look, or whom you attract. I think you're having a bit of a crisis, and that's perfectly alright, Harry, it's very normal– Ron, please be quiet."

"Ugh," he moaned through gritted teeth. "There's no crisis, OK?"

"Harry," Hermione got his attention patiently. "There is nothing wrong with being homosexual. It doesn't matter. Please calm down and tell me what brought this on. I promise that Ron and I will accept you, no matter what."

"This is hilarious," Ron said, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"Can you get anymore insensitive?! Your best friend is going through something very personal– ”

"Hermione, belt up," Ron interrupted. He was still looking at Harry without a bit of sympathy. "Harry, no one cares. If you want to be gay, be gay. If you don't want to be gay, don't be gay. No problem. I did like your hair that way though."

"Ron," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "I'll need you to shut up now."

Ron shrugged and shut it.

"Is this about what happened with Malfoy yesterday?" Hermione asked suddenly.

Harry's eyes went wide. "How do you know about that?" he inquired nervously.

"Ernie," Ron confessed, moving to Harry's kitchen to look for, presumably, more breakfast. "Was he the one who convinced you that you were gay, then? Bit hypocritical, innit?"

Harry frowned. "Why was Ernie even at The Leaky? You didn't invite him– "

"Er, no, he was there with Dean."

"Dean and Ernie?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Honestly, they're just friends. And yes, Ron, Ernie has friends. Harry's his friend– "

Harry squawked in disagreement.

"–and Ernie isn't of the persuasion anyway."

Ron seemed to find this completely ridiculous. "Are you joking? Ernie Macmillan is the biggest ponce there ever was. Bent as a shepherd's crook. Everyone knows."

"Ron, don't be prejudiced! Especially not now. Not in front of– "

Awkwardly, Harry smoothed down his restored hair and said nothing, not liking where the conversation was going. "I've got to go to work," he said.

"I'm not prejudiced!" Ron shot back, eating a few slices of Harry's bread. "I love poofs. Charlie is a poof. And so is Ernie."

"I have to go," Harry said again, louder. "And for the record, about losing Malfoy– in my defense, that owl probably had rabies."

This was his only means of testing the waters with Hermione, for if he asked outright whether she believed his story, she would know he had told a lie immediately.

"Of course, Harry, it must have startled you terribly," she said understandingly, and Harry was glad he was pretty sneaky when he wanted to be. "I'm sure you'll get Malfoy next time."

"Yeah, mate, no one blames you for the owl," Ron assured him. "Still funny though...."

"Ron!"

Harry floo'ed to work before he could hear anymore of their argument.

________________

Ernie dropped his report on Harry's desk. "He's gone off the map again, Harry," explaining his paper-dropping. There was ill-disguised disappointment in Ernie's eyes.

Sometimes, uncharitably, Harry wondered how the Auror Office (or anyone, really) put up with Ernie Macmillan. Of the five recruits for the year 1999, two of them were schoolmates of Harry's that he had never...grown fond of in the seven years they knew each other. Ernie Macmillan was one of them, and Zacharias Smith was another (whom he didn't have to see as much as Ernie– thank Merlin).

The surprise third recruit was Susan Bones, who Harry was very fond of indeed. She had always seemed timid to Harry, at least in comparison to her late aunt, whose ferocity had left a big impression on him. But having only been three months ahead of her in training, Harry had often sparred with her, and Susan was more than capable of holding her own. She could be scarier than her aunt too, if the situation called for it.

And then there was Neville, who Harry saw not nearly enough. He had always had a soft spot for Nev, since fourth year really– and even more so when he had stepped up so readily during the Second War. Neville was sweet, loyal, and kind. He was a good Auror and a brilliant partner during the three months they had worked together.

If I were bent, I'd go for a bloke like Nev, he thought, and then was immediately horrified.

Ernie came over and squinted at his green-tinged face suspiciously. "Are you taking mind-altering potions?" he asked.

"No," Harry snapped. "Bugger off."

"Well, there's no need to be rude."

Before he could stomp away, Harry's better nature kicked in. "Ernie, mate, so sorry. Ghastly morning. You understand. Can I ask you a question?"

Ernie sniffed. "Alright," he agreed.

Harry licked his lips. "Do I look gay to you?"

"Is this a joke, Harry? It's not very funny!" Ernie exploded. "No matter what you and your charming mates say, I am not homosexual."

He left, turning his back on Harry who threw up his hands in baffled annoyance. What had he done now? Ernie was crazy. Or perhaps Harry was the crazy one. He didn't know.

The report on Malfoy's whereabouts had him refocussing. He opened the folder slowly, as if it would bite, before immediately reprimanding himself.

You're an Auror, Potter, he thought. Enough faffing about. Harry took out a quill and began his investigation, pushing everything else to the back of his mind.

________________

Pub night was every Thursday, sometimes at the wizarding Boar and Berth, but mostly at The Leaky Cauldron. They only met at the Boar when Harry was being hounded by the press, but that had died down in the last year, so The Leaky remained their go-to local. Harry didn't often get drunk, but this pub night was different. He was sulking, because though he had a tentative lead, Harry was no closer to finding Malfoy.

"Ernie not helping, then?" asked Ron, not quite sloshed but close.

"Ernie's not on this case, you twat," Harry corrected him. The general noise of the pub lessened the harshness of his retort.

Dean heard him anyway. "Alright, Harry?"

"He's narked about Malfoy, I reckon," Ron blurted. "You know where he's at yet?"

Harry shook his head, budging up so Hermione could sit down. "I'm working on it. But right now...I don't know...sod it."

"Harry, you mustn't be so hard on yourself," she said, delivering their table's pints. Across from him, Ginny frowned and leaned over to ask Ron what had happened.

"Malfoy, Malfoy." Seamus was singing. "Good old Malfoy. You'll get him, Harry."

"Yeah. I don't know. Where did we go wrong with him?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Wasn't our fault, mate," Ron said. "It's Malfoy's choice if he wants to go to prison. The Wizegamot might have left him at least a Knut after the war, though. Never thought a Malfoy would be poorer than a Weasley."

This was depressing as bugger all, so Harry drained his pint in one go and got up.

"It's not your round," Ron reminded him, gesturing to a very nearly plastered Seamus.

"I've got it," he refused, wanting to get away from them for a moment. He ordered the drinks and waited as people pressed in from side to side. Harry suddenly caught a glimpse of the one person he wanted and didn't want to see. "Nev!"

"Hi Harry," Neville said, coming over with a smile. "How goes it solo?"

"Miss you, mate," Harry told him murkily, his tongue loose after four pints. "I'm buggered without you behind me."

This seemed like an odd thing to say, and Harry mulled it over for a moment before wincing. Neville blushed, though his eyes held only humour. "I've already had four," Harry grumbled.

"Ron slags you enough, I think," Neville laughed, clapping him on the back. "You've met Hannah– "

He lead Hannah Abbot forward, his hand on the small of her back, and Harry felt a swell of jealousy rise up. He stomped it out and moved to shake her hand. "It's been ages, Hannah!"

"It has. How are you, Harry? I hear from Susan that you're brill in the field," she complimented him very sincerely. Hannah was such a ducky, Harry thought.

"Not in the least," he said. "Join us, then?" He waved at their table.

Neville looked at Hannah before smiling at Harry apologetically. "We're on our way to that new place, by Malkins?"

"Nice one," Harry said, trying to pass off as pleased. "See you, then."

They left just as Harry's drinks came up, and he tottered off to his table. He didn't realise he was muttering until Hermione nudged him. "Was that Hannah and Neville?" she asked.

"Sure," he answered noncommittally.

"They're so sweet together.”

"Right."

If Harry wasn't gay, Neville's relationship with a woman wouldn't bother him. If Harry wasn't gay Malfoy's kiss wouldn’t be all he dreamt about in the last few days. He sighed, decided on whiskey for the rest of the night, and took Ginny home and into bed with him.

________________

Harry perched on the roof opposite the Old Billet in Leeds. His hands were frozen, and his mouth was dry. Malfoy's window was lit, his lodgings small but quaint. Ernie hadn't been completely positive that Malfoy was holed up here, but one incognito request from the pub owner and a memory charm later...and Harry was freezing his arse off waiting across the street. He was also tired, hungry and nervous.

The fact that Malfoy had looked quite...fit when he had come back to the pub did not help his current circumstances.

Harry had been on stakeouts before, some much worse than this. Yet always, always he had managed to keep a level head during them. Even Dolohov hadn't stirred this much of a response. Malfoy was different though, and had been from the start.

He was the reason Ron was almost poisoned. The reason Bill was scarred for life. He had bullied Hermione, had harassed them all through school, and had generally made a nuisance of himself for every year that Harry had known him. Malfoy was racist, cruel, and rotten to the core. It should have no bearing on his mission and on his overall opinion of Malfoy as a person, that the man was very attractive. And yet....

It wasn't as if Harry was backing out of catching the wanker. There would be arresting involved in their next meeting, he vowed that there would be. He just wished that he could maintain his professional attitude.

He needed to regain his composure, which really shouldn't have been so difficult. He was the best Auror in the goddamned department, after all. Harry was one that had outsmarted Greyback. Who had taken down Rabastan Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov– Voldemort for fuck's sake. He could do this. He was better than this.

His internal pep talk did wonders for his speed and confidence when he burst into Malfoy's room thirty minutes later. Malfoy shot up in bed, where he seemed to be smoking a pile of cigarettes in the dark, and before his wand could raise even an inch– Harry had him in a body-bind.

He smirked and moved forward. A quick stunner paralyzed the man (though his eyes were smiling, why were his eyes smiling?) and Harry less than gently levitated his body onto the floor. There had been very little noise, thankfully, and the people in the pub hadn't noticed him steal up the stairs. Smug, because the entire mess had turned out much better than expected, Harry prepared to Disapparate.

"Busby is sorry!"

As the stunning spell hit him square in the back, he thought quite self-deprecatingly that, considering his consistently rotten luck, he really shouldn't have been surprised.

________________

"How the tables turn," said a voice, rather close to his ear. He blinked his eyes open as Malfoy drew away, looking quite pleased with himself.

"Of course you have a house elf," Harry said, rolling his eyes. His wrists were tied to the bed posts, his wand gone, and the house elf in question stood beside Malfoy, tugging her ears with worry.

Malfoy smiled. "You look so good like this. I should keep you in bed. Forever. But more naked."

Busby squeaked.

"No, thank you," Harry said crossly. "Do you mind getting on with it?"

"Is that an offer?"

"You're going to memory charm me, aren't you? Maybe torture me a bit? Go on, then," he growled. "Or perhaps you like to kill now, eh Malfoy? Maybe you'll do me in. Finally make your parents proud."

Malfoy's face closed off, and the little house elf's expression was so torn that Harry turned his head to her and said, "Busby, your master is a murderer. He's going to murder me. He's a no-good, murdering bastard."

Busby tugged on her ears and began to cry. "Master Draco is telling Busby to do bad things! Busby loves Master Draco. Busby is sorry!"

"Leave her alone," Malfoy spat, angrier than Harry had seen him in a long while.

"So you'll defend your bloody house elf but poison people with your potions in the same turn?" Harry egged him on. "Ha. I don't believe it. Draco Malfoy being nice to a house elf? Bet you'll kill her too when you're done using her.”

Busby sobbed, and Harry felt guilt flood him as Malfoy seemed to have finally had enough. He slapped Harry across the face with the back of his hand. Harry hated that shite, though it did have a way of demeaning someone that Harry rather morbidly appreciated.

"Busby," Malfoy addressed his elf. "It's all right. Go home now."

"B-Busby, B-Busby is s-sorry M-master Draco. Busby is sorry!"

"It's all right now. Go on."

She popped out of the room as those dark, furious eyes glared down at him. Harry wasn't put off.

"Barty Crouch Jr. treated his house self the same way, you know. Framed her. Didn't give a Knut for her. Busby will be fine after you're sent to rot in Azkaban. She'll see how evil you are, just like Winky did Crouch," Harry told him, his voice soft.

"I'm not going anywhere," Malfoy said. "Have you forgotten that I have you at my mercy? And now you've upset me, Potter."

"Yeah, sorry."

Malfoy reached out with his wand, running it down Harry's shirt. Goose pimples rose on Harry's arms. Malfoy suddenly looked into his eyes with an intensity that disturbed him. "I didn't sell those poisons," he confided.

"Funny, quite a few witnesses say it was you," Harry scoffed, sounding more cocky than he felt.

"I sell love potions, beauty enhancers, and Polyjuice, Potter. Not poison. I do have principles."

"That's a confession. You're under arrest."

"No one's getting arrested, Potty," Malfoy huffed. "I'm not letting you up."

Harry scowled. "Then you're just going to keep me tied up here?"

"I could."

"Kill me instead."

Malfoy smirked. "No."

His arms were going to sleep, and the noise from the pub downstairs was suddenly a lot louder. No one would probably hear him screaming. "I defended you," said Harry.

Malfoy had the nerve to chuckle. He ran his finger, this time, down Harry's face, his thumb halting at Harry's bottom lip. "I never did thank you, did I? I won't, Potter. I'm not thankful. They took everything from me."

"I'm not sorry they did," he snarled, tearing his face to the side. "And I don't buy that selling illegal potions was the only way you could survive. You chose this. It's on you."

Malfoy lifted a shoulder. "That's true. It's also true that no one will hire a Death Eater. Spoken for by Saint Potter or not."

Harry frowned. "I– didn't think of that."

"No, I didn't expect you to," said Malfoy. "You could make it up to me though."

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't owe you anything."

"Ah, but you do feel guilty. Sleep with me."

Harry turned bright red. "Not even if you walked right into Azkaban yourself."

"What if I said that's exactly what I would do?"

Harry paused. The number of times Malfoy managed to surprise him was a woeful amount. "One shag and you'll turn yourself in?" he laughed. "Yeah, right."

Instead of frustrating Malfoy, it only seemed to intensify his desire. He moved so close so quickly that Harry flinched. "I would go, willingly, to Azkaban for just a taste of you. For the chance to bend you over this bed and take you. To have your lips around me– your hair in my fist. I'd leave a part of me in you that you'll try to wash out– but can't. Yes, Potter, I'd turn myself in for the chance to fuck you. Fuck you harder than you've ever been fucked before."

"You're sick," Harry gasped.

"And you're stupid. You want me. You've always wanted me. And it's your lucky day, Potter, because I'm offering. Don't you want to know what it's like? After so many years thinking about it, dreaming about it– don't you want to see if we're good together?"

"Nice to know you wank to the thought of me, Malfoy. And I'm really sorry, but I can't say I return your interest."

Malfoy leaned forward and kissed his neck, his lips skittering along Harry's pulse point. "You're in such denial, and you're so naïve," he said, putting his hand on Harry's hip. "I can help you there."

His breath tickled the hair on Harry's neck, and then he kissed Harry just as passionately as he had the first time.

And Harry couldn't help but groan when Malfoy murmured against his lips, "Do we have a deal?"

Defeated, Harry closed his eyes and breathed out, "Deal."

________________

It was just about everything Harry dreaded and dreamed of. The awkwardness of a man's...cock, going up his...arse...was thankfully softened by Malfoy's skill and Harry's extreme arousal.

He was awfully passionate, Malfoy– though Harry's own heady desire surprised him too. Harry tried not to think of the answer to Malfoy's question of whether or not they were good together. It was obvious now, anyway.

His wet dreams hadn't been too far off the mark, too. There was the desperation, and Malfoy's sharp wit, and Harry's gasping and moaning as Malfoy quite soundly dominated him. Harry was forced to admit that he really liked everything Malfoy did in bed. He also wondered if he could do those things to Malfoy in return, oblivious to the fact that he was already looking forward to a next time.

Afterward, he blamed his fucked-out mind for saying, "Why did it feel so good?"

Malfoy dragged his cigarette from his mouth and stared at him. He was sat on the edge of the bed, very naked, and very handsome looking. Harry did not admire him from his sprawled out position on the bed, equally naked. He did not. "I forget you're so stupid," Malfoy said, scraping out his smoke in an ash tray. "Do you have any self-awareness at all?"

"Alright. Don't tell me," he said, shrugging. He stretched until he felt his back pop, arms curling underneath his pillow. He got up and searched for his clothes, dressing as Malfoy eyed his bare arse.

"Was it good enough for the last shag you'll ever have?" Harry asked as Malfoy's dark gaze flickered up to meet his. A smile, sinister but appealing, crawled across Malfoy's face.

"Yes," he laughed. "Was it good for you? Must have been, if you're wondering why you suddenly like getting buggered so much. Your previous partners must have been particularly loathsome. You've got a bad taste in men, Potter, bar me of course."

His cheeks reddened, but he maintained his casual air as he dressed. "Contrary to what you might think, Malfoy, I've never let another bloke up there before." He glanced up briefly as he laced up his boots.

Malfoy's expression wobbled from surprised to lecherous. "Never?" At the negative shake of Harry's head he spouted gleefully, "Not even Weasley? You're a bottom for him, for sure. No? Not even an anonymous stranger? Or...oh dear, any of the other Death Eaters you caught?"

Harry did not like this insinuation. "You're the only one who wanted me, you perverted git," he snapped defensively.

Malfoy shook a finger at him. "Now that, I don't believe," he said. "I know a fair few who wanked to those eyes of yours. Snape was rather infamous for it– "

"Enough," Harry cut him off, feeling sick. "Are you going to dress?"

Knowing he had successfully needled him, Malfoy grinned with all of his teeth bared. "Should I?"

Harry ran a hand across his mouth tiredly. "We had a deal, Malfoy. One shag. You go to prison."

Malfoy's wand was abruptly in his hand, tapping at one cheek, his mouth still stretched in that ridiculous smile. "I don't know, Potter," he pondered. "Perhaps you shouldn't have trusted me. I think I'll simply keep you here. Have you any time I want– "

"If you mean to say you're not going to turn yourself in– "

"Of course I'm not," Malfoy said. "You'd miss me if I were in Azkaban. Or your body would, in any case. You were very loud when I came inside you."

Harry's fists clenched. "You're under arrest, Malfoy," he hissed.

Malfoy's laughter grated on Harry's nerves. Naked still, he stood and faced Harry arrogantly. "Have you forgotten so quickly? I have you at my mer–" he suddenly stopped in his search for Harry's wand, which had been stashed in his coat across the bed. "Ah."

Harry raised it and smiled. "Shall we?"

Malfoy breathed out a laugh and grinned. "Ready when you are."

"Expelliarmus!"

"Reducto!"

Malfoy managed to dodge Harry's disarming and the reducto went wide. It hit the door and blasted it outward. The pub downstairs suddenly went quiet. Harry winced, internally apologising to the Obliviators, before he was flinging spell after spell Malfoy's way. Malfoy jumped on the bed, sent a silent curse at his head and kicked him to the side. Harry stumbled, yelling, "Incendio!"

The jet of fire hit the door Malfoy was threatening to escape out of. He swung around and blasted the bed behind Harry, which knocked him down but not out. From the floor, Harry strengthened the fiery barricade as Malfoy tried futilely to put it out.

"Busby!" Malfoy shouted.

The house elf popped up beside him. "Busby is sorry!" she shrieked.

"Bloody 'effing– " Harry spat, rising to his feet and casting a stunner at the house elf.

"My house elf!" Malfoy bellowed, enraged. He shot off a very powerful, and likely very dark curse Harry's way.

He barely threw himself out of its path before Malfoy dropped his anti-apparition wards. Harry snapped his own up just as quick.

"Oh sod it," he heard Malfoy say before he flung a blasting curse at the window.

Harry charged forward just as the magical fire ate through the floor. The ground shook, splintered, and Harry had about two seconds to glare at Malfoy's grin before it broke through. He was falling, falling through the hole in the burning floor. His robes were alight. His head hit the ground hard.

Harry managed to get up, despite the painful wooziness, and tore off his smoking robes. He ran out of the vacant room he had landed in and down the stairs of the pub. A few people were grumbling as the fire alarm went off, making their slow way to the door. Harry pushed passed them and out onto the street, just as Malfoy scaled down the window with a crying Busby on his back.

"Put your trousers on!" one of the Muggles yelled at a naked Malfoy.

"You're supposed to cut 'em off before things like this happen, Rodney."

The round of laughter and jeering from the bystanders was abruptly cut off as Harry pushed them aside.

Malfoy made it down, saw Harry, and took off. Harry gave chase as the crowd hooted, his legs eating up the ground in a sprint. Malfoy was fast, even with the house elf on his back. Harry raised his wand to stun the elf again, but she looked back at him, her eyes huge and soggy...and he hesitated.

It was just enough time for her to pop away with Malfoy, taking him to where Harry could not follow. He stopped abruptly, only a kilometer or so away from the blazing pub, and stared. He had lost Malfoy. Again. And after they'd...after he’d….

Fuck.

A loud crash split the night as the top floor of the pub gave way. There was hollering, and a cloud of dust. Harry turned around and got a face full of it, most of it smoke that inched into his lungs. He coughed and stepped forward, looking at the remains of the Old Billet with wide eyes, and Harry knew he was in trouble. "Fuck me," he cursed.

"Alright, love?" one of the Muggles leered at him.

He figured he was bollocksed anyway, and so had no compunctions about hexing the man blind.

________________

Robards taking Harry off of the case was without a doubt the most humiliating part of the entire debacle. Harry could say, with some confidence, that he and Malfoy had fought well after they had shagged. It was the shagging bit that ruined any chance of his ego surviving where his innocence had not.

If he'd thought that after this fuck up, he would simply be the butt of every joke in the Auror office for a while– he was vastly disappointed. Taking the piss out of Harry had been a common pastime ever since he had joined the Aurors. Slagging he could handle, gross defamation he could ignore (Ta, Rita!) and even rampant, unfounded gossip could be waved off with a healthy bit of wry cynicism. But his fellow Aurors, who knew him to be both capable and level-headed, had a different opinion on the issue with Malfoy.

They were concerned. They asked themselves, "Has Potter lost his touch?" and "Is Potter ill?" and, "Do you think it's Voldemort jarring things loose up there?"

While their worry for him was certainly touching, Harry was less than pleased to hear them speculate on the status of his acuity (as Robards called it). His acuity, after all, had kept him from being captured and held as some sort of catamite for Malfoy. Yes, his acuity was just fine, thanks.

But no one knew the truth of it, so it wasn't like he could properly defend himself.

Harry figured he could put up with the mother-henning better than shock and outrage. Which deservedly, he should have to endure. Lying to his superiors, his friends, what was essentially his family.... He looked down at his hand, at Umbridge's scar, and scoffed.

I can tell lies if I want to, he thought childishly.

"While you're on suspension," Ernie was saying, bringing up exactly what Harry did not want to talk about. "I'll show you the ropes of Stealth and Tracking, Harry. It's really quite simple, though much of it is theoretically guesswork."

He supposed Ernie was only trying to cheer him up. The bastard.

"Er, I might be busy with paperwork, Ern. For the foreseeable future, looks like." He glared at the stack of parchment a shamelessly cheerful Robards had dropped off at his desk.

And that rankled too. While certainly many of Harry's colleagues were worried for his mental health, they had been awful quick to turn in backlogged paperwork to subsidize this cruel and unusual form of punishment. Wankers.

"Oh, you'll be finished in a week at the most, and you're grounded for two, you know. Plenty of time," Ernie contradicted tactlessly. "Perhaps you might find research– or, as your mates call it parchment-pushing– a more exciting endeavor than fieldwork. It's just as invigorating, I assure you."

Harry hated him.

"You don't hate him Harry, honestly," Hermione scolded at the Boar later that night. "I think you're only angry at yourself."

Ron and Seamus were gawking rather shamelessly at a girl waiting at the bar. Hermione paused to smack them none-too-gently. "It's only a matter of time. Malfoy will be caught, and then you'll feel much better, you'll see. It's just that this case is rather personal for you...it's not about your capability as an Auror."

"Right," Harry said. "But that shouldn't matter, should it? I've got a job to do, haven't I?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You're so difficult, Harry, really."

"I could have told you that, Hermione," Neville interrupted, sidling up behind them with Hannah peeping over his shoulder. Harry groaned. "Six years in a dorm with both him and Ron is enough for a lifetime."

Ron blew a bubble in his pint and mumbled, "Trevor."

The atmosphere dropped from friendly to gloomy. "Oi," Harry shouted at Ron. "We're not talking about it!"

Hermione was glaring at Ron as well, though her disappointment seemed to work on her boyfriend better than Harry's yelling. "Sorry, Nev," Ron said, patting him on the arm. "We all miss Trevor."

Seamus sniggered into his hand.

"He lived a long time for a toad, mate," Harry told him sympathetically, after kicking Seamus underneath the table. "And he was the best bloody toad I've ever known."

"How many toads have you known, then, Harry?" Seamus burst out laughing. "Besides Trevor and Umbridge, who else?"

"Awww," the lot of them moaned gleefully, and Harry was happy to see Neville grin. "Wands away! There will be no need to wank. That means you Mr Finnegan!" said Ron.

"As per the terms of educational decree number three hundred and ninety-four, as approved by the Minister of Magic," Dean said in a high-pitched voice. "Seamus Finnegan's hand must not be within eight inches of his cock."

Hermione threw a napkin at him as even Neville joined the hubbub, "You applied first for the Defense Against Dark Arts post, is that correct? But you were unsuccessful? Could it be that your cock was too small?"

"Obviously," they all said, mimicking old Snape's tone as best they could. They all burst into laughter, annoying the group next to them enough that they took their pints and moved.

Neville didn't stay for long after that, though he reassured them that it had nothing whatsoever to do with Trevor. He told them of his and Hannah's plans for the night, which included much cuddling and overall jealousy on Harry's part. They simmered down when he left, though Ron was intent on telling a very vulgar joke to Dean and Seamus, and as quiet as he was trying to be– five rounds guaranteed that everyone heard him.

Harry, sitting next to Hermione, pretended not to listen so that he wouldn't laugh at anything offensive. She could hit hard, Hermione. "What was that about, Harry?" she whispered to him.

He was confused for a moment and blinked at her vacantly, before realising what she meant. He blushed. "What was what?"

"You staring at Neville," she answered huffily. "And if looks could kill, Harry, you'd be hiding Hannah's body by now."

He traced the edge of his damp pint glass. "I don't know what you mean," he denied.

"You're an awful liar," Hermione said. "You fancy him."

"Say it a bit louder, would you?"

"Those drunken idiots haven't heard a thing. You do fancy him. Oh, Harry– !"

He closed his eyes briefly before turning to scowl at her. "Hermione, I respect him is all. He's a good friend, alright? And I just don't think Hannah's right for him."

"But Hannah's lovely," she argued.

"Hannah's daft."

"Harry!" she snapped, her patience wearing fast. "You like her! You've always liked her! I know you're jealous, and maybe a bit heartbroken, and I am sorry, but be nice."

Harry rubbed his forehead angrily, glad that the pub was too loud for them to be overheard. "Don't tell me how I feel, Hermione," he mumbled crossly.

"Then don't lie to me," she said with equal waspishness. But then her expression suddenly changed into something like pity. "Harry, this isn't like you. You've never said you've fancied men before, is that why you're so unhappy–? "

"Yeah well, there's lots you don't know about me," he interrupted furiously. "I've even been with one."

She blinked in shock. "When? How?"

"Well, when two blokes really fancy each other– " he began snidely.

"Fine, then," Hermione sniffed. "But Neville's with Hannah, Harry, and I don't want to hear any more disparaging comments about it."

Harry was furious with her, but he was more angry with himself for letting Hermione see him all green-eyed over Neville and Hannah. In fact, he was the daft one for ever thinking he could hide anything from her at all. There's no use in hiding, he thought, she'll always find out eventually. So bugger it.

"Malfoy arsed me," he admitted.

Instead of alarming her more than his confession of sometimes-sort-of fancying his own sex, she only sighed in resignation. His head popped up from his appraisal of the table as she said, "Harry, I know what happened with Malfoy has upset you, but there's no need to take it out on your friends."

He managed not to gape at her.

"And who knows?" she went on, patting his hand. "Two weeks without fieldwork might do you some good."

For the smartest witch of her age, sometimes Hermione wasn't all that bright. Harry finished off his beer and wondered if that was a good thing or not.

________________

When Harry arrived at the Ministry on Monday, there was not much besides a fresh cup of tea to look forward to. The promise of two weeks of boredom sat at his desk in the form of paperwork. Along with that, he was doomed to listen to tales of the exciting lives of the Auror's not on suspension, to desk gossip about who's shagging who, and Robards giggling at his expense from inside his office.

"Good morning, Harry. Tea?"

And Ernie, of course, who enjoyed filing and memo-ing and lavender-hand-lotioning. Fantastic. He took the cuppa with a grumble, burning the inside of his mouth when he drank too fast.

"Er, Ernie, mate," he said, carefully putting his tea on his desk. "Don't you take yours with no milk?"

Ernie frowned and glanced at the cup. "Did I get it wrong?"

Harry shrugged, sorry to have brought it up. "Yeah, mate. I think you've given me yours," he explained. "No worries, though. It's not half-bad."

Rather than coming off as less of a prick for mentioning it kindly (he and Ernie had been getting tea for each other for how long now? Honestly) he must have sounded like a right ungrateful twat because Ernie scowled. "Well, suppose you get us our tea next time?"

Harry usually did, but there was no use arguing.

"I've compiled a packet of documents for you, in any case," said Ernie, huffing. "It may seem daunting, Harry, but you've two good weeks to learn the trade. It's wonderful to have a protege again. The last was Susan, you remember. Very bright– "

Ernie babbled as Harry helplessly raised his eyes upward. Dumbledore, he thought, Sirius...you dead lot. Platform Nine and Three Quarters, come in. Help. Good god, help me.

He had a feeling they were laughing. He also hoped that they hadn't...observed the circumstances that had gotten him on suspension. Merlin it was too early for his head to be this fucked up.

The bustling wee hours of the morning eventually died down. Ernie and Harry, in their lone cubicle, watched the other Aurors leave. Harry's gaze might have been a bit wistful. Robards retreated into his office, carefully not looking at Harry as his door slammed shut. Laughter could be heard from within.

"–and while stealth stratagem is universally important for each Auror in the department to grasp, when coupled with tracking– a truly essential part of the operation– there must be intellectuals at the helm, comprised of true masters of clear deduction and analysis," Ernie went on and on and on.

"Indubitably, Mr Holmes," Harry muttered. "How was he never a Ravenclaw? Poor puffs. Just five minutes of silence, is all I ask. When does he sleep."

Ernie, unfortunately, caught some of that. "I see," he said, doing a rather good McGonagall impression. Harry was surprised when there was no cries of 'you know very well I was a not-gay Hufflepuff!' when Ernie only said, "Come with me, Harry."

Tormented as he was, Harry got up and followed just to save him more agony later. "So…how's the Malfoy case?" he couldn't help but ask as they walked through the near-empty department.

"You're off that case, Harry," Ernie said carefully, eyeing him. "It's Susan and Zachariah’s mission now."

"Did Robards say I couldn't keep tabs on it?" he couldn't help but snap.

Ernie bit his lip. "No, he didn't," he answered. "But I think it's best if we let our minds and bodies embrace new beginnings. Brooding upon ones past mistakes can be...detrimental in the workplace."

That's it, Harry decided. Ernie Macmillan was going to die.

They arrived in a room stacked from top to bottom with cabinets. "This is our archive of past cases," Ernie said, waving a hand as if showing off a kingdom. "Every file on every offender known to our Majestic Ministry is in this room. Fascinating, isn't it, Harry?"

"You're really laying it on thick," Harry said, so frustrated he could barely speak.

"I am, aren't I?" Ernie laughed. Harry took a step back, wondering if potions abuse was actually pretty common in their office. An owl and a house elf foiling a capture shouldn't have been too unusual if Ernie was calling things majestic. "But it's spot on, right?"

And then Harry knew. His wand was in his hand, leveling with Ernie's nose, and he could feel the tip of not-Ernie's own wand pointing at the space between his ribs.

"Cheers," Harry said softly. "That was well done."

"I should get an award or something," person-who-was-not-Ernie said.

"Where is he?" Harry growled.

"He's fine.” The imposter shrugged off his concern. "Despite how obnoxious he is. How do you stand it? Even I'm not that much of a ponce."

"He says he's not gay," Harry relayed, his wand twitching very slightly. "What are you playing at Malfoy?"

"You're clever sometimes, Potter, and I'm happy to hear that I've not got competition," Malfoy chuckled. "At least I hope so. You're not looking to shag Macmillan, are you?"

"Ugh."

Malfoy grinned with Ernie's face. "I won't kiss you just yet then."

"Yeah, sure. You know you've a lot of nerve coming here," Harry told him, backing away from the cabinets and into the free space where he could move. "How do you suppose you'll get out of here alive, then?"

Malfoy took a step forward. "With your help, of course, Harry," he answered, smiling maliciously. "I was very disappointed when instead of you shadowing me in Aberdeen, it was two incompetents on my tail. No matter. I easily lost them. They'll come back downtrodden enough that your reputation should repair itself."

Harry tried not to let the relief show on his face, but judging by Malfoy's laugh– he hadn't done very well. "Eager to be after me again?" he asked amusedly. "Happily, it's mutual."

"I can tell," Harry mocked, raising an eyebrow. "Going so far as to Polyjuice yourself to see me? To walk into the very place that would have your head on a pike? We are a bit desperate, aren't we?"

Malfoy didn't lose his predatory smile. "You are exquisite," he flattered needlessly. "Shall I tell you what I want?"

"You’re at wand-point, Malfoy, so I would really watch what comes out of your mouth next."

"I think we'll agree to disagree." Malfoy smiled. "Now listen, Potter, you'll have your chance to defend yourself later. Right now, I'd like to fuck you, preferably when this potion wears off in about three minutes. I want to fuck you on top of my criminal record. I simply have to do it or I'll die."

Harry gave a shocked laugh, but Malfoy ignored him.

"Then after we've shagged, I want you to watch as I retake Macmillan's face. I want you to watch as I leave this room and walk out of the Ministry untouched. Watch as I thwart the less-than-worthy Aurors Robards will send after me, again and again. Until the only one left is you. Because I want you to chase me, all your live-long days, obsessed with the thought that one day you might succeed."

Harry listened intently as he finished. "Why the fucking hell would I do that?" he snapped, his wand rising a little more. "You're mental."

"Why?" Malfoy repeated, moving so close that only a hair's breadth lay between Harry's wand and his cheek. "Because your department of bumbling idiots are nothing on you. Because Robards doesn't respect you– he's made your life difficult ever since you came under his command. Because your cubicle mate is a unrelenting, girly-smelling prick. Because being with me is a lovely, sordid secret that you want so badly it hurts."

Malfoy was whispering in his ear, and Harry's wand had lowered. "Because you want to give the entire Wizarding World two fingers. Because you're desperately unhappy and want nothing more than to leave all this behind. And because, most importantly, Harry, you want me."

Harry exhaled.

Malfoy's eyebrow rose.

"Yeah," huffed Harry. "Alright."

....................................

It was messy and sticky and entirely hazardous to everything he had worked so hard for in the past three years. His reputation. His career. His delusion that he was just a normal man in a maybe not so normal world. But it felt good. So damn good.

"Fuck...god..." he groaned and tried not to scream as Malfoy pounded into him.

Malfoy’s head was tipped skyward, lost in his own pleasure; the remnants of his smug smirk still evident on his slack, sweaty face. They hadn't quite managed to do it on Malfoy's records, though Harry could see the edges of it peeking out from under his thigh. His face was on top Bellatrix's closed file, though, and that might have been even better.

Harry wondered what he came on, when the pleasure rushed through him and he finally climaxed. His writhing set Malfoy off too, and Harry craned his neck around to watch him. A long, drawn-out moan completed Malfoy's concert of noises.

He indulged in the sight of it, as magnificent as it was. "Just for that, I’ll try to get you a lighter sentence, Draco," he half-joked.

"Potter," he panted, licking a stripe down Harry's neck. "You called me - hold on. What?"

Harry twisted his arm backward and said, "Stupefy."

Malfoy's expression, frozen by Harry's spell, did not look surprised.

...........................

"I want to talk to Potter," he was saying, over and over and sometimes interrupting Robards, who was as red as a tomato.

"–an attorney will be provided to you during your expedited trial in front of a full court, per Wizengamot Regulation, though a full confession during interrogation upon capture may result in a lighter sentence. Your behaviour now will be taken into consideration should you decide to cooperate, or prove helpful to any ongoing investigations," Robards finished, struggling to remain professional.

Malfoy did not touch the parchments handed to him. "I want to talk to Potter," he repeated, amused at Robards frustration.

"I will be interrogating you, Malfoy!"

"I thought the arresting officer generally did the questioning," he said snarkily. "And he did get me, you know. As much as it hacks you off."

Robards growled.

"I want to talk to Potter."

The man stormed away and Malfoy made himself comfortable. He waited only a few minutes before the Head Auror shoved Potter into the room, who looked delightfully flushed and not a little nervous. "Alright," Harry said, taking out his wand and sitting across from him. "You wanted me."

"Put up a ward," Malfoy demanded, tapping his fingers on the table.

Harry looked at him suspiciously but complied. "Now what? They'll ask what you've said to me after, idiot. And you'd better hope, for your sake, that no one can read lips."

"I wouldn't expect that much competence from your fellow Aurors," Malfoy smirked. "Anyway, I'm glad you're here. As it happens, I'm in a bit of a bind."

Harry couldn't help but grin. "I noticed."

"See, I've had a thought. If I tell the truth like those prats want me to, I'll be kissing and telling, as it were. They'll put me away and I'll never shag you again."

"Fancy that," Harry laughed.

"But if I tell them what we got up to," he went on, and paused to watch Harry pale a bit. "You'll be ruined. Humiliated. I'll be put away and you'll be on every headline from here to Timbuktu, and of course– I'll never shag you again."

"Either way I'd say you're fucked."

Malfoy leaned forward across the table. "That's the rub, isn't it? I won't be fucked. If I go away, Potter, you can live your silly little life for as long as it takes you to come to terms with the fact that you like cock. My cock, specifically. The other option forces you to face it, but as a coward, because I'm the one who has to confess for you. Either way you're the one that's fucked, Potter. Haven't you realised?"

Harry had, but he wasn't about to let the man know. Nor would he mention that the prospect of being found out, however inevitable, frightened Harry more than Voldemort had. "What do you want?" he asked.

"A pardon."

"Not going to happen. And I won't help you escape, either. I've told them about your house elf."

"Of course," Malfoy shrugged. "A shorter sentence then. Two years."

"You think I can do that?" Harry snapped. "I'm not as politically powerful as you seem to think, Malfoy."

Malfoy chuckled. "Are you so sure?"

"You also deserve to be locked away for the rest of your miserable life."

"And you deserve better than the life they want you to live."

Harry bit his lip. "I'll see what I can do," he decided.

When he walked out he was immediately set upon by a furious Robards. "Well?" the man demanded.

"He says he didn't sell the poisons," Harry told him, also addressing the Aurors behind Robards large shoulders at the last minute. "Says he only specializes in love potions and Polyjuice. Claims he never murdered anyone."

"Load of bollocks, then," Robards scoffed. "Suppose we'll need some Veritiserum. Have Kingsley sign off on it, Potter. Let's see Malfoy get out of this one."

....................................

"Good on you, mate," Ron congratulated, raising a toast to Harry when he'd sat down. "Saved Ernie's arse, though, suppose he owes you a day of silence."

"If that’s your price, Ron, then you owe me thirteen years worth of silence," Hermione said, whipping about in her seat to glare at him.

Ginny laughed at Ron's disgruntled face before turning to Harry. "Cheers, though, Harry," she said, tapping his glass. "Maybe now you'll be a bit nicer."

"Less like a Wanga Wanga bird, anyway," Seamus piped in, drunk and stupid.

"Whassat?"

"Bird what runs around in circles 'till his head disappears up his arse."

Harry laughed, though he was inclined to warn them that his mood was unlikely to improve. "I wouldn't count on it," he said. "Formal interrogation tomorrow."

"Heard from Ernie that Malfoy's saying he didn't do it," Ron said.

Harry sighed. "Don't they all? And Ernie has a great big fat mouth."

"He's all right," Dean put in. "He has nothing but nice things to say about you, Harry."

"Can't imagine why," Harry retorted hotly. "What's he been saying?"

Dean shrugged. "That he'd do you, if he was bent. Personally I don't see the appeal."

Harry glowered at him hatefully.

"S'all right, Harry," Ron said. "If you were a girl I'd show you a good time."

Hermione cleared her throat.

"With Hermione's permission of course."

"Yeah, well, I'm not gay," he grumbled.

Ginny patted Harry's hand. "It's ok. You'd make a very ugly girl."

"Passably ugly," Dean amended.

"Possibly a bit nice. Flatty but fitty. I'd do her...er, him," Seamus added. "I accept you, mate."

"All right, sod you lot," Harry snapped at them.

"Ah, Harry," Seamus cooed. "We love you. Even if you are bent."

Harry scowled into his pint. "Fucking bastards," he said with real heat. Hermione was the only one who heard it for what it was.

She looked to him concernedly, and Harry cursed himself for getting so angry in front of her. She didn't question him though, much to his surprise. She only said, "When all this is over, I expect you to tell me what was happening to make you so upset."

He glared at her, but appreciated her dropping the subject. When Ginny raised an eyebrow, silently asking if they were on, Harry shook his head. He went home a bit more drunk than usual, took a paracetamol, and went to bed – alone. Contrary to what Hermione believed, Harry had the feeling none of this would be over, any time soon.

...................................

He had never been so bloody nervous in his life.

"State your name."

"Draco Lucius Malfoy."

"Residence?"

"On the lam."

Robards looked up, but Malfoy's face was still slack and vacant. Harry twisted his shirt in his hands.

"Did you distribute weedosoros and bloodroot to Allium's Apothecary?"

"No."

Harry let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Did you have anyone else distribute weedosoros and bloodroot to Allium's Apothecary for you?"

"No."

Harry bit at his lips as Robards went on, "Have you ever illegally brewed weedosoros and/or bloodroot?"

"No."

"Have you done anything illegal or approaching illegal in the last year?"

Harry's mouth dropped open. "Sir! You can't– " but Robards ignored him. Not only was this grossly unlawful, Malfoy could confess about...recent crimes. Like Harry being his...conquest.

"Yes."

Robards' eyes narrowed. "Clarify, if you please."

"Public nudity."

"Excuse me?"

"Public nudity."

"Wh– " Robards was speechless, and Harry found himself trying very hard not to laugh.

"Take him away," Robards finally snapped, looking livid.

Malfoy wasn't in the clear. They had him on illegal Polyjuice and love potion possession with the intent to sell, as well as resisting arrest. It wasn't as though he'd come out of this one on top, so Harry should be pleased, but some part of him was rather indignant on Malfoy's behalf. He had not been treated well by the Aurors, and Robards’ behaviour alone bordered on unethical. It didn't seem fair that Malfoy would go back to prison, now that Harry knew him a bit better. Harry met Draco's eyes as they dragged him out of the interrogation room, but there was no anger there. No fear.

Instead he only smiled at Harry, and winked.

.....................................

Ernie was seething. "Only three years!" he hissed. "Of all the injustices! Malfoy claimed he was reformed. Reformed! Ha! He should be locked up for the rest of his life. It's a travesty! I can hardly stand it!"

But Harry could not sympathize. He was confused and he wasn't quite sure why.

"Make sure you escort that filth to the bowels of hell," Ernie went on. "Give him to a Dementor. No one will mind."

Harry told him to shut it. He would escort Malfoy to prison in a very dignified manner instead, because that was his job. Not because he liked the prat. Not at all.

Except when he went the next morning to make the transfer, he found the entire department in a hubbub. “Malfoy’s escaped!” Ernie told him, looking as if the world had ended.

A slow smile crept across Harry’s face. “Has he?”

Ernie would never forgive him, but Harry simply couldn't help it and started to laugh.

.................................

Harry wasn't surprised to find a note at his desk, pinned to the top of Malfoy's dossier.

Here we are again, it said. Come find me, Potter, and arrest me or give them the two fingers. It’s your choice, but you know which one I’m hoping for.

In such a short time, his life had changed completely. Harry had explored, however briefly, a part of himself untapped. He had fought against it; had shouted and denied, and yet here, now, with Malfoy's challenge at hand…he'd never felt more alive. He was just beginning to understand himself– to understand his needs and desires, and for the first time it felt freeing rather than frightening. It was a relief. He didn't have to be unhappy. This was a good thing.

And what Draco had said was true. It was his choice. He deserved to acknowledge his true self without fear. He deserved to live a better life than what they wanted him to live. He deserved the gift this little note was giving him.

So Malfoy ran.

And Harry followed.

#HP1 #hp fic #drarry #HP prompts #very old stuff

2 notes · View notes

chelseyroseblog · 7 years ago

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10 STEPS TO SELF DISCIPLINE

Hi Princess!

Man I am just having a full freaking circle moment right now. I'm currently at home with the house to myself and I've just spent the last 2 hours cleaning, organizing, and planning...and canceling plans for tonight that I actually was SO excited for.

[I was planning on going to FORMA in Santa Monica area with two girls that I used to work with for some BOMB ASS din din, but there were two problems...]

Their menu doesn't really match up with my weight goals right now annnnd

I knew that if I went, then I wouldn't get this blog post done and I already PROMISED myself that 1-2 new blog posts would be going out every week.

So now, here I am, listening to this Spotify playlist, drinking my celcius, and jotting down notes and quotes about success and self discipline.

Then a light bulb went off....mayyybe I should write a post about self discipline?!...GENIUS.

Half the time when I have self discipline, I don't even think about it. Actually I would say that that happens more than half the time, which is nice.

For example when I cancelled my plans for this evening, there were 2 people that looked at me all wide eyed when I told them why I cancelled and said "Wow, talk about self discipline", and "Holy shit I would do anything for that kind if self discipline". Hahah but I didn't even think twice about it.

And then I really started thinking about it and realized that actually a ton of people have told me I have some kind of insane ability to discipline myself. Whether it's walking by the desserts at work and not grabbing any, or only having 1 piece of licorice instead of 12, or when I turn down a day time pool party because I have unfinished shit on my calendar.

Whatever. I gotta do what I gotta do ya know? But as I get older I'm really starting to see that this isn't as common amongst the majority of other people.

When I think about how I developed self discipline I basically just pull out the archive of alllllll the things my parents had me do when I was growing up.

I was in Taekwondo until I was a black belt and I played soccer into high school so from a young age I always had some kind of coach whether it was in school or at home. I think a lot of discipline came from the combination of the two.

If I was hungover at a game then my punishment was playing the entire 90 minutes as left mid in 90-degree heat. (Mainly because I couldn't tell anyone I was hungover and sucked at lying...still do).

If I got a C, I was grounded. If I didn't go to work, I wasn't given money from my parents. If I forgot to take the trash out to to street I was hit with a text that the next time I forgot, the trash would be laid out in my bed haha soooo I didn't forget. ever. again.

That one may have been a bit of a lie on my parents' end but once people start following through with consequences, you start to believe them...quick.

And if I ever wanted anything...I had to work for it. My parents had me paying my phone bill, car payments, gas, and insurance before I moved out at 20 years old and I have never asked them to loan me money since I've moved to LA. And when I wanted to go on a $500.00 S.W.A.T. trip to Tahoe (S.W.A.T. was the BEST. If you know, you know.) when I was 16, I was allowed to go, but I had to work for the money and save up.

The point of all of this is that I was raised knowing that I have to work for what I want, nothing will be handed to me, and If I mess up, it's my ass on the line.

Growing up I wanted to stab someone because I had THE MOST chores out of all of my friends, was grounded the most, and worked the most haha BUT NOW, I appreciate it. Funny how that happens.

Benefits of Being Self Disciplined:

Because I grew up the way I did, and have had the motivation to stick with what I've learned, I've noticed that my self discipline has allowed me to stay focused on my goals and actually REACH them.

BUT even if you didn't grow up with self discipline and feel like it's something you wish you had NOW, then just know that you CAN HAVE IT NOW. It's just like anything else...whether you do it over and over again, or never do it at all, it becomes a habit...you just need to decide which habit you'll practice.

Even for me, self discipline can be hard. Like I said earlier, most of the time it comes naturally but there's other times that I lose it therefore I understand what it's like NOT to have it, and how frustrating it can be and ultimately how big of a set back it can create.

Having self discipline has allowed me to begin growing into the person that I want to be. It's helped me avoid everything from people, food, and parties (not to sound boring haha) at times that my goals were more important to me. Because girl believvvvve me, if I didn't have goals combined with some self discipline, I'd still be partying my ass off.

WELP LADIES.

It's time to PRACTICE good habits and it's time to look inward and start taking care of YOURSELF. Here's 10 steps that I think everyone should practice if they are looking to be a master at self discipline.

10 Steps to Self Discipline

1. Write down your goals

I mean you have to know what you're even being self disciplined for right? When I write down my goals it HAS to be when I'm relaxed, STRESS FREE, open minded and optimistic. Or actually sometimes it could be like the polar opposite haha. If I'm really over my current circumstances then I will think of a few goals that I feel like I NEED to achieve but as far as writing them down and feeling like they're possible, I need to be in a good place.

Either way, make a point to think about them, and write them down. I have my goals organized on a big white board in my office and I swear it makes all the difference. Also - remember to write down a goal for every area of your life. Have a "personal best" goal, a "career" goal, a "fitness" goal, and even a "family" goal. Maybe you don't contact your family enough or make enough time for them and you want to make it your goal to call them once a week. Whatever it is, write it down and this will start to improve your self discipline.

2. Make a plan

Goals are just words until you have a plan behind them and give them MEANING. So what if you want to live by the beach? If you have no idea how you're going to do it, like not even a first step, then I'm not saying it won't happen, I'm just saying it's unlikely. Also, why wait 10 years to see if you might live by the beach when you could just make a plan and get there in a 6 months? Successful people know that in order to be successful you just need to START SOMETHING. Start small, build positive habits, and you'll be on your way to reaching your goals.

Brian Tracy explains that when it comes to making a plan and actually executing it, we need to understand the CROWDING OUT PRINCIPLE. This means that we need to fill our days with HIGH VALUE & MEANINGFUL tasks in order to be successful as opposed to low value, busy work tasks. This way our day is "crowded" with so much meaningful work, that is blocks out time to work on small things that are not relative.

"When it all comes down to it, nothing trumps execution." - Gary Vaynerchuk

3. Develop the right mindset

I am obsessed with how powerful the mind is. It is so crazy to me to hear people talk about everything from a negative perspective ALL OF THE TIME. "I don't have money." "I'll never find someone so I'm just giving up on love, I'm over it". "I hate this fucking job but I have no other way of making money." "I look like shit." "I'm so ugly I don't know why anyone even talks to me."

LIKE WHAT?!?!?

I know it's not EASY to change, and it's not EASY to really go for your goals because it can be scary. The unknown is a very scary place and believe me, I get it. When I moved to LA I knew I was going to be on my own but I made it work. And even right now in my life, I am preparing myself for a HUGE change.

And I couldn't even tell you all of the things that could go wrong because I refuse to let my focus go there. What's the point? If I want this change to happen then no matter how scared I am, I need to focus on all the GOOD that will come from it, and all the ways that I WILL be able to make it work.

You MUST MUST MUST live in a positive mind set in order to be successful and have self discipline.

"Your thoughts are incredibly powerful. Choose yours wisely." - Joe Dispenza

4. Have a daily mini accomplishment

This is something that I started having all of my health coaching clients do. We all know that STARTING something is the hardest part right? We dwell on the idea of it, we feel like we REALLY want to start something but we just don't. It happens to all of us but the best thing to do in this situation and the best way to really start working on the self discipline muscle, is to have a mini accomplishment every day.

But make it towards your goal. SO for example, if my goal is to start losing weight then I would write down "START WORKING OUT 3 DAYS A WEEK" as my goal. I might even PLAN on doing it Monday, Wednesday and Friday but then the MOTIVATION and the right mind set might be lacking. So if I just CANNOT get myself to do it, then a mini accomplishment would be to go for a 10 minute walk. Or to take the stairs everyday instead of the elevator.

And BE PROUD OF YOURSELF for doing it. That's an accomplishment!

If your goal is to start a blog but you've been putting it off for 10 months then have a mini accomplishment by bookmarking 5 blogs you love and make a little list that highlights the things you love about them so that you have a better idea of what you want yours to look like!

If you've been eating like shit for the last 2 months and really want to get your diet on track, start by having a smoothie for breakfast and if you don't change anything else for the rest of the day, at least you can go to bed knowing that you did something different today that put you one foot closer to your goals.

I've found that having my clients do these mini accomplishments gives them the confidence they need to do it again the next day, plus some. And then within DAYS they are miles ahead of where they were. You just need to start.

5. Be obsessed with your "why".

If your goal is to lose 10 pounds then your "why" may be because you're going on vacation, it may be that your family has had health issues that you want to avoid or, it may be that you just realized that you need to either lose weight or go up in your jean size, and that's just not an option for you.

Whatever your why is, it needs to really make an impact, or you're not going to care enough to discipline yourself.

"There is no greater gift you can give or receive than to honor your calling. It's why you were born. And how you become most truly alive." - Oprah Winfrey.

6. Get comfortable with being uncomfortable

Man oh man. I think when I moved out of my parents house and no longer had a coach that was going to give me immediate consequences for my actions...I felt a little lost. All my friends would be going out so I would want to go, or all my friends would be eating mexican food at 2:00am so I would get some too.

Or instead of working on anything, I would decide to go to the beach all day and then the movies knowing that I didn't have money to be spending. Things like that. So it took me a few months of play to realize that no one was going to be holding me accountable for getting my shit done.

I had to do that for myself. So what started happening was, I had to start saying "no" to things that I really wanted to do. I realized that I didn't have time to be sitting around on my phone all day waiting for the next person to text me and invite me to do something.

And it was kindaaa awkward?

People started telling me that I worked too much and that I needed to spend more time with friends but honestly, I didn't feel that way.

There's so many girls I talk to that tell me that one of the biggest things that gets in the way of their goals is their social life. They don't want to miss out on the fun, or all their friends drink, etc.

I get it! But if you want to work and accomplish your goals and your social circle gets in the way of that, then just explain to them that you have to stop going out as much and your true friends will understand.

7. Be consistent with your motivation

I swear this makes self discipline so much easier. If your goal is to start your own business then you need to wake up every day telling yourself that you're going to start your own business, and you need to be clear about the steps you're going to take to get there.

You can't just write it down in a cute notepad once or twice a year and expect it to happen. The more attention you give it, the faster and easier it will come. I'm a big visualization person so whenever I'm in the shower or when I'm meditating or walking, I literally ask myself "what do you want your life to look like in X amount of years". And the picture doesn't just appear quickly and perfectly...but little things start to come to mind and you start to BUILD a picture which eventually turns into like a mini film in your mind.

BUT you have to take the time to think about it, otherwise we are just lost thinking about all the errands and work we have to do that we never even give ourselves the chance to work towards something.

8. Be equal parts realist and optimist

This may be a good or bad thing but for me, a lot of my self discipline has come from the sad truth that at the end of the day, you can't rely on ANYONE to take care of you...or you shouldn't anyway...in my opinion. If you're waiting for a man to take care of you then that's of course your call but what if things don't work out? What if he leaves you and you didn't do anything to set yourself up to stand on your own two feet?

Not to be negative but really, I just want to honestly ask some women what their plan is. So for me, I don't expect to be taken care of which is part of the reason why I work so hard.

With that comes optimism. I am optimistic that everything I'm working on will set me up for security and I'm optimistic that one day I won't have to work as hard but for now, I have to take care of myself, ya know?

"The biggest risk is not taking any risk ... In a world that's changing really quickly, the only strategy that is guaranteed to fail is not taking risks." —Mark Zuckerberg

9. Commit to your calendar

This is one of the best things I've ever done. Us girls looove our calendars and organizing and colored pens and shared calendars and what not BUT I feel like we write for 2 weeks and then forget about it for a few months and then start using it again later right? Haha.

Having a calendar with set days to do things is HUGE if you stick to it. It's one of the best ways to practice self discipline.

10. Truly understand the alternative.

When I think of people that are self disciplined, I think it's fair to say that they know that if they DON'T follow through with what they need to do, the consequences will come in the way they feel, the way they live, or the look.

So be honest with yourself about what would happen if you DIDN'T start accomplishing your goals. Does that mean that you'll be at a job you hate for 5 more years? Does it mean that you'll never lose the weight you've been wanting to get off? Does it mean you'll never know your full potential? For me - I know that if I don't work on being my best self, then I can't give my best to others and that's not an option for me.

I want to be someone who is happy and full of life everyday and recognizes that everyday is a gift and that we need to enjoy the ride. BUT if I lose sight of myself or feel like I'm not appreciating each day, then I can't be that person.

Ugh, I could talk about this for forever but to be honest, I gotta go get my brows done haha.

I hope you guys have an AMAZING day!

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