#so harry always. without fail. does that

[padfootastic]

please say more about jilypad + diverging parenting styles... perhaps even a possible scenario >:) i imagine harry has very cunning tactics for using this to his advantage

helloooooo <3 thank u for this ask bc i love talking about these three and harry. i went looking thru the archives to find this post; my first foray into this side, and really, i’ve never looked back after that.

so i’ve talked ab this a bit before but i fully think that james was a very overprotective ‘mother hen’ type parent. i tend to read his behaviour in lily’s bday letter to sirius as being scared of his child on a broomstick and i fully, fully think he’ll never be able to let go of that as harry grows up. he’ll be anxious and suspicious and paranoid, and his first instant will always be to wrap harry up in cotton wool and hide him away. (i low-key connect this to his childhood as well; going from being spoiled and sheltered to dropped in the middle of a war, black & white thinking, living in extremes etc etc makes it v hard for him to be Normal about his child. as he shouldn’t be, really, but yeah) that’s why he thrives during the initial years; he never minds the hard parts of being a new parent, loves it in fact, and it makes it better that he can keep harry close to him at all times w/o coming off as a helicopter parent (not that the notion bothers him ofc).

it’s good, then, that he has two partners to even the scales, no? i think lily was the most…balanced out of the three. she had a relatively normal childhood, grew up in a working class family/neighbourhood and had to deal w adversity from a young age so she’s developed a nice, thick skin. she also has a sibling with whom she has a v rocky relationship so she knows that kids are, ykno, a bit unhinged. and a little bit of hardship is not a problem. i hc her as needing time to get used to parenthood, unlike james who stepped into it natural as breathing, or even sirius who loved harry on much on first sight that it made up for everything else. ofc lily loved her son, but it didn’t come w the same blinding intensity of her partners and made her feel really shitty in the beginning. but, i think she’d shine during his teen years actually, because she’s not overbearing or intense and becomes the quiet, calm strength that a hormonal, spotty teen boy would probably need.

and sirius <3 our poor baby falls in love with harry, perhaps even more quickly than james, with such startling speed that it shakes his entire foundation. he doesn’t regret it but he’s constantly discombobulated. i also imagine that…it takes him longer to settle into the role of parent, esp bc he’s not biologically one ykno? not like it matters to anyone, ofc, but it takes him a long time to truly accept his authority and place, to believe that he has just as much right as j&l to be there, to parent harry. this has the consequence of him always being more indulgent than the other two; after all, he considered himself a godfather before a parent and a lot of that thinking stayed. he lets harry get away with stuff the others might not (and the little mf figures this out later); some of it also comes from sirius seeing so much shit, and facing so much shit himself, that he rationalises a lot of stuff as ‘well, this isn’t the worst it can be, so what’s the harm’ (because his life has been such a roller coaster that he’s forgotten that not everyone’s like that, if that makes sense?)

its obviously not this clear cut but i imagine harry looks at it like this: if he needs unconditional love, he goes to james; rationality and logic, lily; acceptance and calm, sirius. when someone has to be beat up for hurting harry, james steps in. if he needs help burying a body, it’s sirius. dealing with some asshole boss/teacher/classmate’s mother who’s making harry’s life hell? lily. i can keep going but,,,u get the idea, right? this makes sense, i hope lol

i actually think harry’s first birthday is a great example. sirius pushes the boundaries by gifting lil harry a broom; james loses his mind running after him; lily places an industrial sticking charm on harry’s butt, leans back with a glass of wine, and enjoys the show. even as he grows up, lily and james act as the disciplinarian, and sirius is the emotional outlet. all of them fill in each other’s cracks so well, and it’s only when harry grows up that he realises how effortlessly they worked off each other to parent him.

also oh man o man. harry being cunning is,,,,,see, i’ve not considered it this far but it makes perfect sense. i think canon harry actually had so much manipulative energy and it’s often overlooked for his goofier traits but! this is the same dude who used his dead parents to trick slughorn into revealing sensitive info! imagine if that could be channelled into his jilypad interactions 😈

it’s like, it takes him a bit, because his three parents r so smooth, but once he realises that all of them have certain weak spots, he does NOT hesitate to exploit them. (it has the unintended consequence of truly strengthening the jilypad relationship into an unbreakable one bc one thing their kid taught them is to have ironclad communication going at all times so nothing they’ve said, or not said, is used against them). so like, he knows if he wants to sneak out to a party, it has to be sirius and in a specific way—‘i’ll be totally safe, papa, plus i really wanna see what it’s like and idk when it’ll get a chance to again’. if he widens his eyes to pitiful levels, pouts a little, and blinks faster than usual, then james is putty in his arms as long as he’s separated from the other two. divide and conquer becomes the main tool in harry’s arsenal, actually. lily’s the toughest nut to crack, purely bc she doesn’t run on emotions or irreverence, but harry soon learns that if he comes up with a solid, logical case that proves his argument has unbiased merit then he has a good chance of getting her to say yes. (this is good, bc u can arrange words in the correct order, but u can’t always control emotions)

so overall yeah, you’d think one kid + 3 parents would be an easy bet, but harry keeps them on their toes all the fkn time.

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [epilogue]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 4.9k words cw: none.

you try to move on.

Eight months later

Time is a river. 

That’s what your sponsor Brian had told you, when you went up to receive your six-month chip. A navy plastic coin, unremarkable, special in its own way.

Y’just gotta let the current take you. 

Poetic old Irishman that he is. Seen worse things than you. You’re not sure why you always find it helpful, grounding, to hear him talk about his experiences during the Gulf War. Plane shot out of the sky. Parachuted directly into enemy-controlled territory. A prisoner of war for three weeks, only liberated once the war had already been won. Wears the scars of it; a missing eye, doughy skin graft on his cheek, a pillowy stub where his hand should be. 

Told you he got into heroin pretty quickly after coming back home. Said he couldn’t look at anyone the same. Couldn’t stay in touch with his brothers-in-arms. Couldn’t stand the dark. Didn’t take him long to replace food, water, air, with a needle in his arm. Felt a lot better back then, he said. 

But using is like holding stones underwater, he told you. Keeps you stuck to the riverbed till y’drown. 

He’s been sober for twenty years. Almost twenty-one. Said he offered to sponsor you because he said he saw himself in you. 

You couldn’t tell him anything about your own experiences when you spoke to him at your Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Tongue legally tied by what was essentially an NDA and persistent government surveillance. Forbidden to utter a word of what had been a special operations mission of the utmost confidentiality. A failed mission, at that. 

He saw it in you, though. That blackness in the back of your eyes. Understood without you needing to share it. 

You wouldn’t have wanted to share it, anyway. 

That was Mia’s life. 

Now, you’re Amelia. 

Amelia Frances Day. Printed on your new birth certificate, on your driver’s license, on your shiny new passport. A photo of you with your new haircut in the corner. Born in Leeds, it says, only child to Harry and Phillipa Day. Both tragically dead, of course, according to your manufactured origin story. Died in a car accident when you were a teenager, so you’re spared putting on the show of mourning imaginary people. 

Captain Jonathan had decided your vaguely northern accent was weak enough to say you had been raised in Newcastle. Told you that London got hit the worst, and half the city is cordoned off by plastic tents and caution tape. Better to plant you somewhere reasonably intact. 

He had asked you what you wanted your degree to be, when he had you in a boxy little office with him at Brize Norton, a week after you stepped off the helicopter. 

It was surreal, you remember, sitting in that room with him. The Captain. In a cushioned chair, across the table from him; unrestrained by zip cuffs, with the door unlocked, and a window cracked open to let in the cold air of late winter. He was stiff as a board, then, only spoke with a bone-straight back and through gritting teeth. Nothing like the unctuous suave he put on when you first met him, or when he held that revolver to your head. He sat upright in his chair, laptop and a notepad open on the table, manila folders and documents scattered across it. 

Psychology, you had suggested. Bachelor of Arts. The kind of unremarkable graduate degree that can slot in anywhere. That people don’t ask about. Helped that you sat through two years of lectures before you had dropped out — lends a bit of believability to your story. 

“Does Amelia have any hobbies?” He had asked you, impassively, but you could hear the solemnity in his throat. 

You had to think about it for a while before you could answer him. There was something forlorn in his expression that gave you the impression he was self-flagellating by asking it. Wanted to know how human you were as punishment for how he had treated you as less than. 

“She likes to draw,” you had told him, mumbled it, staring vacantly at the six-day-old bruises on your legs. “She likes to read, too. Um… I can’t remember what else she likes.” 

So he got you a library card. New health records. Clean criminal record, of course. Amelia hasn’t committed any crimes. Doesn’t even have a speeding ticket. 

You remember how his face dropped when you told him your real name. You weren’t sure what compelled you to share it, that Mia Zakhaev was as manufactured and artificial as Amelia Day. Perhaps you wanted him to shoulder the guilt that came with being forced to acknowledge that you were never the enemy. Some part of you found it satisfying, watching him fidget in your company, avoiding eye contact or speaking more than three words at a time — evidence, you thought, that he understood how he had wronged you. 

He had wrapped up the meeting, then. Scooped up all his papers and folders, shut his laptop with a thunk. 

You asked about Simon before he left the room. 

He only let out a terse breath and looked at his boots, before telling you that you’d get all your documents when you were cleared to leave the airbase. Left the subject at that, before he slipped out of the door and left it ajar behind him. 

Simon died that day, you’re certain. 

You haven’t heard anything otherwise in the eight months since. Not even from Kyle, your assigned custodian, despite how frequently you asked him in your first few months of confidential protection. 

Let’s talk about you, he’d say, to change the subject. Or he’d robotically tell you, I’m really sorry, you know I can’t talk about that. 

He’d come over every fortnight or so, at first, when you had been holed up in your safehouse in the city centre, a stone’s throw from the cathedral. Your new ‘apartment’, so they called it, repurposed to look like a young woman had been living there. He always told you he was visiting just to check on you, make sure you were settling in okay. You believed it for a while, when he’d come over for some takeaways, or to watch a movie, just to keep you company. 

He was surveilling you, though. You could read it in the glimmer of shame in his doe-like eyes. Forced to ensure you continued to act in the Nation’s best interest. 

You aren’t allowed to leave the country, of course. Aren’t allowed to travel too far without informing them. Aren’t allowed to disappear or to talk to anybody untoward. 

Standard practice, they had informed you, to keep an eye on foreign informants. That’s what they had designated you as — an informant. Explained that it was for your safety and theirs; you might retain your foreign connections, after all. Might share secrets with the Russians you had been unwillingly allied with. 

They gave you a compensatory pension, at least. Hearty payments of a few thousand a month, and a decent one-off payout as ‘reimbursement’ for the damage they had done. For the scars they left. Hush money, obviously, but you took it willingly. 

You sold your wedding ring, too. The one Mia’s husband had proposed with. A pillow-cut pink diamond, four carats, encircled by twelve Burmese pigeon-blood rubies. Prong-set, white gold band. You traded it with a jewellery dealer for two-hundred grand. The only good thing Victor ever did for you, even if it was pocket change compared to the size of his wallet. 

There’s not much you can do with that money, though. Not yet. They gave you an amorphous timeline, all but telling you that someday you’ll be allowed totally free movement, if and when they deem you trustworthy enough. There’s no spending it on travelling, on a house, on an apartment in the meantime.  

The one benefit, though, is that it means you are spared the need to find a job. One day you’ll need one, you’re sure, but you’re not ready yet. Not ready for interviews, for background checks, for probing questions about the gap in your employment history.

You’ve picked up volunteering, instead. 

Took you a while to gather the strength to leave the house, of course. A month or two before your agoraphobia abated and you were able to venture out onto the street. Even longer before you could go anywhere crawling with people — not to say anywhere was busy anymore. People kept indoors even still, just in case. 

But after a couple of months of NA meetings and military-funded counselling, you were handed a UNICEF pamphlet. Information about volunteering at make-shift ‘childcare centres’. A gentler word for the last-minute orphanages set up to house swathes of children left parentless after the attacks on Eleven-One. 

Black Thursday, they call it. 

Makes your teeth saw together every time you hear it. And it’s everywhere. 

It’s on the news, on the radio, on your phone. Plastered on street posters. Billboards. Trauma support services advertised on the sides of the arsenal of buses they eventually sent out to replace the underground Metro, now that the entire subway system is a red zone, still contaminated by the sticky nerve agent that had coated every surface and still lingers in the air down there. 

Two bombs went off in Newcastle. Twenty-one in London. Three-hundred odd had been triggered all over Europe. Casualties in the tens of thousands, and counting. Never a specific number, always, tens of thousands. 

Kyle had told you, against instruction, that there had been thousands of bombs, planted even further afield than Europe. Waiting for the ping that would set them off at the right time of day to maximise the number of casualties. 

Simon had prevented that. He inputted the code that terminated the sequence, while knowing that doing so would kill him.

There was no heroic send-off for him. His name wasn’t in the press, wasn’t even whispered at the military bases you were tossed between for two weeks after you were sent home. No medals or commendation or praise for an act that prevented the deaths of hundreds of thousands of others. 

At first the guilt was blinding. 

All-consuming. Pumped like lead through your blood, gritty and black, leaving little sores in the ventricles of your heart. For a while you thought you mightn’t be able to live with it — bearing the knowledge that every casualty whose name was carved into the public memorial had died because of a button that you pressed.

Seemed that part wasn’t common knowledge, though. Somebody had kept that secret for you. As far as the world was aware, some Soviet extremist was the one to have set off the sequence of explosives. The simple explanation. A terrorist enacting terrorism.  

Your counsellor believed your guilt to rest on the fact that you had married the man to orchestrate it. That you played a part in some non-literal, ignorant-but-obliging way. It made it even harder to overcome, because her method of comforting you was to tell you ad nauseum that it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. 

Her advice was still beneficial, at least. Could be extended to your less forgivable circumstances. 

She told you to help people. To make a tangible difference. That doing so would alleviate even a portion of the guilt that weighed on you. 

You’re approaching your fifth month of volunteering at CRSC Newcastle. Children’s Refuge and Support Centres, they call them — a whole network of them, fifteen-odd foster centres across the UK, all set up in under-used community centres or schools. Your fake bachelor’s degree certainly aided in getting you a role there, but it helped that they were and continue to be desperate for any support they can get. 

You work the later shifts. Wednesday through Sunday, one p.m. to nine p.m. Mainly with the younger kids, too. Three to five. A relief, because any older and they’d have questions. They’d have the vocabulary to ask why their parents are dead. To talk about how sad they are, how much they miss them, how much they hate the people responsible for killing them. 

You’re not a licensed educator or a counsellor, nor do you get paid, so they call you a supporter. You’ve got a name badge for it, too.

Amelia. CRSC Supporter.

You clip it to your cerulean UNICEF t-shirt as the last step of getting ready for your shift. 

Hair in a claw clip, no earrings, nails unpainted. Legs unshaven. Jeans. Adidas sneakers. A spritz of perfume you bought on special at TK Maxx. 

You felt stupid for missing it while you were stuck in your mansions, but you did. Normalcy. No need to perform, to consistently be stripped and scrubbed and ready for eyes and hands at any given moment. No need to cover yourself in ostentatious displays of wealth just to avoid ire from the moguls around you. 

Amelia has the same sense of style as Bridget Jones. She doesn’t need to try too hard, because she’s not a billionaire’s tormented wife, she’s just Amelia. Amelia from Leeds. 

Seems the weather is finally turning after a week straight of sunshine, as fat raindrops begin to patter on the window to your bedroom. For the best, you have a crisping-up sunburn on your nose and cheeks from when you took the kids to Ouseburn Farm on Wednesday. Still warm, though, a little under twenty celsius, so you only pull on your burgundy Primark rainjacket, and you bring your brolly with you as you head out the door. 

The refuge is a fifteen minute walk from your military-issued apartment, and it’s a pleasant one, for the most part. Once you get off the busiest roads, anyway, and the streets go from being littered with shops to being lined with suburban terraces and big old trees. Leaves all on the cusp of yellow as autumn looms in the coming few weeks. 

Saoirse, one of the licensed counsellors, is out the front of the old brick community centre when you arrive. Arm around one of the older kids as they sit on the steps together. She gives you a quick smile as you walk past with a little wave, occupied, but you can catch up with her after bedtime. 

It’s Friday, so the kids are still in preschool by the time you arrive, and there’s nobody at reception. You pour yourself a tea in the break room behind the front desk in the meantime. 

Even after eight months, you still think of him at the first sip. 

I drink tea. You remember how his grumbly old voice sounded when he said it. Mourn that you never got to know what kind of tea he preferred. Whether he took it with sugar. He seemed like an Earl Grey type, you thought. 

Stupid to reminisce on such a thing, and you shake off the thought like a wet dog when you do. It’s a vice, you’ve found, reflecting on your brief and harrowing time with him through such rosy lenses. 

“Oh — Meals,” comes a woman’s voice, and you turn to spot Josie, one of the early childhood teachers who tends to stick around long after her classes. Gave you that nickname within a week, because apparently she has a cousin called Amelia who goes by Meals. “Quick warning — Daniel’s got an upset tummy. So… might be some clean up later.” 

“Lovely,” you reply through a smirk. “What’d they have for lunch?” 

“Ham sandwiches,” Josie says. 

“He probably ate some dirt again, then,” you remark, and she giggles. 

“Wouldn’t put it past him. Filthy little animals, the lot of them,” she snorts. “It was all maths and spelling today — you should let them have a play around in the art room for a while.” 

“Good idea,” you nod. 

Art time is your favourite after-school activity to monitor. Something soul-healing, you think, watching children express themselves creatively, unbounded by instruction or time limits. There’s so much stuff in there, too — acrylic paints, crayons, coloured pencils, glitter glue. Big sheets of brightly coloured paper and a bucket of toddler-safe scissors. Stickers, pipe cleaners, googly-eyes. All of the supplies funded by community donations, a fact heartwarming in itself.  

So once the preschool kids finish their classes and eat their cheese and crackers, you turn them loose like piglets in a pen. 

Your only job is to keep them company. Guide them when they ask for help, praise them for their drawings, take them to the toilet when they need it. 

It was extremely distressing, at first, when the kids would show you crayon drawings of their late parents, or when they smeared red and orange paint on a piece of paper and told you it was a painting of the Metro bomb. You’d have to leave the room quite often, then, and Saoirse was a huge help to you. 

She doesn’t know anything, of course, she only thought your grief stemmed from overwhelming sympathy. Still, she was a shoulder. Told you that it would only take time, and soon the children would return to their happiest little selves, and you’d get to hold their hands through it. 

She was right. Now you most often get drawings of rainbows with a blue stripe as the sky above and a green stripe as the ground below. You get given little creatures made of pompoms and glue and googly eyes and are told you have to feed them glitter or they’ll get hungry. You get to tell Lila she looks beautiful when she asks you if you like her makeup and shows you all the stickers she put on her face. 

They get about two hours of free time before you get their attention with the five-clap call and tell them it’s time for dinner. A few whinges later and they file into the cafeteria, where the donation-funded catering company feeds them roast chicken with peas and mashed potatoes. 

Your shift aligns with Kate’s around dinnertime, because she looks after the kids older than nine — your favourite person to talk to, because she talks so much that you don’t have to think. 

“Yeah, and you won’t believe the kind of shit he said,” she prattles on, under breath, so the kids don’t hear the content of her conversation. “He was all like — wow, babe, you’ve got such a cute arsehole. Like, what does that even mean? Cute arsehole? I mean I’ll take the compliment, but then I was thinking — how many arseholes must he be looking at to be able to distinguish a cute one?” 

You can’t help but snort loudly at that, quickly covering your mouth when one of the children turns over his shoulder to squint at you. Taxes, Kate tells him, when he asks what’s so funny. 

After all the kids have their pudding and their bathtime, they get to pick their Friday night movie. Cars 2 is the most popular choice, because they watched the first one last week. You sit with Kate at the very back of the telly room, behind where the pack of children sit cross-legged on the carpet. She continues to whisper details about her dating life in your ear, and you are spared from thinking about yourself or your situation or your failings for even a second. 

Until she says; “What about you? Surely you’re seeing someone.” 

Your chest tightens up when she asks it, and you suddenly get stage fright as you scramble for what to tell her. Amelia doesn’t have baggage, after all — not the kind of baggage Mia did, anyway. 

“No, I’m — I’m taking a break from men for a while,” you settle for, vague enough to avoid probing but close enough to the truth that she won’t offer to take you on a double date or something equally as horrific. 

“Ah,” she hums, with a nod. “Understandable. Getting over someone?” 

You inadvertently let out a sigh. “Guess so.” 

She raises her eyebrows. “Who—”

Miraculously interrupted by a four-year-old who waddles over to where you sit. “Miss Goodwin, um, I need to use the toilet.” 

Kate all but groans at that. “You just went, Charlie!” She chides in a whisper, before immediately relenting and holding the wee girl’s hand. “Alright, c’mon.” 

They slip out of the room and you’re spared the rest of the conversation. 

Seven o’clock is bed time, but most of them wind up actually in bed closer to half past, after all their fussing and requests for more pudding and but I’m not tired-ing. There’s no falling asleep until eight, because what was once a temporary shelter has now become permanent, yet still only has the capacity for ten-bed bunking rooms. You shush some giggling and tuck in some blankets, and finally, by ten-past-eight, the kids are down for the night. 

There’s a window of time before the end of every shift where you can chat with the other staff all at once, settled down in the break room for some post-sunset tea once the night-time custodians take over the childcare. 

You tune in and out of the conversation like you’re fiddling with the dial of a radio, either staring vacantly into the table as you sip your tea or making eye-contact and nodding attentively. 

“Wait, you’re still going on that date?” Josie asks Kate incredulously, head cocked back in shock. “I thought you said he was a freak?” 

Kate gives her an impish smile. “I did.” 

“You’re foul,” Saoirse snickers. “Far less salaciously, I’ve got my sister’s baby shower tomorrow.” 

“Oh my god!” Josie gawks. “That’s so sweet — I forgot. She must be well along now, does she know if it’s a boy or a girl?” 

“No,” Saoirse murmurs with an eye-roll. “They want it to be a surprise. I keep telling her, I’m the aunt, at least I should get to know!” 

Kate tuts. “That’s gonna be a big argument when it pops,” she says. “Who wants to be fighting about a name when you’re bleeding everywhere and pissing yourself? Not me.” 

“Good thing you aren’t having babies any time soon then, Kate,” Josie teases, chuckling. 

“Ever,” Kate adds facetiously, signing a cross over her chest. “These ones are plenty.”

“Ugh, you guys have interesting things going on. I’m so boring,” Josie moans, taking a sip of her tea. “You doing anything tonight, Meals?” 

Your eyes flick up from where you fiddled with the label of your teabag. “Oh, um,” you think aloud, because you hadn’t even considered it yet. “Nah. I’m boring too. Might stick around and tidy up the art room, though, it’s a sty in there.” 

“Gonna have to start hiding the paint,” Saoirse comments amusedly, “It’s all down the hallway. I even found some on a toilet seat. How do they even spread the mess that far?” 

You giggle. “I had to stop Will from drinking it today. He got as far as taking the pump out. Got bright pink all over his shirt.” 

“That solves it,” Saoirse laughs. “The paint in the toilet was pink.” 

“Such goblins,” Kate smiles. 

Kate leaves the moment she finishes her tea, hurrying off to get ready for her date, so she calls it — which gives you an excuse to slip out of the break room. Allow your social battery a chance to recharge before you implode. 

Your prescribed counsellor reminds you frequently of the need for socialising. Tells you that solitude is the recipe for spiraling. That a return to regularity is a cure-all. She hasn’t yet been proven completely wrong, but your ability to feign contentment isn’t as honed as it used to be. 

Strange, you’re aware, perhaps unjustified, given the starkly different circumstances you now find yourself in. But a mask is hard to hold up, regardless of who you are showing it to. 

You just hold onto the hope that someday, years, decades from now, expressing joy won’t feel like a performance. Such a dream was lost to Mia, but maybe Amelia will be the one to find it. 

It’s not uncommon for you to stick around at the refuge for much longer than your shift requires. Maybe out of some degree of obligation, indebtedness, making up for your wrongs. Maybe to avoid going home alone to your safehouse. 

In truth, though, you enjoy being alone. 

No mask needed, then. No performance. No need to worry about who might be watching. In solitude you can unfurl, because there’s nobody else alive you can be yourself around. Nobody whose company doesn’t feel like a collar. 

You spend the next quarter hour alone in the art room, tacking new drawings to the pinboard. You can never bring yourself to take the old ones down, so you just find spaces in between them, or layer the new ones carefully so that the old ones still peek through. Flowers and sunshine atop missing parents and rain. No good pretending the old ones don’t exist, you think to yourself. 

You hear some fuzzy conversation down the hallway as you’re washing paint off the palettes in the sink, getting a decent smearing of myriad colours on your skin and clothes in so doing. Perhaps one of the kids snuck out of bed.

You shut off the running water to listen, though, and you stand in the silence, broken up by water dripping from the faucet. 

“Sorry, who?” You recognise that voice as Saoirse, that twinge of grouch she puts on when displeased. 

“She’s a volunteer.”

A man’s voice. 

Deep. Rumbles through the walls like an idle engine. 

“Oh — you mean Amelia?” Saoirse asks, knife-sharp edge in her voice. “She’s, she’s in the art room, but she’s busy. I’ll let her know you came by?” 

“Where’s the art room.” 

There’s no give in his tone. No room for debate, no tempered frustration. It’s raw and bare in every word he utters. 

“I’m sorry, you can’t just — excuse me,” she belts, edge escalating to a point. 

You shuffle uneasily away from the sink, closer to the door, but you get caught in the centre of the room when you hear heavy but inconsistent footsteps landing on the hardwood. 

“Hey!” Saoirse snaps, closer, angrier. “You can’t just barge in here, this is a childcare centre.”

No response from the man she must be pursuing, in your direction, as the footsteps grow nearer. 

“Mia?” 

A hoarse call through the walls. 

Your eyes glass over. Ears fill with radio static. Feet glued to the floor as a figure suddenly fills the doorframe; towering, imperious, hidden by the shadow. Eyes catch a glint of the light within. 

He lumbers slowly into the room. A noticeable limp. Umber bomber jacket, worn leather, black hoodie beneath it. Loose jeans. Black boots. 

Wheaten blond in disordered spikes, unkempt. Stubble grown-out except where the side of his jaw is shiny and knurled with scars left by fire. Eyes that glow like amber. 

Time stops flowing. 

Your jaw is wired shut. Throat full of talc. Tongue palsied. 

“Y-you… you’re—” 

You choke on your words like they’re made of cotton, and you cannot muster a full sentence; you stumble hastily in his direction and land in his chest like falling a distance into water. Release a breath you had kept pent for the eight months since you last saw him breathing. 

His arms constrict around you, warm and heavy; wide hand settles at the back of your neck, fingers weave into your hair at the nape, and soon your feet feel light on the floor. 

You distantly hear Saoirse stumble into the room, likely armed with a taser and ready to call the police, but she falls quiet. Empathetic woman that she is. She must slither away quickly, because you don’t hear her leave. 

Sobs shatter you despite a feeble effort to contain them. Earnest cries that catch in the fibers of his sweatshirt and the skin of his neck. Tears that you can taste in your mouth. 

“I thought—” you falter, tongue weak, teeth soft. “I t-thought you were dead.” 

“Not yet,” he murmurs. 

His voice quakes through you from where he speaks it into your shoulder, fluttering along your nerves like a hot shiver. Clutches you tightly as if you’re dripping wet and liable to slip through his fingers all over again. 

You breathe him in like oxygen. He smells the same, like skin and leather and gunpowder. Feels the same, warm and rough, soft in the middle. Familiar as you could have become with his touch and taste in your extremely transient crossing of paths. 

“They d-didn’t tell me,” you sob. “They didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t know what h-happened to you.” 

“I’m sorry,” is all he says, bites out the words like it’s hard to let them loose. Firm hand smoothes down the back of your hair, the other coiled around you tightly enough to keep you off the floor, and you feel his heart beating against your sternum. 

Your hands form claws that lodge in the folds of his jacket as though digging for flesh you can hook into — not yet convinced he’s real, let alone that he won’t disappear the moment you can’t feel him there. So you cleave to him, soaking in him, and you unfurl completely. 

“God, I — I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you lament, in a whimper. “I c-can’t believe you came back.” 

He presses his lips into your temple, soft and yet cracked, as if he might speak directly to the worried subconscious hiding in the cavern of your skull.

“I promised.”

[alpaca-clouds]

Why the media CEOs will always learn the wrong lessons

Yesterday a friend and I talked about how the entire (AAA) game industrie looked at BG3 being as popular as it is and going: "Oh, we need to produce 100+ hour games, I guess! Those sell!" Which... obviously is not why it is popular. The game is not popular because it has 100+ hours of gameplay, but because it has engaging characters, that are well-acted and that work as good hooks for the players. Like, let's face it: The reason why I so far have sunken 160 hours into this game is, because I wanna spend time with these characters - and because I wanna give them their happy endings.

But the same has happened too, just a bit earlier this year, right? When Barbie broke the 1 billion and every Hollywood CEO went: "Oh, so the people want movies based on toy franchises! Got it!" To which the internet at large replied: "... How is that the lesson you learned from this?"

Well, let me explain to you, why this is the lesson they learn: It is because the CEOs and the boards of directors at large are not artists or even engaged with the medium they produce. They mostly are economists. And their dry little hearts do not understand stuff more complex than numbers and spread sheets.

That sounds evil, I know, but... It is sadly the truth. When they look at a successful movie/series/game/book/comic, they look at it as a product, not a piece of art or narrative. It is just a product that has very clear metrics.

To them Barbie is not a movie with interesting stylistic choices that stand out from the majority of high budget action blockbusters. It is a toy movie with mildly feminist themes.

Or Oppenheimer is not a movie to them with a strong visual language and good acting direction. No, it is a historical blockbuster.

And this is true for basically every form of media. I mean, books are actually a fairly good example. In my life I do remember the big book fads that happened. When Harry Potter was a success, there was at least a dozen other "magical school" book series being released. When Twilight was a big success there was suddenly an endless number of "teen girl falls in love with bad boy, who is [magical creature]" YA. When the Hunger Games was a success, there were hundreds of "YA dystopia" books. Meanwhile in adult reading, we had the big "next Game of Throne" fad.

Of course, the irony is, that within each of those fads there might have been one or two somewhat successful series - but never even one that came even close to whatever started the fad.

Or with movies, we have seen it, too. When Avengers broke the 1 billion (which up to this point only few movies did) the studios went: "Ooooooh, so we need shared universe film series" - and then all went to try and fail to create their own cinematic universe.

Because the people, who call the shots, are just immensely desinterested in the thing they are selling. They do not really care about the content. All they care about is having a supposedly easy avenue of selling it. Just as they do not care about the consumer. All they care about is that the consumer buys it. Why he buys it... Well, they do not care. They could not care less, in fact.

So, yeah, get ready for a 20 overproduced games with a bloated 100+ hours of empty gameplay, but without the engaging characters. And for like at least 15 more moves based on some toy franchise, that nobody actually cares about.

And then get ready for all the CEOs to do the surprised Pikachu face, when all of that ends up not financially successful.

Really, I read some interviews yesterday from some AAA-studio CEOs and their blatant shock and missing understanding on why BG3 works for so many people.

Because, yeah... capitalism does not appreciate art. Capitalism does not understand art. It only understands spread sheets.

[agreeewrites]

House Party | Drarry

feat. Draco Malfoy x roommate!reader x Harry Potter

summary: all your friends come over for dinner party at your shared flat. little do they know, you've been fucking your roommates in secret for weeks. when one of them makes a move on you, your boys decide to remind you who you belong to.

cw: MDNI 18+, smut, spit roasting, mfm, praise kink, switch!Harry, dom!draco, drinking, smoking, fluff, guyliner, Draco's a slut

an: I just passed 2,000 followers!! I love you all so much and I'm so grateful for the community I've found here. and what better way to celebrate than with our two favorite boys??

more drarry!roommate au | masterlist

Crossed legged on your vanity stool, you set down your blush and accessed your reflection. Too pink? Not enough?

“Looks gorgeous, baby.” A voice interrupted your pondering, low and sweetened with affection—Harry.

“It's not too much?” You asked, turning to look at him. He was leaned against the doorway, a pink wine cooler in his hand, already dressed for the party starting in over an hour. A white t-shirt, undone flannel, and light wash jeans, black hair messy and a little overgrown.

He had no business looking so effortlessly hot all the time.

“Definitely not too much.” He pushed off the door jam and crossed the room to you, setting the drink on the vanity for you. “Your makeup always looks perfect,” he said, tilting your chin up to get a closer look, his fingers cold from the bottle. “I like the, uh—the pink stuff.” He tapped the apple of your cheek gently with his pointer finger.

“Blusher,” you supplied. “And you only think that because you don't know anything about makeup,” you argued, despite the smile tugging at your lips.

“I know that you’ve looked beautiful every second of every day that I've known you, and that has to count for something—”

You swatted his broad chest, rolling your eyes and turning back to your makeup. “You're so full of it,” you laughed.

Grinning, he flopped onto your freshly made mattress, an arm folded behind his head, bulging bicep on full display. “You're about to be full of it—”

“Harry!” You scolded, tossing a brush at him.

He caught it without looking, spinning it around his fingers with a cheeky smirk. “What can I say? You bring it out in me.”

Another eye roll. You take a swig of your drink and grab your eyeliner, bracing your elbows on the table. You can feel Harry watching with abject horror when you paint your waterline. He gasped dramatically when you make a quick flick, resulting in a crooked, lightly smudged wing.

“Shit. Harry!” You huffed.

“I didn't do anything!” He laughed. “You're the one about to stab your eye out—”

“I am not! You're distracting me!—”

Something mischievous glinted in his green eyes. “Oh, you think that's distracting?” Harry hooked his foot under your stool, jerking you back towards the bed.

“Hey!”

“What are you children going on about?” Draco appeared in the doorway, half-dressed in trousers and a sleeveless undershirt.

“Harry made me mess up my eyeliner,” you scowled, turning back to the mirror. You attempted the wing again, only for it to skip and pull a little too long.

“He did?” Draco tsked, casting Harry an authoritative glare as he strode towards you, his equine legs taking him across the room in a few unhurried strides.

“I did not!” Harry argued. “I'm just sitting here, minding my own business—”

“Saints sake!” You cursed, pouting at yet another failed wing attempt.

“Do you need help, darling?” Draco asked, gently taking the eyeliner from your fingers.

“You can do eyeliner?” You asked, brows lifting.

He smirked, long fingers reaching out to grasp your jaw and tilt your head back. “Why so surprised?”

“Because you don't wear eyeliner?”

“My father taught me when I was kid,” he clarified. “It's something he does for my mom all time. Close your eyes, love.”

You were speechless, shocked that Lucius Malfoy not only willingly did his wife's makeup for her, but cared enough to teach Draco how to do it too. Something fluttery bloomed in your chest; Draco was doing it for you. Even Harry had fallen silent, watching with rapt attention.

This is how things were between the three of you—from silly friends one moment, to almost saccharine domestic sweetness another, then near-debilitating lust. Sexual tension so taught, you feared it would throttle you.

It was confusing, exhilarating, and deeply complicated. But it was worth it to have even a small piece of them.

Your closed your eyes, breath hitching when his grip tightened a fraction on your jaw, holding you steady.

“Breathe,” he instructed, his voice coming from much closer now, tinged with spearmint, and you loosed a shaky exhale. “Good girl. Now hold still for me.”

Your heart rate accelerated, thrumming eagerly under your skin. It was staggering how quickly he could send you reeling.

So light it almost tickled, Draco swiped a smooth arch above your upper lashes, flicking just a bit at the edges. With his thumb nail, he sharpened it to a point. An expert maneuver that had your belly somersaulting. He repeated the motions on the other eye, his hand delicate on your face so as not to disturb your other makeup.

“Open your eyes at take a look,” he murmured, and you obeyed, blinking up at him. Merlin, he's gorgeous. With his regal bone structure and those bewitching blue eyes. He smiled at you, catching your lingering stare, and leaned down to peck your lips. “Look at yourself, love, not me.”

You turned, eyes immediately snagging on yourself, and the sultry, flawless eyeliner he'd bestowed up on you.

“How the hell are you so good at that?” You asked, leaning in to get a closer look.

Harry got up and leaned over you, making an appreciate oooh. “Damn, Malfoy. If Auror-ing fails, you've got a back up career as a makeup artist,” he said, smiling over the blond.

Draco chuckled, tucking your hair behind your ear while he admired his hand work. “Happy to help.”

“Your turn!” You whirled around and tackled Draco onto your bed, eyeliner lofted high.

He caught your wrist, grip tight enough to immobilize your arm, but not enough to hurt. He tsked, shaking his head at you. “Gonna have to be quicker than that, pet,” he chided, amusement glittering in his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” you whined, spreading your knees to lower yourself fully onto his lap. “Please?” You fluttered your lashes, tilting your hips just slightly to press against the growing ridge in his pants. He swallowed hard, eyes flitting down to where your bodies touched.

Harry snickered. “You're not playing fair, lovely,” he hummed, plucking the eyeliner from your fingers.

“But he would look so hot,” you argued, and Draco scoffed, releasing your wrist and resting his hands on your thighs.

Harry contemplated this, tapping his chin with the eyeliner. “That's a fair point.” And he handed you the eyeliner back.

“I don't get a say in this?” Draco huffed.

“Nope, you can wash it off after if you don't like it,” you chirped, uncapping it with your teeth and leaning down towards him.

“You know, it's unsanitary to share eye makeup—”

“Quiet, unless you want me to poke out your eyeball. Look up for me,” you ordered in your best Draco impression, and Harry laughed again.

Draco rolled his eyes, but did as he was told.

“Good boy,” you purred, and you felt his cock surge beneath you, Adam’s Apple bombing in his throat.

You drew a short line just under his lower lashes, barely more than a dot of product, and smudged it out with your pinky. Just enough to give him a little bit of a shadow.

When you pulled back, his eyes flicked back down to you, blinking away the little bit of water the collected. Your breath hitched in your lungs. His eyes looked almost silver, brighter than you'd ever seen them with that little bit of extra contrast.

“That's not fair,” Harry whined. “How can he get hotter?”

You set the eyeliner down, grinning triumphantly, until Draco bucked you off, flipping your bodies around before you'd even registered you were moving.

“And what do you think?” He asked, voice low and vaguely threatening.

Your brain short-circuited, completely mesmerized by his eyes. “I, uh—”

Draco smirked. “Not so bold now, are we?” He teased, leaning down to place a singular, open-mouthed kiss to your neck before pushing himself up, releasing you from his hold. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to finish getting ready.” He turned, pausing to pass a smoothing hand through Harry's hair before exiting your bedroom.

“It's not fair,” Harry grumbled, scratching his head where Draco just touched.

“You're gorgeous too,” you said, wrapping your arms around his middle. “You want some blusher?”

He barked a laugh, carding his fingers through your hair to tilt your head back to steal a kiss himself. “I’d hate to steal his thunder,” he joked, lowering his voice.

You giggled, pinching his cheek before pressing a kiss to it. “Natural blush, then?”

“Fiiine,” he smiled, pulling you up to standing. “Anything for you.”

You finished getting ready and joined Harry out in the living room, setting up the snacks and ambiance, getting the final details in order before your friends arrived.

You leaned over the counter, adjusting the candles at the center, when a heavy weight pressed against your back. Hands trailing up the fronts of your thighs, sliding under the hem as they pulled you closer.

“Sorry, lovely,” Harry purred, nosing into the back of your neck. “Couldn't resist.”

You could feel why against the fat of your ass, his cock throbbing eagerly under his jeans.

“They'll be here any minute,” you giggled, arching your back to press against him.

He groaned, calloused hands tightening around your fleshy thighs. “We'll cancel.”

“And eat all the snacks ourselves?” A breathy sigh stuttered from your throat when he rocked against you.

“Yeah, yeah—” he rasped, mouthing at the top of your spine. “Will need to refuel for round two—”

“You two are insatiable.” Draco’s accusatory voice cut through your haze like a lance.

Harry didn't relent, straightening. “Can you blame me?” Harry chuckled, his hands smoothing down the curve of your spine, the flare of your hips.

Draco hummed, and you turned your head to look at him. And oh, did he look good. Black fitted t-shirt tucked into his slightly baggy trousers, a patent leather belt cinching in that slutty little waist, silver rings on his fingers and chain around his neck. His eyes practically glowed from the eyeliner, giving him just that little bit of an edge, almost Bowie-like.

You extended a hand out to him, making a grabby motion, and he smirked.

“I have to admit, the eyeliner is growing on me,” he said, gently taking your hand and brushing a kiss along your knuckles. “But still, we're going to have to work on your manners.” He rotated your arm, bending your elbow to press your hand against your lower back. Harry caught your wrist, pining it down and pressing you harder against the cold granite.

“Seems well behaved to me,” Harry praised, his free hand trailing higher between your legs. “Isn't that right, baby?”

You nodded, thighs trembling as he inched higher, higher—

Knock knock!

Harry jumped back from you and Draco's head snapped up, scowling like someone personally offended him.

You straightened, smoothing your dress and taking a swig of your drink, willing the throbbing between your legs to subside.

“Sorry, love,” Harry said, pecking your cheek before rushing to open the door.

Draco shook his head and stalked over to the bar, uncapping the fire whisky and filling his glass.

“Harry, you will not believe what happened at work today.” Hermione charged in, jumping headfirst into a story about her idiotic supervisor.

Ron trailed in behind her, laden with takeout bags and a twelve pack that Harry helped him unload.

Hermione only paused her story to throw her arms around you, greeting you with one of those bearish hugs she was so good at it. Ron waved from across the island with a shy smile.

“Merlin sakes, Grainger. Do you ever stop talking?” Draco droned, leaning against the island beside you, a teasing smirk on his face.

“Unlike you, I actually have interesting things to say,” she bit back, pulling him down for a hug that he pretended to hate.

The boys ventured out to the fire escape, taking Draco's immaculate prerolls with them, leaving you and Hermione cozied up on the couch. But it wasn't long before Theo, Blaise, and Pansy arrived.

“Eccola lì!” Theo cried, handing you a gorgeous bouquet of roses and wrapping you up in a big hug. “I’ve missed you, carina,” he cooed, an incorrigible flirt as always.

“Hi, Theo,” you giggled, slipping away to hug the other two before tracking down a vase.

“What the fuck, Nott!” Draco shouted, throwing up the window, a plume of smoke pouring in. “Where are my flowers?”

“Sod off!” Theo shouted back. “Grainger, darling, if I’d known you'd be here, I’d have brought you the most gorgeous—”

“Watch it, Theodore,” Ron chuckled, his eyes already bloodshot, his smile melty. “Get your own bird, yeah?”

“Lo farò,” he purred, winking at you.

“Ignore him,” Pansy laughed, helping you fill the vase with water. “He got rejected this morning at the café, so he's feeling sensitive.”

“Oi!” He yelled over his shoulder as he climbed outside.

Blaise rolled his eyes and peeled away from Pansy’s hip, helping himself to the whiskey and sinking into the couch beside Hermione, launching into questions about her work. Pansy joined the boys on the porch, bringing out a tray of chips to uproarious applause.

Draco climbed back inside after her, swallowing the rest of his whiskey, and joined you in the kitchen, taking the roses from your hands.

“Thorns?” He asked, checking the stems. “I'll take care of it, go get a drink,” he murmured, fingers lingering on your lower back, hidden by the island, before he turned away.

“Thanks, D,” you said, squeezing his shoulder as you slipped past him and out of the kitchen. You grabbed another wine cooler and headed out to the fire escape, earning a trill of applause yourself.

Harry was perched on the steps, Ron on his left, while Pansy and Theo leaned against the railings. You turned towards Harry, but Theo caught you first, slinging an arm over your shoulder and tugging you into his side.

“Now the parties started,” Theo joked, offering the half-smoked blunt between his fingers.

You couldn't help but glance at Harry, who was watching you from the corner of his eye while chatting about classes that week with Ron.

If you were honest, you wanted a hit from Harry’s joint, preferably directly from his mouth, but you couldn't exactly refuse Theo and go to Harry without letting the cat out of the bag.

But would that be so terrible? You trusted your friends to not leak the news, and hiding what the three of you were was proving harder than you'd anticipated.

Sure, you weren’t a couple, but it was easy to forget what the arrangement actually was when it was just the three of you in the flat, free to express your affection however and whenever you wanted.

Going back to being friends, even if it was just temporary, was leaving your heart a little bruised.

“I'm okay, Theo. Thanks, though,” you said, offering as sweet a smile as you could muster, and Harry visibly relaxed in your periphery.

“Tranquilla,” Theo said, taking a hit himself and relinquishing his hold on you.

As casually as you could, you sidestepped to sit on the steps beneath Harry, his shins at your back, and started chatting with Pansy about her and Blaise’s upcoming nuptials.

A few minutes later, something heavy and warm dropped on your shoulders, wafting a familiar, amber-scented cologne over you. Harry's flannel.

You curled your fingers around the collar, wrapping it tighter around you, and felt like you could breathe for the first time since everyone arrived.

He offered you his blunt, holding it carefully between his fingers so you could hold onto the flannel. The acrid burn filled your lungs, cast a haze over your mind, and you exhaled, letting the smoke carry your racing thoughts to the stars.

"Better stop looking so damn kissable before I do something stupid," he muttered against your ear, a shiver rolling down your spine. Before you could respond, he leaned back against the stairs, slipping back into conversation with Ron like nothing happened.

A few hours passed, traveling back and forth from the fire escape to the living room, but as the evening wore on, it was too cold to sit outside. So everyone crammed into the living room, sprawled out on the couches and cushions tossed onto the floor.

You were stretched out on the floor between Draco and Theo, the latter seeming more interested in you than usual. He'd barely left your side all night, jumping up every time your drink was empty, or you eyeballed a snack for a few extra seconds.

They were reminiscing on their Hogwarts days, swapping stories and laughing. You were a year below them, and had only really known them from afar, so you just listened, and laughed when everyone else did.

“What'd you think of us back then, carina?” Theo asked, bumping his knee against yours.

Draco and Harry perked up a bit.

“I mean…” you trailed off, glancing around the group as heat crawled up your neck. “He’s Harry Potter. We were all a little starstruck.”

Harry flushed, and everyone but Draco laughed.

“And Hermione, I would write down your class schedule to try and copy it so I could be as smart as you—clearly, a failure,” you added, and Hermione blew you a kiss.

“Theo and Blaise, you guys stole my Charms coursework once, so…”

Theo balked, and Blaise snickered.

“I would never do such a thing,” Theo argued, clutching his gold chain like it was a string of pearls.

Immediately, everyone launched into different stories where Theo had done that and worse.

“Alright, alright! Stronzo’s,” he muttered, pouting.

“And Draco,” you said, finally turning towards the sulking blond. Were you really about to admit this out loud? “I had an absolutely debilitating crush on you.”

“Whaaaat?!” Everyone cried, and Draco's scowl lifted to a smirk, something warm blooming in his glacial eyes.

Harry rolled his eyes, slumping back against the couch, but Draco drew your attention back with an arm snaking around your waist.

“Did you?” He cooed, tugging you into his side. “How adorable.”

You shoved him away, giggling, though he didn't let you go far, socked feet still touching. “I was young, and had questionable taste!”

Everyone howled with laughter, and Draco chuckled, though his eyes promised you'd regret those words. And you couldn't wait.

They dove back into conversation, and you slipped away to check your makeup and calm your racing heart.

A soft knock startled you from your vanity, and you turned, expecting Harry or Draco, but were surprised to find Theo leaning against the door jam.

“Didn't mean to scare you, amore,” he said, eyes sweeping over you, openly appreciative.

“Oh, uh—it’s okay. What's up, Theo?” You asked, setting down your powder brush.

“I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner with me this week?” He asked, and your stomach dropped. “I think we'd have a lot of fun,” he added, sensing your hesitation.

“Oh, Theo. I—I’m not really in a ‘dating’ place right now,” you said, fidgeting a bit. “But, I appreciate the offer.”

Theo smiled, though it wasn't exactly friendly. “Still have a crush on Malfoy, hm?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I don't need a reason, Theo,” you bit, crossing your arms over your chest.

He held up his hands. “I know, I know. That's not what I was trying to imply. Mi dispiace. I had a feeling you'd say no, but figured I'd try my luck anyways. Your reasons are your own.”

You nodded stiffly, still a bit perturbed by the interaction.

“But, if you do still have a crush on Malfoy—”

“What’s that, Nott?” Draco suddenly appeared over Theo's shoulder, expression dark as a burgeoning storm.

Theo glanced at him, then back to you, still wearing the mischievous smirk. Apparently oblivious to the trap he'd stepped in. “Buona fortuna, carina,” he said, lifted like a farewell, and stepped back into the hall, leaving Malfoy fuming by your door.

“Draco—”

“He asked you out?” Draco asked, leveling you with those piercing eyes.

“And I turned him down,” you retorted, irritation flaring at the possessive way he was acting.

He was the one that suggested this arrangement, wasn't he? He made his bed. You weren't his. Not officially.

Something in your tone broke through the fog of war, and his expression softened.

“Can't say I blame the poor sod,” he said after a moment, eyes drifting down your body. “But I can say that I don't feel all that bad for him.”

You shook your head, walking towards the door to head back to the party. “Try not to look so smug,” you teased, pecking his cheek as you passed by him.

But his arm shot out, hooking you around the middle and flipping you around to press your back against the doorway, his body looming over yours.

“How could I not be?” He murmured, dragging his nose along your temple, the heat of him wrapping around you like a blanket. You could look nowhere but him, completely engulfed in his aura. “I've got such a pretty little thing wrapped around my finger.”

You rolled your eyes, but made no move to escape, the party with all your friends just down the hall completely forgotten. You only wished it was Harry you were pressed up against instead of the wall. Sandwiched between them was your favorite place to be.

His lips trailed down your neck, the feather light contact sparking along your skin like a live wire, and you gasped, arching into him.

“Is it too early to send everyone home?” You whined, raking your fingers through his hair. There was something deeply satisfying about being the one to ruin his always immaculate appearance.

“Just say the word and you'll never see any of them again,” he promised, earning a giggle from you.

“That seems excessive,” you teased.

“I disagree entirely—”

“I'm sorry to be a cock-block, but our guests grow suspicious.” Harry's voice filled the empty hall, and you felt Draco sigh against your neck before stepping back.

“I don't think you're sorry at all,” Draco chastised, throwing Harry a sardonic grin.

Harry shrugged, smirking back. “C’mon, lovely. They're trying to argue that the Demiguise is uglier than Grindylow.”

You gasped. “What?” and raced back out into the living room.

An hour later, you lead Pansy and Blaise to the door, waving goodbye to your final guests and hopping you didn't seem to eager to have them leave.

When you returned to the living room, you found Draco already picking up empty bottles and cans, while Harry was sprawled out on the floor amid the aftermath of the party, leaning back against the couch.

You thought about going to help Draco, but Harry looked far too cozy to pass up.

Harry grinned when you approached, crooked and honey-sweet, and it made your heart skip a beat. “Hi, pretty,” he said, opening his arms to you.

You sank to the ground and laid against his chest, one leg slung over his. “Have fun?” you asked, pecking his cheek. “Seemed to get a little jealous earlier.”

He shrugged. “M’fine,” he muttered, his tone shifting at the mention of Theo’s advances.

You didn’t buy it. Lightly, you dragged your fingertips down his chest, feeling his muscles twitch and bounce under your touch, and leaned in. “Are you lying to me?” you asked, breath fanning across his cheek.

“No, no—I, uh, I’m fine,” he stammered, breath hitching when you leaned in to kiss along the flush crawling up his neck. “Never been better,” he added, a little breathless.

You smiled, pulling at his earlobe with your teeth, before kitten licking the shell. He was trembling a little, his hand on your waist growing heavier, fingers curling around the bunched fabric of your dress.

“So, you don’t need me to show you how much I adore you?” You asked, pulling back a bit.

“No—yes, I—fuck, please don't stop—” He cupped your face, reeling you in for a messy, indulgent kiss. Lips slick with spit, tongue heavy with his lingering high and sweetened by booze, prying apart teeth to get to the softness of you. “Show me, please?” he mumbled against your mouth, breathing labored under the weight of his desire.

How could you refuse such a sweet request?

You shifted down, kissing along the valley of his sternum towards his navel, his skin deliciously warm through his thin shirt. Once settled between his thighs, you quickly undid his belt and fly, freeing him from the confines of his jeans. His cock was already throbbing, flushed with arousal and leaking pearls of precum. So sensitive, he hissed through his teeth when the cold air of the room kissed his fevered skin.

“You need me this badly, darling?” you cooed, blowing air on the rosy head to tease him further.

His chin bobbed, his entire body rigid with tension. “Please, baby, please touch me,” he whimpered.

Taking pity on him, you wrapped your lips around the head, flicking over his slit with your tongue. His whole body shuddered, a broken little groan slipping through is teeth. You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, the hot, heavy slide of his silken skin on your tongue making your thighs clench, honey leaking through your underwear.

“F-fuck,” he moaned, covering his face with his hands. “Feels so good—you’re so good.” His thighs flexed with the effort of not bucking into your mouth, desperate to keep still so you didn’t stop.

You hummed in appreciation, taking him as deep as you could manage, tongue swiping along the root of him. Drool was collecting at his base, stringy as you lifted up and down, making a mess of his boxers and yourself.

“Look at you,” Draco cooed, startling you when you felt fingers glide through your hair. “Such a fucking mess.” He collected your hair into a ponytail, starting to lift and lower you on Harry’s length.

“Draco, f-fuck,” Harry moaned.

Draco chuckled, guiding Harry’s hand to hold your hair and releasing you. “You can do it, Harry. She won’t break,” he teased, and you felt Harry’s hand tighten, adding a little more force to your own movements, pushing you a little further each time.

Tears collected at the corners of your eyes, Harry’s thick length making your jaw ache, and the need between your legs bordering on painful.

Then, you felt Draco’s hands slide under your hipbones, lifting you up to your knees in a quick motion and making you slide further down on Harry’s cock, gagging on him.

“Sh, sh, there’s a good girl,” Draco soothed, pushing your dress up over your hips, and rolling down your sodden panties. His fingers ghosted over your cunt, applying the lightest pressure, and you keened, the sound muffled by Harry’s length. “Don’t worry, pet. I’ll only stop when you do,” he challenged, circling the pool of moisture at your entrance before dipping a finger inside your heat.

You moaned again, redoubling your efforts on Harry to encourage Draco's fingers, rocking back against him as you bobbed up and down Harry's length. Harry was a mess beneath, gasping and whimpering, a sheen of sweat making his shirt stick to his skin, his dark hair cling to his forehead. Even his poor glasses were fogging up.

“Merlin sakes, baby—” Harry grunted when you swallowed around him, taking him deeper than before.

Draco rewarded you with a curl of his fingers, prodding that ruinous spot that had your whole body tingling, eyes rolling back in your head. “You take that cock so well, love. Such a perfect little cocksucker, aren't you?”

You nodded, pleasure unspooling in your belly and making your limbs grow heavy, wanting to dissolve onto the floor and let them ravaged you. Take what's theirs.

“Look so pretty,” Harry cooed, his free hand cupping your jaw, stroking away a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“Tell us how pretty you feel,” Draco instructed, his fingers withdrawing from your heat.

You pulled off of Harry, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “I feel so pretty. Thank you for making me feel so pretty,” you babble, reaching back to grab Draco and squeezing Harry's thigh.

Both men grinned, tutting proudly, and your reward prodded against your entrance, much thicker than a finger.

Harry guided you back down to his cock. “Remember, lovely. Don't stop unless you want him to.”

You nodded, lapping at the mess you'd made around his base. Draco swirled his cockhead through your folds, lubricating himself, mimicking the movement of your tongue.

Carefully, you took Harry into your mouth, slowly sinking down his length while Draco pushed into you, just as careful. Stretched perfectly, deliriously full. Pleasure dripped from between your legs, flooding your mind and body. You reached for them again, needing an anchor in the storm, and they both reached back for you, Harry hands over your on his chest, and Draco's fingers twined with yours on your shoulder.

“All ours, hm?” Draco gruffed, rocking his hips into you, his iron length dragging against your gummy walls. “Our mouth, our cunt—” he snapped his hips forward, sending you down on Harry's cock and making you gag. “If only Theo could see you now…”

You shook your head as best you could. “Omphly yours,” you mumbled, tongue squished against your teeth by Harry's girth. Harry keened at the feeling, hips stuttering up, the tendons in his neck pulled taught as you felt him start to swell—so fucking close.

“That's right,” Draco purred, stopping his punishing strokes to grind into you, the squelch of your pussy unforgiving, undeniable. “You're both mine.”

You and Harry nodded automatically, letting Draco's pace pull you up and down Harry's length, all of you rocking together like a castaways on a lifeboat, clinging to one another so you weren't pitched into the churning sea.

“F-fuck, ah—I’m so close,” Harry whimpered, hands tightening as he started to tremble, body burning like a furnace beneath you.

“Not yet, Potter,” Draco grunted, his hand sliding from your hip around to your belly, long fingers finding your clit and the sticky mess you'd made between your legs. “Not until she comes.”

It was like Draco struck a match, your whole body lighting up as he worked you with expert precision, knowing your body even better than you did. You tried your best to keep pace sucking Harry, but your mind was starting to fog, limbs going stupid and gelatinous as every nerve pulled taught in your stomach.

Harry whined, head falling back against the couch cushions. “Oh saints—I can't—”

“She’s almost there—you can. C’mon, angel. Come for us—He's been so good, he deserves to come, doesn't he?” Draco was starting to ramble, a tell-tale sign that he was getting close too, his cock thickening, pressing harder against your cervix with every thrust.

“Please, please, please,” Harry pleaded, and you were done for.

Your orgasm crested, the tension severing in your gut and sending you reeling, quivering so hard Draco had to wrap his arm under your hips to keep you upright.

The boys were dragged into oblivion with you, their cries combining into a single roar as they pumped you full of release, painting your insides white as they fucked you and one another through it.

“That's it—so fucking good for us. Did so well,” Draco said, stroking your spine and Harry’s outstretched leg, praising you both. He eased you off of Harry, laying you gently on the carpet and using his wand to clean you both up.

You were completely spent, wrung out like a washcloth. Boneless, brainless, and practically giddy with endorphins.

“You're amazing.” Harry offered you a sip of water, holding your hand while to you recovered. “Smiley girl,” he teased, leaning down to peck the grin tugging at your lips.

“Feel good, darling?” Draco asked, massaging your legs, his own smile breaking through. Viscerally pleased that he had you so thoroughly wrecked.

Harry was trying to be coy, but you could see the possessive gleam in his eye, the greedy way he took stock of every red mark and bead of sweat on your body. “Looking a little starstruck, love," Harry teased.

"Still think you were naive and had questionable taste?” Draco asked.

You shook your head, too breathless to speak, your throat raw and tender in the best way.

Poor Theo didn't stand a chance.

© agreeewrites 2025. do not copy, translate or claim my writing as your own.

[hypothermiatapes]

Sometimes I randomly think about how much Harry’s childhood probably affected his personalities and relationships.

We know Harry was abused as a kid—it glaringly obvious in the books—, but my question is what exactly did this abuse do to him in the long run?

I think for Harry it wasn’t as obvious as it could have been, but to me he seems like a wonderful example of an abuse victim in a way. When he gets angry it’s usually cold and calculated, Harry usually not being too loud as not to draw attention but to let his anger be known. He doesn’t like attention, usually avoiding it if he can and getting uncomfortable from it, I think it could be traced back to attention usually having negative consequences.

While he may go to an adult first when a problem arises (McGonagall and the Philosophers Stone) if the adult proves incompetent he will take matters into his own hands and not bother getting their help again. He also doesn’t respect them like he could and treats those who treat him badly the same, Snape a wonderful example of this. To him he is on the same level as them and thinks lowly of them at the same time.

When Ron and Hermione are bickering it annoys him and often causes him to blow if it goes on too long or he’s pulled into it. I think raised voices or arguing are a type of trigger, not one that’s very strong but can makes him feel more on edge and slightly more antsy. I also think him being treated as “less than”—or like a child—is also a slight trigger because that’s how the Dursleys would treat him.

He also usually is very unaware of the people around him that don’t make a difference in his life, failing to know the names of kids he’s gone to school with for years. To me it seems like someone that’s always only relied on themselves is too busy caring for themselves that they don’t have time to care about people that don’t matter. These people also fade to the back because they don’t pose a risk in any way nor do they bring him any joy. At the Dursleys he wouldn’t have had time to care about kids at school because he’s too busy thinking about how to escape Dudley and his gang and not get on his aunt and uncles bad side.

The sorting hat also mentioned how Harry had a thirst to prove himself, something that’s common among abused kids because they want to be treated better. His risk taking behavior could have been mixed with this because a subconscious part of his mind thought it the only way to be liked due to him being a celebrity.

I also noticed how he doesn’t really branch out when it comes to meeting people, simply going with the flow. It could be because as a kid if he went up to Petunia, Vernon or Dudley for attention it never ended well and the kids at his primary school probably shied away because he was a target for bullying. The logical decision is to let people come to him and prove they want to be around, so he let Ron and Hermione come around without really reaching out.

Emotions also make him uncomfortable, seen with Cho crying around him. He doesn’t understand them likely because he was forced to push his away because he wasn’t allowed to ever be upset or too happy. Something that’s common in emotionally neglected children, it also points to his lack of empathy. While Harry may seem to care he does not come across as very empathetic for the average person unless it’s people he’s close with.

Harry is a wonderful example of an abuse victim in a way, but only if you look really closely.

[bookshelfdreams]

What is your Hogwarts house?

yk, I always thought it was a shame that we (here on the Overanalyzing Dumb Pop Media website) consider HP a forbidden topic; or rather, have collectively decided that, because its author is an idiot transphobe, it is unworthy of discussion. There are so many things worthy of discussion about it, about what it believes in, what roles it assigns to people, why it ultimately fails in delivering its message.

Actually, the houses are a big part of that.

What is evil in the world of HP? Not what the text says outright, not the lip-service it pays to Fascism Bad! No, what is shown as evil? What marks an evil person, and in contrast, a good one? (Aside from superficial and again, obvious traits like cruelty or intolerance)

The defining trait of the "evil" house is ambition and cunning - and intelligence. Ravenclaw might not be "the villain", but the characters placed here, when they feature at all, are often morally ambiguous or downright antagonistic. The big bad villain comes from devastating poverty, just like the secondary villain.

What does HP believe in? Well, underlying seems to be the assumption that it is inherently suspicious to want to rise above one's station. It is fine for characters to explore and make use of their natural gifts, but it is wrong and a mark of evil to have ambitions beyond that. Wanting to be better is fueled by bitterness and jealousy; in HP, you either have innate talent, or you're a fraud and a villain.

This isn't something that's put in consciously, I am almost certain of that. Rather, it stems from a cultural background, where everyone ought to stay within their class. Where good fortune, wealth and talent is a mark of God's favour, and trying to achieve better status despite not being born into it, is hubris that ought to be punished.

Now, on the surface, HP obviously rejects this. Harry himself grows up a destitute, abused orphan! Doesn't he?

But he is lifted from his old life when he learns that he was always special. Fate has marked him favourably. He is innately talented in all the right ways, and he's heir to a fortune.

Contrasting that, there's Ron, whose family is actually poor, but who bear poverty gracefully. Who would, of course, never accept charity! And who's father could have had a better, more lucrative carreer, but never had because he enjoys working in his deadend position so much! (And then look at Ron's brothers: The twins find success and a fortune by exploring their innate talents, seemingly without too much care for financial gain. Percy, otoh, who actually has career ambitions, is painted as shallow and selfish for it.)

Even of the protagonists, the one who is the most hardworking - Hermione - is also the most ruthless, even cruel and dangerous at times. And she is allowed to work for success only because all her motivation is purely academic (and also rooted in poor self-esteem). She studies for a love of studying, and because she is terrified of failure. Not because she wants to be the best.

Being the best is something you simply are. Not something you work for.

On the surface level, HP is about defeating fascism. But the whole framework of HP, its underlying worldview, is far more compatible to that of fascism than antifascim. Voldemort kind of has a point! In HP, muggles are constantly portrayed as clueless and idiotic not-people who are needlessly cruel and intolerant towards wizards. Voldemort's offense isn't thinking wizards are inherently better - the narrative believes this too - it's that he's going to far. He's targeting other wizards and that's inacceptable.

Because in the world of HP, the traits and talents you're born with determine your worth as a person. They're the mark of goodness and achieving success beyond your "station", that's evil.

In the world of HP, not everyone is born free and equal. From birth, it is determined whether you're good or evil, and that's unchangeable (which is why there's so little character development in the entire book series). Redemption is impossible. At 11 years old, your character is declared in front of everyone, and this is unchangeable.

So, to answer your question: idk, man. I'm 35, I'm beyond that age when you want to categorize yourself into a neat little box. I don't think people can be easily divided into "brave heros", "loyal servants", "kinda suspicious nerds", and "evil masterminds", we're more complicated than that.

[slytherinsimp12]

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ You belong with me 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Ron Weasley x fem!reader

Friends to lovers

Summary: You and Ron have been best friends since first year. Unbeknownst to you, you had started developing feelings for him but he starts dating Lavender Brown. Everything changes one summer night at the burrow.

(Happy ending ofc <3)

Word count: 2k

Requests are open 💌

Sunlight reflected off his scarlet quidditch robes, making his red hair appear redder. You ran up to Ron to congratulate him, and the rest of gryffindor, on their victory.

“Well played weasley.” You smirked as Ron pulled you into a hug.

“Couldn’t have done it without your support from the benches” he joked

Pulling away from him, you noticed a curly dusty blonde haired girl eager to make her way towards Ron.

“Congratulations Won won!” She giggled and pulled Ron into a deep kiss.

What the hell? Who is this freak? Does she congratulate every guy by kissing them? You thought to yourself.

“I’ll see you in the common room later.” She winked at Ron as she walked away.

“Who the hell was that?” You asked

“Oh, that was Lavender. Lavender Brown. We started seeing each-other last month. She’s a bit…. strong spirited…. If thats the right way to put it.” He explained.

“Last month!!?? And you didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me? Only been your best friend for six bloody years and you don’t tell me you’ve got yourself a girlfriend? Piss off Ronald.” You shouted as you walked away.

“Y/n wait-“ You heard Ron call but you didn’t care.

How dare he? You always shared everything with him. Every single detail of your life, and he did the same. Well, up until now. You didn’t understand why it was bothering you so much; the mere thought of Ron and Lavender together made your blood boil. It must have been because he kept you in the dark about it for so long.

“Y/n… are you alright?” Hermione whispered.

You were sitting on the floor of the gryffindor common room, in-front of the fireplace, finishing your History of Magic homework.

“So I’m guessing you heard about my little outburst on the quidditch field this morning?” You asked

“Half of the school heard it” She quipped.

“Wow. Thanks. That made me feel so much better.” You said with a blank expression.

It has been three weeks since you found out about Lavender and Ron. He tried ‘explaining himself’ to you on numerous occasions, but each time you came up with a pathetic excuse to avoid him. He didn’t have to explain who he was dating or why he was dating them to you. That would be weird. Why should he be obligated to consult you about his love life? You’re over reacting, thats all - you tried telling yourself every night. It didn’t bother you, honestly why should it even bother you?

“Y/n! Please stop this madness. It’s been three weeks… I miss my friend.” Ron pleaded. He had you cornered near a wall in the corridors, you couldn’t escape him now.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Lavender immediately. Honestly… I didn’t see it lasting long anyway , so I didn’t bother telling you. And to be frank, I didn’t think you’d like her… guess I got that part right.” Ron explained as he scratched the back of his neck.

“No. Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry Ron. I’m sorry for acting so childish.” You apologised

Ron pulled you into a tight hug and smiled.

“Soooo… tell me about her. Is she a good kisser?” You teased

“Oh shut it” Ron play punched you in the shoulder.

“What!? Every time i’ve seen you guys together , you’ve been snogging!” You said laughing.

And just like that, everything felt normal again.

Exams had just come to an end, and you couldn’t be happier. Summer at the burrow with the weasley family awaited you. Every summer since your second year at hogwarts, Ron invited you, Hermione and Harry to the burrow to spend a few weeks there. Even when Harry and Hermione failed to go, you never missed the opportunity to spend time with the weasleys. They were the closest thing you had to family. Molly was like the mother you never had and Ginny was like a sister you adored. Ron… Ron was just your Ron. He was your favourite person in the entire world. You were hoping that wouldn’t change since he started dating Lavender.

“Did you tell Mrs. Weasley that all three of us are coming this summer?” You asked Ron. You, Harry , Hermione and Ron were sitting in the same compartment in the train whilst stuffing your faces with sweets from the trolly.

“Oh yea , i’ve told mum. She’s trilled. I even overheard Fred and George planning what tricks to play on us once we get there” Ron said.

“Did you tell her, Ron?” Harry whispered into Ron’s ear.

“Tell me what?” You asked nervously.

“Oh erm… Lavender is going to join us at the burrow this summer.” Ron mumbled stuffing his face with more sweets.

“Ron stop eating for a second. Your mouth is so full; I don’t think I heard you right…. For a second I thought you said Lavender is joining us this summer.” You said.

“Oh you heard him right.” Hermione said as she rolled her eyes.

Was he being serious right now? This was a thing the friend group shared. Why the hell did he have to ruin it by inviting his annoying little girlfriend. And just on cue, Lavender appeared outside the compartment, blowing her breath on the glass as she drew a heart and wrote ‘Lavender + Ron’ in it.

“I think I’m going to be sick” you said.

The days at the burrow passed by excruciatingly slow. You barely spoke to Ron. Lavender was every where. Even Mrs. Weasley seemed to have had enough of her. Fred and George tried to cheer you up on multiple occasions by playing tricks on Ron and Lavender every time you caught them snogging.

“Y/n , don’t be like this. Please. “ Hermione pressed.

“What do you mean? I’m not being like… anything.” You countered.

“ It’s so obvious you hate seeing Ron and Lavender together, in fact it’s obvious you hate seeing Ron with anyone that isn’t you.” Harry added

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.” You said as you burst out the living room.

That night, Lavender announced that she will be cooking dinner for everyone, since she wanted to do something special for her ‘Won Won’.

Everyone waited eagerly at the table , wondering what dish Lavender would be serving. You hated to admit it , but the smell coming from the kitchen was mouth watering. Your stomach made a rumbling noise as you glanced at Ron.

He was seated right across you, with Harry beside him. Hermione sat on your left and Ginny on your right. Everyone else were in their usual spots as Lavender finally bought out the food.

“Tada! I present to you , a recipe passed down for generations in my family , Cauliflower Casserole!” Lavender squeaked as she begin serving the dish to everyone.

“Double serving for you , because I know your gonna love it , my Won Won.” Lavender continued.

“Is she mental? Is she absolutely stupid? How has she been dating Ron for three months, and yet she doesn’t even know the fact that he despises cauliflower!?” You whisper shouted to Ginny and Hermione.

“Eat up Won Won.” Lavender hovered over Ron until he put a spoon full of casserole in his mouth.

“Mmm. It’s delicious.” Ron lied, turning a shade of green, as he continued eating.

“Ron you don’t have to-“ you were saying as Hermione cut you off.

“Don’t y/n. It’s not worth it.” She said.

Everyone else seemed to be enjoying their meal, even you, as the food was actually quite delicious. But, Ron barely touched his food which was extremely rare for him.

After dinner, you played a round of wizards chess with mrs. Weasley, Hermione and Ginny, and then went to bed.

You awoke at 2 am, parched and in desperate need of water. As you made your way down to the kitchen, you saw a figure standing above the stove. It was Ron.

“Hey… what are you doing up so late?” You asked.

“Blimey y/n. You scared me.” He jumped.

“Are you making food at this ungodly hour, Ronald Weasley?” You asked.

“Yea… I’m still kinda hungry.”

“Figured. Cauliflower casserole. Pft. Three months and it’s like she knows nothing about you.” you mumbled, mostly to yourself.

“I know you hate her.” Ron said

“Move over.” You ignored him as he handed you the pan. You cracked an egg and begin frying some bacon. Ron sat on the table, his mouth watering at the smell.

You placed the food on a plate and grabbed two forks. Ron practically attacked the food, making you laugh.

“Do you love her?” You asked

“Love!? Love who? Lavender? God no.” He seemed offended you even asked such a question.

“Then why are you with her , Ron?”

“I- Because I can’t be with the one person I want to be with.” He spat

“What are you taking about?” You asked, confused.

“It’s impractical. She’s like my bestest friend in the whole world. It would be nonsensical for me to confess to her. She probably doesn’t even feel the same way.” He explained.

“Are you talking about Hermione?” You asked baffled.

“Merlins sake y/n…. I’m talking about you!” He practically shouted.

“Me?” You said, your voice barely a whisper.

Both of you were standing now. Your heart was racing faster than your brain. Ron wants to be with me? How is that possible. You thought to yourself. He treated you like one of his brothers, playing rough all the time, he never even treated you like a proper girl. You would have never figured he had feelings for you.

“What are you saying, Ron?” You questioned.

“I’m saying- I’m saying that I’m bloody in love with you, y/n! I have been… for a very, very long time.” He said.

You walked closer to him, your faces only a few inches apart.

“You fool, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You asked as you placed your hand on his cheek.

“I didn’t think you would return my feelings, and quite frankly I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.” He explained.

“Idiot” you murmured as you pulled Ron in for a kiss. He kissed back like it was the only thing he had been wanting to do all summer.

After a minute, you pulled away.

“What are we going to do about Lavender?” You asked

“I’ll sort it out first thing tomorrow. But for now….” Ron pulled you in as you smiled against his chest.

All was well. Ronald weasley was finally yours.

(All rights reserved, ©)

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Dumbledore is a little full of himself

Like, I read Tales of Beedle the Bard, and I was struck by how Dumbledore comments on his own cleverness and knowledge in his notes incredibly often:

This prejudice eventually died out in the face of overwhelming evidence that some of the world’s most brilliant wizards(3) were, to use the common phrase, “Muggle-lovers”. [...] 3 Such as myself.

(Albus Dumbledore on “The Wizard and the Hopping Pot”)

I think I may say, without vanity, that both my Fountain and my Hill performed the parts allotted to them with simple goodwill. Alas, that the same could not be said of the rest of the cast.

(Albus Dumbledore on “The Fountain of Fair Fortune”)

Even I, Albus Dumbledore, would find it easiest to refuse the Invisibility Cloak; which only goes to show that, clever as I am, I remain just as big a fool as anyone else.

(Albus Dumbledore on “The Tale of the Three Brothers”)

The guy can hardly talk about anything without talking about how smart and wise and brilliant he is. Like, no humility whatsoever.

In the books, everyone keeps singing his praises like Dumbledore can do no wrong and the only one who keeps saying Dumbledore can be wrong is Harry. And even then, in Harry's limbo vision of King's Cross, which I don't think is really Dumbledore, it's telling Harry envisions him saying something like this:

“And you knew this? You knew — all along?” “I guessed. But my guesses have usually been good,” said Dumbledore happily

(DH, Ch35)

Dumbledore doesn't speak to Harry all that often throughout the series, with book 6 being the one he interacts with him the most. And we see that even in conversations with people, Dumbledore loves to hear how wise and great he is. When he says "I might be mistaken" it's with the tone of "I'm right and everyone else is wrong". Which is usually the case often enough, yes (though not always), but he does it a lot, and I found it interesting how often he uses this phrasing and how smug he seems about it:

And then Dumbledore called out from the back row where he stood with the other teachers — “Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!” (GOF)

“I may be wrong,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but I am sure that under the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, the accused has the right to present witnesses for his or her case? Isn’t that the policy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Madam Bones?” he continued, addressing the witch in the monocle. (OotP)

“Payment?” said Harry. “You’ve got to give the door something?” “Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Blood, if I am not much mistaken.” (HBP)

Dumbledore uses this phrasing when he knows what he is saying is correct. He is saying it not because he thinks he might actually be wrong. When he actually thinks he is wrong, he makes excuses and tries to reason why the decision he made was actually reasonable at the time:

“Harry, I owe you an explanation,” said Dumbledore. “An explanation of an old man’s mistakes. For I see now that what I have done, and not done, with regard to you, bears all the hallmarks of the failings of age. Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young ... and I seem to have forgotten lately...”

(OotP)

He is incapable of saying: "I was wrong, it happens, let's move on," it has to come with reasoning or an excuse. He blames it on his age, not that he made a wrong judgment call. This isn't humbleness.

Dumbledore is a character who wants to be humble but just isn't. he considers modesty a virtue. Hell, humility is practically his favorite trait Harry possess:

Harry, who could not see any way out of this without flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn beamed at him. “So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond — you were there, then?

(HBP) - Slughorn mentions how Dumbledore appreciates modesty.

The third brother in the story (“the humblest and also the wisest”) is the only one who understands that, having narrowly escaped Death once, the best he can hope for is to postpone their next meeting for as long as possible.

(Albus Dumbledore on “The Tale of the Three Brothers”)

He appreciates being humble and modest and sees it as being wise. He derides Tom for thinking of himself as "special" or "clever" even when it's true (and when he does the same). He loves Harry's modesty, which is really low self-esteem, not modesty. Harry's low self-worth is like the ultimate humbleness in Dumbledore's eyes because he doesn't see it for what it is and he was never humble in his life, so he doesn't really know where the balance between confidence and arrogance is or the line between modesty and low self-worth. I think he honestly doesn't know because he is exceptionally arrogant.

Dumbledore created this image of ineffability around him and it's clear Harry is one of the only people (besides Dumbledore and Aberforth) who knows Dumbledore can make a mistake and he keeps reminding Hermione, Lupin, and literally everyone else of that fact:

“People have said it, many times. It comes down to whether or not you trust Dumbledore’s judgment. I do; therefore, I trust Severus.” “But Dumbledore can make mistakes,” argued Harry. “He says it himself. And you” — he looked Lupin straight in the eye — “do you honestly like Snape?”

(HBP)

This is all another case of Dumbledore being incapable of practicing what he preaches. He values modesty, but he doesn't seem to be capable of it.

Now, I'm not saying he isn't clever or special, he is. But he is the type of really smart person who looks down on anyone they don't see as intelligent as them. He doesn't see most people as equal to him.

Dumbledore doesn't see most of the Order or Aberforth as his equals. He never did. Elphias Doge kisses his ass, but Dumbledore clearly doesn't share the same level of respect for him. Or for most people, really.

“Elphias Doge mentioned her to us,” said Harry, trying to spare Hermione. “That old berk,” muttered Aberforth, taking another swig of mead. “Thought the sun shone out of my brother’s every office, he did. Well, so did plenty of people, you three included, by the looks of it.” Harry kept quiet. He did not want to express the doubts and uncertainties about Dumbledore that had riddled him for months now. [...] “Grindelwald. And at last, my brother had an equal to talk to someone just as bright and talented as he was. And looking after Ariana took a backseat then, while they were hatching all their plans for a new Wizarding order and looking for Hallows, and whatever else it was they were so interested in.

(DH)

Dumbledore doesn't trust the majority of the Order with anything because he doesn't think they'd be capable of handling it because they're not him. He literally tells them nothing until he has to, keeping them busy guarding a prophecy he knows can't be stolen by a run-of-the-mill Death Eater. He only tells Harry about the Horcruxes because he has no choice but to tell him. Same with Snape — Dumbledore trusts him out of necessity.

Snape and Grindelwald are the only people we see Dumbledore show respect towards their abilities, wisdom, and magic in some capacity.

Like, he calls Sirius clever, but he talks about him as foolish in the same breath. He calls McGonagall wise, but he clearly doesn't think she's wise enough to be told anything or trusted with anything. And while he does speak highly of Harry's courage and humility and though Harry is insanely powerful and with the right training could beat Dumbledore, Dumbledore keeps putting him down when it comes to magical abilities/intelligence compared to himself:

“I’m not upset.” “Harry, you were never a good Occlumens — ”

(HBP) - even though Harry can and does get really good at it once he does it his way.

“I do not think you will count, Harry: You are underage and unqualified. Voldemort would never have expected a sixteen-year-old to reach this place: I think it unlikely that your powers will register compared to mine.”

(HBP)

I find this tendency of Dumbledore to be really interesting. He underestimates people constantly and thinks too highly of himself. and he is very honest about it to people's faces. He keeps talking about how Voldemort’s defenses on his Horcruxes are shit, and how Voldemort is foolish when the curse Voldemort left on the ring is literally killing him at that very moment:

“I do not think you will count, Harry: You are underage and unqualified. Voldemort would never have expected a sixteen-year-old to reach this place: I think it unlikely that your powers will register compared to mine.” These words did nothing to raise Harry’s morale; perhaps Dumbledore knew it, for he added, “Voldemort’s mistake, Harry, Voldemort’s mistake ... Age is foolish and forgetful when it underestimates youth. ... Now, you first this time, and be careful not to touch the water.”

(HBP)

Dumbledore thinking himself so clever, more clever than Voldemort, is what killed him. His arrogant insistence that he's the smartest man in the room killed him. He is undermining Voldemort for mistakes similar to the ones he makes regularly when interacting with Harry. And he's aware of that. He knows he's a hypocrite:

When I discovered it, after all those years, buried in the abandoned home of the Gaunts—the Hallow I had craved most of all, though in my youth I had wanted it for very different reasons—I lost my head, Harry. I quite forgot that it was now a Horcrux, that the ring was sure to carry a curse. I picked it up, and I put it on, and for a second I imagined that I was about to see Ariana, and my mother, and my father, and to tell them how very, very sorry I was . . . “I was such a fool, Harry. After all those years I had learned nothing. I was unworthy to unite the Deadly Hallows. I had proved it time and again, and here was the final proof.”

(DH) - Dumbledore's portrait

I think Dumbledore's self-awareness is why he wants to like Harry as much as he does. While I don't think Dumbledore knows Harry as well as he thinks he does, what Dumbledore does see is enough for him to imagine Harry in his head as this perfect, virtuous martyr that he wished all his life to portray himself as. He idealizes who he imagines Harry is without fully respecting Harry as his own person with his own abilities.

I just find it interesting that for a character who speaks so highly of humility, he doesn't seem to possess it, and that it ends up being the death of him.

[salmonight]

Fred Weasley x Hermione Granger x George Weasley Fic recs

(Mainly Fremione tho)

Fred & Hermione & George

Escapism: Hermione parents die when she is little and she gets placed with her abusive uncle. One day she runs off to find her own adventure and meets the twins in the woods. They instantly become besties. Adorable thing.

fun will be made if it is fun that is craved: Ex prankster Hermione plans a prank to deal with umibitch at the same time as a gift for the twins for the valentine's secret gift exchange

Fred/Hermione/George

Banned Books: Harry and Ron get mione banned from the library for two weeks and she is pissed. The twins cant miss out on the fun of helping her spirit a bunch of books away from the library and getting revenge on those two

Fred/Hermione

All One World: I rly adore the characterizations in this fic. Enterily Fred pov. He got insecurities about everyone thinking him stupid and that he can only ever be a comic relife. He also hates how they always talk as if he and George are one person, not different people no matter how similiar. Hermione wears his rule abiding rigid front as a defensive mask. She got more then one and theyre so perfect even Fred in the know sometimes forgets thats what theyre are. She is also sarcastic and witty and very caring and observant. She never fails to identify him right or know the right thing to put him at ease and he does the same for her pulling her out of her flunks.

Band Tees (You're Fucked.): Very bittersweet it literally made me fucking cry by the end. Fred had loved Hermione since the yule ball and he is the only one who knows about her love of grunge punk. They both share their love of punk music. It's just theirs.

Methods: Fred starts a playful flirty banter that Hermione decides to indulge him with joining in. Thats the first time she startles him. She is deadpan and sarcastic and all for teasing him and startling him. They keep up a fluid flirty banter no heed for the audience

A Charming Fairy Godprince: After Ron's mess up before the Yule ball Fred & George takes it into their own hands to cheer Hermione up and be her magical godfathers like Cinderella's. They rewamp her dress and enlist Ginny for her hair. Of course it cant go without over the top very obvious flirting (on Fred's part) and various compliments.

By the Common Room Fire: Fred is sick but still with the usual drama and flair lays across Hermione's lap and demans head scratches like a cat.

Destiny and Chicken: Hermione is sick so Fred brings her soup, tea and potions.

Exploding Potions and Accidental Revelations: Amortia explodes over Hermione in potions class so she smells like what everyone is attracted to. Fred commits social suicide by announcing she smelled the same as usual before knowing what is going on.

Favourite Weasley: The twins invite Hermione out to the Quidditch match. Who's her favorite Weasley? Wrong answers only.

It Looks Better On Me: The twins accidentally soak Hermione and it’s laundry day so Fred throws his jumper at her to wear. Then Fred is sick so he ain’t playing but out to watch the match so Hermione pulls her hat over his head. Later when he is better he flaunt it around so Hermione decides to steal another of his stuff in retaliation. It sparks an all out war.

While You Were Gone: Ron and Harry leave cuz they need a break after the war leaving mione behind which brakes her and the twins take it into their own hands. They basically adopt her as their third. Its rly fluffy and wholesome, warm and fricking hilarious . It also gonna make u wanna murder Ron and Harry :)

A Small Change: Fred got such a good grades in OWLs they thought he cheated but he didn', he is panicked about doing so well and wanna actually try in school so he writes to Hermione and she helps him. They become rly good friends from then and start to exchange letters and meet up a few times. Theyre rly wholesome and his anxiety about school and his family's reaction is just so real

don't you know you've got the best of me?: Hermione meets the twins and their friend group on the train and they meet again at the sorting. She ends up talking with the twins a few more times and they end up adopting her into their friend group. She aint rly that close with Harry and Ron and she befriended them much later. Most of her friends are all of the twins' year. She is the closest with Fred and theyre best friends, he is also very protective and possessive of her.

Whole New Meaning to "Mooning" Over Someone: When you throw something during the full moon your soulmate 'catches' i. Aka a frustrated Hermione throws her book during the full moon which consequently smashes into a poor sleeping Fred's face.

i wanted to see you again, so please be gentle: Soulmates and modern au with under caffeinated disaster Hermione bulldozing over the interaction not even realizing she met her soulmate. Absolutely hilarious first liner.

Straight Into My Arms: Every year since he was five fred asked for his soulmate from santa till one day they literally fell out of the sky and landed in their arms

George/Hermione

Fancy a night in?: Post-war. George finds any excuse to go over to Hermione's and make her smile.

To be updated...

[astracora]

Aching Bones

Characters: Sylus x gn!mc x Caleb

Warnings: Chronic Illness, Flare up, Autistic Overload, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2183

Written: 2nd April 2025

Notes: Established-relationship with gn!MC with Poly!LADs (Sylus and Caleb centric), with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. Based on a true story, right now... Chronic illness loves compounding my autism so I just have a really bad time. Oh to have Poly!LADs comfort... Time to see if I can sleep yet...

Masterlist

Everything hurts.

Sore and aching and twisting under your skin. Skin on fire, and yet the shivering and cold won't leave you. No matter how strong the spray of the hot shower water is down your back.

You haven't felt this bad in such a long time, heart thrumming uneven under your ribs, desperate to escape the body that can't sustain it properly.

You imagine the core is just as disappointed as you are, everytime your physical form shuts itself down in favour of uselessness.

Prosthetic abandoned somewhere outside of the shower, you'd barely managed to remove clothing before falling and sprawling under the spray. Your stool stares at you from the side, reminding you it's there just for this, but there's no strength in your body. It attempts to move, only to ache so deep you think your past lives must feel it.

If such a thing is real, you hope they were not weighed down by a body that does not work. That betrays you in every moment. That ignites your feeling of worthlessness. Of shame.

The floor is uncomfortable, digging tiles into your shoulder blade, where your residual limb burns, knives digging into it as all your joints twist and bend against the pain. Years of scar tissue agitated by your body forcing you into a fever as your heart stumbles.

You want to vomit, the nausea in your stomach, and you think if you move just enough you will, spilling emptiness all over the floor and choking on nothing. You cannot stop shivering, and it hurts.

It hurts.

You just want it to stop hurting.

A knock hits the bathroom door, hurried and agitated, and the voice that comes through, normally calm, is harried.

"Kitten, you've been in there for over an hour, are you alright?"

You want to speak, but your voice fails you, absent when you need it every time you are overwhelmed, and you're not sure what to do, fingers trembling. The lack of response is a worry to him, familiar with the moments you have no voice.

When the handle turns, and you see his shoes step across the tile, wading through steam, you hear the crack in his voice again. The ache in his heart, as he moves quick to crouch next to you. His suit soaking through with the stream.

You make a noise of discontent in the back of your throat, small and weak like a wounded animal, but he ignores you. Checking you over for injuries. There is none, nothing outward, nothing physical.

Internally… well it's another matter.

You rarely see Sylus break his countenance. When you're injured right in front of him, in a way he's scared is fatal. When your heart failed you that morning you were cursed. When you fell off a stool trying to lure out that little cat. Always vulnerable with you.

If only the comfort of that assurance was a healing balm, yet you still feel shattered across the ground.

White hair falling over his eyes and red gleaming gaze dulling, he hovers hands over you, before taking an inhale and grounding himself.

"May I pick you up?" You shiver at the voice, solid, stable and secure. It's a voice he uses when he knows you're fraying, and you wish you didn't have to appear so weak in front of him.

He deserves so much better.

You cannot speak, the words lodge in your throat and your voice is nowhere to be found, so you tap once. Finger slow, shaking, but he follows it. Without hesitation then, he lifts you carefully into strong arms, the heat of him more intense than that of the water, and you almost melt against the chest and heartbeat under your cheek.

He moves the stool against the wall, and places you against it, securing you there and with his EVOL for good measure. You slump back without falling. Inhaling a breath that hurts your chest so much to take, and shiver. Vaguely watching through closing eyes as Sylus busies himself. Collecting the shampoo you use, the body wash, filling a basin so he can work easier.

You want to fight him, he's busy and he should be doing something better than this, but he ignores the look you give him. Ignores the way you try to grasp at the hem of his soaked shirt, and begins to help you clean.

Washing away the grime, easing the ache somewhat with hands that are only ever gentle for you.

He is careful around your limb, easing careful hands over your cheeks, running long fingers through your hair. A kiss pressed to your cheekbone, quick and fleeting so the sensation does not become painful. He keeps a hand on yours, paying attention to the taps.

One, yes that's fine.

Two, it hurts.

Avoiding areas where your skin burns too much. Where you feel like a raw nerve.

It takes far longer than it should, and when he is done, he kneels at your feet, free hand on your cheek.

"Can you eat?"

You're not sure, you should. You know that, but the idea is exhausting to think about. You could barely stand, moving your arm proves even harder on you.

He watches you try to move it, attempting to flex your hand rather than weakly twitch your finger, and he chuckles low and soft, "Are you hungry?"

One tap.

You are, even if you're not sure if you can keep it down. Even if you're not able to make anything for yourself. You're hungry.

You cannot take medication on your empty stomach either.

He places his hands on you again, one arm slipping behind your back, and the other releasing your hand to cradle you under your knees. His chest is warm, comfortable, and safe. There are very few places you would rather be. Trusting him not to drop you, even if you still aren't sure how he puts up with you as you are.

Fragile pieces stuffed under flesh that does not fit.

He wraps one of his bathrobes around you, it's thin but the fabric doesn't bite your skin, and brings you into the kitchen. Where Caleb moves around, his uniform half on. Coat, tie and hat discarded, shirt loosened.

The noise that escapes you is akin to a squeak, and it draws his attention to you in Sylus' arms. From the three different pots he is stirring.

"I've got three different types of soup for you Pipsqueak, so you can have whichever you prefer."

He doesn't comment any further on why he's there, or why there's a splash of tomato up his sleeve.

When Sylus puts you down in a chair, beginning to dry you off with a towel, he places your tablet in front of you.

Weak fingers press at the screen, and while you misspell some words, you're glad the text to speech your partners developed works around it, "Don't you two have work?"

"Not at all."

"I have the day off."

You manage a glare but it's more twitchy than you'd like, and neither of them are looking at you. Too focused on their tasks.

"Really?" You try again, tapping your finger on the table to point at Caleb.

They're smiling to themselves, you can feel the quirk of Sylus' lips from where he presses a kiss to the back of your neck, "Now, I'm sure I said I didn't Kitten. Didn't I, Tin-man?"

"I heard you. Did you hear me, Crow?" Caleb grins, his twinkling eyes turning to you for a moment with affection.

"My old age hasn't affected my hearing yet, so of course."

You could argue with them but it's hard enough to type without fighting against two of the most stubborn men you know. Walking through fire would be easier, than swaying them when it came to you.

When you're dry, unable to wear your normal clothes while your skin is so sensitive, you sit with Sylus' arm around you, drawing patterns into your hip to ground you to that pinpoint. Your eyes droop while you watch Caleb cook, and it's not long that three bowls are placed on the table and he joins you.

"Tomato." You type out, eyeing up the thing he's made for you since you were young. Since that first flare up clashed with your overloads and sent you spiraling into overwhelm and sensory agony. Shaking on the floor, as your heart screeched.

Caleb is practiced in taking care of you in so many ways, all the times you hid from him when you were unwell, all the times you tried to fight through it alone. He learned how to dig under layers, and fit himself into the slot that could support your foundations before they crumbled. Refusing to let you be alone.

What your other partners had not learned on their own in his absence, slowly figuring out limits and when to accept you were fine versus when you were not and simply forcing yourself, he has helped fill in in his presence.

It is a dangerous situation, when five people know you so well, that they can catch where you fall. That they know you so well, they know where you hide, and pull you back out of the shadows into the light.

You have felt like a burden for so very much of your life.

It is such a hard thing to shake.

As Caleb carefully feeds you, Sylus watches, "Tara informed Zayne you were sick."

It's not an accusation, you think, but you flinch anyway, almost getting soup down your front. On expensive silk, though you doubt Sylus would care. He has eased your fear over clumsiness before now.

Caleb pauses so you can type away, "Text Jenna for the day off. Dropped phone, no energy to find it."

It feels like an excuse, you'd promised them you'd tell them when you were sick going forwards. After that night when the four of them found you broken and bleeding. After the cat curse stole your power and your confidence.

You promised you'd tell them. You'd promised. The guilt hurts and aches and twists but the man smiles at you. Warm red crinkling at the edges, as he smooths his thumb over your cheek, "You took time off. I'm proud of you, Kitten."

It spears through your chest, and you busy yourself with the food Caleb offers you, relieved for the intense fever that means you do not show how embarrassed the very feeling of being commended touches you.

Every time you have taken sick, you had been forced. The moment you had messaged Captain Jenna requesting the time off. The haze of self hatred, of disgust, of fear. Feelings muddled and twisted like serpents. Snapping and hissing. Telling you over and over that you had to be stronger. Fight through it. Be better.

If you weren't you were worthless.

It felt like fighting forwards while dragging the weight of the world behind you. Just to say you needed help. Needed time.

You promised to try harder, to reach out. Every time is hard, every time it aches. Feels like you're betraying everyone who trusts you. Every time you fight through just a little bit more.

The pride in warm eyes tells you that you have taken a worthy step. Small, and nervous, and stumbling to the ground, but a step.

You let yourself believe that it's worth the pride.

You are only able to eat half of the soup before you begin to feel the nausea rising, and your body fighting through chokes and coughs. Shivering starting up as medication is offered and water eased down a tight throat. As you are lifted, exhausted and drifting, into familiar arms. A galaxy gazing back at you as you stare up at messy hair and comfort.

Caleb brings you to the freshly made bed, sweat soaked sheets removed and ice packs placed on the side. Your prosthetic is back on its stand, cleaned and wiped down from your reckless treatment of it. You cling to the tablet as he eases you under the covers, helps you remove the bathrobe so you can feel soft sheets against bare skin that burns otherwise.

"Thank you."

He shakes his head like there's no need, like helping you is just second nature. Like it's the only thing he finds worthy in life, and it pulls at your chest for several reasons. Hand twitching out for him.

Shedding layers, he joins you. Arm extended so you can lay against his skin, his shiver as he feels the inferno of your touch, bringing a flush to his cheeks. "I'm always here for you, Pipsqueak. You know that, partners in crime right?"

Always. Through the haze of sleep finally pulling you under so your agonised body can begin its recovery, you feel the other side of the bed dip. A hand on your hip and a kiss to your shoulder.

A reminder that you are allowed to be fragile, weak, and hurt, because someone will be there to put the pieces back together.

[royal-confessions]

“What did William do to people, seriously? Why they hate him do much? All he’s doing is what his mother wanted for him: to be able to do his duty and have love at the same time. If you watch the entirety of the Bashir interview, that’s the bottomline of what Diana said he wanted for William, particularly. Also, Diana also talked about the whole bringing the monarchy closer to the public thing, which I think William is not failing to do. I kinda think he’s misunderstood by people. (Well, not really by the people because he still polls high but by social media I guess).” - Submitted by Anonymous

“Everything William does people have a problem with. Charles has so much more celebrity friends and is always wanting to be seen with celebrities, yet it’s William who gets called “celebrity wannabe”. Fyi, he has the healthiest boundary with celebrity among the three of them (him, Charles, and Harry).” - Submitted by Anonymous

“I know he’s the epitome of male white privilege and he will be King so I can’t feel bad for him, but my heart kinda breaks for Prince William. The way people misunderstand his intentions for wanting people to stop using his mother’s name. He just sees his mother as his mother, as a human being, and not the commodified character that exists in the realm of media and entertainment and pop culture. Is there anything wrong with that? When in his mind it’s the insatiable hunger for anything Diana that is what he thinks lead to her death. The way these people are the ones driving a wedge between him and the memory of his mother, saying she took his genes back or whatever when the reality of the situation is that he just lost his hair like many men do and it has nothing to do with his moral character. Are we supposed to think all men who lose their hair are bad and that only perfect looking people are good? It’s so superficial. And he’s not even that ugly. He just went from looking ethereal to looking like an average human being lol. The way Meghan has completely used his mother’s story to further her agenda and people refuse to see that he was a central figure in Diana’s story. He literally was the baby in Diana’s womb when she wanted to throw herself down the stairs. How it must have been for him growing up and knowing that? It must have had some sort of effect because the fact of the matter is he was the person who told Harry he might need help with his anxiety. Also, the fact that he married a woman with such empathy like Catherine that she was the one who saw the importance of mental health as an underlying theme in all of their different areas of work. And the way people just look at them as mental health deniers because they think they refused Meghan help when Harry himself has admitted he never told them because he was ashamed. And the way people continue to use the pop culture commodified image of Diana to try and canonize Harry and Meghan as saints as well for doing things that are not even as impactful as the work Diana had done. It’s all just done for the sake of continuing narratives in this soap opera. Anyway, whatever.” - Submitted by Anonymous

“Do people even think about William’s mental health in all of this? I feel worried about him. There’s just a sadness in his eyes these days that wasn’t there before. And this is why I can’t get over Harry and Meghan’s selfishness. They can fight for their right to be happy and free, but that’s not all they want. They could’ve escaped royal life without hurting anyone, but they’ve left such a mess. Lies and exaggerations and self-serving narratives. They aren’t simply fighting for their happiness, they want to ruin William and Catherine. Harry will not stop until he’s taken everything from William and William is completely broken.” - Submitted by Anonymous

“The way William is viewed as petty or a bully for all the imaginary ways they think he retaliates against Harry (because Harry plants ideas in people’s with all his insinuations). First of all, after what some people have said about him and Kate while she was battling cancer, I can’t call it petty anymore if William is in whatever way actually retaliating. Does William not have his own mental health? Does William not have his own trauma? Does William not have his own children he has to take care of? Does William not have his own wife who battled cancer while people salivated at the thought of “history repeating itself”?” - Submitted by Anonymous

[endlessburningdarkness]

That "perfect victim" post you reposted has me all fucked up because it makes me think about Shen Jiu, and how his treated.

His a victim of severe trauma, and it manifests in ways that are "imperfect." It always pissess me off when people say, "if only Shen Jiu had tried. " Tried what? Get over his trauma? It's hard to do when A) there is no therapy and you have no real support system. B) The people around you don't give a shit and are hostile. And C) the before mention people make the trauma worse by making you feel unsafe or invalidating you. Try to get along with his martial siblings? He tried, but every time he did, it backfired and made everything worse for himself. He tried to save Liu Qingge's life twice, only to end up getting accused of murder each time. Try to be kinder? He tried with Ning Yingying, only to be accused of grooming her because of one of his coping mechanisms.

It was never about Shen Jiu not wanting to get better but that he couldn't.

What makes it all the more fucked up is how everyone treats Shen Yuan compared to Shen Jiu. SY acts "normal" because he has no trauma, so his liked. The peak lords would rather deal with someone "normal" than a victim and their trauma. Even Yue Qingyuan seems it easier to deal with a Shen Qingqiu who doesn't know him than one that does and actually dealing with the trauma.

And ain't that fucked up.

it is incredibly fucked up.

I love Shen Jiu (and Harry) because they are rare examples of imperfect victims. Because most victims, shockingly, are not perfect. Trauma rarely makes you a better person. In fact, more likely, it will make you angry, difficult, bitter and even cruel.

I find this type of character much more relatable and realistic than "perfect victims" who are sweet and kind and forgiving and let things go and are never ugly, hurtful or vicious in their trauma response. I think it really comes down to the idea that trauma isn't some fun thing you can brush off, you can't be normal after significant trauma. It will leave a mark, it will change you, sometimes permanently, sometimes in ways that are embarrassing and frightening and unattractive. Sometimes, you'll do awful, hurtful things to cope.

And I think that's fine. It's fine for Shen Jiu to be traumatized. In a way that isn't palatable to the reader or to society. It makes sense for him to be the way that he is. After the life he's lived, he is still shockingly kind to a number of people and as you've noted this backfires on him spectacularly. He had no parents. No one to teach him healthy ways of doing anything. He was enslaved, treated like an object, a dog, and then he was betrayed by the one person he thought was on his side. Anyone would be fucked up after that. Anyone would give up trying to be better. And that's fine too.

I think it's hard for people to face that trauma, real trauma that is, isn't this pretty, enticing thing which makes someone cooler, but genuinely painful, damaging, and difficult to overcome. That is what makes Shen Jiu's and Harry's attempts to overcome their trauma so damn impressive and compelling. That Shen Jiu fails is not due to some inherent flaw or weakness on his part but because it's so fucking difficult, even with support, to recover from the awful things that happened to him.

Often traumatized characters are expected to react perfectly, and a lot of fanfic of them is all about hashing out the ways they would overcome their trauma in an ideal way and become "normal", happy, well-adjusted people we can enjoy without feeling bad. For example, character's with sexual trauma magically overcome it by getting fucked by the right person.

And this is exactly why Shen Yuan is easier for the other characters and the fandom to love. He doesn't have Shen Jiu's baggage, he isn't damaged, he doesn't have trust issues or paranoia or jealously or hatred. He doesn't have the trauma. It's easy to be good when you're not hurt and no one has betrayed you. It's easy to be nice when you've never had to beg for every meal. Shen Yuan has everything on easy mode, and that's the appeal of him in many ways. The quicker, easier, smoother route to happiness.

I for one however, prefer the harder road. I am here for when characters don't respond to awful things happening to them in polite, unchallenging, comfortable ways so the audience can enjoy it without flinching.

Because the message I am interested in is that it's okay. It's okay to have trauma, terrible and unwholesome trauma even. it's okay to be broken in ugly, painful ways. It's okay to never become "normal" like other people. It's okay to never do the things that trigger you. It's okay to be traumatized and to act like it! And that's why I love these types of characters.

If you're interested in an exploration of Shen Jiu's sexual trauma, I'd like to recommend my fic, not to me, not if it's you. I would love to hear your thoughts on it.

[blorger]

The Great Longbottom Bully chronicles: friendly fire edition

What started as a humble Draco stan's attempt to re-evaluate his involvement with the oft-bullied Neville has quickly become a sentient behemoth of epic proportions (see: pt.1 & pt.2).

In this section, I will examine the unkind ways in which Neville is treated, both by the narration and by his own friends.

It came from inside the house (if by "house" we mean the author)

I always felt like, in the first books, Neville is treated rather callously in order to fit the stereotype of the go-to comic relief guy, but I was never able to articulate just why I felt this way. As I went though the books for the purpose of this exercise, I paid close attention the language used to portray him, starting with his physical description.

It's well documented that JKR uses fatness as a visual shorthand for a character's failings: from Vernon and Dudley Dursley all the way to Peter Pettigrew, her fat characters are portrayed as either comedically evil or somewhat pathetic (and sometimes both). The plus-size character she is perhaps kindest to is Molly Weasley and even then her fatness is used to place her in the archetype of the Mama Bear. In keeping with this theme - wherein a character can't just be fat because sometimes people are fat - one of the characters that gets this treatment is Neville, and it's done in order for him to better fit the stereotype of the clumsy oaf.

Up until the sixth book Neville is described as round faced and pudgy. He doesn't sit, he heaves himself, and in doing so he squashes things, often to comedic effect. Neville is clumsy and uncoordinated and his fatness is used in conjunction with that to really drive the point that he's not to be taken seriously home.

We can also see the role Neville is meant to play in the story by the way his emotions are portrayed: Neville spends his first 4 years at Hogwarts in a constant state of comically exaggerated fear.

I tried cataloguing all the descriptors used to indicate Neville's tone and I had to give up in shame because JKR seems to have gone ham on the thesaurus in order to signal Neville's anxiousness and timidity in increasingly creative ways; nevertheless here's some interesting factoids:

the verb used most often to describe Neville's tone is squeak (by a large margin) followed by choke, sob and moan.

Neville's most common state of mind is frightened - he speaks fearfully, he cowers, he is terrified - followed closely by sad - he speaks miserably, tearfully, unhappily - and anxious - he is jumpy, nervous, tremulous; he is twice "close to a nervous collapse".

When the narrative shifts to a more serious tone, around book 4, we see a sudden drop in the usage of these descriptors. As Neville's role in the story becomes more important, we notice the disappearance of what were once the hallmarks of his personality. All of a sudden, Neville is no longer forgetful and clumsy as apparently those traits cannot coexist with his new heroic persona (Neville 2.0. if you will). I would call this character growth if Neville retained at least some if his previous mannerisms; as it stands Neville's growth ends up reading more like a personality transplant (not unlike what happens to Ginny).

We can also observe this shift in character by the way his friends and peers interact with him, which brings me to the next section:

With friends like these, who needs enemies?

HARRY POTTER

Harry is generally kind to Neville but the way his kindness is presented often reads like condescension:

(PS, Neville tries to do Harry a solid and ends up joining him in detention)

Prior to OotP, their conversations are often superficial in nature and very short. Additionally, Harry does not seem to want to hang out with Neville a whole lot and often goes out of his way to avoid him.

(PS, Harry would like to learn wingardium leviosa without Neville, thanks)

It must be noted that, since the books are mostly told from Harry's point of view, many of the uncharitable descriptors used for Neville could also be attributed to Harry. It's an assessment I somewhat disagree with since the language Harry uses in his (explicitly stated and delineated) thoughts is often less harsh than the narration's.

BONUS HARRY WTF:

(from PoA, Harry is imagining how Sirius must have killed poor poor Peter)

This is one of those Harry remarks that kind of straddles the line between genuine character assessment and authorial dickishness. At this point in the story Harry doesn't know that Peter is a traitor and a murderer so, by imagining him to be Neville-like, Harry lets us infer that they are both to be seen as hapless and bumbling individuals. JKR does know who Peter really is, though, and she makes the deliberate choice of comparing the two.

RON WEASLEY

Ronald Bilius Weasley is not exactly known for his tact, there's no two ways about it. Furthermore, as our everyman character, it often falls on him to illustrate the status quo with his observations. From Ron we get gems such as:

(from PS)

+ BONUS HARRY

(Harry's corresponding nightmare in PoA)

The thought of Neville Longbottom on a broom strikes fear in the hearts of many, it seems. Neville's accident in PS's flying lesson and the ensuing chaos seem to be a core memory for the Gryffindors.

(CoS, Ron tries to make Hermione feel better about her muggleborn status by putting Neville down)

This sentence is important because it helps establish Neville's role among his peers. Not only it seems to be a universally acknowledged fact that Neville is hopeless at magic, it is socially acceptable for his classmates to say so.

and

(GoF, Ron makes sure we're aware that Neville is on the lowest rung of the Hogwarts social ladder)

This scene serves a dual purpose: yes, Ron is once again indicating that we're supposed to infer that Neville is an uggo and a loser, but he's doing so because he's secretly miffed that Hermione has someone to go to the Yule Ball with that isn't him. Ron contains multitudes.

(PS, Neville tries to enforce curfew, the golden trio has no time for rules, Snape is up to evil!)

I put this scene last, despite it occurring during PS, because it perfectly encapsulates what seems to be the general Gryffindor attitude towards Neville during the first books: Neville may be a hopeless dullard but he's their hopeless dullard, as such Gryffindors are the only people allowed to dunk on him (because they're Gryffindors and therefore inherently Good). Speaking of which:

GRYFFINDORS

Here's more excerpts that plainly show just what Neville's place among his fellow Gryffindors is:

(PS, Draco just cursed Neville)

This incident is treated as funny by everyone except Hermione (you go girl). The only problem Harry & co. seem to really have with what happened is that it's Malfoy who did the cursing, again letting us know that when a malicious act comes from a Gryffindor it's funny and also a prank but when it comes from a Slytherin it's bullying (here's a novel idea: why not both?).

and

(OotP, the twins are such pranksters LOL ROFLMAO)

See? It's ok if the mean-spirited joke comes from a Good Guy, why, Neville even joins in the laughter! How often must have this happened to Neville for him to have learned to laugh the embarrassment away? I wouldn't put such a big emphasis on this type of friendly fire if it happened in the context of a solid friendship based on mutual respect, but what we actually see in the books is that these "pranks" happen to Neville whilst he's still treated as somewhat of an outsider. These instances happen before the introduction of Neville 2.0 (now with more courage!), not after.

Just like with his gran's (and Snape's) bullying, both the language used to describe Neville and the opinion of his peers change completely once Neville 2.0 drops. From book 6 onward Neville is part of the hero squad and thus he can no longer be subject to ridicule. Up until then, though, we are clearly meant to laugh at Neville's expense and call me a party pooper but I find this to be rather mean spirited.

To cleanse our palates, I'd like to add a bonus section:

⭐️ The congratulatory gold star award for being a Decent Person ⭐️

This award goes to Hermione Jean Granger who, despite not being exactly known for her tact and delicacy, manages to constantly treat Neville with kindness and compassion, especially when he needs it the most:

and

(GoF, Barty Crouch jr. has just traumatized Neville by showing him the curse that ruined his parents' minds forever)

You go girl, and thank you for your service.

[sitp-recs]

Oh, i also just read Minor Fall, Major Lift and loved it! It made me think is there more "down and out Harry"? I only that "down and out Draco"; I tried looking in your fic recs lists but I couldnt find that term

Isn’t it fabulous? I really enjoyed that one, such a creative take on the trope and the dream magic was chef’s kiss. Not sure I’d categorize it as a “down and out Harry” since he was doing it for charity and there was no social stigma, but I think there are interesting ways to explore this trope beyond money or fame (I’m thinking depressed, abused, failed or dysfunctional Harry). Thank you for this ask, it’s so exciting to find a trope I haven’t recced before. My interpretation was a bit loose but I thought these made sense, hope you enjoy!

Walk Right Through Me by @floydig (M, 2k)

Every day, Harry drinks Polyjuice to disguise himself as he lives on the streets. Today, he observes a gaunt, shirtless Draco Malfoy walking around Knockturn Alley and is immediately drawn to him. However, sometimes the truth is much darker than what the mind perceives.

Unseen by astolat (M, 11k)

When he wasn’t wearing it, he got jumpy, always waiting for someone to come at him wanting something—and now they did it even more urgently, if they ever saw him, because most of the time, nobody did.

Put a Price on My Soul by lamerezouille (E, 12k)

Harry has become used to being a whore in the crapsack Wizarding World that’s now governed by Voldemort. Everything changes when Malfoy becomes his new pimp.

Poor Unfortunate Souls by @doubleappled (E, 20k)

Draco is a potioneer. Harry is trying to save his sex-challenged marriage. Everything is a mess, but at least there's an octopus in the lobby.

Famous by @fw00shy (E, 24k)

It's a couple of years after the war, and Harry's bored of models now, the same way he's bored of Ron's constant nagging, bored of his Weasley monogram knitwear, bored of the same fucking grin that greets him when he hands his fire-truck red Bugatti over to the valet every night. He wants to find—well, he isn't sure what he wants. Anything but models.

A Year in Training by Omi_Ohmy (M, 25k)

Harry is finally living his dream and training as an Auror, but nothing seems to be going right: he’s just so angry all the time. And Draco Malfoy’s presence on the programme really isn’t helping with that, either.

The Last of What the World Left You by @xanthippe74 (T, 25k)

If the wizarding world won’t give Draco a second chance, he has a plan to survive: live in his Animagus form, a carrion crow, in the Forbidden Forest. Not only does Harry Potter come along and ruin it, he’s radiating a strange aura of power. With nowhere to go and a Life-Debt to his mother that Potter insists on repaying, Draco puts himself into the hands of the reclusive Boy Who Lived.

He Who Must Not Be Normal by lettered (E, 41k)

Potter has fame and fortune and posh clothes and all he wants is a simple life. Draco has a flat and a cat and a steady job and all he wants is a complicated life. Which makes you think this story has something exciting like body-swapping, but it doesn’t.

If an Injury Is to Be Inflicted by @shealwaysreads (E, 45k)

Harry Potter disappeared a year after the Battle of Hogwarts, and with him went all hope for true change in magical Britain.

The Bolthole by aideomai, GallaPlacidia, Tepre (E, 54k)

Harry is a hoarder, Draco is grief-stricken, and both are capable human adults who can definitely spend a month in a cottage in the Cotswolds together without ever talking about the time they slept together in eighth year. Yeah, no, totally.

Meet Me at Midnight by @the-starryknight (T, 57k)

Harry was beginning to wonder if he’d ever make anything again when Malfoy stormed through the door of Harry’s furniture shop. Now Harry’s got an impossible Ministry commission to finish, and even less energy than ever to deal with his elusive muse. That is, until he stumbles upon the surreal and beautiful world of a mysterious fae creature…

Kept in Cages by @sweet-s0rr0w, @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm (E, 77k)

Deep in the heart of the Ministry lies the Beast Division: a hidden room where ancient beasts roam, and winged creatures soar, and grumpy giant ferrets eat all your biscuits unless you keep them well hidden. Draco Malfoy would know – he’s been working there for five years now, after all.

In Free Fall by @kbrick (E, 81k)

Since the war, Draco Malfoy has become a serious university student whose idea of a good time is translating Ancient Greek texts and having game night with his small circle of friends. Harry Potter, meanwhile, has turned into a hard-partying adrenaline junkie who’s happiest when he’s leaping from an airplane or hurtling over a waterfall in a kayak.

I Am Not Who I Became by mab_di (E, 93k)

Draco left England after the trials and has travelled the world meeting wizards and Muggles from different cultures and with vastly different relationships to magic, each other, and the natural world. Now he's a fisherman in Finland on commercial vessels. Harry has been struggling since the war and has become a recluse while trying to write his autobiography.

Who we are in the shadows by @quicksilvermaid (E, 100k)

What happens when you’re forced to become the very thing you despise? Ex-Auror Harry Potter, tossed out of the Ministry for something he had no control over, has been looking for a way back to his former life. When he comes across Draco Malfoy in the criminal underbelly of Wizarding London and in need of protection, Harry figures bringing him in to face the Ministry's justice is his ticket back to everything he's lost.

[the-invisibility-bloke]

midstory line tag

(10 lines from the middle of 10 fics & tagging 10 people)

Thanks for the tag, @thecouchsofa! Everyone go read these fucking bangers.

Some out-of-context fuckery:

-

jesus wept

“I want—just stand up, come on.” “Why?” But Saxon does it anyway. Indulgence habit, maybe. All those times Lochlan made him sit for hours to guinea-pig a new magic trick. Lochlan peers up from under his lashes, blinks away the nerves. Magic won’t save him now. “Always wanted to do it on my knees."

charmeuse

“What are you gonna do to me, Harry?” Nervy, biting, but it’s all breath. “Bend me over your knee and spank me?” You swallow hard, catch the hook of his bait in your throat. “Maybe I should.” “Yeah?” Knife’s-edge eyes raze over yours, close, closer. “Get in line."

the gift that keeps on giving

“Shut that cocksleeve you call a mouth.” Malfoy laughs, resplendent. Admittedly, using his proprietary insults against him isn’t doing Harry any favours. “My dear Potter, if you eye-buggered that boy any harder you’d give him a second hole.”

joyride

“I didn’t raise a bratty bottom.” “You didn’t raise me at all,” grinding back to show he’s noticed, that he knows what he’s doing, what he’s done. “Dirty old man.” “If I had, maybe you’d have some manners."

hold infinity

“Dozed through Divination, did you?” “Yeah, well.” Still he fidgets with Sirius’ hand, layering invisible sigils over coarse topography. “S’pose I was a bit distracted by the madman breaking into my dormitory.” “Mm. Hope he didn’t take advantage.” “Wouldn’t mind if he had."

speeding through red lights (into paradise)

This is controlled entropy, born of a well-matured lust, long denied. Harry has no choice but to mature along with it, to lick and bite into Sirius’ mouth, to suck on his tongue until Sirius groans, for this is where Harry wants him: losing control so he’ll take control, burn up his guilt, let go and accept that Harry needs him, this way and every way.

a fire they can't put out

“We’re not losing anything,” Harry says. “I’m still yours, and you’re mine. Always.” The lie goes up in flames. They’re losing an entire life that never existed. Never could.

periculum

“When you’re experiencing emotional pain, physical pain can sort of... ground you. Distract you. Bring you back to your body. Ease the ache a bit.” “Don’t some people get off on it, too?” This boy will be the death of him, and Sirius will kneel for his scythe, head bowed, without a second thought. He prays it happens before he can blurt out, Do you get off on it, Harry?

winner takes all

“Below the waist is cheating.” Sirius scoffs. “Oh, I’m sorry. Must’ve misplaced the Rulebook for Incestuous Relations when you had me pinned to the floor.” “Doesn’t matter. I won regardless.” “As determined by what? Clause nine, section fourteen?"

tastes like the real thing

Harry eases back to meet his eyes. “Do you have a safe word?” Teddy does. It’s lightning. “Dittany,” he says.

-

I'm sorry if you've already been tagged, still failing at keeping up with my dash! No pressure @wolfpants @galaxoshine @knotsnuffles @sleepstxtic @oknowkiss @shyinsunlight @jamiemoonymarks @1ficklesickle @hoko-onchi-writes @au-palais

[gurugirl]

Would U ever do a good boy harry like prologue kinda takes place before the series where harry likes hear her moaning in her sleep and starts wanking to her on the other side of the wall or something

Well I'm a sucker for this kind of thing... not really a true prologue but YES WHY NOT. Written very fast! Thank you to the anon who suggested this 🙈

Summary: Harry's stepmom is moaning in her bedroom and Harry can't help himself.

Word Count: 1,074

Warning: masturbation, slight exhibitionist kink, inappropriate relationship/fantasy, this is stepmom!reader x stepson!harry (everyone is an adult here - I do not write smut with minors just as a reminder!)

A Good Boy masterlist

Harry tried not to think about her that way. About his stepmom. God, she was hot. Just a bit older than he was with the cutest laugh and the way she would twirl her fingers in his long hair every time he went to his dad's to visit would drive him crazy.

And only an hour before she was trying to get him to let her braid it. So he let her a little but his dick was expanding in his joggers and he got up halfway through and apologized, running off to his bedroom before she could get a peek at what was happening to his cock. He had to finish himself to the image of her licking her lips and looking at him with her pretty doe eyes.

What was wrong with him? Aside from the fact that he was a virgin still. An adult in college who hadn't yet gotten laid. Perhaps that was why he was so hard up for her. But it wasn't like she was the only girl to ever give him any kind of attention. It's just that Y/n's attention was so innocent. The sweet hugs and subtle touches. The conversations about nothing and the way she'd be wearing the shortest goddamn shorts after tennis all sweaty and gulping down her water in the kitchen without care. Which always had him running up to his room and wanking off like a damn teenager.

But at that moment? With the house dark and quiet he could hear her in her bedroom. Yes her bedroom. She and his father didn't share a room. It was an odd arrangement but Harry knew better than to ask too many questions. All he knew was that if she were his he’d have her in his bed next to him every night. But of course, she wasn’t his. She was his dad’s wife.

He wasn't completely sure that what he was hearing was what he thought he was hearing. Little moans. Soft and breathy. Her door was cracked open and so was his.

Another long sigh from her had him sitting up in bed and straining to hear more. He knew his father was in his own bedroom and long asleep so she wasn't with him.

"Mmmm..." it was muffled and quiet but the house was also quiet and Harry couldn't mistake the sound. He closed his eyes and laid his head back into his pillow.

He'd tried and failed so many times to keep his thoughts out of the gutter with her but he'd already had full-on fantasies about her before. And he figured she'd never find out that he could hear her. What was the harm if he could just stroke himself a little while she moaned? No one had to know.

Harry pulled his tissue box next to himself on his bed and spit into his palm. His cock was already hard. Pathetic when he really thought about it. Because he'd already fucked his fist and nutted not that long before thinking about Y/n.

When he smoothed his hand down his shaft he parted his lips and spread his legs, long strokes up and down his length as he heard another gasp from her room. Smoothing his thumb over his slit he felt he was already dripping for her. Precome pushing from his tip. He pulled the moisture down himself and used his other hand to fondle his balls and he whimpered into his pillow after he flipped himself to his tummy. He didn't want her to hear him the way he could hear her.

He rutted down into his fist, his face heating up and heart pounding as her own little moans grew more frequent. He could almost see her in his mind’s eye. Pretty body, all soft and supple, perked nipples dancing over wobbly soft tits as she slid her fingers over her pussy that he would give almost anything to look at. He wondered if she was using a toy or just her hands. Wondered if she was humping a pillow or who she was imagining. Did she look at porn to get herself in the mood? Had she gotten turned on from braiding his hair earlier? Unlikely, he thought to himself.

Fucking down into his fist he imagined her body under his, imagined he was dipping into her sweet hole and bringing those noises to her lips, making her gush as she raked her nails down his back.

"Fuck me..." he whispered with his mouth smashed into his pillow as he felt his balls tighten and his insides get all sticky and mushy and hot.

He quickly pulled a wad of tissues from the box and laid them down over the mattress and went back to his desperate strokes as his stepmom gasped and panted, the sound of what he thought could be her coming had his brain spinning and his cock throbbing as he beat himself tip to root, over and over again until he was spurting out all the sticky mushy come that had built up in his balls and poured it over the tissues. He moaned loudly just as Y/n's own noises were halted. She'd finished right before he had. If that was in fact what she’d been doing. He had his doubts but what else could it have been?

He breathed heavily as he tugged at his cock one last good stroke before he sat back to his haunches and wiped his hand with the tissues and tossed the mess into his garbage.

The house was silent again and he heard light footsteps over hardwood planks in the floor, “Night Harry,” her soft whispered voice sounded just before he heard her door click close. She'd either just realized her door was cracked open or she knew all along. Harry didn't imagine she'd done it on purpose.

However, the night Harry was something. Wasn’t it? Had she heard him? Did she know he was still awake? Was this a test?

But no. He couldn’t think like that. He was already in too deep with his feelings for his stepmom. She was a nice young woman who was sweet to him. That’s all it was. Nothing more. It would be impossible that she’d find her husband’s son attractive. That she’d just masturbated and let him hear her on purpose. That she wanted to get a rise out of him. Definitely not.

But then again…

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