Ready For It?
 |
────────────── xxx READY FOR IT? xxx ──────────────── |
|
| x | mentions ; @Joseph Sims | 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓯𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓹𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓸𝓹𝓮 𝓫𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓭𝓲𝓼𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭. |
x |
XXXXX𝕭rookline’s head shot up, bleary yet ocean eyes searched for the fellow Ravenclaw. Who, she had thought was speaking to her. Eyebrows narrowed as the girl was confused. She had trouble keeping her irises open, and she blinked a couple times to try to see what was the matter. She gazed on, trying to figure out who woke her.
No.
Wait.
The Ravenclaw hadn’t woken the young Quinn, nor were they speaking to her. Unfortunately conversing loudly with another Ravenclaw instead. This made tears prick, heat flaming in her cheeks. Despite the fact she would have hated speaking with the other person, she felt alone in this huge wide world. All alone.
As she lightly brushed hair out of her face, a hand rose to cradle her cheek. Brookline tried to remember the dream she just had, before being rudely awoken by underclassmen. They just didn’t know their voices were insanely loud. The Ravenclaws also didn’t know that could persuade a quite unstable girl, and make her believe that they were indeed speaking to her. The Welsh girl glanced up, caught sight of a baby-blue sky, with a winter’s sun. A little after noon, she supposed. The fourth was one of the warmer (ish) days in February, when usually the second month of the new year was so cold.
The young Quinn left the Great Hall in pursuit of her dormitory. Perhaps she could find some solace there. Her short robes whipped at her ankles, as the chilly draft in the stone castle caused Brookline to curse and shiver. A thought came to her mind, and she almost decided to stay in her dorm when her classes would start that afternoon. She rarely even participated, anyways. Who would even notice that the brunette was gone?
In her dorm, Brookline set her satchel splayed across her trunk. By her bedside, the Welsh Ravenclaw settled on the cold, stone floor, and within seconds her numb fingers in her pockets. A plush cat bed sat beside her, and a curled-up feline was inside. The Welsh Ravenclaw reached out a palm to stroke her kitten. Tigeress yawned. The graceful kitten scratched her bedding as she stretched, and plopped herself in her owner’s lap.
Brookline smiled as she rubbed Tigeress' ears and she stood up. Placing the cat neatly on her bed, she whispered a little farewell to her kitten, and headed for her satchel. Then, it was time for classes.
Unfortunately.***As the hours stretched on, Brookline could have swore that someone enchanted the clock to go inching on, like a belching slug or a slimy snail. As her last class ended, she exhaled deeply, glad everything was done with.
Scrabbling to her dorm, Brookline’s satchel banged against her thigh. She saw her lazy cat right where she left her, in a fuzzy ball on her bed. She could have chuckled. Tigeress showed no movement, and if it wasn’t her chest’s rise and fall, the feline would look as though she was dead. Her companion adored naps, after all. It was probably deep sleep, anyway. The girl pondered as she changed in much better-fitting clothing. Pulling on a beige hoodie and then bouncing into wide-leg trousers, which where more of a fashion statement more than a way to stay warm. Yet, the girl tugged on her cloak just in case the temperature decided to drop, and snatched her beloved Silver Arrow from the deep depths of her trunk.
Merlin knows why the pure-blood girl grabbed her broom. Brookline had not been especially great at participating fully in the latest practices and their last race was less than five days ago race has started yet don’t know the outcome >.<. The Ravenclaw clearly needed to practice though. The girl set her priceless Silver Arrow done by her boots, and with her fingers, weaved a simple, brunette plait that reached to her lower back.
The Welsh girl tried to wrap the bobble around the end of her braid. Yet, the hair elastic snapped and struck Brookline’s fingernail. She winced at the sting. The remains of the hair bubble zipped across the dormitory, and crashed into the wooden trunk with a minor thud. Brookline simply groaned, the grumble low. The girl knelt by the trunk and grabbed a new one out of the satchel.
With the braid safety secured, Brookline snatched her broom. She hurried out the dormitory door and once outside, the Ravenclaw could feel the whipping wind on her pink cheeks. The extreme frosty air nipping at her red nose, that probably seemed more than pinched. The Welsh Ravenclaw managed imagined herself with a ruby and freezing-cold nose, like a Muggle stop sign! The Qudditch Training Pitch. Once on the pitch, she shivered, and trembled. Perhaps the young Quinn would be heading into the Great Hall for some warm supper. Except she wouldn’t be eating much. Or maybe it was her own fault that she never ate any kind of food, and she could be overthinking.
Despite the fact Brookline Isabella Quinn was fine, January twenty-ninth, the day of the broom race, she clearly wasn’t in the mood today. Whatever possessed her that day wasn’t present February fourth. And she just had to work with what she has.
Hopping on her broom, Brookline went high, and then dove down, as if she was a Seeker, training to dive for the golden Snitch. Yet, she was not a Seeker. The young Quinn was a racer. She pushed her broom to go faster, and felt her braid whipping out behind her. The Ravenclaw used her small and useful hands to stop herself before she rammed right into the old goalposts. The Ravenclaw cringed when she realized the sight of her. Brookline could have slapped herself. It was probably odd training into the Quidditch Training Pitch, instead of the Outdoor Club, where you usually practice for a broom race. Frankly, Brookline didn’t really care. She was different, in a good way, of course. Although, at least she was practicing.
During her warm-up, Brookline did not notice a second year wandering though the Training Pitch. Drawing her wand out, she flicked her wrist - learning how to balance with a wand. Observing the sidelines, the girl caught sight of the boy with a broomstick. A boy with russet hair, and dark skin that seemed like he spent a considerable amount outside when he was younger. Hufflepuff, based on the robes, and second or third year based on the height.
She wondered who the Hufflepuff was, yet she seemed not to care. Brookline seemed to disappear, mentally, from the whole wide world. When she felt as heavy as a Beater’s bat, suddenly, the Sliver Arrow lurched quite unexpectedly, and the girl slipped. A silent gasp escaped her lips. The broom, with her, making a nosedive for the sweet, sweet ground.
Not sweet ground! More like terrible! Brookline screamed in her mind. Up! Up! Foolish broom, up! Swearing loudly, and her frantic, blue eyes searched widely for her surroundings. She saw the outline of the boy with the broom she’d seen earlier. Another curse fluttered from her mouth, hysterical and panic-stricken. Shit! The Hufflepuff!
Aimed for the boy, she cried, “Watch out!” Just before the Welsh girl’s toes could reach the ground, and right before she could hit the boy, Brookline managed to pull her broom up in time. Barely skirting the bleachers, she switched turned. Once her boots could skim the grassy clearing, she leaped off and the girl let her broom clatter to the ground. Boots firmly in the green grass, she let out a deep breath of pure relief. She raced to the boy, desperate to exclaim an apology.
“Oh, my Merlin! I’m so sorry!” Brookline gasped out. “You all right? Must have been some shocker!” Thick inhales, and labored exhales seemed to cause her Welsh accent to seem even terrible. If it already wasn’t familiar!
She seemed to be remarkably sorrow, and apologetic, quite unlike how the broom racer actually felt. Brookline lifted her head to receive a better look of the boy, hopefully for the Hufflepuff to get a better appearance in her mind. Her lips sealed shut, as she studied. Almost like she was studying a book or history. Still same features from before she almost accidentally hit him with the broom, except more vivid and right in front of her.
When it was clear the boy was shell-shocked and couldn’t speak, Brookline narrowed her eyebrows. Yet, she continued speaking, her way to overcome the bolt out of the blue. “Erm. I’m Brookline. Brookline Quinn. Third year-Ravenclaw. I’m a broom racer so that sort of thing --” Carefully, the Welsh Ravenclaw vaguely waved over to where the two students almost crashed into each other -- “doesn’t really happen.” Embarrassed, awkward chuckles rose to her throat. A trail of pink ran over her lips, as she, sometimes, licked her lips when she was nervous.
Brookline seemed to notice the young wizard’s broom for the second time, and she took a step closer. Obviously finding her courage to speak to such a silent teenager. Perhaps he would speak later? All Brookline knew is that she had to keep talking so unwanted surprise would not creep onto her.
“Oh! Is that a Shooting Star? Wait, it could be a Comet 260? You never know with brooms... Hey, are you a member of broom racing or Quidditch?!” Brookline’s eyes sparkle with a dark unpredictability, and she stood where she stood and waited for the Hufflepuff to speak.
All her wild, desperate attitude was all gone. Evaporated just like that. Brookline’s shocked face was replaced with something interesting, though, dark, unrelenting circles reminded in their place under her ocean eyes. Shadows shrouded her, and she still seemed excited. Whatever emotion the young witch was feeling, she was ready to have a profound thrill.
The question, though, was the Hufflepuff ready?
[ coded by elena clark ]
|
x |  |
occ notes: permission to godmod mr. joseph sims is granted by his writer. title is based on taylor swift’s song. i’m sorry i had too
gorgeous banner is by alyss gilmour
Ready For It?
Grilled cheese. That’s what Joseph needed. Something hot and buttery to melt away the numb ache settling in his teeth. He wiped a bead of drool from the edge of his lips, frowning to find it grossly sticky. All winter’s fault. The cold always did funny things to his spit.
A rush of chilly wind swept past and Joseph shuddered, gloved fingers tightening around his broom. His striped coat offered some protection from the piercing cold, though his exposed cheeks pricked with redness. Today wasn’t a good day for flying. It was a perfect day to be hiding away in the common room, incubating in the cosy warmth of the fireplace.
Tragically, Signor Gazzolax had other plans. The tip of its polished handle had peeked out from under his bed, Broomish for: c’mon, dunderhead, we’re going out to play today! Joseph sighed. Defying your broom was dangerous – almost as risky as downing a hundred and twenty doses of an unknown potion. Trust him, Joseph would know.
“Just, well, don’t crash me into a tree or something,” he said, eyebrows scrunched up in a poorly-attempted glower.
Gazzo stayed silent.
“Really?” he huffed, glancing away with a resigned pout. Silence could mean anything in Broomish. Sometimes it was agreement. Most of the time it meant he had a catastrophic ride to look forward to.
He cleared his throat, then deepened his voice to a low gruff. Maybe he needed some off-hand authority. A certain firmness even the most obstinate of brooms couldn’t ignore. “Not this time, not in this weather. No throwing me off.”
Joseph shot his broom another glare, then looked up, just in time to spot a girl wobbling on her broom near the goal posts. Surprise drained from his face, replaced by a simple smirk.
Babbling bobblesticks. Another chaotic broom. Definitely from the same long and violent family line as Gazzolax.
“Nowhere as ruthless as you are,” Joseph joked, lightly slapping the tip of his Shooting Star's handle. He glanced up again, his gaze now following the girl as she drifted through the air. Another flyer. Another person who'd decided to endure February's stinging gales for a bit more flying practice. Maybe a quidditch player, or one of those racers.
The girl's broom jolted, then turned, dipped, twitched and plummeted. Fast. Straight toward him.
Someone screamed. Joseph stumbled back, chest tightening as the missile hurtled toward him. He ducked, eyes catching only a flurry of movement and whipping hair before blinking shut.
A moment passed. Nothing.
He risked a peek, heart still thrashing against his ribs. The girl and her broom were gone. His lips fell open, eyes glancing around furtively. Then he understood, and blood rushed back to his cheeks. Crisis averted. He wasn’t going to be skewered by a broomstick.
Soft thudding footsteps, accompanied by ragged breaths, approached. Joseph turned to face a brunette in a rumpled coffee brown hoodie, hurrying towards him as she launched into a frenzy of apologies. Little registered as he gazed at her in dumbstruck silence.
“–Erm. I’m Brookline. Brookline Quinn. Third-year Ravenclaw. I’m a broom racer–”
Joseph pressed his lips together. His mind still reeled from the fading adrenaline, as he ran a hand through his hair. He’d better speak soon. This could get awkward fast.
“Uh, hi. Joseph here.” He cringed at his thin and raspy voice. Turns out the cold did funny things to his voice too. “Thanks for not… killing me?”
He ought to offer some reassurance, though none formed in his dull and foggy mind. What was he to say? No worries, I wouldn’t have minded getting run into at seven billion miles an hour? Joseph latched onto the new subject instead.
“This is Signor Gazzolax,” he said, holding up his sleek and savage frenemy with a forced grin. “Not sure what type of broom he is though. Don’t think my friend told me when he gave me this thingy.” Or maybe he did. Joseph’s mind had been too preoccupied with chocolate-filled winter evenings with Astra to pay attention to his Christmas gifts. Then again, it didn’t matter; brooms only had two categories to Joseph – friendly and violent. Both his and Brookline’s fell under the latter.
“Probaby nothing special. I don’t need a fancy broom since I’m not in those… those flying sports.”
He’d meant to say ‘quidditch’, but his mind blanked under Brookline’s curious, sparkling gaze.
He took in a breath. “Just here ‘cause I thought my broom would like a tiny adventure. You're practicing for a race, I assume?”
Glancing away, Joseph took a step back, searching for anything but the Ravenclaw girl to focus on.
Life was odd, always throwing him into the strangest of situations. It couldn't possibly get more unpredictable than this, could it?
Right now, all he wanted was some steaming grilled cheese.
@Brookline Quinn
Last edited by Joseph Sims on 1 Jun 2026, 03:59, edited 2 times in total.
Life is like a box of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans; you never know what you are going to get.
Ready For It?
|
────────────── xxx READY FOR IT? xxx ──────────────── |
|
| x | mentions ; @Joseph Sims | 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓯𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓹𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓸𝓹𝓮 𝓫𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓭𝓲𝓼𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭. |
x |
XXXXX𝕭rookline’s brunette curls whipped in her face, her heart rammed inside her chest. Foolish, darn broom just could not do what it was supposed to do! At least, Brookline was quite fortunate that her Sliver Arrow does not perform such a scene in a official race as the broom did today.
Brookline screamed and a swear word tumbled unapologetically from her lips as her broom went haywire, heading straight for this Hufflepuff boy with his own broom. At first, the Ravenclaw had no idea what to do. Then, a cry for the boy’s safety rung out from her lips, and she was glad when the second year did his best to duck and tumble away from the broom’s dangerous line of sight. And just as the boy did just that, the brunette used her all her dwindling strength to pull up and steer away from the underclassmen. An audible sigh of shiny relief exhaled from Brookline, and it was obvious that she was terrified; the whites of her eyes were larger than her irises and the out-of-breath inhales coming from her. Her broom never did that before! What was wrong with it?
Always worried about her reputation, and others’ protection, Brookline leapt off, the broom stumbling to the ground as she sprinted to the boy. The flying device laid there, trampling all the grass underneath, almost forgotten. She didn’t dare look back to the Silver Arrow, too busy with half-hearted apologies rambling though her witty mind. Brookline would regret tossing her treasured broom aside later. Hopefully the boy wouldn’t get mad at her, yet she could barely focus. She was dizzy, and large gasps plagued her chest, causing her throat to go intently dry.
Unfortunately, being this of shape means that Brookline’s head would spin round to a good quarter of an hour. It also made her accent seem horrible and most likely, not understandable. An thick Welsh accent can sound absolute gibberish. And Brookline despised it. She hated that her Welsh accent was so thick; sometimes the young Quinn wished that she could go back in time and make her ancestors move to a land that wasn't so accent-heavy. As much she liked her roots, there were always curses with the blessings.
Most likely with me, more curses than blessings, she thought, all bitter and sarcastic, waiting for the young, startled boy to speak.
And, soon, finally, the boy spoke, five pitiful words tumbled from his mouth. "Thanks for not… killing me?" He then joked, phrasing it as a horrible question. Instantly, Brookline's nose wrinkled. Her eyebrows turned in a elaborated arch, and a different kind of question pireced her fair face.
"Yeah...anytime... And, also, by the way, it's not like I was trying too," Brookline retorted, her reputation and pride bruised. She pulled up the sleeves of her sweatshirt to her elbows, the skin under the hoodie warm, despite the cold weather."I don't know why it did that, anyways. Like I said, earlier, brooms and crashes don't mess with me. They don't happen often. The last incident I had with a broom was two years ago, when I was a first year." She dismissed her last stament with a light wave of her palm. Perhaps acting emotionless is better than spilling emotions all over the place?
Dark blue eyes search the boy one last time to make sure he was unhurt. Brookline was not going to be responsible for a second year’s injury, that was for darn sure. Then excited, enthusiastic words and sentences about brooms strung together and toppled out of her lined lips. The Welsh brunette was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, and her tangled curls were becoming frizzy due to the new spark in the conversation.
What...? Brookline narrowed her eyes at Joseph. The Hufflepuff was introducing his broom. This had to be the most strangest thing Brookline had seen all day. And the day the wasn’t even half way over yet! What did you just say? Signor Gazzolax? Let me get this straight, you named your broom? Her enthusiasm deflated like a flat, old balloon. This kid has to be younger than me.
“Oh, urm, that’s cool?” Brookline tried to feign her excitement with a compelling smile. She wasn’t doing as well as she would have liked. It was just naming your broom? A broom is an inanimate object, and you’re over here naming it? Brookline shook it off and did her very best to polite. After all, she just about crashed into this poor boy, the very least she could do is pretend that she liked the boy’s broom and the fact that he named it. Such a odd name, anyways.
Joseph concluded his statement with that he didn’t need a sophisticated nor advanced broom. He wasn’t in sports either. Then, what do you do? Brookline wanted to ask yet refrained from opening her mouth. She didn’t want to be all up in someone’s personal life nor hobbies; she didn’t desire to know about the hidden deep-ends and secrets about people like some people. As much as she was alone in the big blue-and-green Earth, she usually didn’t want to converse with people. And when she does, people don’t speak to her, and the same thing happens when she doesn’t wish to have an oh so wonderful conversation and there are students coming up to her, wishing to speak to her about anything and everything. Ironic, right?
Brookline noticed how the boy took his time in staring at the ground or the sky or anywhere. Was she frightening? Was she stressful? Was Brookline so scary that she caused Joseph to seem so daunt? She didn’t think she was unnerving, all she was doing was apologizing and becoming excited about a stubborn broom. The Welsh girl could understand how she would have scared that small first year in the Study Hall, she didn’t think she made such a great impression as a newly, terrifying third year on @Zephyr Deakin. She didn’t think she was stressful; in fact life stresses her out. Perhaps as a high and mighty third year Brookline was just intimidating, and she would just have to work on that. Most likely by not participating in anymore conversations 0r appearances.
"Uh, yeah. Actually, we just had a race a couple days ago." Brookline tried to smile, as her hand went to her face, trying to itch her eyebrow. When she itched her eyebrow, her nose now was twitching. She could feel a sneeze coming on. Face crumbling up, she went to scratch her wan nose and she ended up sneezing, spraying nasty crap all over the crook of her elbow. Oh course. Shaking it off, and discreetly pulling her hoodie sleeve over her exposed arm, she continued speaking. "Anyways, I’m pretty much out of shape, and I actually didn’t do so good, ha!"
The race against the crimson lions was actually really bad. While Ravenclaw won (thank God), Brookline had flown backwards to unfortunately participate in the rather ridiculous snowball fight and landed herself in thorns twice. And if the Gryffindors hadn’t been KOB the whole race, then being in Unit 8 would have been horrible for scoring points. Fortunately if not all of the lions were on the ground, the birbs would not have won.
Brookline crossed her fingers under the hoodie, wishing she had not bestowed such a terrible first impression on Jospeh Sims. She wished she could jump in an advanced machine that could take her before she even stepped outside and never met the Hufflepuff. That’s how awful she felt for almost killing a underclassmen.
[ coded by elena clark ]
|
x | |
occ notes: i apologize this is so late
and also brookline’s thoughts and actions are not my own and are used for her purpose of her character.
gorgeous banner is by alyss gilmour