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 {Never let you go} - COMPLETE, NIGHT!
Erik Dwight
 Posted: Jun 28 2015, 01:02 PM
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"I'll be your breath if you can be mine."
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Ravenclaw Advanced
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6th
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Ravenclaw
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Awards: 65



Erik Dwight was taking someone home.
It should not sound as odd as it actually did, the thought feeling strangely unusual, no matter how often it raced through the Swede's head. He was taking someone home for the first time and it made him feel nervous and insecure and he hated feeling like that. It had been one of those spontaneous ideas that popped up in his mind and made him appear at the Slytherin table, unannounced just to break his date ideas down to Sigurd in that low voice that somehow hid his excitement so well. The basic idea had been to leave Hogwarts for the weekend, to go somewhere else where no one was watching and no one knew them. And so it happened that he has asked him to come to Scarborough with him over the weekend, luring the other boy with detailed descriptions of the beaches and the sea that smelt like home if you only focussed enough. Reluctantly, as always, Sigurd had agreed. And that was all that mattered for Erik, anyway.

So it came they were walking down the small path that led from the garden gate to the small cottage, past the greenhouses, the wild growing bushes and smaller trees that were in full bloom now that the sun was shining down on them. There were two doorbells, one for the house and one for the tiny shop that was more of an unused garage transformed into the most lovely flower shop. The small sign on the upper doorbell read Dwight - Greta & Erik, written in a curvy handwriting, very unlike the nasty scribbling Erik used to write his letters in. The soft summer breeze was pulling at their hair, carrying the smell of the sea over. For a moment, the Swede closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. There were only few things better than this scent, and most of them were stuff he liked to eat. He turned around to make sure Sigurd was following him, although he had not really tried to run off until now. Erik's hand reached for the doorbell, and for a moment he considered warning the other boy about the tiny volcano of love Greta Dwight was, but then again he really did not want to scare him away, so he kept the warning to himself and simply waited until footsteps came closer to the door.

The next moment, a woman only few inches smaller than himself throw herself in his arms, almost as if they had not seen each other recently on christmas. Greta was a small and pixie-like woman with the same almost skinny frame as her son and the same light blonde, messed up hair. She was wearing jeans and a white blouse, although both were hidden underneath a flower-covered and mud-stained apron in all the colours of the rainbow. "Erik, my dear, I'm so glad to see you!," she chimed, her voice bright and high as she ran a hand through his still blueish hair and stepped back to beam at her only son. She cooed around him a little more until her light blue eyes focussed on the boy behind Erik. Her expression changed as she passed the eagle, almost as if she recognised the face in front of her, yet didn't care at all who he was. He was here with Erik, and that was all that mattered for Greta right now. Without any further warnings she pulled Sigurd in a gentle hug. "And you must be Sigurd! It's nice to meet you, dear," she said with a smile, and as she hugged him, she whispered in his ear: "Erik never brought anyone home, did you know?" With a knowing smile she let go off him before patting his shoulder once more and almost dancing towards the door. "C'mon in, bunny, or you two will strike roots here!" She held the door open for them and Erik walked in first - well, once he had checked whether Sigurd was still alive after meeting Greta, of course.

He wanted to go straight for the kitchen once he had dropped his bag on the wooden stairs that let to the first floor where their bedrooms where located. Down here were the kitchen, a small bathroom, the living room and the conservatory. The walls were brightly coloured in a light blue, book shelves taking every free spaces in the hallway. As Erik pushed the curtain made of an old fisher's net aside, he almost fell into the kitchen instead of gracefully entering it. Maybe he should have laced his boots properly or maybe someone should have told him they had a cat now, for furious yellowish eyes glared up him out of a fur-covered face. The cat was small but very fat and fluffy and had the most disdainful expression on its face, almost like it owned the place and Erik was the intruder here. "Mama? Since when do we have a cat?", he asked, a worried look on his face.
"It's not our cat, bunny. I think it's a street cat, but it was so cold and it seemed to like our place so why kicking it out again? I call him Edgar, but seriously, he listens to any name," Greta's voice came from the hallway where she gently nudged her other guest towards the kitchen. "Aye..", the long-haired boy mumbled and frowned as the fat cat finally refrained to glare at him and decided to stroll around Sigurd's legs instead. It seemed like everyone in the small cottage had already adopted the Norwegian - even the street cat that not really lived here.

[clothes, cat and mom]

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Sigurd Nilsson
 Posted: Nov 24 2016, 04:58 PM
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"I keep a close watch on this heart of mine"
Sammeh the savior, the protector, THE GUARDIAN OF HOPE
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Awards: 17



It was hard to confidently agree with any type of idea Erik Dwight had, knowing smile and eyes shining like gems only a taste of the dangers that were lurking in the shadows of consequence. And at the same time it was immensely difficult not to agree for the very same reasons. Sigurd wondered – in the now, after the initial conversation, with his green and silver scarf tightly wrapped around his neck with the Swedish sea air messing up his hair- if this was what it felt like when a veela asked you for favours in normal circumstances, when you weren’t cutting off their hair, or if it was more than just attraction and rather something people labelled as love.

Instead of breaking his skull about trivial matters like feelings, the boy preferred to set his mind to other things as they walked. Like how none of these plants were of magical origin; how nothing moved on its own accord and only to a gentle spring breeze. These weren’t things that bit fingers off if someone handled them in the wrong ways. It should’ve shocked him, but rather left him wondering if those greenhouses held anything with a conscience of its own or if the Dwights had thrown out the last bit of their dignity with cutting off rose thorns as their new most dangerous work for the day.

On top of all that, to make things even worse: Greta Dwight dressed as a complete and utter muggle. It shouldn’t have been the first thing that came to mind upon seeing his sorta boyfriend’s mother, but it was the only thing he could see. I was easy to keep the obvious disdain out of his features though, to just stare blankly at the dirt on her clothes in favour of the slight horror of the clothes themselves. Her voice cut through his focussed attention and almost made him want to take a step or two back to the safety of a muggle garden. She was loud in ways his mother had never been and made it impossible for the Slytherin to imagine her singing lullabies in any tranquil type of way.

And that didn’t even include the hugging.

It wouldn’t even be exaggerating to say Sigurd went as tense as a petrificus totalus spell; every muscle in his body in a fierce eternal battle of getting away or playing dead. Mothers only hugged when their kids were sad in those early days when a kiss on the head was still enough to stop the crying. At least that was what he’d learned throughout the years of clinging to robes and clutching stuffed dragon toys. Her words didn’t make things better in the slightest. Up until now the fifth year had reasoned this was one of Erik’s ways to entertain friends. The Ravenclaw’s house didn’t have portraits of unfamiliar faces staring in fear, or endless empty rooms like his own did. It was therefore perfect to bring friends along to. Right? Sigurd decided to just plainly nod in reply before trying to suppress the snort of laughter that followed after the most affectionate nickname for Erik.

Once inside the Slytherin was left to fiddle with his coat for a few seconds, eyes scanning the hall for any signs of life every pureblood house seemed to hold. Nothing came, however, and Sigurd just passed it to Erik with a confused and slightly annoyed: “There aren’t any house elves here….” Everything about this house felt unnatural and almost made him wait for some sort of punchline he was obviously missing, from its small cosiness that reminded him of summer beach homes, to the untraceable signs of magic. It was almost too perfect for a home.

He got pulled out of his obvious staring around by the familiar feeling of a small body knocking against his legs. Experience with Sivge taught him she wanted to get on his shoulder, but this one didn’t look seem to have that kind of personality. It didn’t take away its thundering purring as it twirled around though. Everyone, even the damned cat, seemed way too affectionate in this household. Sigurd was sure he’d seen enough body contact for a good few months. It was suddenly very clear where Erik got his habits from, and in all honestly, it was the only reason why the boy believed this was truly his home instead of some weird joke. It almost made him uncomfortable and all the Norwegian could do was look at Erik with a small plea in his eyes.

---

@Erik Dwight

--------------------

I'LL BE A STONE, I'LL BE THE HUNTER
A TOWER THAT CASTS A SHADE



staff!edit: Tine says Sammeh is the best Cookie Slytherin around <33
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Erik Dwight
 Posted: Nov 25 2016, 10:05 AM
Quote
"I'll be your breath if you can be mine."
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Ravenclaw Advanced
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6th
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Ravenclaw
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neutral
Awards: 65



He shouldn’t be so nervous about all of this, and Erik knew that if he started thinking about his decisions in life, it would turn into one big vicious cycle of overthinking. Call it a talent, or simple a flaw, but the reason for his habit of doing before thinking was clearly the fact that he knew he could think himself into the worse situation if he only let it happen. Alcohol helped dulling this, but today, he was sober. On some days it seemed like he did not need to drink if he could only gaze into these stormy eyes every now and then throughout the day, appreciating every single - rare - movement of this face that showed he was not the only one who wanted this. Rubbing his hands together, he looked at the back of his mother as she hugged Sigurd, and he did not know what she had whispered to him that caused the Norwegian to nod. Did he want to know? Of course, because everyone knew that mothers were prone to embarrass their sons in front of their significant others - even if they were not aware that their sons were dating other boys.


In fact, Erik had no idea whether his mother knew or not, and he had tried to keep Sigurd as a side character in his letters, someone he spent time with and enjoyed it. A friend, nothing more and nothing less. But Greta Dwight always seemed to know things no one ever told her, and the way she looked at them made him wonder whether she was aware of it - and if she was, what did she think about it? His thoughts were paused as soon as they were inside, and he had not even thought about the first impression the strangely mundane cottage was most likely offering. There were a few photographs on the wall - moving, of course, like Greta waving into the camera with a tiny, fuzzy-haired baby in her arms or little Erik on his grandfather’s shoulders, looking a little seasick up there. Yet the main point only dawned on him as Sigurd handed him his coat, and he looked up, front teeth digging into his lower lip as his fingers tightened around the fabric.


“We used to have them, but my father took them with him when he moved out,” he said quietly, lowering his gaze before putting the coat on one of the cloth hangers his mother had charmed to the wall. “My grandparents still have them, back in Luleå. But here it’s too dangerous ‘cause muggles sometimes buy herbs and plants from Mama,” Erik added after a moment. He did not quite look at the other boy - unsure whether he was ashamed of these revelations or not. There just had been no need to talk about these things - neither about a lack of house elves or about his father who was not a significant part of his life. As he turned his back to his boyfriend, the Swede wondered whether he should have taken Sig to Luleå instead. Had he not been there before, as the coffins of the Larssons had been lowered into their mausoleum? It was not a memory that haunted Erik, more a logic explanation that the Nilssons would have been there when the Larssons were buried.


It was hard to imagine that there had been a time when looking at Sigurd Nilsson’s face had not been a thing of importance for him. Erik leaned against the worktop in front of the window that lead towards the garden, while his mother was still standing in the doorframe towards the kitchen, almost expectantly looking at him. But the thing about having never brought anyone home was that he did not know what to do with his guest right now - apart from the fact that leaving him with his mom was clearly not an option. Greta was the one breaking through the silence, petting Sigurd’s shoulder. “If you need anything, raring, I’m sure Erik will take care of that. Right, bunny? I need to take care of the Silverweed, but you can always knock!” She smiled at the boys before turning around and leaving them, obviously on her way to the small greenhouse that held the plants muggle eyes were not supposed to see.


There was another strange silence following Greta’s exit, and Erik cleared his throat before pushing himself off the worktop again. “Uhm. Yeah, that’s my home. Do you want coffee? And….would you like to go to the beach with me?” he asked, almost timidly as a shade of rosé rushed over his cheek. He gestured towards the door that was across the room, guiding towards a small path, a garden door and the endless-looking beach behind it - abandoned, as spring at the shore was anything but mild. “We can take the coffee there….” And then he reached out for a moment, but his fingers merely grazed Sigurd’s before he pulled back again, smiling shyly.


@Sigurd Nilsson
raring = sweetie, honey

--------------------
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Sigurd Nilsson
 Posted: Feb 16 2017, 04:45 PM
Quote
"I keep a close watch on this heart of mine"
Sammeh the savior, the protector, THE GUARDIAN OF HOPE
Offline
237 Posts
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Slytherin Intermediate
Age
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Year
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Slytherin
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Awards: 17



Sigurd was used to silence. It had been a comforting thing growing up. Their house in Trondheim was awfully big on the inside, which made it eerily quiet on most days because all six family members were rarely present at the same moment. There was often the silent tsk tsk of house elves doing their duties without disturbing anyone, a sound as easily drowned out like the ticking of an old wall clock. He read his books in silence and knitted in the same fashion. The noise of a hardanger fiddle linked itself to practise, painful fingers and busy family parties. Silence was a good thing, that much Sigurd had learned early on in his life.

This wasn’t a good type of silence. Rather one that stretched out diligently with each passing second, building up enough tension until it all snapped. It merely left Sigurd waiting awkwardly as he felt the continuous brush of a soft body against his ankles no matter how much he tried to ignore the creature. Give them a finger and they’ll take an arm. Maybe it was why his fingers instinctively reached for the feeling of his wand inside his right sleeve. The small comfort that something wasn’t out of place and still right where he left it. Even Erik was out of place for some reason. No slow stretching joy or forced body contact in the form of him draping his entire upper body on the Norwegian in one way or another. Even less words than usual. It became painfully obvious how much Erik talked during their time together. How Sigurd didn’t actually mind, even though he always thought he did. Silence was comforting, until now it seemed.

Greta threw cute pet names around like a messiah handing out bread to the poor. Sigurd almost didn’t want to accept her fake peace offering. She felt fake like the commercial headlines in the Daily Prophet, her smile sweeter than those of other pureblood women he knew, like leftover frosting building up around the corners of his mouth when biting into a piece of cake. The boy didn’t smile politely at her words, nor did he when she left. Silent as always, his eyes were too busy staring at Erik when they gathered up enough courage to look up from the floor. The game kept going for a while: floor, Erik, floor, cat, floor, Erik. The floor had the colour of sand, but didn’t invite him to take his shoes of in the slightest like beaches usually did. His questioning eyes turned back to Erik, silently wondering why he was the one feeling out of place in his own home. Wasn’t that Sigurd’s role as a guest? The room felt horrible small, little knickknacks littering every free space until even cosiness suffocated in here. Wasn’t Erik supposed to thrive in these sorts of environments?

I can see that was the first response that popped up when the other spoke up, but the Slytherin held it down. This wasn’t the moment for snark or unharmful backtalk. Bitter words could be replaced with bitter beverages and so he nodded his head in response instead. “coffee’s nice.” A beat. “The beach too.” Another nod. The sleeves of his oversized knitted sweater stretched a bit more under the pull of his fingers until his hands were almost completely covered. Apart from that, the Norwegian just stood in the room almost motionless like one of the many objects in the room. The pictures almost held more movement. Sigurd looked along the path outside, to waters that felt like the most familiar place in miles. With a bit of effort he could recall the cutting of the wind, but sea air making it all a bit more bearable. The crunch of breaking seashells with each step.

“That sounds nice.” He therefore replied, almost in a whisper. Because it did, more than spending the entire day in a space too small for him no matter how little space he took up. There was an instant, a second of wanting to pull back at Erik’s touch. It was faint, and Sigurd was learning not to listen to it. The element of surprise, of touches unannounced and spontaneous was still a bit weird…yet not that horrible as much as he thought it was. Luckily Erik had pulled back sooner and, although strange, the fifth year chose to accept it nevertheless. Sigurd took the few steps towards the door, turning around only to look at the other boy in the room without bothering with a coat. His mind still too used to having house elves. “You gonna lead the way or?”

Maybe he just wanted to get out again already, or wanted something to calm him down. It didn’t really matter. Erik would be there and that was what was important to Sig in the moment.

---

@Erik Dwight

--------------------

I'LL BE A STONE, I'LL BE THE HUNTER
A TOWER THAT CASTS A SHADE



staff!edit: Tine says Sammeh is the best Cookie Slytherin around <33
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Erik Dwight
 Posted: Feb 17 2017, 12:49 PM
Quote
"I'll be your breath if you can be mine."
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Offline
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Age
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Height
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6th
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Ravenclaw
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neutral
Awards: 65



The space around Erik had never been completely silent. For once, there had been the raging of the sea outside the house he grew up in, and said raging never calmed when he visited his grandparents down the street as well. When he was there, in the big Leander mansion with all its rooms and the always busy house elves, the cats that sprawled on couches and beds and the horses outside of course. Later on, the sounds of his childhood had turned into a different kind of noise; the yelling down in the living room of the cottage they were currently in, yelling so loud that he needed to turn the volume of his mp3-player up to the limit only to mute the accusations and the mocking, the painful words about him and his mother reaching his ears through the sharp basslines and the drums that went as fast as his heartbeat. Erik did not want to think about these moments that were lying in the past now, not while Sigurd was here and did not look like he was exceptionally comfortable either. It was stupid to feel like a stranger in one’s own house, yet Erik could not quite help it - instead, the feeling only increased when his mother left them to their own devices, as if the last piece of familiarity was taken away with her. Fuck, he had not even known this cat until a mere few moments ago.

All he wanted was for the Norwegian to feel welcomed here, but something must have gone wrong. Erik could not quite fathom what it was. Yet his face lit up as Sigurd finally spoke, agreeing to both the beach and the coffee - although the coffee had to be made first, making Erik turn around to squint at the coffee machine his mother had broken several times by pointing her wand at it. It was rather easy to take out two cups, push the button twice and watch the brownish-golden liquid pour into them - cups with little bunnies chasing each other, literally a running pattern ever since the boys had arrived at Scarborough. The Swede drummed his fingertips gently against the worktop as he waited, recalling that Sigurd took neither milk nor sugar and simply walking along instead of trying to find the sugar pot in these cupboards his mother always seemed to rearrange, trying to maintain an atmosphere of constant change that was more unsettling than calming.

But focusing on the coffee helped, and before reaching for the cups, he tapped them with his wand, carelessly shoving it back in the pocket of his ripped jeans before taking them by the handle and following Sigurd who was already by the door. With a move of his hip, he pushed the backdoor open and walked along the small path through the garden, repeating the same motion with the garden door and holding it with his feet until his boyfriend had passed it, too. The sea and the beach were only a few minutes away, so the lawns smoothly became sand underneath their shoes as they walked, and the breeze tugged on their air just a little rougher. Erik somehow managed to carry the cups to one of the bigger pieces of driftwood on the abandoned beach, grey clouds hovering above an equally grey sea, with waves crashing against the sure and leaving single shells and smaller branches behind. Somewhere up in the air, seagulls were screeching loudly, and the boy placed the cups on the wood before turning around to meet Sigurd’s stormy gaze again - a gaze that seemed to fit so perfectly into this environment, as if it had been painted to stare at the sea.

Erik shivered, only now realising it had been a rather bad idea to walk out without his coat on, especially as he was dressed less comfortable than the other boy. It did not matter now that he was here, the familiar air tugging on his neatly braided, baby blue hair, and with Sigurd only a few inches away from him. Now that there was no one watching, no one there to see and judge, he dared coming closer, tentatively reaching out to intertwine their fingers, before brushing his lips almost coyly over Sigurd’s cheek. “It’s not so bad here Norge, mh?” he hummed, almost whispered while a genuine smile appeared on his face.

@Sigurd Nilsson

--------------------
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Sigurd Nilsson
 Posted: Feb 22 2017, 11:32 AM
Quote
"I keep a close watch on this heart of mine"
Sammeh the savior, the protector, THE GUARDIAN OF HOPE
Offline
237 Posts
Rep: 13 pts
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Age
15
Height
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Year
fifth
House
Slytherin
clash
Aegis
Awards: 17



The effort of making coffee was something Sigurd spent approximately a few minutes a year thinking about. It was always there, he didn’t even need to ask anymoreto get some in the morning when words were still a challenge and the world was a bit too loud as well. As easy as the snap of house elf fingers, or a wave of a wand but never a push of a button. The Norwegian’s head tilted in obvious confusion. As easy as the process seemed to be, it was loud and it took longer than necessary. He wondered why the apparatus needed to be this loud. Hadn’t muggles found a way to fix those things? Then again cars never seemed to grow quieter even though they looked stranger and stranger as time went on. More importantly, the boy tried to wrap his head around Erik using a muggle device while a wand was in the immediate vicinity. It all felt unnecessary, as if the use of a muggle object was worth the extra effort, like using a heirloom wand even though they never worked as good as one which had specifically chosen you and not some old relative.

Then again, Sigurd was guilty of the latter now wasn’t he.

The smell was the same, bridging the gap of endless miles between Sweden and his home back in Trondheim with the same rich odour of roasted beans. If he closed his eyes he could stand in the wide kitchen at home, never quite full no matter how many people were there. The big oak table, sturdy strong and yet warm oak. Warmer than the entire room would ever be. Things that were built with care were meant to last. Upon opening his eyes it was still the small uncomfortable kitchen, the fact that there was so much light nulling the comparison with dark and tiny closets. Erik was here to open doors to the outside, to make him feel a little less trapped and uncomfortable as he was right now. Cold hands almost reached for one of the coffee cups as something to cling to, as clinging to Erik wasn’t yet something that brought him comfort yet no matter how warm the other could be.

Instead Sigurd followed the carefully mapped out path outside, through a fence gate and beyond. It was as easy as that. No need for road signs or instructions. The sea was right there, if only he stretched out his arm far enough he could reach it in an instant. Salty sea air filled his lungs with every inhale, tingling the inside of his nose with cold, and it mixed with the sporadic waft of coffee if the wind was just right.

With movements that were only as smooth because of practise the Norwegian rolled up one sleeve and drew on the sequence of runes resembling a warming spell. The cutting wind made his wand hand shake just a little, but everything turned out readable enough to feel the warmth spread through his arm and later his whole body. His mother hadn’t taught him many things, often away and leaving her boys to their own devices, but she was there to show them how to draw runes so they wouldn’t come home with runny noses and loud coughing. It was something Erik seemed to forgot about magic as well as the other set down the coffee cups and shivered.

Sigurd decided to not mention it, until fingers now colder than his own took hold of his. A weird feeling still, the Norwegian looked down at their intertwined fingers trying to figure out what Erik seemed to love about it so much. The other did that a lot, pressing body contact like an overly affectionate cat. Yet Erik was no cat, and Sigurd didn’t deserve affection because he certainly wasn’t feeding him on a daily basis. The cuddles and kisses weren’t horrible unwelcome, just something the Ravenclaw seemed to deem important when imagining something that went beyond friendships. With Erik there were kisses at unforeseen moments, just like now, leaving the slightest hint of cold for the wind to brush against, and the Slytherin apparently had to get used to that. Sigurd just hummed in reply, too shy to look Erik in his curious green eyes in fear they might give him away.

Instead he focussed on the sea, the beach, anything. The shore piled with driftwood, the hidden beauties of seashells hidden in the sand. It made him remember the little orb Vivi had given him for Christmas, always echoing the sound of the sea no matter where he was. Right now there was no need for replacements, so close to the water he felt the urge to take off his shoes and let the waves lap at his ankles until the tide would rise too high. “For Sweden, it’ll do.” He added after a beat, a huff of air the closest thing resembling laughter. With his free hand the boy tugged some strands messed up by the wind and tucked them behind his ear for the lack of a better option. Now useless bobby pins had to wait.

“You an idiot for being cold though.” He then chided after another shiver from the other, tugging the hand he was holding closer. No need to roll up sleeves, as Erik had been genius enough to go outside without as much as a second layer of clothing, Sigurd got to work of repeating his previous gesture. Erik’s skin was smoother than his own, no small flakes of dry skin scattered around like melting snowflakes. Still as pale as snow, he could see the underlying veins of blue as he worked, drawing each rune with ease. The noises of the sea and the bird disappeared in that moment, left them in a bubble awfully close together as Sigurd finished his work with a small frown on his features.

---

@Erik Dwight

--------------------

I'LL BE A STONE, I'LL BE THE HUNTER
A TOWER THAT CASTS A SHADE



staff!edit: Tine says Sammeh is the best Cookie Slytherin around <33
PM
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Erik Dwight
 Posted: Feb 22 2017, 12:26 PM
Quote
"I'll be your breath if you can be mine."
Tine
Offline
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3964 Posts
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Ravenclaw Advanced
Age
16
Height
5'7
Status
Pureblood
Year
6th
House
Ravenclaw
clash
neutral
Awards: 65



Sometimes it was hard to readjust to the silence of the cottage, and how everything needed to be done by hand - even if it just meant to flick a wand towards the cupboard. Erik knew his mother had cast several glamour charms around the house to hide the more exotic, magical plants and the general use of magic in the garden and the house, when she was letting the laundry float towards the washing line. Over the years they had figured out that electricity and magic often collided and never went hand in hand, and he would not even be surprised if the coffee machine he was currently handling was the same it had been last time, or whether Greta had replaced it again after breaking it. She had done the same before with a TV and a calculator, before letting the bills fix themselves - the TV was still in the living room, although no one ever used it. Whenever Erik passed by, he just drew random symbols into the dust on the screen, and his mother used the top of it to place flower pots on it. In the small cottage by the sea, everything was just a little different - and Erik had never been self-conscious about his home until the moment Sigurd Nilsson walked into it.

He did not turn around to subject himself to those questioning eyes, knowing that many of the things within the cottage were not painted with the glory of pureblood families - so different from his grandparents’ mansion full of house elves and knitting needles that were floating upon a chair’s seat, of dishes washing themselves and portraits whispering to each other. Once more, the thought of taking Sigurd there instead of here tickled his mind, but he brushed it off again as soon as he could inhale the soothing scent of coffee that seemed to mingle with salty sea air - both things familiar and so terribly exciting just because he knew that eyes like stormclouds were eventually resting on his back. But no, Sigurd might remember the Leander mansion from the Larsson funeral, and thoughts of the dead would stain the idea of taking your boyfriend home - as well as the never-ending questions his grandparents would have come up with, their voices filled with pride that the misfit grandson was finally socialising with a Nilsson child. Today, Erik did not feel like sharing Sigurd’s attention with anyone or anything but the sea.

The path towards the beach was an easy one, no crooked turns or chances to get lost - a path he had memorised since the first day they had come here, when the tears on his cheek had still felt fresh, dried traces of salt while his mother had held onto him as if he was a lifeline she simply couldn’t let go. William Dwight had taken them here, and he had left them here while erasing his own presence from the cottage - but he had never been able to stain the memories of waves crashing against the shore for Erik, fortunately. He took in those familiar sensations that were so different, and yet Sigurd just seemed to blend into the picture, creating a perfect polaroid moment. Without saying a word, the Swede watched him pull up his sleeve to apply the runes, yet he did not pay too much attention to it - it was just another familiar image, something he was used to and yet kept forgetting whenever he was at Hogwarts.

When Erik reached for Sigurd’s hand, it was a first, small success that the Norwegian did not pull away, just like he never seemed to pull away from the long-haired boy’s touches. At the same time, he never quite looked like he enjoyed it - more like he was simply enduring it because it belonged to relationships. He did not seem to need the constant affection, the comfort of physical contact and the promise that came with it - a promise of someone being there when Erik threatened to fall. The cool wind brushed over his skin again, tempting to cuddle more against the Slytherin instead of just holding his hand - but he resisted, just looking at Sigurd when he spoke again. Erik snorted, shaking his head. “Next time you pick where to go,” he simply replied, glad to pass on the responsibility of choosing a place to be and things to do. He frowned at the insult, tilting his head while ignoring the goosebumps on his skin. In a way, he was always dressed in the wrong ways, always wearing t-shirts when it was far too cold for it, as if fingerless gloves and arm warmers could replace sleeves. Yet he did not resist when Sigurd pulled on his hand - instead, he held his breath while staring at his own arm, watching the skilled and focused movements of the other boy as he started drawing runes on his skin. The shapes were familiar, as well as the order - symbols that were scattered through his childhood, marking bedposts and doorframes and even his own wand, which was covered in rune carvings. On his own skin, they looked so different, although he remembered his grandfather doing the same when he had been younger. It was the kind of magic the Leanders practised, and the kind of magic Severin knew so much better than Erik thanks to attending Durmstrang.

It was everything he wanted and needed, and yet the goosebumps did not fade when the warmth started spreading all over his body - it simply had another, better reason now, the whole, almost ritual-like process of applying runes to someone else’s skin. Erik had forgotten he was holding his breath until he needed to breath, a sound between a deep inhale, a gasp and a cough escaping his lips - despite the desperate attempt to make it sound like low laughter. His cheeks were flushed again as he looked up, reaching out with his free hand to slowly brush the stray strands that had fallen into Sigurd’s face away again, fingers resting on the Norwegian’s face in a silent question. “Tack. I forgot...how it felt,” he said quietly. And then the eagle threw all his fears aside and placed his other hand on Sig’s cheek as well, raising the other’s head just enough to close the distance and brush his lips over the other’s, every sound dulled to this exact moment.

@Sigurd Nilsson

--------------------
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Sigurd Nilsson
 Posted: Mar 2 2017, 05:15 PM
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"I keep a close watch on this heart of mine"
Sammeh the savior, the protector, THE GUARDIAN OF HOPE
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He didn’t know where he could possibly take Erik to. Home was a place full of ghosts, in the forms of talking photographs that didn’t show a single Nilsson. They tended to whisper when there were visitors; they weren’t afraid of anyone but those who owned the house they were hung in. Sigurd was used to them, just like he was used to bossing around house elves or the fact that his family lived more in big buildings full of caged beasts rahter than their own house. It wasn’t the place to show Erik. The building lacked something familiar, something significantly theirs. The photo albums were all hidden away on towering bookshelves, not out on display. If it wasn’t for the house elves being as loyal as crups to them and them only, someone else could easily live there without having to change a single thing.

Instead Sigurd showed him home in other things. He showed him the stories of his childhood in warming runes; his mother applying them to each of her boys before they ventured outside to go sailing in case they dared to fall in the cold water. It told days at Durmstrang the boy never got to experience, but rather learned through stories from his brothers. It was the only thing that had any significance to show rather than tell. The Nilssons didn’t have memories that were easy to share during dinnertime at Hogwarts. Nobody could recognize themselves in running through corridors, passing everything from firecrabs to unicorns, or learning to play an instrument just because it was a family tradition as old as their wands. Preben had tried, those first days at Hogwarts, but was left with cold faces and stares. Sigurd was smart enough to shut up about it; a habit he still hadn’t shook until this day. Yet this, this would do.

Methodically he worked, the movements of his wand writing on skin as familiar as a nursery rhyme. His grandpa had always said his handwriting was perfect for runes, a type of scratch that left no room for curved edges and made his professors at Hogwarts grimace with every handed in essay. It was almost like signing a letter with an autograph, years of family history piled in a combination of runes perfected through time. Each household had their own, adapted to accustom their needs. It was only at the last line that Sigurd noticed the goosebumps, frown deepening just a smidgen in confusion why it didn’t seem to work. Warmth wasn’t supposed to do this. Looking up the boy was startled by Erik’s hand, guiding away stray hairs and staying right there. Still there was warmth the Norwegian could feel spreading through that hand and onto his cheek, in that comforting way he had always associated with those runes. It felt familiar, enough to even out the worry and confusion between his brown back into its original state of untouched marble. “You’re ridicu-“

There wasn’t room or time to finish, lips captured to stop the flow of insults that had no bite to them. Soft on chapped. It was weird to think that this wasn’t and would never be special. A lot of people had kissed Erik Dwight before, or the other way around. He was a taste desired enough for people to wonder, to want to know, to taste. Yet it did feel like something different, and not some emotion he had to share with other people. Other talked about hearts racing a mile a minute, about butterflies and summersaults no matter if it was the dead of Winter. For Sigurd it was just barely sweet, enough to not feel bad about getting a second dessert. It was not knowing where to touch to make it even more intimate, but instead Erik’s ribs under his hand to feel a stammering heartbeat. Other people had their hearts racing when kissing Erik Dwight, but how many did the opposite?

His hand stayed there, even after breaking the kiss. Lips were still chapped, but they felt like they were in denial, stained pink and wet in that blissful way people loved to talk about. He didn’t yet dare to look up, not after this. No matter how often their lips connected, it always felt weird afterwards. So rather than making a fool out of himself with words, Sigurd just waited for the other to fill in the silence. He was, after all, the more experienced one.

---

@Erik Dwight

--------------------

I'LL BE A STONE, I'LL BE THE HUNTER
A TOWER THAT CASTS A SHADE



staff!edit: Tine says Sammeh is the best Cookie Slytherin around <33
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Erik Dwight
 Posted: Mar 5 2017, 03:14 AM
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"I'll be your breath if you can be mine."
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What made a home a home? Erik did not know, because he had always felt strangely uprooted, suddenly empathising with the mandrakes they had repotted in Herbology a while ago - torn from the warm soil, exposed to a few rays of sunlight peeking through the greenhouse roof and feeling nothing but the urge to scream and shout until a new patch of soil was draped around them. It was exactly what William Dwight had done: he had torn Greta and Erik from their mother soil and placed them in a pot that was strange and new and therefore uncomfortable. But none of these emotions were bubbling to the surface, as the Swede knew he could not display discomfort while he wanted Sigurd to feel comfortable and welcome within the bright walls. There was no need to return to them any time soon and figure out whether the Norwegian was going to take the abandoned guest room no one had ever slept in or share a room - and a bed - with Erik, as those were thoughts that chased the pinkish colour over the blonde’s cheeks again. For now, all that mattered was them and the sea.

It was so rare for Erik to stand perfectly still, to just watch how Sigurd was covering his skin with those runes that made him feel warm - a sensation that started at the first rune and quickly spread all over his body, chasing the cold the sea breeze had caused away within a few seconds. And he had to admit that these runes just looked cool on his pale skin, a tiny and crazy thought flicking through his mind as he muttered: “These would make badass tattoos. Would I always be warm then?” It was a genuine question, one he did not know whether Sigurd could answer to it or not. He wished that he would have grown up to be more skilled with the runes himself, much like both Severin and Sigurd obviously were, while his own skill was at a Novice level - good, but never good enough to impress anyone with it. Not skilled in those ways that a rune was drawn faster than a spell was cast, the way his grandparents did it all the time. A very soft sigh escaped his lips while he was wondering why being with Sigurd woke such memories, and why he did not even mind them in the first place.

While others gave out pet names and compliments, the snake was always fast with insults - and yet they never stung as much as they should, almost as if he did not meant them to hurt but to express something else that was usually expressed with hugs and kisses, with sweet words rather than calling someone an idiot. It was cute, but of course Erik did not say that. He rather focused on those lips that always felt so hesitant when pressed against his own, and how they tasted just a bit like the sea right now, if he only believed in it. He could feel Sigurd’s hand against his ribcage, but instead of calming him down, it made his heart beat even faster. No one had ever made his heart beat that hard and fast and unsteady, although he had kissed many people before. With Sigurd Nilsson, everything was different. There were no dirty words and no french kisses in the corridors, no hickeys placed on skin so everyone would see. There were no bodies shoved against walls with witnesses around. For them it was the secrecy, kisses that still held a meaning because they were more scarcely set, and carefully timed meetings when one of their dorms was empty.

This was not a body Erik meant to toss away, not a fling he wanted to forget again because he felt stained whenever they kissed. Every touch was holy, every moment treasured - and yet he knew he acted so different because everything suddenly held a meaning, the meaning of three words and so many emotions captured within them. Even when the kiss broke, Erik’s hands were resting on Sigurd’s cheeks for a second longer, a second where he allowed a thumb to stroke over these chapped lips that were so fucking kissable, forcing his own breath to steady again. The words were burning on the tip of his tongue, meant to be said right now while knowing Sigurd would understand them. Jag älskar dig. There was so much more meaning to it when said like this, so much more sincerity than the I love you that never felt honest enough. But he refrained for a moment, hands slipping from the other boy’s cheek only to wrap around his waist for a moment, pulling him into half a hug and half something more with Erik’s face nuzzled against his neck, feeling the wool of the soft sweater against his cheek before other words with the same meaning were uttered, words that came out not quite as smooth yet well enough as he adjusted to the slightest change of language. “Jeg elsker deg.

Then he pulled away, fingers reaching for Sigurd’s hand again while he felt his boots sink into the sand, driftwood and seashell splinters cracking underneath his soles while his gaze was settled on the sky where seagulls were screeching - as if it made the blush fade from his cheeks and would undo his words. “Come, let’s have some coffee before one of them shits in it,” he said, gently dragging the snake along to where he had placed the cups, the bunnies printed on the ceramics now chasing each other for real thanks to a magic trick that reacted to warmth.

@Sigurd Nilsson

--------------------
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Sigurd Nilsson
 Posted: Mar 29 2017, 04:51 PM
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"I keep a close watch on this heart of mine"
Sammeh the savior, the protector, THE GUARDIAN OF HOPE
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“Sounds inconvenient.” Sigurd muttered back, which was his way of saying that in all honesty he had no clue. It happened a lot, Erik spending time in a realm of questions and musing that left the Slytherin confused. The endless what if’s and imagine’s were just that with a Ravenclaw, never ending. The boy had grown up with runes, their traces scratched into bed-legs. They never did anything, they barely glowed like the ones on the wooden frame of their front door did. Practise, is what they called it. Beyond that, and the sequences of runes for daily living that were passed on like family recipes, Sigurd was often left to wonder. He didn’t, not on his own. Instead there was Erik with lesser knowledge and much more curiosity trying to sate those feelings with answers Sig didn’t even know were needed.

He was good at that, chasing after questions buried deep down on Sigurd’s tongue; that much the Norwegian could hand to him. Then again, wasn’t Erik Dwight one big question to begin with. Right then, in between breaths he couldn’t take because of lips pressed against this own, the boy wondered. Wondered like the talks at every house table during breakfast or dinner, about hickeys and passed on spit in the hallways. The questions were there, but unlike the others the Slytherin never voiced them out loud. Not even with Erik trying to pull them out of him like a breath he was postponing to take. Sigurd kept silent, didn’t pry about how the rumours didn’t seem to add up. How every person left Dwight with stained lips and an appearance to match, and always came back for more.

This was different. He didn’t dare to ask why.

Rather than lips on his neck there were whispered words. Syllables that made him look over Erik’s shoulder and imagine this wasn’t Sweden but somewhere closer to home. Not that he’d heard the words often enough to immediately link them to their cottage back in Trondheim. Words only got people that far, especially when emotions were hard to describe. Speaking words of love was their mother taking time to get her boys ready in the morning instead of house elves rummaging through closets for clothes to lay out on the beds. It was the gentle squeeze of his hand whenever he’d clung just a tad harder. Words were redundant, but Erik hadn’t realized that.

Words were never easy to Sigurd, and neither were emotions. It all carved slowly through him like ice, cutting up his throat on their way from the deepest part of him to his tongue where each and every one of them end up broken and sometimes bloodied beyond recognition. Right now, in the middle of a beach with Erik holding him close, it was difficult. There was no way to trace circles on his skin and press his cold feet against the Ravenclaw’s calves as a silent I miss you. He didn’t know how to express things more than a kiss did, breathed into his mouth like a last dying breath. All there was was fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt just a little, as the wind started cutting his cheek. It made him feel useless in a way, how he couldn’t just let the same words tumble over his lips.

His hand reached awkwardly, clammy in Erik’s as he held it. Sigurd did just that, squeezing a little bit harder like every childhood memory taught him to do. They all conveyed the same thing after all: Don’t be scared of what’s ahead, because I’m here too. He hoped Erik learned to read through the silence, that words hadn’t made him deaf just yet. Yet all that happened was the awkwardness being talked away, and the boy couldn’t help but sigh a little. Fingers warmed up under the warmth of coffee as they slid over each other, cups passing between them. A part of him wanted to stare at the sea, because it was nice. Simple as that. Another just left him staring at Erik, running bunnies left to their own devices as he watched the other. It felt unnatural to speak, yet he wrangled his tongue around a “This is nice. Thank you.” As a form of an apology almost. It seemed unnecessary, he couldn’t help but feel stupid. His mouth drank the coffee, and hopds the bitter taste could replace the odd sensation.


---

@Erik Dwight

--------------------

I'LL BE A STONE, I'LL BE THE HUNTER
A TOWER THAT CASTS A SHADE



staff!edit: Tine says Sammeh is the best Cookie Slytherin around <33
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Erik Dwight
 Posted: Mar 31 2017, 03:43 AM
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Inconvenient. That was for sure one way to describe it - but then again, Erik always felt a little warmer than usual when he was with Sigurd. It was a different kind of warmth, not the one that came from summer days which dabbed beads of sweat on your forehead, not the kind that came from a sauna. It was a warmth that came from deep within, like a forest fire started in his stomach and quickly spreading over every single one of his organs. Was that what the poems and stories called love, this constant feeling between nervousness and excitement; the fireworks and the need to talk and talk and talk only to wipe all the awkwardness away? Erik always felt like he had to fill the silence - yet sometimes he simply let it linger, only to learn that it was not half as uncomfortable as he thought it would be. “Maybe it would not be working because there is no magic in a tattoo gun - so it would just look pretty,” he said quietly, running a finger over the row of runes on his forearm without gazing at the younger boy again.

For the Swede, words meant more than gestures - and maybe it was of all those encounters that had not meant a single thing, those touches and kisses that left dirty fingerprints on his skin which seemed to be visible for everyone. There were no words exchanged when breathlessly kissing - much like he was currently kissing Sigurd, with the lingering despair of a drowning man who still clung to the siren that dragged him down. But was Sigurd really the siren, or the sailor in the end? Erik could not tell, because many things were left in the dark when it came to Sigurd Nilsson. On some days, he felt like he had tricked the younger boy into all of this - had taken so many first times from him without paying him back for it. Yet the feeling passed quickly in those rare times he could see the ghost of a smile on the Norwegian’s lips for a second or two, or whenever he was allowed to take a glimpse at those eyes like storms, beautiful and so rarely set on him.

When the words left his mouth, Erik had not expected a reply. His expectations in Sigurd’s reaction were low, and by now he had learned that whatever he did was accepted and appreciated as long as the other boy did not pull away. It was so strange to him to lead this game, to be in charge of it all just because he had the experience - but had he really? No one had stayed long enough with him to reach dating status ever before, and he was operating on knowledge gathered from books and intent watching rather than knowing what he was really doing. The physical part of it all was not the problem - he was skilled at that, finding joy in watching those small twists in Sigurd’s face when the boy was so close to him with little more than sheets covering their bodies. It was the emotional part - the spilled words, the feelings, the flutter of his stomach - that made him so nervous, like walking along a tightrope without seeing the end.

It was the little things that made sure Erik was not making one mistake after another - how Sigurd’s fingers tightened just a little around his own, how he took the coffee and seemed to become just a little more comfortable. This was not perfect - and eventually, it would never be - but for the moment it was good enough, because it offered a moment of intimacy without the prying eyes of their schoolmates, a place in the middle of nowhere with only seagulls and crabs to watch their doings. And a crab was what caught Erik’s attention for a moment, as it hurried past his boots towards the water’s edge, disappearing in the next wave that brushed over the beach. The soft, muttered words made him look up, and he smiled at his boyfriend - still such a strange word - before sitting down on the cool sand, patting the space beside him where they could sit and sip coffee, Erik’s head heavy on Sigurd’s shoulder until the sky turned from grey to a bright purple, with pink clouds in the distance.

Maybe, the silence Sigurd had to offer was not so bad after all when there was the sea to lull them in.

@Sigurd Nilsson

--------------------
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