#sorry i think i turned into some manner of beast halfway through this. anyways

[localvoidcat]

you should tell us about the character misinterpretation...

i was just thinking about. how so many character portrayals surrounding the characters in this series tend to veer towards family dynamics or extremely close friends that would do anything for each other. and im gonna go into both of these. and also the view of characters being seen as girlbosses and all that but thats been talked about a lot so ill be short with that. im putting this under the cut because its just me ranting LMAO. none of these are directed at anyone since i think most of my mutuals seem to get it but this is just in general

im gonna give a disclaimer that theres a very good chance i could be wrong about these, this is mainly based on my own view of some of the character themes/dynamics and how they're framed in-story, i haven't gone back and reviewed canon sufficently enough to be correct on this. with that said i need to be a hater for a bit 👍

i think the family thing. just does not make a lot of sense to me when it comes to like 80% of the dynamics i've seen. literally the ONLY one i understand is thatcher and adam because like. obviously an older character calling a younger character "kid" and helping them out and all that would lead to those characters being seen as having a mentor/trainee or father/son dynamic. i get that. that makes sense ALTHOUGH i will say that i don't think it's quite as simple as that but i wouldn't even know how to explain

but a lot of the time when it comes to other characters. i do not understand how they could be seen as a family dynamic with the knowledge we have of the characters now. like sarah being seen as an older sister figure to bps (which. does not make sense considering she's younger than at least one of them) or like. the mandelatech employees being seen as having any kind of family dynamic (that one just. does not make any sense to me. i feel like the only reason for that is because it's, again, an older character and a younger character that hang out but i cannot see them as uncle/niece or whatever else they are. those are coworkers to me but maybe that's just my view). there's also the idea of the remaining four survivors being seen as a general family thing and i cannot wrap my head around that at all. it makes sense for thatcher and adam as i said in the previous paragraph but it doesn't make sense for characters like sarah or evelin i cannot understand that in the slightest. again this may just be my own personal view

and then the thing with a lot of characters being close friends. this one i can kind of understand because obviously when characters are canonically friends you want to view them as being good friends. which makes sense in a lot of other things but i think with tmc in particular. a recurring theme (outside of characters like sarah and evelin or thatcher and ruth. both of those seem to be character duos that don't have issues in their relationship) is that a lot of these friendships are not good for one or both parties, whether that's a realized thing or not. again, i get how it's a lot more fun to see them as being close but i feel like viewing them as strictly close friends that only have good views on each other or as characters that would really care much about another's death in a very impactful way is kind of undermining the whole point in a lot of these dynamics.

tl;dr: while it's fun to imagine characters as having a family dynamic or as even just having a healthy friendship, as is mainly prevalent in fanon, i don't think that can be applied to canon without ignoring parts of a character/their reactions to things and their story.

final thing i'm going to touch on is something that has been talked about in SEVERAL fandoms by people that could articulate it way better than more. but i personally have a very strong vendetta about immediately labeling a female character as a girlboss or anything like that and not establishing their character beyond that. ESPECIALLY when it doesn't even line up with the character as a whole. most of the time it just feels like a binary where a girl character HAS to be labeled as a girlboss or a girlfailure or whatever other label there is regardless of whether or not they actually fit that. it's understandable to lightly joke about that (like evelin being referred to as the latter. in that case it makes sense to use that in reference to her but using that as the only defining part of her character limits her to that) but when it's used as the ONLY way those characters can be described it just becomes annoying to an extent

even for characters like ruth who we don't know a lot about, there's more to her than just. i don't know. being the singular braincell (which tends to be the view of female characters when it comes to one girl in a group of guys. which i cannot stand) or being the girlboss or being the strong one of the three and nothing else.

for the last paragraph i will admit that the majority of my talking about ruth tends to revolve around her dynamic with her friends, but there's absolutely more to her character outside of that or just being the dead character (even though her death absolutely serves as a driving factor for thatcher's character arc and other things). she does not exist solely for that group dynamic or just to be the dead character she has more depth outside of that and she has so much more depth than just being labeled as a "girlboss" and nothing else.

anyways. this was mainly just me going on a rant towards the end but i just needed to verbalize these thoughts before i exploded nothing i say is canon or the interpretation everyone else has to have this is me yelling into the void. okay goodbye 👍

[shoutogepi]

Red Roses

Kirishima Eijirou

word count : 7.5k

[ ✘ (nsfw!), flowershop!au ]  

themes : haaaa where to begin… almost dubcon?? (BEWARE!), dom!kiri, size kink!kiri, light spanking, tinyyy bit of ass play, little use of “Sir”

bio : Kirishima decides to educate you on the alternative meaning behind a red rose.

author’s note : this fic was meant to be for the @bnhabookclub​ provisional licensing exam event using their flowershop!au, but alas... i am a lazy procrastinator. anyway you should check them out!! i’ve absolutely loved being a part of something so great. also thanks to all who helped me with this fic <3 buuut special thanks to @lady-bakuhoe​​ for beta reading <3

tagging: @queensynderella @marilla-eldriana @1-800-callmekatsuki​ @hisoknen 

also available on AO3 here

   ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

🅃he bell tinkles overhead as you step into the quaint store, palm clammy against the metal doorknob and chest tight with apprehension.

“Y/N! Thank god for you,” your friend exclaims from behind the register, sliding over the counter with ease. She shoves the apron she’s holding into your hands before attempting to throw her hair into a messy bun. “I cannot believe my sitter cancelled on me this last minute— my husband has to be out of the house in ten minutes!”

You smile at her gratefulness, but your eyes are not on her. The curtains on the back room part and out steps the store owner, red eyes landing on you. “Y/N,” he greets you, the timbre of his voice low and cool. You nod and smile hesitantly toward him, shifting your attention back to your friend even though you can feel his gaze raking over your body.

Yuki wags a disapproving finger toward the man behind the counter, “Kiri, you better take good care of her!” She commands with a playful yet firm tone, body already halfway through the door you’d just come in through.

Your entire being screams out for you to beg her to stay, but you hold your tongue as you recall it was you who said you’d cover her shift. She already seems to have had the stress lifted from her shoulders at your arrival, and you can’t bear to back out after coming all the way here.

Looking back toward the source of your stress, you can’t help but admire him. Scarlet locks hang down around his face, majority pulled back into a sleek, short ponytail to give you a better view of his handsome face— jawline sharp as his teeth and the scar on his forehead slicing through his brow. He’s tall; well over six foot with rippling muscles adorning his long, tan arms. He’s wearing a crisp, white button down rolled up to the elbows, black and red ink poking out of the hem and trailing down his forearms. The store’s pine green apron is pulled snug around his figure, accentuating his broad chest and narrow hips. You already know his ass looks incredible, even though it’s hidden by the plastic countertop. He’s a five course meal on legs, for Christ’s sake, but you know better than to get ideas— he’s a player.

“Of course,” Kirishima replies across the store after her retreating form. His eyes drift over to you, catching your stare. “I’ll take great care of her.”

The door closes, sealing you to your fate with the red beast of a man. For a moment you just stand there, frozen as your mind runs through a thousand thoughts. Before he can comment about your blatant staring, you rip your eyes away from his, throwing the neck of the apron above your head. Tugging the tie around the back of your waist, your fingers fumble with the thick material as you turn to face him again. “So what should I work on?”

He seems amused at your question, even though it’s extremely valid. Not even bothering to hide the generous once-over he gives you when you've finally tightened the bow behind your back, he takes his time to answer you. “Yuki usually does the ordering for next week’s shipments tonight, but I’ll do that. You can put together some bouquets— I’ll give you one to follow off of.”

You’re honestly surprised that he’s giving you real work to do, but then again, you are covering a shift after all. Kirishima shows you the corner behind the counter designated for bouquet assembly, and he helps you make the first bouquet before he slips away behind the curtains of the back room once again, leaving you alone in the store.

He’d picked a simple bouquet for you to reproduce; a dozen red roses with a few sprigs of baby’s breath and a touch of greenery. The work is pleasantly methodic to complete, and by the time the sky is dark, a small sense of pride blooms in your chest at the pile of bouquets you’d managed to complete. It’s five minutes to close, and not a single customer has come into the store in the last hour. You’re snipping the ends off of the last branch of baby’s breath when you hear the rustle of the curtains behind you.

Immediately the atmosphere of the room changes. The once warm and light mood that filled the shop dissipates, replaced with a heavy, silent tension that causes trepidation to ooze into your veins.

“These look pretty good, Y/N,” Kirishima speaks from behind you, thick fingers moving over the packages of cellophane in a slow, analytical sweep. You roll your eyes, wondering if he’d thought you’d do a shit job or something.

You open your mouth to give him a curt thanks, but your voice dies in your throat as you feel his presence a hair’s breadth from your backside. The heat that rolls off of him licks at your skin through your clothes, your hands fixed midair.

“Though this one’s a little off,” he murmurs, breath washing over the shell of your ear. His hands come into your field of vision, arms absurdly thick and just generally large in comparison to you. His hands are just as big, dwarfing yours as he plucks the dainty flower from your stiff fingers.

The tattoos that peek out from the cuff of his sleeves hold a certain gravity that captures your stare. You watch him tuck the stem among the bouquet in your peripheral, placing it in precisely the perfect location to make the ensemble flawless.

Your stomach lurches when his chest brushes against your shoulders, fingers turning in on themselves to form to meager fists that you place atop the counter. “There,” he whispers, and you can feel just how close his lips are to touching your ear.

His voice does something to you; up close like this it sounds almost akin to how a tiger’s purr rumbles through its whole body. Except it’s your body that it thunders through, an unwanted heat beginning to form between your thighs. You shift your legs slightly, bringing your feet closer together in an attempt to mitigate the sensation.

You nearly gasp when he pulls away, eyelids fluttering shut in relief.

“You’re actually pretty good at this,” he comments, returning to the pile of bouquets that rest along the countertop. He starts to tuck them into his arms, red gaze flickering to gauge your expression. There’s a knowing gleam in his eyes, and you try your best not to allow heat to flood into your cheeks. But he doesn’t push it any further, turning and walking around the counter to crouch in front of one of the fridges that line the wall. You find yourself wishing for the cool air to wash over your own face, and you grab a few bouquets before making your way over to him.

You kneel down next to him, slightly annoyed that even sitting down he’s still at least a head taller than you. Stupid proportional man. You open the door and prop it open against your hip, leaning in to place the fresh bouquets inside an empty bucket, following Kirishima’s lead.

Kirishima watches you from the corner of his eye for a moment. “Thank you,” he says as he continues to fill the buckets in front of him, “for filling in for Yuki, I mean. The shop doesn’t look too busy but it needs two people to keep it up and running, so… I appreciate you coming in.”

His words are unexpected, and they bring a fresh wave of heat to your cheeks. You’d never seen the playboy be so openly appreciative before, although honestly you’ve only seen the fuckboy side of him— the one that eyes you down, and blatantly flirts with you when you come to visit your friend during her shifts. “Of course, Kiri,” you reply automatically. The burning in your cheeks only intensifies when you realize you’ve addressed him so informally, but when you turn to apologize to him, you find he’s much too close for comfort. He’s leaned in, taking you by surprise as the scent of his deep, savory cologne wafts into your face. Those carmine eyes piece into yours, making your stomach fill with butterflies, flapping round your stomach in a concoction of nerves and— you hate to admit it— hunger.

“You’ve done such good work today, Y/N,” he nearly whispers, and you watch as his full lips part to utter the words, sharp fangs glinting at you. Before you lose yourself to the moment, he stands, mollifying the intensity and severing you from the invisible string that pulls your gaze to his. You hesitantly take the hand he reaches out to you, trying not to think about how truly huge it is compared to yours. He pulls you up effortlessly, and you still as his other hand comes to touch the back of your waist when you all but collide into his chest. “Sorry,” he says but you wouldn’t deem his tone apologetic, “you’re so dainty, y’know— like a flower.”

You turn on your heel to face the other direction, hoping he doesn’t notice how much his comment affects you; you’re sure you look like a bird with fluffed, ruffled feathers— you certainly feel that way at least. You let out an awkward laugh as you take a hasty step toward the register, your body wanting nothing more than to rid itself of this infuriatingly delicious heat that Kirishima’s words create underneath your skin, licking and crawling along your bones. Finding yourself safely harbored behind the counter once again, your eyes fall to the nearly-completed bouquet you were just wrapping up when Kirishima exited the back room. Your fingers reach for a sprig of greenery, flat wide leaves fanning out in an elegant manner that could only accentuate the beauty and simplicity of the red bouquet.

But your sense of security is proven false, for Kirishima’s deep, demanding voice trickles like honey into your ears. “Red roses are accepted as the symbol of love all around the world,” he pauses for dramatic effect, and you hate to admit you’re left teetering on the edge of your metaphorical seat waiting for his next words, “but true florists know they convey another meaning.”

By the clarity of his diction you can tell he’s standing not far behind you, probably a step or two away. You can feel your heart rate spike again, your breath catching as you wonder what his next move will be. “And what’s that?” You reply dryly but it comes out more like a breathless whisper.

His thick forearms intrude your vision and settle on either side of your figure, leaving just a touch of space from your flesh. Your nearly shaking fingers drop the twig of leaves when he reaches between your hands, plucking a single thorny stem from the assembly before you and holding the soft, velvety petals to the tip of your nose. He doesn’t have to say the words for you to know to take a sniff of the blossom, and you inhale as much as your lungs will take before he answers your question, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

“Desire.”

Your body freezes completely, too shocked to even draw in a breath of air, when his pointy teeth graze the very tip of your ear. Jaw hanging at his sheer impudence, you’re still as a statue when he moves the soft swell of the bloom across your far cheek, soft petals trailing along your fiery skin. The action tickles slightly, causing your head to turn toward his face that hangs down above your shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful, sweetheart,” he coos, and again there’s that rumble in his voice that resonates through your frame. He drops the flower, not caring to even spare a glance as it falls from his fingertips. The digits move to cup your chin, middle finger pushing the corner of your jaw to swing your face directly in front of his. Simmering red eyes stare deep into yours, flickering toward your lips briefly before he decides he no longer wants to drag this out.

You’re horrified to moan so unabashedly when his lips press against yours in a vicious siege, dominating them and claiming them as his. His kiss is rough, as if he can’t hold himself back from his beast-like passion, yet it’s much more meaningful and encaptivating than you’d imagined it would be. His arm slithers around your hips to place his hand atop your ribs. Your eyes widen at his undisguised motive, and you open your mouth to call him out— but before you can pull away to tell him to stop, his tongue slips between your lips. Knees wobbly at the sudden intrusion, your tongue begins to move with his, stroking, and swirling, and tangling into one sexy, sloppy mess. His hand slips from its place on your ribs, drifting underneath the side of your apron and cupping your entire breast— not much of a challenge for his large palm.

Kirishima moans into your mouth at your acceptance, and you can only croak out a small whimper of reciprocation. His hand is hot through the nearly sheer fabric of your blouse, and the bra does not do much to block his calloused hands from your chest. His other hand continues to grip your jaw, just hard enough so you’d have to struggle to pull away from him. That is, if you were ever to want to pull away from him.

Your hands are still frozen in front of you, unsure what exactly to do in this situation. Mind completely exhausted of all higher levels of thought, the only emotions you can recognize are lust and satisfaction. Actually, your brain is so hazy with these feelings that you don’t even complain when he starts to undo the tie at the back of your apron. His teeth drag across your bottom lip, the sharp edges not quite pressed hard enough to cut you, but for some reason it brings an unexpected thrill. Pulling away from your mouth, Kirishima’s lips meander across your jaw, his hand tilting your head up so he can continue his journey to your throat. He sucks on the tender flesh there, inhaling your sweet and clean scent as his tongue washes against your skin. You gasp at his brazen action, ass pushing against his hips to discover something long and thick there. Teeth prick into your flesh just a touch too hard, but he’s let go of you after only a minute, and he traces over the small wounds with careful licks.  

“Do you,” you suck in short breath when he squeezes your breast, your words faltering, “Do you do this with all your employees?” You taunt, but Kirishima can recognize the doubt in your tone. It’s hidden under false scorn, but your question is pure and filled with true intent. 

He pauses his treatment on your neck for a spell, and when he speaks, the wet skin on your throat feels cold as his breath falls upon it. “Of course not,” he purrs, raising his head to take your earlobe between his teeth, pulling away and sending a fresh wave of shivers down your spine. Your body jolts at the stimulation, and your bottom brushes against his crotch again. This time, his hand moves from your breast to wrap around your waist, securing you in place. He presses his concealed cock against the swell of your ass, and you bite your lip at the sheer size of him. Leaning in, he places a long stripe on the side of your ear with his hot tongue, and you can hear the teasing dripping from his voice. “Only with the pretty ones who beg for it.”

Kirishima’s hips rut against your ass, and he holds you in place so that the gentle grind he offers is felt in full effect. You nearly moan at the feeling of his hot length rubbing against you, your pussy starting to leak onto your panties. Of course you know he’s been around, but he’s so sexy— and he’s got to be good at what he does with all that experience.

He pauses, angling your face to still in front of his again. There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and a pleased smirk pulling up one corner of his mouth. He turns your face away again, and your eyes fall shut as his nose scrapes along your cheek. “Yuki says to stay away from you,” he grumbles, lips pressing against your cheek as he speaks, a groan slipping from his parted lips as he rolls his hips into yours particularly hard. Your bottom lip is held prisoner between your teeth in a desperate attempt to hold in the moan that craves to be set free. “Says a good girl like you is too good for me to be messin’ around with.” His words convey a dash of irritation, and you’re caught off-guard at the seasoning of disdain.

You wonder when she’d told him that— when they’d talked about you— but Kirishima does not allow you another moment to ponder it. He kisses you again, and all thoughts are cleansed from your brain as his lips seize yours. The hand on your chin drops and you gasp as it lands on the hem of your skirt, curling around you so his hot palm rests on your inner thigh, just a short distance from your soaked panties. Your feet move to draw your legs together, and your quivering thighs rub against his hand as you struggle to make your body move to your will. Pulling back to fill your lungs with fresh air, you mumble against his lips, “Kirishima, that’s—”

“But I know you’re not all that innocent,” he continues, fingertips brushing over the saturated lace. He groans as he traces along your slit, delighted to find you’re more than aroused from all his touching and teasing. Your cheeks feel impossibly hot, and you let out a soft whimper as he grazes over your clit a few times, your head falling back against his broad chest. Kirishima takes in your lustful expression, and the way your eyelashes flutter at him makes his cock twitch in his pants. “You’re so wet, sweetheart— fuck, you’re a naughty little thing. Y’want this, huh?”

Even though you only give him the slightest nod, he seems to accept your response, for his grip around your waist tightens considerably, pulling you flush against him. His hips buck against yours and you moan aloud when the clothed tip of his cock rubs against your panties through your skirt. You can’t even react when he spins you around, your head feeling fuzzy and laden with desire. He grabs your hips, easily placing you on the edge of the countertop before his fingers move to rip off your apron, then coming to undo the buttons at the front of your blouse. “The— The store,” you pant, eyes darting toward the door that currently sports the ‘open’ side of the sign. You swallow thickly when Kirishima falls to his knees, landing at the perfect height for him to put his head between your thighs.

His hands move to snag the hips of your panties, and you nearly whine in embarrassment when he slides the item down your legs, a thick string of your lust connecting the material to your pussy before it severs. Kirishima only moans in awe, pride oozing into his system as he takes in how drenched you are for him. He shoves the soiled lace into his pocket, and you whine at the action, about to complain but he cuts you off. “Don’t worry, Princess. No one’s gonna bother us,” he breathes out as he comes closer to your weeping core, your slick trickling down your ass cheek to drip onto the countertop.

White hot mortification bursts through you as he takes a long whiff of your pussy, and you squirm to move backwards but rough hands trap your thighs open, dragging your ass to hang halfway off the edge. He smirks as he looks up at you, examining your flustered expression.

“You ‘dunno how long I’ve wanted to have a taste of this sweet little pussy,” he growls, and your hands fly to the end of the counter to steady yourself, grasping onto it tightly. He chuckles when your cunt twitches before him at his words, his hands spreading your thighs apart into an obtuse angle, moving forward to drag his nose along your slick folds. You whimper at the contact, clenching around nothing as he teases you, your mouth falling open to suck in ragged breaths of air. His tongue darts out just slightly, and he runs the tip along your slit, separating your folds and savoring how your thighs shake underneath his grasp. “Mmmm,” he moans, sending tiny vibrations echoing through your sopping cunt, “good girls always taste the best.”

You can’t bear to look at him any longer, and you move your hand to place your curled knuckle between your teeth as his tongue creeps out, the flat muscle petting over your entrance slowly. His teeth graze your clit and you whine at the stimulation, the smooth enamel sliding across your bundle of nerves easily. His tongue is slow and playful, stroking you and avoiding where he knows you want him most.

Kirishima nuzzles into your cunt, rubbing your clit again with a lewd snarl pulling up his lips. “Look at me,” he commands and you follow his direction instantly, eyes blown wide with lust and tongue pressed tight against your knuckle. He groans at the sight, and you only shift your hips in his grasp to try to get closer to his mouth. Those scarlet eyes find yours once again, and you struggle to hold his gaze as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking it in and rolling his tongue over it. He moves the muscle hard against you, just fast enough to have you moaning out, your hand flying from your mouth to grasp the top of his crimson hair. Pulling away briefly, he blows a small huff of air across your heat, shit-eating grin splitting to gloat. “Doesn’t that feel good, sweetheart? Be a good girl and keep those pretty eyes on me.”

Your lips waver as they press into a firm line, your thighs straining to close at the intensity when he sucks your clit into his mouth again. But his massive hands hold your legs apart without any effort, and he lashes his tongue against you without mercy. There is nothing more you want other than to throw your head back and close your eyes, jaw hanging open and heated pants drifting out, but you force your gaze to remain on the man between your legs. Your fingernails scrape against his scalp as you try to find some way to channel the pleasure he introduces to your body, but the action only seems to spur him on. One hand leaves your thigh only for his other arm to wrap right around your ass, and your hips buck helplessly against his face when a fingertip prods your slicked entrance.

Kirishima does not ask for permission, and you suck in a silent gasp as his finger spreads your pussy, shock and pleasure shooting through your limbs at the stretch just one finger provides. “You seem a little quiet, sweetheart. Wanna hear that sweet voice of yours again,” he growls against your pussy, tongue flicking down to trail along the edges of his finger lodged deep inside of you.

You can only whimper as he glides the digit out, pushing it back inside slowly and nearly making your eyes roll back in your skull. His finger is already so long and thick— god, if you had fingers like that you could probably make yourself cum in—

A shriek of bliss rips from your lungs as he thrusts his finger into you, curling toward himself and rubbing some place your fingers have never reached. There’s a cocky grin on his face, and you hate to admit he looks so good looking up at you like that from between your legs, but you can’t bring yourself to form any words. “That was cute,” he chuckles, jagged teeth nipping gently at your pearl again and forcing your entire body twitch against him. He makes sure to capture your full attention before he finishes his thought, the corners of his lip curling with something darker. “Is that the best you’ve got? I think you can do better.”

He’s anything but gentle, the heel of his palm rubbing against your folds as he fucks his finger into you at a rapid pace. You’re seeing stars flash before your eyes, the sliver of sanity you were so desperately clinging to ripped from your grasp. You cry out when his mouth returns to your clit, sucking, and flicking, and slurping. Your eyes just won’t stay open, jaw losing the opposite battle as it hangs ajar, broken and unrestrained moans tumbling out like a burst dam.

Kirishima seems satisfied with your reaction, and he begins to groan against your cunt. You’re dripping with enough slick to coat the entire lower half of his face, and the vibrations from his throat only reverberate through your pussy, making you sharply tug on his hair.

“K-Kirishima,” you pant, a plea about to leave your lips. You’re not sure if you want to beg him to stop, or to give you even more. But Kirishima makes that decision for you.

A strained gasp slices though you when his finger slides out of you, only to be pressed against another digit and shoved into you. The unexpected addition causes you to yelp, a strained moan purring out of you as he allows a few slow strokes for you to adjust. Jesus, having two of his fingers in you feels like you’re being stuffed already— a fleeting pang of fear shooting through you as you wonder what his cock will feel like. But you’re not allowed to ponder the thought, his fingers picking up the pace and curling against that spongy spot again.

Body squirming with bliss, your hips thrash in his hold, switching between scooting back and forth, rocking yourself against his mouth. Kirishima can feel your cunt begin to tighten snug round his thick fingers, your walls fluttering and pulsing at his rough but generous stimulation. “Gonna cum? Bet you make sucha pretty face when you cum, come on sweetheart,” he murmurs, slick lips kissing along the top of your pussy, across your clit. You would’ve cum already if he just kept that sly mouth of his on your clit, and you don’t expect his next words to affect you so much as you cum all over his hand. “Sooner you cum, sooner I can split you open with this cock. You want that, right? Wanna have me fuck that tight little cunt— y’wanna be my good girl, huh?”

Kirishima holds your hips close, arm tightening around your bottom as your body spasms with your orgasm, euphoria zipping through your entirety. The broken moan that rings out into the room makes his cock pulse in his pants, trousers feeling suddenly much too snug for his liking. Your head is thrown back in ecstasy, thighs quivering atop the counter and toes curled in your sneakers.

Finally he allows you a moment to breathe, fingers slipping out of your pussy and standing before you. His arm slides up with him, snagging around your waist to lay his palm flat against your shoulder blade and hold you upright. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he smirks as your eyes finally open, only to catch him tracing his tongue along the fingers that just brought you to heaven’s gates.

Your palms land on the broad expanse of his chest, fingers curling around straps of his apron. He laughs as you whine gently, ducking down a considerable distance and allowing you to slip the loop over his head. You undo his shirt as your lips collide, this time in a sloppy and desperate kiss. His tongue rolls over yours in your mouth as he tugs your bra to rest on top of your chest, your breasts spilling out into his eager palm. He thumbs over your nipples and growls against your mouth, and you whimper and allow your fingers to spread across the flesh of his chest. When you open your eyes, you notice a black and red dragon carved into the top of his pec, dipping halfway down from his collar bone and curling around his shoulder down the length of his arm.

Shirts thrown to the floor in crumpled heaps, you trail your fingers down his hard six pack, thumb combing through a neat trail of black above the button of his jeans. Digits running down to cup his hard length, you look at him with wanton eyes and groan. “Wanna taste you, Kiri.”

Kirishima clicks his tongue in his mouth, a beefy hand wrapping around your wrist entirely and steering your hand to rest on the bulge on his thigh. Your eyes widen almost comically, your throat drying and pussy tightening with a cocktail of apprehension and excitement. He leans down to run his tongue along the column of your throat before he pulls back with a brief nibble to your jaw, locking eyes with you. “I don’t think a sweet girl like you can handle taking me in your mouth.”

His fingers move to undo the button on his jeans, the suspense thick in the air as you watch in awe. He tugs the jeans to rest beneath his ass, the bulge in his black boxer-briefs already indicating you might be in for more than you can handle. You try not to let your jaw drop when his cock springs free, swollen tip glazed with a sheen of pre and pulsing veins decorating the entire shaft. Hand around the base of his cock, you whimper as it only covers half his length— his fist is already considerably bigger than yours and suddenly you’re in fear for your pussy.

Kirishima laughs at your expression, pressing a quick kiss to your lips and smoothing the hair from your forehead. “Don’t worry Princess,” he murmurs, arm around your waist again to push your hips to the very edge of the countertop. Your pussy twitches when the head of his cock brushes your folds, and you find yourself wondering if you’re about to be in a world of pain or pleasure. Probably both. “I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he promises, nuzzling his face into your neck and pressing gentle, wet kisses there.

“I don’t— I don’t think it’s gonna fit,” you croak out, arms hesitantly wrapping around his neck. Yet your legs spread on their own accord, inching forward so his cock rubs against your opening.

Kirishima purrs at the action, licking his lips against your throat. “We’ll make it fit, sweetheart.” He brings his hand up to his mouth and spits into it, the crude noise making you flinch and wrinkle your nose in disgust. But it doesn’t last for long— any conscious thought leaves your brain when you glance down, seeing him stroke the top half of his cock with his slick hand. Biting your lip, you close your eyes and pull him closer, trying to prepare yourself for whatever is about to come.

Thankfully his movements are slow as he pushes into your wet cunt, and you’re surprised how easily his length slides into you. The stretch is unreal— unlike anything you’ve ever felt before— and it takes all your willpower not to clench around him for you know that will just cause you further discomfort. He only enters you halfway, grip tight on your waist as if he’s having a hard time controlling himself. Sighing against the flushed skin of your neck, he moves to kiss you again, lips tender and careful.

You whimper when he gives a tentative thrust, your nails clawing into the muscles lining the top of his shoulder. His cock is so thick, and knowing it’s only halfway inside you has your stomach twisting in terror. He’s goddamn huge. It takes a few more gentle thrusts for your grip on him to loosen, and your body relaxes slightly in his arms.

Kirishima clearly has enough experience with this, because the pace he sets is perfect. His hands slide all over your body, cupping and squeezing every inch of flesh he can find. Hips rock into yours at a slow, benevolent pace, your pussy stretched wide around him and fluttering as his thick veins drag along your velvet walls. Lips finding yours again, his tongue and pointed teeth distract you as with each thrust his cock shifts a tiny bit deeper inside of you.

At some point you start to moan, head falling back and mouth open wide as long, unadulterated sounds float out from the bottom of your lungs. Kirishima’s pace hastens, hands landing on your hips and thrusting into you swiftly. His cock is making your head spin, brain full of fog as your heart hammers in your ribs. He swears as his rough hand claps atop your ass cheek, taking note of the way your pussy shivers around him and a sharp squeak is summoned from your lips. “God you’re fuckin’ tight sweetheart— fuck, you a virgin?” He moans, fingers biting into the reddened skin on your ass. When you shake your head at him, he questions how on earth it is possible for you to be this snug around him, but he makes sure to thank whatever deity there is for it.

You cry out when his thumb greets your clit, and he fights to maintain his measured pace at the way your cunt squeezes so tightly. Your slick is dripping onto the countertop, his cock buried deep in your core, again and again. His added stimulation to your clit has you gasping for breath, a coil in your stomach filling with pressure. “Ohgodohgodohgodohgod Kiri please don’t stoppp,” you beg, pupils drifting up into your skull and your hands flying all over his torso, grabbing whatever skin you can reach.

Kirishima groans, palm pushing your tailbone forward so your hips bump against his. You scream at the full intensity of his cock inside of you; every inch and every vein setting fire to your insides, his thumb relentless on your clit. Your vision turns white as you reach your peak, your body seizing in ecstasy. Pulling him close, you wheeze for breath against his chest, his thumb never stilling its movement on your clit until you grab his wrist and rip him off of you, overwhelmed with the bliss from your orgasm rippling through every bone in your body. He’s still moving inside of you— albeit at a snail's pace— but it’s enough for him to prolong the pleasure simmering in your veins.

Finally you collapse into his chest, mind numb and eyelids too heavy to keep open, your lips pressing clumsy kisses into his skin. A deep chuckle rumbles through his chest, his fingers carding through your tresses. “Now, that was cute, Princess,” he says, the amusement in his tone laced with something darker. His fingers curl in your hair, pulling your neck back so your head tilts up to meet his sinister gaze. “But you didn’t get permission to cum, did you?”

Your heart begins to race, your stomach plummeting as he holds your gaze without vigilance. You whine as he pulls out of you, your cunt never feeling this empty before as his hot length disappears. Kirishima picks you up without effort, biceps swelling with intricate swirls of charcoal ink. He places you on wobbling feet before spinning you around, your hands flying out to grab the counter as he shoves your shoulder down.

“That makes you a bad girl, Y/N.”

Horror streaks through your every limb, and yet, only a sinful moan wanders out of you, your feet moving apart and thighs spreading for him to fit between. You crane your head to look at him, drinking up the beautiful man behind you. Broad shoulders trail into a broad, thick chest, tapering down to a tight and powerful waist. Each muscle on his body is prominent and enticing, covered snugly with tan skin that glimmers with a sheen of sweat. His red hair hangs to frame his handsome face, mostly still tugged back into his low ponytail.

As if reading your mind, he moves a hand back and snags the tie off, vibrant locks of scarlet licking the tops of his shoulders. Running a hand over his forehead, he looks at you with a predatory gaze, a smirk curling up one side of his lips. “Y’know what happens to bad girls, right?” You bite your lip and shake your head, egging him on as the top of his cock traces around your opening. “Bad girls get punished.”

The loudest scream of the night rips through you as he thrusts into you without warning, his cock hitting all different kinds of places than before in this new position. Kirishima doesn’t allow you a moment to adjust; he starts slapping his hips against your ass roughly, fist gripping the hair near your scalp again and pulling it tight so your back arches. You cannot breathe, or speak, or think— but somehow his name slips out of your mouth between all the moans.

A harsh slap across your ass sounds, the sting causing your pussy to quiver around his length. “Bad girls don’t get to use my name,” he growls into your ear, leaning over your body to take the tip of your ear between his teeth.

Your eyes are crossed in pleasure, your expression probably comforted into the most lewd, carnal face you’ve ever made. His cock is too big, and you know you won’t be able to walk right tomorrow, but maybe that adds to why it feels so fucking good right now.

“You’re makin’ this seem like a reward, not a punishment, Princess. You like taking it rough, huh?” He teases, pulling your head back by your hair and eliciting another moan from you. “Answer me.”

His cock pounds into your cunt, the sheer stretch enough to make you cum, let alone the length. Your lungs begin to shake as you feel your orgasm building again between your legs. “Yes Sir!” You yelp when his palm cracks against your ass again, your knees wobbly and the pressure continuing to build.

Your reply makes his cock twitch inside of you, and Kirishima sucks in a cool breath of air between clenched teeth. His hand grips the bottom of your thigh, and you cry out when he hikes your knee onto the countertop, cock drilling into you even deeper than before.

Your pussy twitches as you cum instantly, a drawn-out moan vibrating through your throat. Fingernails scraping along the countertop in your gaze of euphoria, Kirishima is forced to halt his assault on your cunt as it squeezes him tightly, his teeth piercing into his lip in pleasure. But as soon as your cunt loosens, he’s fucking into you with renewed vigor, your hips knocking into the counter as he plunges his massive cock into your sloppy heat. “You just don’t fuckin’ learn,” he snarls, wrist twisting to pull your hair tighter, bending your spine to his will.

“I’m sorry Sir,” you choke out, tears beginning to trickle down your cheeks. Each thrust brushes your cervix and it hurts, but at the same time the intensity of it all feels incredible. “I didn’t know I could… could cum so q-quick! Please, Sir— ah!— Please forgive me!”

Kirishima tosses his head back at your admission, your apology immediately accepted. His hand slips from your hair to your throat, turning your head so he can see your face as he pounds into you without mercy. The tears slipping down your cheeks make your eyes sparkle and he groans, his own end in near reach and only approaching quicker at the sight of you. “Y’look so pretty when you cry, sweetheart— shit, I know you have one more for me,” he leans in and pokes his tongue out to collect a salty tear, kissing the wet skin on your cheek. His thumb on your throat wanders to your lips, and you take the digit into your mouth with enthusiasm, keeping your eyes locked with his.

You whimper around his finger when his other hand comes around to circle your puffy clit, already overstimulated and thighs shaking. Your legs try to close but he keeps them spread apart, cock still ramming into you as his lips trail down to your neck. His hand on your throat loosens and comes to rest on your ass, pulling your cheeks apart and tracing his slippery thumb over your puckered hole. Your eyes widen with shock, and you force your voice to work even though it comes out scratchy and breathless. “W-What are you— Kiri wait, that’s—”

“Have you ever had anything in here, Princess?” He inquires as his thumb slips into you, making you shriek at the fiery stretch. Pushing the digit into your ass, he moans at the sight of you sucking in his thumb so obediently, your hole trembling and squeezing round his finger.

You shake your head, at a loss for words once again. You can feel his cock rub against his finger through your walls, and though it’s a foreign, unfamiliar sensation, it’s far from unwelcome. More tears of pure pleasure descend from your lashes, the combination of all his stimulation driving you insane. You can feel your climax building with every thrust, your walls dragging along his cock and his finger, his other hand rolling your clit.

“C’mon, baby. Cum for me, it’s alright,” he purrs, balls feeling tight with his near release. His fingers pinch and rub all over your slick clit, and you mewl out as that familiar pressure heightens in your stomach. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Show me how good you are, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t allow you a second to think, and you whine out for him when his hips crash against your ass, shoving his entire cock inside your soaked hole and spreading your aching walls. The spot he’s hitting with the head of his cock causes your eyes to cross— you didn’t even know it existed before now— and suddenly everything is too much, and you’re crying out his name as your orgasm tears through you.

Kirishima gives a few more hard thrusts before he’s there too, the tips of his teeth piercing into your neck as he floods your pussy with his heavy load. Your cunt pulses around him, milking out every drop he has to offer as you’re thrown into waves of complete euphoria. Eyes closed, toes and fingers coiled tight in pleasure, you whimper as he gives your clit a few more rubs before his hand moves up to push his hair back. “Good girl,” he praises, hot palms sliding along your curves and rubbing circles into your skin.

You’re totally spent; body limp atop the countertop, nipples hard and hot against the cool plastic, tears drying on your cheeks, ass feeling warm and fuzzy, and pussy trembling with the aftershocks of your climax. Kirishima is careful when he pulls out, and you can’t even find the energy to make a noise of complaint at the emptiness between your legs. You can feel his release begin to dribble out of your abused hole, and your body twitches when he presses his thumb in to shove his seed back inside.

He sighs as he grabs a paper towel from the sink behind him, dragging it along his weeping, yet still impressive, length. As you’re still catching your breath, he walks around the counter and into your field of vision, tucking himself back into his pants nonchalantly. When he reaches the door, he flips the ‘open’ sign over to ‘closed’ before sauntering over to you, eyes trained on yours. “Well, sweetheart,” he chuckles, gaze raking over your exhausted form, still collapsed on top of the counter in a sedated-like state. He reaches forward, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear as he smiles brightly, but a shadow of something more ominous lingers in those scarlet eyes. “You’re gonna have to cover Yuki’s shifts more often.”

   ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

.

.

soooo that happened. finally some dom kiri on my blog!!! please be sure to lemme know if you enjoyed <3

➥ masterlist

𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐩𝐢 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

[romioneficfest]

Just a Snog

Title: Just a Snog

Prompt/Day: 7 - Anything Goes

Tumblr Name: 

Rating: T

Brief Summary: 6th Year AU - Ron confronts Hermione immediately following his row with Ginny.

Triggers: language

***********

"Harry's snogged Cho Chang!" shouted Ginny, who sounded close to tears now. "And Hermione snogged Viktor Krum, it's only you who acts like it's something disgusting, Ron, and that's because you've got about as much experience as a twelve-year-old!"

 And with that, she stormed away. Harry quickly let go of Ron; the look on his face was murderous. They both stood there, breathing heavily, until Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat, appeared around the corner, which broke the tension.

 "C'mon," said Harry, as the sound of Filch's shuffling feet reached their ears.

Ron tore off ahead of Harry, blinded by rage. He could faintly hear Harry calling after him but couldn’t be bothered to look back. How dare Ginny call him out like that? He was already in a shit mood from practice, and the last thing he wanted was to see his sister snogging his dorm-mate behind a bloody tapestry.

All he’d wanted was to go back up to Gryffindor tower, take a hot shower and go to bed. Sod his homework, he’d do it later. But now, he was too riled up to even think about settling down. Images of fucking Viktor Krum with his hands all over Hermione poured into his mind, and no matter how many times he tried to scrub the image away, it just came back ten times worse.

“Ron, wait up!” Harry panted behind him.

Ron stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of his voice as a blatant realization occurred. Harry hadn’t acted surprised when Ginny shared that bit of knowledge. Why wasn’t Harry surprised? He spun on his heel to face Harry, who’d stopped short of crashing into him.

“You knew.” Ron’s voice was low and murderous. A jealous rage simmered underneath his skin.

“Mate, you’ve got to calm down! You know as well as anyone how Ginny just says stuff when she’s angry,” Harry offered a weak explanation.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Ron wasn’t about to be deterred.

“About Cho? Well, yeah, I was there…”

“ABOUT HERMIONE, YOU TOSSER!” Ron roared.

“I—I heard them talking about it one night, but Hermione never said anything to me. I kind of suspected—”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“It wasn’t my information to tell! Why does it matter?”

Those were the absolute wrong words to say, and Harry knew it, judging by the look on his face. Ron stormed off again, taking out his anger on a small first year in the corridor as he stalked past, but that wasn’t enough to even remotely subdue the beast within. He needed to find Hermione. Enraged as he was, he needed to hear that she’d snogged Krum from her own mouth.

He felt completely sucker-punched by the whole thing, like she’d betrayed everything about their friendship. Not that he had any claim to her or anything. That wasn’t what he meant, but still, some part of him thought that maybe—

It doesn’t matter now, does it?

As he approached the Fat Lady, Ron growled the password at her, only to receive a snide remark about politeness and a rude stare in return. He bit back the urge to tell her off for fear she wouldn’t permit his entry. Ron barely waited for the portrait to open completely before tumbling in. His eyes peered around the common room, but it didn’t take long to see Hermione working at one of the small tables in the corner.

“Ron, don’t do anything stupid,” Harry managed to mutter behind him.

Unable to make any guarantees, Ron left Harry in his wake as he marched over to Hermione. When she noticed him, her face lit up, and a wide smile graced her lips. It was enough to lessen his anger by a tick, even though his resolve didn’t break.

“Did you snog Krum?” he blurted out.

Hermione’s warm smile immediately turned to a frown. “What?”

“Just answer the question, Hermione. Did you snog Krum?”

He noticed how she looked down and began fidgeting with her quill as her teeth rolled over her bottom lip.

“I—I wouldn’t call it a snog exactly,” she said slowly, unable to meet his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ron snapped, the anger returning to its original state as she spoke in bloody riddles.

That got her attention as she met his gaze.

“Why do you care?” she asked, her tone defensive.

“Why do I care? Because I thought we were best friends! Best friends don’t keep bloody secrets from each other! So, you snogged a sodding international quidditch star in fourth year. Now what? Are you seeing anyone else in secret?”

Ron was sure his whole face was burning crimson at his ridiculous accusations, but he didn’t care. He noticed Hermione’s nostrils flare as she stood quickly, knocking the chair over in her haste. It was comical, really, and Ron had to bite back a laugh as she attempted to size up to him.

“How dare you! What goes on in my personal life is none of your business! Last I checked, I didn’t need to disclose a few chaste kisses with my Yule Ball date to you! And even if it was a snog, I wouldn’t have told you anyway!”

Ron opened his mouth to speak but paused as her words hit him like a freight train. A few chaste kisses. So...not a snog? Why would Ginny lie? Harry’s words popped into his head next: You know how she gets when she’s angry.

This didn’t completely diminish the anger coursing through his veins. He still felt betrayed by Hermione, but the anger now mixed with a soft flutter in his chest knowing she hadn’t snogged Krum. Or anyone else, he hoped. But Ron couldn’t let her see that his anger had subsided so quickly. Not when they were just getting in the thick of it. He still had a point to prove.

“Well, then I guess we aren’t as close as I thought! Since you could tell Ginny and Harry, but not me!” Ron knew it was a low blow, especially because Harry had admitted she hadn’t told him, but he couldn’t help it.

Hermione let out a disgruntled sigh as Ron watched her begin to pack up her things and throw them in her bag. Was it just him, or were her eyes becoming redder? After she closed the flap on her bag and hoisted it onto her shoulder, she shot Ron a scathing look.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I needed to give you a play-by-play of every moment in my life! Let me make it up to you right now. I was having a perfectly enjoyable evening, but now it’s been ruined by a red-headed prat, so I’m heading up to bed. Is that alright with you?”

No, it’s not bloody alright with me! Ron shouted internally.

There was still one more question weighing on the back of his mind that he was desperate for her to answer. She was halfway across the common room before Ron found his voice.

“So, since your type seems to be famous quidditch stars, why invite me to Slughorn’s party? Out of pity?” Ron scoffed.

Ron walked closer to the boy’s staircase as he spoke, not wanting to be left alone in front of the rest of the common room like he’d lost the argument. He couldn’t help shooting one more dig at Krum and hoped he hadn’t taken it too far as he caught Hermione freezing with one foot on the first step of the girl’s staircase. A thrill shot through him as he thought he’d done it now.

Hermione made an abrupt turn and doubled back towards him, her face scarlet. Her voice was low and barely discernible as she tried her best to get in his face, despite being several inches shorter than him.

“If you must know, it was never a pity invite, nor was it meant to be as friends. I was asking you to be my date, but apparently you’re too thick to—”

Ron had no idea what came over him. Maybe it was her proximity as she was lifted up on tiptoe to match his stature or the brief wisps of the perfume he’d given her last Christmas that invaded his nostrils at the slightest of movements, but when the word date crossed her lips, he lost all self-control. He pulled her into him as his lips crashed onto hers in a possessive manner.

He had no idea what he was doing, but that didn’t stop him. Her stiff demeanor melted away as Hermione folded into his arms. Ron determined he must be doing something right since she hadn’t pulled away or slapped him across the face. She was kissing him back!

All too soon, he was jolted out of his reverie by a faint sound of whooping and cheering that erupted throughout the common room. As he pulled away, Ron suddenly became shy. He’d just kissed his best friend in the middle of a row in front of half of Gryffindor house.

The dazed look on Hermione’s face faded away as she said, “Should we, um, talk about this somewhere more private?”

“Er, yeah,” Ron agreed.

Talk, snog, whatever. Ron was so elated that he didn’t care. The anger had been replaced by full joy, and despite the fact that he was still angry with his sister, he chose to let that go...for now.

[fanfictionaries]

Oh So Many Years: Ch. 19 - Shoot The Moon

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fred Weasley

Summary:

Summer has ended and students return to King’s Cross to begin another year at Hogwarts. 

Warnings: Swearing, Death, Smut/18+ NSFW

Author’s Note:

For some reason Tumblr wouldn’t take my formatting like it has with previous chapters. I swear it’s a freaking crap shoot whether it will EVERY time I poster on here. It would be nice to know how that works...

Anyways, please enjoy :) 

Masterlist

<<<Chapter 18

 Summer days are gone too soon

You shoot the moon

And miss completely

And now you’re left to face the gloom

The empty room that once smelled sweetly

Of all the flowers you plucked if only

You knew the reason

Why you had to each be lonely

Was it just the season?

 Hermione Granger was nothing if not a punctual person. At the best of times she was fifteen minutes early and at the worst she was on time. However, she should have known that the Weasley family would want to stick true to their tradition of arriving at King’s Cross by the skin of their teeth. Tapping her foot impatiently as she stood in the busy kitchen, Hermione worked very hard at fighting off a headache. Mrs. Weasley was screaming at the twins for charming their trunks and accidentally knocking Ginny down two flights of stairs and Walburga was screaming because Mrs. Weasley was screaming. She checked her watch for the umpteenth time that morning and ran a hand over her hair. They may not even make it on time at all if they carried on this way, she thought irksomely. Especially if they waited any longer on Sturgis Podmore to show up like Moody wanted them to. The last thing she needed was to miss the train on her first day as a Prefect. Smirking to herself, Hermione stared down at the silver pin fitted snuggly to the front of her jumper and admired it. Prefect. She had done it. Just one step closer to Head Girl.

A tap at the kitchen window brought Hermione out of her musings. Looking up she saw the brilliant, snowy visage of Hedwig. Hermione sighed, striding towards the window, and throwing it open. Hedwig flew in, looking quite flustered for a bird. Perhaps she also knew they were running late. Cursing in her head, Hermione wondered if perhaps her parents had forgotten that today was the day she left for Hogwarts. Why else would they have chosen to send Hedwig back so late in the morning? She took the letter from her parents out of Hedwig’s clutch and then allowed the bird to climb onto her shoulder. The owl’s long talons dug sharply into her skin, holding on for dear life as Hermione sprinted out of the kitchen and up the stairs. On the second floor landing she spotted Crookshanks stalking a stray mouse and scooped him up as well. The giant orange beast squirmed in her arms, putting up a fight but possessing enough respect to keep his claws put away.

 “Oh stop, Crooks. Honestly, you’ve spent all summer doing whatever you please. Just cooperate with me for one second,” Hermione groaned, holding onto her cat even tighter and bounding up the last flight of stairs to Harry and Ron’s room.

 “Sorry Harry! Mum and dad only just sent Hedwig back,” she apologized, walking across her friends’ messy room to place Hedwig in her cage. “Are you just now getting dressed?”

 “Uh yeah, I slept late,” Harry mumbled, buttoning the last button on his shirt, and moving to pull on his socks and shoes.

 Hermione sighed, placing Crookshanks down on the bed and taking a moment to stare critically at her best friend. Harry had mentioned the resurgence of his nightmares earlier in the summer when she found him wandering the halls late at night. She had been on her way back to her room from another late-night library session with Fred, but of course she didn’t tell Harry that. While what her and Fred were doing wasn’t necessarily wrong, there was an unspoken agreement between the two of them that they should keep it to themselves. People just wouldn’t understand.

 However, looking at Harry now, Hermione didn’t need her former knowledge of Harry’s nightmares to know that he wasn’t sleeping well. He had circles under his eyes, and despite Mrs. Weasley’s cooking the past month he still looked too thin.

 “How’s Ginny?” Harry asked, tying his laces.

 Hermione rolled her eyes. “She’s fine. Mrs. Weasley is patching her up in the kitchen. I wouldn’t go down there right now though if I were you. It’s a zoo. Mrs. Weasley and Walburga are still yelling and now Mad-Eye’s complaining that we can’t leave until Sturgis Podmore shows up. Otherwise the guard will be one short,” said Hermione, leaning against the end of the bed and petting Crookshanks idly.

 “Guard?” Harry asked, looking up from his shoes. “We have to go to King’s Cross with a guard?”

 “You have to go to King’s Cross with a guard,” corrected Hermione.

 “Why?” questioned Harry, standing up in an irritated fashion.

 Hermione scoffed, “Why do you think, oh Boy Who Lived?”

 “I thought Voldemort was supposed to be lying low. What, do they think he’ll be waiting behind a dustbin at the train station, waiting to do me in?”

 “I don’t know. It’s just what Mad-Eye says,” said Hermione, fighting to stay calm and sympathetic. She was getting a bit tired of Harry’s moody demeanour.

 Her assumption about Harry’s arrival at the beginning of the month had been correct. Harry had been irate. At everyone, but especially at her and Ron. Luckily, Fred and George swooped in at the right time, just like Fred had said they would. Bless the both of them. Hermione didn’t know how much more chastising she could take, she already felt guilty for not writing to him. She’d apologized at least a thousand times over in the last month, but Harry still had a sour mood and while Hermione had been prone to tears at the beginning, now she was just frustrated.

 “Look, I’m not too happy about it either. Do you think I want to be late today?” Hermione asked snippily, looking at her watch once again.

“Will you lot get down here now?!” Mrs. Weasley’s bolstering voice boomed up through the stairwell and Hermione pushed off the bed with a sigh. She grabbed Crookshanks in her arms once again and headed towards the door. “Are you coming?” she asked once she got to the doorway.

 “Yeah, right behind you,” nodded Harry, looking a bit pink in the face. Perhaps her comment had embarrassed him. Hermione smiled at the thought. It would do him good to remember he wasn’t the only one with problems in the world.

 Hermione hurried down the stairs, running into the twins halfway down.

 “Well if it isn’t our favourite little Prefect,” said George, reaching out and ruffling the top of Hermione’s head. Hermione batted his hand away before reaching the bottom of the stairs and placing Crookshanks in his carrier.

 “I’m not speaking with you two,” she sniffed, looking away from them and instead focusing her attention on getting the finicky latch closed tightly on her cat’s wicker carrier.

 “Oh? Why’s that Hermione?” the two asked in unison.

 “I’m annoyed with you both,” responded Hermione in an off-handed manner.

 “Annoyed?” asked Fred with a shocked tone.

 “With us?” asked George, sounding equally as surprised.

 “That can’t be right—” Fred leaned against the wall beside her and took the strap from Hermione’s hands, latching the carrier closed with ease “—we’re angels, we are.”

 “You knocked your sister down two flights of stairs!”

 “By accident!” cried Fred and George.

 “Yes, well still. I hope you know that I will not tolerate that kind of behaviour once we get to Hogwarts.”

 “I knew this would happen Freddie,” said George, shaking his head solemnly.

 “We really should have prepared ourselves more for this inevitable betrayal,” added Fred woefully.

 “Our little Hermione, a swotty Prefect.”

 “No more fun.”

 “No more laughs.”

 “Oh the laughs we’ve had,” bemoaned George wistfully, throwing himself dramatically onto Fred’s shoulder.

 “You two are ridiculous—” Hermione shook her head, unable to stop the smile from forming on her face “—I told you before. Just because I’m a Prefect doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being fun—”

 “You were fun before?” asked Ron cheekily, entering the hallway with a cauldron cake in hand.

 Hermione scowled at him. “Ha, ha, very funny Ron. You know, you’re a Prefect too now. You should start practicing a bit more civility.”  

 Ron smirked, ignoring her comment, and instead taking a bite of the cauldron cake before going over to stand near Tonks and Ginny.

 Hermione turned back to the twins who stared down at her expectantly, waiting to hear the rest of the speech she’d given at least three times over since she’d received the letter with her silver Prefect pin. “Now, as I was saying. I’m not going to turn into a monster. Just realize that I have an obligation to the school first and I won’t hesitate to reprimand you if need be.”

 “Reprimand, you hear that Freddie?” asked George with an impish expression.

 “Sure did Georgie,” answered Fred, looking equally as puckish.

 “What are you going to do, Hermione?”

 “Give us a bit of a spanking?”

 Hermione blushed, furiously and against her better judgement. But she was more well-versed in the ways of the Weasley twins and so her embarrassment did not stop her from responding like it might have in previous years. Instead, she looked up confidently at the two and tried to put on what she could only imagine was a semblance of seduction. “Only if you’ve been bad boys.”

 The twins balked at her comment, mouths hanging open and ears tinging pink in a fashion very similar to Ron but very unfamiliar to them. Fred and George Weasley did not get embarrassed easily. If they had any kind of response, there was no time for it. A moment later, Mrs. Weasley came into the hallway from the kitchen and Harry came down the stairs. Walburga was still screaming insults from the wall, but all ears were trained on Mrs. Weasley’s instructions on who was going with who to King’s Cross and what to do with their trunks.

 A whirlwind of people, crosswalks, and magical barriers and Hermione was finally on Platform 9 ¾. In a way, Hermione was glad they had walked to the train station. It had given her a sense of control on how quickly they reached the train and she had practically run the entire way, Mr. Weasley and Ron on her heel. Once the stress of getting on the train was gone, Hermione was faced with a whole slew of new worries. Sirius had insisted on coming to the station with them and had done his absolute most to stand out like a sore thumb in his Animagus form.

 “He shouldn’t have come with us,” she said, watching the black dog chase the train exuberantly, as they took off from King’s Cross. The students in the train watched it laughing, and even some of the parents left on the platform smiled at the rambunctious dog. They wouldn’t be so cheerful if they knew it was Sirius Black, escaped Azkaban prisoner, thought Hermione cynically.

 “Oh give him a break. He hasn’t seen daylight in ages. Just blowing off a bit of steam he is,” said Ron, continuing to smile out the window at the dog quickly dwindling in size as the train travelled further from the station.

 “Well, as much as we’ve enjoyed your company these past few months, Georgie and I have some important business with people who well…”

 “—aren’t you lot,” George finished for Fred, giving them a short wave before the pair of them turned and disappeared into the next carriage.

 Hermione sighed, not even wanting to begin to think of the trouble they were sure to get up to. Over the remaining month they’d managed to nearly perfect their line of Skiving Snacks and have an admirable inventory at their dispense. As a Prefect, Hermione tried not to think about it. The less she knew, the better.

 “Should we find a compartment then?” asked Harry, turning to her and Ron looking the most cheerful he had all summer. It made what Hermione had to say next even harder. She chanced a look at Ron who was looking equally as guilty.

 “Oh…Harry. I thought you knew. Ron and I have to go to the Prefect’s carriage,” she said, watching the smile fall from Harry’s face. She looked back to Ron, hoping for some support but he was looking anywhere but Harry, focusing intently on one of the wall-mounted light fixtures as if he were seeing it for the first time.

 “Oh—” Harry nodded “—right. Fine.

 “I don’t think we’ll have to be there the whole time. Just long enough to get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then we have to patrol the corridors from time to time. We can still—”

 “It’s fine,” said Harry, cutting her off. He was using the clipped, overtly chipper tone he used when he was trying too hard to sound casual. “I might see you later then.”

 “Yeah, definitely!” Ron finally chimed in. “It’s a shame we have to go down there. I’d rather we didn’t, but…we have to. I guess…I mean I’m not enjoying it. I’m not bloody Percy.”

 Harry smiled again, this time in amusement at Ron’s rambling. “I know you’re not,” he said before waving them off to the Prefect compartment.

 Despite his reassurances that he was fine, Hermione felt guilty for leaving Harry there on his own.

 “He’ll be alright,” said Ron, leading her down the corridor towards the front of the train where the Prefect carriage waited for them. “I’m sure he’ll find Seamus or Dean or Neville or someone.”

 “Oh right…”

 It was easy to forget that they all had other friends outside of their small inner circle. Especially since for the longest time, Ron and Harry were her only friends. At least, her only close friends. Neville was her friend, she supposed. As were Fay and Emmy. She might even stretch as far as to say Lavender and Pavarti were her friends as well. Well…maybe more like close acquaintances.

 “Who do you think they chose for Slytherin Prefects?” Ron asked as they neared the front of the train.

 “With our luck it’ll be Malfoy and Parkinson,” grumbled Hermione, reaching the door to the Prefect’s compartment and sliding it open. It was almost poetic the way the moment the words left her mouth, the opening compartment door revealed none other than the two Slytherins in question. They sat in the corner, side-by-side, looking bored and smug. Their expressions only seemed to lighten when they spotted Ron and Hermione entering the compartment.

 “And I thought being a Prefect was supposed to be a place of honour—” Malfoy sneered, looking her and Ron up and down in a condescending manner “—now that I know they’ll give the job to just anyone, it takes away a bit of the prestige.”

 Pansy snickered.

 “Funny, I was just thinking the exact same thing,” Hermione spat back, staring Malfoy in the eye as she tried to telepathically burn him alive. If ever there was a time for emotion-fuelled accidental magic, thought Hermione, now would be it.

 “How dare you, you—”

 “Now, now—” cut in Roger Davies, a seventh year Ravenclaw and the newly appointed Head Boy “—leave the house rivalry for the classroom and the quidditch pitch.” Davies laughed, but Hermione could see the nervous glint in his eye as he gripped his wand tightly.

 “Bloody git,” Ron mumbled under his breath. Hermione didn’t know whether he was referring to Malfoy or Davies, but either way Hermione felt like it was fitting. The rest of the compartment seemed to feel the same as her, as both the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Prefects were giving Davies wary looks while trying to create as much space as possible between themselves and the Slytherins. Hermione was grateful to see that the other Prefects were familiar faces. Padma Patil, Pavarti’s sister, was the spitting image of her twin and gave Hermione a small wave as she sat down. Hermione, while having limited interaction with the Ravenclaw, found that she liked her much more than Pavarti as they had a shared interest for learning. Anthony Goldstein, the other Ravenclaw Prefect, she recognized from Transfiguration classes years prior. He also gave them a brief greeting. Ernie MacMillan was there too, and while Hermione still didn’t care for him since his spread of lies about Harry their second year, his presence was soothed by the kind and quiet Hannah Abbott who sat next to him.

 “Now!” exclaimed Helen Monroe, the Head Girl, some time later. They were coming near to the end of their meeting, or at least that’s what Hermione assumed based on the agenda they had been given. Their meeting had taken much longer than either Hermione or Ron had anticipated. Ashamedly she thought of Harry sitting on his own in a compartment waiting for them. Merlin she hoped he had found someone to sit with instead of choosing to mope by himself. Maybe Fred and George had found him at the very least.

 “The last thing on our agenda we’d like to address before handing out patrol and meeting schedules is an issue of favouritism,” said Monroe with a smiling face.

 “Favouritism? What do ya mean?” asked Ernie, sounding affronted as if he’d just been personally accused of the offense.

 “Well, in the past we’ve had issues with Prefects showing house favouritism—”

 “—giving points where they’re undeserved and taking points away to give their house a leg up on winning the House Cup,” chimed in Davies.

 “And we just wanted to remind you that your responsibility is to the school and it’s students first and foremost. So please try and show some sense of neutrality, no matter who is involved, whether it’s those in your house or…family members…” Monroe shot a nervous look in Ron’s direction that Ron missed but Hermione did not.

 For a second she wondered if perhaps they were talking about Harry, given he was so prone to getting in trouble and then the truth of the implication hit her square in the face. Maybe she was spending too much time with Fred and George otherwise, she would have caught on immediately that that was exactly who the Heads were referring to. Hermione wanted to laugh. She almost did. Bringing a hand up to cover her mouth, she faked a cough to try and hide the bout of giggles threatening to escape her chest.  

 They were given their schedules after that. Hermione and Ron had the first set of patrols up and down the train, and so instead of heading straight towards Harry, they meandered down from the head of the train, peaking into compartments, and breaking up little spats between younger students. Ron seemed to take to the position of power quite well. Almost too well in some instances, Hermione having to remind him of the speech they’d just been given about abuse of power in favour of their house. He had been trying to take points from a group of third year Slytherins for being too loud – an offense that Hermione deemed worthy of a simple reminder. They were about halfway down the train, Ron trying to reverse a jelly-legs curse that had been set on a fourth year Ravenclaw by accident, when a compartment slid open and Hermione nearly collided with Angelina Johnson.

 “Oh!—” the Gryffindor chaser exclaimed, stopping short “—Hermione. Hi.”

 “Hi…” Hermione responded awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Suddenly she was very nervous, which was ridiculous because she had nothing to be nervous about! It’s not like her and Fred had really done anything. Intimate? Sure. But in a friendly sort of way. Nothing that when taken into context could be deemed inappropriate, reasoned Hermione. Although, if that were true then she wouldn’t have anything to be nervous about.

 “How was your summer?” the older girl asked.

 The question took Hermione by surprise. Why did Angelina Johnson care about her summer? They weren’t friends, and up until that point Hermione was under the impression that Johnson didn’t even like her all that much.

 “Fine. I spent most of it with Ron’s family,” Hermione said, trying to push past how odd it felt to be having a conversation with Fred’s girlfriend when she was madly in love with him and had spent most of her summer nights curled up on a couch or in his bed with him. In a totally appropriate way of course.

 “I thought you might have. George mentioned one time that you usually visit them during the summer,” said Johnson, nodding and looking nervously around them.

 “How was your summer? I heard you spent it at quidditch camp. How was that?” Hermione asked, trying to bridge the uncomfortable silence between them with polite conversation. Why were they still talking?

 “It was good. Yeah, really good. I learned a lot of…stuff.”

 Hermione nodded, raising her eyebrows in acknowledgement. When Johnson neglected to continue, Hermione glanced back in the compartment where Ron was patting an exhausted looking Ravenclaw student on the back, having just broken the curse. She wished he’d hurry up and save her from whatever was going on right then. Her attention was pulled back to the uncomfortable conversation when Johnson spoke once again.

 “Listen, Granger. Now that I’ve got you, I was wondering…” Johnson paused, seeming to contemplate her next words. “I was just wondering whether—”

 “There you are!” Ron exclaimed, exiting the compartment behind Hermione, and placing a hand on her shoulder. “You know, I really could have used your help in there. You’re much better at counter-curses than me Hermione. Oh, hi Johnson.”

 The older girl seemed to go all rigid and awkward at the appearance of Ron. She shifted from foot to foot and cleared her throat before straightening her position and taking on a completely different demeanour. “Weasley. How was your summer?”

 “Good, thanks. Not as good as yours I imagine. Quidditch camp! That must have been amazing!” mooned Ron, getting a sparkly look to his eye at the thought.

 “Yeah, it was great. Learned loads of stuff that should be sure to put Gryffindor in the lead this year. We need a new Keeper now that Oli, I mean—” Johnson coughed “—now that Wood’s gone. Will you be following the Weasley legacy and trying out?”

 Ron went red around the ears, ducking his head bashfully. “Actually, yeah. I thought I might.”

 “Good. I look forward to seeing what you’ve got,” said Johnson with finality before giving them both a small nod and moving past them down the train corridor.

 As strange as the interaction had been, only one thing seemed to stick with Hermione in that moment.

 “You didn’t tell me you were planning on trying out for the team!”

  Fred reckoned he should have known the minute Angelina neglected to show up to their usual compartment that something was up. Alicia had given some offhanded excuse of Angelina going to scout out compartments for potential quidditch recruits and Fred had bought it at face value. In the past he might have questioned it a bit more, gone looking for his long-time friend and currently girlfriend. But in a way it had been a relief for him to not have to deal with the issue of Angelina the moment he got on the train. He was much too excited to show Lee and Alicia their new products and didn’t want to sully it by breaking up with his girlfriend. It had been a long-time coming. He’d wanted to end things weeks ago but had ultimately decided that he couldn’t do it over letter. Him and Angelina had history and she definitely deserved more than a letter saying ‘Hey, this isn’t working. Mind if we just go back to being friends?’. Not to mention the girl got harder and harder to reach as the summer went on. The last letter she’d sent him had been nothing but a picture of her and the beater for the Holyhead Harpies with the words ‘Isn’t this rad? Missing you lots! x Angelina’ written on the back. And while it was cool, Fred couldn’t help but think that in a way it was a finality to their relationship for him. The two of them had never really been gossipy conversationalists, falling back more on their shared physical activities and the comfortable silence that came with old friendships, but this was a bit too sparse for him. He wanted more. He wanted something different. He wanted…Hermione.

 Luckily after the reveal of their new products, Lee wasted no time in bringing other students into their compartment to show off their goods. Before Fred knew it, he and George were completely immersed in their salesmen roles and so all thoughts of girls and relationships were quickly replaced with galleons, sickles, and knuts.

 By the time he and George had made it to the castle their pockets were significantly heavier and their spirits lighter than ever. They were almost completely out of fake wands, biting teacups, and spitting teapots. They had even been convinced by a group of second year Hufflepuffs to sell some of their Skiving Snack Box products – the sweets not yet fully through trial runs. Fred and George agreed but only if they were willing to report back on the effects. The students were happy to do so as it meant they got the sweets at a discount.

 The next clue that went unnoticed by Fred was the fact that Angelina chose to sit at the opposite end of the table as him at the feast. But Fred had been too excited, telling Hermione all about their sales, to notice. Besides, Alicia and Lee were sitting with her and Fred and George usually sat with their family at the start-of-term feast. Still, when Fred caught Angelina’s eye at the end of the table as the last of the first years took their seats, he found himself panicked at the odd look on his girlfriend’s face. Did she know? wondered Fred feeling the all too familiar summersault in his stomach. How could she possibly know? The only person who knew he wanted to break up with her was himself. He hadn’t even told George, although he suspected that George suspected as much.

 The churning sensation stuck with him all throughout dinner and resulted in him eating very little, something that did not go unnoticed by neither George nor Hermione.

 “You alright, mate? You barely touched your porkchops,” said George, licking the last of his chocolate ice cream from the back of his spoon.

 “Yes, and you didn’t even fight Ron for the last of the custard,” added Hermione, her comment touching Fred as she had remembered custard was the only pudding he really cared for.

 “I’m fine. My stomach’s just a bit upset,” he lied, chewing on the side of his thumb as he stared down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with his eyes.

 “Maybe you should go and see Madame Pomfrey once the feast is over,” suggested Ginny kindly. Fred shot her an appreciative smile before returning his gaze to the table.

 “Well, now that our stomachs are full and our hearts are warm from friendly conversation, I’d like to take a moment of your time to go over the usual start-of-term announcements,” Professor Dumbledore’s gentle yet authoritative voice rang throughout the hall, pulling all attention to himself at the centre of the staff table. He went into his usual diatribe on how the Forbidden Forest was of course, forbidden, how Filch wanted to remind them that magic was off-limits in the corridors between classes, etc. etc. Lastly, he announced that there would be two changes in staffing: Professor Grubbly-Plank was back to take over his position as the teacher for Care of Magical Creatures, and their new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was a woman named Professor Umbridge.

 At the mention of her name, Fred looked down the staff table for the first time that night to see a new addition. A stout, round woman in a garish-looking pink outfit sat where the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher usually did. Despite her loud outfit she had a very unpleasant look about her, decided Fred. Although, it didn’t really make much of a difference to him. They had a new Defense teacher just about every year now and seeing as it was his last year, it really was inconsequential. They were all the same in the end.

 “Hey, I know her,” commented Harry. “She was at my hearing at the ministry.”

 Fred found that kind of odd. What was a ministry official doing teaching at Hogwarts?

 Dumbledore moved on, beginning to talk about quidditch try-outs when the new DADA teacher did something that made her stick out from all the other defense teachers before her. She stood from her seat. Dumbledore stopped, midsentence and looked at the short woman. Professor Umbridge let out a, “Hem, hem,” and Fred thought for a second that he must be hallucinating. Was this woman really interrupting the headmaster to give some kind of speech? More gracious than Fred could ever imagine to be, Dumbledore allowed her to speak and speak she did.

 Her speech was long-winded, full of comments about Hogwarts’s greatness and how the Ministry placed a lot of stake into the education of young minds. It sounded like a lot of hot air in Fred’s opinion and one glance around the room at the other student’s and even some of the teacher’s faces told him that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. When Professor Umbridge had the audacity to say that she hoped they would all become great friends Fred couldn’t help but utter a sarcastic, “That’s likely” which was mimicked in time by George as well.

 Then she spoke of progress and change and how things must be done for the better and Fred felt an all-new unease take over him. An unease that radiated throughout the entirety of the room for once she had finished and taken her seat, the hall was much quieter than before.

 “Well that was certainly illuminating,” Hermione whispered from beside him.

 “Don’t tell me you enjoyed that shite,” said Ron exasperatedly. “That had to be the most boring thing I’ve ever heard.

 “I said it was illuminating, not good,” sniped Hermione. “It certainly put things into perspective.”

 “It did?” asked Harry. “Sounded like a load of waffle to me.”

 “Yes, well there was a lot of important stuff in all that waffle if you’d been listening,” said Hermione, her mood turning dark. She had Fred’s attention now as well.

 “There was?” asked Ron dumbly.

 “All that talk of ‘progress for the sake of progress’ and ‘practices that must be prohibited’?”

 Ron and Harry shrugged at her, but Fred was beginning to understand what Hermione was getting at. If Umbridge worked for the ministry and believed that changes needed to be made at Hogwarts then—

 “It means the Ministry’s interfering at Hogwarts,” said Hermione, surmising Fred’s conclusion perfectly.

 The room burst into applause, Dumbledore having finished the last of his announcements and then students began to rise from their seats. Ron and Hermione stood, leaving to escort the first years back to Gryffindor tower. Fred laughed with George when Hermione looked like she was about to lose her head when Ron called the first years ‘midgets’. Turning his head away from the squabbling pair, his eyes fell once again on Angelina.

 Fred swallowed thickly.

 If ever there was a time, it was now. He should just do it. Get it over with. Break her heart and hope that they could move on. Trying to find the bright side to it, he told himself that the sooner he ended things with Angelina, the sooner he could begin pursuing Hermione. However, that only left him with even sweatier palms. Standing up from the table, he looked between George and Angelina with the full intent to cross the room and ask his girlfriend to speak in private. But instead,

 “Alright, Freddie!” he announced loudly, catching George off guard. His twin looked up from the conversation he’d been having with Ginny and looked at him curiously. “I’ll see you in the common room. I have a few things I need to take care of first.”

 Before his brother had any time to question what he was doing, Fred flew from the Great Hall and past Angelina, avoiding looking in her direction as he turned the corner and headed towards an unknown direction. He had only gone a little way down the corridor when a voice called after him.

 “George! Wait up!”

 Fred stopped and turned to see Angelina running after him. What could Angelina possibly want with George, Fred thought for a moment as he watched the pretty witch approach him, her long braids bouncing off her shoulders. She looked nervous when she finally reached him. Her hands twisted together, and her eyes couldn’t quite meet his.

 “That’s me, George. What’s up?” Fred asked, wanting to kick himself. Coward. He was a coward.

 “Can I…can I talk to you for a second about…Fred?”

 “What about Fred?” Fred asked, feeling incredibly stuck in the lie he’d created.

 “Um, you know how I was at quidditch camp this summer?” asked Angelina, looking around them and grabbing Fred’s arm, pulling them over to an alcove away from prying ears and eyes. “And you know how Oliver was there?”

 “Yeah…” said Fred, feeling the blood drain from his body. His limbs had gone all cold and his fingers all numb and tingly.

 “Well, something might have happened.”

 “Something? What kind of something?”

 “Like I might have, I guess you could say I might have cheated?”

 “Might have or did? Those are two very different things Angelina,” said Fred, speaking now more as himself than as himself pretending to be George.

 “Okay, I did! I cheated!” admitted Angelina, bringing her hands up to cover her face in shame.

 “With Oliver Wood?!”

 “I know! I know! It just sort of…happened. Oli and I, we’re—”

 “Oh, so it’s Oli now?” asked Fred, feeling his temper bubble.

 “Look, I know you’re angry. I mean, Fred’s your brother after all.”

 Oh, right. She still thought he was George. Well this certainly threw a wrench in things. “Don’t you think this is something you should be telling him and not…me?” asked Fred, feeling slightly confused as he tried to wrap his head around processing the fact that his girlfriend had cheated on him with Oliver Wood, and that she had no idea she was speaking to him and not his brother.  

 “Yes, and I want to, but George. We’re friends too right? And you know him better than anyone. I was hoping you might know how to break this to him as easily as possible,” Angelina pleaded, looking imploringly into his eyes.

 Before Fred could even begin to figure out how to answer that, both his saving grace and downfall came all at once in the form of the real George Weasley.

 “You alright Freddie? What are you two up to then?” asked George, looking innocently between the two of them, tucked into the alcove.

 Angelina looked between George, the real George, and Fred who she now was beginning to realize was the one standing before her. Fred watched as the realization took over her and then how fear replaced confusion in her eyes before she muttered, “Well, fuck.”

 The conversation at that point had been a bit stale. Fred reckoned he might have gotten more answers out of her if George hadn’t come along and blown his act, but it was probably for the best. The more Fred thought about it, the less he really wanted to know. Still, some things stuck with him. What did Oliver Wood have that he didn’t?

 “I mean, it’s Wood!” cried Fred for the tenth time that night, laying face up, wrong way on his bed, head hanging off the end.

 “I know mate, I know,” responded George, continuing to unpack his and Fred’s trunk. A nicety Fred figured he was only giving considering his current predicament.

 “Maybe she’s bewitched or something,” suggested Lee kindly from across the room.

 “Yeah, maybe she’s under some kind of potion or spell. How else could a prat like that land Angelina?” added George.

 “I don’t know, Fred managed to land her just fine,” said Kenneth Towler, earning a round of glares from everyone in the room.

 “Shut it, Towler,” warned George, but he had gotten Fred’s attention now.

 Lifting his head till it was level with his body, Fred looked at the bookish boy with narrowed eyes. “What are you trying to say Kenneth?”

 Kenneth laughed, a short and breathy scoff, shaking his head from side to side. “Have you ever considered that maybe Wood’s just better than you?”

 The room was silent. Shocked at Towler’s words and more importantly in anticipation for how Fred would respond. Fred too was curious as to how he would react. Digging deep within himself he searched for anger, sadness, envy, but he found none of it. Instead, he laughed. A full body, side aching laugh that sent him toppling out of his bed and wiping at tears at the corner of his eyes. George and Lee joined in, followed shortly by Towler himself. When Fred finally calmed down enough to catch his breath he was on the floor, back leaning against the foot of his bed and one knee bent upwards to support his left arm.

 “Yeah, you might be right there Towler,” he sighed, feeling better than he had a few minutes previously.

 Despite his ability to laugh at the situation that night, Fred couldn’t help but mope the next day. Sure, he was planning on breaking up with Angelina as well, but it still hurts to get dumped and cheated on. Especially when the other man was your old quidditch captain. Not to mention, in a way he felt like it was slightly expected of him. In true Hogwarts fashion everyone knew the tale of him and Angelina and more importantly his mistaken identity. It had turned into a bit of a joke really and by dinner the next night people were saying things like “Just make sure it’s actually them and not their twin” when someone planned to meet with someone.

 It wasn’t particularly clever, Fred thought. Surely he and George could have come up with something much better if it had happened to someone else. But it hadn’t happened to someone else. It had happened to him, and he wasn’t about to throw fire to the flame by making a better joke that would surely stick around much longer. That just wouldn’t be fair to Angelina, who was already looking about as miserable as you could. It was clear she was embarrassed and guilty. Several points throughout the day Fred thought about putting her out of her misery and telling her not to feel bad. Maybe if he had been a better boyfriend she wouldn’t have been seduced away by another man. Maybe she could tell that his heart wasn’t truly in their relationship and therefore it was easier for her to be unfaithful. Still, he had been the one who’s heart wasn’t in it and he hadn’t been shoving his tongue down Hermione’s throat all summer. This was a new fact he had unwillingly learned from a few Gryffindor sixth year girls gossiping too loudly in the corridor before dinner.

 Once at dinner and knowing this fact, Fred longed for distraction. Glancing around he noticed that Hermione was noticeably absent. Of course she would be gone on the one day he needed the comfort of her ability to go on and on about whatever subject he asked her about.

 “Say, where’s Hermione?” Fred asked Ron and Harry as casually as he could.

 Harry shrugged but Ron answered, “Library maybe? That’s where she was last I saw her. You know how she gets.”

 “Maybe I should go get her? Make sure she doesn’t accidentally miss dinner,” Fred said, standing from the table.

 George gave him a knowing look. “Is that all?”

 “Dinner is the most important meal of the day Georgie,” said Fred, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

 “I thought that was breakfast,” said George back, smiling now.

 “Yeah, and I thought you weren’t a huge dickhead. I guess we’re both wrong.” And with that Fred spun on his heel and exited the Great Hall.

 Fred made it halfway to the library when he began to notice something very odd. The air had begun to thicken, a layer of fog soon surrounding him. Very shortly after his shoes started to make a wet splashing sound with every step. Looking down the corridor through the hazy fog, he realized that the floor was covered in water. A few steps further in and he realized that it was beginning to deepen. Something brushed his left hand and Fred jumped, spinning quickly, and pulling out his wand only to find a cattail. What was a cattail doing in a Hogwarts corridor?

 “Lumos,” he muttered, the tip of his wand glowing brilliantly and illuminating the corridor ahead of him. But he did not see a corridor. Or at least not the corridor he expected to see. No, instead the hall seemed to be transformed into what could only be described as a swamp with an expanse of still water covered by lily pads, cattails, and moss-covered logs. To top it all off, if he focused hard enough and held his breath, Fred could make out the croaks of toads in the distance.

 “What?” muttered Fred aloud in confusion.

 “Oh no, you weren’t supposed to see it until after dinner with everyone else,” whined a voice from behind him. Fred spun, his wand illuminating the face of Hermione Granger. She stood a few feet away, hands clasped behind her back as she frowned in his direction.

 “You did this?” he asked in shock.

 Hermione’s frown quickly morphed into a very proud smile and she nodded enthusiastically. “It’s a portable swamp. I’ve been working on it all summer. It was supposed to be yours and George’s Christmas present – you know, for the business.”

 “Why?” asked Fred, unable to really form full sentences from shock.

 “I heard about what happened with Angelina and I figured you might need some cheering up. I was hoping you’d get to see it for the first time when everyone else found it, but this is nice too. At least this way you won’t accidentally fall into it. A foot further and the water depth drops to about four feet,” she informed him casually, although the smug expression on her face told him she felt very proud of herself.

 Fred took a quick step away from the water and towards Hermione, not wanting to chance falling in. He stared at the witch before him, wide-eyed and speechless.

 “Do you like it?” Hermione asked, looking a bit nervous now as he had yet to make any real comment on her brilliant invention.

 Like it? He loved it! It was probably the nicest gift anyone had ever given him. How could he even begin to express how grateful he was? He was so happy he could kiss her. In fact…

 Fred leaned down, wrapping his arms tightly around Hermione and lifting her off of the ground as he claimed her mouth. The kiss was hard and overly enthusiastic at first, but in almost no time they were swept back into the memory of their first kiss all those months ago and they melted into each other like there had been no time between them. A single continuous kiss that went on for seasons. A kiss that Fred never wanted to end as he held Hermione tightly and snogged the living daylights out of her. Unfortunately, the kiss did have to end. A distant murmur of voices sounded from somewhere near by and they broke apart panting. Hermione’s lips were red and swollen and parted in a surprised expression when he carefully placed her down on the ground. They took a moment to just stare at each other, both surprised and delighted in what had just happened. But then the voices grew louder, and they knew they had to go. Fred held out his hand, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Hermione took it firmly, smiling bigger than he’d ever seen. Then they were off, running down the corridors and away from the scene of the crime. Through the halls of stone floors, ancient tapestries, and regal portraits they ran, laughing like school children. Which in a way, Fred supposed they still were.

Taglist:

@theworldisugly-22

@aoonai

@sjh-07-10

@is-it-madness

@i-d-e-g-a-f

[vsuvia]

happy valentine’s day @eerietheapprentice !!!

i was your arcana secret cupid this year~ i wrote a little fic of your apprentice eerie and julian having a cute valentines date! i really hope you enjoy, eerie is such an interesting character and it was a blast to write her and julian together!! 😋💞 lowkey i have such a soft spot for her now ahhhh

also i’m so sorry this was late, i was away all weekend and didn’t have access to my computer (to properly format and post this) until today!

MEET ME HALFWAY -- julian/apprentice (eerie) -- 1,033 words, g

The only sound in the room is the soft clinking of silverware on plates and the muted noise of the city from outside — an unusual change for a chamber containing Julian Devorak. For Valentine’s Day this year, instead of going to the Raven and getting rip-roaring drunk to protest his relationship status or the rise of consumerism or whatever excuse he could find, he was on a date. Well, calling it a date felt a little contrite, much too juvenile for what it truly was. When you defeat the devil with someone, can you call them just your girlfriend?

Things can change in the blink of an eye, but the slow sort of change that sneaks up on you is far more common. A night like this once would have felt stolen out of time, a luxury Julian had to pay for dearly in some form or another. Surprisingly, though, the lack of novelty had failed to make the evening any less special. He still got a thrill in his stomach at seeing his love waiting for him; he still felt lucky to have the hours they spent together, even though they had all the time in the world now.

The woman in question sits across from him, staring somewhere over his shoulder, her long red hair catching the candleflame in every wave. They’d fallen into silence, not out of a lack of things to say but out of a sense of comfort with each other’s presence that came after everything they’d been through. There was certainly a time when Julian would have felt compelled to fill the empty space with words, rushing and stumbling over each other, but that instinct was quiet now and he was grateful for it. It made drinking in the moment sweeter.

As it happens, Eerie is the one to break the silence, tilting her head to the side. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“They’re yours anyway, darling,” Julian responds, smiles softly at her. Though she rolls her eyes, she lets him take her hand anyway. “I truly was thinking about you.”

Her smile is slow, private, the one meant only for him. “Good things, or wicked ones?”

“The best things,” he assures.

Eerie laughs, not harsh but light and teasing. “Boring.”

“Sometimes, you make me want to be that boring,” Julian admits, turns her hand over in his, traces lifeline and love line and marriage line with no idea of their meanings or ways to figure them out. “The man who gets excited by the smallest thing from his lover... the man who lives with that lover in a house they bought themselves... the man who actually dreams of growing old and not just running out the clock.”

She’s fighting a smile off of her sharp features, and it makes her cheeks round, her nose crinkle. “Waking up and kissing the same someone’s morning-breath mouth forever?”

“I can think of no other mouth I’d rather kiss.” Julian presses his lips to the back of Eerie’s hand and earns himself another eye-roll, but the smile wins on her face and that’s enough. When he lets her hand out of his grasp, she rests it on the table; a year ago she’d have kept it underneath, a hand on the handle of a knife or ready to call her magic to arms.

Her thoughts seem to be occupied in a very similar manner, as she worries the inside of her cheek with her teeth. “I never thought I’d be able to do this.” Vaguely, she gestures between the two of them. “Find someone who I could trust, who didn’t care about my past or anything that came before.” There’s no trace of embarrassment or shame on her face; she’s not as flowery as Julian, but he can sense the weight of her feelings behind each word.

“You’re not the only one with a past, and as it is...” Julian toys with his fork, stabs a vegetable idly. “I think we both prefer to live in the present.”

In the silence that follows, he knows they’re both thinking of moments from the previous iterations of their lives that they’d prefer to stay hidden, the times neither of them remembered beyond the haze of altered memory —

hours of side-by-side work in the palace, up to their elbows in corpses. Finding Eerie, shaken and dirty and seeming so small. The smell of the smoke on the Lazaret, spiraling endlessly up into a forever-dusky sky. Pale hands scarred and bleeding from the talons of so many beasts, kept at the behest of a count who barely bothered to feed them. Blood spattered on the flagstone floor, broken by bootprints beating the same trail between cot and examination table every night.

As if she can read his mind, Eerie meets Julian’s eyes and presses her palm, smaller and warmer, to his own, with magic tingling below the surface. At the contact of their skin, he’s thrown backwards into a series of much more pleasant memories, this time ringing truer, with bolder colors and smoother motions.

A meeting in dark and winding alleys, flickering light in large dark eyes. Glowing blue petals starkly bright against ripples of wild red hair. Moonlight in the water by the docks, ever-closer touches, the tangled mangroves of the Hanged Man’s realm and voices hoarse from screaming for each other, the frozen gaze of a stone statue, all the images speeding and blurring until finally, they dissolve into a blue sky and a blue sea, calm for miles and miles.

Julian’s chest loosens; he breathes, once, twice, then steadily.

Eerie takes her hand away, drawing them both back from the memories, and puts it to his face. “Thank you.” She’s not just talking about dinner and dancing.

“And you,” Julian replies in turn. How they’ve ended up can’t be attributed only to either one of them; they both fought and clawed their way here, to peace and understanding and the chance to have moments like this. They gave so much of themselves, but what they got in return was better than what they had before. He can’t take that for granted. He’d never want to in the first place.

[convenientalias]

For crack fic prompts: Daroga/Raoul. Raoul gets turned into a golden retriever.

I don’t mean to be rude but the pun is too good so

YES BITCH

(…I am sorry…)

anyways yeah I sure wrote this thing. IT’S ON AO3 HERE.

One evening, the night of a rivetingperformance of Faust, Raoul wassitting in his typical opera box, waiting for the Daroga to show up, when acourier showed up with a bottle of wine. The note on the wine said that it wasfrom Christine.

Raoul was a bit confused. Christine didn’t usuallysend him things like this, besides which, she knew he wasn’t a big drinker.However, it was a gift, and he couldn’t refuse a gift. So he began to drink it.And, since it was actually very sweet and the music was distracting, he chuggedthe whole thing.

He then felt a sensation as if the world hadbegun to twist and spin and change in size. Wow, he thought. That was somestrong stuff.

In fact, it was so strong that he apparentlywas hallucinating now, because when he looked down at his arms, they seemed tobe covered with yellow fur. Also, his clothes had disappeared, and the rest ofhis body was covered in yellow fur too. He let out a cry of surprise.

“Arooo!”

It was at this point that he realized he hadbeen turned into a dog. That or he was hallucinating having been turned into adog. He wasn’t sure which. Damn it. Christine should have known better than tosend him wine.

Behind him, he heard a vague, echoing chuckle.And then, the voice of the phantom. “So, monsieur, we see what kind of beastyou turn out to be. Well, it is not as…”

But whatever the phantom had to say about thisturn of events was interrupted by the box door opening, and the arrival, thelate arrival, of Raoul’s lover, the one and only Daroga of Paris, otherwiseknown as Nadir Khan.

Nadir was not usually late for things likethis.

In fact, he had a bad habit of showing up atthe de Chagny box before Raoul did, which had caused an awkward scene once whenPhilippe showed up instead of Raoul and calmly demanded an explanation of whyNadir had a key to the box in the first place. Since then he’d been morecareful, but at least when he and Raoul set an hour for a rendezvous he wasusually precisely on time. However, today he had been held up by one thing andanother. Darius had caught a cold. None of the coaches for hire had beeninclined to stop for him. He’d met an acquaintance in the street and beencaught up in conversation. As a result he was more than half an hour late forhis evening with Raoul and fully prepared to apologize, until he entered the deChagny box and realized Raoul was not even there.

A series of thoughts ran through his head:

1. Raoul was late again! And very late indeedthis time. What could be the matter?

2. It was rude of him, but then, this meant hewould never have to know that Nadir had also been late. Nadir would be graciouswhen he showed up and the secret could stay a secret.

3. On the other hand, what if Raoul had showedup, despaired of Nadir ever showing, and left already? It didn’t seem like him,but… he did have his moods…

4. Wait, was that a dog?

It was indeed a dog.

Nadir took a closer look. The dog was curled upon one of the seats in an awkward manner, sitting on its hind legs. It lookedat Nadir woozily, then let out a harsh bark—cutting through the opera music—andlunged forward to lick him messily on the face. Nadir laughingly forced it downto the floor, and it settled with a whine.

“Good boy, good boy… Is that alcohol?” Nadirwrinkled his nose. Yes, the dog’s breath smelled like alcohol. How terrible!“Here boy… who’s been giving a good dog like you booze?”

He rubbed the dog’s head apologetically.Unfortunately, in a place like this, it could be anyone. The Opera Populairegot all kinds. It could even have been one of the actors.

There was a sudden hand on Nadir’s shoulder,and he looked up to see Erik. He frowned. “What are you doing in the Vicomte’sbox?” He knew the two had never been friendly.

“That is my dog,” Erik said. “The Vicomte stoleit and has gotten it drunk. Rude boy, I don’t know what you see in him.” Hesnapped his fingers. “May I have my dog back, or will you insist on fondlinghim?”

It didn’t sound like a likely story. Erik was adefinite cat person. Besides, the dog was growling at Erik—didn’t seem like thetwo were all that close. Nadir pulled the front half of the dog up onto his lapand put his arms around its head protectively. “Erik, you should know I won’tfall for your lies.”

“Are you calling me a liar, monsieur?”

“I’ve called you worse.”

“Give me the dog.”

“I do not think it is your dog. And if you letpeople go around giving it wine, you clearly don’t know how to keep it. Now, beon your way.” Nadir raised his eyebrows.

Erik crossed his arms. “Daroga…”

“Erik.”

“Fine,” Erik huffed. “For now. But I’ll beseeing you later, and I’ll want my dog back then.”

He walked off still grumbling.

“I don’t think Raoul would get you drunk,”Nadir said to the dog. “He’s a good boy. Just like you.” He scratched the dog’sears, and the dog’s tail thumped against the floor. “He probably saw youwandering the halls and brought you in here… now why would Erik want to stealyou? Well, we’ll wait for Raoul and see what he has to say.”

So they waited. But Raoul never showed up.

When the show was over and the audience largelygone, Nadir sighed. “Seems I’ve been stood up again. Well, no use waiting.” Hewould send Raoul a note tomorrow demanding an explanation. A very stronglyworded note.

He took the dog back to his flat with him. Nouse leaving a good dog wandering an opera house. It could easily fall prey to adog catcher, and that would be a pity. Or more ruffians like whoever had givenit wine… at any rate, it was far better off with him than here. And it seemedcontent to follow him, though it did bark a lot.

But it had been polite and not barked muchduring the show, so it was clearly a well mannered dog.

Raoul had rather supposed his turning into adog to be a dream. However, when he woke up the next morning, still a dogexcept now a dog with a migraine, he realized this was not so.

He tried to explain things to Nadir, as indeedhe had tried last night. But, just as last night, all that resulted was a lotof meaningless barking. Dog mouths and human mouths did not work the same way.The barking also made his migraine worse.

Nadir eventually told him to shut up and be agood dog, which made Raoul growl. Usually when Nadir scolded him there was goodreason, but in this case Raoul was in the right! He had to tell Nadir that itwas him, and he just couldn’t get through.

At least Nadir gave him some food. It wasn’tdog food, either—Nadir didn’t keep a dog, so he fed him some scraps ofbreakfast. He was the cook this morning for Raoul, himself and Darius, whoapparently had a cold.

Raoul, who knew Darius mildly well, whined athim apologetically. It was too bad he had to intrude on their home and causetrouble while someone was sick. Darius smiled and patted him on the head.

“Darius,” Nadir said sharply, “you’ll give thepoor thing a cold. Isn’t it bad enough someone has given it alcohol and it hasa hangover? Leave it alone.”

Darius apologized in Persian, and Nadir toldhim that the dog only seemed to understand French, and he apologized again inFrench. Raoul nudged his hand forgivingly. Then he went back to pesteringNadir. There had to be some way to break through…. Ah! He had it!

He ran off to Nadir’s bedroom. Luckily the doorhad been left open—as a dog he was not great at knobs and latches, never mindlocks. He found there a bottle of cologne he had given Nadir only a month agofor his birthday, which he grabbed in his mouth and brought back to the parlor,where he showed it to Nadir triumphantly.

Nadir grabbed it from him. “Bad dog. This isexpensive.”

What? Raoul barked and tried to grab at thecologne again, but Nadir just said, “Sit.”

Unfortunately he was too much in the habit oflistening to Nadir when he used that tone of voice not to obey.

“Listen up. If you’re going to be staying herefor now, we need to establish some ground rules. Don’t touch things on tablesor bureaus. Don’t sit on the upholstery without permission. Don’t get up on thetable. Don’t chew on shoes or… other things…” Nadir scratched his head. “Well,I think that does it.”

Darius laughed hoarsely. “Sir, the dog can’tunderstand you.”

“He’ll understand,” Nadir said menacingly, andhe gave Raoul a Look.

Raoul whimpered. He rather liked sitting onNadir’s couch, it was so soft… well, for now he would have to put up with it.Sadly, he curled up on a corner of the floor. Nadir petted him on the back andtold him not to be too sulky, and went back to conversing with Darius inPersian.

The day was mostly uneventful, apart fromRaoul’s being a dog, until halfway through the afternoon, there was a visitor.It was Philippe.

“My brother mentioned he might see you lastnight.”

“We sometimes meet,” Nadir said guardedly. “AndI had thought to see him at the opera last night, yes, but plans do fallthrough…” He leaned against the doorframe. Looked tense—poor man, he was alwaysnervous around Raoul’s family. “Is there something I can do for you, monsieur?”

“Raoul never came home last night,” Philippesaid. “I merely wondered… Well, I wondered if he might have been with you.”Having made this suggestion, he folded his hands. He, also, was nervous aroundNadir—probably because while the affair was an open matter in Raoul’s family,it was not so open anywhere else, and in fact Philippe and Nadir had neverpoint-blank discussed it at all.

“No. No, I did not see him.”

“Oh. Well, if you see him…”

He looked very worried. Raoul pushed past Nadirand lunged at him, climbing up him to nudge his face reassuringly.

Nadir cleared his throat. “Monsieur, is thisdog yours?”

“…no.” Philippe frowned. “Why, is it notyours?”

“I found it in monsieur le Vicomte’s box lastnight, where monsieur le Vicomte himself was not. It is a strange matter.Worse, he was dead drunk—the dog I mean—and had a hangover half this morning.You’re sure you’ve never seen him?”

“No. Though dogs look much alike; I cannot sayfor sure…”

“Well, this is certainly a puzzle. It should beinvestigated further.” Nadir frowned. “This evening I will go to the operahouse and see what I can find out. If your brother was there, someone will knowit. And if he was not, someone will have noticed that as well. If no one else,Miss Daae… I will let you know the fruits of my investigation when it is done.”

Philippe seized and shook his hand. “Thank you.Thank you, my good man. All day I have been haunted by dread… he is fragile,you know, and I do worry. But I am sure it is all nothing.” His expressionbelied the words. “Please do let me know what you find out. Au revoir.”

So Nadir went out that night. Raoul wanted togo with him, and see if he could at least get through to Christine—of allpeople, she always understood him—but Nadir locked him up in his bedroom, witha firm reminder not to go on the bed but to stay on the floor. So he curled up,bored, and fell asleep.

He woke at the sound of the window creakingopen. A dark shadow filtered into the room—well, a man, really, for though helooked like a shadow in his dark clothing and black barbe mask, but to a dog’snose he smelled like sweat and dirt and the lingering perfumes of the OperaPopulaire, which identified him rather clearly.

“At last, monsieur, I have you to myself,” thephantom murmured. “I would have earlier, if not for that nosy daroga… He willsomeday learn not to meddle in my affairs. An annoying man, isn’t he?”

Raoul growled.

The phantom snorted. “Of course, I forgot youtwo are much too fond of each other. He even likes you in your true form—that’swhat this is, by the way. I thought it might profit him and Christine to seeyou as you truly are, rather than as the perfect, gentlemanly lover you pretendto be. So—the potion to reveal one’s true self, a delicate brew. I had hoped tofind a rat or a toad, but you are rather boring. At least I don’t thinkChristine likes dogs, even if the daroga does.”

Raoul barked.

“Shh—you’ll bother the servant. You wouldn’twant to see me and him in a fight, would you? Tch…”

Hm. True. Raoul would have to take care of thisfor himself. He didn’t know why the phantom had come here or what he planned todo, but it couldn’t be good. Better to get rid of him.

He was not very coordinated in his dog body,honestly, and was hardly an attack dog, by practice or by breed. But withenough energy, it didn’t matter. He jumped on the phantom and bit at him,ripping the fabric of the barbe mask. The phantom dodged backwards, clutchingat the mask, holding it onto his face. “Damn you!”

Raoul bit him on the leg. Hard.

It was too bad he knew for a fact he didn’thave rabies. He would have liked to give the phantom an infection.

The phantom hobbled back to the window. “Verywell, monsieur—you win another round! But sooner or later they will see you forwhat you are, and know that a slavering dog is not so great a thing! And wewill meet again!”

He actually tipped his hat before scaling downthe wall. Raoul barked into the street until he could see the shadow no more.

His barks never did summon Darius, though, sothe phantom had been wrong about that much.

Nadir came home late, but whatever he foundout, he shared it with Darius in Russian and with Raoul not at all. It had himconcerned, by the wrinkle of his brow, though not panicked. He absently strokedRaoul for a few minutes before climbing into bed. And then all the house slept.

Nadir was starting to get worried.

Another day passed with no sign of Raoul. Thenanother. Usually Philippe’s worries were fabricated—Raoul had told him storiesof his overprotectiveness time and time again—but in this case, things werelooking dire. Raoul was a homebody, a mama’s boy and an endearingly clingylover. There was no way he would vanish like this without telling anyone,unless it was foul play.

Nadir, of course, had a suspect in mind. Asalways.

Erik had not seemed to be engaged in anythingtoo… atrocious… the night Raoul had disappeared. He had seemed honestlynonchalant, hardly in one of his darker moods. But Erik was also a great liar,and he had clearly been lying at least a little that night—on the subject ofthe dog, which he had never showed up to claim, and which had not seemed tolike him that much anyway. Smoke followed fire—what else had Erik been lyingabout that night?

Clearly Nadir should have pressed him harder.

Well, he would press him now. He headed downinto the tunnels of the opera house with a torch in his hand and a gun in hispocket. Erik had mentioned the idea of kidnapping Raoul before. He’d neverfollowed through on it, but if this time he had, Nadir would make him regretit. And he would bring Raoul safely home.

The tunnels were as twisty as ever. It seemedto Nadir that between visits their paths changed; he knew this couldn’t betrue, but every time he came down, he found new ways to get lost. Today was nodifferent. Still, at last he found himself on the shore of Erik’s lake. He didnot much like the prospect of swimming across, but if he had to…

“Daroga. What are you doing here?”

Ah. Erik was here already.

He was standing in the shadows. When he steppedout, Nadir spotted something odd—a white bandage wrapped around one of hispalms. An injury? Nadir swung between concern and suspicion—he did not likeErik getting hurt, but if he had been in a fight…

Erik laughed when he saw what Nadir was lookingat. “Ah. I have been having conversations with your dog.”

“My dog now, is it? And when have you… have youbeen breaking into my flat again?”

Erik crossed his arms. “Well, if you didn’tknow about that, what are you down here for? You never come just to visit.”

“I want to know what you’ve done with theVicomte de Chagny. I know it was you.”

“Indeed? What evidence has brought you to thatconclusion?”

No evidence whatsoever, but a healthy amount ofparanoia. “Erik.”

Erik sighed. “Well, I’ll admit it was me. But it’sall been very fruitless. Here.” He took a small bottle out of his pocket andtossed it to Nadir, who barely caught it. “Give this to your dog.”

Nadir examined the bottle, which had no label.When he looked up, Erik was gone.

“Erik!”

No reply.

“Bastard,” Nadir muttered. “If you…”

But it was all he was likely to get out of Eriktoday. Useless to push. And Erik had been very frank, and not at all dire, so…maybe things were not so bad as Nadir had been imagining? Whatever was goingon.

Or Raoul’s disappearance had nothing to do withErik whatsoever, and he was only playing with Nadir for his own amusement. WithErik, one could never tell.

He headed home.

He smelled the contents of the bottlecarefully, while the dog whined at his feet, disturbed by Erik’s smell perhaps.It would be beneath Erik to poison a dog, right? But what on Earth could be inthe bottle? Was the dog sick, did it need medication? If it wasn’t Erik’s dog,why would he have anything for it?

The dog rubbed against Nadir’s legs.

Nadir sighed. He did not like trusting Erik,but. On occasion a leap of faith was necessary.

He mixed the bottle’s contents with water andgave it to the dog with the stern command to drink. The dog was not terriblyeager, but it obeyed.

When he had drunk the last drop of the mixture,he let out a belch that smelled of chemicals. Then he lurched back, and up onhis hind legs, and quite suddenly he was Raoul de Chagny.

Darius, who had been watching all this with greatinterest, let out a shriek.

Raoul was naked.

Nadir stumbled backwards.

Raoul rubbed his face. “Well… that’s better.Hm? Have I gotten stubble?” He frowned.

“Raoul,” Nadir said faintly.

He almost collapsed, but Raoul rushed tosupport him. “Oh, sorry! I know I must have startled you, and I’ve beenworrying you a lot. I did try to explain. It was something in the wine, turnedme into a dog. But you see I’m perfectly fine.”

“…Raoul…”

“Only,” Raoul said, “I really could use someclothing. Do you suppose I could borrow some of yours?”

In the future, Raoul did not accept any morebottles of wine as presents, even if he knew the senders, even if he waspresented with them face-to-face. In fact, he did not even accept food, exceptfrom Nadir, who he said was very trustworthy and an excellent cook. And on thatsubject, it was arranged that Nadir come over for dinner at the de Chagnymanor, a gesture of Philippe’s gratitude—besides, the de Chagnys all said, itwas about time they got to meet Raoul’s special friend.

Philippe was very grateful to Nadir for finding Raoul,though he was a bit cool when he heard their explanation for his disappearance—hedid not outright call them liars, but he did favor them with a very skepticalexpression. To be fair, Raoul did smell of dog… but this was Paris, and it wasthe modern day, and these things did not happen, any more than phantoms walked the streets.

[multiimuse]

Dilan HCs

Odds for your boys tbh. B)

I’m never trusting u with meme powers again, kitty.

ANYWAY.

1. What does their bedroom look like?

Relatively neat, if still rather dusty in corners from years of disuse. Sparsely decorated with a bed and a nightstand, a dresser and a closet. He has a (probably) useless decorative lance mounted on the wall above his dresser, and and a small lamp on his nightstand. There used to be a bonsai on the dresser, but Aeleus rescued it  took it away a few years before the garden fell, when Dilan’s attempt at using it to relax nearly did the poor thing in. (He’s considering trying again, but it would probably meet the same fate if he did.) Overall? It’s not very personal - it’s just the place where he sleeps. His space is the kitchen.

3. Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

Dilan’s more likely to be caught moving than standing still, honestly. If he’s not cooking or working on putting the castle in order, odds are he’s exercising or training. Keeping in good physical condition is important to him - one of the few things that had little to no change during his time as a Nobody. And it’s certainly better than sitting around letting whatever he’s feeling catch up to him. As for what, specifically, he does, he rotates through routines so that he can generally keep from overstressing any one area.

5. Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

Unless he’s been actively working up a sweat (which is admittedly rather often), Dilan tends to keep himself and his personal spaces presentable and neat. It’s easier to get things done when everything is kept neat. Really, that’s all it’s about - it’s not so much a personal preference as it is practicality and training. (Although when it comes to the kitchen, it’s also about avoiding contamination and bacteria, because no-one wants food poisoning and unwashed dishes are gross.)

7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

Dilan doesn’t waste time. If he does something, it’s because it needs or should be done, for some reason or another - and idleness is something he outright refuses to indulge in. Even if that reason is simply to try and make himself feel better? It’s worth doing.

9. Makeup?

Hahaha no. He does groom his sideburns though? (Sorry ladies, those eyelashes are all natural.)

11. Intellectual pursuits?

He prefers to leave science to the scientists, but Dilan does have a soft spot for history. Knowing what happened in the past can prepare one for the future, after all. (He’s also rather interested in nutrition, mostly because it ties into cooking and being able to balance good food with needed food is important.) Really, though - he’s just not that interested in research.

13. Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

It isn’t something Dilan thinks of much. He fell for someone exactly once, and it ended so badly that even decades later he’s not willing to even consider the concept of being attracted to anyone. (I as mun would tentatively label him as both demisexual and demiromantic, but neither he nor I know if heteroromantic or biromantic or panromantic; it’s something to find out if it ever comes up, I suppose.) As for views of it in general? Love is Stupid and he’ll recommend avoiding it, but doesn’t actually care one whit what anyone’s orientation is. It’s just not a thing that he thinks about one way or another.

15. Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Right now, his biggest short term goal is getting his temper back under better control. Living so long without it has gotten him out of the habit, and the sheer intensity of it’s rather overwhelming. His smallest is to make sure Braig keeps eating because he doesn’t trust the man to look after himself right now.

17. Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

He... tends to stick to his uniform, really? After years of wearing the organization’s coat he’s not exactly prone to thinking about alternate clothing. It... doesn’t really feel right to wear the guard uniform like he has been, either, but - there’s something comforting about it, something that makes it easier to reintegrate into his life as Dilan. Maybe he’ll branch out in the future, but right now, this works. (As for rituals, unless he ended up wandering into the kitchen in the middle of the night and fell asleep there, you’re not likely to catch Dilan leaving his rooms without him being fully dressed in his uniform. He isn’t particularly comfortable with leaving things done only halfway.)

19. What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

He tries not to, actually, beyond lists of what he needs to do the next day or going through what he’s already gotten done. Thinking too much leads to feeling, and he’s really not fond of how free the heart is with forming emotions to even the littlest things. 

21. Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

NEXT QUESTION BECAUSE THIS ISN’T RELEVANT.

(On: When someone isn’t intimidated by his temper, who has the fire to match himself. Touches to his collarbone. Massages. Soft voices reading aloud in the evenings. Off: the slightest sign of distress, strong perfume, poor manners at meals.)

23. How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

He’s relatively organized? It’s again not so much a personal thing as it really is just the discipline required to be a decent guard. So things tend to be kept in order, he keeps appointments, etc! However... his temper can easily throw that all into disarray. When he loses his temper he tends to throw and/or misplace things, or lose track of time until he’s finally calmed down again. It’s another reason why he wants to get it under better control again.

25. How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

That isn’t something Dilan’s letting himself think about too much - it’s easier to take everything one day at a time. Providing the worlds are still standing in five years, he imagines he’ll be in much the same place he is now: rebuilding his life, whatever method it takes.

27. What is their biggest regret?

He has two: that he never saw his daughter after his relationship fell apart and as such has no idea what her ultimate fate was, and that he did not stop Xehanort, did not even step in, when he knows that he should have. (Perhaps it wouldn’t have made a difference in the end, but that doesn’t negate the responsibility he feels he bears.)

29. Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

He’s a guard, so he’s trained not to panic - instead, he’ll respond to whatever it is as calmly as possible and if it’s something he can deal with, he’ll deal with it. If it’s not? Get everyone he can out of the way and keep them there until someone who can deal with it has been informed and is on their way.

31. Most prized possession?

If anyone were to ask, he’d state that it was either his weapons or his cooking knives. But the true item he prizes above all others is a soft child’s doll shaped like a knight. He never got to give it to the one meant to own it, but he kept it safe for her on the off-chance that someday he might. Eventually, it simply turned into a reminder that he can’t bear to let go of. (And he’s just about as possessive of it as, say, the Beast and his rose. Never touch it without permission, if you even have been given the right to know that it’s there.)

33. Concept of home and family?

The castle is his home, and its denizens his family - or as close to one as he has or bothers to think about. Family, to Dilan, is made up of bonds of loyalty that can never be broken - if they are easily shattered, then they were never family in the first place. If any physical location could be considered ‘home’, it would probably be the castle kitchen - it’s where he’s most at ease, where his path is most likely to cross with the people he cares for, and where he retreats when he needs to do so.

35. What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

He doesn’t really waste time, so if an activity could be considered as such he doesn’t let himself try it long enough to find out if he likes it or not. ... He probably should, just to branch out a little more, but it would take some persuading to convince him that anything that might be seen as a waste of time (movies, meaningless doodling, etc) is worth giving a shot anyway.

37. Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

He tries to be analytical, but that was far easier as Xaldin. Now that he has his heart back, there’s something of a push-and-pull going on in his decision making. So unless he forces himself to calm down, his first reaction is going to be emotional. (Have I mentioned he really didn’t want his temper back, yet? Because he sure didn’t.)

39. What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

Cooking, mostly. Dilan uses it to unwind, to de-stress and to be productive in the face of more overwhelming emotions. If he’s too drained to even manage that, however, he’ll simply make some kind of tea and relax at the table until he’s doing a little better. If he’s hit that point, however, he’s not likely to be social, so it’s usually best to leave him be and let him make the first move.

41. How misanthropic are they?

He’s... pretty misanthropic. Naturally a little suspicious and guarded around others, his relationship falling apart led him to drawing farther back, guarding himself further and making it that much harder to trust that anyone has good intentions, and then, after what happened with Xehanort... well, by now he’s more or less given up on humanity as a whole, or bothering with people he doesn’t already have some connection with. (There are a few exceptions, but they are exceptions.) 

43. How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

Dilan’s family wasn’t particularly wealthy, so that while he had formal education up through the end of high school, that’s where it ended; he enlisted upon graduating, and anything he’s picked up since has been self taught. Primarily, this includes cooking, but he’s also picked up more than he would like to know a few things from being around Ansem and Even for so long. He has no strong opinions on formal versus self-education, save that he wishes more people were taught how to defend themselves - a silly thought, perhaps, before the Garden fell. But now? Now, he’s willing to bet more than a few survivors agree with him.

45. Superstitions or views on the occult?

He doesn’t really have any? Dilan isn’t a superstitious person by nature, and tends to not do a lot of thinking about occult matters. His mindset is more or less one of ‘if I don’t think about it, it won’t affect me’ - which works well enough until you lose your heart and start living an existence that is neither truly living nor existing but still somehow something. (Now that he’s himself again, he’s still trying very hard not to think about such things.)

47. If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

Hahahahahaha, ha. ha.

Never again. (Ideals are for idiots and children, anyway.)

49. If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

If it’s to the point of a fist fight, it’s usually because Dilan’s too angry to think straight, so the only thing he’s focusing on is releasing his anger onto his opponent. Thus it lacks in his usual finesse and precision... but given that he’s still strong, and fast, and trained in combat, he’s... still pretty dangerous and not one you really want to piss off to the point he’s throwing punches.