defectivevillain

[defectivevillain]

date everything!

impermanence

[defectivevillain]

impermanence

fandom: Date Everything! (Sassy Chap Games)

summary: You make the objects promises you don’t keep. You tell them you’ll return, but you don’t. You say that you’ll bring people over, to make the house feel less empty—but you don’t. You give them just enough to be momentarily satisfied, to be deluded into thinking they aren’t mere decorations and accessories.

reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

word count: 1.2k | ao3 version

Warnings: canon-typical anthropomorphization (aka humanizing things that aren’t human.) neglect and abandonment.

author's notes: This isn’t like my typical reader-insert fics, because it’s solely angsty and there’s no explicit romance. this is not a happy fic, so please don’t read if you’re not in a good emotional state. i’m relying on you to recognize that.

now, on to the angst fest! (for maximum sadness, listen to No One Noticed by The Marías).

For a long time, the objects’ existences are defined by utility. When you need them, you use them. Until then, they lie in wait—hoping, praying, that you’ll need something. A cup of coffee, a 15lb weight, a bed to sleep in. Some of the objects are a bit luckier than others: your phone and your bed see you each day without fail, closely followed by hygienic items and objects needed for hydration or nourishment. The others are fortunate to see you at all. Your gaze will pass right over them: the ship in the bottle on your mantle, the puzzle piece stuffed in your desk drawer. The smaller ones can slip into crevices and never be found again. 

It’s a frightening thought. 

They’ve watched you from the moment you moved into this house. You with your cardboard boxes and determination. The walls were bare at first, the shelves empty. But you worked on decorating, on making the house a home for yourself. And the objects all watched as you began to flourish, landing a new job and leaving the house more often. Meanwhile, they serve their purpose: keeping you clean, safe, warm, fed, comfortable, happy. The objects wonder, idly, if you will ever notice them. But they don’t dare to hope. This silent observation, coupled with occasional use, is enough. 

Until one day, when you receive a package. It’s a strange delivery: a drone crashes into multiple windows before eventually breaking through the glass of the front door and dropping a gift on your doormat. Many of them watch in confusion as you open the package. Some shudder in impatience; others shake their heads in disbelief. 

You don’t notice any of these movements, because you can’t see them. The objects aren’t quite sure why they’re stuck in this sort of limbo—they just know you can’t perceive them. Still, they watch carefully as you unearth a pair of aviator glasses from a pile of packing peanuts. You look confused, staring down at them for a long moment before putting them on. 

It’s not a magical moment, not necessarily. For a few moments, you’re just glancing around in evident bewilderment. You’ve just been given these glasses without asking for them, after all. But you still put them on, which means you’re granted the ability to see and perceive them. If you choose to see and perceive them, that is. Skylar—the woman embodying the glasses—explains all of this to you, guiding you through the process of animating them before your eyes. And you do so, hesitantly. You meet Dorian, the doors scattered throughout the house; Maggie, the magnifying glass; Johnny Splash, the shower. Despite their vastly different personalities, they share one commonality: they want you here. They want you to speak to them, to acknowledge their existence and give them a purpose that’s more than mere need fulfillment. 

It soon becomes clear that you only have a certain amount of energy to socialize with them. It makes sense: you have a life outside the house. Still, some of them almost wish… that things were different. That you were confined to this house, that those aviators—“dateviators”—were molded to your very skin and forced you to always see them. 

At first, the dateviators do seem to intrigue you. You take time to wander the house, searching for even the most antisocial and prickly of objects to speak with. It’s like a sort of game for you: finding all 100 of them. You speak to Maggie when you need hints or clues; you return to some of them for more conversation. 

But your interest is fleeting. You start making them promises you don’t keep. You tell them you’ll return, but you don’t. You say that you’ll bring people over, to make the house feel less empty—but you don’t. You give them just enough to be momentarily satisfied, to be deluded into thinking they aren’t mere decorations and accessories.

Slowly but surely, you wear the dateviators less and less. Suddenly you’re only talking to one or two of them a day, instead of the four or five conversations you usually had energy for. Then you’re not speaking to any of them. You don’t speak to Kopi to make coffee. You use the bathroom without acknowledging any of them. You swing the closet doors open with disregard; you scuff your sneakers on the ground. You leave many of the objects to collect dust. 

It shouldn’t be surprising when you start to neglect the dateviators altogether. The objects write it off as a simple omission—you had a long day at work. You’ll visit them tomorrow. 

But the next day is the same. Soon, it isn’t tomorrow, but eventually. Eventually starts to lose certainty. They aren’t sure if you will ever come back. If they even want you to return. (They do.) 

A lazy morning brings their downfall. They don’t recognize it until it’s too late. 

You’re tired. You spent the majority of the previous day scrolling through your phone, and then sleeping. You’re blinking exhaustion from your eyes. You remain in bed for a while, before finally summoning the energy to get up and have breakfast. 

You head to the kitchen, starting up the coffee machine and throwing some frozen waffles in the toaster. The machines buzz as they work. You frown, crossing your arms over your chest as a shiver runs across you. It’s cold in the house today. 

You think you remember leaving a sweatshirt in the living room last night. After a few moments of contemplation, you can recall that you left it on the couch. You head over tiredly, a mild pain beginning to cluster in your temple. 

You’re preoccupied, lost in thought and distracted. You don’t notice the dateviators lying discarded on the floor. You’re moving through the space absentmindedly, as you have a million times before. One step, then another. Your sweatshirt lies draped over the back of the couch. You reach for it. 

Snap.

You look down. The dateviators are crushed beneath your foot. You blink down at the glasses. Every object in the house seems to choke on its breath, especially when you gather the shards and just leave them on the coffee table. 

Some of them hold out hope: you will fix the glasses, surely. You’ll piece the shattered lenses back together, so you can see them all again. Right?

Other objects aren’t so sure. The skeptics, the pessimists, and the ones familiar with rejection… They know the truth. You will not fix them. The glasses have lost their novelty; the objects have lost your interest. And, in turn, they’ve lost what little opportunity they were given. A brief glimpse of freedom, snatched away in the blink of an eye. 

The house is nearly silent, as always. Their grief can only be heard in the smallest of noises: the hum of the electric appliances, the drip of water escaping the faucet, the curtains billowing in the breeze. There is nothing left for them now. They are spectators once more.  

Discontent lingers in the air. Frustration, helplessness, despair. All 100 objects are so incredibly different, but they share this strange ache. 

Still, some of the objects can’t abandon hope. They attempt to beckon you closer: they shift slightly into your path, they try to capture your attention. But you are stubborn in your ignorance. You don’t notice these inconsistencies. And eventually, even the most persistent ones stop trying. They accept the inevitable: you’ve moved on. You’ve forgotten them. Your polite smiles, your attention… All of it was mere tolerance. You saw them—until you didn’t. 

That’s the funny thing about their personhood: you awarded it to them. 

…And you took it away just as easily.

endnotes: played the demo of this game and it was SO FUN. plus it's on switch >>>> my bday is next month so i may just buy it and justify it as a present to myself, lol.

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[defectivevillain]

cooking up a storm

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

reader's pronouns are he/him and he's written to be gay; otherwise, race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used.

summary: You start a new job as a cameraman for the show Kitchen Nightmares, featuring award-winning chef Hannibal Lecter. Every day brings something new—often something disgusting, uncomfortable, or otherwise baffling. But, hey, that’s what you signed up for. Hotels and bars, on the other hand… You didn’t expect to add those to the list.

word count: 7.7k | ao3 version

warnings: cursing, suggestive humor & themes, partial nudity from an unnamed character, alcohol consumption.

notes: this is an absolute beast of a fic, just because i wrote it in narrative/script hybrid format. so it's a LOT to scroll through. you've been warned!

I was watching Kitchen Nightmares/Hotel Hell/Bar Rescue as I wrote this. I took inspiration from them, but I’m not writing about any of the real people. Hence why this is a Hannibal fic.

enjoy!

Kitchen Nightmares is infamous for… well… kitchen nightmares. As foolish as it may sound, some of the restaurants on the show are completely and utterly disgusting. Health violations, animals like rats and raccoons running through the restaurants, fruit flies in drinks, raw chicken stuck together in a greying sludge… The list goes on. None of it is appetizing. Watching the show religiously would probably give a person enough reason to swear off restaurants forever. 

Why you apply to be a cameraman for the show, you’re not exactly sure. You did want more action and adventure—your previous jobs had been too monotonous and boring for your liking. But going from a simple advertisement agency to filming Kitchen Nightmares… It’s a full 180. Still, you know you’re good at what you do—so you go through the interview process with confidence. You get through the first phone interview, and then a digital interview. Your final interview has you entering the studio and filming some promotional material. The supervisor assures you that you’d be out filming at restaurants more often, but he wanted to get a sense of your abilities. And apparently, all of your demo footage wasn’t enough. 

It’s stressful, but when you receive the call a few days later informing you that you’ve gotten the job, you’re ecstatic. It’s a well-paying job; not to mention, you’re sure there’s never a boring day. Combined with good benefits and generous vacation time, you’re convinced you’ve made the right decision. 

Your first few days aren’t very eventful—namely because you’re confined to the studio, where virtually no filming occurs. The show is always on the road, as Chef Hannibal Lecter visits restaurants across the nation. Producers comb through submission tapes and choose what restaurants he’ll visit. Then, Lecter will stop by to inspect things and get a sense of what he’s working with. After that comes extensive training, menu refinement, and sometimes even interior design and renovations. Safe to say, Lecter has his hands full. While it may seem like the work on the show is easy and smooth, you recognize that he’s a lot more involved than people may think. 

You haven’t met him just yet, but you’re sure you will once you’re on the road. You don’t expect to be bustling through the studio one day, only to nearly crash into the man himself. You reel back a bit, righting your balance. 

“Sorry,” you say quickly. That wasn’t necessarily the first impression you were hoping for. But oh well. There are rarely any other people in the studio, so you don’t necessarily blame yourself for nearly colliding with him. Lecter doesn’t seem too bothered about it either, instead waving off your apology with a kind smile. 

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he hums. “Hannibal Lecter. Pleasure.” 

You extend a hand for a handshake; he returns the gesture and places a free hand on your shoulder, before leaning in and kissing you on each cheek. When he pulls back, you’re flabbergasted. It takes you a moment to remember to introduce yourself in return. You’re a bit flustered. But, then again, you’re probably reading into it. The guy’s Lithuanian and frequently in Europe, so that was just a European greeting. Right? 

Fortunately, you’re spared from any further embarrassment by the production assistant, who grabs you and starts briefing you on the next restaurant the crew is going to visit. As you walk away, you feel like Lecter is watching you—but when you turn around, he’s engrossed in conversation with someone else. 

INTERIOR – Confessional. 

A short individual interview with you. On a banner near the bottom of the screen, your name and role (“camera crew”) are displayed in white font. You’re seen pinching the bridge of your nose, shaking your head in disbelief before looking at the camera.

You I’ve never smelled something so foul in my entire life. Some of us were wearing face masks when we were filming.

The camera then cuts to a behind-the-scenes shot of another cameraman, who can be seen nearly gagging as he places a hand over his mouth.

You (sighing) Yeah… Not fun. 

Twitter

judasjudahahas who’s the hot camera guy on Kitchen Nightmares???? And can we see more of him??? Asking for a friend. #KitchenNightmares

→ upsidedownapple: yesss omg his confessionals were so funny

→ gratattata: we stan him fr

INTERIOR – Chef Lecter’s car. Mid-day, rainy weather. Hannibal sits in the driver’s seat; you’re seated in the passenger’s seat, behind the camera as you film his reaction to this restaurant’s “Soup of the Day.” It was served to him through the drive-thru, which isn’t exactly promising. 

Hannibal holds a styrofoam cup in his hand, and he glances down at it with a mildly disgusted expression. 

Chef Lecter (sarcastically) Wonderful. Smell this. 

You (quickly) No thanks. That’s your job, not mine.

Chef Lecter (laughs) Fair enough.

A beat of silence.

Chef Lecter But look, at the very least. (tilts the cup down)

The camera zooms in on the soup served in a styrofoam cup; the texture is chunky and there are weird orange bits in it. 

You Ew. 

Chef Lecter This looks like one of those McDonald’s desserts. 

You A McFlurry?

Chef Lecter Yes. That. 

You (restrained laughter)  Pffft. You didn’t even know the name of it? 

Chef Lecter That’s not my job. 

You Right, fixing mediocre mom-and-pop restaurants is your job. 

Silence. Hannibal’s lips quirk at the edges, close to smiling. Then he shakes his head to refocus. 

Chef Lecter (grimacing at the camera)  Here goes. 

You’re quiet as you film him. Hannibal dips the spoon into the mixture, picks some up and looks at it. Chunks fall from the spoon and back into the cup. You shudder.

You’re watching Hannibal expectantly. He’s entirely silent, his face almost completely devoid of emotion. You’re not sure how long you sit there in complete silence. Hannibal just isn’t saying anything. 

Chef Lecter (diplomatically) …Well then. 

You  (bursting into laughter) I’m so sorry— hold on— 

The screen goes dark as you place the camera in your lap. For a few moments, all that can be heard is your laughter. Then you regain your composure and pick the camera back up again, pointing it at Hannibal. 

Chef Lecter (smirking slightly) Ready now? 

You (still fighting off laughter) Yes. Go ahead. 

Hannibal repeats the same actions as before, dipping a spoon into the mixture before bringing it to his lips. 

Chef Lecter (contemplative) Hm. Cold. 

You (sputtering) I’m sorry— That was—!

A few more moments of laughter. Then, you take a slow breath. 

Chef Lecter (fighting off a smile)  You’d better straighten up soon. I don’t think my body will tolerate much more of this soup. 

You  (pulling it together)  You’re right, my bad. Okay, last time. Go ahead. 

Chef Lecter tastes the soup, pulls a face. He describes the abhorrent flavor profile and cold temperature; you watch on silently. Eventually, it’s clear you’ve gotten the shot. 

Chef Lecter Finally. I’m starting to think you did that on purpose. 

You (with faux-innocence)  Me? Never. 

INT. – Confessional.  A voice from off screen speaks: So, you were the one to find that hidden freezer in the preliminary inspection. 

You (shuddering) Unfortunately. 

The camera cuts to black-and-white footage of a door hidden behind piles of boxes. From behind the camera in the flashback, you reach and open the door. The camera shakes a bit as you evidently grasp what you’re seeing. 

You Chef Lecter wasn’t pleased to see that. But I don’t really blame him. I mean, that’s gotta be several health violations. And a secret freezer? Their walk-in freezer was huge and it wasn’t even full. Very suspicious.

INT. – Jack’s Pub. It’s a rowdy dinner service, with waiters and guests bustling around the far too small space. 

You’re filming some B-roll when you’re suddenly jostled by a passing guest. You’re thrown off balance for a second before you manage to steady yourself. 

Chef Lecter (turning to look directly at you) Are you all right?

You (blinking) Yeah, I’m good.  

Chef Lecter (looking at the tight space around you) Ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous.

You (jokingly) Maybe us crew members need camouflage or something. Like those National Geographic photographers.

The chef laughs. You’re surprised by the gesture—you’re not sure you’ve ever heard him express such amusement before. 

Chef Lecter Yes, that would be beneficial. It is somewhat akin to photographing wildlife, isn’t it?

You (scoffing, before lowering your voice) Yeah. But without, y’know, the dignity and respect. These places are dumps, so even the best shots look completely shitty.

Chef Lecter (lips quirking at the edges)  True. But you’re making me look good. 

You That isn’t exactly difficult to do. 

You don’t realize the gravity of what you’ve said until you see Hannibal’s eyebrows climb up his face. You immediately look away, trying to pretend as if you hadn’t said anything. 

EXTERIOR – Dumort Hotel. A gaudy hotel with bright pink walls and pastel yellow shingles looms over you. This is one of the first few episodes of Hannibal’s new show, Hotel Hell. After four successful seasons of Kitchen Nightmares, the network is deciding to expand and give him another program. 

You pay a disbelieving glance at Hannibal as you stand in front of the garish hotel. 

You  You’re really a masochist, huh? Was all the food poisoning and filth not enough for you? 

Hannibal  (huffs in amusement) I suppose it wasn’t. Now we’re adding crumbling wallpaper and burnished antiques to the mix. 

Hannibal heads up the steps and you follow after him, filming the whole way. When you reach the front doors, there’s a comically large door knocker that he pointedly ignores. He holds the door open for you and you murmur a word of gratitude quietly, before stepping into the space. 

The lobby is just as much of an eyesore as the exterior of the building. There’s a complete mess of colors: each as bright and dizzying as the last. There are furry armchairs and leather sofas scattered around the space. You zoom in on the cushions, which are tattered and look stained. 

The owner of the hotel, Maxine, steps out from behind the desk. To your surprise, Hannibal doesn’t kiss her on the cheek—instead opting for a more formal handshake. This only reminds you of your first meeting. You take a deep breath and focus on the conversation as you’re filming. 

Maxine Chef Lecter, I’m so thrilled to see you! 

Hannibal  Oh, please, call me Hannibal.  

Maxine Very well, Hannibal. I just know that you’ll enjoy your stay here. 

Hannibal I’m sure I will. 

The smile on his face is ever so slightly sarcastic, as if he knows just how much of a nightmare this place is going to be. Maxine doesn’t seem to notice this, instead looking at the camera. 

Maxine (curiously) And who’s this? 

You’re hiding your face behind your camera at this point. But she doesn’t relent, and eventually you’re forced to show yourself. 

You (awkwardly) Oh. Um… hi.

Maxine Hello! Enchanted to meet you, darling. 

She holds her hand out pointedly. 

You (hesitantly kissing the top of her hand)  …Nice to meet you too. 

That’s strange. She didn’t do anything like that with Hannibal. You frown, hiding the gesture behind your camera as you continue filming. 

Maxine Now, shall I lead you to your room, Hannibal?

Hannibal Please. 

His tone is almost imperceptibly clipped, as if he’s slightly frustrated. 

INT. – Confessional. Hannibal recalls his first impressions of the Dumort Hotel lobby. 

Tell us about the lobby. 

Hannibal There was a veritable mess of colors. Way too much neon. And I believe the chandelier in the center was broken, which is a safety hazard. 

And the owner, Maxine, seemed quite…

Hannibal (tersely) Friendly. 

Overly friendly, some might say. 

Hannibal I would agree. If that was her attempt at buttering us up before we explored the hotel… Well, it didn’t exactly work in her favor. 

EXTERIOR – Dumort Hotel hot tub. 

You’re standing on the deck, where an above-ground hot tub rests innocuously. Hannibal left briefly to change. Upon his return, you quickly tilt the camera down,

Hannibal (curious) What are you doing? 

You Just figured you wouldn’t want to be shirtless on national television. 

Hannibal  Ah. That is… a good point.

You (stammering)  Not like you have anything to be ashamed of! I just mean— 

Hannibal  (with a fond huff)  I understand. I appreciate the gesture. 

You (attempting to recover your dignity)  Good. 

It’s quiet as Hannibal steps over to the hot tub. You still have your camera pointed down. He eventually crouches and manages to step in. 

You Ready? 

Hannibal Sure. Care to join me?

You (shaking your head) No thanks. I don’t even like regular hot tubs. Let alone… whatever that is.

Hannibal  A shame. 

You You’re not supposed to be talking to me, you know. 

Hannibal Oh? 

You I mean, the viewers aren’t supposed to know I exist. 

Hannibal  You filmed some confessionals for Kitchen Nightmares , no?

You You know what I mean. 

Hannibal (teasing) And what am I supposed to do by myself, hm? This hot tub is depressing enough; this situation is completely undignified. 

You lock eyes with him over your camera and roll your eyes. 

INT. – Your room at Dumort Hotel, later that night. 

You open the door and are immediately hit with a nauseating wave of stench. It’s thick enough to give you a headache right away. For a moment, you’re just frozen in the doorway in shock and horror. This is where you’re supposed to sleep for the night…?

Then you sigh and pull out your camera, turning it on. 

You (briefly turning the camera to yourself, before showing the room)  So… this is where I’m supposed to stay. And it smells like death. But, hey, at least we’ll get some good footage. Right? Haha… 

You explore the room in search for the source of the smell. Eventually you find it: it’s the mattress. You almost don’t want to look. The last thing you want to find is an animal or fungus and mold. You pull the mattress back in what feels like slow motion. 

…There’s nothing. You frown and put the mattress back down, only to feel something hit your arm. You look down in confusion, finding a drop of water running down your forearm. You pan the camera up slowly, unable to hide a choked gasp as you see the hole in the roof above. Zooming in on it reveals a consistent flow of liquid.

You (to the camera)  It’s supposed to rain tonight too. Great. 

You pause the camera and watch the ceiling for a moment, before confirming that it’s still leaking. Damn it. You’ll have to find somewhere else to sleep. There is a sofa a ways down the hall… You could just sleep there.

You’re sitting on the sofa for no more than a few minutes when Hannibal exits his room and heads down the hall, pausing when he sees you.  

Hannibal  What are you doing out here? 

You Um… nothing important. 

Hannibal  (astutely) What is it?

You  (sighing defeatedly)  My room had a hole in the roof. And it’s raining, of course. 

Hannibal (with a sympathetic smile)  Of course. 

Hannibal …I’d be happy to share my room with you. 

You (politely) No, it’s fine— 

Hannibal  I insist. Can’t have you getting sick—it’s drafty out here. 

Hannibal’s soon helping you to your feet and guiding you with a hand on your shoulder, leaving you no choice but to share his room with him. 

INT. – Hannibal’s hotel room. Early the next morning. You’re wearing a simple shirt and sweatpants; Hannibal is wearing a cardigan and slacks. His version of a casual outfit, you suppose. 

Hannibal (looking at the camera)  So we were roused— 

You  (interjecting, briefly panning the camera down to the floor)  Wait, wait, wait. You should probably just say “I”.

Hannibal  Why?

You Otherwise, y’know. We shared a room, people will think… 

Hannibal I don’t mind. 

You (surprised) Oh. Okay. Then… start over, I guess. 

Hannibal  (staring at the camera once more)  We were roused this morning by an ear-piercing shriek, which proved to be a rooster outside… 

Twitter

Trending Hotel Hell Related tags: #HotelHell, #HotelGayHell, #ChefLecter

spaghettihands what am i watching and why do i love it SO MUCH #HotelHell

imeankingggg Production is WILD for keeping the whole Maxine/Camera Guy interaction in the show #HotelGayHell

→ grrrrr8ate: RIGHT????? 

→ fuygieri: hannibal seemed lowkey jealous

→ greenhamneggs: LOWKEY??? Bitch he was so snippy with maxine after

→ ooglyboogly: trueeee

drhouseapologist that shit was so gay. They stayed there OVERNIGHT. TOGETHER. IN THE SAME ROOM??????????? #HotelGayHell

→ bananananana: lIKRRRRR i’m in shamblessss

→ crystalmegs: and judging from the clip he filmed, the camera guy had his own room!!! I think his was the one with the hole in the ceiling 😭

→ grianbriffin: ^i just know that mildew smelled so rank 

→ yagamilightoh: YES BECAUSE HANNIBAL SAID “we were roused” 

→ yugylimaf: WAS THERE ONLY ONE BED????????

→ thespudhutmanager: LORDDD the people need to knowwwwww pleaseeeeeeEEE

yopapa anyone else think it’s funny that hannibal dresses so nicely to go to these absolutely awful hotels and restaurants

→ user39751: yes lolllll

→ toucanscram: he’s so charming that i think people forget he’s there to tear them apart

→ tropicannotdothis: **help them. supposedly. hahaha. 

INT. – Sylvie’s Bar and Grill. Noon.

What was a relatively peaceful lunch hour is quickly interrupted by the sound of loud music. Dancers draped in gaudy, revealing golden fabric weave their way through the tables. Everyone is immensely uncomfortable. The display is entirely unnecessary and inappropriate—there are children eating at the restaurant.

You’ve had plenty of memorable moments throughout the seasons you’ve been filming, but this one easily takes the cake. It doesn’t help that one of the dancers locks eyes with you (or the camera, you’re not sure) and advances on you, to the point where you’re backing away from her. Her hand grazes your arm and you can’t scramble back nearly quick enough for your liking. In your attempt to escape, you bump into someone behind you. 

A sudden hand on your shoulder makes you flinch. Fear races through you.

Chef Lecter (reassuringly)  It’s just me. 

His hand slips from your shoulder. You’re barely paying attention to the shots you’re getting, at this point—too wound up from what just happened. There’s a displeased expression on the chef’s face. He clears his throat pointedly. 

Chef Lecter (firmly) Please do not touch my crew. 

The air falls silent. The music is paused. The entire restaurant seems to be holding its breath. The diners are uncomfortable, and the dancers are still. Eventually, they retreat and return to service. 

You (turning to Hannibal) Thanks.  

Hannibal Of course. Are you all right? 

You Um… yeah, thanks. 

Hannibal (imploringly) Take a breather, please. I can’t imagine we’ll need any more footage of… that.  

He looks disgusted, annoyed. Repulsed, even. It takes you a moment to comprehend his offer, but once you do, you nod jerkily and head out the side door of the restaurant. You pause your camera and take a deep breath. Within a few minutes, you’re composed enough to return to the restaurant. Seeing Hannibal berate them in that sophisticated diction of his is all you need to feel better. 

YouTube

kitchendreamsfan1

chef lecter simping for the camera guy for six minutes gay 

featuring some moments from hotel hell!! if you haven’t watched it, then you should. episode 5 at Dumort Hotel has a shit ton of gay moments between these two. mwhahahha… 

Comments: 

diefrownhate: you are a SAINT

→ broombroommm: a POPE

→ keonlennedy: a BISHOP

→ poppyistired: pope is better but alright…

→ keonlennedy: shut up i don’t know christian mythology leave me alone

→ poppyistired: christian mythology? i’m stealing that lolol

saphael4L: lecter putting his hand on the camera guy’s shoulder at 3:04 !!!!!!! and the fucking look on his fucking face!!!!

dokidokidookie: do you think they’ve explored each other’s bodies

→ charizander: do you think you could log off for me

→ dokidokidookie: never

→ charizander: ok well i’ve done my civic duty idc anymore

INTERIOR – Colby’s Restaurant. Morning. 

Chef Hannibal Lecter has a reputation for being cool, calm, and collected. He never lashes out at people, never even reacts to their insults. And most people, they’re able to recognize that—and respect it. But there will always be morons. 

This particular owner, Colby Smith, is a piece of fucking work. He’s been a complete and utter asshole to his staff, his customers, the crew, and even Hannibal himself from the very beginning. And while Chef Lecter has a commendable amount of patience, it isn’t limitless. 

Colby is going on another tirade, hurling insults left and right. He’s cursing so much that practically every other word will have to be censored. And the target of his ire? Hannibal. That’s right. Hannibal Lecter, the angel who gives people second and third chances when they don’t deserve them. 

All it had taken was a simple question from Hannibal for Colby to go ballistic. Suddenly he’s spouting off about being emasculated, manipulated, used for profit, forced to play a role, painted as the villain. He goes on and on and on. 

Hannibal is… uncharacteristically silent. Usually, he attempts to reason with people. Today, he is silent and nearly frozen in the face of this owner’s criticisms. And even as you keep filming, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s genuinely upsetting him. 

“Cut!” the director yells. 

Hannibal is tense. His shoulders are drawn tight. His posture is perfect as always, but it almost looks rigid now. He hasn’t budged since the cameras stopped rolling. 

You’re moving before you can think better of it. 

You  Audio’s a bit spotty. Hannibal, mic check, come on.

The audio’s fine. You just needed an excuse to get him away. And you get the feeling he wouldn’t want to be asked after in front of the entire crew. So you lead him through the restaurant and to the alleyway outside. 

You (considering him for a moment)  Are you okay?

Hannibal  (without hesitation)  Of course.

You don’t believe him. 

You  Just take a few minutes. 

You can’t help but sneak concerned glances at him. Hannibal is quiet, much too quiet. The blank expression on his face would fool most, but you’ve been working with him long enough to recognize when it’s a facade. 

Hannibal is still silent. You feel compelled to speak, to reassure him somehow.

You You always want to help people. You see the best in them. And I’ve always respected that about you.

More silence. 

You (gaining more confidence)  But you need to know when to draw the line.

Hannibal is looking at you now. 

You You don’t owe these people anything. They’re fucking dicks. And if they can’t accept your help, then they sure as hell don’t deserve it.

There’s a pause. Neither of you try to fill the silence. You study Hannibal. There’s a harsher pull to his lips now. His mask is cracking, slowly but surely. 

You (slowly) You can’t help everyone. I know it sucks, but it’s the truth. 

Hannibal  (exhaling in a measured breath)  You’re right. 

You  (jokingly)  And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but there’s no shortage of bad restaurants in this country. 

Hannibal (a hint of a tired smile rising on his lips) I am beginning to realize that, yes. 

Twitter

Trending Kitchen Nightmares Related Tags: #ChefLecter, #CameraGuy

wildonesare oh the camera people were SO SHADY for filming that convo between hannibal and the camera guy… not that i’m not grateful, ofc 😏 #KitchenNightmares

→ torturedpoetrydept: IKR

→ phineasferbfanfic: they made that shit as dramatic as possible

→ boo_briangriffin_boo: right??? no video, just audio?? and the subtitles were crazy too. “loaded silence” ????  like, helloooo??

grapesouda did we really just find the one restaurant that even hannibal lecter couldn’t save? #KitchenNightmares

→fourthpowerpuffgirl: lord i think we did

→ nerfornuthin: the owner seemed like such a fucking dick, hope he rots <3 

→ fourthpowerpuffgirl: supposedly he’s in prison now, so… i think he probably is rotting

→ nerfornuthin: …oh! oh! i didn’t know that LOLLLL

→ fourthpowerpuffgirl: ahaha you’re good, dw abt it. i think it was pretty recent. 

thatsnotbullying the camera guy was so sweet i’m sobbing

→ kissmya33: hannibal probably appreciated it so much

 

asstutes I HAVE A THEORY THAT THE RUSTLING CLOTHES AT THE END OF THE CONVO WAS HANNIBAL & THE CAMERA GUY HUGGING #KitchenNightmares

→ potatoh_: GENIUSSSS

INT. – Jack Crawford’s car. Jack Crawford, the host of Bar Rescue, has invited Hannibal and you as guests for the episode. He’s visiting a bar in Virginia called Sadie’s. 

Hannibal and you enter the car. You’re nervous, your chest practically stewing in unease as you hop into the backseat. Maybe you can just sit here quietly, and everyone will forget you exist. 

Jack Crawford Welcome, you two.

Hannibal We’re delighted to be joining you.

Jack Crawford Chef Lecter, you’re an expert on food. And you’re— (he turns to glance back at you)

You (quickly) I’m not an expert on anything. 

Jack Crawford That’s not what I was going to say. 

Hannibal (chidingly)  Don’t sell yourself short, dear. Besides, if there’s one thing these people are lacking, it’s common sense—something you have in spades.

Jack Crawford Very good. There we go. 

A few beats of silence. 

Now, before we get started, I have to ask: are you two close?

You decide to wait for Hannibal to answer. 

Hannibal We’re good friends, yes.

You blink in surprise. Truthfully, you thought the same—but you didn’t want to make any assumptions. Plus, Hannibal isn’t exactly the type to make friends. You’re happy to hear he sees you as a good friend, though. The two of you have been working together for a few years now, after all. 

Jack Crawford Excellent. Just asking for the fans. (he winks at the camera)

Twitter 

Trending Bar Rescue Related tags: #ChefLecter, #JackKnows

mikuhatsunemikukuuuu LMFAO Jack wasn’t slick 🤣 “asking for the fans” yeah right… #JackKnows

→ corporatepridemonth: i mean he was brave enough to ask to their faces so

→ byebyebyeeee: right???? he said what we were all thinking. the voice of the people. 

→ waitin4u: sry… what is it we’re all thinking

→ user9191: that hannibal and the camera guy are dating!

→ waitin4u: ohhhh! well duh 

→ user9191: lmfao exactly 

boomboompowww the camera guy was so self-deprecating 😭😭 which, i mean, mood. but also SIR YOU DESERVE TO BE IN THAT CAR 😭😭 

→ therealjoeyjoe: yeah he’s probably more familiar with crazy people than hannibal and jack. just because of his crew job on the shows. 

→ tyyoufish: i just know he has some wild stories…

→ witharakemom: and then hannibal noticing he’s being quiet and encouraging him to talk after😭😭 

→ comeonbeverly: omfg i didn’t even notice that until now!!!!!

INT. – Jack Crawford’s car. Some time has passed since you both first entered. The three of you watched the bar through the hidden cameras for a while. 

Jack Crawford (determined)  Now, I have a bit of a special assignment for you two. You’re going to join me for recon. We’ll go in and pose as customers. Are you ready? 

You Ready as I’ll ever be.

Hannibal nods in evident agreement. 

Jack Crawford Good. Let’s go.

The three of you exit the car and enter the restaurant. You’re seated at a table, Jack Crawford next to you and Hannibal across from you. 

You It’s weird being on the other side of this. 

Waitress Hi, folks. What can I get started for ya?

Hannibal Do you have a drink menu?

Waitress No.

Jack Crawford Alright. He’ll get a Manhattan and I’ll get an old-fashioned. And he’ll have—

Oh, and she’s walking away already. 

(laughs disbelievingly, staring after the waitress before shaking his head)

You It’s okay; I’m fine with water, actually. 

Jack Crawford Your liver thanks you. 

You laugh. 

Jack Crawford And apologies, Chef Lecter, for ordering without asking you first. I’m sure you’d prefer wine, but judging from the look of this place…

Hannibal (nodding) They don’t have it. 

Jack Crawford Exactly. Now, let’s take a look at the menu. I’m going to defer to Chef Lecter here for some of the specifics. 

Hannibal (humming) This is a strange menu for a bar. These items aren’t exactly… affordable to the standard bar patron. 

Jack Crawford I agree. $30 for a burger is highway robbery. But we’ll be ordering it, of course. When our waitress remembers to come back.

Five minutes pass… then ten… then fifteen. 

Jack Crawford I suspect she’s forgotten about us. Not great service.

Hannibal No. And I believe I see the bartender sneaking drinks over there. 

Jack Crawford Great. Just great. 

The waitress returns after around twenty-five minutes, which Crawford times on his watch. 

Jack Crawford (greeting her) Ah, so you do remember us. Where are our drinks?

Waitress (motioning back to the bartender) He’s making them.

Jack Crawford Well, in the meantime, we’d like to order some food. Let’s do… the nachos, the bison burger—medium, please—the mozzarella sticks, and the pepperoni pizza.

Waitress Got it.  (walks away)

Jack Crawford I tried to simulate the dining experience with that one. Sometimes, we have recon order the whole menu. I have a feeling we won’t need to do that here.

Hannibal I suspect you’re right. 

The bar is, safe to say, a complete and utter mess. Most of the staff is drinking and messing around. Some aren’t even behind the bar. And the owner, as Jack points out, is taking shots and flirting with the customers. One bartender passes by another, calling her a “messy bitch” and “whore.”

You  I can say I’ve been in the trenches too. My first job was working for a fast food place—I did headset for the drive-thru. Minimum wage, close quarters, busy lunch and dinner hours, rude customers… I get it. But that’s no excuse to be talking to coworkers like that. 

Hanniba I agree.

Jack Crawford I’ve noticed these things often happen because of a lack of management. The owner or manager doesn’t have any credibility, so the employees get comfortable. They do whatever they want because they can get away with it. And the blame lies with both parties there: the owner and the employee. 

You Also, I don’t think people realize that having a bar means having a business. It’s not a playground or a hang out space for your friends. So many of these people just buy a bar because they think it’ll be fun. Free drinks! But it sinks them every time. 

Hannibal and Jack are both quiet.

You (self-consciously) What?

Hannibal (sincerely) I couldn’t have said it better myself. 

Jack Crawford (nodding in agreement) Yes, that’s what this often boils down to, isn’t it? These owners never consider the practical parts of running a business: food and drink costs, labor costs. They don’t enforce any kind of standards; they let their staff get away with whatever the hell they want. And then they wonder why they’re failing. 

You I don’t envy you, Jack. 

Jack Crawford (diplomatically) Oh, I’m sure you two can relate. You’ve seen hotel and restaurant owners of the exact same breed. 

Hannibal Yes, we have. 

You Hannibal definitely has the harder job. I just have to film it. 

Hannibal (politely) We’ve both had our moments. You’ve been nearly stampeded by chefs before, if I recall correctly. 

You Oh, yeah, that’s true.

The waitress returns with the drinks. 

Jack Crawford (muttering) Right on time. 

Hannibal frowns down at his drink. Jack does too. 

You I’m not an alcohol expert, but… that doesn’t look right.

Hannibal (takes a sip, pulling a face for a fraction of a second) That’s revolting. 

Jack Crawford (takes a sip of his drink) Disgusting. This doesn’t taste anything like an old-fashioned. 

You How long do you think the food will take? I’m guessing… thirty more minutes.

Jack Crawford At least.

As expected, the food doesn’t arrive for forty minutes. It doesn’t look particularly appetizing: the bison burger is dripping with grease, the nachos are a giant clump, and the pepperoni pizza has sauce on top of the cheese. Maybe the mozzarella sticks are safe? You hesitantly poke at one with a fork. 

Hannibal Don’t eat that, sweetheart. 

You blink, surprised to find his hand on your wrist as he prevents you from putting your fork into the mozzarella stick. 

You Okay, I won’t. But I’m curious to see what it looks like on the inside. 

Hannibal’s hand slips away; you cut through the mozzarella stick with the side of your fork. The inside is a liquidy mess. You put a hand over your mouth in disgust before thanking Hannibal. He nods and smiles ever so slightly in return. 

Jack Crawford This is so disgusting. And look at these nachos.

Jack grabs a chip from the nachos and they emerge in one giant clump. 

Jack Crawford Chef Lecter, have you ever seen someone fuck up nachos this badly?

Hannibal Never. 

You That looks like it could be a decoration for the wall.

Jack Crawford (huffing as he holds it to the brick wall)  It does. 

You On that note, what kind of bar just has empty walls? This place is depressing. 

Jack Crawford I’ve seen alleys with more interior design. 

You Me too. 

Hannibal cuts into the burger with a fork and knife. His sleeves are getting closer to the juice dripping from the burger. You’re reaching out to push his sleeves up before you can stop yourself. 

Those stains would be a nightmare to get out. 

Hannibal (appreciatively)  Thank you. 

He pushes the sliced burger apart with the knife. The inside of the burger has no pink. 

Hannibal  This is well-done. 

You It looks past that. Like charcoal. 

Jack Crawford Here. 

Jack reaches out and removes the patty from the burger. Then he knocks it against the table. There’s a dull thunking sound, as if the burger is completely solid. 

You Oh, gross. 

Jack hits it against the table a bit harder and crumbs come off in chunks. 

Hannibal  The pizza dough looks raw. None of these dishes are successful. 

Jack Crawford I want to meet the chef who served these. Let’s go to the kitchen, shall we?

The three of you get up from your seats. You follow behind Jack and Hannibal, briefly pausing at the host stand. 

You Their computers aren’t even on. If they have a POS system they’re paying for… 

Hannibal Then they’re certainly not using it.

You (surprised he was listening) Right. 

You linger before the kitchen. Truthfully, you don’t feel like you should be here. The show usually has guest experts. But you’re not really an expert at anything, save for filming. 

Actually… that gives you an idea.

I’m going to grab some B-roll. Make myself useful.

Hannibal (frowning) You are always useful. 

You You know what I mean. 

You turn on the handheld camera you brought with you, before turning to Hannibal.

You You go tear their kitchen apart, and I’ll find a moldy toilet or something.

Hannibal (huffing a laugh) Sounds like a plan. 

INT. – Sadie’s. 

Hannibal and Jack are exploring the kitchen now. Jack looks disgusted, and even Hannibal looks mildly revulsed. 

Jack (pointing to a bin kept off to the side)  What the hell is that?

Hannibal  Looks like… raw chicken. 

Jack  Of course. Of course. Right next to the cooked chicken, in the same fucking freezer.

Hannibal A health inspector would have an aneurysm here. 

Jack That they would. 

The two of them investigate the filthy fryer and dirty grill with scrutiny. Jack inspects it for a few moments before seeming to come to a realization, glancing around the room. 

Jack Wait. Where’s your boyfriend?

Hannibal (without hesitation) He’s getting B-roll. 

INT. — Confessional.

Jack I had a feeling the two of them were dating. Lecter seemed moments away from climbing into the backseat to sit with the camera guy earlier. And he called him sweetheart earlier, too. Not very subtle, that one. 

They’re not dating. 

Jack They’re not? (sighs heavily)

Twitter

Trending Bar Rescue Related tags: #ChefLecter, #CameraGuy

bornbloodynbroken SWEETHEART???)?? BOYFRIEND???!??!? #BarRescue

melaniemartinezismygod #CameraGuy coming back to the kitchen confused 😭😭 mf knew he missed something important 😭😭😭

1kyokokirigiristan Swear on my life, #ChefLecter literally relaxed when the camera guy came back. 

→ demonicinfluence: I SAW THAT TOO 

generalgrievousrepairtech what do you mean he called him sweetheart. and then stopped the camera guy from eating that vile shit. the camera guy rolled up Hannibal’s sleeves for him. Jack just sat there amused. what do you mean this show isn’t for the gays??? #ChefLecter #CameraGuy #KitchenNightmares

→ swimmerladdy: there’s drama, drinks, and homoeroticism. that’s all i need. 

→ sportsgirl179: same tbh

thezoruark the way Jack was so surprised to hear they aren’t dating. willing to bet my life that there are more moments between #ChefLecter and #CameraGuy that got cut

→ hellokittyluvr: i need the full unedited version and i need it right NOW. raw footage. I don’t even CARE. 

kingkeonhee what the fuck is with my tl. why is everyone talking about this cooking guy and bar show. do i need to watch it orrrr….. #BarRescue

→ seokjinnie132: you don’t need to watch it, you can just be uneducated and uncultured.

→ kingkeonhee: oof, my pride… 

→ seokjinnie132: ahhahaa. kidding. jokes aside, the show is already chaotic and entertaining enough on its own. add two oblivious gay men and you have yourself a masterpiece. 

→ kingkeonhee: oh purrrrr i’ll check it out then

→ polywhirlygig: keep us posted. i expect an essay of book report length. 

→ kingkeonhee: don’t test me, because i will absolutely do that. 

→ polywhirlygig: wait actually just watch it on call with me, i need to see everythingggg

→ kingkeonhee: BET running to discord rn

INT. – Jack Crawford’s car. A few months after your first time on the show. 

Jack (looking at the camera near the dashboard) Now, our special guests for the episode are making a return appearance. These two were very popular with fans. I’d almost be insulted, if they weren’t my friends. At least, I think we’re all friends now.

Hannibal  Good evening, Jack. 

You Hey.

Jack  Hello, you two. I was just saying that we’re all friends now. Or I hope so, at least. 

You Yeah, we are. There are some things you go through that are just so horrible that you become friends after. Trauma-bonding. 

Hannibal  (amused)  Yes, we’re friends. It’s good to see you, Jack. 

Jack  You too, Hannibal. (looks to you in the backseat) And you, of course. 

You both will be pleased to know that I’ve hired two other people for recon tonight. 

Hannibal  That is a relief. 

Jack  They’re entering the bar now, as we can see on the screen here. On the left there is Alana Bloom, a practicing psychiatrist and good friend of mine. On the right is Freddie Lounds, a journalist. They’re heading in… Let’s see how they’re treated. 

Hannibal  Pardon me, Jack. 

Hannibal gets out of the car. Then, to your disbelief, he enters the backseat and sits next to you. At your confused look, he explains. 

I couldn’t see. 

You (skeptical) Right… So you moved further away from the screen. 

Silence. 

You If you wanted to sit with me, you could’ve just said that. 

Hannibal  (shameless) I wanted to sit with you. 

You (surprised)  Oh. 

Jack Enough flirting, you two. Take a look at this. The bartender is on the wrong side of the bar. 

You (leaning forward and considering the screen for several moments)  That one server’s busting her ass just to keep the place alive. 

Hannibal Right. And the bartenders aren’t even serving drinks. 

Jack  Oh, and now one’s offering “boob shots”.

You (covering your eyes) Oh no… No… 

Jack  I can see this is happening the opposite effect. 

You (muttering in disbelief) I’m too gay for this.

Hannibal’s eyes snap to yours. He looks incredibly amused. A few moments pass. 

Hannibal  (patting your knee briefly) You can look now. 

You (removing your hands from your face).  That’s crazy! That’s illegal. She could have the cops called on her for indecent exposure!

Hannibal  (sincere) You’re correct. This isn’t—or, at least, shouldn’t be—a strip club. 

Jack She would also lose her liquor license.

You Not to mention… that’s just inappropriate. 

Jack No wonder the place is filled with men—that’s what’s bringing them in!

The three of you are stuck in shocked silence for several minutes. Jack is the one to break through it. 

Jack And checking back with our recon agents… we can see they’re uncomfortable. Understandably. They’ve been sitting there for fifteen minutes. They still haven’t gotten their drinks. And here comes Paul, the owner. 

The three of you are quiet as you stare down at the screen for several minutes. 

Jack He’s drunk and he’s flirting with them. Not the best first impression. 

You Not at all. 

Hannibal  They look visibly uncomfortable. 

Jack  He’s practically sitting in their laps, at this point. And he’s married. Flirting right in front of his wife, who is the bartender. Completely ridiculous. 

You Let’s get them out of there. 

Jack  I’m with you. Let’s go. 

The three of you exit the car. 

Hannibal and you manage to get the owner away from Alana and Freddie. They seem relieved, to say the least. Jack has since stepped into the back, and you can hear him yelling at the owner from out here. Good. The guy deserves it. 

Then Alana, the psychiatrist, places a hand on Hannibal’s forearm and leads him to a nearby corner. They converse privately for a moment. Your eyebrows climb up your temple as you see how she’s practically draped herself over him. Freddie’s voice draws your attention. 

“That drink was nasty,” she scoffs. 

“I bet,” you grimace in sympathy, taking a look down at it. You’re not much of a drinker, but you can still tell what makes a good one. Fruit flies don’t make a good drink, that’s for damn sure.  

Hannibal comes back soon enough. Alana and Freddie exchange a look; Jack returns from the kitchen and leads them out of the bar, apologizing profusely for the situation he unknowingly put them into. 

Hannibal and you are left standing together now. “Hey,” you greet him. “Looks like you have an admirer, huh?” you joke, referring to the interaction you witnessed between Alana and him just now. 

“I was going to say the same to you,” Hannibal says, nodding at Freddie, who is being led out by Jack. 

You huff and ignore the remark, trying to ignore the strange tightness in your chest. “So, did she ask you out?” you continue. You know you need to stop talking, but you can’t quite get yourself to just shut up . “To a cleaner bar, maybe?” 

Hannibal exhales in amusement. “She did,” he admits. 

“And?” you prompt him. Why are you pushing this? You don’t think you even want to know the answer, you don’t want to be thinking about Hannibal sitting close to someone at a bar— 

“And I denied her,” he answers. 

“Aw,” you say, managing to smile sympathetically. Secretly, you’re relieved—even though you shouldn’t be. “Why? She seemed nice. She’s a friend of Jack’s, right?”

“I wasn’t interested,” Hannibal says with a brief shake of his head. His hands are in his pockets now. He seems completely at ease, despite the fact that he’s standing in the middle of a very dingy, dimly-lit bar. “And I have plans.” 

“Plans?” you repeat. “Look at you.” 

There’s a strange expression on Hannibal’s face. He almost looks… smug? You soon realize why. “You almost seem jealous,” he notes. 

“Jealous?” you echo. Fuck. “Me? Aha… No… definitely not. At all. Totally. I’m completely fine over here. Totally… good. Great, even.” 

You’re not sure how much longer you would’ve kept rambling if Hannibal hadn’t leaned in to kiss you. You’re immediately reminded of your first meeting, and how his hand found your shoulder as he got closer. Then, there was some room for interpretation. You had only just met. 

There’s no room for interpretation now. There’s nothing platonic about this gesture—he’s holding you tenderly, smoothly entering your space before swiftly breaking away. “You are ridiculous,” Hannibal says with a smile. 

“Oh,” you blink. Suddenly everything starts to make sense: all of the behavior you had just perceived to be friendly. “...Ohhh.” You smile. 

“Yes,” Hannibal responds with a knowing look. A fond one. 

“Okay, we’re going to redo that somewhere less filthy,” you assert. 

Hannibal is fully smiling now. You’ve never seen him look so expressive. His eyes are gleaming. “Yes, we are,” he promises. He reaches out and clasps your hand. 

The two of you don’t seem to break apart quickly enough, as Jack storms into the restaurant once more. He stops in front of you, seeming moments away from going on an angry tirade about the owner before he sees your hand in Hannibal’s. “Finally,” he says dismissively. “I thought you’d never get it together.” 

“Yes, thank you, Jack,” Hannibal replies in amusement. 

“Glad something good came out of tonight,” Jack says with a shake of his head. “Because the owner’s bat-shit crazy. I’m going to have my work cut out for me.” 

“You definitely will,” you acquiesce. “Have fun with that.” You smirk teasingly. 

“You’re lucky the fans love you,” Jack sighs, sensing that you’re leaving. 

You just smile. “Bye, Jack.”

“See you two,” he nods. “Hopefully in a slightly cleaner establishment next time.” 

“One can dream,” Hannibal responds. You all laugh before Jack heads into the kitchen again, leaving Hannibal and you standing outside the bar hand-in-hand. Hannibal glances over at you and smiles; you squeeze his hand. The two of you head out to the parking lot, the night air a welcome change from the stuffy and warm air of the bar. 

“You remember when we first met?” you ask. Your hand still clasps his. A cool breeze runs through the air and it’s refreshing. You feel safe here, comfortable enough to be vulnerable for a moment. You glance at Hannibal, awaiting his answer. 

“Of course I do,” he answers. 

“Were you messing with me?” you question. “With the kiss on the cheek thing, I mean.” 

“Oh, yes, I remember,” Hannibal recalls. A smirk dances on his lips. “Maybe.” 

“Seriously?” you nearly exclaim. “You had me second-guessing myself for months .” Years, even. But he doesn’t need to know that. 

Hannibal laughs. “Apologies,” he says, stopping in his tracks and turning to face you. His free hand moves to glide across your cheek, settling just near your jaw. “I just couldn’t help myself.” There’s an unmistakable fondness in his eyes. He’s staring at you like you’re the only person in the world. 

“And you say I’m ridiculous,” you remember to say. You can’t bring yourself to be cross with Hannibal for long, because he’s soon pulling you into another kiss and taking your mind off of that embarrassing encounter.

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

i found Bar Rescue on youtube yesterday and i haven't been the same since.

anyways, thanks for reading! <3 PLS LET ME KNOW IF YOU ENJOYED THIS TOOK SO FUCKING LONG TO FORMAT

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[defectivevillain]

TUMBLR THIS WAS DISRESPECTFUL

shoutout to my bestie @connorhasabigtip for this screenshot 😭🖤

do i have a 32 page Sith (male) reader x Poe Dameron fic in my drafts?

maybe.

will i ever finish it?

maybe.

do i love the idea of it?

absolutely.

[defectivevillain]

do i have a 32 page Sith (male) reader x Poe Dameron fic in my drafts?

maybe.

will i ever finish it?

maybe.

do i love the idea of it?

absolutely.

[defectivevillain]

wrong from right

pairing: Fletcher Kane/Reader

the reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary: Someone is leaving you ‘gifts’. They start small—ammo, a jacket when yours rips—but soon grow in volume and value. When your mysterious benefactor eventually reveals himself to be none other than your enemy, Fletcher Kane… you don’t know what to do. You try to ignore the gifts, but Kane’s patience can only last for so long. 

word count: 4.3k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical violence, weaponry, etc.

Either you’re growing more forgetful lately, or someone is leaving you gifts. It’s small things at first: another jacket when yours gets torn, more ammunition than you remember having. You put it down to lapses in memory. But then you start getting more. The mysterious gifts grow larger and more expensive. An exotic rifle, a rare pistol. And you’re soon convinced that these appearances are presents, of sorts. 

You don’t know who your benefactor is. When you ask around, none of the outlaws have an answer. It’s Midas who suggests that these gifts may have a double meaning. He’s skeptical—tells you to watch your back. You share his wariness. It’s like someone’s trying to intimidate you, make you second guess yourself and your own safety. 

The next one has a signature. Not in the literal sense. But it’s clear who the ‘gift’ is from. 

“I’ve never seen Kane do this before,” Midas frowns, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks down at the gift you’ve been given—gold bars unsubtly outfitted with that familiar wolf logo of Fletcher Kane’s. The two of you are standing in one of the Outlaw hideouts, studying the ‘gift’ that arrived at your doorstep mere moments ago. 

“Is it bad?” you ask hesitantly, looking down at the pile of gold bars. It’s kind of ironic that your enemy’s giving you gold, after all of the times you’ve robbed him of it. Kane must have far more money than he knows what to do with. “Is he, like, waging war on me or something?”

“No,” Midas responds with a slight huff of amusement. His arms are crossed over his chest. He picks up a gold bar and gold drips up his skin, covering his arm and stretching to his shoulder. “He must be trying to sway you. He wants you on his side,” Midas concludes, setting the bar down with an inscrutable look.  

“And he thinks he can buy me off?” you frown.

“I guess so,” Midas shrugs. A stormy expression passes across his face. “I’d be careful. Kane’s next attempts may not be so… passive.” 

You hum and consider the thought. 

Not well enough, though. Clearly. Because in no more than a week, you’re leaving a successful heist when you quite literally run into Fletcher Kane himself. In the doorway of the bank you just robbed. Yikes. 

Safe to say, when you recognize Kane, you immediately back away. He holds his free hand up in a placating gesture. He’s wearing that fur cloak he’s infamous for, complete with a black dress shirt and slacks. Gold jewelry lines his fingers and throat. Your heart races in your chest; for a moment, you’re just staring at each other. 

Then, finally, the wolf speaks. “That must’ve been a new record,” Kane says, nodding to the open vault behind you. You don’t respond, just staring at him warily. Your hand is hovering over the pistol on your belt. Kane doesn’t seem bothered by your silence. “You’ve rejected my gifts,” he continues.

“What did you expect, Kane?” you huff defensively. “I don’t trust you. For all I know, those weapons would’ve misfired right back at me.”

“You’re imaginative,” he observes. A menacing smile. “And it’s Fletcher.”

“I prefer cautious,” you say dryly, ignoring the latter half of that statement.  

“Regardless,” Kane remarks, his fingers tapping against his cane, “you’re quite skilled.”

“What?” you blink in complete disbelief. Surely you misheard him. Surely he didn’t just acknowledge your skill. That… That’s not right. 

“Typically, one would respond with gratitude,” Fletcher says pointedly, breaking you out of your thoughts. You just stare at him silently. If he thinks you’re going to thank him, he’s crazy. Fletcher then sighs, evidently sensing your resolve. Something of his own resolve passes across his face. “Join me,” he insists. 

“…No thanks,” you say quickly, your heart racing. “And this has been nice, really, but I have to go—” you try to sidestep him and sneak out of the doorway, but he’s quick to block your path. 

“Not so fast,” Fletcher says, slamming his cane down against the ground and remaining a static barrier in the doorway. His stature leaves him looming over you, his head nearly scraping the top of the doorway. His golden eyes pierce through you. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” you frown. 

“Your heists, for one,” he responds, nodding back at the ruined vault door protecting an empty vault. Some of your finest work, you have to admit. “I should kill you for your insolence.” Your attention immediately returns to the wolf. 

“…Okay.” You’re not sure what else to say. 

This isn’t the response he expects. “You’re not intimidated,” Fletcher observes, seeming both annoyed and satisfied. 

“Not really,” you admit.

“You should be,” Fletcher says, pushing a loaded gun to your temple in the blink of an eye. He jabs it at you just hard enough to hurt. 

“I don’t think so,” you respond, digging your assault rifle into his ribs in return. “I can handle myself just fine.”

You expect a disbelieving laugh, a scoff. You don’t expect the satisfied smile that rises on his lips, or his response. “Name your price.”

“To join you?” you clarify. A slight nod. You laugh, and name the most exorbitant sum of gold bars you can think of. Thousands, millions. Enough to ensure you’d never need for anything, ever. A ludicrous amount of money, truly. 

Fletcher doesn’t hesitate. “Done.”

“What?” you choke incredulously. “Wait. What?”  

“You seem surprised,” Fletcher notes with amusement. “You named your price, and I accepted.”

“Why?!” you exclaim. “No one’s worth that much money. I’m definitely not.” You named a sum so high that you could’ve spent your entire life robbing his banks—and you still wouldn’t have gotten close to that much. 

“If you had named far higher,” Fletcher remarks, his gun falling from your temple to find your chest. You swallow hard. The barrel is digging into your chest, burying itself between your ribs. “I still would’ve accepted.”

You’re staring at him in complete disbelief. 

“You don’t know your own worth,” Fletcher states. His eyes flash in the dim light of the doorway. “Midas may be content to let you slip through his fingers, but I am not so foolish.”

You may have underestimated just how badly Kane wanted your assistance. Your eyes are wide, your jaw is agape. You’re completely frozen in front of him, still reeling. You weren’t even being serious—you were joking. 

“You will never know suffering,” Fletcher asserts, unaware of your mental breakdown. “You will be given everything you could ever need. And, in return, you’ll give me your loyalty. Your skill.” When he finishes speaking, he looks at you expectantly. You could convince yourself that there’s a glimmer of anticipation in his eyes, but you tell yourself it’s just a trick of the light. 

Ultimately, you shouldn’t trust Fletcher Kane. He’s far from compassionate; and there’s nothing officially binding him to his word now. He could go back on his word and betray you in a heartbeat. 

You’re not sure you have much of a choice in this affair, though: not when he’s watching your every move, regarding you with cautious wariness and… 

And…

Begrudging respect. 

You can’t remember the last time you felt truly seen or valued for your abilities. Not to mention, the payment… You’d be set for the rest of your life. And you like to think you’re not too greedy, but the thought of consistent and long-term financial security is very reassuring. 

“So?” Fletcher prompts you, after several moments spent in tense silence. 

“What happens if I say no?” you ask, if only to delude yourself into thinking you have autonomy. 

“I’ll let you walk away,” he spits out, seeming irritated by the prospect. “But I can’t promise what would happen the next time we crossed paths.” The statement is punctuated by another jab to your ribs. 

You’re frozen like that for quite a while, your gun still pressed into his chest. But your grip is starting to slip as your resolve weakens. Eventually, you sigh and let your gun fall back to your side. You don’t need to utter the words, but you do anyway. “Fine.” 

Fletcher has his answer. The resulting smirk on his face is sharp enough to cut through steel. The gun pressed to your ribs returns to his side, but the tight feeling in your chest remains. 

It’s weird. You’re almost starting an entirely new life. Fletcher insists that you live with him in his lair—the sprawling estate with gilded surfaces, lush lounges, and extravagant wallpaper. Everything about the place screams luxury. And while you’ve snuck in to steal from him before, you’ve never stood in his halls with his permission. It ushers in a whole new kind of reckoning—and a terrifying recognition that this decision isn’t reversible. 

Kane leads you to a guest bedroom before giving you an impromptu tour of the mansion. You can tell he’s proud of the building: he goes into detail about the paintings, the color choices, the purpose of each room… It’s kind of a lot. By the end, you’re overwhelmed enough to retreat to the room you’ve been given. 

Fletcher summons you for dinner that night. It’s easily the most awkward meal you’ve ever shared with someone. The air is heavy with silence, and neither of you care to break through it. You’re picking at the food on your plate, feeling as if you lost your appetite sometime throughout the afternoon. Meanwhile, Fletcher has taken to staring at you intensely. He makes no effort to hide this, and his gaze only wavers when he needs to cut his food. 

You return to your room that night and lie awake for quite a while, wondering if you made the right decision. You’re not the best with change. Then again, the first night is always the hardest. You’ll slowly but surely get used to living here, to working with Kane. It’ll take some time, but you’ll get there. You eventually manage to fall asleep, holding these reassurances close to your chest.

Fortunately, your thoughts prove to be correct. As days bleed into weeks and months, you start to grow more comfortable with your new life. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t describe it so dramatically, but it truly does feel like a new life. Most of your days are defined by Fletcher: whether you’re completing an assignment or just walking through the halls of his residence. You frequently find yourself exploring the building and looking out over the balconies, wondering if your friends are thinking of you. 

They say time will tell. So far, it’s only told you that they don’t care. It’s a depressing thought, but it’s true. You haven’t heard from any of the outlaws since you allied with Fletcher. And while you knew Midas and Fletcher were on opposite sides, you thought you’d still be able to see the other outlaws, at least. But no. It’s been several months now; you’ve gotten nothing but radio silence. 

You’re standing on one of the balconies outside when Fletcher finds you. You’re so preoccupied that you barely notice him, until he pointedly clears his throat and stands at your side. Your arms rest on the gilded gold railing and you try to pretend that you can’t feel him staring at you. 

“You’re upset,” the wolf eventually deduces. 

“No,” you deny, despite both of you knowing otherwise. Fletcher just arches a brow. You swallow past the lump in your throat, looking at the nearby marsh once more. You’re overtaken with memories. It suddenly feels harder to speak. 

“I expected them to look for me,” you slowly admit, looking out over the railing. You don’t need to specify who you’re talking about: the outlaws. Your friends, or so you thought. “To care, at least a little bit.”

You blink hard once, twice. Avert your eyes. Try to pretend as if you don’t feel horribly, horribly alone.  You must look pretty pathetic, because Fletcher tugs you into his chest in an embrace. Your arms are wrapped around yourself and you just want to disappear. 

“I’ll raze them to the ground,” Fletcher says, his chest rumbling as he speaks.

You just shake your head wordlessly. His claws dance along your cheekbone as he tilts your head up, before running behind your ear and down to your shoulder. 

“Say the word and I will,” he reassures you. 

Your throat burns. “You know I can’t do that,” you remark. 

“The offer still stands, in perpetuity.” The way he’s looking at you as he promises that—as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. You don’t think anyone has ever offered to protect you like that before. The outlaws were fiercely independent, and you enjoyed working with them. But this alliance with Fletcher… it’s deeper, and more personal. 

Truthfully, you were intimidated by the thought at first. You didn’t want to be vulnerable in front of him. But it’s far too late for that, you think to yourself sardonically. Now you just look like a fool. You look to the side and wipe at your eyes with the back of your sleeve. 

“Don’t hide yourself from me,” Fletcher says, not unkindly. He tilts your head so that you’re facing him again. “There’s no need for pretense here. Not between us.”

And that just completely breaks you. You’re crying now. Damn it. 

Fletcher just holds you, a silent but comforting presence.

Crying in the arms of your enemy. Enemy-turned-ally, you suppose. The semantics don’t diminish how embarrassed you feel. Despite all of it—the giant mess of contradictory emotions—you slowly start to relax in his arms. 

“Midas has always been careless with his possessions,” Fletcher says at some point, his claws gliding across your back. 

“I’m not a possession,” you object half-heartedly. It’s hard not to see the truth in the statement, though: Midas practically discarded you. And while you were the one to depart, he never attempted to confront you about it. No conversation, nothing. You grit your teeth, frustration brewing in your chest. “I’m not a possession,” you repeat more assertively. 

“No,” Fletcher agrees, “you are far more.” 

You can almost convince yourself to believe him. 

After that borderline humiliating interaction, you try your best to regain your composure and carry on as if things are normal. In truth, this life with Fletcher at his lair is your new normal. You’re growing accustomed to waking with the sun, to scouting out the surrounding area and identifying banks that may need extra protection. 

Today is an ordinary day, just like the previous day. There’s not much hostility in the air, despite the ongoing feud between Fletcher and the outlaws. There are a few outlaw grunts attempting to break into the armored vehicle nearby, which is how you find yourself being led to the roof of Fletcher’s mansion and given a marksman rifle. 

“What?” you ask as you’re loading your sniper, glancing over at Fletcher. He’s been weirdly silent, but still an insistent presence at your back. It’s unnerving. “You’re just going to stand there?”

No comment. 

You roll your eyes and look through the scope, taking a few moments to find the moving vehicle. It seems like it’s been hijacked; you follow it for nearly a minute before swiftly firing and hitting the driver. You look over the scope to find the van veering off the road and coming to a stop. 

“Nice shot,” Fletcher remarks, nearly making you jump out of your skin. You forgot he was standing there. It takes a second for you to catch your breath. 

“You know, it’s easier to do this without you breathing down my neck,” you then sigh, struggling not to fidget under the weight of his attention. You focus on reloading your sniper, trying to pretend he isn’t there. 

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Fletcher hums, sounding even closer than before. An uncomfortable shiver rolls down your spine. He’s practically standing at your back now. 

You take a slow breath and look through your scope. After your next exhale, you narrow in on the target and fire. They topple over at your swift and efficient headshot. There’s only one grunt left, and you manage to get them in your first shot too. 

“Happy?” you soon huff, looking over your shoulder and up at Fletcher. With your current position kneeling on the ground, he appears to be towering over you. 

“Yes,” Fletcher responds with a smirk. His arms are crossed over his chest and he’s staring at you shamelessly. Even your skeptical mind can’t find a justification for that look on his face: the obsessive intrigue pulling at his lips and revealing a smirk dripping with satisfaction.

You’re quickly learning that Fletcher enjoys making you uncomfortable. It’s nothing truly crazy. He just seems to like walking that fine line of your comfort zone, inching over it every so often before quickly turning back. 

This situation is no exception. You suspect this wasn’t really necessary: sitting inside the vault of his armored train, waiting for outlaw grunts to break in. Nothing about this scenario even makes sense. Why are you camping in here? And, more importantly, why in the hell are you two so close? 

The space isn’t exactly small, but Fletcher is a hulking figure. He takes up nearly all of the space, leaving you to shrink back to the wall behind you to avoid touching him. And even then, you’re far too close for comfort. 

“This is cozy,” Fletcher hums, looking far too satisfied with the current arrangements. 

You scoff. “For you, maybe,” you mutter under your breath, sinking back against the wall and bringing your assault rifle to your chest. You feel a bit safer holding it. 

Fletcher just laughs, sensing your annoyance. “What can I say? I need a lot of legroom.” He then stretches out and crosses his legs. You resist the very tempting urge to shoot at his dress shoes, which are slowly but surely encroaching on your space. 

“You’re taking up ninety percent of the car,” you huff, shifting to the side. 

“And?” he challenges you. 

You just sigh. You’re about to snap back when you hear the walls groan and shake as the train shudders to a stop. The grin on Fletcher’s face is positively insidious. He’s having way too much fun with this.

“Ready?”

You just nod, ignoring the strange urge to laugh at this strange situation you’ve unwittingly  signed up for. 

One thing you’re quickly learning through your time working with Fletcher: he doesn’t ask for assistance. Ever. So when your walkie talkie chimes and leaves you with a summons to Hopeful Heights from Fletcher himself, you’re both confused and concerned. You sigh and grab the keys to his car, heading to the garage and unlocking the vehicle. Of course, the front seat is situated as far back as it can go—and you have to begrudgingly adjust it so you can actually reach the gas and brake pedals. The engine roars to life and you shoot out of the garage, the tires skidding across the pavement as you speed up and head past Foxy Floodgate. 

It doesn’t take long for you to find Fletcher in the distance: you can hear gunshots and see explosions, even before you drive through the grassy plain and into the town area. The car lets out a noise of protest as the ground transitions to pavement; you ignore it and drive up to Fletcher’s side. 

“Need some help?” you taunt him through the open window. Surprisingly, he doesn’t take the bait—instead just getting into the car silently. You’re quick to throw the car into reverse before hitting the gas hard and driving up the hill. Even as you get some distance, Fletcher’s pursuers are nearby: revving their motorcycles tauntingly. A few shots hit the car and you realize you’ll have to take them out. Fletcher grunts something about being out of ammo. Figures. 

“Grab the wheel,” you instruct him. When he doesn’t respond right away, you snap, “Just do it.” 

Fletcher reaches out to grab the steering wheel; while your foot is still on the gas pedal, you contort sideways in your seat and pull out your sniper rifle. It takes a few seconds for you to find the enemies in your scope; but once you do, you’re quick to fire at them. They crumple to the ground and you nearly sigh in relief. Hitting that shot in a moving car, while driving it… Honestly, you’re pretty impressed with yourself. 

“I’ve got it now,” you remember to say to Fletcher, your hands returning to the steering wheel. You use the accelerated boost to speed past the nearby mountain and over the bridge. Fletcher’s lair looms tall in the distance—you’re not too far away now. 

“I have a driveway for a reason,” he points out as you drive straight up the hill.  

“You know I don’t care,” you scoff, continuing to neglect the curving path of the driveway. The car lifts off the ground a bit when you reach the top, but you manage to land smoothly and pull around the large golden fountain in the courtyard in front of his lair. “I think I make a pretty good getaway driver, after all,” you announce as the two of you exit the car. 

“Hardly,” Fletcher responds with a roll of his eyes. He motions for his keys and you toss them over to him. He’s quiet as he heads up the steps. You follow behind him, secretly wondering if he’s in one of his moods. He can get pretty testy when things don’t go exactly as planned. 

When the two of you reach the entrance hall, Fletcher pauses in his tracks. To your surprise, he pauses and pays you a glance over his shoulder. “...Thanks,” he says gruffly, his free hand shoved in his pocket. His hand flexes on his cane before he looks away. 

You blink. “Sure,” you respond. Fletcher heads towards his bedroom, leaving you wondering just what the hell happened. 

Fletcher’s behavior only gets weirder as time passes. 

He’s a walking contradiction. He’ll place a hand on your shoulder, your waist, the small of your back… but then he’ll snatch his hand back as if he was burned. He’ll regard you with respect, but then glare at you when he thinks you don’t notice. Fletcher will only respond with a huff or scoff when you make a joke, but then you’ll catch him fighting off a smirk moments later. It’s really weird. 

This strange behavior reveals itself once again when you’re sitting in his study one day. Weeks ago, Fletcher had given you permission to enter if you needed something. You’re taking advantage now: a few books piled up on a nearby table, while you sit in the armchair overlooking his desk. You’ve been alone in the space for at least an hour now—until you hear the doors click and the unmistakable sound of footsteps. 

Fletcher heads for his desk, walking slowly and studying a piece of paper. He seems moments away from sitting down before he notices your presence on the second floor. You’re holding one of the books from the shelves. Fletcher studies you for a moment, before letting out an amused exhale of breath. 

“You told me to make myself at home,” you say, not quite sure why you feel the need to defend yourself. It must have something to do with the intensity of his gaze. He’s practically pinning you to the chair, despite the fact that he’s looking up at you from the first floor. 

“And you went straight to the books,” Fletcher notes, placing the paper on his desk and disappearing from view. You don’t have to wonder where he went for long, because you can hear his footsteps as he ascends the stairs and heads over to you. 

“So?” you remember to respond. 

“You are infuriating,” Fletcher very nearly hisses, when he emerges from the staircase. You blink at his sudden antagonism. He looks angry. 

“I’m sorry, I thought—” you say quickly, nearly tripping over the words. 

“Don’t apologize,” Fletcher snaps. “It’s not—” he breaks off with a low growl, clearly frustrated. His fingers clench for the briefest of moments, before he’s continuing to speak. “It’s not you,” Fletcher finishes. 

“......Alright,” you say helplessly. 

“It is you,” Fletcher then admits with annoyance. If not for the sincere expression on his face, you’d laugh at how quickly he changed his mind. 

“What did I do?” you ask instead. 

“You look like you belong here,” he says, almost appearing pained as he utters the words. “In my study. In my home. In… this life I’ve built for myself.”

You’re not exactly sure what that’s supposed to mean, but you manage to remain patient and wait for him to elaborate. 

“It’s frustrating,” Fletcher continues. “I never envisioned sharing this life with someone else. Then you arrived, and suddenly I’m having… all kinds of unwelcome thoughts.”

“Unwelcome thoughts?” you echo. 

Fletcher takes a step closer. “Yes,” he confirms, looking down at you. Your book still rests in your lap, now neglected as you focus on the conversation.  “Unwelcome thoughts.”

Suddenly, all of the pieces in this puzzle slam into place. The way Fletcher looks at you, his attention unwavering and intense. The physical contact: a hand on your shoulder, the small of your back, your jawbone. The teasing remarks… The domesticity of sharing this space. The protectiveness, disguised as mere camaraderie. 

Unwelcome thoughts, indeed. 

“Just know,” Fletcher says, breaking you out of your thoughts. He’s regarding you with a heated gaze. “You are growing to be very important to me. And I will do whatever it takes to ensure your safety.” His eyes explore every part of you, taking in the faded scars across your face and hands from battles hard-won and lessons learned. The claw of his index finger traces the side of your face before slipping away.

Then Fletcher turns around and heads back down the stairs, leaving you to stare after him in complete disbelief.

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[defectivevillain]

a house visit

pairing: House/Reader

the reader is transmasculine and is recovering from top surgery. otherwise, race is ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary: After getting top surgery, you’re touched that several of your friends stop by—and bewildered when House does.

word count: 2.4k | ao3 version

again, cishets, go away. this is an explicitly transmasculine fic about top surgery. you will make me so dysphoric if you interact, so just don't.

warnings: canon-typical medical talk (surgery, bruising, blood, etc.); discussions of top surgery and side effects.

It’s been just about a week since your top surgery. You were in a pretty considerable amount of pain for the first few days, but you were so tired that you spent a lot of that time sleeping. Fortunately, as time passed, you stopped taking the prescribed painkillers and instead moved to Ibuprofen and Tylenol. What was once a somewhat persistent pain is now a dull ache. What’s really bothering you is the drains you have situated on each side of your chest. When you accidentally rustle the tubes a bit, they’ll pull at your skin enough to hurt. You’ve been very careful to keep the drains in your pockets at all times. 

Honestly, you’re grateful—for a variety of different reasons. Of course, you’re extremely thankful that you got the surgery and that it went well. You’re also grateful that the tight bandages were taken off; now, you just have to wear a binder that you can take off to shower. Things were getting a bit too uncomfortable there. You did your best to keep clean, of course. It was only inevitable that you started to feel a bit gross, though: the strict bandaging prevented you from showering. You feel like an entirely new, fresh person once you’ve thoroughly showered. 

Lastly, you’re grateful for your friends. A few different people have stopped by throughout the past few days, and it’s been relieving to just have someone to talk to. Being cooped up in your studio apartment for so long has been a bit difficult. It’s a situation you’d easily endure again to undergo the procedure, of course. But still—it’s a challenge. There are only so many TV shows and movies you can catch up on before you inevitably get bored again, or get a headache fierce enough to turn you away from screens. 

When you hear a knock at your door, your first instinct is to look down at your phone and check your messages. Usually, your friends will give you a bit of notice before showing up. Weirdly enough, you don’t have any notifications. You frown and look over at the door, wondering if someone just got the wrong door. 

A few seconds pass, and there’s a louder, impatient knock. This person clearly isn’t going to leave. You sigh and get to your feet, walking over to the door and peeking through the peephole. What you see is so outlandish that you convince yourself your vision is wrong. Squinting skeptically, you open the door. 

“So this is stuck at work,” a familiar coworker says with a smirk. 

“House?” you say incredulously. “What are you doing here?” 

You’ve rarely, if ever, seen House outside of work. He’s not that type of guy; hell, he barely does friends at all. That’s more than fine with you, since you’re not a super extroverted person either. Still, here he is in all of his grumpy glory: wearing a black blazer over a pale blue dress shirt; jeans; and sneakers. There’s a mildly annoyed expression on his face, as always. For several seconds, you’re just staring at him in complete shock. 

“Oh, nothing,” House responds. It actually takes you a minute to remember what he’s answering. You’re just so surprised. House would never make a house visit (no pun intended). He’s just not that type of person. He doesn’t care that much. So what the hell brings him here? “Just wanted to verify the authenticity of these so-called sick days of yours…” he trails off. 

Ah. That makes a bit more sense. He’s not here for you—not really. He’s here to investigate your absence. You suppose that checks out, in hindsight: you haven’t been to work for more than a week now. “Vacation, technically,” you correct him, “and I cleared it with Cuddy.”

House doesn’t respond. Instead, he just takes a step forward and brushes past you. You’re forced to step aside as he promptly walks in. 

“Yeah, sure, you can come in,” you huff sardonically, watching as he casually enters your apartment as if you invited him in. You stare after him for a moment before shaking your head exasperatedly, closing the front door and locking it. When you join House in your living room, you find him standing near your coffee table and looking down at it judgmentally. 

“No need to tidy up the place for me,” House says wryly, taking in the cluttered coffee table and sweatshirts strewn about the couch. The sight of House standing in your home is so strange and uncharacteristic, your brain almost doesn’t want to compute it. 

It takes you a second to come back to the present. “I had no idea you were coming,” you remind him. “Otherwise I would’ve.” Your place is hardly messy, though. You’re a pretty organized person. 

“Please,” House scoffs, looking around the space. He almost seems to take offense to it, which only amuses you. “The place looks like an Ikea showroom.” 

You roll your eyes at that. “So what brings you here?” you ask, moving to sit on the couch and offering him a seat too. 

“Again,” he emphasizes, sitting down next to you, “checking to see if you’re really sick. And I must say, your attorney’s not going to have a good time at it.” House raises his brows as he looks around the room. If he’s expecting to find used tissues scattered about or a thermometer resting on the table, then he’s sorely mistaken. Because you’re not sick—you’re just recovering from surgery. 

“I told Cuddy about this several months ago,” you repeat, for what feels like the tenth time. “She signed off; everything’s good.” 

“Hm,” House says, evidently unconvinced. 

“What?” you eventually relent. “Just spit it out.”

“It appears that you’re recovering from some sort of surgery,” House observes. 

“Oh, does it?” you snap impatiently. 

“I suppose that comment was warranted,” House says begrudgingly. “Will you tell me what you’re recovering from, or should I just use context clues?”

You groan. “Fine, fine, Jesus,” you sigh. You didn’t exactly want to go around advertising the exact nature of your surgery because, frankly, it’s no one else’s business. But, as much of an asshole as House is, you know he’d never use that information against you. “Top surgery. There, happy?”

A beat of silence. “That explains why you didn’t tell anyone,” House remarks. 

“Yeah.”

“When was the procedure?” he questions. 

“About a week ago,” you recall. 

“And how are you feeling?” He’s staring resolutely at the wall, refusing to make eye contact with you. 

“Aw, House, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you say with faux appreciation. 

At this, House promptly rolls his eyes. “Don’t be mistaken; I’m asking as a medical professional, not anyone who gives a rat’s ass about your feelings.”

“Wow, thanks,” you say dryly. “So kind of you, really. Inviting yourself over and scrutinizing me.” 

“You didn’t answer the question,” he notes. 

“I’m fine,” you reply. “It hurts, obviously. But nothing unbearable. I’m fucking exhausted, but that’s to be expected.” You take a slow breath, leaning back against the couch. You’ve been taking more naps than usual the past few days. Your body evidently needs the rest to recuperate. 

“You’re emptying the drains,” House states. It’s meant to be a question. 

“Yeah,” you respond, your finger tracing one of the tubes that sticks out of your pocket. House watches the movement. Your eyebrows furrow. “The smell’s just awful.”

“Old blood,” House hums. He studies you for a moment. “Bruising?”

“Yeah, but closer to my hip,” you answer, vaguely motioning to where the bruising is. “Kind of weird.”

“Nothing to be concerned about,” he remarks casually. House probably doesn’t realize it, but his presence here—combined with the nonchalance of his answers—is helping your stress a lot. And you have no idea what you did to convince him to let you keep speaking, but you’re not going to let the opportunity go to waste. Boredom has been your worst enemy these past few days. 

“Other than that, I’m just coping with boredom and some emotional whiplash,” you admit, uttering your thoughts aloud. “Mostly boredom. I know it’s kind of a luxury to say that, but I’m going stir-crazy. I’ve re-watched, like, six seasons of Family Guy.”

“Good Lord,” House huffs. A teasing smile rises on his lips. “No one suffers as you do.”

“I know, right?” you smirk. 

It’s quiet now—a kind of companionable silence, one that you’re almost hesitant to break. Eventually, you have to acknowledge the elephant in the room. “On a more serious note… thanks for coming, House,” you say. “I know you probably just wanted to chew me out, but this helped a lot. So… thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” House remarks. He looks at you pointedly, practically glaring. “Seriously. Don’t.”

“Yessir,” you say. That’s to be expected, really. Besides, even if you were to go around advertising that House visited you, no one would believe you. So you let that particular subject go and move onto other topics. “So, what’ve you been up to? How’s the hospital?”

“Oh, just ducky,” House says sarcastically. 

You choke on a laugh, then inexplicably remember the situation. House is in your apartment. “Wait, before you keep going: do you want water or something?” you ask. “That’s usually something people say, right?” you say helplessly. You do feel a bit guilty that you haven’t offered House anything, even though he made an entirely impromptu visit. 

“I’m good,” he says gruffly. 

“Okay, sorry,” you surrender. “Has it been busy, then?”

“As busy as usual,” House answers. Irritation flickers across his face, tightening the line of his shoulders and making his fingers jitter against his knee. “The Fourth of July was this past weekend, so every fucking idiot under the sun was showing up with a broken finger.” He rolls his eyes theatrically. 

You grimace sympathetically. “Agh, yeah,” you remark. Selfishly speaking, you’re glad you missed it. There’s always some unfortunate sap who gets hurt pretty badly, and you never know whether to feel sympathetic for their mistake or annoyed at their idiocy. “Fireworks and stupidity. Your favorite holiday.” You smile.

“Least favorite, second to Valentine’s Day,” House corrects you. 

“You hate it too?” you ask. That checks out. You’d never really considered it before, though. “I’ve always hated Valentine’s Day. Straight people piss me the fuck off.”

House scoffs, in a gesture close to a laugh. “Agreed,” he remarks. “As if we aren’t constantly assaulted with the reminder of their existence on a daily basis.” 

“Seriously,” you agree with a scoff. “Celebrating their three month anniversaries, announcing that they’re trying for children, inviting you to their weddings… It never ends.” The two of you bemoan the notion for a while longer, before House is returning to the topic of the hospital. 

“Wilson has been positively insufferable in your absence,” he points out. 

“Aw, really?” you hum. “Poor guy.” Wilson and you are pretty much friends, at this point. He had texted you in the days leading up to your surgery, wishing you good luck. You’re looking forward to seeing him when you return to work. 

“Yeah, prattling on about this and that…” House scowls. “As if I care to listen.”

“Right,” you say with a slight smile. 

“Stop that,” House orders. “You’re supposed to accept my misanthropy, not question it.” 

“Not sure if Wilson is a holistic representation of your misanthropy,” you point out lightly. Indeed, Wilson is one of the few people House actually seems to tolerate. Besides, he’s hardly representative of the entire human population. Wilson is nicer than most people, you think.

“If the shoe fits,” House scoffs. He exhales slowly. Then apropos of nothing, he changes subjects. “You have a veritable mountain of gifts on your desk.” 

“What?” you question, convinced you misheard him. “Gifts? Why?” You had told most of your coworkers that you’d be undergoing a surgery, but you never specified what it was. Although, you suppose they wouldn’t really have to know if they were just expressing their concern. Regardless, that’s… awfully kind of them. 

“On account of your absence, I suspect,” House shrugs, breaking you out of your reverie. 

“Huh,” you blink. “That’s… nice.” 

“Don’t go looking for a card from me,” he scoffs quickly. 

“Oh, House,” you say chidingly. “Your presence here is the best gift I could possibly receive.” That statement is mostly a joke, but you already acknowledged that his visit is a very kind gesture. And if you did return to your desk to find a gift from House, you’d be scared for your life—because it would definitely be a practical joke of some sort. 

“Right,” House nods jerkily. “If any of those cards has my name on it, just know I was given $20 for my signature.”

“Damn, Wilson gave you $20 for it?” you laugh, immediately catching onto what he’s implying. Your mind paints that picture far too vividly. “Sheesh. You have a monopoly.” 

“Gregory House, brilliant diagnostician, businessman, genius, playboy, philanthropist,” he smirks. 

“You did not just quote Tony Stark,” you realize aloud. 

“Not verbatim,” House emphasizes. As if that makes much of a difference. Maybe to his pride, it does. But that distinction doesn’t really matter to you—the facts are still there. First House visits you, now he quotes a Marvel movie? This day is a fever dream. 

“True,” you eventually acknowledge. “We’re doctors: we have too much student loan debt to be billionaires.”  

He huffs in amusement. 

There’s silence for a while.

“Well, since I’ve confirmed you aren’t dying, I should get going,” House announces, getting to his feet. 

“Oh, right,” you remark, watching him stand up and feeling uncharacteristically appreciative. “Hey, thanks for staying so long. That was, what—” you glance over at the clock on the wall, “—forty-five minutes? That must be a world record; can’t say I’ve seen you tolerate anyone for that long.” 

“Only you,” House responds. His eyes are glittering and there’s a slight smirk on his face, but… the remark sounds uncharacteristically genuine. “Rest up,” he then says, his characteristic prickly attitude returning as if it never left. “If you end up splattered across the pavement, I’m not shoveling your ass off of it.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” you smile. “Thanks, House.”

“Lock the door behind me,” House says gruffly, in lieu of a response. “Bye.” 

The door clicks shut behind him. 

And you smile.

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this gif killed me:

[defectivevillain]

fic: "he pushes your hair out of your face."

me reading: i mean, it wasn't in my face. but go off, i guess. 🤨

[defectivevillain]

alien (movies)

Bishop

this foreign feeling (masc!reader)

[defectivevillain]

this foreign feeling

pairing: Bishop/Reader

reader's pronouns are he/him.

summary: “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the android sitting across from you nods cordially. “I’ve been briefed on—” “On my last expedition,” you interject before you can stop yourself, “we had an android on board. He was programmed to obtain the research specimen at all costs. Our crew was deemed expendable…… and he tried to kill us. Nearly succeeded, too. Practically slit my stomach open.” The words all come out in a horrible flood. You’re made painfully aware of the silence that’s now settling across the space. You’re clenching the fork in your hand hard enough for it to hurt.

It's hard for you to be near the android aboard the Sulaco, after what happened with Ash and your crew. Strangely, Bishop seems intent on earning your trust.

word count: 6.2k | ao3 version

warnings: spoilers to Alien (1979) and Aliens (1986); canon-typical violence

The reader's pronouns are he/him; there's quick shirtless scene, otherwise no physical descriptors are used. Race is ambiguous, as always.

You’re not looking forward to this expedition to the terraforming colony on LV-426. But you know you’d feel extremely guilty if the Marines went to this colony entirely unprepared, knowing the hell you endured on the Nostromo. Sure, they have weapons: but they have no idea what they’re up against. Plus, you learned the hard way that guns aren’t exactly effective when it comes to aliens. 

That’s how you find yourself reluctantly climbing into the hypersleep chamber, quelling your nerves and closing your eyes as the lid seals you into the space. Hypersleep never feels like much of anything—it’s virtually the same as regular sleep, except it’s much longer. 

A blaring alarm breaks you out of hypersleep as the lid hisses and opens. You’re waking up alongside the other soldiers, all of whom are in their undergarments like you. It’s a bit awkward, but you pretend not to notice their wandering eyes as you make your way to a locker and throw on some clothes. Fortunately, you’re not confined to the same camouflage clothing they are—you have a light grey jumpsuit instead. Small mercies, you suppose. 

You’re silent as the soldiers commiserate over breakfast. You’re not very hungry, and you suspect returning to hypersleep after being stuck in it for 57 years is not helping your body recover. You’d been experiencing a lot of withdrawal symptoms since you first woke up in the infirmary at Gateway Station. 

The soldiers seem pretty rowdy, happily discussing this and that. You can’t exactly join in the festivities—both because you’re an outsider, and because you know what’s waiting for you on that exomoon. Your stomach stews as you watch one of the men—short brown hair, green eyes and sharp features—play some sort of knife game with another guy. After they’re finished, the man returns the knife and then, to your surprise, heads to your table. He’s sitting across from you now. 

Other than yourself, the occupants of the table are Burke, the Weyland-Yutani executive who you still don’t quite trust; the guy who was holding the knife, who you definitely don’t trust; and the sergeant. It’s an interesting group. You settle for staring off into the nearest wall, not desiring to add anything to the conversation. You don’t even realize they’re speaking to you until there’s a slight nudge to your shoulder, and Burke is looking at you expectantly. 

“What?” you remark, struggling to keep the impatience out of your voice. 

“The sarge here was just asking for your story,” Burke answers. 

“You’ll hear it soon enough,” you settle for saying. You want to avoid repeating it whenever possible, if only because it dredges up some truly awful memories that you could do without. It’s been more than 57 years since then, reportedly… and you’re still not over it. 

“Fine, fine,” the sergeant says, raising his hands in mock surrender. 

You can feel the guy from before—the one wielding the knife—staring at you. You try to ignore it, but after a few minutes, it gets annoying. “What?” you eventually snap, staring at him expectantly. To his credit, he looks mildly surprised by your remark. He seems moments away from saying something when your eyes find the slight cut he just gave himself as he was spreading butter across his bread. Instead of blood, there’s machine fluid dripping from the cut. 

Your surprise must be evident, because Burke notices and grimaces. “Whoops,” he says clumsily, turning to you. “Sorry, guess I should’ve warned you. Bishop here’s an android.”

The android’s still staring at you. You can’t quite rip your eyes away from the machine fluid dripping down his finger, an uneasy feeling rising in your chest. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say. Your fist clenches at your side as you remember how Ash nearly killed you—the emptiness in his eyes as he tried to slit your stomach open, as if searching for an alien. How he predicted your deaths and praised the alien for its perfection as a being... You’re not hungry anymore. You push your cornbread to the side of your tray as nausea bubbles up your chest. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the android sitting across from you nods cordially. “I’ve been briefed on—”

“On my last expedition,” you interject before you can stop yourself, “we had an android on board. He was programmed to obtain the research specimen at all costs. Our crew was deemed expendable…��� and he tried to kill us. Nearly succeeded, too. Practically slit my stomach open.” The words all come out in a horrible flood. You’re made painfully aware of the silence that’s now settling across the space. You’re clenching the fork in your hand hard enough for it to hurt. 

“That’s not possible,” the android, Bishop, frowns. 

“It definitely was,” you scoff, your fingers jittering on the table as you try to maintain your composure. “Unless you’re implying that I’m not telling the truth.” You look at him challengingly, daring him to argue. 

“I’m just acknowledging the probability,” he says, quickly backpedaling. “Perhaps I misspoke: it shouldn’t have been possible. But rest assured, I have no ulterior motives.”

Yeah, you still can’t quite believe that. You drop the fork and get up from the table, pretending not to notice how Bishop’s eyes follow you as you leave.

You try your best to remain an unobtrusive presence on the ship in the coming time, keeping to yourself. But it’s only so long before you’re being asked to give the group a briefing on what to expect. And, honestly, you have no idea how to do it. After the absolute nightmare of those damn meetings with the Weyland-Yutani executives, you’re starting to think no one will ever believe you. These Marines won’t be an exception. Still, the lieutenant is expecting an explanation from you—and you have to cooperate on this assignment if you want your spaceflight license back. 

“Well, I’ll start with the best case scenario: we don’t find anything down there, and you all think I’m absolutely insane,” you say as you stand in front of the group of Marines. You shove your hands in your pockets and try not to look at any one of the soldiers for too long. 

“Worst case?” one guy pipes up. You take a slow breath, trying to summon the courage to utter the words. 

“Worst case… the aliens I’m expecting to see will kill us all,” you answer. The group is silent. You keep explaining before you can think better of it. “Xenomorphs. They produce corrosive acid, and they’re incredibly quick.”

“On a routine flight, my crew and I made a brief stop to answer a distress signal. We investigated and found an alien, which jumped onto my crew member’s face. It was nearly strangling him. We managed to get it off, and we thought he was fine.”

“…But it wasn’t. He was eating dinner one evening when he started choking… Or so we thought. Before we could get closer, an alien ripped its way through his chest and escaped onto the ship.

“You can probably guess what happened from there. The alien grew bigger. And it killed nearly the entire crew, one-by-one, until I was the only one still alive.” 

“So… yes,” you finish, “you could say I’m familiar with the matter at hand.”

Stunned silence. And then: “You’re losing it,” one of them asserts.  The rest of them nod and exchange hushed whispers. 

“I hope so,” you huff, “and you should hope so, too.”

You depart before explaining any further, heading for an isolated room where you can be alone. You need time to think, time to prepare for what comes next. You don’t want to assume that aliens are going to be there, but… they will be. You just know it. That would be just your luck, wouldn’t it?

“That was quite the tale.” 

You flinch hard, whipping around to find the android from before in the doorway. He’s staring at you. “Jesus Christ, don’t sneak up on me like that.” He scared the shit out of you just now. 

“Apologies,” he says with a slight nod, entering the room in a smooth step. 

You’re just silent, wiping a hand over your face. Ordinarily, you’d think about going home, but you don’t even really have one anymore. You’re fifty-seven years out of your time. And isn’t that a frightening thought? There is nothing—and likely no one—for you to return to. 

As if sensing your spiraling thoughts, the android, Bishop, breaks through the silence. “Do you really anticipate seeing these… aliens?” he questions. 

“Yes,” you respond. 

“How can you be certain?” You think he’d be frowning right now, if he were the type to do that. 

“Call it a gut instinct,” you answer.  

If Bishop is unsatisfied with that answer, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he hums. “I heard you were in hypersleep for 57 years,” he continues. 

You’re immediately skeptical. “Who did you hear that from?” you ask. 

“Burke,” the android responds. 

Figures. The guy doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

Sensing that you’re not in a conversational mood, the android soon leaves you to your solitude once more. 

The preparations for descent fly by in the blink of an eye. Before long, you’re leaving the Sulaco and boarding a dropship that will take you to the surface. The descent is loud and uncomfortable, but you’ve been in space plenty of times now. Many of the Marines are unaffected—hell, one is sleeping—and before long, the dropship has landed on the surface of the exomoon. The Armored Personnel Carrier (APC) is driven towards a collection of buildings, at which the Marines leave to explore. You’re left back in the vehicle with Burke and the lieutenant from before, watching through the feeds of the soldiers’ body cameras as they enter the building. 

It’s soon clear that there are no remaining survivors in the colony. The Marines don’t detect so much as a single sound or movement. They’re growing confident, almost cocky. You can only hope they don’t end up paying the price.

The next room they stumble upon is enough to get you to your feet. You’re already heading out of the APC and into the frigid cold air, entering the compound and joining the Marines to find two Facehuggers in clear tanks, evidently being studied. One of the Marines is stupid enough to tap the glass, and the creature is quick to meet the glass on the other side. 

After exploring the lab some more, you head to the hallway—only for a Marine to get a reading on their motion detector. The group takes a few cautious steps forwards, before the signal almost seems to be right underneath you. One of the soldiers looks up, drawing your attention to the ceiling. Thankfully, there isn’t a vent above you. There’s only the ground below. And, now that you look closely… you realize there’s a human girl hiding in the floor, looking at you all warily. 

“Hello?” you say cautiously. 

You’re not surprised to see her instantly bolt, crawling to the corner before turning it and heading down the hall. You follow after her, only to watch as she slips into a ground-level vent. 

“Damn it,” one of the soldiers groans, too broad-shouldered to get through. 

Do you have to do everything yourself? You sigh and pull the grate off, before slowly sliding into the shaft. It’s a tight fit, but you make it inside and nearly pitch over. The girl flinches and scrambles into the corner of the room. 

“It’s okay,” you say, holding your hands up in the air. This gesture does nothing to placate her, as she whimpers when you take a slow step forwards. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

“Come with me,” you urge her, holding your open palm out to her. She doesn’t like the sudden movement, but you make sure to remain still and patient. Several seconds pass. Time just seems to drag, as you’re sitting there with your arm extended. “Please?” you ask. She looks at you, then at your hand, then back to you again. After what feels like forever, she reluctantly takes your hand and allows you to lead her out of the vent and into the hall with the soldiers. 

You take the girl back with you to the APC, leaving her to sit on one of the seats as you rejoin the lieutenant and study the camera footage. For a while, nothing catches your attention… until the group moves towards the atmosphere processing station, and there are corpses scattered across the wall in what looks like some sort of sticky substance, almost like sap. The eyes of one trapped colonist open, and they scream for help. Their cheeks puff up as they evidently grow nauseous……before an alien bursts through their chest. 

You watch in mute horror as multiple xenomorphs appear. The soldiers are still vastly unprepared, despite the warnings you gave them. You understand—your story’s hard to believe unless you’ve lived it. Unfortunately, they may not be able to survive it. As their anguished screams echo through the audio feed, you look over to the lieutenant to find him frozen in shock. During the descent, he revealed that he’d only been on a few assignments. And that much is clear, judging from the fear on his face and the hesitation that governs his every move. 

If he sits there for much longer, stewing in his own guilt, everyone else is going to die. Pure annoyance floods through you. “You fucking idiot,” you hiss at him. “Move. Now!” You promptly shove him out of his seat, putting on your headset and beginning to control the APC. You’re going to crash into the building and get as close as possible to the survivors; from there, they can jump in and hopefully you’ll make your escape.

It sounds perfect, in theory. And it goes well, for the most part. The survivors manage to jump into the vehicle and you drive back out of the facility. One of the Marines contacts someone on the Sulaco and summons the dropship to rescue everyone. All of you watch the sky as the ship gets closer, and closer… and closer…… and closer…… 

It’s going to crash into you. You just barely manage to grab the girl and shield yourselves in time, ducking behind some abandoned equipment. There’s a loud sound and the ground beneath you almost seems to rock and sway. One glance at the remains of the dropship is all it takes for you to realize you’re screwed. 

With no other choice, the group of you hide out in one of the corners of the complex to decide your next move. There’s another dropship on the Sulaco, fortunately; unfortunately, according to Bishop, the whole place is going to blow soon. The atmosphere processing station was damaged in the conflict, causing it to become unstable. When it detonates… it’ll kill anything and everything in the surrounding area. It’s a race against time, essentially. Your group’s best chance at escaping alive will be getting that dropship back. Bishop says it can be controlled remotely using the colony’s transmitter. 

That’s all well and good, but… “Someone still needs to pilot it,” you say. You look at each of the survivors. None of you want to do it, and it’s clear why: it’s practically a suicide mission. You’d have to stand out in the open, practically unguarded, to steer the dropship properly. 

There’s silence for a while, but not nearly as long as you expect. “I’ll do it,” Bishop volunteers, cutting through the frigid air. “I don’t want to, but I will.” He’s meeting your gaze head-on. 

…Is he trying to prove himself to you? Is he attempting to prove that he’s trustworthy? If he could successfully pilot the ship and get it here, well… that would certainly help. 

“Fine,” you relent, knowing no one else is going to volunteer for the task. You study him for a moment; he studies you right back, entirely unabashed. You feel a frown tugging at your lips. “Just don’t get yourself killed,” you order, your arms crossing over your chest instinctively. 

Bishop nods slightly. What follows is a blur: he lowers himself into the nearby piping system beneath the ground, levels you with one last inscrutable look, and promptly disappears from sight. 

……If he wanted to, he could leave you all to die here. 

Shit. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to trust him with the task. But it’s too late now—he’s already gone. You can only hope he succeeds. Otherwise, you’ll really be screwed. 

While Bishop is retrieving the dropship, the rest of the survivors regroup and establish an impromptu base in the facility to gather equipment and weapons. The dropship that capsized probably had weapons on it, so now you’re out of reinforcements. There were a few weapons on the APC, but not enough for anyone to feel truly safe against the aliens. 

Not only are you racing against the clock and attempting to survive amongst aliens, but there’s also the whole… Burke thing. Sure, that’s what you’ll call it. The guy has suspicious written all over him. He admitted to you that he wanted to research the aliens and experiment with them. You had tried to ignore the remark. 

Now, as you find yourself being choked to death by a Facehugger, you wish you hadn’t ignored it.

Oh, Burke. If you live, you’re going to make sure he dies. Preferably as painfully as possible. You’ll toss him down to the alien hive yourself if you have to. That absolute dick. When you went to check on Newt in the laboratory, the doors swung shut behind you (an omen). When you tried to signal on the security cameras, no one came (because Burke disabled the feeds, you suspect). After some quick thinking, you triggered the fire alarm to inform the others. 

Unfortunately, this also triggered the sprinklers. Newt and you got drenched in water. And the facehugger was still scuttling about on the ground. It was hard to see with the water raining from the ceiling. When it launched itself at you, you didn’t react fast enough—and the alien’s tail was quickly wrapping around your neck with surprising force. 

It’s choking the breath from your lungs now. You’re desperately holding it at a distance—and Newt is trying to pull at it, too—but its grip is unbreakable. You’re practically wheezing now, the lack of air burning through your chest as you try to fight off the alien with your remaining strength. The last thing you see before your vision fades to black is a figure running through the doorway, reaching down towards you and (hopefully) getting the alien off of you. 

You wake to pins and needles spreading across your right side. Your entire arm is numb. You groan and open your dry eyes, blinking a few times as your vision slowly returns to you. There’s a weight on your side, and you realize Newt has fallen asleep on your arm. That explains why it feels so strange. You manage to sneak your arm out from under her and shake some feeling back into it, before looking around the space. You’re on a cot in one of the rooms the group had taken over.

Your head hurts. You bring a hand to your temple and wince, trying to remember what happened. It comes back to you quickly: the laboratory; the Facehugger; and… your rescuer. You look around the room, only to find Bishop standing a distance away, his head craned down as he studies something. 

“Bishop?” you ask, your voice dry and raspy. You cough, but it doesn’t really help. That Facehugger must’ve done a number on your vocal chords. You’re sure it’s fine—probably just strain and stress. Still, your throat almost burns.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Bishop hums, abandoning his experiment and stepping over to you. “How are you feeling?”

“...Okay,” you say, wincing at the awkward feeling that talking provokes. He hands you a glass of water and you take it gratefully. It doesn’t get rid of the soreness, but it helps a little. “You’re back.” 

“The dropship is waiting,” he answers. “We have some time before we depart.” 

“Good,” you say relievedly. “Nice job.” 

You’re not even sure if the compliment means anything to him. He just blinks, as if confused, before thanking you. You tell him not to mention it, as if that’s even necessary. Bishop looks so perplexed, you can’t imagine he’ll be talking about this. 

Roused by the sound of your conversation, Newt groans and shifts slightly before opening her eyes and yawning. She brightens up when seeing that you’re awake, reaching over to give you a big hug. You hold her for a while, until she breaks away and stands at your bedside patiently. 

“Newt,” Bishop says softly, looking down at her imploringly, “can I speak to him for a moment? It’ll be quick, I promise.” 

Newt studies him for a long moment, before huffing and heading to the hallway. You blink and look at Bishop, curious to see what he says. 

“That was a close call,” he says, evidently referencing the Facehugger attacking you. 

“Yeah, I… wasn’t sure I was going to make it,” you admit slowly. “Was that you who saved me?” Bishop nods silently. “Thank you,” you say sincerely. 

“Of course,” Bishop responds. “Now, I had Newt leave the room because I wanted to ask for clarification. It seemed like—”

“It was Burke,” you interject quickly, wanting to acknowledge the elephant in the room. “The bastard wanted us to be attacked, so that we’d incubate the aliens. Then he’d kill the rest of the crew and take Newt and I back to experiment on us.”

Recounting that experience is enough to send renewed anger through you. “I’ll kill him,” you hiss. You’d almost dare to say that Bishop looks angry on your behalf, but it’s hard to tell. The moment you try to get up, he’s quick to keep you situated with a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“You’re in no condition to be going after him,” Bishop states. 

“I don’t trust him,” you say with a shake of your head. 

“And you shouldn’t,” the android nods.

“I mean, I don’t trust that he… won’t cause problems for us in the future,” you say with a frown, stumbling over the words. Your head feels a little full, and you still feel a little woozy. “You know what I’m saying.” 

Something close to fondness flickers across Bishop’s face. You tell yourself you’re imagining it. “Yes,” he says sincerely. “We shouldn’t take him with us.”

“I agree,” you say. 

“Good,” Bishop nods. “Now that we’re in agreement, I should fetch Newt…” 

When Bishop returns, Newt is just a blur of motion next to him. She runs at you and nearly jumps onto you. “Oof—!” you say in surprise, just barely managing to keep your breath. Newt just clings onto you tighter, murmuring about how she thought you were going to leave her. You try to exchange a helpless look with Bishop, only to find that he’s already looking at you—with that same expression as before. If it were anyone else, you’d describe it as adoring. But this is Bishop. 

“You okay, kid?” you ask her, patting her head. Newt looks at you and nods slightly. 

“I thought you’d leave,” she whispers. Your heart breaks a little and you run a hand through her hair. She almost saw you die. Newt’s already seen so many people die. 

“I told you I wouldn’t,” you say, making sure to meet her eyes. “I promised, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” she says. 

“Then know that I mean it, okay?” you reassure her softly. You’re sure there’s a hint of fatigue seeping into your voice at this point. 

“Perhaps we should let him rest for a bit,” Bishop says gently, picking up on your exhaustion. Newt hums and regretfully disentangles herself from you, allowing you to fully lean back on the cot.

“Can I stay here?” Newt asks quietly. She looks at Bishop first. 

“I’m not the one to ask,” he says patiently. 

She turns to you next. “Of course you can,” you respond. Newt is quick to return to her spot at your bedside. She proceeds to stare down at your hand for a long time, before you understand what she’s nonverbally asking for. You flip your hand over and she is quick to hold it. You drift off soon after. 

You’re woken some time later to a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“We should go now,” Bishop says calmly. That’s something you’ve grown to appreciate about him: he’s never panicked or frantic. He’s calm in stressful situations, and that grounds you more than you’d like to admit. 

Still, you’re not entirely immune to fear, which is why the first word out of your mouth is “shit.” You push yourself up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in your muscles. Bishop offers an arm and you take it, leaning on him as you get to your feet. “Thanks.” 

“Of course,” Bishop nods. “Come on, this way.” Newt follows at your side and the three of you head for the door. 

You don’t take more than a few steps before a Xenomorph drops from the ceiling vent. 

You’re all frozen in place. 

The alien bounds across the room, its tail swishing and hitting a nearby jar. The glass shatters across the floor and it hisses. For a few seconds, you’re convinced that it’s going to come back for you. But Newt, Bishop, and you are completely still—breathing hard and hoping that, somehow, it won’t notice you’re here. 

Amidst all the mayhem, your presence goes undetected—and the alien soon leaves the room. You exchange a relieved look with Bishop before you continue making your way to the dropship. Thanks to Bishop’s help, you manage to reach it without too much fanfare. The aliens are starting to close in, though—and there’s no sign of any of the Marines or Burke. 

The three of you stand outside the dropship for what feels like hours. It must only be minutes. At some point, Bishop places a hand on your shoulder. “We have to go,” he says. 

Your heart breaks a little in your chest. You don’t want to leave the Marines behind. But it’s clear the atmosphere processor is going to implode at any second, if the rumbling and creaking of the nearby metal is any indication. When you start seeing flames, Bishop is quick to pilot the dropship and head for the Sulaco—the ship you arrived on. Before long, you’re safely situated in the Sulaco—watching the nuclear blast from afar. You feel nausea rising in your chest at the sight. Everyone else is dead—it’s just you, Bishop, and Newt. 

Newt is practically plastered to your side, hiding her face in your chest. You run a hand through her hair in an effort to reassure her, the repetitive gesture giving you something to put your restless energy into. You’re not sure how long you sit there silently, trying to regain some composure. You’re certain you could be sitting there for several more hours, if not for Bishop’s gentle remark. 

“You may need to get some new clothing,” he says.

“Why?” you blink slowly. Bishop gestures down to your side, where your jumpsuit is ripped and exposing a good chunk of your abdomen and the edge of your hip. You follow his gaze, noticing it for the first time. You were a bit too preoccupied with escaping the planet to notice that your clothes were shredded. Your gaze returns to Bishop and the words leave your lips before you can stop them. “Don’t tell me this is doing something for you.” You’re too tired to filter your words, at this point. 

Bishop rolls his eyes. Actually rolls his eyes, and smiles ever so slightly. You’re staring at him in complete and utter disbelief after he walks away. And when he comes back to hand you a pile of clothing (and another one to Newt). The more you think about it, the more you realize your current clothing is very uncomfortable. You thank him and place the pile on the nearby table, about to start changing when you realize the android hasn’t moved. In fact, Bishop is just… staring. 

“You know,” you say awkwardly, “you’re supposed to turn around.” 

Bishop blinks exaggeratedly. Newt heads to another room to change, leaving the two of you in this awkward silence. It almost seems to take Bishop a moment to comprehend what’s happening. “Oh, of course,” the android then says. “Pardon me.” 

“Careful,” you say with a grin, slowly taking off your pants as you try to avoid irritating your wounds with the fabric. It’s a bit of a clumsy process, but you manage to make it work. “You’re going to make me think you like me or something.” 

“The horror,” he says in his typical monotone voice. 

You can’t quite hide a laugh at that, tugging the clean pants up and folding the waistband. Bishop turns around just as you’re taking your shirt off. You stare at him for a moment; he stares back. It takes you a moment to get your lips to move. “Hey, I didn’t say I was done,” you manage to say. 

“Apologies,” he says sincerely. “I’m not accustomed to this.” Bishop’s standing at an awkward 45° angle, as if he wants to look but doesn’t want to invade your privacy. 

“It’s fine; not like it’s anything new,” you hear yourself say. “You’ve probably seen it all before.” You’re trying to get rid of the strange tension that’s settling over the space. You don’t think it’s just your imagination. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you… 

“Perhaps,” Bishop acknowledges, turning fully to meet your eyes, “but not in such… amicable circumstances.” You watch as his eyes follow the scar up your chest. A frown overtakes his lips, deeply set into his cheeks. It may be the most expressive you’ve ever seen him. “Is that from…?” Bishop asks, uncharacteristically trailing off. 

“Yeah, from the android,” you respond as you shrug the shirt on. “He was obsessed with the aliens. Saw them as perfect beings.” You don’t want to think about what he would’ve done if he had the chance. Implanted an alien in your chest and killed you, most likely. It makes your skin crawl. 

You don’t expect Bishop’s next question. “May I see it again?” he asks, nodding towards your chest. It takes you a second to realize he means the scar.

“...Sure,” you agree, shrugging your shirt off to expose the scar once more. Bishop takes one step closer, then another. You can only imagine what he’s thinking. He must be unnerved, disgusted. Instead, he only looks… pensive. 

The android reaches out and touches your skin slowly. You wince and he’s quick to withdraw his hand. “Sorry, you’re just freezing,” you say with a huff. The movement hadn’t scared you—you’re comfortable enough with Bishop to know he wouldn’t hurt you. 

“Ah, apologies,” Bishop says softly, his hand still hovering in the air as if he doesn’t want to back away. You’re just frozen there awkwardly, your shirt halfway up your chest as the android stares at the reminder of another’s cruelty. His intent gaze is making you feel almost embarrassed. As you choke on your next breath, he speaks. “I’m sorry.”

He’s not apologizing for his temperature. 

“It’s okay,” you say, looking away for a moment. It’s strange: you feel so vulnerable now, bare before him. As you said, you’re sure Bishop has seen every part of a human body. And androids aren’t exactly programmed to feel anything about it. But the way he’s looking at you has you second-guessing yourself. 

“Humans often think scars are imperfections,” Bishop begins, somehow getting even closer while still remaining at the edge of your personal space, “but I find them fascinating. Each one has a story. It’s a shame this has such an unpleasant one.” His fingertip drags down your chest. 

It’s very hard for you to pretend like that remark doesn’t affect you. Internally, you’re flustered as hell. Externally, you’re just focused on getting dressed. You tug your shirt back on and nearly sigh at how much more comfortable the new clothing is. Except for the left sleeve. It’s not cooperating, for some reason. And you’re getting so unreasonably irritated, as you fiddle with it and fail to straighten it out. It doesn’t help that your hands are trembling from what you just went through, that you don’t know how to feel right now, that everything’s just wrong. A helpless noise is trapped in your throat—

And Bishop’s reaching out silently, calmly straightening it out. Time almost seems to slow to a stop, as the two of you stand before each other. Two of the three survivors. The only survivors of the expedition: the advisor and the android. It sounds like the start of a bad joke. 

Bishop’s fingers curl around the edge of your sleeve as he finishes adjusting it. You swear his hand lingers for a fraction of a second. But, as always, it’s hard to tell. 

Before you can even attempt to discern the exact expression written in the lines of his face and pull of his lips, Newt’s running back into the room and nearly crashing into both of you in her enthusiasm to return. You squeeze her shoulder and Bishop slowly does the same. 

It’s difficult for any of you to decide what to do next. Bishop is the one to take initiative, as he usually does. He tends to your wounds, before Newt insists on patching him up too—placing a bandage over the cut across the side of his face. It’s completely adorable. You squeeze her shoulder after she does it; Bishop looks appreciative of the gesture. 

Once the three of you are looking better, you settle on parallel couches in one of the gathering areas. Newt sits at your side, her head leaning against your shoulder as she practically sits in your lap. You feel for the kid—you really do. There’s no telling how long she’d been alone for. 

“I’m getting sick of this story,” you sigh, looking over at Bishop. “Everyone in the crew dying to the aliens, I mean.”

“That does seem to be a common theme,” Bishop agrees. 

The two of you talk quietly for a bit longer before you look down to find that Newt’s asleep. You frown, before looking over at Bishop and making a writing motion. He understands and grabs a nearby notepad and pen, giving them to you. You scrawl down a message and hand it to Bishop, careful not to jostle Newt as she sleeps. 

Do you think her parents were dead?  

You watch as the android reads it, writing his own message before returning it to you. 

Yes. 

You suspected as much. You sigh. 

I hope she didn’t see it. But, judging from the state we found her in, she might’ve…  

A slight pull to Bishop’s lips, close to a frown. 

True, she was quite distressed. But she’s at a formative age—and was alone for years, I suspect.

Do you think she’ll be alright?  

A huff at that, as if he finds the question amusing. You’re not really sure why he’s laughing. 

Of course. She has you. 

And you too.  

A smile. 

And me.

They’re not going to believe me.  

Weyland-Yutani? 

They never believed me. And yeah, I didn’t have evidence before. But it doesn’t really feel like I have it now, either.  

They will believe you. I’ll make sure of it. 

You don’t think he realizes how much that statement means to you. Bishop motions for the notepad and you hand it back to him. With his next message, you can practically hear him uttering the words: 

You should get some rest. 

It’s a good suggestion. You really should get some rest: you’re exhausted. Your adrenaline is slowly fading, but it hasn’t entirely dissipated yet. You’re still a bit jittery, looking for a distraction. You take a slow breath in and out. Your hold on Newt briefly tightens. And you sigh, writing something down before handing the notepad back to him.

Hey, can I ask you something?   

Of course. 

He’s going to regret that. It’s hard to fight off a smirk. You write your question quickly and hand it to him, studying his face as he reads your message:

Do androids dream of electric sheep? 

Bishop actually laughs—laughs out loud. It wakes Newt, but she doesn’t seem to mind, only adjusting her position and closing her eyes once more. She hums and you squeeze her gently, unable to hide a smile now as you realize that Bishop just laughed at your joke. You’ve never even heard him laugh before. And now he’s writing. You can only imagine what he’s going to say. Eventually, he returns the notepad and you look down at it curiously. 

You’re ridiculous. Even for a human. 

You laugh quietly in response. And fall asleep soon after.

endnotes: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? is a science-fiction novel that debates the nature of humanity and existence, the sentience and personhood of androids… Fun stuff like that. It’s the perfect reference to make in the situation—super ironic.

BISHOPPPPPPSJFKDLJF KLDSJHKLF grhrhrhrhrhhrrhhaghhhhhhh. sigh. i love Bishop.

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thanks for reading! <3

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[defectivevillain]

recognition

there are snippets for: Tony, Sam, Bucky, Bruce, Natasha, Thor, Clint, Vision, Stephen, Loki, T'Challa, and Scott. the relationships between them and the reader can be interpreted as platonic or romantic.

reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used. they're implied to be an avenger too 🤘

summary: A hero's work doesn't end after they take off their suit. Nope, it continues—even when they're walking to the grocery store, going to dinner, or just minding their business...

the heroes & getting recognized by fans! (and Loki's here too! lol.)

word count: 4.6k | ao3 version

author's notes: This started as headcanons for the Avengers getting recognized in public… and quickly grew to include a combination of MCU characters.

Steve’s not in this, because I like Sam much better. I wrote Sam to be queer and there’s a brief acknowledgement of the discrimination he faces (it’s not the focus of his snippet).

The order is: Tony, Sam, Bucky, Bruce, Natasha, Thor, Clint, Vision, Stephen, Loki, T’Challa, and Scott—in case you want to find your favorites. But you should read all of them, because I think they’re cute :3

Warnings: brief mentions of discrimination (Sam’s snippet; not the point of the fic), unwanted physical contact (Stephen’s snippet; not perpetrated by him ofc).

Tony will know when someone’s a fan before they even notice him. It’s unsettling. You’ll be walking at his side, maybe looking down at your phone, when he’ll just go, “Fanboy incoming, three o’clock.” And you’ll look up and to your right to find a guy walking up to Tony. 

Of course, Tony is extremely insufferable about it. He loves the attention; whenever you’re out in public, you’re forced to be the camera person: taking photos of him and his fans. It’s kind of annoying. It only gets worse when they leave, as Tony will proceed to taunt you for your nonexistent jealousy. (Because, really, who wants to be stopped every five seconds on their way to lunch?) 

Bonus: If you’re a hero too, maybe another member of the Avengers… and a fan approaches you… Tony is super jealous. He’ll lurk off to the side with a fierce glare, practically boring holes into the fan’s skin as you give them your attention. When he’s handed the fan’s phone and told to take photos, expect him to put in almost no effort—rolling his eyes through it. If Tony’s in a really shitty mood, he’ll scrutinize the fan’s flaws (murmuring “What an ugly shirt…” under his breath or something else shady). 

And rest assured, when the fan steps away, Tony’s wrapping an arm over your shoulders and bemoaning how exhausting that was. If you remind him that these interactions happen to him all the time, he’s quick to change the subject or whistle innocently. 

Sam isn’t really used to getting recognized. It was one thing when he was the Falcon. But now that he’s Captain America, he’s been the unwitting target of the public’s scrutiny. As proud as he is to defend the country and its citizens… Well, many of them aren’t happy to be saved by a queer Black man. 

That isn’t to say he always has horrible fan interactions. In fact, at least 90% of them are good. And all of the Avengers have their horror stories: Tony, Clint, and, hell, even Bruce (who is quite literally the most non-confrontational person on the planet). But the bad moments stick with Sam for longer than they should, making him flinch when he should smile. Of course, when he realizes his anxiety is irrational, he’s quick to slip on a bright grin or a mischievous smirk. 

When he’s met with a genuine fan, though… Things can get a bit crazy. You’ve known Sam for long enough to know that he doesn’t really recognize the sheer power of his charisma. He jokes about it all the time, sure, but he doesn’t truly know. You’ve seen people practically drool all over him, and Sam will just wave it off with a polite smile. He really has a knack for steering the conversation perfectly, striking the balance between getting to know the fan and maintaining his boundaries. 

You like poking fun at him after these fan moments, because there’s always a split second or two where he’s left staring after them with a slight smile on his face. (It’s such an endearing sight.) Of course, once Sam’s attention finds you again, he’s quick to rip into you in response.

Oh, and if you’re the hero getting fawned over… Sam will be entirely insufferable. Hell, he’ll usually join in on it, fake gushing over you and shaking his hands excitedly. He doesn’t go this far when he senses the other person is genuinely nervous, but if they’re a good sport, he’ll poke fun at them a bit. 

When he’s relegated to photographer duty, he’ll take it seriously, maybe saying a cheeky, “Smile!” like a school photographer. And of fucking course Sam will take selfies on the fan’s phone. It’s like they’re asking him to—just handing the phone to him unlocked. Amateur mistake, come on. 

Sam’s also just a super genuine guy. He’s a lot more attuned to the human experience than the other heroes are. And he’s super humble. Whenever people will offer to pay for him—coffee, dinner, whatever—he’s quick to deny. The waiter offers to pay for your dinner? Nope, Sam’s credit card is already on the table. The barista gives him a free drink? He gives them a tip that far exceeds the price of the coffee. Despite how often people will offer him things in gratitude, Sam will always refuse them and pay. Always. And that’s an admirable quality to have. 

Bucky doesn’t know what to do when a fan approaches him. It’s hard for him to understand why they would idolize him in the first place. Not to mention, he likes his privacy—the thought of people knowing things about him is unsettling. 

He’s probably the Avenger that has the firmest boundaries. He almost never says yes to pictures. He’ll stiffen and tighten up when fans get too close; the fingers of his vibranium hand will twitch and clench. 

When the mantle of Captain America is passed from Steve to Sam, though… Bucky’s image is different. The public doesn’t really see him as the Winter Soldier anymore—they just see him as the person who accompanies Sam. And, honestly, he much prefers that to the alternative. Bucky doesn’t want to think about what he went through in the past—being spared from the reminder is a relief. 

He’ll still be hesitant to take photos, of course. He’ll flash a super awkward smile, while still being stiff and tense. 

Of course, if you’re the hero getting recognized, expect to get teased relentlessly. Bucky will throw the fan’s words back at you, teasingly calling you the best hero, the coolest Avenger, the only thing that got him through final exams… It’s ridiculous. 

And Bucky is always thrilled to be the one taking the photos. He’ll take pictures from several different angles, until the fan’s practically tugging their phone back from him to preserve their storage. 

Bruce is so incredibly uncomfortable with fans. He still doesn’t really like being associated with the Hulk—it brings up a whole host of negative emotions in him. And it certainly doesn’t help when people will approach him asking for the Hulk, as if the guy’s some kind of party trick instead of a manifestation of his worst, most unsavory feelings. 

Bruce will be brief and almost blunt, his eyes frequently flitting around as he tries and fails to maintain his composure. With his hands shoved in his pockets and the restlessness practically dripping off of him, the fans are usually quick to sense he doesn’t want to speak with them. Bruce usually feels bad about it, and will apologize to them. You’ll tell him he doesn’t need to apologize, but he’ll just shake his head. 

If any fans are being particularly persistent, you’ll have to be the one to step in and tell them to back off. Because Bruce is the type to suffer silently, to endure discomfort until he’s nearly on the verge of a panic attack. And you’re not exactly the most confrontational person yourself, but it’s very easy to get irritated on his behalf. Defending Bruce is as natural as taking your next breath. It certainly helps when he shoots you that relieved glance of his, his shoulders relaxing and his confidence returning as the fan walks away. 

If someone’s a fan of Bruce Banner, though… he’s a lot more comfortable. You’ll see a tentative smile slowly work its way on his face as he’s asked about his publications and his research. Bruce will often get too absorbed in the conversation, to the point when you’ll have to drag him off and apologize to the fan—your lunch reservation isn’t going to fill itself. 

Natasha tries her absolute hardest to be completely unapproachable and intimidating. Hell, you don’t think she even has to try—she just gives off that kind of vibe. Most people are quick to realize she’s pissed. Of course, that’s assuming they even get so close as to speak with her. It would be more likely for them to get thrown to the ground then have a casual conversation with the Black Widow. 

You don’t know how someone would look at Black Widow and think she even wanted to associate with them… but there are always foolish people. Foolish, absolutely moronic people who think they can somehow sneak a picture of her or with her. Nat has really good peripheral vision and she knows when someone nearby is taking a photo of her. She’ll proceed to appear behind them, scaring the absolute shit out of them, before calmly and firmly saying, “Delete it.” This tried-and-true method never fails. 

If someone actually has the guts to get into her personal space, they’ll leave with an injury. And you don’t blame Natasha for that. Fans tend to think that they have a right to a celebrity’s attention and space, just because they’ve followed them for a long time. In the days of social media, these assumptions are only growing more common. Fortunately, Nat always deals a swift reality check to anyone and everyone stupid enough to cross her path.

Thor loves when people recognize him. At the end of the day, he’s a god—and gods like to be praised. The God of Thunder is no exception. He’ll definitely milk it a bit, flashing a blinding smile and flexing his muscles just so the fans react. 

He still doesn’t really know how Midgardian technology works—he doesn’t have a phone himself. So when Thor is tasked with taking a photo of a fan and you… Safe to say, he has no idea what he’s doing. He holds it the wrong way, holds it backwards. He accidentally exits out of the camera app and goes into something else entirely, borderline snooping through the fan’s phone without even realizing. Eventually he’ll give up and return the fan’s phone, at which point they’ll take a selfie of you and them. 

Thor will sometimes get perplexed when he’s not given any attention. Whenever he realizes this, he usually turns to the fan and says something along the lines of, “No love for the God of Thunder?” The situation then plays out in two ways: 

The fan looks mildly embarrassed and asks for a picture with him, even if they didn’t want one. Everyone leaves happy. 

The fan just blinks at him. Maybe they’re confused, maybe they don’t know who the God of Thunder even is. Or, hell, maybe they just don’t want a picture with him. Regardless of the reason, Thor will be completely shocked. He won’t let it show until they leave—at which point, he’ll whip around and look at you. “That Midgardian… they didn’t want my picture.”

It’s almost cute, how dejected he looks at the thought. At this point, you’ll have to cheer him up—which usually involves you saying, “Well, I want your picture.” Then the two of you proceed to take some selfies at a rather questionable angle, and Thor forgets about it. 

Clint is a bit of a wild card. Sometimes, he’s very patient and kind with his fans. Other times, he’s on a bit of a short fuse. He’s never rude, of course. He can just get a little… testy. You hardly blame him, especially when the two of you will get stopped before going to dinner, grabbing groceries… It never ends. 

Not to mention, Hawkeye doesn’t have the same… committed fanbase… that some of the other Avengers have. As Clint has said before, he slips into the background. He’s more than content with that. He doesn’t transform into the green giant or wield a magical hammer. He just has a bow and arrow—and to him, that’s more than enough. 

For whatever reason, this seems to convince people that he’s more friendly than the others. He’s more human than most of them, and can get away with looking ordinary if he’s wearing the right clothes. Of course, you know the truth: Clint is an absolute dick. In the best way possible, of course. That’s why the two of you get along so well. 

But the public doesn’t know that. The public is keen to think that he’s this sunny guy with a perfect home life and absolutely nothing to complain about. Fans will ask him borderline stupid questions about himself, before quickly pivoting to questions about the other Avengers. It’s as if Clint isn’t even there, and you know it pisses him off. (It would piss you off, too, if you were him.) 

And you can always tell the quality of the question he’s asked by how he answers. If it’s a mildly stupid one about one of the Avengers, he’ll pretend to think about it before shrugging and going, “You’ll just have to ask them.” If it’s particularly stupid, he won’t even bother answering. Sometimes, Clint will just stand there and let the awkward silence remain until the fan gets a hint. And on the rare, rare occasion that it’s an intelligent question, he’ll take a few moments to think about it before answering. And Clint will be the one to offer a picture during those rare times. Otherwise, the fans stand no chance. 

If you’re being accosted by fans, Clint is a constant presence at your side. It’s reassuring to know he has your back. And he’s a quick study—he’ll immediately notice if you get uncomfortable or want to leave, at which point he’ll speed things up. If someone asks for your autograph, he’ll respond before you can, “We don’t have a pen.” When the fan offers one, Clint just takes it and snaps it in half before going, “Oops,” in the most flat voice possible. 

Vision doesn’t really understand what’s happening. The first time a fan approaches him, they just stand there for several moments. And he stares back at them quietly, before eventually turning to you and going, “Is this a human custom?” At which point the fan will introduce themself and say they’re a fan. And… Vision will usually laugh. 

“A fan?” he asks. “Of me? I’m merely a program, designed by Stark Industries.”

“You know what I mean,” the fan will assert, strangely insistent on his sentience. Vision will look at them for a moment in disbelief, before politely remarking that he does not know what they mean. Yes, the conversations between him and his fans are always very awkward. Despite Vision’s time with the Avengers, he hasn’t gotten a perfect grasp on humans yet. Besides, he was designed to grow. 

He’ll slowly but surely get used to these interactions. He doesn’t have much of a choice: people will almost always approach him, fan or not. The pink skin, combined with the Infinity Stone firmly embedded in his forehead, is enough to make people very curious. 

Vision is very sweet to the older adults who will often approach him in confusion, calmly stating that he’s an android and quelling their nerves or fears. Children will point at him and whisper in the way they tend to do; if they’re too scared to approach him, he’ll send them a wink. Otherwise, he’ll stare down at them and speak somewhat stiffly. He has very little experience speaking with children, after all. 

These moments are cute. Whenever the kids leave, Vision will turn to you and ask you about his observations. Why was the kid staring so much? (Because kids do that.) Why did the mother look so apprehensive? (Because we’re strangers interacting with her child.) Why did he think you vanished when you put your hands over your face? (Kids don’t develop object permanence until they get older.) It’s pretty much ethnography for him—an immersive experience that leaves him with equal questions and answers. 

Stephen isn’t used to getting recognized. It’s kind of impossible for him not to get recognized, you tell him one day as you walk along the sidewalk. The robes and amulet speak for themselves. People are quick to jump to one of two conclusions: 1) he’s Dr. Strange; or 2) he’s cosplaying a character from a movie or TV series. You’ve attempted to explain this to him numerous times, but you get the feeling he secretly likes the attention. 

Of course, he’ll die before showing even the slightest hint of tolerance. He’ll huff and complain from the moment a fan approaches, his typical sarcastic attitude shining through. He’ll cross his arms over his chest and, after being asked for a picture, just go, “Oh? I suppose you think you’ve earned one. And what have you done for me, exactly?” Sometimes, you have to step in and tell him to cool it. But most of the time, the fans aren’t dissuaded. After all, Stephen has a reputation for being a bit prickly. 

He’ll adamantly insist that he has far more important things to be doing than stopping on the sidewalk for every person with a smartphone. And you’ll just hum and watch as he doesn’t make any effort to walk faster or evade the fans, almost as if he truly doesn’t mind their presence. You’ll keep quiet about it because, contrary to popular belief, you don’t have a death wish. 

If you’re the hero getting recognized… well. Well. Expect for Stephen to ditch you. He’ll stand there for a few moments—maybe a minute or two at most—before letting out a theatrical sigh and promptly disappearing. He has a particularly bad habit of doing this right as a fan is asking him to take a photo of you two, leaving the fan with their hand extended as they talk to… the empty air. Usually you have to apologize for your companion and offer a selfie. 

You’re not sure Stephen has ever stuck around during these moments—he’s always portaling ahead to meet you at your intended destination. You’re fine with that 99.9% of the time, until the one interaction that just kind of… throws you.

You like to think you’re a pretty self-aware person: you know your boundaries. And your boundaries? Well, they’re being completely broken by this… this… fan, if you can call him that. He has a hand on your forearm and is talking about something too quickly for you to comprehend. You want nothing more than to just push him away, but you’re frozen. 

“What are you prattling on about?” Stephen says impatiently, stepping through a portal to appear right in front of you. “It’s been nearly five minutes.” Despite his annoyance, he’ll be quick to survey the scene and figure out exactly what’s wrong. His attention quickly turns to the guy at your side. “Take a step back for me, will you?” Stephen will say calmly, drawing his attention. 

The fan will begrudgingly step away from you, finally giving you time to breathe. “I believe you have more pressing matters to attend to, no?” Stephen says pointedly, creating a portal behind the fan. 

“Wait, what—?” the guy tries to say, only to get sucked into the portal. 

Boom. Gone. Like he was never even there. 

And you’ll huff, wanting to object to the teleportation. But your relief and gratitude overshadows any of the grey morality of the act you just witnessed. Instead, you’ll look over at him and say, “Thanks, Stephen.” It’s kind of hard to get the words out, and you’re still feeling jumpy and restless. And frustrated with yourself, and annoyed, and uncomfortable—

Stephen’s answering scoff draws you out of your thoughts. He’ll study you for a long moment before heading into the portal, clearly expecting you to follow. 

In the coming days, you’ll notice that Stephen is never very far away. You think you even catch him staring at you once, but he’s quick to berate you for even thinking that. 

Loki is always infuriatingly smug when fans approach him. And they approach him quite frequently. Despite the fact that he’s a villain who nearly wiped out the entirety of New York City, he still has fans. And that never fails to remind you that humanity is completely doomed. 

You hate being involved in these fan interactions, because you have to spend the entire time watching Loki and making sure he doesn’t hurt the fan. It’s very stressful, and you just know that Loki’s using the situation to his advantage. He’ll purposefully reach out to the fan with an unnecessary hand gesture, if only to make your heart jump in your chest. It pisses you off. Not to mention, he loves the sound of his own voice—so you’re often trapped there, waiting for the one-sided conversation to end. He’ll interpret your impatience as jealousy and make a whole show of it. But if you actually walk away, you’ll soon find yourself standing right back where you started. Ugh. 

If the roles are reversed, and you’re the one with fans… Loki is inwardly seething. Outwardly, he looks a bit pissed too—but only to the knowing eye. Most would think he’s just impatient, eager to get somewhere. And he usually is. But he’s a god, and gods don’t like being ignored. 

…They don’t call him the God of Mischief for nothing. Expect trickery. Whenever someone approaches you instead of him, Loki will do anything and everything to ensure the interaction is as messy as possible. Whether that’s creating an illusion of you that berates them—or professes undying love to them—he pulls out all the stops. 

You don’t think you’ve ever had a normal interaction with a fan while in Loki’s presence. And it’s abundantly clear you never will. 

And if this fan happens to have a healthy level of attraction towards you? …Odin help you. Loki will catch onto it like a bloodhound, immediately noticing and bringing it up in the cruelest way possible. He’ll spend the rest of the conversation just standing off to the side and clearing his throat whenever he hears something suspect. If you get annoyed, he’ll only grow more encouraged.

Loki is always balancing between flattery and utter contempt. It never fails to give you whiplash. He’ll let some flirty remarks go and then glare at you with nothing but hatred. He’ll scrutinize you at every turn, but then begrudgingly agree when a fan compliments you (not without one-upping them, of course). It’s maddening. 

T’Challa is never out of his depth. The King of Wakanda is always composed, always calm in the face of uncertainty. 

So seeing him look so perplexed and bewildered is very amusing. 

Of course, it’s nearly impossible to tell he’s feeling like that—his eyes are just ever so slightly wide, and his gaze is shifting out a bit as if he’s restless. There’s just something about this situation that is very humorous: the Black Panther, standing next to a Dora Milaje warrior and wondering why he’s getting recognized as he walks down a city street. 

“I believe you said I wouldn’t be recognized,” T’Challa says calmly, glancing sideways at you. 

“I never said that,” you blink. “In fact, I think I said you would definitely get recognized.” People are only just learning of Wakanda’s existence, after all. 

“Ah,” T’Challa just says reluctantly. Even if people don’t recognize him as the Black Panther, the quality of his clothing and the intimidating spear carried by the warrior behind him are enough to draw attention. 

If people try to get too close to T’Challa, the Dora Milaje warrior will swiftly put them in their place. And T’Challa will still be respectful, sending people slight courteous nods.

If you’re the one getting recognized… T’Challa is just as confused. He’ll watch the person approach you warily, ready to step in if necessary. Before they reach you, he’ll quietly ask you, “Is this an acquaintance of yours?”

“No,” you respond. “They, um,” you say awkwardly, feeling a bit flustered. It’s easy to feel kind of… well… stupid, when in T’Challa’s presence. A lot of things that people do outside Wakanda seem almost… foolish… when you explain them to him. This is no exception. “They ask for pictures, sometimes. It’s kind of silly, but it makes them happy.”

“It’s not… silly,” he says, his eyebrows furrowing as he repeats the word. You resist the urge to laugh at the discomfort on his face. T’Challa takes a slow breath. “I apologize for overreacting.” 

“Overreacting?” you ask incredulously. “Hardly. You’re totally fine,” you reassure him, honestly touched that he’s even apologizing at all. He didn’t even do anything wrong! He was just questioning the intent of a stranger approaching you both—an entirely rational thing to do. 

“Good,” he says with a slight smile. 

“I’ll make it quick,” you promise him quietly. 

“Please,” T’Challa says with a shake of his head, “don’t rush on my behalf. I’ll be here waiting regardless.” 

You can’t help but smile at that. 

Scott is a complete sweetheart, and his kindness extends to his fans. He’s always very sweet and understanding. If a fan gets nervous, he’ll help calm them down. If someone says they don’t like him (which is bound to happen with all of the Avengers; people think their presence somehow allows them to express their unfiltered opinions), he shrugs it off and goes about his day. 

Truthfully, Scott will be excited when someone recognizes him. It doesn’t happen as frequently as it does with the other Avengers and he sometimes feels as if he’s being overshadowed by them. But all it takes is one quick fan interaction, and he’s quickly remembering how wonderful his fans are. 

Scott is the type to have full on discussions with fans lasting tens of minutes, to the point where you’ll grow tired of standing and have to practically drag him away. Even then, he’ll be waving goodbye to the fan and calling back to the conversation they just had. 

He pretty much always says yes to pictures, regardless of what kind of mood he’s in. You’ve told him he has the right to deny them whenever he wants, but he never takes you seriously. Scott is very selfless in that regard—he’ll bleed himself dry, exert all of his social battery… all to make a fan feel special and appreciated. This is a nice gesture, but it often means you have to take over for him after that. The second the two of you walk away from the fan, he’ll be quieter and almost withdrawn. Despite the front he puts on, these conversations can take a lot out of him. After all, there’s no telling just what a fan will say to him: sometimes, you’ve overheard them say really personal things to him, as if he’s a therapist instead of a public figure. You suspect those moments happen a lot, which can be draining for him. Still, Scott loves his fans and he has a reputation for being a really great guy. 

Unfortunately, you don’t often have the same kind of energy that Scott does when it comes to fan interactions. You’ll try to be casual about it, attempting to put a smile on your face. And Scott will just sense how you’re feeling. You’re not sure how he does it: you don’t think you’re a super open book, so he must just be good at reading you. And Scott will guide the conversation when he can tell you’re feeling off—can expertly quicken the interaction until the fan is walking away happily while you’re staring at him in amazed disbelief. 

He’s definitely the extroverted one out of the two of you. And Scott knows you don’t really love meeting fans, if only because it makes you feel strangely responsible for meeting their expectations. But he’s quick to distract you after these interactions happen, dragging you off to a new restaurant or asking you for your input on a present he wants to get for Cassie. You’ll soon be too busy debating between pastel purple and sage green to remember your distress.

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I won't be continuing this fic.

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[defectivevillain]

attempts at amnesty

“You should get some sleep, Harry,” you suggest, changing the subject. “We have a long day ahead of us.” Harry’s face is pinched and he stares at you for a moment, before shaking his head. He won’t let his guard down, and you can’t really blame him. You take a deep breath, before trying to think of a way to assure Harry that he can trust you. “Here.” Harry stands at the object you hand him with thinly-veiled confusion and apprehension. “It’s my wand,” you explain, “A wand is a wizard’s most powerful accessory, weapon, and aid. I’m giving my wand to you to show that I mean you no harm.” “You trust me with your wand?” Harry whispers. “Yes,” you respond instinctually. You decide that more people need to show their trust and faith in the boy.

Canonically, Harry’s first introduction to the Wizarding World was wonderful and magnificent, but it was also jaded. He was left to make his own assumptions about magic from the behaviors of those around him. But what if Harry Potter had a trustworthy adult to teach him about the Wizarding World—one who always had faith in him, stood up for him, and protected him?

2/? chapters | 11.8k words

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

NOTE: I do not support or condone the actions and beliefs of HP's author in any way whatsoever. I thoroughly believe in fanfiction's transformative, restorative, and healing power. Therefore, I write HP fanfiction to directly challenge and disprove her prejudice; I write to further strengthen, validate, and support minority identities that are harmed by her dangerous ideologies. These characters may be hers, but my writing absolutely isn’t.

I’ve been battling with myself to even post this fic in the first place, so please know that I am trying my best and taking the utmost care to assure that I am not upholding her prejudices. And if you don’t want to engage with this at all, I completely understand.

[defectivevillain]

attempts at amnesty, ch2

pairing: Harry & Reader (platonic)

The reader is gender-neutral—their gender and race are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary: “You should get some sleep, Harry,” you suggest, changing the subject. “We have a long day ahead of us.” Harry’s face is pinched and he stares at you for a moment, before shaking his head. He won’t let his guard down, and you can’t really blame him. You take a deep breath, before trying to think of a way to assure Harry that he can trust you. “Here.” Harry stands at the object you hand him with thinly-veiled confusion and apprehension. “It’s my wand,” you explain, “A wand is a wizard’s most powerful accessory, weapon, and aid. I’m giving my wand to you to show that I mean you no harm.” “You trust me with your wand?” Harry whispers. “Yes,” you respond instinctually. You decide that more people need to show their trust and faith in the boy.

Canonically, Harry’s first introduction to the Wizarding World was wonderful and magnificent, but it was also jaded. He was left to make his own assumptions about magic from the behaviors of those around him. But what if Harry Potter had a trustworthy adult to teach him about the Wizarding World—one who always had faith in him, stood up for him, and protected him?

This is the second chapter of attempts at amnesty.

word count: 11.8k | chapters: 2/? | ao3 version

author's notes: in light of jkr’s many recent fumbles and failures… i want to reiterate that i do not support her or her ideals. she’s a piece of shit fr. an absolute flop of a human being. and, honestly? flop of an author too. just a flop all-around. 🖕

This is paced much quicker than I’d like it to be, but oh well. I have to get this done so I can work on the upcoming stuff!!!! Which is more exciting to me. Heehee.

As a reminder, this fic is canon-divergent and non-compliant. There will be canonical events I forget to include and discrepancies that may not match with the book series. This is fanfiction; let me have fun!

warnings for this chapter: canonical child abuse, grief

The castle is bustling with energy and activity. The students aren’t set to arrive until tomorrow, but there’s a lot of preparation that needs to be done. Each of the professors has to finalize their coursework, organize their classrooms, and make sure there are enough supplies for their students. Thankfully, since you teach Ancient Runes, you don’t have to source many supplies. You have no idea how Severus—the Potions professor—or Minerva—the Transfiguration professor—keep track of all of their supplemental materials. You’re sure you’d be a disorganized mess if you were in either of their positions. Thankfully, you’re not, though; now, you’re free to review your course plans and make sure the classroom’s physical space is in order. 

With the arrival of the students comes the Sorting of the first-years. It’s always amusing to see their bright-eyed awe when seeing the castle for the first time. You miss that feeling. Hogwarts is a nostalgic place for you, but you’ve grown out of that childlike wonder. 

The Sorting Hat’s song breaks through your thoughts. It sings of the four Houses before Professor McGonagall is quickly summoning the first student to be Sorted. From there, it’s standard procedure—at least, until Harry’s name is called. The entire hall almost seems to erupt in noise, as whispers and shouts echo around the space. You watch as Harry nervously approaches the stool; upon catching his eye, you send him a wink. 

Harry proves to be what you affectionately refer to as a hatstall, or someone the Sorting Hat struggles to place into a House. This typically means the student exhibits enough traits to be considered for more than one House, which leads to some deliberation regarding their placement. The same thing must apply for Harry. 

Just as the other students begin to grow impatient, Harry is sorted into Gryffindor—just like his parents were when they arrived at Hogwarts. You clap for him, as you do for every student. He seems relieved that he made it into Gryffindor, as he moves to sit next to Percy Weasley. Another Weasley is getting sorted today, to your surprise. The hat barely touches his head before it shouts, “Gryffindor!” The younger Weasley slumps in relief and makes his way over to the table to sit next to Harry. 

After the remaining students are Sorted, Albus gives a brief speech and ushers in the beginning of the meal. The food is excellent, as always—and you enjoy catching up with your fellow professors. The evening passes rather quickly, and, before long, you’re reclining in your bed and thinking about the first day of classes. 

Fortunately, since you teach Ancient Runes, you won’t have to deal with the first-year students. That age can always be a bit interesting. By the time students reach your classes—which begin in their third-year—they’ve usually matured ever so slightly. Furthermore, since Ancient Runes is an elective course, your students are often ones who choose the subject because they’re genuinely interested in it. 

The beginning of the school year always passes in a whirlwind, and this year is no different. You don’t even get the chance to talk with Harry until a few weeks into the semester. Secretly, you’re glad he took the time to visit—while you offered him the opportunity, you weren’t sure if he would take it. 

“And then she took me to see Wood and he taught me about the game,” Harry explains, recounting the rather entertaining tale of his first Quidditch lesson. “Professor McGonagall told me that she’d make sure I have a broom, too. Apparently, I’ll be the youngest Seeker in a century!” he exclaims, clearly very excited. Whispers of the encounter between Harry and Malfoy spread throughout the castle, but it’s good to hear it from Harry himself. Besides, it sounds like he wasn’t quite punished anyways. Malfoy was antagonizing him, after all. Honestly, it’s just a miracle that he didn’t get hurt. 

“That’s incredible, Harry,” you remember to respond. Normally, you’d address a student with only their last name. However, Harry seemed adamant on avoiding that and you agreed to refer to him with his first name in private conversations. “I’m very happy for you. You know, your father was quite talented at Quidditch himself.” That must explain why he was able to perform such a feat. 

Harry smiles silently. The look on his face is somewhat strained and you try to discern why. 

“Your mother didn’t play Quidditch,” you continue. Harry looks up at that, and you begin to understand. Harry is surrounded by people that mostly speak of his father, but no one ever talks about his mother. Lily was a Muggleborn, so she wasn’t as well-known as James was. “She was brilliant at Charms, from what I’ve heard. She was Head Girl and one of Professor Slughorn’s favorite students, despite being a Muggleborn. I think her tutoring was one of the only reasons that I passed Potions and earned an Exceeds Expectations. Potions… isn’t exactly my forte,” you decide to admit.

“It isn’t mine, either,” Harry sighs. 

“I’m sure being berated and antagonized by your professor isn’t conducive to the brewing process,” you remark wryly. Harry’s eyes widen and he lets out a startled chuckle. Speaking of which, you’ve been meaning to talk to Professor Snape about his rather cruel treatment of Harry and some of the other students. You give yourself a mental note to discuss that with Severus later. 

Harry and you keep talking for a bit, and he explains his Quidditch schedule to you. He seems very excited, which you’re happy to see. You haven’t seen such pure joy on his face before and you immediately want to make sure you see it more often. You want Harry to be happy. And, wow, isn’t that a dangerous thought? The boy is quickly growing on you. To think, a mere month ago, you were dreading having to guide him around Diagon Alley. And now, here you are, inviting him to your office to have casual conversations. Safe to say, Harry’s quickly growing on you. 

As time passes, you’re almost deluded into thinking this school year will be uneventful for Harry. Of course, just when you begin to think so, you’re swiftly proven wrong. 

“Malfoy challenged me to a duel,” Harry announces one morning as he strolls into your office, taking a seat with an exaggerated sigh. He looks a bit tired—probably from all of the Quidditch practice. It’s a tough adjustment: to be attending wizard school and playing a magical sport at the same time. You can only hope he’s taking care of himself. 

“Did he really?” you muse, realizing Harry’s still waiting for your response to the whole duel idea. You’re immediately suspicious of Malfoy’s intentions. Harry and he quickly became rivals, after Harry refused to be friends with the boy on account of his rudeness to Weasley. Ever since that interaction just before the Sorting Ceremony, Malfoy and Harry have been enemies. 

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, clearly annoyed at the prospect. “He said to meet at midnight.”

“Midnight?” you repeat. That only makes you more suspicious. “That’s… way past curfew.” The Prefects will be out and about at that time—and Filch will be roaming the halls too. Overall, this duel sounds like a spectacularly bad idea. Not to mention, the boys are only first-years. They shouldn’t be dueling to begin with. 

“I know,” Harry says, sounding withdrawn. 

“Malfoy’s trying to bait you into going,” you assert, “but he probably won’t even be there.”

“Really?” Harry blinks. 

“He could easily ditch and then tell Filch or one of the professors that you were out past curfew,” you reason. “Then you’d lose points and probably be given detention.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. 

“I wouldn’t go,” you advise him. “I’m saying that as both a professor and someone who used to be a student here. It’s just a trap.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Harry admits. He fiddles with his hands in his lap. “I didn’t really want to duel him anyways. I don’t even know what a duel is.” 

“They’re usually a waste of time, to be honest,” you remark. “And while there are rules involved, there’s no telling that Malfoy would even follow them. He could cast a Dark spell and cause you serious harm.” 

Harry’s eyes widen at that. You feel a sympathetic smile rising on your lips. “I could teach you about dueling some time, if you really wanted,” you offer before you can think any better of it. “It wouldn’t hurt to know the basics, if you ever find yourself in one.” Considering Harry’s reputation as the Boy-Who-Lived, there’s always the chance that someone could approach him and challenge him to a duel. 

“That would be good,” Harry nods. “Maybe next year?”

“Sure,” you agree easily. “That works out, actually. The 2nd year Defense curriculum will accompany dueling lessons quite nicely.” Harry smiles and the two of you continue talking, until the hour grows late and Harry has to head back to the Common Room. He seems almost reluctant to do so, but he eventually withdraws—but not before telling you about his upcoming Quidditch match. You make a note of the date as soon as he leaves. It’s not for a few months, so he still has time to train and practice some more. 

Halloween at Hogwarts is charming. Many professors would use a host of other adjectives to describe it: tedious, noisy, tacky. But it’s heartwarming to see the students so excited about things as simple as floating pumpkins and colorful candy. Of course, Hagrid’s giant pumpkins and live bats certainly made things a bit more… lifelike, to say the least. 

The Halloween feast is always a sight to behold—and this year’s is no exception. The food magically appears on the same golden plates from the Sorting Ceremony, with virtually endless options for main and side dishes, drinks, and desserts. 

The feast in the Great Hall kicks off without a hitch. You’ve made it a point to check on Harry frequently throughout the day, considering it’s technically the anniversary of his parents’ deaths. He seemed pretty busy today, which you’re happy about. It wouldn’t do him any good to have time to dwell on their murders. 

Everything is proceeding smoothly, with one slight snag: Professor Quirrell’s chair is empty. You’re not exactly friends with the guy—you’ve barely even spoken to him—but all professors are required to attend the feast. It’s strange that he isn’t here. 

His unexplained absence soon resolves itself, however.  He scares the life out of most of the students when he races into the Great Hall screaming, “Troll in the dungeon!” before promptly passing out. The professors and Prefects calmly direct their students back to their common rooms, but the younger students’ panic starts to make things a bit disorderly. 

You soon recognize the occurrence for what it is: a diversion. You’re about to head off towards the third-floor corridor, but it seems like Severus has the same thoughts as you. When you turn to look at his seat, you find that he’s already left. Hopefully, he can get there in time. Since that’s handled, you decide to turn your attention back to the students. Your gaze falls to Harry at the edge of the Gryffindor table. Weasley and he are exchanging worried glances and you frown. They look like they’re up to something. You tell yourself to keep an eye on them, but the next opportunity you have to glance over at them, the two boys are gone. You curse under your breath and make your way through the Great Hall, trying to figure out where Harry and his friend could’ve gone. 

It takes you a few minutes to find Harry and his friend standing in one of the wrecked restrooms with Granger, another first-year Gryffindor. It isn’t the leaking toilet or shattered sink that immediately captures your attention; rather, it’s the incapacitated troll on the ground. An unpleasant feeling runs through you at the thought of Harry battling it entirely unprepared. You think you’re going to be sick. 

“Merlin—” Minerva remarks, placing a hand to her chest as she enters the room. Severus is quick on her heels, looking positively murderous. You’re not quite sure what expression is on your face, but it must be betraying your distress, because Harry is quick to reassure you.

“I’m fine,” Harry assures you. He’s covered in troll snot, but he appears to be unharmed. “We’re fine.” The Granger girl’s cheeks are tearstained and she looks a little frazzled; Weasley has some bits from the ceiling stuck to his robe. They’re all breathing hard. 

You’re speechless. Minerva seems to notice that you’re struck silent, because she responds for you. “I sure hope you are, Mister Potter!” she exclaims. “That was incredibly dangerous and irresponsible of you three.”

“What exactly… happened?” you manage to choke out, once you no longer feel as if your heart is in your throat. Harry and the Weasley boy exchange a look, before starting to speak. They hardly get a word out before Granger interrupts, admitting that she thought she could take on the troll alone. You suspect she’s lying, but you don’t see the need to mention that aloud. The trio will be punished regardless of the explanation. Indeed, moments later, Minerva is sending them off with less points and dates for detentions. Severus doesn’t seem too satisfied with the punishment, but, then again, he’s almost never satisfied with anything. Minerva leads the trio back to the Gryffindor dormitory, leaving the Potions master and you standing in the flooded bathroom. 

“The Stone?” you ask. Severus stares at you with a scrutinizing gaze, clearly not expecting the question. The Sorcerer’s Stone lies at the end of the third-floor corridor, after the several obstacles devised by Albus and some of the other professors. If someone wanted to get to it, a distraction like the troll would allow them time to get through the different obstacles. 

Snape studies you for a moment. “Secured,” he eventually confirms. 

“Good,” you nod. “I can clean this up.” You look up, only to find that the Potions professor is already gone. You huff a laugh and begin to cast a few cleaning spells. Your stomach turns as you see the blood on the floor, but you quickly spell it away and pretend not to notice it. 

After the troll incident, activity around the castle seems to be a bit more subdued. It’s understandable that many of the students are shaken up by what happened, and rumors surrounding Harry and his friends’ interaction with the being are spreading like wildfire. 

Fortunately, with the steady approach of the Quidditch season and the threat of final exams looming in the distance, the corridor on the third floor becomes a distant memory for many students.  And before you know it, it’s the morning of Harry’s first Quidditch match. He seems pretty nervous and frazzled at breakfast in the Great Hall. You want to head over and give him some reassurance, but he looks pretty anxious already—and Weasley and Granger seem to be trying to do that anyway. You do manage to catch his eye and send him a wink. Harry does seem to relax a bit after that, giving you a weak smile in response. 

You try to attend a few Quidditch matches throughout the year, but you don’t usually attend the first game of the season. It’s a bit fun to see the energy vibrating through the air, as the students cheer and jeer at the teams. You find a seat next to Severus in the stands with the other professors and occupy a tense, somewhat uncomfortable silence. Even as the game begins, Severus is a silent presence at your side. When Slytherin scores, a smirk will dance across his lips. Otherwise, he is eerily quiet. 

The game is proving to be pretty close. You’re torn between watching the Quaffle and keeping an eye out for Harry. He seems to be doing pretty well, surveying the field as he flies above the Chasers and Beaters. Gryffindor scores a few more times before a blur of motion draws your attention. Harry’s jerking around unnaturally, as if his broom is trying to throw him off. 

You watch for a few more seconds, concerned by how violent the movements seem to be. It soon becomes clear that there’s something wrong with Harry’s broom. You’re standing up before you can stop yourself, quickly casting a spell to right his balance and quell the object’s apparent sentience—

“What are you doing?” Severus hisses, successfully disrupting your concentration. He sounds moments away from grabbing your forearm and yanking you back down to sit.  

You let out a frustrated sound. “Something’s wrong with Harry’s broom,” you manage to say, taking a deep breath and casting the spell unimpeded before taking your seat once more. You watch with bated breath as Harry regains control of his broom, swinging a leg over it and returning to his regular position. You breathe a sigh of relief. “Merlin.”

“You suspect someone tampered with it,” Severus states. Despite his flat affect, you recognize the remake as a question and you nod gravely. A stormy expression rises on the other professor’s face. He soon strides off, likely to check on the third-floor corridor. You stay to see Harry win by nearly swallowing the Snitch—and you manage to congratulate him before he’s swarmed by his Gryffindor housemates. You suspect the Gryffindor common room will be rather hectic tonight. 

“Ron and Hermione were happy,” Harry recounts the next night, a bright grin on his face as he remembers the match. “They were going to set Professor Snape’s robes on fire.”

“What?” you sputter. 

Harry just laughs, like the troublemaker he is. You keep your concerns about foul play to yourself, promising yourself to investigate later. For now, you let Harry rant about different Quidditch plays with an endearing sparkle in his eyes. His infectious energy leaves you fighting off a smile, even as he heads back to the dorms. 

Your gut is telling you something’s wrong. You have no idea what it is. Today has been a pretty uneventful spring day. The snow on the ground from the frigid winter is finally starting to melt, leaving the castle surrounded by muddy and damp grounds. It’s getting a bit warmer outside and students are starting to occupy the courtyards once more. 

By all means, it’s an entirely ordinary day. As the day drags on, nothing goes horribly awry. You almost start to think your fears are unfounded, when you realize you haven’t seen Harry all day. Even if he doesn’t stop by your office, you’ll usually see him at meals in the Great Hall. It’s strange, you think, that you haven’t seen him. 

As the evening bleeds into night, you find that you can’t quite get yourself to calm down. You settle for taking a late night walk around the castle, hoping to get some clarity. You head through the corridors with only the light of your wand, ignoring the annoyed grumbles and groans of the sleepy portraits. You’re so lost in your thoughts that you almost miss the sight of a student ducking into a corridor.

Frowning, you decide to follow them. It’s well past curfew and they could easily get in trouble. Not to mention, since that outright foolish announcement Albus made about the third-floor corridor, it’s even more dangerous for students to wander. A few troublemakers have tried getting into that corridor as night falls, necessitating even more security around the area. 

You follow the student around the corner and into an alcove, watching as they crouch down and sit on the floor. The castle’s floors are cold and unforgiving at night, but this student doesn’t seem bothered by it. You squint at them, trying to figure out just what they’re doing here.

You take another cautious step forward, unintentionally drawing their attention. They turn around and you squint, holding your wand up to them. 

Harry Potter is just about the last person you expect to see. “Hi, Professor,” Harry says, blinking quickly at the light of your wand. You manage to dim the light and take a step closer, studying him for several moments. 

“Hi, Harry,” you respond. “What are you doing?” 

“Just… looking,” Harry responds, looking pointedly at the gilded mirror in front of him. You aren’t sure why you just now noticed it—it’s rather tall, and the only object in the space. You frown and try to study it, wondering why it’s brought Harry out of his dorm so late at night. 

“That doesn’t look like a normal mirror,” you murmur, hesitantly taking a step closer. Harry just tugs his knees up to his chest, as if shielding himself from your scrutiny. 

“It isn’t,” he admits with a wayward glance. “I can see my parents.” 

“Your parents?” you repeat with disbelief, taking a step forward and stepping closer to the mirror. You study the object for a moment, taking in the gilded frame and the elegant writing etched into it: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. It doesn’t take you long to transcribe the message: I show not your face, but your heart’s desire. Not a very creative inscription for a magical object. You can’t help but be suspicious about this mirror: the majority of magical artifacts in Hogwarts live in the library or the Room of Requirement. 

Wait. Erised. Desire. The Mirror of Erised: The Mirror of Desire. It shows you what you desire most. It draws the user in, compels them to spend time wasting away in front of it. People have lost their minds looking at it. 

“Harry, get away from that,” you say quickly, your voice filled with urgency. 

“Why?” Harry asks worriedly. Despite his skepticism, he obeys your request and scrambles up to his feet, moving to step behind you. 

“It can’t be trusted,” you say.

“But—” Harry tries to argue. 

“Magical artifacts like this are often drowning in Dark magic,” you say with a frown, casting a quick detection spell. As you suspected, black amorphous shadows drip from the frame of the mirror in response, showing the Dark magic running through the object’s very core. “See?”

“Oh,” Harry says quietly. 

“I’m sorry, Harry,” you sigh. “I’ll have to confiscate this.” And bring it up with Albus. Did he know it was here? It’s something he should definitely know about… 

“...Okay,” Harry relents, bringing you back to the matter at hand.  

You send the mirror to your office before turning back to Harry. “Are you alright?” you ask. It’s kind of a stupid question: the tortured expression on his face speaks for itself. Not to mention the fact that he’s awake so late on a school night, sneaking through the halls. 

“Yeah,” Harry says with a slight nod. 

“Are you sure?” you press. 

“...Yeah,” he maintains. “I’m fine.”

Well. It doesn’t seem like this strategy is working. You’ll have to try something else. “Were you visiting here frequently?” you decide to ask. 

“......No,” Harry says unconvincingly. It’s clear he’s lying. 

“It’s okay if you were,” you reassure him. “It’s not a crime to want to see your parents.” 

Harry looks around the space. He doesn’t want to meet your eyes. “I don’t even remember them,” he admits, his fist clenching at his side. His eyes are glimmering with unshed tears. “I’ve never even heard my mother’s voice. I’ve only heard her scream.” 

Merlin. That’s the darkest, most depressing thing you’ve heard in quite some time. 

“I—” you stumble over your words, “I’m so sorry, Harry.” You have no idea what to say. There are no words that could even begin to heal the pain he’s experiencing. He practically never met his parents. He grew up without them. Harry only knows what he’s been told—and from what you can tell, he’s been told frighteningly little. 

“It’s fine,” Harry says, with the practiced ease of someone who has heard those same words far too many times before. 

It’s not fine. It’s the furthest thing from fine. But you’re struggling to think of a way to help him. You weren’t super close with Lily and James, but you were aware of them, at the very least. Plus, Lily tutored you in Potions—and James was in your Charms class. You have memories of them, even if they aren’t super fleshed-out or significant. 

That gives you an idea. “You know,” you start, “I think I have some memories of your parents. I could put them in my Pensieve and show you.”

Harry just blinks in confusion. “What’s a Pensieve?”

“Oh, right,” you say. Of course he won’t know what a Pensieve is: he was raised in the Muggle world. It’s easy to forget that sometimes. “It allows you to extract memories from your mind and preserve them. You can show other people your memories in a Pensieve, or you can revisit them yourself.” 

“Oh,” Harry remarks, seeming to brighten up just a little bit. He still looks melancholic and borderline despondent, but you can tell he’s warming up to the idea you’ve presented. “That would be nice,” he agrees quietly.  

“Next time you visit my office, I’ll have some memories ready,” you promise him. 

“Thanks, Professor,” he says.

“No problem,” you respond. “Let me walk you back to the Common Room.” 

Harry reluctantly follows after you, and the two of you walk back in silence. 

“Harry,” you say. “You know I’m here if you ever want to talk.”

“I know,” Harry responds. You’re not quite satisfied with that answer, but it’s too late for any further discussion—Harry’s already slipping behind the Fat Lady’s portrait and returning to his dorm. You stay there for a few moments, concerned about him. 

“Are you just going to stand there and gawk all night?” the Fat Lady demands impatiently. “I need my beauty sleep.” 

“Sorry,” you respond, shoving your hands in your pockets and heading back to your office. The Fat Lady huffs and evidently returns to sleep. You attempt to do the same when you return to your quarters, but it’s a bit difficult. Even when you finally drift off, the look on Harry’s face haunts you in the days that follow. 

After that night, you try your best to keep a closer eye on Harry. But you can only do so much: he’s a first-year, so you can’t see him in classes. You usually only see him at meal times. He’ll occasionally visit your office, but as his schedule grows busier, these visits become more sporadic. You’ve talked to Minerva and she’s promised to keep an eye on him, but that doesn’t do anything to dispel the worry you’re feeling. 

You’re grading papers one night when you hear a sudden commotion outside the hall. You look up to find Harry and Ron Weasley breathing hard, hands on their knees as if they just ran over to your office. They look visibly frazzled and stressed. 

“Hi, you two,” you greet the two of them, surprised by their sudden entrance. “What’s the matter?” 

After catching his breath, Harry looks up at you with panic in his eyes. “Professor, there’s—” Harry chokes out. 

“The Sorcerer’s Stone and—” Weasley interjects, evidently just as worried. 

“Someone’s trying to steal it—” Harry says breathlessly. “We tried to tell her—”

“Slow down, slow down,” you remind them gently. The boys grimace in embarrassment and take another few moments to collect their breath. “I’m going to need you to say that again,” you try to say patiently. 

“Snape’s trying to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone,” Harry chokes out. You blink at the sudden change in demeanor. He’s usually quiet and withdrawn, but right now, he seems outspoken and restless. “Ron and I tried to tell McGonagall—”

“Professor McGonagall, Harry,” you say, unable to stop yourself from speaking. 

“Professor McGonagall,” Harry corrects himself, “but she told us that Dumbeledore is away and he won’t be back for a while. She didn’t believe us when we said the Stone was going to be stolen.” 

You frown. There are several different things wrong with that statement, but the part that troubles you the most is how easily Minerva dismissed the two boys. You know the third-floor corridor was fitted with several different security measures, created by Severus, Quirinus, and Albus. However, those security measures are far from infallible. In fact, they were almost designed to encourage a student to best them. The thought troubles you greatly—so much so that you have to push it away. 

“I see,” you frown at the boys. You know Severus wouldn’t steal the Stone, so it’s very likely that he entered the Chamber in order to stop someone else from stealing it. You take a slow breath. “Well, I would scold you for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong—no offense meant, you two—but it seems I have bigger issues to deal with.”

“Professor?” Harry and Ron both echo, looking at you in confusion. 

“Excuse me, Mister Weasley,” you say, staring at the redhead boy who is standing in front of the door to your office. The boy steps aside and you place a hand on the door, pushing it only a few centimeters before you hear a voice behind you. 

“Professor—” Harry breaks off. You chance a glance back at the two boys, only to find that they still look unconvinced. You take a deep breath. You suppose you owe them an explanation. They did trust you enough to speak with you, after all. 

“None of this is your responsibility,” you say. “You two are far too young to go running into a situation like this unprepared. I know you’re concerned about the Stone and Nicolas Flamel, which I admire. But that area is forbidden for a reason—it’s very dangerous. And besides, Harry, you have the Quidditch finals coming up, too.” 

Harry exchanges a look with his friend and sighs. “I know it sounds difficult, but I’m going to need you to trust me with this. Contact Professor Dumbledore if you want—rest assured that I will also be contacting him—but do not, under any circumstances, follow me,” you say tersely. 

You level the boys with a fierce look—or, at least, as fierce as you can manage. “Do you promise to remain in the Common Room?” you demand a few moments later, when their silence remains unbroken. You look at them expectantly. 

“Yes, Professor,” the two boys then echo in unison. You nod and dismiss them. You take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling winded all of a sudden. You take a few moments to plan your next move. First, you need to contact Albus. You conjure a Patronus and relay the information, before sending it off to Albus. Next, you need to tackle the corridor. The obstacles should be easy enough. The only problem is what—or, more accurately, who—awaits you at the end. 

Indeed, the obstacles aren’t much of a problem. It appears that someone beat you to the punch, because the troll meant to guard the path is already unconscious. You get through the fluttering keys, win the giant chess game, and choose the correct potion. Once you finally reach the inner Chamber, you find yourself staring at Professor Quirrell. The two of you hadn’t talked much throughout the school year—you were never very fond of him. Now, you’re starting to understand why. Quirrell is indeed standing next to the Mirror of Erised in the middle of the hollow chamber. His gaze finds you upon your entrance and he laughs. He no longer looks like the meek, timid professor from before—his eyes are narrowed and there’s a cruel sneer on his face. 

“Ah, Professor!” Quirrell remarks. “I didn’t expect you to be here.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t,” you mutter wryly. You’re starting to realize… If everything had gone as intended, Harry would’ve been the one down here. The mere thought of Albus so callously throwing Harry into danger is enough to make your stomach turn. 

Let… me… see… 

What was that? It sounded like a voice—and not Quirrell’s. You watch with mounting horror as Quirrell turns, removing his turban to reveal a face at the back of his head. It’s Lord Voldemort, you realize with revulsion. Voldemort has possessed Quirrell’s body. You feel sick to your stomach. 

Suddenly, you’re dueling. You can’t imagine Harry, a first-year, dueling with this professor—it would’ve been a very one-sided fight. Thankfully, you’re a Hogwarts professor with years of experience under your belt. Therefore, the duel doesn’t last very long. You manage to disarm Quirrell and bind him tightly enough to keep him contained. Amazingly, hardly a few moments pass before Albus is standing in the Chamber with you. You explain the recent occurrences to him and he nods silently, before moving to take Quirrell to the Ministry. 

Unfortunately, you don’t realize that Quirrell landed a few hexes and curses on you until it’s nearly too late. You’re heading down the hallway on the third floor when an intense pain sends you nearly falling to the ground. You hold a hand to your side, only mildly surprised when your hand comes back bloody. You manage to stumble your way to the infirmary—albeit clumsily—and Poppy is quick to push you into a bed. Your eyes slip shut within a few moments. 

You wake to a headache running through your temple and down your cheekbones. Your body feels weirdly stiff — and you soon learn that it’s nighttime after a quick glance at the nearby window. From what you remember, you had entered the infirmary the previous night. Were you unconscious for a whole day?!

Supposedly you were. You must’ve needed the rest—or so Poppy says. She’s quick to reprimand you for your reckless actions. You maintain that you summoned Dumbledore, but he was ultimately away on a visit to London. She relaxes a bit at that, but still appears mildly disappointed in you. You’ll take it, you suppose. 

You don’t think you’re awake for more than fifteen minutes before you find yourself faced with a visitor. Albus Dumbledore stands at your bedside, before eventually moving to take a seat in the armchair he summons out of thin air. The casual display of wordless magic makes you smile in exasperation. 

The headmaster seems a bit peeved at the thought that you went to the third-floor corridor, rather than Harry. You’re quick to break through his rose-tinted vision and remind him that Harry is just a boy. And, more importantly, he doesn’t exist for the headmaster’s amusement and manipulation. Harry isn’t a mouse in a labyrinth of Albus’s creation. Your words are laced with a frustrated and bitter exhaustion that you’re unable to hide.

“I’m only preparing him for what comes,” Albus responds diplomatically, after taking a moment to contemplate. His cool disregard for Harry’s safety is enough to get you fired up again.  

“For what?” you question, unable to hide your irritation any longer. “The war he didn’t sign up for? No part of this battle is his, Albus. Harry’s parents started this war, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean he has to finish it.”

Albus remains silent, as if he knows that none of his words will dissuade you. However, he doesn’t look to be at all convinced by your prior statements. For a few moments, there’s nothing but awkward tension. “I’m glad you’re alright,” the headmaster then says out of nowhere. 

“I’m sure,” you huff. The bewildered look on the wizard’s face is enough to make you laugh. You push yourself up to a better sitting position and recline against the pillows at your back. “Would be one hell of a story otherwise.” The Daily Prophet would certainly put it on the front page, with a title like: ‘Hogwarts Professor Killed by Three-Headed Dog!’

“I suppose,” Albus acquiesces valiantly, apparently sensing your thoughts. You resist the urge to sigh at how begrudging his agreement is. “I see you have some gifts.” At that statement, you frown and look over at your bedside table, only to find it piled high with candy and cards. You blink at it and Albus, sensing your confusion, laughs. “From your students. News spreads fast around the castle, it seems,” he clarifies.

“They did not have to get me gifts—” you sputter. 

“I believe this one is from Mister Potter, Mister Weasley, and Miss Granger,” Albus interrupts, his gaze caught on the box sitting precariously on the top of the pile. “Would you mind terribly if I have some? I haven’t had Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans for a long time…”

“Go ahead,” you shrug, watching with amusement as Albus rifles through the box of candy. For a moment, you’re content to watch him pick through the box of jelly beans. Then, you’re suddenly struck with a realization: you rarely get the opportunity to speak with Albus one-on-one like this. He’s always rather busy. There’s been something weighing on your mind throughout the school year—namely, who Harry will stay with over the summer. From what you’ve gathered of his home life so far… you’re apprehensive about allowing him to return to his Muggle family over the summer. You’ve seen how Harry flinches when someone touches him without warning, how he’s always positioned to face the exit in a room, and how he goes uncharacteristically quiet in the presence of authority figures. That behavior isn’t often present in children with caring guardians. 

“Actually, Albus, before you leave…” you break off, drawing Albus’s attention away from the candy, “I’d like to speak with you about Harry’s summer residence.” For the briefest of moments, you swear you see Albus twitch. You convince yourself that it’s a figment of your imagination, because when you look at him again, you find that he’s simply staring at you with a blank expression.  

“The boy will be staying with the Dursleys,” Albus says diplomatically.

Your fingers twitch on top of the scratchy infirmary bedsheets. “Actually, I think Harry will be staying with me this summer,” you blurt out. The headmaster blinks at you, evidently not having expected any argument. You can’t help but wonder if anyone ever opposes Dumbledore. It certainly doesn’t seem like it happens often, judging from the fleeting expression of utter confusion and shock on the wizard’s face. 

“Oh, I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” Albus then asserts. 

“Well, I’m afraid it is,” you snap with renewed energy. You’ll be damned if Harry goes to those awful people for another summer. “I’ve researched the Blood Wards that protect him from Voldemort, and I can replicate them in my own home.” You raise your eyebrows at him. Your move, Albus. 

“That’s not possible,” the headmaster insists, his eyes wide. 

“It certainly is possible,” you frown at him, resisting the urge to laugh. Just because something is beyond his capabilities doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Truthfully, you’ve spent a lot of your free time throughout the year researching the blood wards Albus is so fond of. You hadn’t told anyone, in case your research proved fruitless. But it was just the opposite: you now have a rune diagram that will provide Harry with that same protection, without keeping him in an abusive household. “I did some research and found runes that mimic the exact same effects of the wards you’re so fond of.”

“The Dursleys are the boy’s only remaining family,” Albus reminds you after a few seconds. He’s quick to take another angle—likely because he knows you’re fully capable of replicating the wards. “You seek to take him from them?”

“You know as well as I do that the Dursleys don’t care for Harry in any way whatsoever. They view him as nothing more than a burden,” you remind him.

At Albus’s silence, you continue. “Harry will be living with me this summer and all future summers, if he so chooses,” you assert with somewhat unfounded confidence. Your heart is racing away in your chest, despite your conviction that this is the right decision. Someone needs to advocate for Harry and his well-being — he’s too young and has been hurt too many times to do it himself. 

“Very well; I see you’re convinced,” Albus responds, his lips pulled tightly in a flat line. You resist the compelling urge to roll your eyes and instead remain silent. You watch as Albus regards you for a moment, before turning his attention back to the Bertie’s Bott’s in his hand. He reaches in the box and takes out an unappealing brown jelly bean, popping it into his mouth without a second thought. You grimace instinctively. The headmaster’s face is blank for a moment, before his expression sours. He turns to you and smiles. “Dirt.”

“Never change, Albus,” you remark with fond irritation. The headmaster raises an eyebrow and smiles again, before getting to his feet and finally leaving you alone. 

Somehow, Albus isn’t your only visitor for the day. A few hours pass and, suddenly, there are three first-years standing at the foot of your bed. You push yourself up to a proper sitting position and level them with a curious look. “Miss Granger, Mister Weasley, Harry; how are you all doing?”

“Professor, who cares about us—?” Hermione blurts out, then slapping a hand over her mouth as if she hadn’t meant to speak. You let your gaze wander across the trio—they all have varying looks of concern on their faces. You begin to realize that they’re worried for you. 

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” you say, waving them off. None of them seem particularly convinced. “And thank you for the gift. It was entirely unnecessary, of course, but I appreciate the gesture.”

The three students all nod. They’re being uncharacteristically silent. An awkward tension settles in the air for a few moments. You take a deep breath and contemplate your next words. 

“Before I forget… I want to say that I appreciate you all coming to me and expressing your concerns,” you remark. “I’m sure it was frustrating to see Professor McGonagall not take you seriously and, rest assured, I’ll be having a conversation with her soon.” Your reassurance seems to work, as they all nod. 

“In the meantime, I believe there are some points to be awarded.” Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchange confused glances. It seems as if they understand what you’re alluding to, but they don’t want to get their hopes up. You can’t quite hide the fond smile growing on your face. 

“To you, Mister Weasley… Fifty points to Gryffindor.” Ron turns bright red at that. Harry and Hermione’s eyes are comically wide. “Same for you, Miss Granger.” She didn’t show up at your door, but you suspect she was involved too. She was likely the one to suggest speaking to Minerva. “And Harry, one hundred points.” 

“But, Professor—!” Hermione exclaims, only for Ron and Harry to both loudly shush her. You smile in amusement. 

“I’m very proud of you three,” you say sincerely. “It takes courage to rush into a battle recklessly. However, it takes even more bravery to stand aside and place your trust in others. You should all be very proud of yourselves.”

“Thank you,” they all say in unison. 

“Now…” you say, after casting a quick Tempus charm. You ignore the furious glare that Madam Pomfrey levels at you—you weren’t supposed to use magic so soon in your recovery—and smile. “I believe the three of you have a feast to attend. I get the feeling your peers will be very surprised by Gryffindor’s sudden tie with Slytherin.” The three students all grin in unison at that and thank you once more, before leaving for the Great Hall. At least, you think the three of them leave for the feast. For some reason, Harry comes back a moment later.

“Harry?” you ask. 

“I just wanted to say goodbye, Professor,” Harry says, averting his eyes. “I’ll be staying with the Dursleys this summer, so you probably won’t see me until the fall.” You frown at him for a moment, before realizing that he evidently was never told about the change of plans. 

“Actually, you’ll be staying with me over the summer,” you assert. The truth of the matter is, beyond your concern for Harry’s safety, you’re actually growing fond of him. You enjoy caring for him and providing him with the resources he needs to succeed. You’re not so delusional to think you’re a replacement for his parents, but you hope Harry at least considers you to be a trustworthy adult in his life. Merlin knows he needs more of them.

“Really?” Harry’s expression is guarded and wary. He doesn’t look like he believes you at all, and you get the horrible feeling that he won’t believe you until he’s standing in your home. You curse all the authority figures that mistreated Harry in such a manner—the Dursleys especially. You promise yourself that you’ll never let the boy down, not in the same way so many adults already have. 

“Yes,” you decide to respond. There’s nothing you can say that will convince Harry to let his guard down—not when he’s been harmed by hope so many times in the past. You decide to speak a little more, even if you know it won’t necessarily diminish his doubts. “You’ll see, Harry. For now, though, go enjoy the feast! I’m sure there’s some treacle tart waiting for you.”

A hesitant smile falls onto Harry’s face and he nods, before running out of the infirmary—immune to Madam Pomfrey’s aghast exclamations that he should refrain from running. You recline back against the pillow behind you and take a deep breath. You’ve finished another year at Hogwarts. 

As you rest, you let one thought dominate your mind: you will make good on your promise to Harry.

endnotes: Notice I made the restroom Hermione went into gender-neutral. poor jkr is probably so scared rn 🥺🥺 harry potter and the sorcerer’s all-gender restroom 🥺🥺🥺 harry potter and the chamber of genders 🥺🥺💀

After this, each chapter will be another book, I think. So Chapter 3 = Book 2, and so forth. So see you in book 2…! Prisoner of Azkaban is what I’m really looking forward to, and I’m sure you can guess why. Heeheehee….

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[defectivevillain]

spin the bottle

pairings: one shots for Josh, Mike, Jessica, Sam, Matt, Emily, and Chris.

the reader's pronouns are he/him; otherwise race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used.

word count: 2.5k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical language and mature themes (aka kissing & making out)

author's notes: This fic is focused on the until dawn characters playing spin the bottle! There are quick one shots for the main seven characters; Ashley’s is focused on Chris/Ashley. I wrote two for Sam: one that’s romantic and one that’s platonic (because I can also see her as a lesbian).

Am I living vicariously through fanfiction because I was too closeted to ever have and want a romantic experience in hs/college? Yes. Is that why I’m here right now? Also yes. Will this be self-indulgent? Oh, absolutely. Is this stupid? Also yes.

The order goes: Josh, Mike, Jessica, Sam (romantic), Sam (platonic), Matt, Chris, Emily, Ashley/Chris

Spin the Bottle: the bane of every sane person’s existence. It’s a messy game, stupid and often awkward. But Josh is your oh-so-gracious host, which means all of you are somewhat forced to pretend like you want to play when he suggests it. 

Josh grabs an empty bottle from the kitchen counter, raising his eyebrows suggestively. You sigh and Sam does too. The two of you are in sync more often than not. Emily looks bored; Matt stands next to her, a slightly awkward smile on his face. Jess and Mike are too busy staring at each other to notice much of anything; Chris and Ashley are also sneaking glances at each other. 

This is going to be a mess. You can already tell. And the smirk on Josh’s face promises nothing but pure chaos. A childish game like this, though… Surely nothing can go too wrong. Right?

Josh spins the bottle. You watch as it skitters around before eventually landing on Mike. Josh smirks, while Mike just looks mildly irritated. They kiss; Mike spins. And the game continues. 

You’re spared from playing for a while, until it inevitably lands on you and you have to spin…

The bottle skids to a stop, slowly passing Ashley and landing on Josh. 

“Oh no,” Josh says flatly, with virtually no inflection. It’s clear he isn’t actually disappointed, if the slight smirk on his lips is anything to go by. 

“You totally rigged that,” you huff. He was the one who suggested the game, and now he looks far too smug. 

“Hey, I didn’t even touch it,” Josh says, raising his hands in mock surrender. 

You roll your eyes. Your heart is stewing in your chest; you can’t quite get yourself to move. A few seconds pass and, somehow, you’re still frozen. 

Josh clicks his tongue. “Making me do all the work,” he says with a shake of his head. “Fine. Have it your way, pretty boy.” 

Before you can comprehend that statement, he’s nearly on top of you. You lock eyes with him and he smirks.

“Don’t chicken out now,” Josh teases. You roll your eyes. There’s a smile pulling at the edge of his lips—one you haven’t seen in a while. It almost appears… genuine. His eyes are glittering. Josh is enjoying this, enjoying pushing you around. 

He isn’t expecting you to initiate things, so that’s exactly what you do. But, to his credit, Josh is quick to respond, his hand dragging across your shoulder and resting at the nape of your neck. The kiss is far from an innocent one, as Josh sneaks a hand up your shirt and nearly rips the breath from your lungs. You’re flustered when he pulls away; Mike lets out a punctuated whistle. 

“Holy shit,” Chris says eloquently. 

“That was cray—zyyy,” Sam says with a laugh. 

You look over at Josh, catching him wink at you from across the circle.

It looks like you weren’t the only one who felt something there.

Mike is just about the last person you want to land on. He’s a good-looking guy, sure. But his ego is the size of a damn skyscraper; not to mention, there’s the whole mess with him, Jessica, and Emily. You have no idea what’s happening there, and you don’t think you really ever want to know. 

When the bottle lands on him, you just stare down at it—willing it to move somewhere else. 

“Use the Force, Luke,” Sam jokes. You shoot her an insincere glare and she just laughs. 

You’re not kissing Mike. No way. You think you’re gritting your teeth so hard that your jaw is going to crack. You try to relax. It’s just a simple gesture, devoid of romance or affection. This is a game for children. It’s just a game. Nothing about this matters. 

You break the distance between you, intensely aware of Jessica and Emily’s gazes burning into you. Even if you wanted to kiss Mike, you wouldn’t dare to—you don’t have a death wish. Instead, you pause a short distance from him and take his hand. He must think you’re going to hold his hand, interlace your fingers. Instead, you kiss the top of his hand like he’s a princess. That’s about the most you can get yourself to do.

Immediately, you know you’ve made the right decision—because the tension in the room completely dissipates. There are a few whoops and several whistles, followed by an outbreak of laughter. 

You stifle a smile, sneaking a glance at Mike when you get a chance. He’s a pretty good actor, because he’s blushing now. Huh. You look away too quickly to notice the strange look Mike gives you. And you’re a bit too distracted to recognize the lingering gazes he’s sending you throughout the duration of the game. 

By the time the game’s finally over, you’ve kissed at least half of the group. It doesn’t seem like any relationships will be broken apart, which is always a plus. Everyone just looks tired now. You all decide to go explore the house, divvying up the numerous bedrooms and enjoying some free time. 

You find yourself in one of the upstairs corridors at some point, struggling to find your way around the cabin. It’s a pretty big building, and the dim lighting certainly isn’t helping. You almost flinch at the sound of shuffling, until you realize there are footsteps coming closer. You squint at the shadowed figure.

“Hey, man,” Mike says, his hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Hey,” you respond, stepping to the side so he can pass through. He doesn’t take the proffered opportunity, though—instead just settling before you. You frown. “What’s up?” 

“I just wanted to talk,” Mike responds. 

“Okay,” you say, unable to hide some of your skepticism. That sounds a bit ominous, honestly. The dark hallway definitely isn’t helping with that—you can barely see the expression on his face. 

“During Spin the Bottle earlier,” he starts. Oh no. Here it comes. “You kissed me on the hand,” he recalls.

“Sorry, that was the most impersonal thing I could think of,” you respond helplessly. 

“Sure,” Mike says slowly, “but you didn’t do that with anyone else. You practically swapped spit with Josh,” 

Your brows furrow. “Ew, don’t say it like that,” you frown. 

Mike just rolls his eyes. “My point is,” he punctuates, taking a step closer, “I think you owe me.” 

You blink in confusion. Surely he’s not implying… 

“Jesus Christ,” Mike groans impatiently, surging forward and pushing you into the adjacent wall. You’re expecting to get pummeled, so when your lips meet, you’re entirely unprepared. He’s kissing you pretty fiercely, a hand just under your jaw and another tangled in the belt loop of your jeans. For several moments, you’re so stunned that you just stand there. 

Just as you start to get your bearings and attempt to reciprocate, he pulls back. Mike doesn’t even offer a word of explanation, instead turning around and striding away. You stare after him in complete and utter shock, your lips tingling and your heart racing.

When the bottle points at Jessica, your eyes wander to Mike and your heart drops to your throat. He doesn’t exactly look happy about it—he looks pissed. 

“Hey, don’t look at him,” Jessica demands, drawing your attention. “You landed on me.” 

“Okay,” you say reluctantly, dragging your eyes back to Jessica. “Um.”

Jessica mutters something about having to do everything herself, before she’s leaning forward and kissing you. It’s not a friendly kiss. It’s not a quick peck—it’s a bit intense. You think her hand is fisted in your collar, and her other hand wanders across the side of your face. 

You try your best not to react, painfully aware of all the other people in the room. When she releases you, you want to melt into the ground. Of one thing, you’re overwhelmingly certain: if Mike didn’t hate you before, he definitely hates you now. He’s glowering at you very intensely, even as time passes and the round continues. When Mike lands on Jess, the two of them embrace for far longer than socially appropriate—to the point when the rest of the group is urging them to stop. 

When they finally break apart, Mike is looking at you pointedly. You just blink. His arm around Jessica’s waist tightens; you resist the urge to laugh. Jessica was the one to kiss you so intensely—if he has a problem with anyone, it should be with her, not you. But Mike isn’t the most rational person, is he? 

You sigh and try to focus on the game, hoping you won’t have an awkward encounter with Mike later.

When the bottle lands on Sam, she just grins ever so slightly. You’re immediately nervous. “Pucker up, buttercup,” she says. Somehow, it’s the teasing nature of the remark that takes the pressure off. She’s trying to quell your nerves, you think. Feeling oddly appreciative, you smile and move to sit in front of her. 

It’s nothing to write home about, mainly because you’re both intimately aware of everyone staring at you. Sam can be a bit hard to read sometimes, so you have no idea how she actually felt about the kiss. At least, not until it’s her turn and the bottle lands right back on you.

“Part two, nice,” she says, before breaking the distance between you and kissing you again. This one’s a bit less tentative than the first, but nothing too crazy. You have a live audience, after all. When Sam leans away, she winks at you and you smile.

When you land on Sam, the two of you look up at each other and just laugh. You’re pretty close friends, but neither of you have ever had feelings for each other. And you’ve had explicit conversations about that. Sam’s spoken to you about her struggles with labeling her sexuality—she’s only really attracted to fem people. So this whole kissing thing is a chore for both of you.

You lean in and kiss her on the cheek. It’s an easy out—one the group clearly isn’t happy with, judging from the various jeers and boos. Sam sighs and presses a quick kiss to your lips, rolling her eyes at everyone when she pulls away. You send her an apologetic look and she waves you off. 

It’s quiet for a moment. “Wow,” Emily drawls, breaking through the silence. “Who knew kissing could be so boring?” 

“Worst porno ever,” Josh agrees. 

“Booooo,” Chris says jokingly. 

You just send a middle finger to everyone, surprised to find that Sam is doing the exact same thing.

“Okay, that was weird,” Matt says. “Maybe they’re long lost relatives or something.”

“Yeah, I take it back,” Emily says with a shake of her head. 

The group soon grows preoccupied with the next few rounds. At a free moment, Sam sends you a grateful smile, evidently glad you didn’t reveal that she’s been questioning her sexuality. You just smile back, relieved it’s over and that your friendship hasn’t been affected.

Matt glances at Emily the moment the bottle lands on him. 

“Don’t look at me,” she says disinterestedly. “I don’t care.” Emily shrugs. Normally, you’d be suspicious—but she sounds genuine. Matt seems to think the same, because he turns his attention back to you. You take a slow breath and move in front of him. It’s clear you’re going to have to initiate this. 

The kiss is sweet—not too crazy, but not entirely flat either. His hand hovers near your cheek, as he’s evidently hesitant to go too far. When you break apart, you smile at Matt and he smiles back. His eyes are almost sparkling. 

Then Emily groans loudly, demanding that Matt spins so the game can continue. The tension that had settled across the air is promptly broken. As the game continues, though, you can occasionally sense Matt sneaking glances at you, as if contemplating something.

Chris’s eyes are wide as he looks down at the bottle, which is pointing directly at him. He stares at you and lets out an awkward laugh. 

“Aw, baby’s first kiss,” Josh coos. 

“Shut up,” Chris huffs. Mike claps a hand on his shoulder in a reassuring gesture. 

The guy seems pretty nervous. “Are you okay with this?” you ask, sensing his unease. 

“Yeah, it’s just a game,” Chris responds lightheartedly. You study him for another moment before shrugging, moving to rest in front of him. 

“Last chance, Hartley,” you warn him. 

“Lay it on me,” he says challengingly, a bit of nervous bravado in his voice. You decide not to extend his suffering and anxiety any longer, instead leaning in and kissing him. It’s soft at first; you don’t quite know where to put your hands, because you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. But Chris seems to get over his anxiety, because his hand drifts down to your hip and he relaxes.

“That was the first time I’ve kissed a guy,” he admits when you break apart. You stare at him in disbelief, suddenly feeling guilty. You had no idea.

“Shit, sorry,” you say with a sheepish grimace. You would’ve been even more careful if you had known that. 

“No, no, don’t be sorry,” Chris replies quickly, a slight flush on his cheeks. “It— Uh. It was nice,” he stammers, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. The group erupts into noise, conspiratorial remarks and excited cheers.

You can feel Chris’s eyes on you as the game continues. 

…It seems you’ve left him with something to think about.

When the bottle lands on Emily, you’re immediately struck with a reasonable fear for your life. She just looks up from the ground and smirks at you. 

“Lucky you,” she says, raising her eyebrows suggestively. “Just so you know, I do bite.”

“I know,” you huff nervously. You’re so screwed. She’s going to rip your face off. 

Emily’s advancing on you before you can approach her. This is only going to make things even more awkward and tense, as her current boyfriend and ex-boyfriend watch on. You can just barely place your hands behind you to brace yourself before Emily’s lips are on yours, as she nearly pushes you to the ground behind you. Her hands glide across your face. When you break apart, you’re practically gasping for air. 

“Jesus, Em, you practically mauled him,” Sam remarks with amusement. 

Emily just shrugs, a smug smile on her face as she returns to her spot. Matt and Mike are both staring at you now. You try not to notice, instead clearing your throat awkwardly and looking around the room.

The traitorous bottle spins and spins and spins. When it lands on Ashley, you stare down at it flatly. You’re not super close with Ashley, and you know she’s attracted to Chris. 

“Can I double it and give it to the next person?” you ask, adjusting the bottle so the bottom is near Chris. Now, it’s positioned to appear as if Chris spun it and it landed on Ashley. “There. Congrats, Chris,” you say, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, dude, that was genius,” Josh grins. The rest of the group seems just as excited. 

Everyone cheers. Chris, bolstered by everyone’s support, asks Ashley for consent before kissing her. When they break apart, everyone is cheering and the game is promptly forgotten.  

Later, Chris pulls you aside to thank you; you just brush off his gratitude, congratulating him on his new relationship.

endnotes: mike and i would have the most homoerotic rivalry ever. he’s not the type of person i’d even be friends with. and the guy’s definitely used to everyone falling all over him, so he’d be so confused and frustrated. mwhahahha.

anyways, thanks for reading this shit show! hope you enjoyed.

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

thanks for reading! <3

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[defectivevillain]

the way i got all of these comments in the same 24 hour period. also, someone tried to hack into my account too 💀💀

idk where people get the audacity to act entitled to authors’ writing but it PISSES ME OFF

(for context on the third one: i literally just tagged buzzcuts in the tags, right next to haircuts. i said nothing about a trigger 💀)

[defectivevillain]

point of no return

pairing: Donatello/Reader

the reader's pronouns are he/him. race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used (aside from a quick height mention, which I've explained below)

summary: “Wait, you were in Donnie’s room?!” Mikey exclaims, his eyes wide. “And he let you live?” “Um……. yeah,” you say awkwardly, feeling as if you’re admitting to something you shouldn’t. “Why?” Comprehension passes across Leo’s face as he hears his brother’s surprise. “He doesn’t even let us in there,” Leo says pointedly. Mikey and Leo exchange a look, almost having a silent conversation through eye contact alone.

word count: 4.8k | ao3 version | donnie playlist

author's notes: Rise!Donnie is 5’3, supposedly. WHICH MEANS… That’s right. I have self-indulgently made the reader taller than him, because I am taller than him. The reader’s a college student and it’s implied that the brothers are the same age.

and i wrote the turtles’ ages in accordance with one of the older series. some loser on ao3 threw a hissy fit about it so now i’m warning y’all, ig.

otherwise, no warnings i can think of. enjoy! <3

(and shoutout to @firefly-graphics for the dividers... had to download this purple one for donnie mwahahhah)

“He’s perfect,” Donnie breathes, watching as you head to the kitchen to clean up their dishes from dinner. You’ve been a close friend to the brothers for a few years now, ever since you stumbled upon them on the surface. They had expected you to be scared of them—maybe even call the police—but instead you only directed them to the new pizza place they were looking for. You became fast friends after that; you’re a regular feature at the hideout now.

The mystery and enigma surrounding you disappeared for Leo, Raph, and Mikey as they got to know you. But somehow, Donnie is still just as fascinated by you as he was when you first met. Raph still remembers the awestruck expression on his face, the way his eyes darted around your form and never seemed to stop. His brother hadn’t stopped talking about you after that, musing on what your favorite Star Wars movies were—on account of the shirt you were wearing that night—and which video games you played. He was, to put it kindly, completely insufferable. Raph recalls the first time you came to the hideout—and the panicked flurry Donnie fell into as he cleaned his room at least six times.  

Raph likes to think his brother has relaxed a bit since then, but moments like this prove him wrong. Donnie is still gushing about you. It’s ridiculous (and, secretly, a bit amusing). Raph just shakes his head in disbelief as Donnie continues talking about you as if you aren’t right on the other side of the wall. “A perfect specimen!” he maintains. 

“No one’s perfect, D,” Leo reminds him with a friendly nudge to his shoulder. 

“But he is,” Donnie maintains with complete sincerity. He clasps his hands and bats his eyelashes in a dramatic gesture. 

“Well, maybe don’t call him a specimen,” Raph says lightly. “He’s our friend, remember.”

“I know that,” Donnie snaps, his expression souring. “It’s just scientific inquiry. Relax.”

Raph just surrenders, shrugging his shoulders and abandoning further argument. He wants to think that his brother will drop this topic. But he knows better. When Donnie’s fixated on something, nothing and no one will stop him. This crush of his has lasted for literal years—it certainly won’t go away with some advisory remarks from them. 

Raphael is unsurprised, then, to find his brother sneaking up behind you a few days later as you sit on the couch. He locks eyes with Donnie, who puts a finger to his lips and glares at him violently. Raph looks back at the TV and sighs deeply, regretting his involuntary involvement in this scheme. 

Donnie reaches for an area near your ear and tugs quickly. “Ow,” you hiss, bringing a hand to your hair and turning around. “What was that for?”

“Nothing!” Donnie says brightly, a maniacal smirk on his face as he holds a hair between two fingers. He bounds off, whistling under his breath. 

Raph watches as you stare after Donnie in complete disbelief. He buries his head in his hands. 

Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael, and Michelangelo are easily the weirdest people you’ve ever met—and not just because they’re mutant ninja turtles. Although, that certainly helps. Still, the four of them have very distinctive personalities. Sometimes, you wonder how they can all live under the same roof (or, well, pavement). 

Leo, the oldest, is the responsible one. At least, he’s supposed to be. He can be cocky and arrogant at times, a bit of a playboy, but he has a good heart. He cares about his brothers, and they care about him in return. 

Donnie’s the inventor: outspoken and withdrawn all at once. He values his personal space, his time, his inventions… The list goes on. He’s a bit of a spitfire when he wants to be, but the same can be said for most of the other turtles. 

Raphael looks incredibly intimidating, but he’s a sweetheart. He’s pretty reckless and often declares himself the leader of their group, which is a title that only he seems to agree on. 

And Mikey, the youngest brother, is lovable and goofy. He can often be found playing video games or skateboarding. He has an enviable amount of energy—often fidgeting or bouncing his leg restlessly. The guy can never seem to stop moving. 

Of the four brothers, you’re closest with Donnie. He was a bit prickly at first—and still is, honestly—but he slowly warmed up to you. Now, the two of you are good friends. You frequently visit the Hideout to play video games, and today is no different. You’ve been playing Fortnite with him for an hour or so now, all up until you declared you needed a water break. This is how you find yourself in the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets as you try and fail to find what you’re looking for. 

“Left cabinet,” a voice says helpfully. 

You open the left cabinet and find a glass to use, getting it down before turning around to acknowledge the new presence. “Oh, hey, Leo,” you say. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Leo says with a nod, his arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“Yeah, I’ve just been playing Fortnite with Donnie,” you nod, filling up your glass. You grab a drink for Donnie too, placing it next to yours. 

“Nerds, both of you,” Leo says with a click of his tongue. 

You roll your eyes at him. Mikey must overhear your conversation, because he’s soon heading into the kitchen. “Wait, you were in Donnie’s room?!” Mikey exclaims, his eyes wide. “And he let you live?”

“Um…… yeah,” you say awkwardly, feeling as if you’re admitting to something you shouldn’t. “Why?”

Comprehension passes across Leo’s face as he hears his brother’s surprise. “He doesn’t even let us in there,” Leo says pointedly. Mikey and Leo exchange a look, almost having a silent conversation through eye contact alone. You try to ask them what they’re thinking, but they’re tight-lipped after that. 

Remembering that Donnie’s waiting for you, you say goodbye and head back to his bedroom. With both hands occupied, you manage to nudge the door open with your foot and close it behind you. 

“Hey, what took you so long?” Donnie asks, his back turned as his eyes are evidently locked on the screen. Hatsune Miku crawls around on the screen for a moment, before promptly dying as she’s shot. He groans in annoyance. “Just got my ass kicked going solo,” he huffs, motioning to the screen. 

“My bad, sorry,” you apologize, handing him his drink. He seems to relax after taking a few sips. You place your glass of water on the nearby table and return to your seat on the couch. “I was just talking to the guys.”

“Of course,” Donnie sighs, pressing the ready button on his controller. You do the same and a countdown starts on the screen. “Tell ‘em you’re busy next time.”

“Okay,” you hum. There’s silence for several seconds as the countdown resumes. You’re spectating the player who killed Donnie now, and they’re driving around the map recklessly. You watch for a few moments before your curiosity gets the best of you. “Hey, Donnie?” you ask. 

“Yeah?” he says.

“You’re… okay with me being in here, right?” you question. 

“Yeah, why?” Donnie blinks. 

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly. Donnie sends you a disbelieving look and you sigh. “Leo just said you, uh, don’t usually let people in your room. So I wanted to make sure I wasn’t invading your space or anything.” 

“You wouldn’t be here unless I wanted you here, trust me,” Donnie huffs, crossing his legs and resting them on the ottoman in front of him. “Now lock in, we’re dropping soon.” You turn your attention back to the screen and find that you’re about to load into the game. 

The conversation dissipates after that, as you both focus on the next round. Even as you keep playing, you sense Donnie sneaking glances at you throughout. You pretend not to notice, filing the interaction to the back of your mind.

It’s far from the first time you’ve had a puzzling interaction with Donnie, and you doubt it’ll be the last. Do you expect the next one to happen so soon? Not necessarily. 

You’re poking around the hideout looking for Leo, but you’re not having much success. You need someone to look over your essay for the communication gen-ed course you’re taking, and Leo’s pretty good with that kind of thing. But he isn’t in his room, or anywhere else that you can see. 

This leads you, inevitably, to Donnie’s door. You knock on the door and enter seconds later. “Hey, Donnie,” you say casually. His back is turned as he tinkers with something at his desk. He makes no indication of hearing you, but you know he’s listening. “Can you read over my essay?” 

“Math and science, math and science,” he emphasizes, spinning around in his chair. “Donnie and English don’t mix. No me gusta.” He’s wearing his goggles and, in the vivid purple light of his room, it almost hurts to look at him. 

“Okay, I’ll just ask Leo,” you remember to say, moving to leave the room. “Have you seen him?” 

Suddenly, in a green and purple blur, Donnie is standing in front of you. His goggles are pushed up to his temple now; and he has a hand on your shoulder. That’s surprising enough to make you halt in your tracks. “Wait.”

Several seconds pass. You eventually decide to break the silence. “I’m waiting,” you remind him with a slight smile.

Donnie stares, blinks. He shakes his head as if clearing his thoughts. “Right,” he acknowledges, before sighing theatrically. Then, as if that isn’t enough, he continues, “Sigh. I’ll read your essay for you.”

“Really?” you ask. He nods and you smile in relief. “Awesome, thanks.” 

“Don’t get used to it,” Donnie says pointedly. “Writing is the coward’s math.”

“What?” you sputter disbelievingly. That doesn’t even make sense. 

“Shut up,” he says defensively, taking your laptop from where you’d been holding it at your side.

“Wait, you don’t even know my—” you trail off, watching as he seamlessly unlocks your laptop, “...password.” You sigh. Figures. Something as simple as a password isn’t nearly enough to keep Donnie away. 

“Where is it?” he then asks, browsing through your computer. You resist the urge to snatch your laptop back. 

“I was going to pull it up for you,” you say with a shake of your head, leaning over his shoulder and pointing at the screen. “There. It’s for my communication class. The prompt had us pick a holiday, event, or occurrence and relate it to communication practices.”

“Yawn.” Donnie rolls his eyes. 

“Hey, you signed up for this,” you shrug. “I was going to ask Leo.” 

“Blegh, don’t remind me,” Donnie says with a lazy wave over his shoulder. “Now, shoo. I need complete silence for my artistic genius.” 

“Okay,” you agree, leaving his room. You can only hope he’ll return your laptop to you once he’s done. But you have a feeling he’s going to be poking around on your computer, if only to find blackmail material to use against you later. Sigh.

When he comes back, Donnie tosses your laptop towards you; you scramble to catch it, sending him a furious glare despite knowing he would’ve fixed it if you dropped it. You open it up and scroll through your essay, surprised to find very few notes and comments. You look up to him questioningly. 

“It was good,” Donnie says, almost looking like he’s struggling to admit it.  

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you huff. 

“I’m not surprised,” he clarifies. “It was interesting.”

“Oh,” you say. “Thanks.” 

“Yep,” he nods. “Now you owe me.” 

“Damn it,” you hiss. Owing Donnie a favor is never a good position to be in. Judging from the maniacal smirk that passes across his face, he has several chaotic ideas to get you to repay him. 

“Ta-ta!” he says with a wave, whistling as he goes. That extra pep in his step promises your likely demise at the hands of one of his many inventions. It was nice while it lasted, you suppose. 

Finally, after far too long, you have some free time. It’s been a while since you’ve had time to yourself. And you’ve made use of it, catching up on some TV shows and playing video games. But there’s only so much of that you can do before you get bored. It’s inevitable that you find yourself skateboarding with Mikey, after a casual remark from you about not knowing how to skate reaches his attention. 

Now you’re in the Hideout, trying and failing to do a kickflip. You did one a few minutes ago, but you haven’t been able to replicate the trick. In hindsight, maybe Mikey and you were a bit loud as you celebrated your successful trick. Because within a few minutes, Donnie’s emerging from his room and practically storming towards you both. 

“What’s going on here?” Donnie demands, looking irritated. “I can hear you both from my room.” 

“Sorry,” you grimace. Mikey echoes the sentiment. For a minute, Donnie’s just staring at you. You can tell he’s scrutinizing your appearance: you’re dressed a bit differently today, with baggy jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. “Mikey’s teaching me how to skate,” you explain. “Sort of.” 

Donnie looks you up and down. “You look stupid,” he says clearly. “Poser.”

“Oh,” you just say, blinking as you watch him turn and walk away. Somehow, you get the feeling the comment isn’t genuine. Donnie does seem frustrated, though. “Okay then.” The comment hurts a little bit, but again, you don’t think he truly means it. 

Mikey grimaces as he stares after his brother, before turning back to you. “He doesn’t mean that, don’t worry,” he’s quick to say. “You know how he gets.” 

After about ten minutes, you’re finally able to do a kickflip consistently. Mikey’s been pretty patient with you so far, but you can tell he’s getting bored now. You thank him for his help and tell him you can pick up lessons some other day, to which he grins and congratulates you on a successful skating session. 

After some contemplation, you decide to head over to Donnie’s room, knocking on the door quietly. He allows you entrance and you try to apologize, only for him to beat you to it. 

“You’re not a poser,” Donnie says quickly, nudging his goggles up to his temple and looking at you imploringly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you respond. “Mikey and I were being kind of loud.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it,” he emphasizes. Donnie swivels around in his desk chair, studying you for a long moment. “You didn’t—um, you don’t—look stupid or anything.” 

“Okay,” you respond, appreciating his reassurance. “Thanks.” 

“You look……. um,” Donnie breaks off, almost seeming to short-circuit for a second. He then mumbles something too quietly for you to hear. 

“Sorry, what was that?” you say, after a few moments of trying and failing to decipher what he just said.

“Nice,” he repeats. “You look nice. Really nice. I mean, not to say you don’t always look nice. Because you do. Like… just… extra nice? Hot, some might say. I mean—!”  

Donnie lets out a groan, seeming to realize what he just said. He straightens up and leaps to his feet. “Okay, great, visiting hours are over, bye!” he says quickly, before proceeding to push you out of his room and shut the door. You stare at his closed door in complete shock. 

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised when, in the coming days, Donnie begins to avoid you. You try not to take offense to it, but after several days pass and he still seems avoidant, you ask Leo about it.

“It’s just been a few days,” you finish explaining to Leo, “but I don’t want him to think anything’s wrong.”

“He’s been avoiding you?” Leo blinks in bewilderment. Then he shakes his head. “Donnie’s such an idiot.”

Leo must talk to his brother sometime after that, because in the coming days, Donnie seems to relax a bit. He’s not outright avoiding you anymore, but you do catch him glancing at you every so often and then looking away in embarrassment. You want to reassure him that nothing has changed between you, but you never seem to get the perfect opportunity. 

It takes two weeks for things to finally return to normal. You haven’t really said or done anything different since your last conversation with Donnie, but after a quick meal shared with the brothers, things seem better. Donnie and you joke around a bit, and you think you may finally be past… well, whatever that was.

You’re on the couch later that night, struggling to choose what to watch. Raph and Mikey are playing basketball on the nearby court on the surface, while Leo is refereeing. Donnie is holed up in his room, as far as you know. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice says. You don’t have time to respond before Donnie is swiftly jumping over the back of the couch and sitting next to you. You blink in surprise. “So I have to build your profile. Your portfolio. You know, for research. Can I ask you some questions?” he practically blurts out. He sounds uncharacteristically hesitant.

“...Sure,” you agree. 

“Okay, good,” Donnie says, clearly relieved. He straightens up, looking down at the clipboard in his hands. When you try to sneak a glimpse, he huffs and hides it from you before beginning to fill it out. “Okay, birthday, already know it… Age, same as me, great… Hair color, got it…” 

“Eye color?” he asks, squinting at you. “Here, lemme see.” 

“You don’t know the answer to that?” you ask, somewhat offended. 

“Of course I do, shut up,” he huffs defensively. Donnie leans even closer, studying you intently. “Just double-checking. I need to get the exact hue right.”

“That can’t possibly make a difference,” you mumble. Donnie makes no indication of hearing you, instead flipping his attention between you and his clipboard and you again. You’re tempted to close your eyes out of sheer spite, but you know that won’t get you anywhere. Eventually, Donnie finishes this inspection and levels you with an inscrutable look. 

“Okay,” he says resolutely, looking at you intently. “Now this part is new, so it may seem a bit……. weird.”

You just raise a brow.

“What’s your sexuality?” Donnie asks. 

“I’m gay,” you decide to say. You’ve been struggling with exact labels recently, so you figure that’s the most accurate answer to give. 

“Good,” he nods, before blinking quickly. “I mean, got it. O—kay,” Donnie drawls. “Ideal first date, go.”

“Um….” you trail off, not quite sure what your answer is. And how is this relevant to whatever profile he’s building? Unless he’s covertly signing you up for some sort of dating site, this doesn’t make sense. “Coffee, I guess? Or a museum or something? I don’t know. I don’t really care.” 

“That’s fine, sure…” he says, noting your answers down. “Any turn-offs?”

Again, these questions don’t seem super relevant, but Donnie looked weirdly nervous so you decide to take pity on him and just follow along. “I mean, nothing crazy,” you say after considering the question. “Just the basics. Being rude to customer service workers… Lying, cheating… Things like that.” 

“Works for me,” Donnie hums. Then he stiffens, blinks like a deer in headlights. “That is, works for the— the profile.” 

He asks you a few more questions before showing you mercy. “Okay, I think I have it all,” Donnie announces. “Thank you for your generous participation,” he says with a mock bow. You roll your eyes, unable to hide a smile at the sight. 

“No problem,” you respond, watching him leave the room. “Do I get compensation for this generous participation?”

Donnie laughs. “Oh, absolutely not,” he says, sending a wave over his shoulder before promptly heading into his room.

“Wait a minute,” Raph says, resisting the urge to shake you by the shoulders. Surely you can’t be this oblivious. The two of you are sitting on the couch a few days later, as you recount your strange conversation with Donnie. “Wait wait wait wait wait a minute.” 

“What?” you ask worriedly. 

“Donnie straight up asked you about your ideal first date?” Raph asks incredulously. 

“Yeah…?” you say weakly. 

“And turn-offs?” he continues. You nod. “And then when you responded, he said, ‘Works for me’?!”

“I… Yeah,” you admit. 

Raphael face-palms. “You guys are fucking ridiculous.”

“He said it was for my profile; you know, for research…” you trail off unconvincingly. 

“Yeah, research,” Raph drawls. His brother is easily the smartest person he knows, but he can be quite stupid. “He’s researching how to be the ideal partner. Because he likes you.” 

“Oh,” you realize aloud. To your credit, you don’t seem super surprised—you probably suspected it, at the very least. 

But Raphael does a double-take, and pure terror runs through him. He was supposed to keep quiet about that. “Shit,” he says, “I… I wasn’t supposed to say that. Just forget it, okay?”

Unfortunately, he has a feeling you stopped listening after the part about Donnie liking you. Raph buries his head in his hands. Donnie is going to murder him. 

You have a plan. It’s a pathetically simple one: go into Donnie’s room and ask him on a date. It should be easy, right? Nothing crazy. In light of your conversation with Raphael, you think you have a good chance of succeeding with this plan. But, then again, you never know. Donnie’s always a bit unpredictable.

“Hey, Donnie,” you say as you knock on his door lightly. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” he responds after a second. 

“You sure?” you ask, peeking through the door ever so slightly. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“Yeah, you can come in,” Donnie clarifies with a drawn-out sigh.

You decide to linger near the doorway, sensing his stress. “Okay, so...” you trail off, starting to get nervous. “I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee sometime,” you blurt out in a rush. “Or go to a museum, or something.”

Donnie’s face scrunches in confusion, before he evidently remembers your survey response. “Are you asking me on a date?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you answer.

“Oh,” Donnie says, clearly surprised. 

“So?” you prompt him, after a few seconds pass and nothing happens. “Do you want to? It doesn’t have to be right now.” You shove your shaking hands into your pockets. It’s fine, this is fine, everything is fine. You’re not nervous. You’re completely fine and unaffected and cool and composed and—

“Yes, I want to,” Donnie responds, a timid smile on his face. And you have to jump through several mental hoops to convince yourself that this is real, that you just asked Donnie on a date and he agreed. 

“Good,” you manage to say. You probably sound just as flustered as you’re feeling. “So when do you…?”

“Does right now work for you?” Donnie grins shamelessly, suddenly standing near the door.

“Sure,” you smile back. He holds the door open for you and the two of you head off.

“Hey, you ditched our lesson again,” Mikey frowns when he sees you walk into the Hideout a few weeks later. 

“Oh shit, Mikey, I’m so sorry,” you remark apologetically. Schoolwork has been taking up a lot of your time lately—and when it doesn’t, you’re usually with Donnie. The two of you have been going on dates for a few weeks now, and it’s been really nice.  

“It’s fine, dude,” he says genuinely, waving a hand nonchalantly. “It was nice to have some practice time.” 

“He has an even better teacher now!” Donnie announces, suddenly appearing in the hall with his skateboard. “Check it!” Donnie proceeds to skate up the ramp, executing a clean trick and coming back down.

“Hey, I could do that in my sleep,” Mikey scoffs.

Donnie’s expression darkens. 

…Uh oh. 

Before long, you find yourself judging an impromptu skating contest between Donnie and Mikey.  

Donnie’s pissed when you declare it a tie. You make it up to him by having an hour-long skating lesson after, which quickly spirals into Donnie just holding you still as you stand on a board. You try telling him that you were doing kickflips with Mikey—to which Donnie responds by placing a foot on your board and sending you sprawling forward. He catches you easily, his hands at your waist as he nearly lifts you off the ground.

“What was that for?” you ask breathlessly. 

“You’re grounded,” he says. “Literally and figuratively.” 

“What, why?” you sputter. 

“Look, Simba,” Donnie emphasizes, quite literally lifting you off of the ground. “Everything the light touches… is yours.” You look down at him in disbelief, choking on a confused laugh. He doesn’t say anything, creating a rather awkward tension between the two of you. You feel like a stray kitten, being picked up by an inquiring human. 

“You can let go of me now; I won’t fall,” you say at some point. It’s kind of impressive that he’s been lifting you up in the air for so long—you’re a few inches taller than him, after all.  

“Can never be too careful,” Donnie says pointedly. But he does finally let you return to the ground. You huff incredulously. “Now, onwards! To your room, young man!”

“What is happening?” you mutter to yourself. Donnie just tugs you along to his room, shutting the door and locking it behind him. Then he lets out a deep breath and collapses onto the couch. “What’s the matter?” you ask, a bit concerned for him. You’re getting whiplash here. 

“This dating stuff’s hard work,” Donnie sighs.

“It doesn’t need to be,” you try to say. “You don’t have to pretend—you can go off on your own when you need alone time or space.” 

“Thank you,” he nods. “That’s… not quite what I meant, but I appreciate it.”

“Oh,” you remark. “What did you mean?”

He growls in frustration, evidently annoyed with himself. You wait for him to gather his thoughts.

“I don’t really get it,” Donnie then admits. “Flirting and all that.” 

“That’s okay—” you try to reassure him.

“I was trying just now,” he interrupts you. “When you were skating.”

“Ohhhh,” you say. Suddenly the way he just froze in front of you makes more sense.  

“I wanted to kiss you,” Donnie continues.

Your eyes widen. “Well, don’t beat yourself up about it,” you say weakly, suddenly feeling a bit flustered. Donnie expressed his confusion about flirting and romance—and, honestly, you’re sort of the same. It’s a bit difficult to navigate. “…You can just ask,” you blurt out before your mind can catch up. The urge to immediately bury your head in your hands is hard to resist. 

But Donnie brightens. “I can?”

“Yeah,” you confirm.

“It was that easy?!” he exclaims incredulously, springing to his feet and coming to stand in front of you. After a moment, Donnie takes a slow breath. “Okay then,” he says slowly, “can I kiss you?”

“Sure,” you respond. 

It’s tentative and hesitant. Donnie pulls back as if you’re going to react dramatically. But you’re just staring at him, and he’s just staring back. A flush rises on his cheeks—difficult to see with his green skin, but noticeable nonetheless. 

His eyes flit about the room. “Again?” he asks quietly. 

You nod.

After four or five repetitions of this cycle, Donnie stops and wraps his arms around you, tugging you into an embrace. “This is…… nice,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

“Yeah, it is,” you agree, returning his embrace. 

“I’m sorry I’m not doing this right,” Donnie says. 

“You don’t have to apologize; there’s no right way to do this,” you reply truthfully. “I think we’re doing fine. Great, even.”

“Splendid,” Donnie adds. 

“Wonderful,” you continue. He squeezes you reassuringly, before his arms start to slip away. “Can I kiss you again?” you blurt out. 

If turtles could blush, you think Donnie would be blushing. His eyes are wide and his lips part slightly in surprise. Donnie nods. You lean in to kiss him and he’s quick to reciprocate. Before things can go too far, there’s a harsh banging on the door and you both flinch. Leo and Mikey are outside, yelling about something or other. 

“And that’s why I locked the door,” Donnie says smugly, sending an unbothered glance at the door before turning back to you. “Now, shall we play, my dear Watson?” He looks at the TV screen pointedly. 

“Certainly, Holmes.” You both exchange a look and then laugh, settling onto the couch. As you play, you slowly migrate closer together. By the time dinner is ready, you’re nearly nestled into Donnie’s side. 

You suspect the other brothers are still trying to get into Donnie’s room, judging from the rattling of the lock. Donnie’s just whistling proudly. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and smiles; you smile back. 

“We have some time,” he says a few seconds later with a smirk. The lock on the door is rattling. “It’s a fake lock,” Donnie elaborates. 

You laugh.

endnotes: donnie i'm coming home sweetie

a huge thank you to @connorhasabigtip for beta reading this ! and graduating college at the same time. a power move fr. congratulations, bestie! see you soon... 😏🖤

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat @always-lying-to-you @moss4ev3r @hottskull

friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!

[defectivevillain]

comfort crowd

pairing: Bruce Banner/Reader

the reader is masculine implied. otherwise, race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used.

summary: “You could be hanging around any of the Avengers and you choose Bruce Banner?" your friend asks disbelievingly, glancing at you over the rim of their glass. You’ve been trying your best to ensure they aren’t staring at any of the heroes for too long, but it’s only inevitable. It takes you a moment to respond to their question. “We’re friends,” you respond. At your friend’s skeptical look, you frown. “What?” "Friends don't look at each other like that."

word count: 2.2k | ao3 version

notes: The reader is implied to be masculine (they’re said to be ‘fanboying’ over Bruce, but that’s literally it). Otherwise, race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used. Also, the reader works for Tony Stark but their exact career isn’t specified.

no warnings I can think of. hope you enjoy!

You usually ditch Tony Stark’s parties. Tony is many things: genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist—as he so eloquently states. But he’s not exactly the best at throwing parties. It’s not his fault, really. A bunch of superheroes in an enclosed space with alcohol is a recipe for disaster. Combine that with the general luxury of Stark Tower… and you’re faced with an event you’d really rather not attend.

But this time is a little different, because your friend is here. Your amazing, nerdy friend who loves the Avengers far more than any normal person should. Since the moment you revealed that you work with Tony Stark, they’ve been practically begging you for a chance to even be in the same room as the superheroes. And, well, after at least six or seven denied invites, you figure you have to show your face at this upcoming party for a bit. It’ll kill two birds with one stone: proving you’re not an unapproachable asshole, while giving your friend the chance to drool over the Avengers from across the room. It’s a win-win, you think. 

This is how you find yourself awkwardly lurking in the corner of the living room, spectating the madness from afar. A few of the guys are currently fixated on trying to lift Thor’s hammer, while Thor watches on with a smug expression. Wanda and Vision are discussing something quietly in the corner; Tony is ambling about, providing people with more drinks and just generally ensuring everyone is having a good time. Bucky and Steve are on the couch, the two of them looking somewhat out of their element until Sam approaches and gets them to loosen up a bit. Clint is speaking to Bruce quietly in the corner of the room. 

Bruce Banner is probably the Avenger you’re closest to, if you’re being honest. A few of the heroes are antisocial or prickly—cough, cough, Bucky, Natasha and Wanda, cough, cough—but you get along with most of them. Vision is cool; Sam is a good guy and the two of you have been known to watch movies together when time allows. Clint, Steve, and Rhodey are polite and friendly enough, but you’ve never really had long conversations with them. There’s Tony, of course: your indirect boss. He’s a piece of work, but he does have a heart buried underneath all that metal. (At least, you hope so.)

But Bruce? Bruce is the one you gravitate towards. He’s grounded in a way most of the other heroes aren’t. He’s a scientist first and a hero second. He’s wicked smart, of course—with a dry sense of humor that always amuses you. 

When your friend learns that Bruce is the one you’re closest with, they seem surprised. “You could be hanging around any of the Avengers and you choose him?” your friend asks disbelievingly, glancing at you over the rim of their glass. You’ve been trying your best to ensure they aren’t staring at any of the heroes for too long, but it’s only inevitable.

It takes you a moment to respond to their question. “We’re friends,” you respond. At your friend’s skeptical look, you frown. “What?”

“Friends don’t look at each other like that,” they say smartly, with all the wisdom of someone who has very little knowledge of the situation. 

“Like what?” you blink in confusion. 

“Like that,” your friend says, looking at Bruce pointedly. You follow their gaze to find him staring at you intently—he quickly looks away. 

“Please,” you scoff at them. “You’re losing it.” 

“I don’t think so,” they say, before raising their eyebrows suggestively. You both laugh at the gesture and soon forget about that particular subject of conversation. 

Eventually, your friend has to head home—and you walk them to the door, giving them a hug and reassuring them that they don’t owe you anything (despite their insistence that they do.) After they leave, you close the door and turn around—only to nearly run into Tony. 

“They were right, you know,” Tony remarks, apropos of nothing. 

“What?” you say. Is he talking about your conversation earlier? How does he know about that? “Hey, were you eavesdropping?” you look at Tony pointedly. 

“I’ve never seen Banner half as sociable as he is when he’s with you,” Tony says, completely ignoring your accusation. “What do you two even talk about, anyways?” he huffs. 

You shrug. “Depends.”

“Hm.” Tony looks contemplative, before a smirk rises on his lips. “Knowing you nerds, it’s probably mortality, existentialism, blah blah blah, naturalism, blah blah blah, uncanny valley, something something—”

“Okay, okay,” you huff, refusing to admit he’s right on the money. “Sheesh.” 

Tony shrugs. “Hey, I’m just making an observation.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Flirt all you want.”

“Flirt?” you echo incredulously. “We’re not flirting.” 

“Sure,” Tony says flippantly, clearly not committed enough to argue. “Well, maybe you’re not,” he adds casually.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you squint. Tony just shrugs, taking advantage of your confusion and promptly leaving the conversation. You watch him walk over to get another drink, feeling equal parts fond exasperation and irritation. For a moment, you wander about the party and exchange quick greetings with everyone. 

It’s inevitable, you think, that you find yourself gravitating to Bruce. He’s standing at a high-top table, staring off into the distance. You watch him for a moment, idly wondering if he even wants company. Eventually, you manage to summon the courage to approach him. 

“Hey, Bruce,” you say casually, standing across from him. 

Bruce blinks and drags his gaze towards you, his tense posture seeming to relax a bit. “Hey yourself,” he responds with a brief nod. He’s nursing an almost untouched drink in his left hand. “I’m surprised to see you here.” 

“Oh, yeah,” you acknowledge. You don’t usually bother going to these parties, after all. “My friend’s kind of an Avengers fan, so I had to bring them here to shut them up.” 

“It was a religious experience, I’m sure,” Bruce says jokingly. 

“Yeah, I had to watch them the whole night,” you admit with a smile. “Make sure they didn’t try to jump Steve’s bones or anything.”

Bruce chuckles. “I saw Tony talking your ear off earlier,” he points out. 

“Agh, yeah,” you sigh. “Everyone’s up my ass today, it’s kind of annoying.”

Bruce sputters at your somewhat vulgar honesty, laughing for a bit before composing himself. “And why’s that?” he asks, his eyes glittering. 

“I don’t know,” you admit, tapping your fingers against the table restlessly. Bruce’s eyes track the movement. “They keep asking me about you.” 

“Me?” he blinks. “Why?”

You shrug helplessly. At his confused look, you try to elaborate. “They seem convinced that we’re more than friends, that you’re flirting with me.”

“Hm,” he says calmly. Bruce is a composed guy, but you expected him to react a bit more skeptically. There are a few seconds of silence. “And what do you think?” Bruce continues, his expression impossible to decipher. The room around you almost seems to fade into obscurity. It’s just the two of you. 

“What do I think about it?” you clarify. Bruce nods. “I mean, I don’t think you’re flirting with me. Obviously.” The remark probably sounds a bit pained and stiff, but what else are you supposed to say? ‘Yeah, I really wouldn’t mind if you were flirting with me. Keep it up!’ You fight off a laugh at the thought. 

“Obviously,” Bruce repeats. He considers you for a moment. “You know, for someone so intelligent, you can be pretty oblivious,”

“Hey,” you huff indignantly. “Rude.”

“You think I’d spout off about my research to just anyone, in such explicit detail?” he asks. 

“…Yes?” you say weakly. 

Bruce looks unimpressed. He sighs, shakes his head. “I was trying to impress you,” he admits, looking at some unseen point over your shoulder. 

You stare at him in complete and utter disbelief. “You don’t have to try to impress me,” you manage to say, when you can gather your thoughts again. “I’m already impressed by you.” 

This time, Bruce is surprised. “Really?”

“Um, duh,” you say with a sheepish smile. “I’ve been borderline fanboying over you.”

“Our last conversation was you trying to justify nihilism,” Bruce recalls with amusement. “You call that fanboying?” That unfairly attractive, lopsided smile is on his lips again. 

“I don’t know!” you say defensively, once you can tear your eyes away from it. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he remarks, with a fondness you can’t quite dismiss as merely platonic.  

“I think we both are,” you respond. 

“Maybe,” Bruce admits with a slight smile. His eyes wander the room before finding you again. “Everyone else seems to think so.” 

“Maybe we should really give them something to talk about, then,” you say before you can stop yourself. The implications of that statement are clear, and you watch as comprehension dawns across Bruce’s face. The two of you are standing closer than socially appropriate now. 

“Maybe we should,” Bruce responds with a smile, placing his drink on the table. It’s unreasonably smooth, the way he enters your space with ease. His hand finds the side of your face and he pulls you into a kiss. At some point, your hand moves to rest at the nape of his neck. 

You’re certain you could linger in that moment forever, if not for the sharp wolf-whistle Tony lets out. It promptly cuts through the comfortable noise of the party, drawing attention to Bruce and you. The two of you break apart, 

“Finally,” Tony grins. “Jesus. Thought you two would never get your shit together.” A few of the heroes murmur their agreement; Bruce and you exchange a glance. 

“Shut up, Tony,” you both say in unison. Tony either has no awareness or simply doesn’t care, because he then heads over to you and wraps his arms around you two. You’re fighting off a smile regardless, still reeling from the admission that Bruce likes you too. 

“Tony, we were kind of having a moment here,” Bruce says pointedly, when the man doesn’t make a move to leave. 

“Right, right, right,” Tony sighs dramatically, twirling around and walking away. 

Bruce shakes his head in disbelief, before his attention returns to you. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” Bruce admits after clearing his throat. His hand lingers on your forearm, as if he doesn’t want to let go of this opportunity presented to him. 

“Me too,” you confess. “Probably too long, honestly.” Since you first met. But he doesn’t need to know that. 

“Not longer than me, I’d imagine,” Bruce huffs. You raise your eyebrows at him and he seems to have realized what he just said, quickly back-pedaling with a slight flush on his cheeks.  “I’ve— uh. Tony talks about you a lot.” 

“Really?” you question, struggling to fully believe that. “I can’t imagine he’s ever said anything flattering about me.” 

“Maybe not explicitly,” Bruce acquiesces, “but tolerating Tony Stark is more difficult than most people imagine.” 

“Oh, you have no idea,” you huff. You’ve known him long enough to recognize that. Rhodey once told you that you deserved a Medal of Valor for working with Tony as long as you have. The thought still amuses you. It takes you a few seconds to remember the subject of conversation. Bruce just admitted that he was interested in you before you even met, if you’re reading things correctly. “So, what, did you stalk me or something?” you joke. 

Bruce’s lips part for a moment, as if he’s about to speak. But he remains quiet. That small slip, that quick reaction, is all you need.

“No way,” you laugh. “You did?” It’s impossible to fight off a grin now. Here you were, thinking you were acting like a complete bumbling fool around him… assuming he never felt the same… 

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Bruce mumbles quickly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“No, it’s cute,” you say before he can get more embarrassed. You put your hand over his in a spontaneous gesture—you’ve decided you’re being very brave tonight. Your courage pays off, because he squeezes your hand reassuringly, almost lovingly. “You have no idea,” you admit. “You could’ve done something as simple as friended me on LinkedIn and I would’ve fallen over.” Just the thought of your early days working with Tony… looking down at your phone to find a notification from Bruce Banner… You would’ve had an aneurysm. 

“You’re that easily impressed?” he jokes. “Good to know.” 

You roll your eyes. 

Despite the excitement of the evening, you’re fighting off exhaustion. It’s getting pretty late, and the superheroes show no sign of wrapping up. Yet another quality to envy: endless stamina for parties. Must be nice. 

You’re fading fast, and apparently, it’s pretty obvious. Bruce urges you to get rest, promising you’ll talk in the morning. He makes a compelling argument, and you can’t bring yourself to argue when he’s leading you to the door with a hand on the small of your back and an adoring look on his face. He kisses you goodbye and you go to sleep that night hoping that party wasn’t just one long dream. 

The next morning, you blink sleep from your eyes and look down at your phone. There’s a message from Bruce reading “Hope you’re sitting down for this.” Moments after you type a response, (“??”), your phone buzzes. It’s a LinkedIn notification, with a friend request from Bruce. 

You laugh.

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

@connorhasabigtip tysm for reading this over! <3 excited to see you soon! here was her feedback for me, because it's funny asf:

thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat @always-lying-to-you @moss4ev3r @hottskull

friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!