Lorcan’s tongue brushed against the seam of her mouth, and Elide marvelled at how natural it felt to open for him, how her body sang at the contact, his hardness against her softness. Lorcan groaned at the first caress of his tongue against her own, his hips grinding against hers in a way that made heat scorch through her, made her own body undulate against his in answer and demand. He kissed her deeper at that request, a hand sliding down to grip her thigh, spreading her legs a bit wider so he could settle fully between them. And as all of him lined up with her… She was panting, she realised, as she ground herself against him, as Lorcan tore his mouth from hers and kissed her jaw, her neck, her ear. She was trembling - not with fear, but with want as Lorcan breathed her name over and over onto her skin. She took his face in her hands, finding his eyes blazing, his breathing as ragged as her own. Elide dared to run her fingers from his cheek down to his neck, right beneath the collar of his shirt. His skin was like heated silk. She shuddered at the touch, head bowing so that his inky hair spilled onto her brow, and her hips drove into hers just enough that a small gasp came out of her. More, she realised - she wanted more.
Unpopular opinion that shouldn’t be unpopular: anti-bullying programs in school that don’t address the root causes of bullying - which are almost invariably larger forms of bigotry and oppression like racism, ableism and homophobia - are completely useless and ultimately futile.
The basic structure of the sortinghatchats system is that you aren’t just sorted into one House, but into two tiers of Houses: Primary and Secondary. Your Primary House defines WHY you do things. Your Secondary defines HOW. To build this system, we’ve drawn on the Sorting Hat’s songs, general HP canon, extracanonical data (ex. interviews with JKR)… and then extrapolated.
People are complex– for joy or for utility, due to social pressure or careless recreation, people often use the reasoning or methods of Houses that aren’t their Primary or Secondary. We call this “modelling” or “performing” a house and we will explain it in greater detail later. These additional layers help us capture some complexities in characters that we couldn’t get using Primary and Secondary alone. People can vary hugely in how they embody their Houses; in this system, Aang, the heroic pacifist protagonist from Avatar the Last Airbender, shares most of his Houses with HP’s Lord Voldemort.
The way you decide which Houses are yours is not necessarily by looking at what you do, but at what would make you proudest and most content if you were strong enough to do it. Your sorting is what you want to be and what you believe you should do, whether or not you actually live up to it. That’s how people like Peter Pettigrew can end up in Gryffindor.
Your Primary is your why. It’s your motivations, your values, and the way you frame the world around you. It’s how and what you prioritize, and what you weigh most heavily when making your decisions. People often also assume that others share those priorities. A common response to our system is “but you must oversort into Gryffindor/Slytherin/Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff–everyone has that type of morality, deep down!”
Gryffindor Primaries trust their moral intuitions and have a need and a drive to live by them. They feel what’s right in their gut, and that matters and guides them. If they don’t listen to and act on that, it feels immoral.
We call Gryffindor morality “felt” but that doesn’t mean they’re all impetuous, emotional hellions. Gryffindors can still be intelligent, deliberate creatures who weigh their decisions and moralities carefully. Reasoning, intellectualizing and debate can be support for a Gryffindor’s felt morality– but those things can never make a fully satisfying morality in themselves. Some things are just wrong, no matter what pretty words you use to explain them.
Ravenclaw Primaries have a constructed system that they test their decisions against before they feel comfortable calling something right. This system might be constructed by them, or it might have been taught to them as children, or it might have been discovered by them some point later in life. But it gives them a way to frame the world and a confidence in their ability to interact with it morally.
Ravenclaws do not lack an intuitive sense of morality or gut feeling about things, but they distrust those instincts and have a need to ignore or to dig down deep and dissect those internal moral impulses. Living within their built moral system is as important to a Ravenclaw as to a Gryffindor; it’s the source of the morality that differs between them–what they trust.
Hufflepuff Primaries value people–all people. They value community, they bond to groups (rather than solely individuals), and they make their decisions off of who is in the most need and who is the most vulnerable and who they can help. They value fairness because every person is a person and feel best when they give everyone that fair chance. Even directly wronged, a Hufflepuff will often give someone a second (or fifth) chance.
This doesn’t mean all Hufflepuffs are inherently tolerant human beings, any more than all Gryffindors are inherently good, moral creatures. Hufflepuffs tend to believe that all people deserve some type of kindness, decency, or consideration from them–but they can define “person” however they want, excluding individuals or even whole groups.
Slytherin Primaries are fiercely loyal to the people they care for most. Slytherin is the place where “you’ll make your real friends”– they prioritize individual loyalties and find their moral core in protecting and caring for the people they are closest to.
Slytherin’s reputation for ambition comes from the visibility of this promotion of the self and their important people– ambition is something you can find in all four Houses; Slytherin’s is just the one that looks most obviously selfish.
Because their morality system of “me and mine first” is fairly narrow in scope, Slytherins often construct a secondary morality system to deal with situations that are not addressed by their loyalty system.
Your Secondary is your how. It’s how you approach the world as a person interacting with it, and how you make your way. It’s how you problem-solve. It’s not necessarily what you’re best at, or even what’s the most useful to you, but about what skills and methods you value as being intrinsic to you. Do you improvise, do you plan? Do you work on something a little bit every day? Do you charge into the fray and tell people exactly what’s on your mind? What do you do? How would you describe the way you meet the world?
Note: the term “Secondary” is not meant to imply that how you do things is any less important than why (the Primary House). It’s simply the way our terminology fell out and we’re too lazy to change it. The importance of motivations v. methods is a personal sliding scale– it’s perfectly valid for a person to identify with their Secondary House over their Primary. (When drawing from canonical sources, we assumed each character likely was in a House that matched to either their Primary or their Secondary. For instance, Harry is in Gryffindor for his heroic Gryffindor Primary, but Ginny Weasley is there for her brash and bold Gryffindor Secondary.)
Gryffindor Secondaries charge. They meet the world head-on and challenge it to do its worst. Gryffindor Secondaries are honest, brash, and bold in pursuit of things they care about. Known for their bravery, it is almost a moral matter to stay true to themselves in any situation that they’re in.
Ravenclaw Secondaries plan. They collect information, they strategize. They have tools. They run hypotheticals and try to plan ahead for things that might come up. They build things (of varying degrees of practicality and actual usefulness) that they can use later– whether that’s an emergency supply pack, a vast knowledge of Renaissance artistic techniques and supplies, or a series of lists and contingency plans. They feel less at home in improvisation and more comfortable planning ahead and taking the time to be prepared.
Hufflepuff Secondaries toil. Their strength comes from their consistency and the integrity of their method. They’re our hard workers. They build habits and systems for themselves and accomplish things by keeping at them. They have a steadiness that can make them the lynchpin (though not usually the leader) of a community. While stereotyped as liking people and being kind (and this version is perhaps a common reality), a Hufflepuff secondary can also easily be a caustic, introverted misanthrope who runs on hard work alone.
Slytherin Secondaries improvise. They are the most adaptive secondary, finding their strength in responding quickly to whatever a situation throws at them. They improvise differently than the Gryffindor Secondary, far more likely to try coming at situations from different angles than to try strong-arming them. They might describe themselves as having different “faces” for different people and different situations, dropping them and being just themselves only when they’re relaxing or feel safe.
But the Journey Continues…
These four basic Primary and Secondary houses are summarized starting places that we use as a basis for further discussion. What are some ways this gets complicated?
-The manga “Shugo Chara”. For those who know
the manga, it’s based from the chapter when the guardians go to Yaya’s house.
I tried to adjust Blueprint’s story to
PaperJam’s story. So, since (according to his description) he lived with Ink
until a certain age, he met Blueprint before the others. I also tried to make
him the most canonically possible, but adjusting his personality to the
As you may know, English is not my first
language. I deeply apologise if there are any Errors in the story. I checked it
lots of times and hope there’s not a single Error ovo
This will be narrated from PaperJam’s
I never was
good with new people. And I wasn’t very happy when you came.
Ink just came “home” with a baby, claiming that it was my “new brother”. I
didn’t understand what was he saying with that, and then he showed you to me,
my new little brother.
happy with this. I didn’t want a brother. I mean, Ink couldn’t even take care
of me, why would he want to have another one? To let them here alone and
forgotten with me? Wow, good plan, dad. However, he told me that you only would
be staying with us for a day so I could get to know you, since bonding with
brothers was very important and blah blah blah…
We spend a
few hours talking about you and how you came to life. Apparently, you were just
an accident, but not a bad one. And since he created you, you were my brother.
Well, step-brother, because Blueberry was the other one that created you. I
couldn’t help but feel a little bit jealous… you were going to have caring
parents and a better life than mine. What if Ink actually forgot entirely about
idea of having a brother was becoming less and less “exciting” to me.
just before I started to think more things like that (which I thought was very
rare for me), Ink suddenly had to go (I wasn’t surprised, with his work of
protecting AUs and all; he barely had time to be here), cutting our
conversation just when I actually started to enjoy it. Ink stood from the sofa
and was about to open a portal when he realised something important:
going to take care of you?
He told me
that Blueberry and… Honey… I think, were with the other versions of them and he
couldn’t take you to wherever they were. So, he had only one option… that I
didn’t like, at all.
Why I had
to take care of you?! I didn’t ask him for a brother and I didn’t know how to
take care of a baby. I was five years old! I was starting to learn how to write
and read! I remember arguing with him for a while, until I had to accept.
without asking something in return, of course.
In the end,
he went to do whatever he needed and I was left alone with you. An awkward
atmosphere formed where we were, since you found my face very interesting and kept your eyes on me for a really long time. I tried my best to
ignore you, but you were too much persisting and even threw me some mini bones at me
to gain my attention.
smart baby, huh? Well, we were magic skeleton monsters after all. But it was
“What do you want?” I asked you and you only looked at
me and babbled something. I instantly felt stupid, remembering that Ink told me
you haven’t said your first word yet. how would you even tell me what you needed? You kept looking at me and then, surprisingly,
your stomach made a noise.
I had to feed you.
something for you was horrible. I mean, we were in the Anti-Void and only had
some snacks since we didn’t really need to eat, but being you a recently made
creation, obviously needed to consume something, even if you had your HP full. Eventually,
I found some milk and gave it to you, ending getting milk on my face and shirt
because you apparently didn’t know
how to drink it.
enough for me.
I’m not a person that gets mad easily. However, I did get mad that time. I stood abruptly from my seat and went to clean
my face, leaving you alone on the sofa. Ink told me to not leave you, but I
didn’t care. I wanted to be alone and so I did. I went to my bedroom (well,
it’s not a real bedroom… just a bed that Ink made for me) and stayed here for a
few hours. Maybe three or four…
until I heard a soft sound that I didn’t get up from my bed. And when I did, I
instantly paled: You were lying on the floor crying softly. Your soft cries
barely reaching my non-existent ears. And it wasn’t the worst. No, no.
blushing and sweating a lot. Were you sick? In that moment I didn’t know.
went to your side and picked you up, checking if you had hurt yourself from the
fall. Luckily you didn’t have any bruises, but your skull was very hot. Now you
were sick? And I was alone.
could get sick so easily and fast? I didn’t understand that at all! Was that
the real reason of why Ink brought you here? So he could watch over you while
Blueberry and Honey were busy? If that was the reason, he was very
irresponsibly by leaving you with me: a child, taking care of another child!
know what to do. I couldn’t use magic to help you, I couldn’t ask Ink for help,
I couldn’t open a portal and find Blueberry… I couldn’t do anything. And I was
something happened? What if you started to feel worse? What if…
What if you died?
thoughts were swirling in my head, making me fell worst and worst. I didn’t
want you to die.
You had a great life ahead! You would have a caring family and friends and
maybe… maybe we would have been friends! I should have watched you. Maybe if I haven’t
left you alone…
help to feel guilty, even knowing that it wasn’t my fault that got sick. In
that moment, I didn´t cared about anything, just you.
It was in
that moment when Ink decided that he should go home, and so he did. He came to
the Anti-Void and found me on the sofa, hugging you like it was the last time
I’d see you and honestly, that’s what I thought. He rushed to my side,
worryingly asking what was wrong. I wasted no time and explained him what
happened, apologising for being a bad brother and almost crying
wasn’t expecting was that Ink just took you and, with a quick spell, healed
you. I mean, I knew magic were fast and efficient but, that was just too fast. When I asked him why, he
explained that you were having some problems with your soul.
brother (and also you, reader), Ink told me you were created without a soul,
since you were just a magic drawing. So, he made an artificial one for you with
the same paint he used to create you. Apparently, he didn’t want you to become
like some “evil flower”.
was like your eyes: a blue diamond. And that soul was filled with Prussian blue
paint that could give you the emotions you needed. It seemed like your body
wasn’t used to having it yet and would make you sick from time to time. I
didn’t quite understand that, but I was relieved when he said you would be
The rest of
the day was peaceful. Ink and I talked about random things while you slept. It
was… nice, being with them like we were a family. That’s what we are, right?
it was time to bring you back home. Ink said that you won’t be coming anytime
soon because he wanted to protect you from dangerous people (aka, Error). It
kind of made me sad, not being able to talk you again for a long time, but… it
had to be done, hadn’t it? Ink made a portal back to Underswap and gave me time
to say goodbye to you. After that, he started to walk to the portal, stopping
when you started to squirm under his grasp.
walked to the portal. You immediately looked at me and gave me a huge simile,
saying (or trying to say) something that made us look at you in surprise:
My name. Yes, my
It was kind
of babbled and wasn’t my full name but… It was your very first word. And it
wasn’t “dad” or “mom”… no, it was “PJ”
have idea of how happy you made me that day. The day when I found you, disliked
you and then liked you and accepted the idea that we were brothers. And, in the
bottom of my soul, I hoped to see you again.
having a little brother wouldn’t be that bad, right?
I hope you
liked it! It was an idea I had for while uvu and really needed to make it. We
now know more about Print and PJ’s relationship. I won’t say PJ likes him
because he’s not my character and don’t want to say incorrect things (since he
isn’t one to make friends). So, I only will say that Blueprint’s first words
made him very happy.
I’m sorry if it looks rushed, but this isn’t a story. It just PaperJam talking with Blueprint and telling him the story (with some people spying on them(?))
Rosie had heard all of the stories about old mister Bilbo coming home with boxes and barrels of treasure. He had been gone so long everyone had assumed he was dead, but then he had ridden into town with gold in his pony’s saddlebags.
She dreamed about Sam coming home, a feather in his cap, gold tucked into the sensible pockets on his sensible pants. She dreamed about Sam coming home. They made jokes in the Green Dragon about young mad Mr. Baggins, just like his uncle old mad Mr. Baggins, who had run off with three gullible youngsters and gotten eaten by wolves.
Rosie watched her mother during the occupation, the ways she counted curly heads, the way she canned vegetables and fruits, salted meats, then bound them up in cloth and tucked them under each child’s bed, in the hollow in the tree down the road, buried out by Miller’s Pond. Rosie watched her father walk the edges of the property, like he was stomping his ownership into it. He kept his pitchfork sharp. He was preparing to fight for his home and her mother was giving them a way out.
Pippin and Merry came back taller; they would bump their foreheads on low doorways all their lives. Frodo came back wiser; he would feel lost on the wind until the day he stepped onto a creaking deck and let it sweep him away. Sam came back; he had grown, for all miles and hunger had worn him down to the quick.
When Sam came home, there was a feather in Pippin’s cap, a horn on Merry’s hip. All Sam had was a box of dirt with one large, smooth seed tucked inside. Even in Mordor, Sam had only been fighting for the Shire. He spent the rest of his life helping things grow.
Let’s talk about Sam crying over rabbit stew, because a brace of coneys had been a spot of luck, once; because even then, even when he still had his pots and his pans, when Frodo had not yet snarled at him and told him to go– Mr. Frodo had still been gone too far by then to ever come back again.
Rosie, who did not cry easy, chopped onions so he would not be the only one with wet cheeks to scrub off. She asked him about herbs and spices, about stirring and cooking times, about what loaf would go best with it all. Sam said, “Rosemary, tarragon.” Part of him still rang against the greening metal of a copper pot dropped down a chasm and left somewhere on the edges of Mordor, but she saw him breathe deep and reach for thyme.
When they brought Frodo a bowl in the little study that had once been Bilbo’s, Frodo warmed his hands in the steam and chuckled when he recognized the smell. Sam pressed his cheek into Rosie’s curls and remembered that not everything was lost.
Sam came back different, but Rosie had not stayed the same either.
Some nights Sam couldn’t sleep on the bed. He laid out with a blanket on the floor and apologized for it. She checked the locks three times, and didn’t trust them anyway. If men came to the door in the night, smashed through the window, set the house on fire– she knew three ways out. She knew the path she’d take through the forests and little hills, two good places to cross the water and three mediocre ones, how to gather and set snares and never have to come back.
She also knew that she would come back. Sam had gone out and met the world, but Rosie had stayed here and staked her claim.
Between helping with the reconstruction, clearing out abused hobbit holes, planting new trees, raising her children, and managing Bag End, Rosie took tea into Mr. Frodo’s little study and let him tell her about his story.
Some days he sat up, waved his hands, talked about Moria like it was Mr. Bilbo telling hobbitlings about the three trolls. On others he muttered about language and conjugation, dialects of Elvish, and Rosie learned words for things she had never seen. One of her sons would be named for Frodo, and one of her daughters Elanor, for a flower that grew on the floor of a forest no hobbits but four had ever seen.
He told her about Faramir and Boromir–their adventures, and their family trees to seven generations back. Rosie scattered her younger children over his study floor on those long afternoons, where they got cookie crumbs and sloppy paint all over the sheet she’d lain over his soft carpet.
It was a late night, the kids abed, when he told her about Mordor, about Gollum and the eagles, and how Sam had not given up, even at the very end. She had come down to turn over some marinade in the pantry and found the study light on, Frodo bent over his desk and scribbling. “I have to get it all down,” he said, and smiled at her unhappily. “Too tired right now to be scared of it all.“
So she got some cocoa and a heavy quilt for each of them, and stayed to listen to him mutter and scratch out lines. “Frodo Nine-Fingered and Samwise the Brave,” he told her. “We talked about how we were going to be stories, one day.“
When Sam came down the hall in the morning, his wife’s curls were pooled on the desk beside Mr. Frodo’s, inked pages scattered under their cheeks and curled palms. Sam had watched Frodo earn each and every white hair on his head, and he was learning the stories still behind each tired crease and laugh line on Rosie’s face. Sam leaned against the door frame and watched them breathe, in and out, until the kids came shrieking down the hallway and woke them.
The day Frodo gave him the Red Book and left, Sam cried on the shores of the sea and watched him go. Frodo had sat Rosie down that morning, over a breakfast of two eggs, thick bacon, hearty toast, a little salad– he had told Rosie he was leaving and Rosie had already known.
There were still burned scars on the soft fertile ground of the Shire. Some of them would never grow over, no matter how many seeds they scattered and watered. Rosie still had emergency kits buried in the yard, tucked in hollow trees down the road, kept under her children’s beds.
But there were strawberries growing in her window boxes, even if on the worst days she wasn’t sure if they’d be there to harvest them in springtime. On those days, Rosie padded down to the pantry and got out little glass jars of strawberry preserves. So many springs had come and gone, and so many would come again. There were some things you could carry with you.
Drop your pots, drop your pans–lose weight, faith, a finger–forget the taste of strawberries. There were little white blossoms waiting in the window boxes of Bag End to turn into blushing red fruit. Sam had carried Frodo to the end of his journey, and Frodo had given her this home. The spring would come.
Sam came back with salt crystallized on his hems and the edge of his jaw. He came back with a red book under one arm–no gold in his pockets, no gems, just his two hands tucked and curled in the warmth of them.
Their children would read Frodo’s book as they grew (Bilbo’s book, too, and those few words that were their father’s). They would not understand, not all of it, not at first. They would eat strawberries in spring and dream of Fangorn, dare each other to brave the Old Forest on the edge of the Shire. They would climb all over Merry and Pippin’s tall frames and beg to go with them when they went to visit the kings of Gondor and Rohan.
Rosie would eat strawberries in the spring. She would make jars and jars of jam to keep for long winters. She would keep kits of supplies, for emergencies, for invasions, for the children of hers who had wanderlust in their bare, woolly feet.
On nights when she could not sleep–too cold, too stuffy, too old–she would pad out to Frodo’s old study and sit among the books and things. She would read about places she’d never seen, languages she’d never heard. She would write her own notes down about the Scouring– the first little resistances, and the final front lines. She would trace her fingers over loving maps of the Shire, tracing the ways out, the places to hide, the ways back.
When she woke in the morning, her cheek on the old wood desk, a blanket would be draped around her shoulders and Sam would be asleep in an armchair, just close enough to reach out and touch.