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âHe will do whatever he needs to do to keep his people and innocents safe. Sometimes morality is crossed. Sometimes heâll lose himself. But, if at the end of the day, everyone he loves is alive, none of it matters.â
Mark Jenkin
The Thirteen
|| as you wish
taleoftwoindies.
Everyone knew about Princess Clarke. They knew she wasnât the sort of royalty who did well behind the walls of the castle. There had even been rumors that she had escaped, shedding those meant to watch her, all to simply be with her people. Except, she was never just doing that. She would dress like common folk, eat their food, drink their water, and act as if there were no responsibilities that she might have to deal with. Of course, all of those were rumors, and if there was one thing Bellamy knew to avoid, it was the gossip around the castle. Everyone, even with their heavy workloads, always had time to discuss the Queen and her wild daughter.
It shouldnât have surprised Bellamy then when Kane called his name and reassigned him from his post. âKeep an eye on the Princess, Blake. Itâs too dangerous for her to be sneaking out every night. Iâm assigning you with Miller and Green. Hopefully between the three of you, you can figure something out.â He memorized the order, his face trying to hide his complete lack of enthusiasm. Being someoneâs babysitter had never seemed like his idea of fun. But an order was an order, and at least he had two friends that would be there along side him. The only thing to do now was properly introduce himself. Which, in most cases involving Bellamy, was usually far more dramatic than it had any right to be.Â
âIâll talk to her first. Probably better to speak one-on-one than to ambush her, yeah?â Bellamy suggested, staring at his friends with an expression that didnât leave much room for a debate.
âWhatever you say, Bellamy,â Monty said, already rolling his eyes. Miller managing to keep a straight face.
Bellamy knocked on her door, the hilt of his sword returning the knock to his chain mail as he felt pressure not only in his stomach but in his throat. Suddenly he remembered that this would be the first time he spoke to a royal. The first time heâd work with the face to face. Sure, they had walked by before, their elegant gowns and proud posture practically floating by him with little notice. But this time he would be with the Princess day and night. Her life was now his life. Even with the chain mail on, he could feel his heart threatening to burst through. This sort of assignment could change his life. Could change Octaviaâs life. No more worrying about money, or where theyâd be sleeping next. The pressure was enormous.
Failure couldnât be an option then. Even if the princess refused to listen to him, even if she continued with her free spirited actions, he had to continue on. He couldnât let Kane down, or Octavia, or himself. Everything now rested on the door in front of him opening, and his ability to keep Queen Abigailâs daughter safe.
He shifted uncomfortably with the wait, tugging uncomfortably on his helmet, feeling the sway of the chain mail weighing him down.
Some people were born to be royalty â the cape of regalia and responsibility alike sat atop their shoulders like it was made for them; like it belonged only to them. It had little to do with the circumstances of birth. If it had, perhaps her station might have fit Clarke better.
As it was, her prime pedigree guaranteed nothing; the royal blue blood of the House of Griffin seemed to have died out at the current queen regnant, if scandalous claims about her daughter were to be believed and, unfortunately, most of them were. Not only had the princess taken after her father in matters of state â the late Prince Jacob had barely brushed by his own aristocratic blood, more intrigued by the tinkering of common scholars than the state of his duchy â she also seemed to have inherited a certain lack of discretion. The Prince Consort had drifted past the impropriety of being caught in an appropriate stage of his courtship, to throw a veil over it, on account of being male and privileged and well-liked by the Crown Princess of the time. The potential scandal had easily resulted in a marriage that, while a shade premature perhaps, had flourished amiably and fruitfully.
Their daughter was not as lucky.
For one, Lady Luck herself seemed to be flirting with her, and Clarke did so dearly dislike that kind of lady, who teased and flirted mercilessly, just for the fun of it. Never was she caught slipping her guard in the bazaars to peruse the stands put up by street artists or leaving her bedroom in the middle of the night to meet with the young boys of the guard to play cards in the kitchens. No, somehow, she was always discovered in the worst of circumstances: inappropriately dressed or dancing alone in the rain in a courtyard or too close to a woman to be anything but scandalous. It wasnât her fault she had the supreme bad luck of Kane finding her only in the most extenuating of circumstances, and the frequently bemused quirk of his mouth seemed to agree, but here she was, being punished for it anyway with a new team assigned specifically to guard her.
And if her conversation with Raven was anything to go by, the princess was displeased, to say the least.
Tap, tap, tap.
The only sound in the room continued to be the heated muttering of disapproval and the steady beat of the royal engineerâs hammer. In the existing murmur of sounds, the knock on the door was almost lost, had Raven not been looking for a way to politely escape her friendâs griping without making it look so obviously disrespectful. ( Truthfully, Clarke wouldnât have cared â blissfully thankful for the handful of people who treated her as a person first â but the Queen did and she always found out. It was better for her friends to err on the side of caution within the walls of the palace, really. )
Raven unlatched and opened the door, both girls privately hoping for something to lift Clarkeâs dark mood. Ravenâs favourite choice would have been Wells Jaha, the prime ministerâs son, but the pairâs recent falling out left the chances of that happening thin. Still, Raven thought she deserved better than what she got: three young men â boys, really â standing before the door, clearly waiting for an introduction. And if the audible exhale somewhere behind her, more sigh than breath, was any indication, Clarke had realised.
She stood from where she was perched on the tufted bench at the foot of her bed, palms sweeping imagined wrinkles out of the silk of her skirts and eyes coldly appraising. They had sent her three, all male, one of them standing in front of the other two, like some parody of a leader. It made it seem like he thought of himself as one; like he was there to take charge. Clarke hated that some boy, barely older than her, had come to manage her.
The resentment bled into her tone as she greeted them, eyes flicking over the leaderâs form in obvious appraisal. âGood evening, men. Well? I take it you have reported for guard duty with Sir Kane?â
:: velvet underground
          Shoes like hers had no business being on a quidditch pitch: the scarlet soles, immaculate enough to appear new, gleamed too prettily to be trampling grass, and the sharp spike of their stiletto heels were clearly designed to stab holes in the hearts of besotted fools, not in wet ground. To be fair to the shoes in question, much of her attire betrayed a similar story. From the knife-sharp creases of her trousers and the sweeping drape of her cloak, to the crisp edges of taupe outlining her mouth and the pin-straight sweep of her hair, every inch of the woman disclosed secrets about her origins.
And the brunette doggedly making her way towards the home team changing rooms? She had not been made for the place she occupied now in life.
Unbefitting was not necessarily synonymous with inappropriate, however. For all that she looked like she might be far better suited to a runway in Milan than on a sports field in damp southern England, the woman did not appear to be shying away from the hand she had drawn â neither the task at hand nor the mud tainting one of her favourite pairs of shoes. Whatever happened now, she would face it with dignity. After all, it was one of the few liberties left to her.
          The end of the second wizarding war had left in its wake a crumbling society, one where pureblood society had a distinct place in the hierarchy: low. It hadnât mattered much what side one had belonged to when all was said and done, because the pieces had fallen in the directions that the majority dictated and, for purebloods, that meant a losing hand. The knowledge of the fact and of oneâs own innocence â or, at least, neutrality â might have been the fuel for righteous anger for multiple implicated individuals, but the Parkinsons could not even claim that. The marks burned into the forearms of both patriarch and heir proved otherwise.
For the youngest of the family, her reckoning dwelled in a sin, just the one, that far eclipsed those committed by any adult guised in dark robes and the mask of a murderer. She had dared to speak sense that night â had suggested aloud the first thought that surely must have come to most of them â and she had paid for the indiscretion since. The Pansy Parkinson who had been raised in royal boxes and private lounges had paid her dues in lowly workmanship, and she had done so without audible complaint â at least with those who deserved no less than her enduring sneer.
[ The few friends that remained to her might have received a smidgen more of her curmudgeon side, but in the ranks that remained of the felled cards of their inner sanctum, fidelity reigned stronger than it ever had before. Not one word could be slipped between those precious few of exactly where fissures had appeared in the othersâ façades. ]
          The transition beyond the stagnancy of ostracism had been initiated a long time ago now: no longer did she play into the role cast for her, folding herself up as small as she could, cast into as much shadow as humanly possible for the discretion it afforded. The past years had not been easy to the Parkinson girl, but they had taught her how to fight, in a way her upbringing never had.
There was a difference between knowing how to pick metaphorical splinters of bone from under her fingernails most callously, and the actual practice of rinsing blood off her hands as it dripped down from anonymous letters so venomous they made her stomach turn. Only the former was laughable hyperbole; the latter was a reality that only felt histrionic until it was realised, and then it turned into a screaming nightmare. A trek across damp, muddy grass, into a place she never would have imagined even wandering close to as a child, was nothing. Grass-stains on the hem of her cloak scarcely bothered her anymore.
                       The subject of her visit did.
          Even in a world where Pansy Parkinson worked for a publication as trite as Witch Weekly â and perhaps more importantly â actually enjoyed the voyeuristic stance it took to an already-emaciated excuse for journalism, Weasleys deserved neither notoriety nor publicity the way it was flaunted in the womenâs magazine. At the bottom of the pile was the youngest brother â still a boy, really, even though she knew full well that he was exactly her age.
          Ronald Weasley did not deserve the attention he was getting.
The initial reactions from fans had been fine, as long as they were relegated to the sports pages best suited for wrapping cheap fried fish in. It had been the niche he belonged in: thick athletes and pompous airheads. At a stretch, even a spread of scantily-clad and absurdly sexualised snapshots for their magazine would have sufficed. But an entire profile, including shoot and interview? Pansy was going to die. She did not deserve this.
          She definitely did not deserve the particular sight that greeted her at the parting of the doors; a handful of players from the team still lingering, despite the match having been over for a considerable while, flaunting several overtly muscular and occasionally hirsute forms in thin towels. It was a disgrace, a stereotypically homoerotic extravaganza. And the ginger head she sought was somewhere amid that sea of apes.
If words had still remained at her disposal, Pansy was certain the ones that would have fallen would have veritably dripped vitriol. As it was, they seemed to have fled in horror: all she had now was a sharp rap upon the door, lips pursed in obvious disapproval, and a sharp raise of her brows as multiple heads turned to face her.
aliferovs.
âIâm sure if I was to smash your nose with my head or hand right now, it would break. Would you call yourself soft, Gisèle? Someone who deserved to be hurt and broken and treated like nothing more than a pawn? Sometimes, even the hardest of things get broken too, no matter how many precautions get taken. Winners can lose too, after all, especially in a game with no rules. I come here for the view, same as you. Thereâs nothing more too it than that.â
An emphasis on pawn. Had she not been practised in the art of hurting him, her breath might have hitched in her throat. Even with the weeks of re-enacting the same tableau, the manâs clenched fist seemed to reach between her ribs for a moment, squeezing tight around her heart. And as with each instance his touch reached beyond the surface of her skin, Gisèle exhaled slowly, expression hardening.
She reached up, laying a hand against his neck. The pulse of his Adamâs apple was visible. Visceral. Evidence of the most damnably soft part of one of the hardest things she knew. ( His body, at least, qualified. Gisèle wasnât sure if hard could ever define the boy within. ) Slowly, her thumb brushed the column of his throat. âOh, darling, I WISH. I wish I could break you and toss you like a pawn. There would be no need for precautions then, would there? The game would be won.â
Pulling her hand back, Gisèle moved to remove her jacket and fold it neatly over the back of an armchair. Owning the space. Like she was used to. Like she still could. She spoke as she did so, tone measure and careful. âBut, Nathaniel, there are definitely rules in this game. And you know them as well as I do.â She turned back to face him. âFor example, there is always a sure fire method to both turn the game and solve any predicament we may have. This.â Her hands reached for the hem of her shirt.

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aliferovs:
âHow is it their fault? They didnât break their own nose â someone else decided that that was the most appropriate response to a situation, even when the breaking of things couldâve been avoided. Even when doing so causes them just as much damage as was caused to the victim. Ah, apologies â I donât want to give anyone the impression that Gisèle Rousseau might not be the sharp, utterly unbroken, blade everyone thinks she is by calling her darling.â
"It was soft enough to be broken. Things that soft deserve everything they get. And a bruised fist is definitely fair enough payment for the satisfaction of that. Besides, havenât you heard how this game works? You win or you die. And Iâm not. Thatâs why you come here, isnât it? Youâve gotten a taste for your own blood.â
aliferovs.
âIt may be our forte, but donât sell yourself short, darling. Youâre a skilled, intelligent and talented women capable of anything, including breaking things. Itâs a shame you donât see that you actually have quite an aptitude for it. Being as unrelenting as you are, many broken noses have been left in your wake. Among other things.â
"Well, if noses are getting broken, they have nobody to blame but themselves. Only the soft get broken. The sharp carry on. And donât call me darling, unless youâre making me come.â
aliferovs.
âAh, create of habit, predictable as always. Will you replace the replacement when you break that too and decide you canât be bothered even attempting to make it work? I guess youâve always been better at breaking things.â
âOf course not, Nathaniel. I donât keep things around long enough to break them; I simply replace my toys once theyâve exhausted their entertainment value. Breaking is your and Fulgoraâs forte, Iâm afraid.â
aliferovs.
âGisele Rousseau-Parkinson, her Royal Highness of Bitterdom, consorting with a mere average traitorous maggot such as myself? I suppose I should be honoured. How long do I have before Iâm forgotten? You havenât managed to cut me out yet, are you sure youâre going to be able to? The view I offer is quite irresistible, despite how average I am.â â
âNo, your easy access as fuck buddy is. Once the novelty wears off, Iâm certain you can be replaced.â
aliferovs:
âYou know, you almost sounded soothing there for a moment, calling me entertaining. I do try. I never pegged you as the pitying type. Am I the exception?â
âDonât make me laugh: despite how special you may think you are, you are nothing but completely average, Matheson. People like you are the rule, not the exception. The eventually-forgotten traitorous maggots instead of any of the people worth giving a damn about.â

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aliferovs:
âAh, well, I always did like your bite, so I suppose it does. What does that say about you, having me here?â
âThat you are pitiful enough for me to be considered charitable or entertaining enough to be here for the view also.â
aliferovs:
âMaybe Iâm just here for the view. Youâve never been particularly skilled at soothing â tearing open, however, thatâs another story.â
âYet here you are anyway. Does that make you a masochist, Matheson?â
aliferovs:
âItâs not me with wounds that need soothing, Rousseau.â
âCould have fooled me, darling. You wouldnât be here otherwise.â
aliferovs:
âPeople get cut. Thatâs life.â
âIs that what you tell yourself to feel better when you are?â
blood thrums, body trembles
soundsofwinter.
From a young age, James had been asked what it was that he wanted to be when he grew up. Heâd never had an answer. As a student, he only satiated his curiosities, pursued learning that interested him and sparked his imagination and thinking. He didnât play Quidditch not because he didnât like it, but because he already knew it with a mother who was once a professional and a father who loved to attend every game he had a chance to. Exploring avenues that he hadnât crossed was more exhilarating, more fun, and his choices reflected that. Potions was not to his liking because there was no guess work to it. A world opened up to him with charms and transfiguration where the possibilities soared.
During his fourth year, however, he began to consider his professional options. If Quidditch wasnât an option, then he could at least give a thought to following in his fatherâs footsteps as an Auror. So he had gone to the Ministry and followed in the shadow of an auror-in-training. Everyone had applauded his choice, told him that he would certainly have a knack for it in the way that he always wanted to protect his siblings. He was doomed to disappoint them all, falling headlong into the dirt after soaring high in the sky. A heroâs work was not meant for him. Especially when he could be so easily swayed, so caught up in a wild daydream. The type of learning that he had gained from that experience came forth in the skills that he exerted now, in the bedroom, not in his career.
He was better off close to the ground, his feet dug into the earth where he had a steadier foundation. James had been a naĂŻve fool in his youth, chasing after concepts without fulling comprehending the weight of them. That was why he descended into his own personal hell, warped into a dark mess in his head for the better part of a year. He had almost ruined any chances that he had for any career. The night before his O.W.L.s had marked the last night that he had ever drank. Instead of taking his tests with the rest of his classmates, he had been attached to a stomach pump.
He would never make that mistake again, never be that person again. After reassembling himself, he had put enough effort into his N.E.W.Ts a couple years later that he had been able to acquire his career of choice.
He put a considerable amount of effort stitching himself back together, so perhaps it was unwise to fall back into bed with someone who had been willing to pick at his wounds and create more. There was a patch of skin on his stomach that remained wretched, a glop of swollen skin that had melded together after a burn. Neither he nor Gisèle may be the same people that they were when they were teenagers, but perhaps there was something dangerous to rekindling the flame. If there was, it was a danger that he ignored.
He could not fault her for back then when her own wounds had been transparent in her haunted, dark expression. They both had been lost and when they had reached out, they had found each other. Not in a way that had brought them healing, but in a way that added gasoline to the pits of their separate despairs. There had been a validation in the way that they had come together where now there was satisfaction, and James saw no reason to dig up what they both had clearly spent considerable, measured time and effort burying.
It didnât matter. What mattered now was that they picked at each otherâs brains not out of desire to hurt or bleed, but for curiosity and argumentâs sake. They played with each otherâs bodies not for validation, but for satisfaction. James had no interest in becoming a fool for Gisèle â keeping her at a safe emotional distance was made easy knowing what she was capable of, but neither did that mean that they couldnât have a good time together. He enjoyed the bouts of laughter and he found amusement in getting a woman who prided herself on her lavish lifestyle to crack juvenile jokes with him. He actually found himself liking the side of her that was exposed when she set aside her rigid class. With the hurt no longer swimming on their surfaces, they could enjoy being twenty with a libido that demanded to be seen to.
Where there was once heaviness, there was now lightness, an ease from which they flowed together in between the sheets. Even with all their experience, sex could be awkward.. There were limbs flying and jostling around and all the positioning that came with the act, but they relatively moved together fluidly and even when they didnât, it was easy to adjust to where they wanted to be.
They didnât even have to speak up â once the challenge had been put into play at the door, James and Gisèle had yet to falter. It was a game, the dirtiest form of play, and it was one where they could both win. To push and tug and pull at each other was neither a fight nor a battle. It was closer to a dance, one of the few that James had in his arsenal where he knew all the steps and could perform them blindfolded ( and had, on occasion. )
Thus, bringing Gisèle to an orgasm was a part of the act that he liked to perform well and execute each and every time that they were together. But he too was seeking gratification, and like most things between them, he didnât have to voice his wants for them to be understood by the blonde tucked in front of him.
When she turned to him, his grin was far from coy. It was downright impish. There was no need nor room for modesty and he found himself once again internally describing her movements as feline, his own hand sliding upward to cup a breast, his own body taut and wound, an ache pulsating from between his legs.
One that Gisèle attended to, the initial touch enough to leave his breath hitching as he inhaled through his teeth. It was becoming increasingly harder to think with the need, need, need running red hot through his veins and pounding in his head. His thumb sunk into the indent of her breast, flicking against her nipple with the back of a fingernail. His other hand fell to her ass, kneading a rounded cheek to keep himself from thrusting forward, his hips jostling from the constrained effort.
âIâm glad that you approve of my handiwork.â His voice was a thick vibrato, rich in arousal. âIâm looking forward to your own efforts.â For the task was far from completed. âI think, between the two of us, we can come up with a successful collaboration that achieves both of our ends.â He wound his leg about one of her own, ankle rubbing hers, tucking their lower halves together. Tip of his tongue leaving his mouth to lick at his bottom lip, he snuck his hand on her ass downward to her thigh, cupping her leg and arching it upward and over his own. His eyes alight, he encouraged, âBut I think you should demonstrate your own specialized skillset first, so we can properly bring them together?â
For most of the world, touch meant something. It was the unsung hero of affection, the thing that meant nothing at all to some because it came just so easily to them. And yet, to others, it meant everything. Those were the ones it truly mattered to; the ones who guarded their person so fiercely that to yield was to surrender. The curious ones were those who existed in the curious centre. Touch, for them, was not as much about their physical self as it was an inherent thing: they werenât quite ready for their soul to be handled by hands that could never entirely be trusted. One could hardly trust their own self with that. Human beings were too gullible for that, always strolling into peril on their own two feet. And the body was only a vessel for the spirit; touching one could so easily mean touching the other.
Except the two so easily entwined in sheets as midnight navy as the air between them, in a bedroom as dark as their past, could not see it as such. For Gisèle Rousseau-Parkinson, at least, did not give her body nearly as much credit as that. It was important to a certain degree, certainly, but most things were. All she knew was that the mind was a far greater beast than the corporeal form that housed it, because bodies always mended, always. It could take hours or weeks or even years, but bodies mended themselves eventually. It was what was inside that was so damned delicate that once something cracked it, it was never quite okay ever again. With a thought like that, sharing the skeleton shell that was the human body became easy. Bones and blood and skin, after all, could scarcely matter much in the face of the human that occupied them.
Still, the girl had an established presence that had always categorised her as very much a cerebral person, rendering it remarkable how easily she took to physical interaction. It surprised even her sometimes. Nobody would have ever called her tactile or even affectionate, but once she had accepted that somebody was worth having in her life, it was easy to be physically comfortable around them, effortless unless she was deliberately making a point. And funnily enough, it hadnât been this new thing that had landed him in that very specific space in her life; James Potter had always belonged there. He had naturally slid there somehow, shortly after they had stopped sleeping together the first time and opted for an odd play at friendship instead. He was just easy to forget to be conscious around. Even with the occasional propensity of being judgemental and argumentative about it, not caring what a casual acquaintance thought had been a novel concept. It was even more entertaining now that they were closer to friends than anything. Their chemistry helped â merely physical though it may been.
In the arsenal of facts she had collected about James Potter from their time together â infrequent smoker, frequent rambler, physically demonstrative and occasionally a righteous arsehole â was the fact that he was definitely not a dancer. In fact, one could probably pit his skills on a dance floor against his basic sartorial knowledge and come up empty on which would be the sure winner. Yet, as someone accustomed to social events that required a minimum passing knowledge of dancing practically since birth, Gisèle could see how he might easily fit into a waltz. He was all rumbling depth and meandering and a languid steadiness that would lend itself well to the dance. It could generally fit his personality as a person if not his footwork; as precise and self-aware as he was fluid and meditative. ( Sheâd have to one day drag him into a dance someday. Just to see. )
But when the two took to bed, there was no doubt spared that they were partners perfectly matched in style. Much like he may try to appear less easy than she was, James was every bit as ready and willing as she often was and practice had made perfect, creating an arrangement that flowed smooth and flawless, despite the occasional brief forays into laughter or awkwardness. The fact that fucking each other so resembled a long-winded game meant it had yet to get monotonous. There was just too much to be enjoyed about it.
Like the fact that he understood how much she liked having her breasts played with: his hands drawing back to them so soon had her breath catching in her throat again, chest rising with the hitched inhale that followed the sharp flick against her sensitive nipple. Her own hand teasing at his cock drifted up to scratch idly against his stomach, making way to grind her hips against his in turn, nails leaving rosy crescents in his skin as she rubbed up slow and teasingly against the hard length of his erection. She probably shouldnât have; he had been more than generous enough to deserve more than teasing by then, but it was fun to draw it out, the anticipation almost as great as the moment it happened.
A laugh escaped her, quiet and amused. The kiss she pressed against his mouth was slow, lingering, and aiming to kiss the stuttering breath from him as much as it was to provide a moment to catch it. âRight, canât be a successful collaboration without equal opportunity benefits.â The hand teasing idly at his torso drifted to his shoulder then, pushing down to guide him onto his back. It was testament to how well-choreographed this particular dance was that it happened so seamlessly; her thigh barely detached from where it was curled over his while they easily resituated, him on his back and her straddling his torso.
But oh, there was something so supremely satisfying about it. She was still so wet, eager to be filled again where he had removed multiple fingers from mere minutes ago, and him throbbing against her was all the motivation she needed. Some wanton, filthy part of her had awoken and near-purred in satisfaction at the very thought that nothing more than roughly fingering her to orgasm with his mouth on her breast had brought him to this point, a sizeable bulge noticeable between her legs as she hovered over him, knees braced on either side of his hips.
A few teasing, experimental strokes â her wet folds brushing against his straining erection â and then Gisèle reached down to curl her hand around the base of his cock again, stroking her fingertips against it as much as holding it steady. The impish smirk had returned. âSo I was thinking of blowing you, just as an exhibition of my efforts, you understand,â she began conversationally, grip tightening, âbecause you know how we both love my mouth on your cock.â She rose slightly on her knees then, hovering just above him with the hand squeezing him in short, slow jerks keeping him positioned. She wouldn't lower yet, mindful of the lack of protection, but there was no shame in keeping him on edge. âBut then I decided, I would much rather earn extra credit for riding skills. Wouldnât you agree itâs a worthy skill to have?â

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soundsofwinter.
âPassion most certainly doesnât require certainty. Or have you not heard of faith? Hope?â  James was not particularly religious, but he knew that faith came in different shapes, that belief was powerful. That the want for change could be a spark that could start a fire. âIâm not saying itâs smart because Iâm not a proponent of purposeful ignorance, but I think you can have a passion without a clear vision. That shouldnât stop someone from pursuing that passion.â There were people that didnât require certainty, that were perfectly comfortable without. James personally sought understanding, but he knew that even with answers, certainty was hard to grasp without the faith that the answer found was the correct one. âA conviction has a multi-pronged definition. On one hand, itâs a legal term and is a guilty sentence that should only be dealt with certainty and evidence behind it. On the other, a conviction is merely a firmly held opinion. I prefer for mine to have merit to them, to have rationale, but, well, I imagine you have ran across your fair share of people who prefer to use fallacies in an argument.â It was similar to fighting against a brick wall, and in those scenarios, his head always wound up pounding. Eyes fliting over Gisèleâs Cheshire-like grin, Jamesâ stomach momentarily churned before he breathed out circles of cigarette smoke and willed himself at ease. It was a harmless metaphor, and just because Gisèle was revealing herself to be prone to violence didnât indicate much of anything. She was comparing herself to a sheep, not proclaiming that she was yet another wolf in sheepâs clothing.
âIf someone is only in detective work to expose the interesting and peculiar, rather than the truth, then  they arenât in the right field. Of course, you can be drawn in by the appeal of mystery, but you shouldnât find the obvious boring so long as you can still find the evidence needed to close the case. Itâs about justice, no matter if a crime is petty.â His tone was even, words thrown out with a shrug. Some criminals hurt people just because they could, because they had the power to. James was sensible enough to recognize that. Yes, he wanted to pursue mysteries, wanted to uncover the truth so that justice could be served. He wasnât as convinced that wrongs could be righted by a sentence, but James thought it was at least a consolation.  Â
James didnât pride himself in his looks. If anything, his fashion choices hid the fact that he was conventionally attractive, even if it didnât do so enough to ward off all of the masses. That suited him fine considering he did have more carnal desires, and perhaps there was an added satisfaction to the game of flirtation to win without the dashing suits and clean-shaven face. Quirking up a brow as he brought his cigarette back to his mouth, he inhaled with a puff of laughter. âMy clothes ought to be perfectly acceptable for university. Better than wearing a uniform everyday like I did back in sixth form and plenty of students are going to be showing up in pajamas. Wasnât about to wear a tie everyday .â  He didnât care what people thought of his clothes, and he knew that Gisèle didnât truly give a damn what he wore either. And that she was continually warming up to the idea of him wearing none of them all.  âA lot, huh?â Jamesâ own chestnut eyes gleamed as she quantified, âWell, those handcuffs do need to be earned. And you do seem to be hinting to a wild past. Maybe itâs time that the law catches up with you.â He bumped their shoulders together once more, tossing down his cigarette butt and crushing it with his shoe before bending over to pick it up and throw it into the trash. âIâm not denying that her voice is divinely honeyed, and if it were a more intimate show, Iâd totally consider it, but being royalty means bringing in mass audiences.  Whereas a concert on campus, while crowded, is also more spread out. If the musicâs piss-poor, thereâs always the option to bail out after grabbing the free food.â
Her mouth twitched at the play on words, almost mildly amused despite herself. âI donât know, sounds fake,â she commented, âbut wouldnât you say passion is a double-edged sword? An uninformed one may not be entirely impossible, but I doubt you can argue how dangerous it can be. Pursuing a passion without a clear vision could always go horribly wrong. Faith seems rather empty at that. Thereâs nothing to rely on there but the woefully abstract.â And maybe there were people who were comfortable with the woefully abstract, but she might never be. Gisèle liked the concrete; liked knowing that under the beating heart of possibility lay a solid foundation that could be relied on. Basing things like hope and faith â essentially examples of reliance on something not necessarily certain â on nothing seemed the most idiotic thing possible. Not that she would admit that. The admission in itself was just as transparent. âAh, but you do see the merits of conviction. Yet you think itâs okay to have passions without a clear vision? Thatâs odd. Conviction must be hard to come by for someone that has no basis, mustnât it? But actually, not really, no. Like I said, I prefer not to associate with idiots at all, so meritless, irrational convictions donât come by too often.â On second thought, though, that was a complete lie: most of her friends were absolutely idiots. Maybe not irrational ones, but idiots regardless. She said so, saying, âWell, I do, but they arenât normally the kind of idiots who use fallacies in arguments, just the kind of idiots who use fists in arguments.â
âSemantics, Potter. The truth need not necessarily be uninteresting, nor the interesting and peculiar false. I see what you mean, but thatâs a bit presumptuous, wouldnât you say? Things can be boring and still be important. Like gloves, for example. And important or not, a senseless mystery is definitely boring. Even if it is about bringing justice and good will and epic heroism to the world.â Her tone was just as even as his had been, detached even, but there would be no mistaking that Gisèle was firm about what she was saying. Justice, as general rule, bored her, but she could see the necessity for it. Nothing worked without rules, especially not the world. But that did not mean rules were often interesting, especially when it came to the slightest mention of morality and justice, where it only took the drop of a hat for people to get righteous and indignant. Present company possibly included â she had yet to decide.
Over the legal age of eighteen, a majority of them away from home and truly on their own for the first time officially, university students were supposed to be adults. There was not a single thing adult about the smirk that stretched across her mouth, eyebrow raise accompanying it slow and dripping suggestion. âUniforms have their perks, though: they make it acceptable to wear plaid, at least in skirt form. And it looks like somebody is undervaluing ties, which is tragic, really. Oh, the things that can be done with oneâŚâ She let the sentence linger, the twist of her mouth and twinkle in her eye saying more than words ever could, not that she was one not to use her words. It was just that subtlety was good sometimes. A well-placed suggestion could go a long way, especially when it came with a slow once-over of her companion, smirk widening when she got to his face again. âI could see a lot happening, sure. The law would just have to catch the perpetrator in the act, however, which could take ages. Multiple tries, even.â Her own cigarette followed his, stubbed hastily against the side of the bin. It was dangerous, probably, but she didnât particularly care. It was easier than making the effort of stubbing it under oneâs shoe and picking it up, even if James doing it did make her smile in amusement. âSo what youâre saying is that free food makes deafness via tone deaf screeching a worthy risk, but with Adele, only a private show would suffice?â
i see you in the stars |â | gisèle + ada
aliferovs.
The hardest part of moving away for university was leaving your family behind, everyone always said. Adaâs dream college would be brought up at dinner parties and their guests would be equal parts sympathy for her parents â their only daughter, not the heir but still arguably the star of the Greengrass family, moving halfway across Europe â, and part surprise. Why so far away, when England has some of the most prestigious universities in the world? So far from your family, they would say â your parents, your brother. None of them were wrong about how hard it was to leave behind family, it was just who Adaâs family was that they got wrong. Ada had nothing against her parents or brother â far from it, actually. Sheâd just never connected with them in the same way most people did with theirs. It was hardly Adaâs fault her parents begged for a sheep and were given ( blessed, Ada would argue ) a wolf instead. No, Adaâs family was Gisèle. It always had been. Even if they found other friends, found lovers, expanded their own families, at the end of the day it was Gisèle who put first, and Ada knew the reverse was true too.
Loneliness hadnât been an issue for Ada since sheâd met Gisèle. Always smarter, always three steps ahead of her peers, flying when they were merely crawling, isolation had been something Ada felt keenly. Her brother, eight years older than Ada, wasnât even a match for her. Patience had never been her strong suit, so instead of swallowing her pride and pacing her stride to match her peers, Ada decided sheâd rather have no one. Her fatherâs vast and never ending library was company enough. Her peers were like subjects, good for playing victim in Adaâs schemes born of boredom, but little else. Gisèle was different. There was a storm in her soul that matched the rhythm of Adaâs own, forging a connection neither were particularly familiar with but neither ever wanted to lose. The ache of that isolation all but faded as the two became inseparable. Ada had never bothered with anyone else after that. She had Gisèle, and that was all Ada ever needed. Being without her was uncomfortably similar to being that little girl again, frustrated with the incompetence of the world and always wondering if her pride and intelligence meant she would always feel so isolated. She didnât regret her choice to come to university so far away, and she knew it was a good thing to find their independence from each other. Plus, it had only been two weeks â it was possible doubtful she could meet someone able to keep pace with her. At any rate, without Gisèle there to monopolise both of their time, she could investigate Cassius Fulgora a little more.
Her curiosity was piqued. Ada knew he was another close, childhood friend of Gisèleâs, but sheâd never had much to do with him before. She knew enough about him to see why Gisèle liked him, but presently she failed to see the appeal in crude humour, oversized egos, and fists instead of words. Even from Gisèle, those traits earned a raised eyebrow from Ada. At the very least, figuring out what it was Gisèle saw in him ( especially considering that he was rarely talked about unless it was in a trash-Cassius-Fulgora manner ) would provide Ada with some entertainment to distract her from missing the only person who had ever mattered to her.
ââPretty but a hopeless arseholeâ sounds about right. Having officially met the hopeless arsehole in question, I concur with this apt statement. Though, it could really describe half the boys Iâve met here so far. Boys in general, actually. Why anyone ever places a boy above their best friend, Iâll never know. Boys are good for looking pretty, doing your bidding, and sex. Not much else.â  Ada shook her head, genuinely perplexed, though her expression quickly morphed into a sly smirk. âOh, Iâm sure it was extremely satisfying. Did it taste as lovely as it looked, or are you saving that for another day?â Innuendo wasnât something Ada usually slipped into conversation, â in fact, many would think this lighthearted banter, the laughter and the fondness that underpinned it was was uncharacteristic of Ada. The tension was eased from her shoulders, the predatory glint in her brown eyes replaced with something soft. Just as Ada knew Gisèle could lower her guards and be soft around Ada, the same could be said of Ada around Gisèle. Ada arched an eyebrow. âInteresting and special go hand in hand. Whatâs his name, this supposed cunnilingus champion who loves crisps on ice cream? I hope he knows that you got all your skills from me. And no. I came close, though. In one of my classes where it was clear I already knew a lot about the topic, this girl wanted to know if we could form a study group. Naturally, I said no because I have no patience for people who donât have the brains to do their own work and just leech off others. She, and I doubt anyone else, will be asking me that again.â
More than two weeks apart, and Gisèle was just now starting to convince herself that it might be for the best. With Ada, she was comfortable in a way she had yet to find elsewhere, a deep-rooted sense of contentment between the two girls that they had yet to find elsewhere. ( Not that there had been any attempts to try, even. There was no point to trying to find another person they fit so well with when they had each other. ) They could be themselves, utterly and completely. Perhaps the concept wouldnât have been so novel in all friendships, but for two as private as them, it was a near miracle. They knew each other â in the silent-communication, psychic-bond, mistaken-for-twins way that even had perfect strangers assuming them sisters. It wasnât an improbable conclusion, even, not the way the two gravitated towards each other.
They knew each other in ways that meant that Gisèle could catch a downturn of her best friendâs mouth and react immediately, imperceptibly, because there was a difference between a superior frown and a sad one and she had known the difference since before she could spell the word frown itself. They knew each other in the way she could text Ada a perfectly innocuous sentence and Ada would still find the negativity lurking in her head through the four innocent unrelated words and try to pull it away. They knew each other; were home in a way no house and no family could ever be. Two girls who had grown up together sharing the world and liked it that way.
After all, they hadnât been Gisèle and Ada for as long as memory served, more than happy to simply be GisèleandAda. And for two people who could certainly bask in any attention they got and relished proving themselves better than others, the very fact was a mystery. So easily, they could have been rivals, at each otherâs throats. They could certainly be different enough to make it possible. But once the bond had been cast, nobody had really bothered questioning it.
And maybe it was time to question it. As sad as it made her (and as lonely as weekly sleepovers held over Skype only could be) maybe they had been too reliant. They were perfectly self-sufficient individuals apart, Gisèle was sure of that, but there could be no certainty until they really knew, and there was no way to do so when they were permanently attached at the hip. Perhaps the distance really was for the best; something that would help them grow into better, stronger people.
Of course, it could not help the fact of how intensely she wanted to have been there in Italy, present when Ada met her other childhood friend for the first time. Gisèle knew that the two bonded with entirely different sides of her, Ada vaguely disapproving of the very traits that joined her and Cassius Fulgora: verbal obscenities and physical responses. But she also knew that both were fearsome in their own rights, mighty powerhouses in a way that surprised others despite the vague air of power they carried. It would have undoubtedly been a sight to behold, this meeting of Cassius Fulgora and Ada Greengrass. Gisèle meant to pry every detail out.
Her own share of gossip was answered first, shoved quickly aside both for discretionâs sake and to focus on Adaâs: âSaving it for another day, yeah. You know how that pesky fudge sauce gets better with anticipation. Especially when it has no shame whatsoever. Claims to be called James Potter, older brother of two and wearer of plaid. But anyway, Fulgora. I need to hear everything. For posterityâs sake, obviously. Not that anyone ever doubted that the male race can be exceptionally stupid, even when they do fuck well, but how do they compare?â The laugh that followed Adaâs description of classmates, however, was much less animated: a quiet gentle thing that curled up warm to fill up the corners of her chest. Because Ada was important and comfortable and warm, the way only home could be, and the ease of how the moment flowed had her curling back into her pillow in utter contentment, bones gone warm and liquid in the feeling. âYou tell them, girl,â she cheered, approval clear in her tone. âMost study groups are useless, as are the people willing to start them. I mean, they arenât even smart enough to that people who have done their research are unlikely to be dumb enough to share it so easily? Itâs sad to see such idiocy, really.â