El Taco Taco

STAR WARS: The Legendary Bantha Fodders! [High Casual]

Oooh, I'd be game for a chapter later on, for suresies. Skull, youda best <3

Bahahahahaha oh god, Reeko. You gotta step up your game if you're going to hit on a Zeltron, bro! And cheating in Sabacc... not cool. Sabacc is sacred so long as no one else notices Aelyn's cheating too.

Taco's Borderlands Hunt! [ Casual +, Ignore Post Count ]

I'm a little teapot, short and stout, here is my handle here is my butt-bump.

Something In Between That [El Taco Taco and mmidnight]

Victoire winced—but she deserved that. Merlin, she wanted the ground to open up beneath her feet and swallow her whole. She was being daft, but the way he dropped her had her stomach twisting into her nerves, her heart clenching with frustration. You did this, and the guilt of it was impossible to bear.

She had to fix this. She had no idea how; he was no broken bone, no transfigured organ, no splinched child. She had no protocols to follow. This was not a thing that could be fixed with magic. If only it was. She wished she could consult libraries to find the right charm, the one that could ease everything between them. It was a foolish hope. Childish.

She’d never been brave, not like Dominique or Louis or any one of her numerous cousins. Not like Teddy, who she had counted as the single most honest man she had ever known. She’d always been hesitant, disliking uncertainty, preferring to keep quiet and stick to the familiar. Her reserve had put her at ends with Dominique for years. She had always been so much bolder, so fearless. With Teddy, Victoire had found her nerve, and Merlin she had felt like she could do anything. She had been scared, yes, but he’d squeezed her hand and she’d been emboldened enough to try anyways. That feeling felt a life time away, as if it belonged in someone else’s memories.

Gears turned in her head, trying to find something diplomatic, something to ease the tension. Everything came up excuses. And then he was leaving, sharp on heel, and no, she couldn’t let it happen again, it had been awful enough the first time—

“Teddy,” she called, moving after him instinctively, trying not to sound as terrified as she felt. The eyes of her family burned through her, and she couldn’t bear to look. She’d known, of course, that they’d blamed her—how could they not? It had been her fault, her stupidity that had made things so awkward, and it shamed her deeply. “Wait, please.”

She had no idea what to say, what to do, reaching out for his wrist, heart slamming in her chest. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not that she had a clue what it was supposed to be like. His skin felt so warm beneath her fingertips. Merlin, it felt so good to be near him, despite everything, and she couldn’t help but hate herself more for it.

“I—“ she had no idea how to phrase anything, making a frustrated sound. She had never been one for spoken word, finding her voice more in the swirl of ink. Talk seemed so hasty, so prone to miscommunication. Writing gave her time to sort through her thoughts, make sense of her feelings. They were near the edge of the tent, and she had the mad fear that if he walked through the flap, she’d never see him again. It would be easier—but even timid Victoire couldn’t let herself ruin things this badly. She hooked her hair behind her ear compulsively, a nervous habit. “Look, you’re right—I, that was unkind of me—“

She felt rather like she was babbling. Like she was some idiot child. She swore beneath her breath, feeling guilty even as she indulged the urge.

“I’m sorry,” she managed finally, willing herself to meet his gaze, hating how weak her voice sounded. She released his wrist suddenly, all too aware that she didn’t have the right.

Taco's Borderlands Hunt! [ Casual +, Ignore Post Count ]

Annnnnd.... bump!

there's no sea left for me [[ El Taco Taco && Anima ]]

It's brilliant. Oh Justin, you melodramatic snob. P:
Not that Phoebe's much better xD Bwahaha

there's no sea left for me [[ El Taco Taco && Anima ]]

He had the nerve to sit there and look so fucking calm and collected, and Phoebe wanted to claw his eyes out. She wanted to give in and drink the tea, because she knew it would warm her up and clear her head, but she couldn’t let herself do it. She couldn’t let him win. Not after what he’d done to her.

He refuted her point—and Phoebe clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering, to keep her from hurling insults at him. He was correct, of course. She’d chased him down when she could barely see straight, high as a fucking broomstick, but it still seemed so drastically unfair. She elected not to comment on that, on the judgment he passed on her. She merely narrowed her eyes. Worse for others indeed. He’d known of her marriage—but he hadn’t known how it had fallen apart, how she’d lost a child and a husband in a span of weeks. And then the riots had happened, and she’d had no time to grieve, not when England was burning and every Healer was needed in the hospital. So she’d just kept working and coming home to a flat stripped bare of everything she’d built her life on.

Fuck. Now was not the time for these thoughts. It was so easy to get lost in the cold, coming down from Heat. She’d lost days before in the aftermath, curled into a ball and desperate for warmth that eluded her, no matter how many blankets or charms she used. Phoebe wetted her lips. She didn’t have long. Twenty minutes, tops, before she needed to be curled up at home, or another dose. The sachet in her purse burned in the back of her brain. Decisions needed to be made, and soon.

“Fuck you, Ackerman,” she hissed, hating how her voice stumbled, blinking hard to keep her eyes clear. The side of her hand deftly pressed against her lower lashline, catching what she couldn’t quite swallow. “Fuck you and your stupid, melodramatic poetry, you twat. Don’t lie and say you missed me, you had no idea--”

Fuck, her voice wasn’t supposed to break like that. No. No, she had to keep it together. Fuck. Ten years had passed, she had moved on with her life.

He’d mentioned her friends; Phoebe couldn’t think of a group she’d rather see less. She glanced out the window, ducking behind her hair (as if somehow that would prevent them from recognizing her). Rhiannon and Deirdre—she hadn’t counted on her boss being out with them when she’d accepted the little sachets of magic golden powder from her best friend. She turned in her seat, looking up at Justin, and for the first time she thought maybe he wasn’t lying about everything. He was still a git, of course, but… fuck, no, that was not what she needed to be thinking. She hated him, had to cling to that anger. He deserved nothing less. She’d loved him, had given him everything, would have followed him to the edge of the world and he had dropped her like she was trash. Her! Phoebe Lockwood, top of her year, cunning and clever and charming and brilliant. He dropped her like she was beneath him, like her friends whispered he always would, and that had stung worst of all. He’d never cared about her blood when she’d pulled him into a broomcloset or an empty classroom. As soon as she’d been inconvenient, he’d dropped her, and even Phoebe hadn’t been so blind as to pretend it was due to anything but the circumstance of her birth.

But fuck, he was here and alive and she was so fucking cold. She was so tired and exhausted and sick to death of being left behind and the thought of him leaving again had her stomach in knots. She choked, a stupid sob of a sound, and hated the way her pale hand reached out to grab his sleeve. Pitiful, mewling, pathetic girl, her brain managed through the fog. She felt her shoulders drop, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

“Justin,” she had no idea what she meant to say, or do, and she hated herself for her weakness. “Please…”

Unintended

OKAY
So it's not my best post
And its nowhere near as good as the post I had lost
But I figured I should just post it so I could stop making you wait

SO WHOOSH!! I have posted. I'm just going to use <>'s to denote Bulgarian, since I'm no expert.

Unintended

Even after ten years of playing professional Quidditch, after two previous bids for the World Cup, Viktor didn’t think he’d ever tire of the exquisite torture that was The Draw. The Draw was the final piece in the puzzle, that made everything feel real. It was a ridiculous thought, Viktor confessed; years of training and familiarity with the process should have dulled the glamour of the moment, and yet… There was nothing like the tension as they waited for the radio to crackle to life.

The English had been much more accommodating this go around. Last time they had played here, they’d stayed in rather uninspired flats in London. They had been nice, but not quite what Viktor had thought world champion Quidditch stars deserved. He supposed that after the debacle that had been the last Cup with their sudden withdrawal only weeks before the tournament was slated to begin, they were eager to save face. The official who had showed them to the estate had explained that they had borrowed it from the muggle National Trust for the Cup, although Krum wasn’t sure what all that entailed.

What he was sure of, was that Saltram House was a huge improvement in accommodation. This, he’d remembered thinking, was more of what he had expected. The house, the sprawling grounds, the full staff of House Elves, the officials popping in to ensure their comfort, the gaggle of cameras just outside… this was much better. Viktor had never considered himself a materialistic man, but he enjoyed his creature comforts. Especially given the amount of work he’d put into getting here. Talented Seeker though he was, he had no intentions of letting the Cup slip out of his hands yet again. This was their year, he was sure of it.

The sitting room was a bit solemn. The radio hummed occasionally, various adverts that he paid little mind to. Dropping himself in a large scarlet chair, trimmed in gold, he leaned forward, elbows draping across his knees and hands meeting. He felt a bit ridiculous, too large for the delicate furniture, all golden curls and fragile. He shared a look with Pyotr, who looked even more uncomfortable than Viktor felt, sharing a large bench with Aleksander. Ivet seemed rather at home amid the luxury, legs draped across Alexei and Ruzha, who leafed idly through a book. He wondered if Ruzha was actually processing any of the words. He didn’t think he could. His mind kept running through the list of competitors, of any one of the numerous line ups facing them. The true randomness of it was a little worrying.

Finally, after what felt like hours but had been more like minutes, the radio crackled to life.

”Greetings Quidditch fans! I’m Lee Jordan with the WWN, currently at a super-secret squirrel facility off the coast of a large island that rhymes with Shmiceland…”

On his right, Sergej scoffed, visibly irritated. Ruzha looked up, tutted impatiently. Viktor shot her a look. The tension was thick enough to carve with a wand, but after a moment, it dissipated. He began to translate, opting to keep to the basic facts. He remembered the man from the last time he had been in England—he was a friendly sort, witty enough. They’d been at the wedding, he recalled, and had been sharing a drink when the patronus had arrived and everything had ended.

Alexei opted to clear a wall with a lazy swish of the wand, art dancing aside to allow for a massive parchment, a large bracket. Flags blossomed with swish and flicks as teams were announced, and Viktor found himself rather pleased when their opponents were announced.

The Japanese were flashy and quick, but they’d never managed much in the way of defence. Judging by Ivet and Aleksander’s grins, they rather agreed. Still, he couldn’t allow himself to get cocky now. Not this time. They had too much on the line.

“<We will crush them>,” Ivet purred, sitting up to drop an arm to Alexei’s shoulder, and Viktor thought she rather looked like a Nundu, her grin predatory.

“<Of course>,” Viktor had considered urging caution, but the tension in the room had turned gleeful, and he had little desire to be the one to crush it. They’d worked for years for this, trained harder than any team, had the best odds—he had to trust that.

Taco's Taco Truck! [High Casual-Advanced, Ignore Post Count]

No worries! <3 Doubling is fine.

Unintended

Sounds good! I'm finally making progress ahhhhhh