#the shards of time will pass us by without a sound ;; ooc | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

babiekeiji · 4 years

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“Because…” he said quietly, looking at his desk, “because people want to remember what it’s like to be young? And in love?” — Rainbow Rowell, Eleanor and Park

All I’ve Ever Wanted

the tsukishima kei addition to A Heart’s A Heavy Burden. masterlist

warnings angst angstt, cursing, hospital setting but very vaguely described, memory loss-ish (does that count as a warning?)

pairing tsukishima kei x reader

a/n eek this seems more like a shitpost tbh haha omg, but please !! enjoy this lik tsukki angst..i kinda touched more on tsukishima’s emotional senses on this one, so if tsukki turns out a lil ooc i’m sorry !! n e ways, enjoy!! ur comments r very much appreciated <3

taglist @miyulovestowrite @hqprotectionsquad @savemesteeb @the-black-birb @alexa360b34st @hqkeiji @bb-noya (send an ask to be added to the taglist!)

— ♥️ —

“If you are the moon, Tsukishima,” you say tenderly, lacing your fingers in the gaps between his, your touch soft, warm, and loving—everything he’s ever needed, really—and Kei thinks his life’s never really going to get more romantic than this, “Then I am the sun.”

“How so?” He whispers as he asks; which is weird, because though nobody else is in the room except the two of you, the moment feels intimate enough that anything loud could ruin it in an instant.

“I’ll always be right behind you,” you say against his lips, closing your eyes and saying before you call them again into a sweet kiss, “That way, you’ll shine the brightest...”

...is what you said years ago.

He still remembers the way you said it; your voice soft and sultry, maybe even tired, eyes halfway closed, naked, with every inch of your body pressed up against his. He remembers what it was like to love and to be loved by you, and he wishes he could hold on to what bittersweet memories he had left of it.

But holding on to them makes him feel like he’s holding on to the stem of a rose; all while the rose stays so beautiful, so red and fresh, his hands are bleeding out through holes by the puncture of its thorns. I can bear it, he thinks, I’ll get through this for us.

There’s only so much pain he can handle before he has to let go.

Kei wishes it won’t ever have to come to that—no, he wants to believe it won’t come to that point. But no matter how tightly you hold on, the rope will burn your palms if you keep slipping.

He’s not stupid—Kei knows that it’s important that he’s by your side, but he’s so, so tired—he’s starting to lose hope for the two of you. He reasons, just to remind himself to be strong, that this is just a rough patch for the both of you, or that this will pass in the blink of an eye. If he could only try harder...help you remember what it was like to be in love, to live happily with his unbearable behavior (that only you seemed to tolerate)...he wants to try harder.

He visits you again today, at the same time as he did yesterday, and the day before.

“Hey,” he says softly as he enters your room, and the sight of you staring at nothing is enough to make his heart shatter into pieces.

You blink and break out of your trance; you straighten your back and smile at him. “Hey,” you greet, and for a minute he’s happy again, “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” he says, closing the door behind him gently as he approaches you. “I’m always back.”

“Were you here yesterday?”

He tries so hard not to cry.

“Yeah...yeah,” tears well up in his eyes as his voice cracks, but Kei keeps his head down so you don’t notice. “I was here. Right beside you.”

“What did we do yesterday?”

“We...” he spaces out for a second, but shakes himself as if he’s getting rid of his dark thoughts, “We were looking at photos of you. Baby pictures.”

You smile weakly, and Kei doesn’t know whether he wants to cry or smile back. “I’m sure we had fun.”

“We did.”

You’re staring again, but this time, right at him. He finds it hard to believe the same eyes that looked at him with so much emotion—be it anger, annoyance, or love—looked at him now with a foreign familiarity, like a word that’s on the tip of your tongue, or a sentence missing one important word. You blink slowly but don’t break eye contact, and even if just a bit, your eyes form crescents at the smile that reaches your cheeks.

He wishes he could see you smiling without being sad.

“I hope to remember, Tsukishima...I’m trying my best.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Even still. I wish I could remember faster...”

“Don’t force yourself to do that.”

Your next words hit him like a train running a hundred miles an hour, “I know you’re tired, Kei.”

He tries not too seem apprehensive; but the way you turn away from him when he freezes tells him he came off otherwise. “I..I’m not tired?” He tries to convince you, but he figures he doesn’t sound so. “I’m not tired of you. I won’t ever be.”

You shake your head and keep your eyes to your fidgeting hands. “You don’t have to keep doing this. It must be so taxing for you to come back and find out I’ve forgotten everything we did the last time you were here.”

“I don’t care if it’s so tiring as long as it’s a little step to helping you remember,” He says. “I love you. You know that.”

“I do.”

He pulls out a picture from his bag, one he had specifically printed just for you, framed in hopes you’ll keep it on your nightstand. It’s a picture of you lying on the snow, cheeks flushed red, snowflakes dotting your eyelashes as you smile. “You remember this?” He asks as he hands you the picture. You hold it in your hands hesitantly, running your thumb over the smooth glass that goes over your face. “We went back to Miyagi. This was our first Christmas together.”

You sniffle. He knows you’re about to cry, so he crawls up next to you on the bed and holds you close, cradling your head between his neck. “I’m sorry,” you choke as you clench the back of his shirt, and he can’t help but shed a few tears as he holds you closer, “I’m sorry I forget—I’m so sorry, Kei.”

It’s at moments like these Kei relives the broken glass shards of life, much like the ones from his broken windshield, that pierce through him even deeper than any knife can go. When he holds you close, he remembers—this is not the same person he used to love.

And the thought in itself is enough to shatter his very being to pieces.

The only person he loved, the only one who could tolerate his constant mood swings, the only only person who he could really love, trust, and adore behind closed doors...gone. Just like that.

Everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever needed, all taken from his clutch at the blink of an eye.

He rubs small circles in between your shoulder blades, in the middle of your back, hoping you remember that at the very least. “Do you remember this?” He asks, his voice nasal and stuffy from crying, “You loved it when I touched you here. It comforted you.”

You sob, and that is all that it takes for Tsukishima to understand that the answer was an ugly, hideous no.

“Please don’t give up on me, Tsukishima,” you say in between cries, and his heart breaks into two, “You’re all I have left to remember.”

He’s crying—you both are—and the pain feels just as agonizing as it did the first time. Like an open wound being opened deeper, deeper with exactly what hurt you, then buried in a sea of salt—the pain is long, hard, and fucking miserable.

“I won’t,” he replies in all sincerity, “I’ll be right here for you.”

“Do you remember how we fell in love?”

He blinks away his tears. “No,” he replies, “It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment we both knew we loved each other.”

“Well, then, do you remember how you fell in love with me?”

He swallows his tears for the nth time that day. “I...” he says, “I do; we were fighting about something so small that day.”

“And then?”

“I don’t remember how we got into that fight,” he sighs, “All I remember was that you were able to put me in my place—and that was how I knew; because every other person who’s tried always made me feel bad, but when you put me in my place it made me feel like i could do better, improve, for you.”

From then on it was only silence, and the soft whirring of all the machines and the air conditioning of the hospital. Tsukishima feels your fingers trace the dip of his spine, fingertips skimming up and down his back. Your movements become languid and slow; you must be falling asleep, he thinks. and he’s happy he gets this one moment of serenity, no matter how ephemeral it may be.

He’s holding you close—the you that he’s familiar with, the one he knows won’t think he’s a stranger when he wakes, and it almost feels to good to be true. He falls asleep with you in his arms, on a cramped, less-than-comfortable hospital bed; but if this is what it takes to get to you again, he’ll go through this and a whole lot more over a thousand nights just for you.

He remembers, in the worst way possible,, that all good things must come to an end, and that all he’s ever wanted was being snatched away from him all over again.

You wake up, frantic, and utter a sentence only three words long.

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thehauntrpg-blog · 5 years

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Sallybrook lay in darkness that night. Not a light can be seen in the darkened houses lining each street, no movement from within breaking the stillness. From the sea to the east, a thick fog rolls in: slowly at first, then in a flood, shrouding the town in a mist that is at once unseasonably warm and bone-chillingly cold.

One by one, the crickets stop chirping. An owl hoots once, then never again. A lone fox, standing pensively at the edge of town, returns to its den.

In the blink of an eye, the abandoned bakery’s pastries mold and decay. At the coffee shop, the milk sours and spoils, while the coffee beans grow brittle and old. The wood of the many ships in the harbor grows soft and pliable; some vessels sink, while others barely cling to buoyancy.

As the fog thickens, so, too, does the darkness, smothering out the stars. And deep inside its depths, somehow everywhere and nowhere at once, a sinister force lurks.

Within the darkness, The Haunt waits.

The Church - Monday, Dec. 31st - 10:38 p.m.

An oppressive silence hangs over the pews in the darkened church, the only sound the distant tap-tap of a pacing chaperone. August sits unnoticed in a pew, staring sightlessly ahead, something small and red clutched in her hands, while Alice sits fretfully beside her.

From the silence issues a father’s scream.

“My daughter!” he wails, as one by one, people trickle out of their rooms to investigate the commotion. Emerging from the hallway, others follow, some annoyed, others concerned. Logan places a hand on his shoulder, but the mourning father shrugs it away.

“You!” he cries when he sees August, whose focus snaps back to the room as if waking from a dream. “You have her jacket—what have you done with her?!”

August looks down at the jacket in her hands in horror, while Alice stands in front of her protectively. Reilly emerges from the crowd just as the man tries to accost August. Jackie rushes in to pull him away. He elbows her in panic, causing her to fall backwards, nose gushing blood.

As Rosaline rushes to Jackie’s side to make sure she’s alright, Rowan peers over the scene cradling a half-empty bottle of booze. Miles observes the altercation quietly from the corner, while Will shoulders their way through the crowd. Reilly speaks a gentle word to the aggrieved father, who crumples into his arms.

August, hysterical, makes a beeline for the door, with Alice hot on her heels. It’s locked. Frantic, she spies the window beside the door. As she scrambles to get it open, Rowan inches closer to the door, with Dominik following not far behind. Though the window is locked, the wooden sill is soft with age and splinters away, allowing her to climb through.

Alice fiddles frantically with her key. Reilly notices August’s escape and heads for the door just as Alice leaves. Rowan makes a beeline for the door, but Reilly catches Rowan’s arm in a firm grip.

Rowan whips around, smashing his bottle on a pew, sending glass and liquor flying and spraying nearby Will with shards.

“Be still,” Reilly says, “God is with us.”

Rowan holds the broken bottle up to Reilly, and the two exchange a few heated words. Dominik sees his chance and strides for the door.

“Don’t come after me,” Rowan says shakily, “or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Shocked gasps and murmurs grow louder in the panicked crowd.

“It’s not worth it, Rowan,” Dominik says, laying a firm hand on his shoulder. Rowan’s gaze breaks from Reilly’s as he looks around the room, catching the frightened eyes of Sophie and Elliot, who are huddled together.

Rowan rips his arm from Reilly’s grasp and follows Dominik out the door, which slams shut behind them. As Ollie rushes for the door, the window slams shut too. Ollie throws himself at the door, but no matter what he does, it doesn’t budge.

He turns slowly to the horrified crowd.

“It won’t open,” he says. “We’re trapped.”

The Motel – Monday, Dec. 31st – 10:38 p.m.

It starts with the dreams.

Over and over the nightmare repeats, robbing sleep and sanity from the motel’s captive audience. The scent of earth—soft dirt under fingernails—muffled laughter from above—a mother’s ceaseless wail—and a thunderous rumble, a rumble so intense it shakes you to the bone.

Iris is the first to wake. She lets out a blood-curdling scream as a chunk of concrete falls just shy of her head, scratching her face and pinning her hair to the bed. As she tries desperately to free herself, Avery sees the commotion and bolts for the door. Iris rips herself free, shedding some hair in the process, and escapes the room.

Tegan is sitting outside, cradling an empty pill bottle, when the rumble starts. He springs to his feet as the ground below him vibrates with malice. Without looking back, he sprints away from the motel and down the road, leaving it far behind.

Tony, holding a bag of chips from the vending machine, spots Avery making a break for it. He stumbles as the ground shakes under his feet, then runs after them.

“Avery!” He calls, and the name seems to echo a little too far.

As Abigail swipes lipstick across her bottom lip, the shaking starts, causing her to draw a jagged red line across her face. She turns to leave the bathroom when part of the ceiling comes crashing down, blocking the door. Desperate, she claws the tiny bathroom window open and wriggles through, spraining her wrist on a bad landing.

Meanwhile, Noah and Elodie play cards, a half-empty liquor bottle between them.

“Go fish,” Elodie says flatly, and that’s when the bottle begins to rock. It tips out all over the table, soaking them. They stand to clean themselves up when the shaking intensifies, knocking them to the ground. Noah crawls to the door and opens it, and they both scramble out. As they pass by a closed door, they hear a piercing scream from Isaiah within, and Peter’s frantic protests, but the crumbling awning doesn’t allow them to investigate.

Imogen sprints down the hallway, calling frantically for everyone to evacuate the building.

Leila freezes up when the shaking starts, eyes wide and blank. Zoe hauls her to her feet and shoves her toward the door. Leila stumbles and bangs her head against the doorframe. While Leila’s head spins, Zoe drags her to safety.

Kira is writing in a journal when she hears Imogen’s calls. When dust begins to fall between the pages, she leaves the room. Pandemonium greets her outside: people covered in dust and blood, some sobbing, others pacing.

Just one door remains closed. As the crowd looks on, it creaks open slowly, revealing a startling sight. Marti and Aaron clutch eachother tightly, with not a speck of dust to be found. From the wrecked ceiling hovers a giant piece of concrete, suspended impossibly above them, with no signs of falling.

Alone behind the building, Abigail springs to her feet, nursing her throbbing wrist. She makes a break for it as fast as her shaking legs will allow. Just as she thinks she’s clear of the lot, however, she finds herself suddenly facing the motel again, on the opposite end of where she started.

“Guys,” she says, catching the attention of some of the crowd, “What the fuck is going on?”

Thus begins a week of torture for the residents of Sallybrook. While before the conditions of their confinement were bearable, they are now marred by chaos and confusion. No one may leave their lockdown location due to a mysterious impenetrable barrier that arose after the escapes.

At the Church, while the chaperones try to maintain order, widespread panic grips the populace, especially in the wake of the child’s disappearance. Some try to find a way out, certain there must be an exit somewhere, trying every window and door in the place. Others sit in their rooms and try to drown out the world and their own fears. While the Church is more habitable than the Motel, resources are dwindling fast.

At the Motel, what seems to be an earthquake has driven everyone out of their rooms. A particularly keen observer might notice the unnatural way the building collapsed in places, as if crushed like a soda can by some unseen force. Though most rooms contain some debris, one-third have been rendered uninhabitable. While the Motel is better supplied than the Church, the debris makes living there more difficult. Members of this group may go outside, but if they try to step beyond the limits of the parking lot, they find themselves on the opposite side of the lot, facing the motel once again.

Lastly, there is the group of Escapees. This group consists of Tegan, Avery, Tony, Rowan, Dominik, Alice, and August. Though they start out in separate areas, finding eachother is inevitable, as the town is otherwise completely deserted. If they choose to investigate the Church or Motel, they will find that the Church cannot be entered. If they try to step onto the Motel lot, they will appear at the opposite side, having skipped over it completely. They may also try to find food among the deserted shops, but anything fresh will be molded or spoiled. Canned food and shelf-stable items remain edible. If they try to leave the town, the fog becomes so thick that they cannot breathe.

Though these circumstances last one week in-world, OOC it will last through the end of January. This event provides the perfect opportunity to explore new facets of your character. Remember that your characters do not know when—or if—they will be able to escape. Will they panic and lash out at others, focus on their own survival, or team up and try to keep everyone sane? The choice is yours. You may choose to thread about the night the barriers went up, or about anything that happens during the week that they are trapped. Additionally, as always, flashback threads are welcomed.

Finally, I spoke with most of you about how The Haunt’s active presence will affect your characters psychologically. As a reminder, the categories are dreams/hallucinations, selective hearing/seeing of those around you, repetitive/risk-taking behaviors, personality changes, and time lapses/sleepwalking. Your characters may begin to experience these symptoms after the barrier goes up. It’s up to you whether they last the whole week or only parts of it. These symptoms will only intensify as we approach February’s finale. If you have not heard from me about this, you may choose your symptoms on your own, but you are also more than welcome to consult me about them.

If you have any questions or concerns, you are more than welcome to ask me (phnx). I want to make sure everyone enjoys this event to the fullest, whether that be generating ideas with you or clearing up any confusion.

Happy Haunting!

#hauntevent #lsrpg #rpg #horror rp #town rp #skeleton rp

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this-is-your-heichou-speaking · 6 years

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Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Pansy Parkinson Additional Tags: Fluff and Angst, Boys Kissing, Idk if they're too OOC or not, but i tried, I love Drarry so much but idk how to write them, please read anyway, (And tell me if they're shit seriously)

Succour "You're staring again." Draco jerked at the sudden voice in his ear, gaze landing on his uneaten breakfast. He looked up to see Pansy, studiously reading the book in her lap as a forkful of mashed potatoes made its way to her mouth. "At what?" he asked. Her eyes remained fixed, and she didn't reply. Draco frowned. "At what?" he repeated, a little more forcefully. She looked up, unimpressed. "What do you think?" When Draco only stared blankly, she huffed as if Draco was trying her patience, and gestured vaguely toward the other end of the hall. "Potter." Immediately, Draco's cheeks warmed, and he scowled. "I wasn't!" She raised an eyebrow. "You were." She lifted her fork again, mouth open, but then seemed to think better of it, and put it back down, frowning faintly down at her plate as if her appetite had left her. "Really, Draco. This is unbecoming," she commented airily as she reached across the table to grab an apple instead. "Either stop, or go over and talk to him. And if you absolutely must stare, do it discreetly? I doubt I'm the only one to notice." She didn't say much more as she stood and walked out, back straight, leaving Draco looking after her open-mouthed. His jaw shut with a snap as he frowned, gripping the edge of the table. He chanced a look across to the Gryffindor table, only to turn his head violently when he made eye contact with Potter. "I wasn't staring," he mumbled to himself.

After a while he couldn't help but look over again. It was strange, but he really couldn't stop looking for Potter in a crowd, almost instinctively. One might expect to see Gryffindor's resident hero socialising and laughing, except the boy was always just sat there quietly every time Draco happened to look. He still sat with his friends - the Weasel and Granger, but whilst his peers shouted across the table towards each other and laughed uproariously at each other's jokes, Potter just remained silent, as if he wasn't even there. Weasley and Granger were murmuring quietly, heads together, and once in a while would both look worriedly over, but Potter didn't seem to notice. Draco frowned. Not that it concerned him. He looked back down at his plate, and suddenly dinner didn't seem so appetizing anymore. It didn't concern him, never had and probably never would. So why did that thought hurt? He sighed gustily and stood up, straightening his robes. Theodore looked at him, opening his mouth to ask him where he was going, but Draco just shook his head and left the great hall without another word. He made his way straight to the common room, but stopped halfway, freezing awkwardly in the middle of the thankfully empty hallway. He didn't want to see anybody, and the feeling was so strong that the idea of looking at other people, of even passing them on the way to the dormitories felt so completely abhorrent that he simply couldn't make himself go. His arms dropped to his sides limply, and he took a turn into a quieter hallway instead. A few hours later found him wandering the corridors in the late evening, lost in confusing thought. Unfortunately for him, his thoughts were still centred around Potter and his lost smile and very green, very sad eyes. He was skinny again, Draco couldn't help but have noticed - thin as a stick, and he looked so haunted Draco could barely stand to look at him without needing to take a break to calm down. He supposed it made sense for him to look that way, after everything he'd seen last year. That wasn't the off thing, no. What was strange, was how much Draco cared. He shouldn't, he knew. He'd always hated Potter, and the other boy had always hated him. There was just something between them that had always pushed him to antagonize Potter, to see the fire in his eyes and push for the sharp retort back. And yet, searching, he couldn't find that desire in himself anymore. He'd tried, at the start of this year, to convince Potter into arguing with him again, but the way he'd just turned and ignored him, as if Draco wasn't even worth a second glance. Or, he thought now, as if he couldn't be bothered anymore, and Draco didn't know which was sadder. And now there were these feelings, these strange impulses that pushed Draco to comfort the boy, to care for him and hug him and- And what a coincidence, that the alcove he passed now just happened to house the very person he couldn't stop thinking about. Potter was leaning against the wall, legs curled into his body and cheek resting on his knees. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady, and for a moment Draco thought he was asleep, but then he moved closer and Potter's eyes snapped open. He let out a strange whine and curled in onto himself tightly, and the fear in his eyes made Draco burn with something like pity and rage. The moment was over before he knew it, and suddenly he was faced with indignant green eyes staring straight at him as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "What do you want, Malfoy?" the boy said, causing Draco to frown. He ignored the question, instead laughing flatly. "Were you actually sleeping here, Potter? Not used to having a bed to sleep in after so long with your pet weasel?" Potter's eyes flashed with something unrecognizable, and he sat up. "Shove off, Malfoy," he said, but it didn't contain even half the venom it usually did, and Draco deflated like a balloon that'd been popped. "You're... not okay," he said awkwardly, then cursed at himself. Potter looked at him, confused and silent. Draco sighed. "I just, I've noticed. You seem so... lost." He floundered a little. "I don't like it," he admitted quietly. Potter laughed loudly, and it grated on his ears like sharp shards of shattered glass. "That's surprising," he sneered, sounding both sarcastic and scarily close to tears, and Draco wanted to hold all the broken pieces together but he didn't know how. "And here I thought you'd just love to see me like this," Harry was saying now, and yes, he was Harry now, because Potter could never sound like this, not in a million years. The change of name, even if it was just in his head, made the boy seem so much more fragile, and Draco took another step without even realising he'd done it. "I'm not my father," he whispered harshly. "And I'm not happy to see you hurt. I just-" He took another step closer, and Harry shrank back. Draco stopped, moving his palms up flat like Harry was a frightened animal, and tried to make himself look as harmless as possible. "Let me help?" he asked, and then stepped closer, and closer, until he was practically nose to nose with Harry, who stared at him wide-eyed and confused. "Let me take care of you," he said now, and he didn't know where the desire came from but it was there, in his heart, in his throat, urging him to take this boy into his arms and kiss him until he forgot everything. 'I won't find myself here again,' he thought suddenly, and he moved his arms slowly to wrap around Harry in response. There was such affection in his heart - not love, but he thought it could be. He just wanted to heal this boy. He leaned down, arms tight around Harry, and pressed firm lips against his mouth in a chaste kiss. Harry was trembling, awkward and unhappy and uncertain, but Draco stayed there, firm, until he opened his mouth hesitantly. And then they were kissing properly, wet and warm and Draco felt it all so acutely he thought he'd dream about this for days, feel the phantom push of soft lips hours later when he lay in bed alone, trying to sleep. He kissed back hard, showing Harry he was there, wanting to feel like he would be here forever, and Harry let him, opening his mouth and panting into Draco's in turn. When he finally pulled away, Draco couldn't help but stay close and leave soft little kisses at intervals as they stood with foreheads touching and eyes closed. Harry's lips felt so nice, so soft, and it wasn't like Draco had never kissed anyone before (or been kissed) but this felt so much more different. There was something burning in his chest, in his stomach, but it wasn't lust. It was softer than that, aching in a way less physical but more painful. He kissed Harry again, just a peck really, and then moved back enough so that he could look at the boy without his eyes crossing. He didn't loosen his hold though, keeping his gaze on kiss-swollen lips and dark eyelashes resting on delicate skin, eyes hidden from his sight. Harry's eyebrows were strangely knitted, a little as if he were in pain, but as the two of them stood in silence and their breathing calmed, his face relaxed until he looked almost serene. Draco sighed then, and Harry opened his eyes to look him straight in his. "This is unexpected," he said quietly, as if speaking too loudly would break the mood. Draco couldn't help but smile at the honest want in those eyes, and at how badly Harry was hiding it. "It was," he admitted. "For both of us." His fingers tightened on Harry's hip involuntarily as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. "Do you regret it?" Harry went a little red, but shook his head. "Maybe I should," he replied, "but I don't." Draco nodded. "I don't either," he clarified, just in case. Misunderstandings could grow to be painful things to deal with. He wanted to ask Harry if he was feeling better, but thought better of it. Instead he let his arms loosen around the boy and intertwined his fingers with the Gryffindor's as casually as he could, starting to pull him gently down the hall. "It's late," he said by way of explanation. Turning into a bigger corridor, they could see the night sky out of the large windows, and the fact that the castle was completely empty as far as they could see told Draco that it was probably very close to curfew, if not a little after it. Harry said nothing as they walked up to Gryffindor tower, but as they drew closer his hold on Draco's hand tightened and he walked ever closer to Draco, almost unconsciously. At the entrance to the tower he loosened his grip, turning to go, but Draco didn't let him. Instead he pulled Harry back, and leant in slowly enough that the boy could stop him if he so wished. Harry didn't, so Draco kissed him again, just on the lips, for a long minute before he let go. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" he asked softly. Harry nodded, a hesitant smile blooming on his face as he took a step back. "I'll see you tomorrow, Draco," he replied, and then he was gone. Draco stood there a while, staring after his classmate, before he remembered himself and started a swift stride towards the dungeons. The evening had left him with a strange feel, almost as if it had been a moment in a dream or another realm, but Draco didn't feel panicked or incredulous now that he was away from the source, only calm. That night was the best night's sleep he'd had since he could remember.

#Heichou writes #Harry Potter fanfiction #Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter #Drarry

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bi-apps · 4 years

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Accepted - Dorcas Meadowes (SAW)

ashleyinwanderlust

submitted: Dorcas Meadowes Application

OOC Information:

Name/Age/Timezone- Ashley ( or Ash ), 25, PST

Activity Level- Currently about a 6/10. I work full-time so my activity fluctuates during the week. I’m most active Friday through Monday, but sometimes I’m around a lot midday if it is a slow at my work. Plus, I’m usually always around on mobile for plotting and chatting.

Ships/Anti-Ships- Chemistry and angst. To be honest, I’m just a real big sucker for the Dorcas / Voldemort rivalry I’ve built up in my head.

Did you read the rules? Yes, I did! :)

IC Information:

Character Name- Dorcas Ophelia Meadowes ( click for old inspo blog )

Age- 22, going on 23.

Occupation- Hit Witch

Traits:

( 3 Positive )

+ Headstrong || Dorcas is incredibly self-disciplined. In her life she has never been known for being stagnant. Both physically and physiologically, she constantly pushes herself passed her limitations in a daily stride to become better. It’s no easy feat, but it is one she is constantly proud of herself for pushing forward despite the obstacles.

+ Empathetic || When someone around her is in pain, Dorcas knows it. That pain becomes her pain. At first it was overwhelming, but over the years she has taken these whirlwind of emotions and turned them into something a little more tangible and far more understandable. She is a woman of action, so it only seemed logical that she try to combat the pain any way she could. Admittedly, she sees her empathy as a weakness, but it is a really important barrier; a vital form of protection that she needs to keep her feet firmly planted where they are and to distinguish her from her enemies. + Protective || As a hit witch, Dorcas is a natural protector. It’s an innate trait that she has always noticed surging at the surface of her being. That desire to protect those around her intensifies whenever dealing with her friends and members of the Order of the Phoenix, who she has deemed her makeshift family. When it comes to them, Dorcas is completely selfless. They are the people she reminds herself to be strong for; to fight a little harder for; to be strong for and refuse to ever give up on.

( 3 Negative )

- Devil-May-Care || Dorcas definitely struggles with dissociation. She is wild and reckless and has yet to realize that she only has one life to live so she ought to tread lighter. Instead, she is passionate and volatile. One step too far and she might take the entire ship down with her. - Impulsive || You don’t have to look too deep into her soul to find this rebel wide awake; she comes out eagerly and persistently. In fact, Dorcas is typically bad in general when it comes to taking directions. Once an idea is engraved in her mind, it is there to stay. She has no problem going rogue if she thinks her methods might solve the problem on hand and simply deal with repercussions after the fact. A common theme of hers is, “ don’t ask for permission, just forgiveness. ” - Self-Motivated || It’s not always blind violence and protest. A power-hungry Dorcas is often scheming to manipulate any situation in her favor. If she sees any opening, it is almost guaranteed that she will make her move like a predator on the attack. After all, Dorcas has many great things planned for her future and reckons getting her name out there is the quickest ticket to her goals. - Enigmatic || Dorcas is a force to be reckoned with and she often doesn’t let any obstacles prevent her from doing what needs to be done. She is both a wild card and a loose canon; no one ever knows what version of her they’re going to fish from their hat.

Faceclaim- Felicity Jones, Krysten Ritter, Odette Annable, Alexandra Daddario

( I can add more options to this list if you’re not happy with anyone mentioned above. I was just too excited / wanted to submit before commuting home from work! )

KEY POINTS

( tw: violence, tw: abuse, tw: mental illness, tw: death ) Dorcas never recanted tales from her childhood to anyone. It wasn’t necessarily because the memories were laced with pain, but rather the lack of recollection stirred up a different feeling inside her altogether. She was told the initial years after her mother’s death were difficult on everyone. Her father retreated to the confines of his study like some kind of recluse, investing all of his time working on mysterious projects the little girl couldn’t quite wrap her mind around. He hardly emerged from his study, but on the offset he did it was usually to reprimand the child. The man was unusually particular about making sure no one stepped foot into his private quarters except himself, however, Dorcas watched from afar with curious eyes one too many times; she couldn’t resist the temptation to stick her nose where she knew it didn’t belong or try recreating the same spells she had seen him using again and again.

Unlike the well-controlled magic she’d witness Cyril Grey spinning from the tip of his wand on numerous occasions, hers proved to be a sloppy and careless spectacle. The almost six year old had stolen his twelve and three quarter inches of Dragon Heartstring with the convoluted idea the scene before her would somehow play out differently rather than sending a collection of her father’s most prized possessions shattering in midair. Dorcas faintly recalls in one of her earliest memories as the crystal shattered all around her feet - she even remembers the piercing sting as sharp shards bounced back, lacerating her flesh. She stood barefoot among the fragments unaware of what she had just done before shock began to settle. Naturally the sound sent Cyril running down the creaky corridors of their home and into his study where he discovered his daughter standing among his most treasured belongings. It was enough to send the man into a full-blown frenzy; if the neighbors heard his cries that night surely they must have thought someone died and all had gone straight to hell in that instant.

Dorcas didn’t have the faintest clue if the artifacts bestowed any true sentimental value or not - she sincerely doubted it in her adulthood - however the way he laid into that evening when he saw her standing among fragmented crystal and shattered glass would have conveyed a different story entirely. The truth was her father was not a man of great sentiment; everything had a purpose, otherwise there was no need for it. She recalls with bitter memory growing up without any pictures of her mother in that wretched house. It was always hard to tell if the heartless man was born that way or if the condition occurred subsequent to his young wife’s death.

When Dorcas was still just a child, Cyril violently entrusted her with the message that her mother’s passing was unnatural, sudden, and far too soon. The message was conveyed in a variety of different ways. Sometimes it would be delivered across her face in the form of a piercing slap or an abrupt jerk to her shoulder blades and, though the emotion of regret often varied in his face afterwards, he always stood behind his word that she was well-deserving of it. She learned at a far younger age than anyone ever should that grief and loneliness can break any man down and turn them into coldhearted stone. She was nine now and, though it wasn’t her fault her mother perished far too soon, she walked around feeling like it was. Later in life she would come to understand that the weak man that he was had a hard time living with a constant breathing reminder of everything he loved and lost when Sophelia Meadowes-Grey departed from this world. It was evident he had grown to be a sick man, but refused any acknowledgement of his condition which became increasingly difficult on Dorcas who desperately longed for a mother and now a father too.

Dorcas lugged that pain around everywhere she went. It grew to be a heavy burden - one that became nearly impossible to bare alone. She lashed out every chance she could by dressing up desperate cries for attention and calls for help with inappropriate behavior, which was met each time with indistinct violence and ill-rapport instead of the nourishment any child that age craved. She drove herself to isolation - anxiously counting down the days until she could start anew at Hogwarts. When the first of September finally arrived, she found herself to be a lion among men and for the first time ever the newly dubbed Gryffindor felt like she was finally at home.

Dorcas never returned to her father’s home after her fourth year of school. She shed her family name and adopted her mother’s maiden name Meadowes instead. Those initial years on her own were the most difficult to digest as she attempted to maneuver living a life on her own in a world she could never quite comprehend. Working random summer jobs to make ends meet was not sustainable and quickly she realized she was going to have to shift her focus elsewhere. That’s when her interest in the outside world began to expand - she took up a keen interest in politics and criminology pertaining to the Wizarding World. It was as if she had been instilled with a sense of justice and a craving for revenge overnight. She had a strange fascination for the workings of the world and the psychosis of each individual around her, but it wasn’t until she was nearing the end of her sixth year at Hogwarts that the witch was provided with some redirection her life was desperately in need of. A destructive rampage landed the now sixteen year old with an entire month’s worth of detention, but rather than just seeing her as a problem child like so many before him had, one of her professors witnessed something else entirely.

As Dorcas continued growing, she continued to keep putting walls up. She didn’t know if it was because she was ashamed of who she was or where she came from, but she knew those factors played a significant role. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why occlumency came so natural for the brazen young witch. She always expressed an interest in the subject, however, it wasn’t until she was working under an instructor’s guidance during her remaining years of school that she truly began to excel. Her final years at Hogwarts were fleeting; she passed the time with lots of quidditch. As a seeker she was able to greatly nurture her flying skills, which eventually allowed her to lead into a career as a Hit Witch. Dorcas was then introduced to a handful of people who became more than simple best friends ever could. They became her family - the only one she would ever truly know, which would not be complete until after she was recruited to join the Order of the Phoenix after graduating. Though she wants to be a strong-hold for the Order, she walks a dangerous line misguided by her own skewed moral compass. In an attempt not to succumb to her own power-hungry demons, she hurls herself headfirst into the arms of war as she claims no one but she is the great decider of her fate.

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