#dragon-li is not tabby there are differences

[fuckyeahchinesefashion]

op's ginger cat was missing and she asked for help from the dragon-li in the neighborhood and dragon-li has successfully kicked ginger's ass back home (cr: 如欣如愿）

[tabithacohen]

INTRODUCTION

 Wait is that (TABITHA COHEN) that I see off in the distance? You know they have quite the reputation of being the (WEIRDO) around the island, but to me they seem like any other (LOCAL). I hear you can often find the (36) year old hanging around (DRIFTWOOD SANDS) or catch them when they aren’t busy working as a (SCHOOL LIBRARIAN). They may seem (HELPFUL and ECCENTRIC) but I hear that they can also be (ANXIOUS and CLINGY). There may be a lot of faces here in the bay, but you’ll know who you’re dealing with if they remind you of (THE SMELL OF TEA WITH HONEY, CLOTHES WITH FUN PATTERNS, PLAYFUL ARGUING OVER TRIVIA, SECRET SMILES THAT PROMISE MORE) [bri, 30, she/her, est]

Name: Tabitha Anne Cohen

Nickname: Tabby, Tabby Cat, Miss Frizz, The Weirdo, Hot Librarian (she pretends she doesn't know about that one)

Gender/Pronouns: Cisfemale, she/her

Sexuality: Pansexual

Age: 36

Date of Birth: February 1, 1987

Place of Birth: Brooklyn, NY

Biography:

Tabitha was born as the oldest daughter to Ira and Barbara Cohen in Brooklyn. She is the oldest of three. She grew up in Brooklyn until she left for college.

She grew up in a large and loving Jewish family, celebrating holidays together. She also had a lot of friends from different cultures, so she was exposed to all different kinds of music and food.

Went to a SUNY in upstate New York for her undergrad. She majored in Education with minors in English and Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies.

While she was there, she discovered her pansexuality, though at the time she called it bisexuality. She dated around and had fun but never had anything very serious.

For her Masters in Library and Information Studies, she went to the University of North Carolina. She had family who lived in the state, and was able to live with them during her program.

After she graduated, she got a job as an elementary school librarian back in New York, where she worked for 5 years.

It was there she met a boy and they dated for 3 of those years. Tabby was in love with him, ready to make a real commitment but he was obviously not ready yet. She wasn't willing to take on the role of someone's mother so she dumped him and moved to get a fresh start.

She moved to California, trying to go as far away as possible. She got a job in a Los Angeles high school, ready to enjoy the sun. She worked there for 6 years, enjoying herself immensely. She headed the school's DnD club, taking on the role of Dungeon Master for several students.

Tabitha met a women there, getting engaged after a year of bliss. But as they were planning the wedding, the truth started to come out. Lies about money, lies about plans, it seemed that her fiancee wanted to get married sure, just not to Tabitha. So, after a few long talks and attempts at counseling, Tabitha broke the engagement and left again.

This time she ended up back in North Carolina, getting a job as the school librarian in Celestial Bay. She's ready for another great year of introducing her students to fantastic worlds and interesting concepts, while fully embracing her own quirky self.

Personality:

Above all else, Tabitha is a nerd. She loves Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, mythology, robots, Dungeons and Dragons. Her favorite past time is to read and it shows. She always either has a book or her Kindle in her bag.

She can be a little awkward and shy about meeting new people, so she'll often blurt out random fun facts to ease the way.

She's absolutely the kind of person to go above and beyond for a friend. She's in her thirties, she doesn't have time for wishy-washy people. If you want her in your life, you got her.

She enjoys wearing fun or silly patterned clothing to work, trying to make the kids smile.

She has a tortoiseshell cat named Mokey (after the character from Fraggle Rock).

She experimented in the BDSM scene in LA and enjoyed playing around with multiple partners and scenes.

She's not looking for love, but 3rd time's the charm, and she's certainly a bit of an old fashioned romantic.

Her favorite thing to do at the end of a long day is curl up with her cat and a cup of tea to either watch an old movie or read a mystery novel.

[brooklynislandgirl]

@southern-belle-outcasts

In Bits and Pieces || Accepting

XIII. ~Dust~

She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She doesn’t really recognise the woman who looks back at her.

She’s always been thin, a hyper-metabolism not conducive to being curvy like her sister in law or her hanai sister. But now? Even she can see she borders on cadaverous. Once dark lustrous hair lies lank against too sharp features. Green eyes so used to being full of dreams lie empty. Lines at her mouth and eyes pulled sharp. Clothes haunt her frame, drowning her in their excess, though to be fair, they hadn’t really ever belonged to her. And they bring no comfort now, only something to partially hide away in. She slumps down in the chair that sits in front of it. The mirror attached to the vanity she never really used for it’s intended purposes. The photographs and ticket stubs, the mardi-gras beads and the spray of skull-like snap-dragon seed pods are all packed up in carefully marked boxes. The movers are already downstairs. They’ve already cleared three rooms the day before. Transferring the medical equipment to waiting trucks. The same will happen with the heavier furniture, then the boxes. Headed to storage paid up two years in advance through her own accounts. A duffel bag will go to the same hotel suite she’d rented when she’d first come to New Orleans.

The appliances and lighting fixtures will stay with the house of course. As much a part of it as the carved stair, as the foundation itself. She will leave this behind too. She doesn’t need the constant reminder that everything has fallen down around her. That she can barely breathe enough to get up. Even with her son there on the days and hours he gets to spend time with her. There’s a smaller bag with a few toys and some clothes in them. His sippy cup and two treasured books. One thing you learn as a Riley is how to travel light. Seven months and three seasons.  Three different birthdays. Holidays that don’t really even matter any more. The same sense of grief and hurt that won’t diminish no matter what she does. That ache inside that is so much larger than she can ever be. Her lips part and her eyes close, but tears still spill just the same. God alone knows how bereft she is. How much she misses Him. How nothing will ever be the same now.  How she can’t tell the dust from the ashes of all the burned bridges still floating down around her even if the sparks have long since gone out.

Fingertips glide over the four carefully addressed envelopes sitting in front of her. One to absolve her brother of any expected duty or devotion he might still feel. One to thank Tabby for acting as go between when she couldn’t face Sin. One for the realtor turning jurisdiction over the sale of the house  to Uncle Lewis who has full authority to act as her proxy. And the last? The thickest. Written over and over again until it was something that was more than apology. More than explanation. More than a thinly veiled plea to find something in her that He still cares about. Each previous page not included ending up in the fire place. Smoke carrying her thoughts far away from here.

It doesn’t matter how much she still loves Him. It doesn’t matter how much she regrets everything, how much she wants things to be the way they were. There’s a cheque drawn on her trust for the cost of the house. He deserves that much. Her thumb slides over the empty space where her wedding ring had lived. There’s nothing to twist or turn or find any sense of comfort in and it feels like her heart is going to break all over again, even if it’s already in tatters.

By slow degrees she becomes aware of the song playing over her phone. It took the death of hope to let you go. Beneath that there’s the soft flutter of wings. She says nothing. She doesn’t need to. She picks up her phone. Closes the music. Out of the chair and pads across the floor before slinging the bags over her shoulder. For a split second it looks like she’ll collapse under the weight. She doesn’t look back as she turns out the lights.

[yutaya]

Iron Fist Rewatch: 1x01: Snow Gives Way

-Someone barging into Ward's office acting like they own the place and also know Harold is alive must have sent such a jolt of fear through Ward for a second

-Ward puts himself between Danny and Joy when it seems like Danny might get physical

-Ward tells Joy not to have Danny arrested - Harold concerns?

-Danny PTSD set off by the elevator turbulence?? But he was fine going up. Just stress induced? He's shaking.

-FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT BREAK INTO THAT HOUSE

-Joy's dog just disappears after this episode?

-Danny just meditates or something to get that dog to calm down. Calms his mind so as to seem not a threat / not present? Is Danny some sort of animal whisperer? I'm now positive that at some point during Danny and Ward's Adventures Across Asia, they were stranded somewhere for some reason, Ward is complaining about being stuck in some muddy backwater hick town or whatever, Danny just sort of strolls up to some large animals (attached to a cart? Wait, that would be stealing. Hm...) goes all zen state, then says to Ward "they'll take us to the next town" like that's a normal series of events and not COMPLETELY INSANE, DANNY, WHAT THE F---.

-Pictures on Joy's shelf: Harold with his arm around young Joy, all six of them on some vacation. Rands + Meachums kind of separated in this photo, though. Don't people normally stand closer together in group photos? Also, young Joy much shorter than young Danny. Note: Wendall's hands on both Heather and Danny's shoulders. Harold's hand on Joy's shoulder. Ward and Danny both have hands in pockets.

-"Dad says rules are for pussies" ;___; (Young Ward refusing to pay monopoly rent because he just doesn't want to. Starting the corrupt financial elite training off early, huh?)

-"Oh, here comes Mommy and Daddy to protect you and give you lots of hugs and kisses and tell you what a sweet little boy you are. It's disgusting. *sweeps all the game pieces off the table even though they've clearly been playing for awhile and it's not like Danny just won he was only asking for like $200*" Ward, you dramatic bitch. Also, they were literally only saying they were home, not necessarily rushing in to protect Danny from the Big Bad Ward refusing to pay $200 monopoly money. Metaphorically, I suppose this is still Ward being a sore loser, though. It's not monopoly Danny beat him at, it's having parents who love him. T_T AND THEN HE LIES ABOUT IT, PLAYING THE BELEAGUERED BABYSITTER, ASDFGHJKL - WARD. (Note: neither Danny nor Joy speak up against this blatant unfairness. Previous failure? YOU'RE SUCH A BULLY, WARD.)

-Big Al is first person to be friendly to Danny and I'm sure Danny doesn't forget it. Headcanon Danny is def actively caring towards 'lower class', including homeless and drug addicts, and actually sees + treats them as equals. Classism definitely a theme in these shows with the people who struggle financially like Colleen being the kindest and most charitable and the rich being assholes.

-But also why is he informing Danny that the internet can be used as a search engine with no prior indication in their conversation that Danny doesn't know this? I mean, Danny does not, in fact, know this, but.

-In the news article, the photo of the Rands is the same one in Joy's apartment, but the Meachums are not there. However, they are not merely cropped out: the background extends into the spot they should occupy. Did some poor news article graphic designer have to go find a photo of that tourist spot background at the exact right angle and photoshop them together to get rid of the Meachums, or was Joy's photo a photoshopped family vacation image, which could have explained the awkward distance between the two families, even though it wouldn't have been that hard in editing to set them all closer together? Maybe they all still went on the same vacation together, but instead of asking a passerby to take a photo for them, both families took photos of each other and then someone combined them at a later date? Practically speaking, that still means the angle would be likely to be off for the background, and it's also suspicious that there are zero other tourists around. These rich families rented out the entire space?? Would lend to lack of external parties to take a group pic for them. Obviously, IRL explanation is they're all photoshopped onto a static background, but fun to think of the in-universe reasons. ...Actually, most likely explanation is that they took multiple photos - Rand only, Meachum only, maybe also kids only, Wendall+Harold only, etc, as well as group. So this entire train of thought is inconsequential. Oops.

-Harold had a big event funeral, "mayor and everything"? That must have been fun for both Harold and Ward, with significantly different usages of the word 'fun'.

-Hello Joy, not only did I follow you home to accost you at your front door the morning after I attacked the security at your workplace to enter your probably restricted top floor executives offices, I also did extensive research into your childhood history down to the position you and your friend played on your childhood soccer team, oh and also I broke into your house yesterday where I interacted with your dog. Now watch while I prove my physical prowess by flipping over a taxi.

-Bird flying into city while Danny meditates?? Symbolically, follows the idea of the bird flying through the pass that was Danny's sign to leave K'un Lun and return to NYC. Spiritually - what? AU where the bird is Danny's spirit animal and he's connected to it / seeing through its eyes right now. For the HDM AU fans: bird could be Danny's separated dæmon? (Would a HDM AU Danny's dæmon be a dragon? Honestly, idk how much dragon stereotypes match Danny's personality. Would have to think about that. Would be funny if someone else had the dragon dæmon, not any of the Fist holders.)

-Danny. Danny. Colleen JUST HUNG THAT FLYER UP. Take one of the little tabbies, if you must, that's what they're for, but don't take the entire flyer down! Those cost money, you know. And it takes time to cut all those little tabbies out and then go around hanging the flyers up.

-Colleen be like "dear god, this is why you shouldn't be nice to people, they start trying to hit on you, @ random park dude, please stop talking at me and following me while I continually shift out of your line of vision"

-Danny: "Hey you speak Chinese? I speak Chinese." Colleen: "I'm Japanese you dick. :)"

-Ward: I'm gonna make sure our personal security team is guarding you against this clear and present threat, but also we're still not calling the police??

-Ward turns this from either a crazy homeless guy or a scam artist into a potential organized corporate sabotage - the kind of threat that Joy is more easily able to compartmentalize her emotions on and crush under her heel?

-Ward just gets into a moving vehicle with someone he has verbally acknowledged as an active threat to his family. Did you have ANY stranger danger safety lessons growing up, Ward?

-Danny now appears to be actively threatening Ward, while using the reasoning that Ward and everyone else have been seriously trying his patience and he's in danger of losing his temper, but he's still giving Ward one last chance to back down. Note: this is a technique commonly employed by abusers, and probably more triggering to Ward than Danny knows, even though Danny probably actually does think he's being sincere as opposed to manipulative.

-->Aaaand Ward responds by ratcheting up instead, because of course he does, IMMEDIATELY leading to the gun to head scene. oh, geez.

-Danny provides personal details - probably this is the moment Ward starts to believe it might actually be Danny somehow, against all logic and reason. He looks shaken, then immediately starts trying to gaslight Danny. asdfghjkl WARD.

-->Ward lying to Danny's face and putting himself in the position of the righteous with Danny as the person in the wrong when they both know it's a lie is very reminiscent of the monopoly scene from when they were kids and the implied constant behavior from when they were kids. But this time, Danny doesn't accept it the way he did as a kid. He stares at Ward, remembering this pattern, actively teetering on PTSD flashback mode, and fights back. Makes Ward think he might be about to kill them both - while having flashbacks that hinder his ability to stop so Danny in hindsight gets freaked out about what he almost did too. (Note: looking freaked out and claiming he didn't mean to almost kill them both just now was probably more concerning to Ward rather than less.) And then he promises he'll be back because this isn't over. gdi, Danny, no wonder Ward wants you gone asap.

-Colleen, trying to tell Danny to go away because he's being a creeper: TAKE A HINT TAKE A HINT

-Danny, casually: Oh yeah Master Lei Gun "The Thunderer" used to smack me hard in the face with the practice swords

-Colleen bringing a sword to a gun fight

-Danny grabs enemy's gun, but not to use as weapon/defense - only to disarm it and run off - which Colleen sees.

-What festival is this that's happening in Chinatown? Has anyone figured out an IF timeline? Could compare dates to real world events, see if there's any potential cross over.

-None of these bystanders so much as bother to look at the fistfights happening 2 feet away from them

-Ward sitting in his office eating his food (it has decorative greens so you know it's ~fancy~) and answers his phone smiling because he's expecting the good news that Danny-probably-an-impersonator-but-also-potentially-maybe-not-but-we're-not-thinking-about-that-Ward-get-a-hold-of-yourself is dead. Way to be a villain stereotype, Ward. I know you try real hard at it so good job uwu

-Harold intro. Ward clearly at his beck and call and just as clearly resentful of it. "I think...” *resigned* “-of course, right away." is such immediate shorthand for someone abusing the power imbalance. (Note: Ward puts off approaching Harold with the "Danny problem" until night 2, tries to handle it quietly until he has implicated himself (Danny now knows Ward tried to have him killed) and Danny is still present and now an even bigger threat)

-So many elevators. All express to specific floors/areas? This lobby is so unsettling. Elevator leads to another hall full of elevators, then stairs, then handprint access to hall with second elevator into penthouse. (Note: Ward is one of those people who press the close door button multiple times with a frustrated facial expression)

-Ward to Harold: "How do you even know about that? ...Shit. Are you behind this? Is this another one of your stupid tests?"

-Harold to Ward: "I wish you would take things like this more seriously, so I don't see my company destroyed."

-Photos on Harold's shelf: young Joy, posed photo of Meachums in formal-ish clothing, Harold's hands on both kids shoulders, indistinguishable group of people on a bridge(?) somewhere. Group photo atop a fancy box, Joy photo in front of the Meachum family photo. On Harold's desk: another photo of young Joy, this one looks like one of those posed school photos where they have the kid stand against a "tree" backdrop.

-Ward says out loud that he could ignore Harold and Harold wouldn't be able to do anything about it. Harold casually observes that Ward is now and has always been childish. Ward remarks that Harold has been telling Ward he's disappointed in him his whole life. Harold is still disappointed in Ward right now.

-Harold: this is how you make your employees loyal to you. *proceeds to display his complete dominance over Kyle, who looks nervous and threatened by the direct attention* Ward: "Jesus, Dad, what the hell is wrong with you?" (Still doesn't do anything to remove Kyle from this situation though)

-Harold lectures at Ward as if everything Ward has ever done is wrong, always, including snapping his fingers at him when he starts to speak himself, like a bad dog, and listing off things that Ward has already brought up to Joy as if Ward is an incompetent who would never consider those angles himself

-Ward makes a snide comment, Harold snaps at him, Ward smiles a little bit because he has succeeded in getting under Harold's skin for a moment

-Harold: Leave this to me. I'll tell you exactly what to do. Ward: Like always. Harold: Like always.

-Awww, Danny was rushing back to tell his new friend Al all about Ward sending people to kill him, possibly looking for advice? ;_; (Also, why is there a foreboding music significance to Al having a bird tattoo? Does this ever come back??? I don't remember this mystery going anywhere.)

-Danny is lurking in Joy's office. He doesn't say anything even slightly reassuring, like that he has an appointment, just heavily implies that he snuck in. sigh.

-"I'm not gonna hurt you," Danny laughs, after displaying a whole lot of extremely threatening behavior. Joy smiles, drugs him, and buys time until it kicks in.

[lins-fandom-hub]

HPHM Profile: Clara Lin

Template by @hogwartsmystory​

Identity

Name: Clara Xing-Hui Lin (林星慧）

Gender: Female

Age: 17 as of May 31, 1990

Birth Date: April 25, 1973

Species: Human

Blood Status: (Pureblood, Half-Blood, Muggleborn)

Half-Blood? Both her parents are Muggleborn and were chosen by magical institutions to study magic.

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Ethnicity: Chinese

Nationality: English? She’s born in England after all.

Residence: Oxford, England

Myer Briggs Personality Type: ESTJ

The Mage

1st Wand: Acacia wood with Unicorn Hair, 12 inches, pliable

A very unusual wand wood, which I have found creates tricky wands that often refuse to produce magic for any but their owner, and also withhold their best effects from all but those most gifted. This sensitivity renders them difficult to place, and I keep only a small stock for those witches or wizards of sufficient subtlety, for acacia is not suited to what is commonly known as ‘bangs-and-smells’ magic. When well-matched, an acacia wand matches any for power, though it is often underrated due to the peculiarity of its temperament.

2nd Wand: Ebony wood with Dragon Heartstring, 11 and a quarter inches

This jet-black wand wood has an impressive appearance and reputation, being highly suited to all manner of combative magic, and to Transfiguration. Ebony is happiest in the hand of those with the courage to be themselves. Frequently non-conformist, highly individual or comfortable with the status of outsider, ebony wand owners have been found both among the ranks of the Order of the Phoenix and among the Death Eaters. In my experience the ebony wand’s perfect match is one who will hold fast to his or her beliefs, no matter what the external pressure, and will not be swayed lightly from their purpose.

Animagus: Chinese Li Hua (a type of tabby cat found in China)

Misc Magical Abilities: (Legilimen, Seer, Parselmouth, Obscurial, ect)

In the canon story, Clara is a born Legilimens, first practising the art with a wand and under Snape’s tutelage before perfecting the art on her own time without the pressure of the final Curse on Hogwarts and without a wand. It made reading the minds of her family much easier, especially when it came to how they felt about Jacob’s return and the downfall of the Lin reputation all those years ago. In a way, she tried to use it for good.

Boggart Form: 

Considering that Clara’s got as many fears as the typical human being, it could take the form of knives coming her way, or a puddle of blood turning into a torrential flood around her ankles. But her biggest fear, and hence her Boggart, was hearing her friends and family say that she was hopeless, worthless, and useless. Backstabbers, to put it concisely. Her Boggart would be in the form of her friends and people she trusted coming in at her, spitting out those words she didn’t want to hear.

Riddikulus Form: 

If said Boggart appears before her, Riddikulus would make their tongues all tied and saying such pure nonsense that it’d make her laugh. Why would she feel bad about imagining them affected with the Tongue Tying Curse, anyway? They’re not real.

Amortentia: (What do they smell like?)

If anyone was to smell Clara’s scent, they’d smell jasmine, burning wood, and a hint of orange juice. Okay, don’t ask about the orange juice. Something citrussy goes well with something sweet.

Amortentia: (What do they smell?)

Clara would smell petrichor, fresh linens, and an aromatic sort of wood--pine, maybe? Not sure? Something that calls her to the woods.

(*cough cough* totally not *cough* Barnaby’s *cough* scent *cough*)

Patronus: 

Clara’s Patronus is a unicorn--a pure creature with a sole intent to protect, it can outrun any danger and face it head on.

Patronus Memory: 

You mean her happiest memory? Seeing the stars one summer with Jacob and her little sister, Em, one summer. Feeling the close ties of her siblings was what made her happy.

Mirror of Erised: 

In the past, she would have seen herself surrounded by all the people she loved, just being happy together. This image used to include Rakepick until she revealed her true colours in the Buried Vault--since then, her image had been forcefully shunned.

Following certain events in year 6 that caused Clara to lose her friend, the reflection had now changed to an image of Clara and Rowan, both sitting together and laughing together like they used to in old times. The sight of their smiles would have been enough for Clara to just sit in front of the mirror without any sense of time. If only she could have done something to save her best friend...her tree twin...

Specialized/Favourite Spells:

Reparo (and yes, she is fully aware that this does not heal a broken heart)

Incendio

Stupefy

Protego

Appearance

Faceclaim: N/A

**I haven’t thought of a face claim at all when making Clara, as she’s literally based off of me, appearance and personality wise. So we’ll say I’m her face claim? Though I’m not that comfortable allowing a picture of myself to circulate around Tumblr, so I’m going to leave this part out.

Height: 5′7″

Weight: I mean, she’s not overweight but not underweight? Does that count?

Physique: Somewhat slender figure, overall an average build

Eye Colour: Dark brown

Hair Colour: Black

Skin Tone: Pale

Body Modifications: N/A. She does wear glasses, though.

Scarring: N/A

Inventory: (what do they carry on them?)

a lucky Knut from her sister

her textbooks

her quills

her ink

two silk bookmarks

her wand

a couple pieces of miscellaneous candy

Allegiances

Hogwarts House: Gryffindor

Ilvermorny House: Pukwudgie

Affiliations/Organizations:

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Gryffindor House)

Auror Office, Ministry of Magic, London

Chinese Wizarding Task Force, Beijing

Professions:

Auror

Free-lance Magizoologist

Free-lance Curse-Breaker

Free-lance pianist/musician

Hogwarts Information

Class Proficiencies:

Astronomy: E

Charms: O

DADA: O

Flying: E

Herbology: E

History of Magic: E

Potions: O

Transfiguration: O

Electives: Care of Magical Creatures (O), Divination (A), Arithmancy (E)

Quidditch: Gryffindor Chaser from year 3 to year 6 at Hogwarts

Extra Curricular: 

Frog Choir

Music Club

Duelling Club (on occasion)

Favourite Professors:

Professor Minerva McGonagall

As Head of Gryffindor House, Clara looks up to her a lot and always turns to her for troubling issues arising. Well, it wasn’t solely based on the fact that she’s Head of Gryffindor that she felt so connected with her. She had a strict air but it was not always for the worst circumstances. In some ways she reminded her of her mom. 

Professor Filius Flitwick

As Jacob really loved Professor Flitwick, Clara always tried her best to make Flitwick proud of her Charms work. In a way, though, she always felt like he was encouraging her to do her best every time, almost the same way Jacob might have if he was still present with her. Besides, Flitwick was an insightful person when it came to certain magical phenomena she didn’t understand.

Least Favourite Professors:

Professor Sybill Trelawney

There was something a little off about the way Trelawney presented herself to her Divination class, and honestly it made Clara question her legitimacy in her pursued arts. However, she did well not to question it openly, as she knew Trelanwney would do more than challenge her.

Professor Severus Snape

She knew she could trust him, but his sullen disposition still scares her and makes her very wary about him. Truly, she couldn’t find herself entrusting him with even the most serious of her secrets and problems. Nothing good would come out of their interactions, even if he did show a sliver of care for the girl.

Relationships

Brother: Jacob Pan-Hui Lin

Jacob Lin is her closest sibling and the one person she knew she would always stand by no matter what. After all, they were close when they were kids, despite him being 6 years older than MC.

In the olden days, he used to tease her a lot on her potential music career. It wasn’t bad, of course--just something for lighthearted fun.

Jacob’s known to be quite the fashionable neat wizard in his old days. He was really picky about what he wore and how his hair looked before heading out for the day. Eventually those thoughts faded away with time.

When he attended Hogwarts, Jacob was Sorted into Gryffindor.

Most of his time at Hogwarts was a mystery, but few people who came in after his expulsion knew that he wrote in a private notebook, had a chamber where he sorted all his information and gathered clues about the Cursed Vaults, and left in his wake a rather...interesting mix of emotions.

Jacob didn’t want to be a Curse-Breaker at first, but the Cursed Vaults kept luring him in that direction until he eventually accepted its calling. Well, with severe consequences, of course. 

Misc Siblings:

Little Sister: Emily Wen-Hui Lin

Emily, often nicknamed little Em by the two older siblings, is 5 years younger than MC. She was very young when Jacob disappeared, thus she had very little memories of her brother.

There were only a few moments little Em could remember when her parents were actually peaceful and at ease. Most of their time, though, was spent fighting, and...well...let’s just say she tried to ease the rifts but with no luck.

When she eventually entered Hogwarts, while her older sister is in sixth year, she got Sorted into Hufflepuff, making her the only sibling in the family to be Sorted in a different house apart from both her siblings.

Upon her graduation, Em went on to become a professional herbologist and potioneer, working closely with Penny and Chiara in her endeavours

Father: Sueh-Yen Lin

Sueh-Yen was born in China and attended Mahoutokoro at the age of 7. Following the end of his magical education he began to pursue his passions in herbology in London, where he met Clara’s mother, Renee Tao. After he became a family man, he began to work as a landscaper, helping other people design and nurture their gardens both Muggle and magical. Following Clara’s fourth year, he began to work at the Ministry of Magic in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.

Mother: Renee Lin (nee Tao)

Renee was born and raised in America, attending Ilvermorny and being sorted into the Horned Serpent house. While she was at school she developed an interest in psychology and the mind, and so she began to take up studies in such areas and continued to branch her studies further after her graduation. She attended a Muggle university in England then, majoring in psychology, and eventually she met Clara’s father. She began to write books for both Muggle and wizarding communities after she became a mother, her topics focusing on proper child discipline for parents. Following Clara’s fourth year, she also took up work at the Ministry of Magic, in the same department as her husband.

Love Interest: Barnaby Lee

Before Clara’s third year, Barnaby was an insignificant student whose name had been mentioned once or twice by her peers. Then she knew of him in his third year, and at first they couldn’t stand each other. At least, Clara couldn’t stand him. Eventually they warmed up to each other through an uneasy, almost awkward, interaction in the Three Broomsticks following a duel. Well, you can find all the information on their relationship here. 

Best Friends: Rowan Khanna, Penny Haywood, Nymphadora Tonks, Tulip Karasu, Jae Kim, Charlie Weasley, Diego Caplan, Liz Tuttle, Badeea Ali

Rival: Merula Snyde

Enemy: Rakepick, R, Voldemort

Dormmates: Rowan Khanna, three other female Gryffindors

Pets: Clara was allowed to take Wagner (her owl) and her cat (Chopin) home after every year at school. As for the other pets in her dormitory, she would give them all to Hagrid every year before leaving Hogwarts for the summer.

Closest Canon Friends: 

Rowan Khanna

Nymphadora Tonks

Penny Haywood

Tulip Karasu

Charlie Weasley

Closest MC Friends: 

Sarahi Silvers (@dat-silvers-girl)

Aleksia Aries (@aleksia-aries-hogwartsmystery)

Aisilng Baskerville (@elefseija)

Helene Adler (@heleneplays)

Carewyn Cromwell (@carewyncromwell)

Kyril Vasiley (@kyril-hphm​)

Cato Reese (@catohphm​)

Xia Howlett (@ljthebard1​)

Katriona Cassiopeia (@mcnullychaser​)

Montague Donohue (@montaguehphm​)

Septimus Crowe (@brothergrimm71​)

That’s all for now unless you want me to add your MC to the list...

Flavio Ceccere (@sirfluffig​)

Alvina Arcane-Zheng ( @oneirataxia-girl )

Background/History

Born on April 25, 1973, Clara was surrounded by love from her first cry

Okay, well, you know how it is--babies cry the instance they’re born, so don’t shun me for saying this

Clara first witnessed her parents’ occupations watching them work at home when she was young. She always loved interacting with the plants whenever she helped her dad in the family garden, and she saw her mom’s growing success with her expertise on child discipline translated into writing

When her little sister was born, Clara and Jacob both loved her dearly, but as she was too young at the time they relied on each other for many things

Clara began to take up playing the piano when she was around four years old--she first learned from a teacher just down the street for about five years, then she continued learning on her own

Her interest peaked when she was young and she saw some street musicians performing on the streets. She took up said instrument as a hobby, and eventually developed a gift for music through her education.

Clara got glasses when she was seven years old due to prolonged exposure to tiny notes on the paper. Yes, that’s a valid reason for people to get glasses. Since then, she had to go to yearly eye appointments every summer just to make sure her eyesight isn’t getting worse.

Jacob went to Hogwarts, and soon Clara saw his transformation due to his slow growing obsession with the Cursed Vaults

Eventually, when Jacob went missing in the beginning of June 1984, it was the family’s last straw

Clara’s parents both began to row over every single little thing now, leaving poor Em almost traumatized and scared of arguments

Em had been told at the time that Jacob was on vacation, thus she didn’t understand why her parents were arguing so much

Clara’s mother had resigned from writing another book after Jacob’s disappearance, having received so many negative reviews from critics (and she had been bombarded by owls with such slander)

The family gardens almost completely wilted in her father’s negligence, and had it not been for little Em the garden would have withered completely

The events of Hogwarts Mystery unfolded

Following Clara’s graduation, she began to work as an Auror in training alongside Tonks and Talbott

She and Barnaby, her love interest, got a place of their own, where they lived happily for a while

Three years into living together, Barnaby and Clara got engaged

In the summer of 1995, shortly before their initial wedding, Clara was called away for about a year and a half to China

The dark wizards expelled from Mahoutokoro have now started their own band and began to infiltrate most of China by the time Voldemort had risen once more. Clara was dispatched to Beijing, China, at her own will, and with the help of some other wizards and witches in the group they trained together and began to take down these Japanese foes

During this time, Clara stayed with her maternal grandmother (her grandfather passed away during her fifth year), occasionally visiting her paternal grandmother once in a while to make sure everything there was okay

The training with this task force was very different from her training as an Auror given the circumstances. Clara had to learn to work not only with her wand, but also in martial arts (notably taichi, taekwondo, and kung fu). She was also given a magic carpet to travel from one place to another in place of her broom.

Clara only returned to the United Kingdom when she heard of Dumbledore’s death, and attended his funeral. However, she had to return to China shortly after as the dark forces there got so strong that the task force could not hold them back without her. 

Clara returned to the UK once and for all on May 1, 1998, and fought alongside her friends in the Battle of Hogwarts and survived. She married Barnaby following the end of the war, but not before they and their surviving friends first paid tribute to the fallen.

The Chinese Wizarding Task Force disbanded upon Voldemort’s fall.

They eventually had three children--Melvin and Milo (twin boys) and Sylvia--and they lived in peace ever since.

Personality

Clara’s a very well-rounded person who understands that life is all about taking risks and making mistakes along the way

Okay, well maybe one shouldn’t solely focus on making mistakes. She just acknowledges that not every person is made perfect and so she embraces everyone’s different personalities, understanding every flaw that made them who they are.

She’s analytical in many circumstances, always stepping carefully in every interaction and situation to avoid any sudden flares of attacks

She’s studious in academics, and friendly around many people, to put it in short

She won’t hesitate to help anyone, but if they knew they lied, she could never find it in her to forgive them

If someone tries to double cross her, though, she’d get really angry and wouldn’t hesitate to show her opponents how powerful she could be.

Misc

Clara’s not a very good cook. It wasn’t until her detention in fifth year when she was asked to make a simple sandwich, and from there she began to work on her rough cooking talents--almost none when she first started, and still basic when she left, but it was enough for her to sustain a simple meal.

Professor McGonagall gave Clara a room for her to practice piano at Hogwarts if things became too stressful. Not many people stumble upon this room except for one particularly curious person...

Though Clara’s dorm was decked in red, her favourite colour was actually purple. And blue. No, she couldn’t choose between the two.

Clara would always have a mug by her bedside so that whenever she had a nightmare she would make herself a mug of hot chocolate (and yes, in the middle of the night--don’t ask)

Clara could speak somewhat fluent Mandarin. She eventually continued to hone that skill when she was in Beijing working with the Chinese Wizarding Task Force.

More facts to come...

[errormare-nacre]

her name is Duchess here is a list of all the cat breeds she's mixed with

list of cat breeds she mixed with contains 9 different breeds:

polydactyl cat,

dragon Li,

domesticated-short hair,

European short hair,

tabby cat,

calico cat,

tortoiseshell cats,

Manx cat and

Cyprus cat

Thank you for your time everyone I thought this would be very interesting to share I just took a picture of simple picture of my cat and I cropped it a bit and I use Google lens and that's all the cat breeds it told me so I just thought that would be interesting to share anyways you can do this with your cats if you please but it's your choice if you want to know what other cat breeds are in your cat's genetics

[metatiki]

Writing WIPs

I was tagged by the sublime @opal-bee and their adorable avatar to list my WIPs with or without details, then tag some peeps and see if I can wrangle them into an answer.

Since it’s been a looong time since I’ve talked about my WIPs in any detail, here’s a list. And likely a Read More at some point, because I Have Thoughts (surprise, surprise) on my WIPs.

Current Active Project (published an update in the last month):

Don’t Worry, I’ll Protect You -- My Inquisitor Dorian story is active (closing in on the end of Act II now, with writing begun on Act III) and is planned for a 4 arc story.

Current Inactive Projects (planning to update in 2018):

The Tiniest Lion in Skyhold -- The ongoing saga of Tiny, Cullen’s pet tabby cat. Pure fluff for people who love both cats and Dragon Age. I do plan to update this between major projects, as it’s a fun breather between more serious works.

Fractured Thedas Tales -- My lighthearted and mostly irreverent (with occasional sobriety) take on the companions in each game. Currently only DAO is included, but I do plan to extend to DA2 and DAI. If you haven’t read these already, I’d give them a shot. Trust me.

Inactive Projects (these are on semi-permanent hiatus due to either Life or Time):

Hope for Light -- The story of my Canon Warden, Kalindra Tabris. I got about 25% through the story and then Real Life happened, and I’ve never quite gotten the mojo to go back to her, which makes me sad. I’m quite proud of her story as it is so far, but I had to put it on the back burner for several reason. I will return to her, when I have the proper mindset back (see Read More). Just not yet.

Everybody Lies -- The story of my Canon Inquisitor, Martin Trevelyan. I’ve written snippets and snoppets of his story, and even published some of them (also this one-shot aaaaand this one). However, I’ve never written his full story, though it lives in full detail in my head. Part of this is due to time, but a large part of it is... well, actually, I’ll address that in a Read More below.

The Inn Between Loads -- A very irreverent take on what happens to video game characters ‘between loads’ i.e., when they’re not in the game (usually through a scripted death). I love this series a LOT and it’s fun to write, but there’s no schedule or anticipated update.

Rise of Arlathan -- The outcome of trying to convert my long-time DA AU RP into a fic. 140k+ words later, and we only covered first 100k or our sprawling 5M+ RP epic, and interest was minimal, so we quietly stopped publishing it. For those who want to see Martin’s first appearance in my brain, check it out, but it will likely never be continued.

Projects I Will Never Publish No Matter What But Which Still Consume My Brain:

Jorath Amell: The Full Story -- Originally Written as my Evil Warden character, Jorath Amell challenged my concept that any character, no matter how evil, can be redeemed. Thus, Jorath Amell’s Full Story™ morphed into a saga so complicated that there is no possible way that even Neal Stephenson or Brandon Sanderson would be able to sell it to a publisher. I adore it in my head, but yeahno. I’ll never write it.

Kamila Hawke -- The story of my canon Hawke. Kamila’s canon ending doesn’t work at all for integration into DAI, so I probably will never write this story since I can’t make it fit with my other canon characters anymore. Still, I love my poor Kamila Hawke. (also some commentary in the Read More)

I tag @the-lady-magician, @the-duelling-tophat, @sallyamongpoison, @elementa1st, and @nightscrawl to encourage them to discuss their writing, art, or other creative projects!

And more for those who want more info... Well, it gets wordy. ;)

My two canon babies, Kalindra Tabris and Martin Trevelyan, are also highlighted in the artwork on my blog itself (to the right). I stopped publishing stories about them for different reasons, but this seems as good a place as any to talk about it.

For Kalindra Tabris, I have tried to write more of her story in the last year or so. Unfortunately, two things have interfered in me finding my place in her head again. 1) My own dysphoria. This is already getting better, but for a while, it was very hard for me to put myself into a female mindset. I think it was temporary, based on my stage of transition and mental progress through it, but it did affect me for a while. 2) The fandom. Kalindra’s mother is Dalish, and there was a period after DAI when I got very weary of the Discourse concerning anything Dalish. Not only that, the next part of her story would have been the Dalish quest, so it compounded the problem. Now that I’ve stepped back from the fandom and carefully make sure that very little Discourse passes over my dash, I may be able to get back into it. And to love Alistair during the Blight again. Maybe.

For Kamila Hawke, it is... complicated. When I originally played Kamila, it was as a lesbian who fell in love with Aveline, and then shifted to a slightly-more-than friendship with Sebastian because they were lonely but didn’t actually want any sex--and would have felt guilty entering into a relationship with Merrill and especially Isabela on that basis. As I wrote pieces here or there, I slowly came to realize that Kamila was, in fact, asexual demiromantic transmasc (or at least that’s the best way I can describe them at current)--but when I’d conceived the character, I didn’t yet know all the words for that. I just knew that Kamila felt like in my head. Ultimately, Kamila kills Anders in a fit of anger, then later kills themself when the guilt of killing Anders drives them into a deep depression. So their story doesn’t fit in between Kalindra’s and Martin’s easily. In fact, when I write Martin’s story, it will be with an entirely different Hawke because I don’t want to change their story just to fit canon events. But Kamila will always be my canon Hawke, no matter what.

For Martin Trevelyan, it’s a little more complicated. For many people, their main OCs tend to reflect what they are or what they wish they could be. Martin was that long before I knew that’s what I was doing. So writing his story means I have to unpack my baggage from what I want his story to be, and that’s a bit more tricky than just writing his story. I’m working on it, but I can’t work on it for long periods of time due to the emotional depth of investment it needs. In addition to that, Martin makes some decisions, both in his past and in the course of game events, which Some may consider to run counter to True Heroic Actions, and I’m not sure I want to deal with the potential reaction to that when I could just enjoy his story in my head. It’s petty, I know, but it’s a fear linked deeply to anxiety and my own instinctive desire to protect a character I most closely link to myself (more as an actual son rather than an alter-ego). Still, I love his story enough that I may eventually get around to it, but again... I don’t know. I waffle on it a lot. I have literally written millions of words for Martin and various versions of him in RP and AUs of that RP, so I love writing him. It’s just hard to publish him. Ah well.

[ladydracarysao3]

Nemesis of Neglect: A Dragon Age & Jack the Ripper Tale

Chapter Four

Note Only one chapter this week, real life has ruined my scheduling plans. Consider that "every Tuesday and Wednesday" rule to be murdered in and around the face.

[Read Chapter Four on AO3]  or  [Start with the Prologue]

Chapter Four

Pain.

The pain is excruciating. All over her body she feels the ache. However, it is the rough licking of a sandpaper tongue and the loud thrum of purring that’s woken Ian. They call her awake from a catatonic state, those wet tiny bristles scraping her cheek.

Ian’s eyelids squint and flutter open while she groans through the newly discovered throbbing pain throughout her body. The tabby’s face in hers, she bats the cat off from her chest. It hops down with hmpf and struts away, offended by her lack of thanks.

Ian runs her hands over herself, wincing as she finds many tender spots. Bruises, scratches, and welts that seem to cover her from end to end. Her muscles ache, and her bones feel snapped and brittle. There is a swelling to her face and split to her lip. It is as if she’s one swift kick from death.

Her mind slowly follows her consciousness, and she discovers herself in a bed and room that is not her own. Her back is slightly raised from the mattress, propped up with a few pillows. The bed’s footboard, and a chair beside it, hold her dirty, bloody clothing. She is dressed in a slightly baggy and not very clean undershirt, though her undergarments are her own. And there are bandages wrapped around her ribs and both of her hands. The knuckles of which are bloody, soaked through the tattered strips of cotton.

She takes in the rest of her surroundings. Dingy. Dark. Damp. The stale smell of mold and mildew hangs in the air. Not a single window, just a smattering of candles and lanterns placed throughout. There is a desk across the room that is cluttered with books, odd instruments, jars, and beakers.

She knows this room. She knows it well. Reality settles in like an old friend who is no longer welcome, her heart plummeting beneath the bed as it does. Her mind and heart both pacing with anxious questions on how she got here, of all places. She considers bolting from the room, but the pain in her body keeps her planted firmly in the old familiar bed, dread of what will come next consuming her.

But it all stops cold when the old wood-slat door to the room opens. Involuntarily, her breath chokes in her throat when she sees him.

Dirty blonde long hair has fallen from its binding behind his head and tangles in a short beard on his chin. A straggly little thing that is unkempt due to his priorities in science over appearance. There is a point to his nose and a strength to his jaw that compliment the severity of his expression. Lost in thought, as always, he is surely scheming his next idea to save the sick and the dying in Kirkwall.

There is something beautiful about that way he sterns his face when he thinks. There always has been...

His clothes are old. Almost centuries old. A sad linen shirt hangs loosely from his chest, stitches meant to fix holes and rips hold the thing together more than anything else. His coat is dark and long and covered in patches of dust and dirt, matching his tattered dark trousers. They are items he found scavenging, no doubt, The man cares to only spend money on his herbs and his books and the other things that clutter his workspaces.

“Oh,” he says, glancing up from some vials in his hands. “You’re up. That’s an improvement, I suppose.” He walks over, unphased by her shock and confusion, and sets the vials down on a small table beside the bed. “Though, I admit it’s only good for you and not so much for me.” He scratches his cheek through his beard and skews his face. “Now I suppose I will have to speak with you.” Sighing, he crosses his arms while looking down at her with that stern and skewed expression.

“Anders,” Ian says, although her voice is not but a puff of breath. It has been so long since she’s laid eyes on the man that she feels everything from excited, to scared, to tense, and angry.

“Well, you’re mind is intact, it seems. I suppose that is good, too. Also, only for you.”

“How long was I out?” she asks softly, still in disbelief by the entire situation.

“Through the night. Although, I gave you a little something to ensure that be the case. It’s obvious you’ve not had proper rest in a long time,” he says with a roll to his eyes.

Ian glances down at the old bed on which she lies. It’s his bed in his bedroom, not a cot where he places his clinic’s patients. “Where did you sleep?” she asks. “If I’m here for care, why not place me in one of your sick beds?”

Anders fidgets and clears his throat. “You had open wounds, I didn’t want to chance you contracting an infection from the other rooms.” He darts his eyes away and points the opposite direction. “I slept at my desk. It was no matter. I’ve done it before.”

She smiles a tiny, short-lived grin. “Not the first time, certainly not the last. But how did I get here?”

“What do you last remember?”

“I was in the hall of the Arishok...there was a brawl.”

Anders chuckles deep in his chest and turns to the vials on the table. He mixes the different contents into a small glass. “I think a brawl constitutes something a bit more involved than one stupid woman getting almost beaten to death.” He scowls and shakes his head while pushing the glass of freshly mixed liquids into her hand. “Why would you go in there carrying on about murder? Do you have a death wish?”

Ian sits up fully, careful not to spill the glass as well as cause the least amount of pain from her injuries. “You haven’t told me how I ended up here,” she says. “What is this? One of your elixirs?”

“It is. A new one I’ve been perfecting,” he says, a bit of pride. The man has always enjoyed discovering new forms medicine. “Drink it. It should dull your pain and speed your healing considerably. I will give you more to take home when you leave.” He gestures for her to bring the glass to her lips. “I will answer you once you are properly medicated.”

“Why? Will this knock me out?” She smiles a lopsided thing before she drinks it down. The contents are bitter and horrid, but she swallows it all without complaint.

“I wish,” he says. A tiny reciprocated smirk flashes as he takes the glass from her hand. “Merrill came running in here, raving about how you had been beaten. Two men she found in Lowtown carried you in. I paid them to leave as well as for their silence.” His tone drops. “A payment I would like to see returned to me. I am not your keeper anymore.”

Ian grunts. “You were never my keeper.”

Anders sighs and finds a reason to cross the room. He begins to fiddle with items on his desk as he grumbles. “Yes, you made that abundantly clear.”

“Oh, please. Do not pretend to be hurt after all this time.” Her words sting even herself, but it is nothing compared to the pain already shrieking inside her body. “And remember, my dear Anders, you acted first. You know the rules of Lowtown. You hurt me, I hurt you. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.”

Anders slams his fists on the desk. The collection of glass bottles, beakers, and who knows what else ring and clank. “What you did destroyed me!” he yells through gritted teeth and silence follows. He remains with his back to her, shoulders rising and falling rapidly. It is a flaring temper that splits in a way she’s all too familiar.

Ian decides it’s time to leave. As fun as it is dredging up the past, there are more important matters. She eases her legs from the sheets to the floor and pulls off her draped trousers from the foot of the bed. “I suppose I should be thanking you for tending to me. Given your animosity, you may well have left me for dead.”

“You could, but we both know you wouldn’t mean it.”

“Give me a little credit,” she says with a groan, and she slips on her shoes.

Anders turns to face her again, and leans back on the desk. “I can’t. I know you too well for that.”

Ian grunts and reaches for her shirt and vest draped over the nearby chair. She winces at the pain the movement causes, but she can tell that it is far duller than before. His new elixir seems to be working quickly.

“Ian…” he says and she freezes. It is the first time she’s heard her name from his lips in what feels like the turn of the ages. Ancient suppressed emotions threaten to release themselves from their purgatory.

“Ian, I’m very sorry to hear of what happened to Bethany. I know what this must do to you, and I know you will not share it. Just understand, her loss is felt throughout the city...and deeply with me.” He runs his hands through his hair, smoothing back the pieces that fell from their binding. “She was like a sister to me too, after all… For a time, anyway.”

Ian swallows her emotions and finishes dressing. In doing so, she stares at the long-faded design on a rug in his room. “Did you know what she was?”

“I had suspicions. She came to me once, asking questions about magic and the healing arts. But when I pressed for the source of her investigation, she seemed to panic. She found cause to leave, and I never saw her again after that.” Anders tugs at a gold loop in his ear, and his voice trails far away. After a few thought filled seconds, he takes a deep breath, his mind returning from whence it came. “If I had actually known anything. I would have told you.”

Ian runs her fingers through her own hair. It feels cleaned. He took the time to clean her and bandage her wounds, yet he rarely shows himself the courtesy. A sad and tired tingle sets in her chest. “I know,” she says.

They stand there in his room, and somehow their eyes find each other. They do not smile. They do not speak. They just stand there in the thick, heavy air. His eyes are blue for all the gold in the iris. Her heart aches for those eyes. They once sparkled like the sun. They once held shimmers of hope in their intricate and beautiful gilded bands.

However, the world is too harsh for hope, and his bright eyes are clouded. No more of the sun, not since she helped spur the rain.

It is too hard to look at him. The pain is too great. It’s why she’s stayed away for so long. But she has the incredible urge to walk the few paces needed to close the distance between them. It wouldn't take much, just a little momentum.

How badly she wants to run to him...tell him how foolish she was, and ask for reconciliation.

An impossible desire, truly. This life is not kind to lovers. It is too complicated, too dangerous. They were as cursed then as they will be forever. People such as they are not rewarded the happy endings. It is best to not make matters worse. It is best that she leave, and leave now, rather than hurt their broken hearts any further.

She tries to find the sounds to say goodbye, when something in his eyes makes her throat trip. A flicker in the dulled and clouded gold, something perhaps triggered by his own lost thoughts.

It is no matter what spiral his mind may travel, however, because Merrill’s voice hollers from beyond Anders’ bedroom door. The elf runs inside before either Ian or Anders can react, and she falls limp against the doorknob. While desperately trying to catch her breath, she manages to say, “Good...you’re awake...there was another...dead...last night.”

Ian shoots a look toward Anders. The disappointment is almost too apparent in his face for her to stand. “Go,” he says. “I know you won’t listen if I ask you to stay...out of this. So just go.” He grabs a small bottle from his desk with one hand and hers with the other. The touch of his skin is enough to make her heart break, if it was not already broken.

Anders shoves the bottle into her palm and says, “Another dose, take this in a couple of hours.” Ian half-nods, grabs her coat, and walks out the door.

She never did find the sounds that say goodbye.

“I will send the rest of the elixir to your estate,” Anders calls out after her. Ian swallows the emotion that built so quickly in that old, damp room. She steels herself, and with Merrill by her side, works her way though Anders’ clinic.

It is a small series of old corridors that the man claimed in the pits of Darktown. There, he can tend to his experiments and the sick who live in the slums, without interruption or snooping by the authorities.

One will never find a guardsman in Darktown, because those who call it home are the forgotten ones. The poor wretches that are plagued with illness and curse. The souls who dare not walk the streets of even Lowtown for fear of a mob’s attack. Instead, they reside in the dark depths and caverns below the city. An old connection to the sewers where the only light comes from small fires or candles lit beside their mud-caked bodies. The only persons found there beyond its residents are the odd runaway criminal, or the truly desperate seeking Anders’ aid.

The women climb their way out of Darktown, each step of Ian’s feeling a little stronger than the previous. She follows the woman through the early morning ruckus of Lowtown. When they come upon the scene of the murder, it is a far different scenario than that of Bethany’s. Instead of just guardsmen milling about, there is a mob of people. Varric has more than one of his men with a camera, recording the events in still pictures, and the town’s official tribune is in attendance as well.

So much for Aveline’s wish to keep it all under wraps.

Not that that had worked anyway.

She finds the redheaded Captain in the center of the horde. She is towering over Varric with anger writ throughout her body.

“The people have a right to know!” Varric's protests carry over the sounds of the yelling mob. There is a mixture of horrified cries, hateful accusations toward conjurers, and blame thrown around for everyone from the Qunari to the Viscount himself.

Ian uses the chaos as covered distraction and is able to slip behind Aveline without notice. When she enters the scene, there is a rank smell of death. Either the night was warmer than the previous, or this body sat longer before discovery, or both. The victim is another woman, unknown to Ian. Same cuts to the neck and throat as Bethany, but also her hands are missing.

The blood is sloppier than before. It seems to be everywhere in the small enclave where the body lies slumped partly upright against the wall. The same words are painted in the the victim's blood, but the addition of crudely drawn horns are added at the top, flanking the hate.

“I knew it was them beasties!” a shrill yell filters in from the street.

Ian holds a kerchief to her nose while she surveys the area. Aveline is soon on her heels, however, and her angry voice disrupts Ian’s inspection.

“What are you doing here, Hawke. Leave my crime scene at once,” Aveline says.

“I am trying to solve this, same as you.”

Aveline’s shrewd stare scrutinizes the healing cuts and bruises on Ian’s face, and she shakes her head. “What you are doing, or what you have already done, is making a dire situation even worse. I know you have a sense of entitlement with the events in this city, but I will not have the investigation botched by your meddling. Leave, and leave it alone, Hawke.” Aveline points to the street and the mob hollering on it. “Go now, or I will lock you up.”

Ian places her hands in the air and backs out of the enclave. Bumping into Varric once in the street, the dwarf says, “Ah, don’t mind Red. She’s just feeling this case pretty hard. It’s the worst string of crimes since she took over as Guard Captain.” He smiles up at her, but the smile vanishes faster than it appeared. “Andraste’s ass, if this is what you look like after Anders’ help, I’m glad I didn't see you before...I'm not sure I could have handled it.” A stout finger lifts the the wool of her coat as he peers at it, then drops it back in place. “You should look into changing, Hawke,” he says gruffly and begins to push through the mob.

She follows Varric, and Merrill follows her, and the three head directly to The Hanged Man. They take seat in a secluded booth in the tavern, heads hanging low. They all order a meal while Merrill and Varric tell Ian about the uprising of violence in Lowtown’s streets. Those suspected of magic get bricks through their windows and graffiti slopped on their doors. Even people who are related to conjurers are under attack. Fist fights have been breaking out across the city and hostile fingers point at everyone for blame.

“It’s mayhem, the city guard can barely keep up,” Merrill says. “The Qunari are getting the worst of it. After we got you out of there, people started trying to set fires to their homes and threw stones at their heads. It became so bad so quickly that the Arishok has closed off their district completely. It is barricaded and guarded. No one beside those under the Qun may enter, and no one inside may leave.”

A silence washes over the table. Repeatedly, the dwarf and the elf look at each other, glance at Ian, then back to their morning meal of tavern porridge and black ale. Ian watches these glances with an eyebrow cocked, until she demands an explanation. Fed-up with the silence, she drops her spoon in her meal and leans back in their booth, arms crossed. “Alright. What is it? Out with it, the both of you,” she says flatly.

They look at each other silently. Varric sighs. “Listen, Hawke,” he begins.

“What you did was careless,” Merrill interrupts. Her anger is startling. “Storming in there, not asking questions, but strictly accusing. You not only risked the investigation, but you risked your life...and mine!”

Ian dips her head and fiddles with her spoon. “You should not have let you come. Something...something took hold of me. I had no control on my temper.”

Merrill growls in frustration. “If I had not been there, you’d be dead!”

“I think Aveline is right, Hawke. You’re too close to this, you’re not thinking straight. You’re a hard-headed son-of-a-bitch, but you aren’t usually that reckless,” Varric says.

“If we hadn’t been so close to an entrance to Darktown, if I hadn’t enlisted the help of those men… Ian, I’m not sure what would have become of you.” Merrill stares down at her porridge, and wipes a tear from her eye before it can fall.

Varric reaches across the table and places a hand over Ian’s. “Maybe you should go home, Hawke. Have you even taken a moment to mourn? Go be with your family. The rest of us will handle this. We won’t rest until the man is in irons.”

Ian shakes her head. “No. My sister was taken because of this, I can’t just sit back and wait. There must be something--”

“Go home. I promise I will make sure any new information I find gets to you. The best you can do is go home. You look like shit, and I bet you feel even worse.” The dwarf urges her, and cocks his head toward the doorway. “Go. Let us take care of you, for once in your miserable life.”

“This is ridiculous. You can take care of me by supporting me in this!” Ian feels her skin turn hot. She pulls the bottle Ander’s gave her from her coat. “This shit is healing me quickly. I will be as strong as ever soon and ready to get back on the streets!”

Merrill refuses speak or lift her gaze from her meal. Varric nods toward the door again and pats Ian’s hand. Neither friend giving into her demands.

“Go,” Varric says again.

“This is bullshit. Fine. If you will not help, then I will go elsewhere,” she grumbles and stands. No support will be found in this tavern. For now, anyway. She’s angry. Disappointed. Wounded even, that her friends have so little faith in her anymore.

Varric groans and rolls his neck. “Not somewhere else, Hawke. Home. Go home.”

Ian glares at the two of them, but they will not look at her. Storming to the exit of the tavern, her fury and frustration bellowing inside her, she decides that if nothing else, she will change, bathe, and find another dose of Anders’ elixir. Then, perhaps she can walk the streets again with less push-back.

She leaves the tavern, walking into the early afternoon sun filtering down through the smog of chimneys. She walks only a few paces before she hears a swift whistle in her direction. Turning her head to the source, she finds a woman leaning in the alley beside the tavern.

“There is a bloodlust to you. Is there not, Miss Hawke?” the woman asks.

Ian peers through a squinted stare at the woman. “What of it?”

“There is magic in you, yes? I can feel it. Yet you have not used it? Perhaps not ever, am I right?”

“You are a brazen woman to bring forth that kind of talk so openly in Lowtown.”

“Forgive me,” the woman says and steps forward from the shadows of the alley while outstretching her gloved hand. “My name is Grace, and I think I can help you.” In the light, Ian notices the woman is well dressed for lurking the darkness of slum alleyways.

Ian stares at the woman’s hand with great suspicion. She lets it wait for her, and instead of taking it, crosses her arms. “And how do you think you will help me?”

Grace smiles and leans on an odd looking cane. It appears more decorative than useful, with a blue sparkling crystal at its tip and blue vines curling around a dark metal shaft. “By showing you what your power can bring. These people you speak to, they are too afraid to do what needs to be done, but you are not. The gift of enlightenment in inside you, you just have to take it.”

Ian is in no mood for frilly speech. She cocks her head in annoyance. “Speak plainly, Miss Grace.”

“Perhaps it is better to show you.” She angles to invite Ian in following her back into the alley.

Ian chortles incredulously. “Follow you into darkness? How do I know you will not trick me once off the street?”

Grace chuckles. “Oh dear, Miss Hawke.” She points a lacy finger at Ian’s face. “Even without your proof of muscle so clearly on your exterior, you reputation precedes you. I would be a fool to think you could be matched by any thug I may find in this slum. No, all I wish to do is to help.” She points her strange cane down the alley. “Will you allow it? At least let me show you what I can do to facilitate your endeavours, and then you may decide for yourself if you wish to pursue them.”

Ian gestures for the lady to lead the way, and cautiously follows her into the darkness.

They navigate the alleys and corridors through the backs and sides of buildings, until the woman of fine clothing and fancy canes leads Ian into the pits of Darktown.

“What is a woman of your means doing associating with anything down here?” asks Ian as they descend a ladder into the lowest slum.

“What my company does is not fit for the open world, Miss Hawke. Darktown is the safest place to conduct our business without discovery. Our client base is strictly invitation only, and I’m afraid you must agree to never speak of this place or else it will vanish from your grasp entirely.”

“Vanish? You would move your operation just because I told one person of it?”

Grace chuckles amusedly. “Oh my dear, you have so much to learn, and I’m afraid no time to learn it.” She reaches the end of a corridor. There is no exit, just a dead end space. Ian starts to reach for her knife and looks over her shoulder, feeling as though she has been duped after all. But just as she is about to yell for the meaning of this, Grace walks through the wood slats that make up the wall - as if they were not there at all. Ian stands stunned. Staring at the wood where Grace once stood before the woman’s lacy gloved hand appears from through the wall, finger beckoning. “Come, Miss Hawke. It is not far now.”

Ian steps forward, staring at the wood, and hesitantly reaches out to touch it. Her hand slides past it without incident, and shocked, she steps through fully. On the other side she finds herself on a bridge of sorts, Grace a few paces ahead.

Ian looks over the edge of the bridge only to find complete blackness beneath her. No water. No rock. Just nothingness. There are walls on either side of the bridge where hundreds of strange trinkets and treasures hang. Posters and baubles. Dried flowers and clothing. Equipment and gemstones. Everything one may think of embedded in or hanging from the walls in such abundance that Ian cannot be sure what lies beneath.

“This way, Miss Hawke, come along,” Grace calls from the edge of the bridge. Ian walks along the wood slats as if her feet do not trust her mind. When she nears the end of the bridge - were a few wooden steps lead to some kind of dais and some kind of shrine atop it - Grace smiles and swings her hand toward it. “This is my associate, Xenon the Antiquarian. Welcome to the Black Emporium, Miss Hawke.”

“The what? I’ve never heard of such a place,” Ian says. Her eyes scan the surroundings past the dais. A tiny bear putters about. A little nug scurries away. A young boy stands silently in the corner. But oddest of the oddities, the associate Grace claims is no more than a skeleton set in a glass case with even more items strewn around it.

Grace giggles. “No, Miss Hawke, you wouldn’t have. Remember this place is of the highest secrecy.” She looks at her skeleton friend and says, “Mr. Xenon, will you not greet our guest?”

To Ian’s shock, a voice carries through the hall. It is not as if the skeleton’s jaw moves, no, but the voice of an elderly man echoes around them. “Ah yes, welcome my child. Few people are worthy of an invitation, you know. They search the sewers for the emporium and accost poor urchin. And I tell urchin to say, 'No! You are not worthy. Starve in the sewers!' Except urchin never speaks."

“Excuse me?” Ian asks, her mind can barely keep up with with has happened in the past few minutes.

“Come, Miss Hawke. I have yet to show you the true reason why I’ve brought you.” Grace walks around the glassed Xenon, and Ian follows her into a room behind a red velvet curtain. Inside, there are plush chaise lounges paired with small tables and ornate pipes. Some of these lounges have men lying upon them, the smoke from their pipes fog the air and they lie limp amongst crushed velvet and pillows.

“What is this place?” Ian asks.

“This is where you will find your answers. A spirit called to me this night last. It wishes to commune with you, Miss Hawke. It knows of your dire need for answers. Answers you have yet to find.”

“If this spirit has the answers, why did it not tell you?”

Grace smiles again. The woman seems coy and conniving by nature, and Ian does not trust her. “That is the way of spirits, my dear. They only speak to those they desire.”

“And all of this?” Ian asks pointing to the lounges and pipes and smoke.

“This will facilitate your communion in the quickest way possible for one of your...novice… abilities.”

“You are telling me that if I smoke from your pipe, I can speak with a spirit who will aid me to find my sister’s killer? You have a special way of conjuring, hidden here in the depths of who-knows-where in Darktown?”

“Yes.”

“But the other conjurers, could they not ask or seek these spirits for answers as well?” Ian asks.

“As I said before, Miss Hawke. Spirits are fickle, but they are also under estimated. That Orsino you spoke to, or that Merrill you of which you are befriended, they lack the will required for such an endeavour. They do not respect the spirits, and the spirits do not come to them.”

Ian would be bothered by how much this stranger knows of her, if it weren’t for everything else surrounding the mysterious woman as well. As it is, it’s just another layer of strange to an already boggling day. “I’m finding this all to be a bit bizarre, Miss Grace,” she says.

“The matter of importance is not of your knowledge on what conjurers are or are not capable of, Miss Hawke, but of what you are capable of with the aid of just a little lyrium.”

“Lyrium? That is highly addictive and dangerous.”

“I assure you, you are safe in my care. Do these men appear in peril?” She gestures to those partaking, all seem relaxed and at peace. “Now, I told you I would show you why I found you, but it is up to you to take the offer.”

Ian ponders and stares at her surroundings. Her heart thumps in her chest. If what this woman says is true, Ian cannot in good conscience ignore the offer. If there is an entity on the other side that wishes to help her, she must find it. She must find her sister’s killer, no matter the cost to herself.

“Alright, Grace,” Ian says. “Set me up.”

Grace clasps her hands together in glee, a sentiment that is still unsettling to Ian, but she pushes through the warnings in her mind to the authenticity of this woman’s intentions and follows her to a chaise.

Grace teaches her how to use the instruments provided, showing her the proper methods of filling, holding, and lighting the lyrium. “This is a special blend of lyrium I engineered to enhance the mind. Even the magically inept may travel the Fade with a bit of this in their lungs. You are all set now, Miss Hawke. Happy travels, and I hope you find the answers you seek.”

Left to find her way through this murky endeavour, Ian lies back on pillows and brings the pipe to her lips. The smoke feels cool to the lungs, almost as if ice dances through her body. It is a pleasant sensation that is immediately calming. She exhales and watches blueish-tinted smoke rise in the air. She feels her head floating. She feels relaxed. Another inhale, and another layer of sparkling frost throughout her body. This time when she exhales, the smoke glitters and swirls around her in a beautiful array of blue shine. Ian smiles and lies back, watching the twinkling dance above her. She smokes from the pipe one more time before that smoky display completely envelops her. The room falls away, in fact she forgets of its existence altogether.

The blue glitter swirls through the fog until it creates a shape, solidifying into a shining form of a blue velvet cloak. The hooded figure stands with its back to her and Ian’s heart races.

Bethany.

Bethany.

“Bethany!” Ian yells and reaches for the velvet. She begins to remember her purpose for this exploration as tears stream down her cheeks. “Bethany, was it you? Did you send that woman to me? Did you hear me call to you in that room? Oh Bethany, look at me!”

The hooded head turns to look over her shoulder, and Bethany’s golden eyes gleam in Ian’s direction. She does not speak, instead Bethany walks away. Ian calls out to her again and attempts to chase after her through the blue fog. As she breaks through the haze, she finds herself in the streets of the Qunari district. It is dark and quiet. The blue fog settles low over the mud of the street. Red candles glow in a scattering of windows, but only the moon lends any light to see. Ian spins around, screaming her sister’s name, until she spots a glimpse of the blue cloak disappearing through a doorway.

She runs, and mud from wet streets splashes. She reaches the doorway and yanks it open. “Bethany!” Her voice echoes in the hall, it is dark and still inside as she enters. She soon realizes that it is the hall of the Arishok, though it seems empty, at first. The ground squishes below her feet, and looking down she sees that she walks on a blood soaked rug.

“Bethany, are you here?” she asks into the silent hall. Each step is wet and clomping. She tries not to look down at the blood, and she tries not to notice the dead qunari bodies lining the walls, their lives pooling together to form the carnage beneath her feet.

A flash of blue dips through a back door, and Ian runs. She runs and blood splashes over the mud splattered on her clothing. She runs until she trips and falls, slamming into the wet rug and coating herself in red from toe to face. She turns to see from what she’d tripped, only to find her own dead eyes staring back at her. Her body crumpled and beaten and dead.

Ian would scream if she were the type, but her heart swallows her fear, and her wind had been knocked from her. She scrambles backward, her eyes fixed on the dead ones. She scrambles until she hits the steps to the Arishok’s dais, where she is able to lift herself back to her feet and carefully walk back toward the door where her sister vanished. Her stare still on her own, she watches until the dead version of herself is out of sight.

“Bethany!” she yells again as she stumbles backward through the door, stumbling into a street in hightown, her sister’s blue cloak quickly climbing the stairs to the Grand Cathedral’s doors. Ian calls out again and again, but Bethany keeps climbing and does not respond, she does not look back, she does not stop.

As Ian follows frantically until she is halted by a dagger to her throat and a strong arm pinning both of hers behind her back. A woman walks in front of her, dressed in a long black cloak that is hooded, shielding her face. Long blonde hair drapes down their chest, and she lifts her pale hands to drop the hood from her head. Aged but still stunningly beautiful, eyes as bright as pure lyrium, she stares into Ian with a menacing glare.

Ian struggles in the hold of a man much stronger than she, the blade of his dagger cutting tiny, painful slices into her neck each time she jerks her body.

The woman brings a sword from beneath her cloak and lights it aflame. She slowly points the flaming sword toward Ian’s chest, stopping at the location of her panic-stricken heart. The heat of the flames is excruciating, and Ian feels he skin begin to blister under the flame. She struggles harder to be freed from the man's grasp, the knife cutting deeper into her neck, but he hold her firm. His own hand does not scorch as she does, for his is protected with thick gloves.

“Blood,” the woman says and presses the sword’s point to Ian’s chest. “Blood is what I seek. When you give in, I tell all.”

“What do you mean?” Ian screams, the pain is too much to bare and she begins to wish for death. “Did you kill my sister?”

The woman presses the sword into Ian’s chest slowly and the shock of the hot blade pushing through her ribs stops Ian’s mind. Her struggles cease and her body falls limp into her captor's arms. She feels herself sinking to the ground, her eyes staring at the glare from the woman through the flames engulfing the sword and now herself. The woman presses the sword deeper, pushing the blade into Ian’s heart and she starts choking on her own blood, coughing it up violently and helplessly. The man behind her releases her, and Ian falls to the ground.

The man who’d held her watches as she bleeds and burns, his amber eyes devoid of emotion. The icy gaze of the woman beside him pierces her, her voice low and foreboding. “Your blood, Marian Hawke. Do not return without it.”

That is the last she hears, the last she sees, before death consumes her.

[brimay]

Hey! About the angst prompts. What about 'kissing me breaks the promess, remember?' Or 'you think you can fall in love with me again?'

thank you so much! i’m sorry that this took a little while, but here it is :)

i’m tagging: @cupcakeblake @marauders-groupie @blyedeeks 

wordcount: 1.8k

He thinks he’s loved her for a hundred years.

And now that she’s standing in front of him, the unforgiving rain making her golden hair stick to her face, the expression of a flood caught within her gaze, he suddenly remembers every moment: Every moment that makes him wish he’d told her a long time ago, when they were nothing but a pair of kids sharing strange dreams and peanut butter sandwiches.

He remembers her warm laugh as the sound of it burns through the back of his mind, filling every chamber of him until he is a paper crumbling at the edges, left blackened by the sweet memory. Oh, how he needs her to laugh like that again, needs her to be seven years old, holding his hand while giggles bounce on the fabric of their pillow fort.

“Clarke…” Don’t leave. Those words won’t emerge as they have stuck to the inside of his throat, too heavy to fly out like they were meant to. Desperate, he cups her face that is wet from the raindrops that have mixed with tears, so he can no longer tell the difference. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters, when pain is mercilessly tearing at his heart, determined to shred it to pieces.

Glancing at her mouth immediately has him squeezing his eyes shut. Breathe. Her lips are just a curve, just a small part of a masterpiece. She won’t crumble if you kiss them.

“Bellamy-“ Her voice a distant croak through the blur of his thoughts, Clarke puts an arm around his waist and her face to his chest. Then, she sobs, and he prays that his leather jacket will catch each of them as they emerge.

“Listen to me,” he begins, trying to mask the sound of his heart shattering as it threatens to make his voice crack. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pushes her off his chest, which causes their gazes to meet in a nebula of blue and brown.

Suddenly, it all flashes back…

And he’s five, knocking at the glass of her window. She is sitting on the bed, eating cold lasagna off a paper plate while the tabby cat lies on her feet, warming them.

Mom and dad are fighting, she says. His eyebrows knitting together, he nods before crawling into her room through the window like he’s already done so many times.

It makes her feel better, so he lets her draw an orange dragon on his arm… Smiling at her, he hopes she knows that she can slay it if that’s what she wants.

Then, he’s nine, in the grass by her side. To her, the clouds in the sky all look like broken hearts and moving vans, but he assures her that they look like rabbits.

It makes her feel better, so he lets her embrace him, and finds himself holding on.

Next, he’s thirteen, playing his guitar underneath her window at an ungodly hour, and the words come flying out of his mouth like sweet nothingness. Of course, he’s trying to cheer her up the way that chocolate ice cream does, but once his song is finished, she tells him, with the shadow of a smile on her face, that he must never kiss her… It makes her feel better, so he makes the promise.

Time flies, just like her at seventeen, dancing her way across his room in nothing but a sheer white shirt and dark-washed shorts; the ones with the Starry Night pocket. He remembers being with her when she saw them in the store, and how she looked at them like he thought she’d never look at him.

From his bed, he’s watching her, amusement caught in his gaze, and when she looks back, only to find him shirtless, color rushes to her cheeks, but because it makes her feel better he convinces himself that it’s nothing.  

With that, he’s back to a moment that is drowning in the rain. “Listen to me,” he repeats. “I meant what I said. Please don’t… Please don’t run from me.”

At his words, her lips part as her hand grabs onto the fabric of his soaked shirt. Releasing a quick breath from the cage of her lungs, Clarke holds his gaze. “Kissing me breaks the promise, remember?”

“Screw the damn promise, Clarke!” To his surprise, she barely blinks at his sudden outburst, but when he starts to move away from her, her eyes fill with rage: She’s thunder impersonating a girl in a cobalt dress, but he’s always known it. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Oh, of course you did!”

In the moments that pass upon those words, it feels like everything is going to shatter, him having turned his shoulder to her, his gaze directed towards the ground. The water fills his lungs, and he’s gasping for air, but after all, it’s her that brings him back to the surface with a soft pull on his sleeve.

“…But I love you too.”

Time stops, which makes him five, nine, thirteen, seventeen and eighteen all at once when he slowly turns his head to look at her, the tears in her ocean blue eyes and closes the space between them. Yet, his lips aren’t touching hers, only the tips of their noses brush, because even after all these years, he still craves permission. “I don’t know what else to say, Bellamy…” She mumbles, the words ghosting over his lips.

“You don’t-“ What cuts him off is her hands on either side of his face, pulling him impossibly closer until the storm folds around their embrace. In that moment, he knows he’s loved her for a hundred years, without question, without hesitation - it has always been her.

As if hypnotized, he looks down at her, convinced that she has changed her mind. Maybe, the truth is that it was never really made up. All that escapes is her name again, broken like the promise before he bends his head slightly to capture her lips with his own - his hand tangling in wild waves of her wet hair and his heart beating a tattoo against his ribcage.

And she’s five, laughing as she chases him down the street. Nine, splitting her cookie with him during lunchtime while he talks about heroes and emperors. Thirteen, humming as he struggles to braid her hair and seventeen kissing his knuckles after anger caused him to punch his locker.

Yeah, this kiss is a whirlwind as her fingertips run through his hair, and he believes that they both broke the promise a while ago. Together, unable to fight something so powerful and now it becomes clear that they’ve lost the war.

“Clarke–“ Breaking the kiss, Bellamy tries to regain his breath, but it’s difficult when she is looking at him, pupils dilated to the point where he can hardly see the blue in her eyes. “Let’s go.”

“Are you telling me you want to ditch the rest of the prom?” Clarke asks, a teasing edge to her voice, and Bellamy groans, because she knows that the only reason why he went in the first place was because she wanted to go with him. “What do you want to do, then?”

It’s a question that clings the atmosphere inside his car as they drive to his house, the place where they spent most of their childhood together, playing pretend and building with Legos. Now, it seems as though that was centuries ago, because suddenly the sweet, freckled boy of her memories is making her skin feel unbearably hot; her cheeks and chest flushed as she fidgets with the end of her dress.

“You alright?” Bellamy inquires, glancing at her while parking the car in the driveway.

“Yeah…” But Clarke can only bring herself to look at his hands on the steering wheel. However, that is until she remembers how they were pressed against the small of her back a few minutes ago. She doesn’t have to look at him to know that his brows have furrowed at the sound of the nerves breaking through her voice, yet she still does her best to seem calm, stepping out of the car.

“Okay…” He starts once they’re inside, and she just about expects that word to be some kind of indication that he is going to push her against a wall to make out with her, but that isn’t what happens. Instead, he says: “I’m going to change into set of clothes that doesn’t stick to me like glue. Do you want to borrow a pair of my sweatpants? A shirt?”

Perhaps it’s a stupid reaction, but Clarke nearly tears up, and she doesn’t know if it’s relief or just utter, unexplainable love for him - Maybe it’s both. In attempt to mask her reaction, she nods quickly. Nevertheless, he gives her a reassuring smile before he disappears into his room to pick out clothes, which is something that reminds her that she can never hide anything from him.

While he changes in his room, she does the same in the bathroom, just like they usually do on their weekly sleepovers, but frankly this is the first time that she has borrowed some of his clothes: His favorite dark blue sweater and a pair of gray sweatpants. It’s way too big, but it makes her feel so warm and safe that her heart can barely handle it, as it flutters with affection.

Entering the living room, Clarke finds him already seated on the couch in his usual spot, and she settles next to him, curls into his side. For a few minutes, Bellamy lets her rest her head on his chest, running his fingers through her hair, then he simply murmurs: “Which movie do you wanna watch?”

“Bellamy–“

“What?” Once again, his eyebrows furrow, and as he looks at her, noticing the confused expression on her face, he signs, which manages to confuse her even more.

Chuckling warmly, Bellamy taps the tip of her nose with his finger. “Clarke… We’re just going to watch a movie, okay? So will you please tell your nerves that they aren’t welcome here?”

At the raise of his eyebrows, she laughs, leaning in to catch a wild, dark brown curl that has fallen into his line of vision. Their faces are so close that she can count the freckles that dust his cheeks, running her fingertip over them: Once it reaches the last freckle by his upper lip, he smiles and she wonders how she was ever afraid of loving him…

… It honestly feels like the easiest thing in the world.

That is what she breathes against his lips when she moves to kiss him. Their relationship, until this moment, was held back by her fear as well as his selflessness.

Not anymore… Never again.