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name: Shafiq 🐈 ringtone: “When I Grow Up” by The Pussycat Dolls

Date: 4 September, 1944

Time: Late afternoon

Location: The Owlery

Status: Closed ( @khalilahshafiq )

She’d brought her owl, Daysi, a treat and a letter. Fiora walked up to the owlery, pulling her robes tighter around her as the air grew colder around it. The owls hooted and fluttered, but overall it was quiet. She looked around until she spotted Daysi, going over to her with a grin. Running her fingers gently over the top of her owl’s head, she pulled out the little bag of treats—a couple scraps she’d convinced a house elf to sneak her from the kitchens—and began to feed them to Daysi. Before her first year at Hogwarts, Fiora had begged her parents to allow her to get a cat, but they insisted on an owl. They’d assured her that she would love an owl just as much as a cat, and an owl would be much more helpful to her. And, of course, they’d been right. Fiora adored Daysi, and she had never once let Fiora down.

The treats gobbled down, Daysi looked back at Fiora expectantly. Smiling, she took the letter from her pocket and gave it to Daysi. “To mum and dad, please, Daysi,” she said softly, petting the bird again. Letter firmly kept in her talons, Daysi lept from her post and flew off into the dusky golden-blue sky outside. Fiora watched her until she was gone, and then turned to go back down into the castle. She had promised the first year boy she met after the bombing the night before that she would show him around the castle before dinner. At the thought of the attack, Fiora shivered, pausing to look out at the window, remembering it all again.

Footsteps broke her out of her bleak reverie. Blinking, Fiora looked down to see who was coming into the owlery. It was Khalilah. She took a deep breath before smiling and calling out quietly, “Oh, hello, Kitty,” as she walked towards her. Kitty was a powerhouse within Ravenclaw’s Quidditch team, though there were really a million other reasons that she would know Kitty anyways. Fiora was as much in awe of her as she was intimidated: Kitty was beautiful and outspoken and strong, sharp as anything and well-aware of it. Quidditch hadn’t begun yet, but she was already acquainted with Kitty’s competitive streak. All Fiora wanted was to be able to say hello and to slide by and be on her way, but she got the feeling that that wouldn’t exactly be the case. She stopped an arm’s length away from the older Ravenclaw, her demeanor somewhat timid, but still sunny as ever. “How are you?” It felt so strange to ask that, all the horrible things from earlier that week considered, but she didn’t know Kitty well enough to say anything more than that. “Good, I hope?”

#khalilahshafiq #; kitty 01 #t: 4 September 1944

..... ➳♥ oh honey...

SEND ‘➳♥’ AND I’LL GENERATE A NUMBER 1-34 FOR WHERE MY MUSE WILL KISS YOURS

5: LIPS

The purgatory of the locker rooms seemed all the more ethereally untouchable tonight, for the cool air had trapped the ever-present steam of the showers within the stones with no hope of escape. It was difficult to breathe here, amidst the thick smog of scalding water and bodily heat; it muddled the mind, mingled with adrenaline and the spirit of competition to create a strange sort of opium through which they all floated like ghosts. The heat of competition burned red amidst the smoke, and inside it faces blurred and grudges melted away as easily as sweat-soaked clothes peeled from skin.

Peeled from skin, pulled from tensed muscle and cast aside; Antonin stripped to his bare nothing as soon as the strange opium touched his face. He’d been so cold, just moments before - sweat frozen upon his muscles in the cold air of night, robes flung open with the heat and adrenaline of victory; the sound of swooning from the stands as he’d made a victory lap with chest bared to the icy air had been enough to fill his lungs with ichor. And now here he stood, emerald and raven-winged blue milling about him with indiscriminate fervor, volk’s eyes upon the moving bodies, searching for a rather specific one. A one bright spot - though such brightness born from flame and vitriol was of a different breed, though it shone with the same intensity all the same - admist the burn of steam and thrum of manic energy; victory and defeat caged within the stone walls of the locker rooms made her hard to find. But not for long - she never seemed to stay hidden for more than a fleeting blink of a moment, as was her nature.

He spotted her through a plume of steam, raven hair pressed wet to her brow and dripping the length of proudly arched back. Heat swelled between his ribs, the dark companion upon his shoulder giving a great cackle before falling to the side, propped against tilted neck to watch the wolf prowl. The wolf and the great, prideful cat, with claws aplenty, and lovely venom enough to poison an entire pack - let alone a lone wolf. Lovely, then, if only in the dim light of the misty prison in which they found themselves - lovely, because hatred, it would seem, was entirely too lovely to resist. He could smell the revelry upon her, and her teammates, from across the room, though he himself drowned in a sea of emerald. Indiscriminate hands reached, touched, pulled, but his attention was suddenly quite firm upon his rival, who plagued him so, but so suddenly seemed all that was necessary to reach.

But it was all in good fun, all in the name of the game. The wolf did so love to play.

He started forward with eyes like blazing flames and teeth bared like viper’s fangs; a stalwart boat through the sea of emerald and navy blue about him, gaze upon quick-moving lips, expressive tongue, pulse just below sloped jaw. Prey, and the best sort. Antonin could nearly taste her; he’d be like to devour, if exposed for too terribly long. Fingers at his sides clenched, unclenched, tongue running hungrily upon his lips; he could hear her voice now, that voice which plagued him so, but seemed at once to be the one thing driving him forward. Perhaps to devour, perhaps to taste adrenaline upon another’s lips - would hatred taste of honey on her lips as it tasted of acid on his?

Antonin gave her little time to react as he appeared before her, shouldering his way past the Keeper to which she was speaking with great abandon. Strong hands rose to grab hold of her face, cheeks between palms - with horrible, gleeful grin, he pulled her face upward as his fell forth, lips finding hers with ferocity and command. As a hand fell to knot in the damp hair at the nape of her neck, he pressed forth, shoulders hunched and teeth nipping at plump bottom lip. Were she not so insufferable, Antonin figured, she might have been quite pleasurable to kiss. And perhaps she was - in all the aggressive, fevered pitch, in the small yelp that escaped her as his teeth found her lip, he found a certain breed of heat building between his ribs that he’d not felt many a time before. Were passion and hatred so very different? Could the acute annoyance he felt at her presence give way to such passionate displays as this, no matter how momentary?

All at once, he pulled his lips from hers, leaving the both of them matched in plumped lips and flushed cheeks - hands dropped to his sides, and smirk returned. With the heel of his palm, he wiped at swollen bottom lip, giving dear Kitty a curt nod, and then a cynical bow.

“Shafiq,” he purred, “Until the next match, yes?” And then he turned, gave his half-bare shoulders a roll, and disappeared into the steam.

#khalilahshafiq #[ kitty. ]#[ ask meme: kisses ]#HEYOOO