@pools-of-venetianblue / pools-of-venetianblue.tumblr.com
Robin Venetia Ellacott’s first soulmate marks appeared just hours after she was pulled, screaming, into the world: little red poppies and purple dog-violets growing on her skin as though drawn by an invisible brush. The living ink bloomed and twined on her chubby knees and on the palms of her tiny waving hands, just where an adventurous - or clumsy - young boy might find himself with scrapes and bruises in the course of an unseasonably sunny October afternoon.
Brené Brown, Daring Greatly
Standing within 15 feet of you is like using the Chernobyl Elephant’s foot. Every time you enter the room, my heart seizes as though I am entering cardiac arrest and I feel as though someone has wrapped a snare around my lungs. When you speak, I can feel myself rotting like a carcass left to the bush dogs under the hot Australian sun. Your voice is like sandpaper to my exposed eardrums. Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary put an image of you as the definition of “a fucking scoundrel.” Attack. Kill.
^^ In case anyone was wondering what the “110%” option said
I am jumping on this bandwagon! This is from the thing that I sincerely intended to post to the Valentine’s fic fest. Well, one of the things. I’m still working on both, but this one has more written and will also be shorter, so...
(ps it is also incredibly self indulgent and pointless. consider yourselves warned.)
~*~*~*~
In Cormoran’s opinion, after all the evidence was in, the soulmate marks were nothing but a nasty trick the universe played on the romantics and the gullible. His mother, he thought bitterly, had believed in the wound-flowers, utterly and wholeheartedly, and what had it gotten her? A life spent chasing possibilities - and men - up and down the length of Britain, dragging her children behind her. And then, when against all odds she had found the one whose flowers matched her wounds, how had that turned out? Her soulmate was arrogant, vicious and cruel, stinking and swaggering; and yet Leda had stuck by him. She stayed in that filthy squat, that horror of a marriage, refusing to leave despite the pleading of her brother, her daughter, and her son, because that was the path that the universe had chosen for her.
Cormoran could not put his faith in any universe that would leave his mother, no matter her failings, with a man like Whittaker. He ignored the flowers when they bloomed on his skin, and deliberately turned his thoughts away from the girl - for he thought it must be a girl - to whom the wounds belonged.
Charlotte, however, was of a different disposition. To her own flowers she paid no attention - small blooms, infrequent, on accidentally cut fingers or stubbed toes, the evidence of a quiet and conventional existence. On his, though, she was fixated. She subjected each, when they appeared, to careful scrutiny: outlining their edges with her delicate porcelain hands, speculating endlessly on how they had been inflicted, on the unknown girl to whom they truly belonged.
“Have you seen these?” she whispered to him in the dark, running her finger along his hip as he lay on his stomach, dozing and sated.
“Mm,” he mumbled, enjoying her cool touch on his overheated skin, then, “What?”
“Violets,” she said, her hand spreading to cover his buttock, a pleasurable shiver running through him as he clenched at her touch. “Masses and masses of violets.”
That’s one conception of death, for a Buddhist.
I’m still having HP thoughts and randomly reread the end of POA last night and it’s just so hilarious to me that Ron and Hermione got into a huge fight over their warring pets and yet their ride-or-die relationship with their pets reflects their relationships with each other
Ron
-constantly complained about his rat and how he didn’t like being stuck with it, but the second it started looking sick became extremely solicitious about nursing it and worried over it endlessly, was extremely protective and defensive of it and was absolutely heartbroken and devastated about its apparent demise, risked expulsion to chase after and “rescue” it, held onto it protectively when an apparent serial killer was demanding it despite the fact it was biting and scratching his hands throughout, basically would have died for this rat he claimed he found annoying
Hermione
-bought the most obstinate and neglected ginger cat she could find , defended it against all haters including Ron himself, insisted it was really smart and special underneath its offputting exterior, was actually correct about this.
Like ya both are
ridiculous
( also I can’t believe even as a rat Peter somehow managed to find one of the most loyal, protective people in the world to look after him that’s like a talent he has I guess. RON SHOWED MORE LOYALTY TO PETER AS A RAT than Peter EVER SHOWED TO ANY HUMAN. There’s no way this whole thing didn’t deeply scar Ron tbh)
aww and now I just remembered at the beginning of GoF Ron writes a letter like
“Dear Harry, MY OWL IS STUPID AND I HATE IT, anyway how are you”
and Harry’s all “aww Ron loves his new owl a lot I’m glad”
like that’s the actual sequence
man im having such intense nostalgia i really should reread the books but if i do this tumblr will be flooded with posts none of you will be able to escape.
Hgggghhhhshdyxy yuy(//):)66777
