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mggpleasedontlookhere · 4 years

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winter reminiscence pt . 2

Summary: Upon meeting Timothee on the bus, Y/N goes to her favorite bookstore, while Timothee goes out to his study place, to get their minds off of each other. Unfortunately, for both of them it is a small world they live in and luck was not on their side, or was it?

word count: 1,967 reading time aprox: 7 mins

timothee's pov

From the turn the bus had taken after she had gotten off to a few stations down, I sat despairingly in my seat, cooped up in evident mental suppression. I ran my fingers through my curls, while my other hand played with the ‘Columbia University’ tassel that hung from my side pocket, scanning the surroundings and finding the bus a ghost town.

“Kid, this is the last stop” The bus driver announced over the loudspeaker, the wheels screeching to a halt, catching my attention.

“Sorry, thank you” I apologized, apprehensively waving a hand to gesture my atonement. With that I stepped off the bus and made my merry way to the coffee shop where I would buy my daily dose of caffeine.

The sign read “bon café” in luminescent script, surrounded by cartoons of miniature succulents and vines that draped across the cafe’s door frame. The aesthetic of the place reminded me of the trips to Marseille with my dad whenever I’d fly to France to meet him. The greek inspired textured walls, the little ornaments of boats, and the paintings of water would be what my father called “la plus belle époque architecturale”.

Standing by the counter, I took my place in line while listening to the muted tracks of ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘White Christmas’ that battled against the chatter that filled the atmosphere. As soon as I got to the front, I ordered a hot chocolate and a buttered bagel, knowing that I was going to be here for a while.

I picked up my order from the counter, and chose a two-seater in the corner where a single ficus stood, an overhead light illuminating the table. I rested my Anthropology textbook in front of me, opening to the review page as I studied for my Midterms.

The rings of the welcome bell by the front door would take me out of my concentration, although I tried to focus on the material in front of me. But what really did it for me was the change of music in the place, the cheery seasonal playlist was swapped out for a Beatles song, specifically, ‘Here Comes The Sun’, more specifically:

her favorite song

It seemed as if I suddenly forgot how to read as my eyes scanned the same phrase over and over again. With this, I closed the book aggressively, shutting my eyes in irritation and dragging my hands over my face. In addition to this, as the song ended, ‘She Loves You’, another song from the beatles, came on.

With a groan, I rested my head on the surface of the table, banging my head in attempt to physically shake out all the sensations and memories I wish I regretted.

“She’s my best friend Y/N! Why can’t you understand that” I muttered in a low tone, pinching the bridge of my nose as I tried to keep this stupid and unreasonable fight to rest.

“I’m not saying I don’t understand Timmy, I get it! She’s your best friend and I understand that completely. But how do you expect me to react when she’s telling all her little friends that you, quote on quote, told her you wanted to kiss her” She counteracted, crossing her arms while shaking her head at me, which seemed to fuel me even more.

“That’s how we joke around and it was through text. Gosh, can you even take a joke?” I justified

“So that’s joking around, huh. Right Timmy? That’s joking around” She asked, sarcasm dripping off every word she spoke. “But whenever another guy dm’s me, suddenly, you want to log into my account to check them out and then magically they get erased from my message box. Right Timmy?”

I stood silent as anger began bubbling through my veins, traveling upwards towards my face as rouge began to show through my pale skin. With clenched fists, and gritted teeth, I managed to get out “So what do you want me to do, huh, do you want to stop being friends with her?”

“That’s not what I’m saying Chalamet, I’m literally just here confronting you on a situation that I’ve heard of” She stated, letting out a breath as her passive-aggressive words slipped out from her lips.

“But that’s what you want, don’t you? You want me to stop talking to her?”

“That’s not what I’m sayi-”

“No you tell me” I stated firmly, cutting her off mid-sentence. “If that’s what it takes for you to drop this, I will” I confessed, staring at her blankly, my lips frozen in a line.

“Yes” She nodded, sighing as she rubbed the side of her temples. “But I don’t want you to do it, if you really don’t want to. I don’t want to sacrifice your convenience for mine” She added on, her natural compassion trickling into her speech.

Taking out my phone, I searched up the contact that I had of my best friend and with a little hesitation, clicked the block button and placed my phone back in my pocket.

“There” I replied dryly. “Anything for you”

y/n’s pov

Trudging through the melted ice, I made my way to a modest bookstore that nobody really knew about. It was in a quaint neighborhood in Brooklyn that had old fashioned cobble streets, filled with extraordinary and history filled antique shops, charming eateries and cafes, museums, and statues of people long gone.

Quickening my pace, I pushed against the glass door and into the, fortunately, heated space filled with countless amounts of literature. What I loved about this secret library was that it was a hidden gem in the area as it isn’t particularly visible compared to the garnished and well-decorated buildings beside it.

The plain peach walls and the small reading benches created a cozy atmosphere, a perfect place to sit down and embark on adventures through other people’s written words.

Shimmying through the aisles, my fingers ran to touch the spines of the old books as I, once again, found myself in between the ‘coming-of-age’ and ‘historical dramas’ section. Closing my eyes, I continued to feel the books until I landed on a random novel, plucking it out of the shelf, I opened my eyes to see printed “Little Women” as the title.

With a curious smile, I read the blurb eager to set upon another expedition. Maybe one to get my mind off of my own trying times. It seemed to be about four sisters, set back in the Civil War Era, that described the values of poverty and family.

Approving the book, I read the first few pages and walked over to the counter, where a brittle old lady with an obnoxious hat and humongous reading glasses sat idle.

“Good afternoon” I greeted, handing her the copy I had taken from the shelf, waiting patiently as she tried finding the barcode for the book.

“Little Women I see, I remember when I was about your age I would find myself gravitating towards this book again and again” She grinned, releasing a hearty chuckle that ended up in a coughing fit. “Pardon me, I guess the old lungs don’t work like they ought to” She admitted.

Throughout her spiel, numerous scans had been demonstrated and nothing but a red bulb light up, indicating there was some sort of error. “Oh golly me, I apologize for the inconvenience young lady. I guess I’m not the only one getting old” She joked.

I politely joined in, but ultimately grimaced as she proceeded to bang on the machine with unknowing force. “This might be a while” She bashfully disclosed. “If anything, please feel free to browse, this’ll be about 15 to 30 minutes”

With a courteous nod, I notified her of my return later on as I stepped outside of the store, basking in the imposing village around me. With a breath of fresh air, my eyes landed on an archaic coffee shop embellished with shrubbery across the street to where I was.

I squinted my eyes at the outside menu plastered on a chalkboard near the entrance, although my nearsightedness limited me as I only recognized blots of white chalk and of what looked like script.

An abrupt grumbling noise broke the quiet air and I felt a twist in my stomach. Suddenly, I felt the craving for a chocolate croissant and maybe a brownie or three. The scent traveling from the crepe cart near me didn’t help with the situation, my sense of smell lolling in the piquant aroma.

I walked across the street clutching my stomach as I was rather not keen in being cold and hungry. The glass front came into view, squaring in on various college students chatting about or studying and business men absorbed into typing furiously on their laptops.

Opening the door, I was instantly hugged by the smell of coffee and the warmth provided by the old fashioned heaters, finding a spot on line to order a few things.

timothee’s pov

The ringing of the cafe bell snapped me out of my thoughts, bringing me back to reality, where I suppressed those memories in the back of my head. Opening my textbook once again, I forced myself to invest my full fledged attention to the course.

At least that was the initial plan, when a phone dropped in front of my table for the second time today, causing me to do a double take as the scene from my memories has discernibly come to life in front of me.

y/n’s pov

“Shit!” I cursed gracefully, tripping over an old rug and hearing the sound of my phone’s impending doom. With a sigh, I turned around with a croissant stapled to my lips and a brownie bag in one hand. “I’m so sorry-” I mumbled through the baked good, but stopped when found my phone in the same place as it was before.

Realization hit me and mortification soon inundated my stance, my current appearance giving a sharp blow to my dignity as Timothee sat handsomely in his seat.

“You seriously need pants with deeper pockets” He quipped, handing me my phone with an uncomfortable smile. Gazing at my state with condolence.

“Thank you...” I paused, “Again for, you know, saving my phone” I replied stiffly. Never meeting his fixed stare, I focused on the tips of my shoelaces, reminiscing on my favorite episode of Phineas and Ferb, my thoughts carelessly diverting my attention to these fond memories.

“So, um, how have you been?” He asked with a tight smile, folding his textbook close.

“I’ve been great” I replied a little too enthusiastically like I had something to prove. I looked at him chastely, noticing the flecks of brown in his irises, something I’d spend hours fixated on when we’d lie in bed. “How’s college going on for you?” I asked, referring to the book in front of him.

“Oh yeah, college, it’s difficult, I guess” He answered with a dry chuckle, scratching the back of his head.

Sensing the unpleasantness in the air, I nodded at him and smiled, the chattering voices in the background unable to fill the awkward silence between us. “Um, anyway. I best be going” I said, the words basically fumbling out from my tongue.

I hastily reeled around, making a full 180 as my heartbeat threatened to fall out of my chest with the pace it’s been going at. Tucking my phone in my back pocket, I pursued an escape route from the arduous ambience.

However, the action was pulled to a halt when I felt an all too familiar hand grip my wrist falteringly.

“Wait”

Timothee spoke with a dawdling and reluctant voice, in which I turned around prudently, looking into his unreadable eyes.

But at least this time, he was looking back at mine.

finale

#timothee chalamet #timothee imagine #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet imagines #timmy chalamet #timothée hal chalamet #chalamet #tchalamet #timothee chalamet imagine #lil timmy tim #timmy #timothee x reader #timothee imagines #winter #new york #new york city #little women

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razor-crests · 4 years

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Stomp and Grind

Pairing: (Mandalorian/Dyn Jarren x Reader)

Rating: EXPLICIT 🛑

Words: 2.9k

Summary: Delirium[ dih-leer-ee-uh m ] - a state of violent excitement or emotion. A Mandalorian walks into a bar, and it's only a matter of time before he ruins your life.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21954169/chapters/52391470

Business was booming, so to speak.

The lower city joint was what you considered to be comfortably packed from your own familiar spot behind the bar, tucked decisively away from the thunderous energy of colorful clientele. Every booth, table, and stool was spoken for, with excess patrons clamoring to huddle around large groups engaged in conversation or bravely attempt to wrassle their way toward you to gruffly request an order. Evidently, there wasn’t enough starfire ‘skee in the system to keep these thugs sated.

You couldn’t scarcely remember a time that you’d seen the cantina as packed as this. When you took the bartending job initially, Taris was no better than a ghost town, a rusted broken-down shell of what it once was pre-civil war. Truthfully, the history of the planet you called home was one muddled with class warfare and deception, but Taris proved to be prime real estate for the galaxy’s most morally ambiguous, despite remaining 70% decaying rubble and 30% ocean.

See, the thing about Taris was that it had served as the galaxy’s punching bag for thousands of years for a reason. In its heyday, over 60 billion Tarisians resided on the planet’s surface, whether they were privileged enough to afford upper city apartments or otherwise. It was an almost perfect waypoint between Hutt Space and Coruscant, two other juggernauts of industry. Skyscrapers towered hundreds of stories high, breaching the cloud cover so unremittingly that the naked eye might’ve deemed them towers to the heavens.

Only, unlike any other ecumenopolis, Taris was perfectly stationed within the Outer Rim, which naturally meant that nobody was enforcing shit.

All this made it a haven for bounty hunters and travelers alike, or really anyone who sought to make some quick currency without answering to a higher authority.

To distance yourself from that way of life would be absurd. After all, you weren’t just any run of the mill barkeep. Your status as an informant was well kept, but implied, as many of the businesses in the lower city area were not what they seemed at first glance. The man that owned the establishment had connections to smugglers, Separatists, Galactic Alliance politicians- you name it.

Live music began to blare from the stage, prompting another eruption of movement from the crowd as clusters of people began to siphon onto the dance floor, faces alight with the elation that only a back-alley watering hole could inspire.

You finish emptying out a glass of something neon green and cloudy, handing it swiftly to the worker droid for cleaning, and shift to lean forward against the counter when a silvery glint catches your eye, weaving within the crowd but out of sight in a mere flash. Craning your neck to identify it once more, your attention is forcibly yanked away by...ugh.

“It’s been too long,” drawled a familiar voice from beyond the bar, and you were instantly relieved to have said barrier in place. The speaker was a Balosar gang member that you distinctly remember from the week before, having had the privilege of cleaning up after him when he couldn’t hold his liquor. The ordeal only came after his vehement effort to coax you into a date. For three hours straight.

He was a lanky young thing, fresh off the docking bay from his homeworld. His clothes were disheveled, but only just enough that it was evident he was trying too hard to appear rugged. His eyes were glazed over this time, though, and you could tell he was barely lucid. You couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he’d last if staying in town was part of his MO.

“Not long enough, Bez,” you retort, instinctively. Funnily enough, your second instinct was to casually slide your hand underneath the glossy tabletop to grasp the handle of a blaster you kept at arm’s reach for safety reasons. You wouldn’t need it, necessarily, but perhaps you could chase him away so as to not be doomed to a shift spent babysitting. It was either that or staging a brawl, which sounded like way too much work.

“You know I couldn’t keep myself away for- hey, what the-”

While Baz was presumably gearing up to give his new and improved pitch, you were checking the barrel of your WESTAR-34 while your hip shifted to rest snugly against the nearby pillar.

“Oh, by all means, keep going,” you continue, the faint echo of a smile edging across your cheeks. You were occupying yourself with polishing the hilt using your jacket sleeve, watching the refraction of light bounce erratically from multicolored lamps overhead.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but I’m here to speak to a man named Jigo Delac. Is he here?”

It’s amazing how the specific cadence of someone’s voice can carry such depth and promise, especially if it’s being augmented by a modulator. It was undeniable; your attention was captured in an instant.

You expected Baz to do something idiotic and ask who the fuck this guy thought he was talking to, but he seemed to slink away almost immediately.

Once you raised your head, you understood why.

“Rough timing, friend. You just missed him,” you respond swiftly, adjusting your gaze higher to meet the stranger’s eyes but finding the distinct gleam of a t-visor instead. Of course.

Your shoulders do something funny, not quite tensing up but rather rolling back as your posture shifted. The lone figure was taller than you by a couple inches from what you could tell, seemingly armored in beskar from head to toe. Well, that was what you assumed, given that anything below his chestplate was obscured by your little firewater-filled enclosure.

“But…,” you continue melodically, drawing out the word while simultaneously leaning in his direction until your elbows brushed the tabletop, “He’ll be back soon. You can hang tight ‘till then, if you want.”

Okay, that was a lie, and a pretty big one as well, considering that your boss had left on business two cycles ago and wouldn’t return for three more. It’s just that something was telling you not to let this one walk away so easily. To see the crowd consume him once again and be devoid of alluring conversation for the rest of the night was an unbearable consequence to dwell on.

He wasn’t the first Mandalorian you had the fortune of seeing in person. Their kind was few, practically archaic, and prone to isolation, but Taris was a hub for anyone interested in mercenary work. It was along the Hydian Way as well, previously passing through what scholars referred to as the Mandalorian Road.

You motioned for him to sit with a quick nod of your head and watched the stranger, this Mandalorian, exhibit an apprehensive indication before settling down on the stool directly in front of you. His helmet, though decisively tinted, left room for some expressiveness. Even though you couldn’t perceive any facial articulation, his body language spoke for itself.

Somebody further down the line flagged you down for a drink, and so you shifted into mixology mode, grabbing bottles off the wall. The man’s presence was certainly assertive. It was also strangely serene, as the two of you sank into a comfortable silence over the next twenty minutes.

His stoicism was kind of intriguing you, though. That whole crowd wasn’t really known for their talkative nature. Still, you were growing more intent on picking his brain. A lull in drink orders prompted you to retrieve two short glasses and plunk them down between the two of you.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?”

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” he said, and you could sense he was looking at you. If you didn’t know better, you would say he was meeting your eyes.

“Is it uh, because of the…?,” you brought a finger up to trace the outline of your own jaw in an allusion to the helmet which remained on; this was according to religious protocol, you had heard.

“Mostly, yes.”

You nodded slowly, pouring a shot in each glass anyways.

“Guess I’ll pick up your slack,” you respond curtly, proceeding to throw back both of them.

You could’ve sworn you heard a low hint of laughter from under his breath.

______________

“I just now realized that you never told me your name.”

The roar of the late night crowd had all but died out, leaving wide open space at a nearby table. You had happily hurdled the bar as you’ve done a thousand times before, tossing a rag to KO-6D as you went. Hours had passed, and you suspected the moons to set soon enough. If he realized something was suspect, he hadn’t let on, instead choosing to trade stories for a while.

“Most people just end up calling me Mando,” he answered. He seemed relieved to see the labor droid power down fully, and reclined a little further back in his chair.

Your acquaintance, now Mando, had taken the seat opposite you once again. You drew your knees close to your chest, forever unable to sit in a chair correctly.

“Alright, short for Mandalorian. That’s what you are, but not who you are though, y’know?”

“Should I cut you off?” The tone was playful, and you matched his sarcasm with an airy giggle that trailed off with the surety that he was staring at you again.

Silence hung like a star in the sky for 10 palpable seconds before you blurted out,

“I might’ve uh...underestimated Jigo’s penchant to turn an errand into a business trip. I’m sorry if I wasted your time.”

Now you were stressing a little bit. Was he gonna be pissed? Even worse, would he leave?

Unable to cope with the uncertainty, you get up to go hop onto the bar, perched with your legs dangling off the edge in a sort of retreat.

“Yeah, I gathered that about an hour ago,” Mando said, mostly unfazed. He tilted his head inquisitively, as if he wanted you to finish a thought.

“Did I waste your time, though?” The second you say it, you want to groan at how stupid it sounds.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be, trust me.”

There was a pronounced softness to that statement, and it brought heat rising to the surface of your cheeks. You were looking very hard at the floor, but you heard a distant shifting from his chair as he went to stand before you, leaving just enough room so that you could get down if you wanted to, but you were close enough to see your own reflection in the helmet.

The courage to look back at him accrued slowly but surely, and you reached for his gloved hand first, as a test.

He allowed you to take it, but did little else.

“I don’t usually…” he trailed off a bit shakily, a surprising display of shyness from someone who spoke with such conviction. You noticed at this proximity that his shoulders, pauldrons or no, were broad as hell. You nodded faintly, finding an explanation needless. Your thumb ghosted over the material covering his palm, and you attempted to tug him closer by the arm.

“C’mere,” is what you could muster, and it worked well enough judging by the way he shifted to settle his arms at your waist. You were drawn in from the get go, but steeled yourself enough to reach for the surface of his chest plating first, letting your hands skim the expanse before landing tentatively on his shoulders.

Effects of the firewater still burned faintly within your chest, swirling around in a vortex of confusion and anticipation and more strikingly, want.

Paying attention to where the beskar plating met twiny, thick fabric, you grasped tighter as if to soothe the tension from his neck. Body heat was radiating from the juncture between his neck and shoulder and you felt the strongest urge to bury your face into it.

Just when you expected it the least, he hooked both of his hands underneath your knees, pulling you closer with ease until he was properly stood between your legs.

You had a bit of a height advantage, situated on the chilly slab of synrock. Thankfully, you’d cleared it off earlier, but broken glass wouldn’t have stopped either of you.

You were caught in a light gasp, suddenly at a much closer proximity. Both of his hands settled steadily on your clothed outer thighs. Clearly, you would be thrilled to be rid of every layer, to feel how rough his palms were from the strain of combat as they dug into your bare skin. It was increasingly apparent, though, that this type of intimacy was already pushing his boundaries. Try as he might to inhibit it, you could detect a tremor in his breaths that you couldn’t resist trying to soothe.

You leaned back briefly in order to shrug the patched bomber jacket off of your shoulders and land on the floor, neglected. All that remained was your black sleeveless top, which was already beginning to ride up on your torso, prompting goosebumps to form.

You were mindful of the blaster at his hip, as well as the blades sheathed along his thigh, but knew better than to think they posed a danger. Nobody had a bounty out on you, surely. Your boss took good care of his charges, provided protection. If you were being tracked, Jigo would be the first to know.

Slowly, you wind your arms around the Mandalorian’s neck until your forehead meets the front of his helmet with a gentle thud. Eyes lidded, you spent a moment just like that, imagining what exactly the galaxy was playing at by bringing this masked bounty hunter to your cantina.

You felt his hands hover at your waist for a beat before one came to grip your inner thigh, and you decided then that this slow burn was no good for your nerves.

“Does a girl have to beg for it?” You ask at a half-whisper, fingers skimming the contours of the helmet.

It seemed like this one was full of surprises. In an instant, he was lifting you and making short work of your pants, which you suspect ended up on the floor as well. Left feeling significantly underdressed and equally aroused, you could do nothing but hold on tight as the hand that wasn’t holding you steady brushed your inner thighs, inching ever closer to where you needed it most.

It didn’t even bother you that his gloves remained on, and you arched into his palm, muttering obscenities while he palmed you over your underclothes.

“Only if you want to,” he retorted, more than a little breathless himself. You made an instinctive reach for the sizable tent below his belt, feeling a jolt of satisfaction when he dropped his head onto your shoulder with a low groan.

You sure as hell didn’t see it happen, but Mando yanked the glove off his right hand and proceeded to continue teasing you.

Whimpering in realization, you understood that he wanted to feel for himself whether you were soaked through your panties.

The answer was yes.

Every part of you was screaming for him, eager to come apart under his hands as he busied himself parting the fabric to give you even better friction. One finger slipped in easily, and two had you keening within his grasp. He was enveloping you, and you felt yourself going mad with it, especially when you inhaled to draw in his scent.

It became apparent that this wasn’t his first rodeo, so to speak. He was crooking his fingers so precisely, kneading the heel of his wrist into your most sensitive area, avoiding any direct contact that would make you flinch or shy away. Within minutes, you were nearing your climax at breakneck speed.

“Go ahead,” he urged, voice alight with the anticipation of witnessing your peak. His hips had been canting against you with his own need, seemingly not of his own accord, and the prospect of getting him over the edge as well made a whimper bubble to the surface of your chest while you spasmed fiercely on his fingers.

All the Imperial troops in the galaxy couldn’t stop you from dropping to your knees after that. One moment, you were mouthing his clothed length, and the next, he was gripping the edge of the table and moaning words of encouragement, even as he came.

It boggled your mind to think that a brief, frankly juvenile sexual encounter could feel meaningful, dare you say...intimate? Living on the lawless side of the systems had its perks, but trustworthy confidants were in short supply; and people that you’d allow in your bed, even shorter.

The two of you spent a good while catching your breath. You threw the bounty hunter a hand towel, exchanging quips like you’d known each other for years. That fondness, the heart-wrenching ease with which he ran his fingers through your hair- that was worth something.

When you parted ways, you were leaning gingerly against the doorway, having had the pleasure of flustering your Mandalorian all over again after standing on your tiptoes to press a kiss to the beskar where his cheek would be.

As you watched him take his leave under the heavy shadow of Taris’ moons, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being sentenced to a great deal of waiting. For what, you didn’t yet understand.

There were worse things than that.

#reader insert #writing in second person gave me a headache but like maybe it was that I was shitfaced as well #the mandalorian #this reader has a 🐱and uses she/her pronouns IG #cantina shenanigans #COUNTLESS hours on wookiepedia that I will never get back #but it's canon bongs exist in Star Wars #table sex #thank u if u read it #dyn jarren #baby yoda #Star Wars fanfic

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homenum-revelio-hq · 5 years

Photo

Welcome (again) to the Order of the Phoenix, Bee!

You have been accepted for the role of ISLA SELWYN-MACMILLAN, with the requested faceclaim change to Adelaide Kane! We particularly enjoyed the discussion of Isla’s reasoning to join the Order, as well as the conflict with people not trusting her because of who she is. We think she’ll be an excellent addition to the cast!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Bee

AGE: 21

TIMEZONE: EST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I’m a college student, so my activity tends to revolve around my schedule, though I tend to be online at some point every day (unless there’s a big paper to write or a project or a test or something the next day, in which case maybe not… but still probably because I am a disaster). If I had to give it a number? 7.5, 8.

ANYTHING ELSE: OOPS HI LOVELY ADMINS

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Isla Evelyn Selwyn-MacMillan

AGE: 25

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Cis Female, She/Her, Sexuality was a weird thing for Isla- she was never entirely certain as to how to define it, or what made sense to her. Yeah, sure, guys were good, she guessed. Girls were nice too. Either or, both, sure.. But it was never really important. At least, not the sex part- not to her. She could take it or leave it. Sometimes it was nice, but most of the time she could live without. What she couldn’t live without was some sort of emotional connection. She needed someone to care about, and who cared about her- that was always what mattered most to her. In terms of labeling, she’s probably demisexual and gray ace.

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Gryffindor

ANY CHANGES: I’m 100% okay with Ernie being Archie and Isla’s kid. I actually kind of love how complicated it makes their little, odd family’s life. As for faceclaims,would it be okay if I used Adelaide Kane? If not, Melisa Pamuk is perfect <3

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

Isla falls into a sort of gray area when it comes to personality. She is a messy conglomeration of the things that she needed to be for her family as well as the things she wanted to be for herself- therefore, it really depends on which Isla you know. She can be vibrant and exuberant, a free spirit who loves to run wild, who loves to do things that make her happy. She can be wildly fierce, especially when it comes to taking care of people and standing up for what she believes in. She can be a whirlwind of passion and fire. She’s warmhearted, treating friends more like family and strangers like friends.

But there’s also the uncertainty of who she’s supposed to be. The feeling of being lost in who she wants to be and who she’s had to become in order to hold on to the people she cares about, to protect the people she cares about, to protect herself. It’s like living a masquerade every day of her life. Pretending and lying, giving up the things that she was so passionate about, it’s deteriorated her spirit a little bit. But the Order has given her a little bit of that fire back. She has a cause to fight- she fights for the person she once was, the person she’s lost. She fights against the stupid, archaic world that the Death Eaters and Voldemort are creating. It helps her hold onto the scraps of herself that she knew. It’s like looking into a crystal ball and seeing who you were, but not seeing any path as to who you’re supposed to be now that the chips are down and you’ve found yourself in your current situation.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

Isla has never really known where she fit in with her family. There’s a family portrait that hangs in her family home’s parlor that was done when she was about four. Her mother and father looked like the regal couple they’d always been, standing behind their four children, elegantly dressed, her mother dazzling with the diamond necklace that twinkled upon her neck, her father with a stern sort of half smile underneath his mustache. Her older sister, Maeve, sat on a fainting couch with herself and their little brother, Grant, just in front of them. All three of them in pristine, mint condition. Long, dark curls on Isla and Maeve, half tied up in white bows. Little Grant in a suit, his hair slicked back with what had to be gallons of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion. Every single detail of the five of them was perfect, to a t. She was sure that somewhere, in the back of her parent’s minds, that’s how they’d hoped their children would stay. Perfect little angels who knew their place, who had cherubic smiles on their faces and soft giggles. As an adult, Isla would find herself staring at the middle child, squirming ever so slightly in her little white dress, her eyes glinting with just a hint of mischief, and want to tell her to run away and never look back.

But then, really, would Isla be Isla?

Isla was a ball of energy that was almost impossible to tame. Of course, she knew when not to overstep her parent’s wishes, but oh Merlin, was it fun to toe just a hair over the line. As a little girl, she wasn’t given much opportunity. She would run wild around the nursery, declaring herself a dragon on any given Tuesday, or the Quidditch World Champion for a weekend. She jumped off beds, had notebooks full of doodles, sang at the top of her lungs- she was absolutely her own person. Willful, too. From about the age of three, there was no getting Isla to do anything that Isla didn’t want to do. She would sit, stubborn as an ox, in the same spot for hours on end. It drove her mother and father absolutely mad- but her aunt had always laughed and remarked that as long as there were Selwyns, there would be willful, headstrong witches in the world.

Hogwarts was the time for freedom that Isla really needed. It was freedom, at least to a point, to explore and experience and learn what she liked, to do what she wanted. Of course, she was never encouraged to do certain things. It was almost an unspoken thing- of course her parents wanted her socializing with students from pureblood families, of course they wanted her in the Frog Choir, of course they wanted her in the Slug Club- these were things that they could brag about to their friends, things that would make their daughter sound like the creme of the crop. It was easy with Isla’s older sister- Maeve had always been the golden girl. But Isla liked to subvert expectations and do what she wanted to do. She loved flying. Soaring above the world in the red and gold of the Gryffindor House Team, a very unladylike beater’s bat in one hand, she felt freer than free. Like she never wanted to touch the ground again. She loved Care of Magical Creatures, her gentler side emerging from the usual ferocity of her spirit. She could speak to the creatures for hours. She’d watch flobberworms, and somehow, not get bored. She hid a niffler in the Gryffindor Girl’s Dormitory for a month because it had hurt itself and she wanted to heal him up (his name was Gregory, and yes, she got found out by McGonagall… Gregory got taken away, and in a rare sighting, Isla cried for hours). She’d make friends with anyone and everyone from any house, even though there were certain friends that she had to tiptoe around, lest naive Grant slip up and tell their parents. Hell, she even snogged a few guys, a few girls, a few neither, and a few both. She had a relationship or two, though nothing romantic ever really lasted. All of this was okay because it fell within the realm of education. It wasn’t the real world- not yet. Her parents didn’t care what she did, so long as she brought no irredeemable shame to them.

Soon after graduation, her mother first used the most dreaded word in all of English: marriage. And thus began Isla’s great attempt to avoid ever talking about getting married. She quickly found a quidditch team that would sign her on, and thankfully her parents indulged her ‘whim’. For five years after Hogwarts, five glorious, beautiful, amazing years, she flew professionally. Isla knew it wasn’t exactly what her parents wanted- she knew the remarks regarding their younger daughter’s occupation that ran in their little circle of pureblood friends. But Isla didn’t care. Until she had to care. Until her parents told her she couldn’t fly anymore, even though she was so close to landing a spot in the big leagues. No. That word came back to haunt her. Marriage. Isla had to get married to some nice pureblooded boy that they approved of- preferably another old name- and have little pureblood babies. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t in love with anyone, it didn’t matter that she didn’t want to get married- it was marry or be cut off. This was the only place that her parent’s held the power, where the line was drawn in flames rather than chalk. They threatened her with stories of Andromeda Tonks, who ran off with a muggleborn and had a kid, who was cut off from the family, burned off the family tree, shunned from all of society. And while Isla didn’t care about the rest of society, she did care about being cut off from her family.

Enter Archie.

Archibald Macmillan, one of Isla’s closest friends in the world, was in a similar conundrum: his parents were demanding a marriage to a nice pureblooded young lady- the catch in his particular situation was that young ladies weren’t exactly his type. Thus, the world’s most perfect plan was hatched: Archibald Macmillan would marry Isla Selwyn. They would be married for the sake of marrying- to placate their parents and the demands for traditional pureblood values and a path for an eventual heir- but have the freedom to be themselves within their own relationship. Freedom within the constraints their families had placed upon them. Thankfully, Archie hadn’t fussed when she asked… or really demanded… she keep her surname as well as take his. She was Isla Selwyn after all. Now she was just a Macmillan too.

It wasn’t until after the wedding that Isla found out why her parents had been so demanding and had threatened to cut her clean off if she hadn’t married. The reason was referred to as You-Know-Who and other darling pseudonyms. He wanted a pureblood society, full of traditional pureblood values. If you defied him and his followers, you often ended up dead. It had been her family’s way of protecting her without really explaining why. That knowledge made her blood boil. She had been so angry with her family, but so afraid that they would cut her off just like Andromeda Tonks had been burned off the Black Family Tree that she caved. But it was this… this slimy, foul, miserable wretch of a wizard who wanted a perfect world for himself to rule over. What You-Know-Who didn’t know was that he had made an enemy on her wedding day, whilst she was saying her ‘I do’s to a man she loved but wasn’t in love with, while her family sat, painted smiles on their face. He had made her choose to clip her wings. And for that, he would pay.

OCCUPATION:

Once upon a time, Isla was going to fly for the rest of her life. She was going to live on her broomstick and make it big one day. Maybe she’d even fly for the Holyhead Harpies. She’d already planned it all out. Unfortunately, Voldemort and, because of their fear of their daughter being hurt or worse, her parents, had more traditional plans for her. So Isla Selwyn MacFusty is a wife. It isn’t an occupation she wanted by any stretch of the imagination- but at least it’s a marriage to Archie, and not one of the arrogant ministry goons her mum would have picked out for her. She supposes that the Order is more of an occupation in the traditional sense- it doesn’t pay (but she doesn’t need money, what with the Selwyn and Macmillan money floating around), but it gives her something to do. She’s also taken on a new occupation- one that she wasn’t certain that she’d ever wanted. Being the mother of Ernie Macmillan was the best job she’s ever had. She’d do anything for her little boy, anything in the world.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDERS:

Isla’s fairly certain that most of the Order does not like her because of her last name… or last names. Sometimes it makes her feel like she’s sticking out like a sore thumb- the pureblood girl with the perfect pureblood life, what’s she doing fighting with the underdogs? Isla wishes that there were some way for her to reassure the Order that she’d do just about anything to help, because she doesn’t agree with anything that Voldemort says… the slimey old git. The past is the past, and it should stay there. Archaic and old, let it mold away. Fighting this fight lets her at least try to banish the past way of thinking. Plus, she believes that every good secret organization needs a few good men (or women) who have insight and connections to the enemy. Fortunately, Isla believes herself to be the exact girl for the job, She’s high enough up in pureblood society that people don’t suspect her. While most people in high society know of Isla’s fiery disposition, they believe her to be ‘tamed’ by married life, settling in as a graceful and elegant lady of the house. She can work her family’s circles to pick up intel and feed it back to the Order. Hopefully good information helps turn the tides on the war.

SURVIVAL:

Once upon a time, Isla thought she was invincible. Nothing bad would happen to her- the Death Eaters, while winning, were too dumb in her mind to think that one of the Selwyn girls was working against them. She was certain that they’d think no sweet, demure, little housewife and mother would ever be involved with an organization actively trying to take down Voldemort. Especially not with a surname like Selwyn Macmillan. But the events of October 31st 1981 have rattled the optimistic perspective of Isla. People got hurt. Really hurt. Before the Masquerade, she was fighting by sneaking around, bringing in information that could only be provided by someone in upper crust pureblood society. But the evening of the masquerade was the first time that she could actually die. Be it getting caught in the crossfire trying to save someone, or being caught working for the Order, or simply being in the wrong spot at the wrong time. And if she died, that left Archie and Ernie alone- the two people she’d do anything in the world for. If she got caught, or if she died, that put both of them at risk. Or worse, she got caught, and something happened to them- she’s not so sure if she could handle even thinking about something like that happening.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Archie Macmillan: She loves her husband to the moon and back- just not as one would normally love their husband. Marrying Archie was a no-brainer once the ultimatums began to be thrown around by her parents. He’d always been a close friend, he was someone her parents undoubtedly approved of, and he needed a safe marriage where he could be himself without sneaking around. She thinks the world of him, and she would do anything for him. Of course, the Order has put a bit of a strain on things, but she appreciates him being right by her side. It makes her feel less alone in things.

Andromeda Tonks: Isla can never decide whether or not to be jealous of Andromeda. She was free to live the life that she wanted with whom she wanted, but at the cost of losing her family. Isla is certain that she maintains a large amount of respect for the woman. She might have been the horror story her parents plagued her with, being left without a family or a home, but at least Andromeda didn’t give in to her parents. There’s a piece of Isla that eats at her every day for not fighting for just one more second of her freedom.

James Potter: Isla really cannot stand James Potter, and it’s not even his fault… or it is… it isn’t but it is. James has never had to worry about losing his family for dating who he wanted, for marrying or not marrying- he’s completely free. And even worse, he’s pitied for being in a relationship simply because Lily is a muggleborn. As if Lily Evans wasn’t smarter than ten purebloods combined… at least, in her humble opinion. All of these thoughts have given Isla a sort of prickly disposition whenever she’s around James. She doesn’t hate him, but she doesn’t like what he gets away with all because he’s James Potter and because he’s a bloke.

Emma Vanity: Emma Vanity is like looking into a mirror. A slightly more innocent, naive, little lamb of a mirror, but a mirror. She’s from a pureblood family, one that had wanted her to get married to a nice pureblood boy. And god, the girl almost did get married, and Isla still isn’t sure that that’s what the girl had wanted. She was freed from her betrothal by the untimely death of Mulciber, but Isla knows that that sort of freedom only lasts so long, especially nowadays. Hopefully, with a little bit of her help, Isla can get Emma to truly decide what she wants, and then help the girl with whatever comes next. Merlin knows Isla wishes that she had had someone who would have done that for her.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: Isla x chemistry. A warning that she will never do anything that would put Archie or her son at risk, any extramarital relationships will likely be secretive.

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

Isla has led the glamorous life- she hasn’t had to worry about much of anything, ever. She never had to worry about being bullied or tormented about where she came from, let alone any other reason. Up until her time at Hogwarts, she hadn’t really met a muggleborn, let alone really understand what the muggle world was like- it wasn’t like she didn’t know that muggleborns existed, but they weren’t in the social circles that her parents ran in. So when she got to Hogwarts, she was a little bit too eager to find out things like how they got around or how they got rid of the boggarts in the attic or how they ever got their mail. There were times she was surprised how good at magic a muggleborn friend was, and as she got older, she’d kick herself for ever thinking like that. Having magic, she learned, didn’t mean you had to be good at it. For example, she was awful at transfiguration, whereas other students- muggleborn, halfblood, and pureblood alike- succeeded and even thrived at the art of changing one thing into another.

The only thing in the world she has working against her is Voldemort’s need for his rather archaic pureblood society and it’s ‘traditional’ values. Traditional in the sense that it was her job to be a delicate flower doing household magic and being demure and lovely as opposed to zooming through the air on a broomstick and feeling free. That freedom to be who she wanted to be has given her the tiniest sliver of a glimpse into a world she knows she could never dare to imagine. Ernie, she’s decided, will be raised to respect every wixen of every background. Her son will be better. She won’t let him be another pureblood thinking that he is the center of the universe, and all should bow before him.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? I have never loved a group more, I swear to god. I am here for all the angst and in depth character writing.

PLOT DROP IDEAS: LITERALLY ANYTHING. Y’all have come up with better plot drops than I could ever imagine. But I’d love something that lets Isla really do some recon and bring back whatever information she can to the Order.

ANYTHING ELSE? AAAAAAAAAAH I LOVE YOU ALL

#hp roleplay #hp rp #hp rpg #harry potter rp #harry potter roleplay #homenumaccepted

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heartslogos · 5 years

Text

newfragile yellows [513]

“No, listen,” Evelyn pinches the bridge of her nose, “Yes. I know. I know what my ID code says. I know. I know. I know better than anyone else what my Intergalactic ID lists me as. Listen. My middle name is Evelyn and that’s what everyone uses. That’s why it appears first on the flight manifest instead of third. No one can even pronounce my first name. It’s archaic back on Earth. It’s so archaic not even my parents can agree on how to pronounce it. But look. This is me. I’m Evelyn. You can check my other records. I have my licenses with me. I have my medical card with me. I have at least ten other people here with me who can verify that I am indeed, Evelyn Trevelyan. And you are blocking me from boarding my ship.”

“Ma’am, I am experiencing deep remorse over this minor detail that has created a larger issue,” the nervous looking port agent looks between Evelyn and the screen in front of them, “However, official Intergalactic Protocol states that the ID code of the person boarding must match the official flight record. The identification on these two records does not match.”

“There is a photograph of my face on your file,” Evelyn grinds out. “Look me in the eye and you’ll see it for yourself.”

“That’s threatening language,” Leliana reminds Evelyn. “Certain species do not make eye contact. You do remember the seminar.”

“Seminars,” Cullen stresses the plural. “We’ve had ten of them so far.”

“It’s been four months, why have we had ten seminars on basic inter-species relations?” Malika asks from behind him, idly fiddling with her ID tags.

“Oh, no. I mean. Evelyn and I were made to attend ten so far. We have those seminars scheduled as a live streamed session three times a week on the Inquisition’s common servers,” Cullen says. “It’s an on boarding and recurring training thing.”

“Can you believe all this ruckus over Evelyn’s Earth noble name?” Ellana says from the back. “Maybe the Intergalactic Protocol needs to be updated with Earth standard for human nobles who have like a million names. Just wait until they hit Cassandra.”

“Seeker, can I move in front of you?” Varric asks a few people back. “I’ve got to piss like nothing else and they don’t let us leave the line once we square up to board.”

There’s a beleaguered sigh and the shuffling of people.

“I can’t believe you let him,” Bull says.

“it is…a problem that I am currently working on fixing,” Cassandra admits grudgingly. “I recognize it as a hindrance for everyone involved.”

“And there’s seriously nothing people can do about it?”

“Well.”

Evelyn lets out a sharp snarl of frustration and Leliana puts her hand on the woman’s shoulder as she leans over the desk and jabs her finger at the screen.

“Yes! I know! I know I can submit documentation to have my ID codes changed. But seriously? A paper trail? You want me to send physical mail in this day and age for that? The Intergalactic Diplomatic Union’s policies are so old that they predate Earth’s first warp jump technology. Even we had electronic documentation forms back then. Do not call security on me. I am trying to get on my ship. I am security. I am the highest ranking officer on this space station.”

“Paper forms?” Ellana turns around to look at Cassandra. “They really make you use paper forms?”

Cassandra nods, wearily.

Ellana turns to Bull.

“Babe, you need to go to the back of the line because I don’t think the IDU knows about Qunari naming conventions. We might be here for literal years.”

Bull makes a face. “Yeah. I really need to get that shit changed on my codes. But it’s such a fucking pain in the ass. Normally we don’t even deal with the port authority of the IDU.”

“Look at my hand,” Evelyn snaps from the front of the line, waving her arm, the bright green of it snapping and glaring. “There is only one person with this. It’s me. I am the Inquisitor. And that is my ship. You are barring me from getting onto my ship for official business that has been cleared by the IDU and the joint inter-galactic command commissions. Let. Me. Pass.”

“You want to give some of this frustrated authority to those of us in the back of the line who are about to go through the exact same thing as you?” Bull calls to the front. “Namely us your Qunari employees and Pentaghast?”

“Did you guys forget me?” Max yells from the far back. “I am also a noble with a million names, you know.”

“Max is already the first one,” Malika yells back.

“Yeah, but it’s Maxwell,” Max says, “And then like…Griffin Richard Arragon Dunmaine Constance — “

Cassandra turns around to give Maxwell a baffled look. “It keeps going?”

“Is this the first time you’ve ever met someone with a name as long as yours?” Malika asks.

“No,” Cassandra answers, “I’ve just never met anyone who cared to go through every single name.”

“You realize,” Mahanon says, examining his nails, “That they are going to go absolutely insane once they see Ellana’s ID.”

“What, why?” Ellana asks, turning to her brother. “Oh shit.”

��What, why oh shit?” Bull asks, looking down at her.

“I don’t think my ID ever got clearance for intergalactic travel,” Ellana says. “Oh beans. I’m still listed as an intergalactic smuggler with a record. They’re going to call the po-po on me.”

“Babe, I am the po-po.”

Varric raises his hand, “Can I get another take of that but while I have my phone on record?”

“Can the rest of you be quiet while I sort this out?” Leliana suggests as she shoves Evelyn past the port agent towards the gate that will take them to the shuttle bay. Leliana scans her own ID and moves to the other side of the desk, ignoring the port agent’s protests as she begins to take over the system controls. “Alright, everyone just pass your ID cards to the front and I’ll scan them in. Just go.”

“You’re the best,” Cullen sighs in relief, grabbing Evelyn’s abandoned bag off the ground and passing Leliana his ID.

“I know,” Leliana says.

“Is this because you didn’t want us to see your legal name?” Bull asks.

Leliana smiles. “Does it matter, Bull?”

“It absolutely does not,” Ellana slaps her ID onto the desk next to Leliana. “I need to get out of here before the port authority sends someone to detain me. Someone remind me to make sure Josephine checks up on the status of my ID clearance.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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