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hopesangelsprite · 2 days ago

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The Perfect Gentleman

Pairing: Yandere!Upperclassman x Reader

Synopsis: He's intelligent, kind, responsible, trustworthy, and respectful; the epitome of the perfect gentlemen. But behind closed doors...

Warnings: Dub-con/Non-con, Stalking, Manipulation, Manhandling, Fake Sympathy, Restraints/Gagging, Eating Through Panties, Premature Ejaculation, Female Ejaculation, Creampie, Breathplay/Choking, Dacryphilia, Language, Pure Filth, etc.

MINORS/AGELESS ACC DNI

Viewer discretion is advised.

Thinking about perfect Upperclassmen!Yandere who's obsessed with you from the moment he lays eyes on you. He's immediately enraptured with your beauty and innocence; how bright and radiant you are apart from everyone else on campus. His heart skips a few beats whenever you're in the same room and he nearly fumbles over his words the first time you speak to him. You're magnificent in his eyes, like the sun in human form.

At first, he tries to ignore the obsession that slowly builds, pushing away the allure of your existence. He chooses to speak to you less and less when you're around him, purposefully making himself busier than usual so as not to come off as avoidant. He'd hate himself if you found out, if his weakness pushed you away.

It doesn't take long before he's exhausted all efforts and resources meant to distance himself from you. It's almost inevitable, the entanglement he finds himself trapped in. So, he completely stops avoiding you, going as far as to call out your name whenever you're in the same space. Soon, the two of you have built this odd, quirky relationship full of lighthearted humor and concealed interests that drives him deeper and deeper into madness. You're magnetic, an enigma he desperately needs to figure out... but so is he.

Gradually, he finds himself drawn more to you, using his charm to capture your attention while remaining mysterious himself. He gives you just enough attention to leave you wondering but never sure of his intentions, leave you wanting more. On the outside, he's calm and collected, his image clean cut and pristine. But on the inside... he's losing his mind.

Every thought of his is occupied solely by you. From the pretty pink of your lips to the cadence of your speech; everything about you makes his cock swell and his balls fatten up. Night after night he finds himself gasping for air, hand working up and down his stiff length at the thought of you writhing underneath him, crying his name. He cums buckets when imagines you begging for mercy as he pins you, as he forces you to take every single inch he gives you. He knows it's wrong, that if anyone knew about his filthy fantasies he'd be ruined. But he just can't shake the dark desire that consumes him day by day.

It becomes evident in the way your interactions change. His language gets progressively more flirtatious, and his eyes lingering longer than usual. He becomes more aggressive playful when you two meet, his need to subjugate you pushing him to tease you more violently than he typically would. The tension builds and wells within him until it snaps one evening after he sees you giggling with another upperclassman.

The rage that fills him makes him physically ill, it burns in the pit of his stomach. Disgust gnaws at his insides as he watches the guy draw closer, eyes bright and smile brighter. He hates the way his fingertips linger when the both of you shake hands, the way you look so comfortable around him. It doesn't make it any better that he knows what kind of guy he is, and that he knows he'd gladly take advantage of you if he could. The only man who will ever be allowed to take advantage of you is him.

So, once your conversation's ended, he puts on a kind eyed smile and sidles up to you bashfully. It doesn't take long for you to let your guard down, to get you to agree to a study date with him. As the two of you part ways, you don't notice the way his lips lift into a smirk before settling into a soft smile. You don't feel the darkness in his eyes as he watches your figure retreat, knowing all too well what he has in store for you.

When you do finally meet for his proposed study session, it's much later than the time you'd agreed upon. You would have canceled altogether had he not sent you an apologetic text explaining how his roommate had desperately needed his assistance just as he was preparing to leave his dorm. He finally shows up as the clock strikes 11:30 p.m., hair disheveled and backpack hanging off his shoulders haphazardly as if he's jogged across campus to get to you. He offers you a gentle grin and another apology before the two of you enter the library while chitchatting about its convenient 24-hour policy and the work you plan on getting done.

The night winds on, the two of you conversing in a tucked away study room between periods of silence as you finish assignments, and soon its nearing 3:00 a.m. You thank him for the invitation, preparing to head out as the night draws on. But when you stand and pull the study room door open his hand shoots out above your head and shuts it before it can fully open. Dozens of questions and scenarios begin clouding your mind as you stand stock still in confusion. Why had he closed the door? When had he gotten so close behind you? Why was everything suddenly so quiet? What was this intense sense of dread growing within you?

Your train of thought is broken by him slowly lowering his hand to turn the lock on the doors handle, essentially trapping the both of you inside the space that suddenly seems much too small now. Every hair on the back of your neck is standing to attention now, your brain screaming at you to get away as fast as you can. But you ignore that feeling, turning to face him with a nervous smile and giggle. "What's that about, huh? Wanted me to hang around a little longer?", you tease though you are most definitely not in a witty mood.

A small smile etches its way onto his handsome features, almost sad in a way, before he finally speaks. " 'M sorry, princess.", he breathes out and just as you're about to ask him what for he flicks the light switch behind you and the room goes dark.

You inhale to scream for help only for it to be cut short by his hand wrapping around your throat and squeezing hard. Tears gather in your eyes as you fight for a single breath of air, desperately trying to push and pull away from him. "I suggest you keep quiet and play nice.". he whispers in the darkness, "You wouldn't want me to do something we'd both regret, would you?". A strangled whimper escapes your chest, and you stop fighting him. He lets up upon your compliance and you inhale raggedly with a fit of coughs. Before you can fully regain the oxygen you'd been deprived of and adjust your eyes to the dark, your lifted and practically thrown on table behind the two of you.

Your landing isn't a hard one but it startles you all the same. When you try to sit up a large hand comes down on your front to pin you in place. In the black of the room, you can just barely make out his silhouette shifting above you and your ears register the sounds of rustling fabric. The tears that had welled in your eyes start to fall as the weight of the situation finally sinks into you. You've been tricked, set up, and now you're about to be taken advantage of by someone you look up to.

"Y-you don't have to do t-this...", you weakly plead with him between sobs as he binds your hands together with what you assume to be his necktie, "I won't tell anyone, I pr-promise.". He groans at your words, cursing under his breath as he forces your legs apart wide enough for him to fit in between them. "Don't be like that, baby. I don't even want to do this but-", his breath hitches as he pushes your dress up to bunch underneath your chest, "I can't help it. You've made me into this. . . this monster, and I need to handle this before I do something far worse.".

You sobs grow more sorrowful as his body arches over your own, his mouth now placing gentle kisses down the expanse of your belly. Though you're frightened out of your mind and shaking like a leaf, you can't ignore the shiver that creeps down your spine when you finally feel a puff of warm air against your clothed mound. You just barely make out the quiet sigh of 'forgive me' before his mouth is on you, lavishing you with long opened mouthed kisses. Though you fight it it's not long before your cries become pitiful moans.

Soon, your panties are soaked from both his saliva and your steadily flowing slick. Everything about this situation is wrong. The context, the place, the time. You were just helping each other write papers on the same table you were being violated on, but you don't scream for help or beg to be released. You writhe in pleasure as every drag of his tongue against your slit leaves you breathless and pulls the tightening knot in your stomach closer to snapping. A deep, muffled groan reverberates through your assailant's chest, the vibrations causing your mind to fog and your little bud to pulse against his tongue. He's quick to lock onto the sensation, suckling harder at you while holding you in place. Your moans grow in volume as your high creeps nearer, peaking when come undone after a particularly lewd slurp. You tremble violently as he feasts on you well past your orgasm, only letting up when you tug at his hair.

You make out his figure rising in the darkness and the hand on your front lifts to wipe at his mouth. "You're just as sweet as I thought you'd be, but I'm far from satisfied.", he hums breathlessly and you feel him raise your hips before pulling your underwear down your legs, "Gonna need you extra quiet for what comes next.". He leaves you no room to appeal to him or ask questions as he stuffs your panties into your own mouth, effectively gagging you. While you attempt to spit them out, the taste of you unfamiliar on your tongue, he spreads your legs further. The sound of a zipper and what you're absolutely sure is his pants falling to the ground causes you to freeze in anticipation. "Just breath through your nose and relax, princess, I've got you.", he comforts you as if he's not assaulting you in a library.

Still, you obey.

As you inhale, something hot and hard finds your entrance and begins to slip inside of you. The tears from earlier return at the big stretch that seems as if it'll tear you in two even though it's just begun. Judging by the sound of the ragged and shallow breathing above you, he's not doing all too well either. "Fuck!", he hisses as his hips roll forward to fill you more, "You're so w-warm and wet and perfect.". You sniffle and whimper at his words, your walls contracting suddenly at his compliments, and you hear him moan a soft 'no' before a new kind of warmth fills you. It's hot and thick, his cum painting your walls and overflowing as his hips buck to bottom out completely. Your attacker buries his head in the crook of your neck in shame, body still trembling from his sudden release.

This gives you time to adjust to his intrusion, and soon what was painful becomes unbearably sweet to your senses. He's big, big enough to nestle against your cervix and your g-spot simultaneously and he only gets bigger the more you flutter around his length. Slowly, his pelvis retreats from yours and reconnects as he begins to set a pace far too intimate for the current situation. You make no arguments, though, the ability to make coherent and rational thoughts becoming more and more difficult with each thrust.

Your moans mix as he fucks both of you into oblivion, your broken minds set on cumming again, and he uses his grip on the backs of your knees to fold you into a mean mating press. "I'm- ah- so sorry, please don't be- oh fuck- mad at me.", he whimpers and whines into your neck and you feel yourself grow impossibly wetter, "Please, please, please.". As he begs, his pace increases drastically. The sound of wet squelching and flesh slapping against flesh fills the room along with the heady scent of sex and you wonder if the buildings few patrons can hear you for all of two seconds before a hand stealthily placed between you begins to toy with your abused, pulsating clit.

"No, no more, too much!", you try to sob out around your gag as your orgasm builds at an unprecedented speed, but you quickly find out he's too far gone to care. A sudden pressure in your lower belly blooms followed by tickling sensation in your bud and you come hard. Your arousal pours from you in short streams, soaking the table and your bare lower halves before dripping onto the floor. Another long whine escapes the man above you as he rises partially to lightly squeeze the column of your neck with his free hand. "Yeah, that's right.", he moans whorishly, "That's my good girl. Keep coming for me, princess.".

And you do.

The overstimulation washes over you like a wave, every nerve in your body wrecked and tingling as if you were being electrocuted. You continue to squirt with each well angled thrust and tears fall from your eyes like a flood. "Shh, shh, shh. It's okay baby, I'm so close.", he soothes you as his thrust grow sloppier, "I'm s-so close.". As another orgasm rattles your core, you reach up with your clasped hands to pull his forehead onto yours, managing to choke out a semi-coherent 'cum for me' as they touch. Your cunt is dealt a few more quick thrusts before your insides are once again flooded with him.

Several minutes pass before either of you even begin coming down and when he finally does it'd before you do. You stop yourself from chasing his warmth when he pulls out. He gingerly begins to clean you up with the complimentary tissues that'd been jostled from the table when he'd pinned you, apologizing profusely all the while. After the stars disappear from your vision and you catch your breath enough to spit out your panties, you sit up and pull him with you by his hair. He lets out a sharp gasp before you snatch him into a deep kiss, bound hands now draping softly across his shoulders. You pull away after a moment with a shallow sigh and your lips graze his when you speak. "Don't be sorry.", you purr as he nips at your lower lip and drags you closer instinctively.

"Be ready to do it all again tomorrow.".

◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆

HxH: CHROLLO, ILLUMI, Pariston, Leorio, Kurapika

JJK: GETO, GOJO, YUUTA, Naoya, Noritoshi, Nanami, Choso

Solo Leveling: JINWOO, JONG-IN, TAESHIK

Demon Slayer: Obanai, Rengoku, Tengen, GIYUU

LADS: CALEB, Rafayel, Sylus

Apothecary Diaries: Basen, Young Former Emperor, Lihaku, Lahan

YOUR FAVE

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winged-thinged · 3 days ago

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I keep circling back trying to understand how it is that so-called Christian "unconditional love" is at once both extremely conditional and also extremely mandatory.

Christian love is not unconditional in the sense that there are no conditions placed on you by God when you are loved. There are, quite famously, a whole book's worth of conditions that you are expected to follow in order to prove your devotion, signs of God's loving presence moving through you. Depending on your denomination, those conditions might be enforced by the threat of hell or just plain social ostracization or Bible study cliques or elaborate rituals of penance and forgiveness. But consistently and across many denominations, once you are Christian, you are expected to comply with these conditions. You must conform. You are not free to be as you once were.

But neither are you free to reject their love. It is universal, and therefore definitionally boundaryless, all-encompassing, and heavily enforced. Welcoming in the lost sheep is not a passive process. It is an active process of going out and hunting for the sinner, of teaching them the example of Jesus's life, of bringing them into the fold. And once they are fully indoctrinated, they are expected to continue to actively practice, to abstain from "sin," and to show a high degree of conformity to the group standard, whatever that means for the particular community. If you don't—you get hunted down and re-educated, pestered and threatened, shunted back into rituals of sin and repentance. There is no saying, "no I'm not interested" that the loving Christian can accept, because Christian love is for everybody. There is no opt out. There is no consent.

It comes of viewing the whole world as sinful, I think—human beings as not worthwhile in their own right but only in so far as they are potential conduits for God's grace—potential converts—everybody a broken people needing to be saved. The Great Commission ("go make of all disciplines") means that everyone must be converted—not welcomed, converted—and this is mandatory for everyone forever.

#ex-catholic #ex christian #apostate #deconstruction #the great commission #truly there is #no hate like christian love

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ilovemarvel97 · 12 hours ago

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Craving What We Shouldn't - Part 7

Wanda Maximoff x G!P Reader

Summary: Wanda start to hang out with Y/N’s friends.

Word Count: 6,528

Warnings: High school AU, Fluff, smut, (18+), forbidden romance, step-siblings, reader has a penis, mutual pining, secret relationship

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

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****: smut alert

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Wanda had arrived at school early that morning, the weight of cheer practice on her shoulders. The bright gym lights and the buzz of energetic voices filled the space as she joined Pepper and Monica, her cheer squad friends, who were already stretching and chatting. Usually, Y/N would have driven with her—Y/N’s music blasting through the car speakers, the windows down, their hands brushing on the gearshift—but today was different. Y/N had stayed home later to study.

Wanda’s mind wasn’t fully in cheer practice. Her thoughts kept drifting to Y/N — the soft way she’d kissed her that morning, the lingering warmth beneath her skin where their bodies had intertwined for the first time the night before. It felt surreal, like a dream she didn’t want to wake up from. But it was real. And it was theirs. Their secret.

When practice finally ended, Wanda’s phone buzzed with a message from Y/N: “Forgot your textbook. I’ll bring it to school.”

It wasn’t long before Y/N showed up at the school entrance, weaving through groups of students with her usual confident stride. She spotted Wanda near the lockers, chatting with Pepper and Monica, and called out.

“Hey, I brought this,” Y/N said, holding up the thick textbook Wanda had left on her desk.

Wanda smiled, relief flooding her chest. “Thanks.” She tucked the book under her arm, giving Y/N a quick, subtle squeeze on the hand before Y/N turned away to catch her next class.

Pepper grinned at Wanda, nudging Monica with a playful smirk. “Wow. Y/N is seriously hot.”

Monica nodded enthusiastically. “I know, right? After basketball practice last month during PE, everyone’s been talking about her. Honestly, I didn’t realize how much she stands out.”

Wanda stiffened, trying not to let her irritation show. Pepper leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“So… living with Y/N must be interesting. I mean, you two are step-siblings now, right? Does it ever feel weird?”

Wanda’s heart skipped a beat. The word weird echoed sharply in her mind. To anyone else, they were just step-siblings—two teenagers thrown together by their parents’ marriage. But to Wanda, the truth was so much more complicated. Y/N wasn’t just family. She was the secret warmth beneath her skin, the quiet pull in her chest that no one else understood.

Wanda’s eyes narrowed slightly as she carefully chose her words, forcing a neutral tone. “It’s different,” she said. “But not in a weird way. We’re… close. Like family should be.”

Pepper gave her a pointed look, clearly not buying the full story. “Yeah, but close can mean a lot of things,” she said with a sly grin. “I’m just saying, you two didn’t grow up together.”

Monica nodded, leaning in with interest. “Exactly. You came from totally different worlds before your parents got married. So… it’s not like you have that childhood sibling bond or anything.”

Wanda’s lips pressed into a thin line. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks, partly from embarrassment, partly from frustration. “That doesn’t mean anything,” she said quietly. “We’re family now. That’s what matters.”

Pepper’s eyes sparkled with mischief, her grin widening like she was teasing just to see Wanda squirm. “Sure, family. Anyway, do you think Y/N is open for hooking up? I really wanna know how she is in bed. Do you think I have a shot?”

Wanda’s jaw clenched before she could stop it, the muscles in her face tightening as if her body reacted before her mind could form a response. She forced a laugh, trying to cover the sudden surge of possessiveness that flared in her chest like a lit match.

Pepper didn’t notice the shift in her expression—or maybe she did and just kept pushing. “I mean, seriously. She’s got that whole brooding-hot-girl-who-doesn’t-talk-much vibe. Kind of mysterious, but in a sexy way.”

Monica giggled. “God, yes. And that smirk she does when she knows everyone’s looking? I’d risk detention for a taste.”

Wanda’s fingers tightened around her textbook, her knuckles going pale. The image of Y/N in bed—their bed last night—flashed unbidden in her mind. The way Y/N’s lips had mapped every inch of her skin like she was a secret waiting to be learned. The way she whispered Wanda’s name like a promise. No one else knew that side of her. No one else could.

She was hers.

Wanda took a deep breath, trying to sound casual as she said, “Y/N’s not really the hookup type.”

Pepper raised a brow. “How would you know?”

Wanda hesitated. “Because… we talk. She’s not into all that casual stuff. She keeps to herself for a reason.”

Monica tilted her head, watching Wanda a little too closely. “Wow. You really know her, huh?”

Wanda gave a stiff nod, her heart pounding beneath her ribcage. “Yeah. I do.”

Pepper hummed thoughtfully. “Still, if she ever changes her mind… you better tell her I’m interested.”

Wanda bit the inside of her cheek so hard it almost drew blood.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to say, She’s mine. She was in my bed last night, holding me like I was her whole world. You don’t get to look at her like that. You don’t get to want her.

But instead, she forced a smile, cold and sharp around the edges. “I’ll let her know,” she said, her voice like a blade wrapped in velvet.

The bell rang, cutting through the air and ending the conversation. Pepper and Monica waved goodbye, still giggling as they walked off, leaving Wanda standing alone by the lockers, clutching her textbook like it was the only thing grounding her to the floor.

She glanced down the hallway, catching one last glimpse of Y/N turning a corner, her dark hoodie trailing behind her.

And though no one knew it, Wanda’s heart whispered the truth:

She’s mine. And I’ll never share her.

---

The morning dragged on with a heavy weight pressing on Wanda’s chest. She couldn’t shake the sharp sting of Pepper’s teasing words — the careless way they’d spoken about Y/N like she was just some hot girl to chase, a casual fling to imagine in bed. They didn’t know. Couldn’t know. And yet, it hurt — more than she wanted to admit.

Every smile she forced felt brittle, every laugh hollow. Her fingers had trembled when she opened her locker. Her chest had burned with unspoken truths.

Because they didn’t know what it felt like to be kissed by Y/N in the soft hush of midnight. They didn’t know how it felt to be held by her, body to body, soul to soul, like she was something precious. Something owned. Wanted.

So when the bell finally rang for their shared class, Wanda slipped into her seat without a word. She didn’t even glance up as Y/N entered the room. But she felt her. Felt her gaze, warm and constant, brushing against her skin like a silent question. And all Wanda could do was stare straight ahead, hands clenched in her lap, pretending everything was fine.

Later, during a quick bathroom break, Wanda’s phone buzzed.

Y/N: Meet me in the old art room during lunch? Got sandwiches.

Wanda stared at the screen, her throat tightening. Even now, Y/N knew just when to reach out, to pull her back from the edge. She nodded to herself, as if Y/N could see it, and slipped the phone into her bag.

Lunch couldn’t come fast enough.

The old art room was quiet, a little forgotten, tucked away at the end of a hallway no one used anymore. The walls were still lined with fading sketches, half-finished canvases, and dusty jars of paintbrushes that hadn’t seen water in years. But to Wanda, it had always felt like a safe place — their place.

Y/N was already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the wide window, a small paper bag beside her. She looked up as Wanda walked in and offered a soft smile.

“Hey,” she said, holding out the bag. “I got your favorite — turkey and avocado, extra pickles.”

Wanda managed a small smile as she crossed the room. The gesture cut straight through the heavy fog in her chest. Of course Y/N remembered.

“Thanks,” Wanda murmured, sitting down across from her. She hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of the bag, before sighing. “Sorry if I’ve been weird today.”

Y/N tilted her head, watching her closely. “You’ve been quiet,” she said gently. “And tense. What happened?”

Wanda hesitated, then looked down, her voice low. “Pepper and Monica were talking about you… the way girls talk about guys in a locker room. Like you’re just… something to want. Something to try and get.” Her voice tightened. “Pepper even asked if she had a shot with you. If you’d hook up.”

Y/N’s jaw tensed subtly, but her expression stayed calm. “I see.”

“I wanted to scream,” Wanda whispered. “They have no idea what you are to me. And I had to just… stand there. Pretend like it didn’t bother me. Like you’re not already mine.”

Y/N reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together with quiet certainty. “You don’t have to pretend. Not with me. And not with the people you trust.”

Wanda nodded slowly, eyes fixed on their joined hands. “I know. And I want to… I do. But it’s just—if Pepper finds out, she’ll tell Tony. Then Tony tells everyone. And our parents…”

Her voice cracked. “They’d separate us.”

Y/N’s thumb traced soft circles over her knuckles. “Then let’s not tell everyone. Just the ones you know won’t say a word. Nat and Carol already know — you know that, right?”

Wanda nodded. “They’ve been amazing about it.”

“Then maybe we start there,” Y/N said gently. “You’re not alone in this, Wanda. I’m yours, okay? And I’m not going anywhere.”

Wanda’s heart ached — with love, with fear, with the overwhelming truth of how much she needed her.

Without another word, she crawled forward and slowly straddled Y/N’s lap, settling there like she belonged. Like it was the only place she could truly breathe.

Y/N didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. Her hands instinctively found Wanda’s waist, pulling her close as Wanda leaned in, burying her face in the crook of Y/N’s neck. The smell of her — warm skin, faint shampoo, the comfort of home — flooded Wanda’s senses.

The quiet hum of the room softened around them, the outside world falling away. Y/N’s arms wrapped around her like an anchor, her fingertips tracing slow, soothing patterns on Wanda’s back.

“I’ve got you,” Y/N whispered against her temple. “No matter what.”

Wanda breathed in shakily, her fingers curling into the fabric of Y/N’s shirt. “I don’t want anyone else talking about you like that,” she mumbled into her skin. “You’re mine.”

Y/N chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her chest. “You think I’d ever look at anyone else? You ruined me for anyone else, baby.”

A smile tugged at Wanda’s lips, even as her eyes stung with unshed tears. She tilted her head, just enough to meet Y/N’s eyes — full of warmth, full of her. She reached up and pressed a gentle kiss to Y/N’s jaw.

“I’ll tell them,” she whispered. “Eventually. Just not yet.”

Y/N nodded. “We’ll do it on your time. As long as I still get to hold you like this.”

Wanda settled in closer, their foreheads gently pressed together, the soft glow of the afternoon sun wrapping them in its warmth.

And for the first time all day, Wanda didn’t feel like she had to fight to keep something hidden.

She just had to feel. And she felt safe. Loved. Home.

Later that day, back at their shared home, Wanda sat curled on the couch, a textbook open in her lap but barely touched. Her eyes glazed over the words without absorbing them — her mind still caught in the spinning web of the day’s events.

The echo of Pepper’s laugh, the sting of her words, the way Monica had leaned in like Y/N was something to be won—not loved. Not hers.

The burn in Wanda’s chest hadn’t dulled. It had just… settled. Like an ember. Still hot. Still alive.

Pietro entered the room, unusually subdued as he noticed his sister’s faraway stare. He flopped onto the couch beside her, nudging her knee lightly. “You look like you wanna set something on fire,” he said, half-joking, half-concerned. “What happened?”

Wanda closed the book, letting it fall shut with a soft thud. “People were talking about Y/N at school,” she muttered. “Like she’s a trophy or a dare. Like they have any idea.”

Pietro’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need the full story to guess. He knew enough. He knew everything.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Pepper and Monica running their mouths again?”

Wanda gave a sharp nod. “Pepper asked if she had a shot with her. My Y/N. She was smiling when she said it. Like it was a game.”

Pietro blinked, then let out a low whistle. “Wow. The audacity.”

“I couldn’t say anything,” Wanda whispered, her voice cracking around the edges. “I wanted to. God, I wanted to scream that she’s mine. That she was in my bed just hours before.” Her eyes burned, and she looked down at her hands. “But I just stood there. And smiled. Like it didn’t matter.”

Pietro leaned forward, voice firm. “It does matter. But protecting what you love doesn’t mean you’re weak. It just means you’re smart. You’re not ready to deal with the fallout, and that’s okay. No one gets to judge you for that.”

Wanda nodded, but the ache in her chest didn’t fade. Pietro watched her for a second, then smirked, his usual mischief returning just slightly.

“Hey,” he said, bumping her shoulder. “You want to send a message without saying a word? Leave another hickey on Y/N’s neck. You know. Just to remind the world.”

Wanda let out a surprised laugh — short and tired but real — and shook her head. “That’s evil.”

“Effective,” Pietro grinned. “Plus, come on. You do get a little jealous.”

Wanda sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “She’s mine. Of course I get jealous.”

“Then claim her like it,” he said with a wink, then added quickly, raising a hand, “But please don’t tell me about your sex life with Y/N. I’m gonna be traumatized.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, laughing despite herself. “Relax. I’m not about to give you details.”

“Good,” Pietro said, mock-shuddering. “I love you both, but there are limits to what a brother should have to hear.”

Wanda nudged him with her shoulder, her smile lingering. “Noted.”

Wanda leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, letting the warmth of his steady presence wrap around her like a shield. Pietro might joke, but he got it. He’d always had her back. No questions asked.

The front door opened just after sunset, the quiet jingle of keys announcing the return of Olek and Melissa. Laughter floated in with the evening breeze, the scent of takeout following behind.

Olek entered first, arm slung around Melissa as they chatted about something Wanda couldn’t hear. Melissa was already tugging off her heels, relief plain on her face.

When they stepped into the living room, they paused at the sight in front of them.

Pietro was stretched lazily across one end of the couch, one arm hanging over the backrest. Wanda was tucked against him, blanket over her lap, eyes closed but not quite asleep. The TV hummed in the background, forgotten.

Olek’s stern features softened. “Look at them,” he murmured. “Just like when they were kids.”

Melissa smiled, her eyes lingering on Wanda. “She’s been quiet lately. It’s good she has Pietro.”

She glanced around the room, then asked casually, “Is Y/N still at work?”

Pietro answered smoothly. “Yeah. Her shift ends around eight.”

At the sound of Y/N’s name, Wanda stirred slightly. Her fingers curled a little tighter into the edge of the blanket, and though her eyes stayed closed, her chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath.

Melissa walked toward the kitchen with the takeout bags in hand. “Should we wait for dinner?”

“She said to go ahead,” Pietro replied. “She’s working on something after, anyway.”

Melissa hummed, then added with a teasing lilt, “Or maybe she’s with her girlfriend.”

Olek stopped just behind her, arching a brow. “Wait—Y/N has a girlfriend?”

Melissa grinned. “She hasn’t said anything out loud, but come on. I know there’s someone. I caught her the other day with a hickey on her neck. She tried to tell me it was a bug bite.” She let out a chuckle. “As if I’ve never snuck around before.”

She turned back to Pietro and Wanda, eyes twinkling with curiosity. “You two go to school with her. Has she mentioned anything? Anyone special?”

Pietro gave a casual shrug, keeping his tone even. “Nope. Not a word.”

Wanda didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Her body remained tucked against Pietro, eyes closed, her breathing slow and steady. But inside, her heart was pounding. The word girlfriend rang in her ears like a secret shouted into a crowded room.

Because it was true.

Y/N did have someone.

Her.

Melissa let the moment pass with a little sigh, amused and unconcerned. “Well, whoever the girl is, I hope she’s good to Y/N.”

Olek nodded in agreement. “She’s a great kid. I’m sure we’ll meet the girl eventually.”

Wanda remained still, hiding behind the quiet safety of Pietro’s shoulder. But her mind raced.

You already know her, she thought.

She sits at your dinner table every night. She rides in your car. She does the dishes with your daughter and slips into her bed when the house goes still.

She has me. And no one can ever know.

And yet—Wanda’s lips twitched at the memory of the hickey Melissa had seen. That had been her. That quiet little mark was hers. A secret signature she left behind when she couldn't say out loud what they were.

Still pretending to nap, Wanda turned her face slightly into Pietro’s shoulder, the ghost of a smile hidden in the crook of her arm.

Maybe they didn’t know the truth.

But it was written all over her skin.

---

It was a little after 8:30 when the front door eased open again. The soft click of it closing behind her barely registered over the quiet murmur of the TV still playing in the background.

Y/N toed off her boots and set her keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. She looked tired — her shoulders relaxed in the kind of way exhaustion brings, hair slightly tousled, and a faint dusting of flour still clinging to the sleeves of her hoodie from the bakery.

Wanda immediately lifted her head from Pietro’s shoulder. Her twin gave her a small, knowing smile and casually pulled out his phone, pretending to scroll.

Y/N’s eyes scanned the room until they found Wanda. That crooked, tired smile tugged at her lips — the kind that made Wanda’s heart squeeze in her chest.

Melissa appeared from the kitchen holding a plate. “Hey, sweetie. I warmed up some dinner for you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Y/N said softly, stepping over to take the plate. “Smells amazing.”

Olek waved from the hallway as he passed by, heading toward the stairs. “Long shift?”

“The longest,” Y/N chuckled. “We had a last-minute rush. Apparently everyone wanted chocolate chip cookies at the same time.”

“Don’t forget your protein,” Melissa called from the kitchen as she turned back toward the stove. “You barely eat when you’re working. And that girl you’re seeing isn’t going to stick around if you pass out from low blood sugar.”

Y/N choked mid-step, nearly dropping her fork. “Mom?! This again?”

From the couch, Pietro subtly bit back a grin, while Wanda froze, eyes locked on her plate as a flush crept up her neck.

Melissa peeked around the corner with a smirk. “I’m just saying. You’ve been glowing lately, and I know it’s not the muffins.”

Y/N groaned dramatically and retreated toward the table with her plate. “It was one hickey,” she muttered.

Wanda nearly dropped her phone. Pietro kicked her lightly under the coffee table.

Melissa’s voice floated out cheerfully: “Mmm-hmm. Bug bite, right?”

Y/N slumped into her chair and stuffed a bite of rice in her mouth to avoid answering. Across the room, Wanda stared straight ahead, doing everything in her power not to laugh—or panic.

They were so bad at hiding.

---

The Following Days — Wanda’s POV

After that day in the classroom — the whispers, the hickey I couldn’t deny, the fire in my voice — everything began to shift around me.

Pepper and Monica never mentioned Y/N again. Maybe it was because I’d made my stance unmistakably clear, or maybe Pietro’s sharp looks every time they glanced my way had quieted them down. Either way, the silence felt like a small victory — one I didn’t know I needed.

I still sat with my usual group in the mornings and during classes. But lunch? Lunch became something entirely different.

It became ours.

At first, it was just little things — an excuse to grab something from the vending machine near Y/N’s table, lingering a moment longer talking to Nat or Carol about homework. But before I knew it, I was sliding into the seat beside Y/N like I belonged there — because deep down, I knew I did.

Y/N’s group made it easy. Natasha’s smirk said everything without a word. Carol gave me a quiet nod after watching me pull Y/N out of that math quiz meltdown. Peter rambled about astrophysics, completely oblivious as always. And MJ — dry as ever — looked me dead in the eye and said, “Congratulations. You’re officially one of us now. No refunds.”

Y/N always saved me a seat.

Sometimes there was a snack waiting — my favorite granola bar, or a perfectly cut red apple. Other times, there was just that shared glance. A brush of knees under the table. A smile that lingered longer than it should have. A touch no one else ever noticed.

We kept our secret.

I still flinch when I think about Melissa, Y/N’s mom, pressing too much about that “mystery girl.”

But even with all that fear, it’s become easier.

Because in the quiet corners of the house, when no one’s watching, I don’t have to pretend.

Things only kept getting better between us.

Some nights, after everyone else was asleep — the house still and quiet — I’d slip from my room, careful not to make a sound. My dad asleep, Melissa downstairs or in bed. No footsteps, no creaking doors. Just silence.

And Y/N would be waiting.

Sometimes we didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. We just lay there, limbs tangled, my head resting on Y/N’s chest, both of us breathing in time.

Other nights, we whispered — soft jokes, secret confessions, stolen plans for a future we dared to imagine.

And sometimes, our touches would slow down, grow needier, reverent — like a silent promise, saying you’re mine without ever having to say it out loud.

Every time we made love, it wasn’t because we could — it was because we needed to. Needed to feel each other, to be seen, to be understood, to be loved in a world where those words felt impossible to say.

And when it was over — when we were quiet, warm, safe — I’d lie there, tangled in sheets and breath and Y/N’s arms, thinking:

This is the only place where I feel like myself.

---

No One’s POV

Then Saturday came by. Y/N decide to get up and go shower as well, thinking Wanda was already done.

The bathroom was still foggy from Wanda’s shower. Lavender-scented steam clung to the mirror.

Y/N opened the door without knocking — eyes heavy with sleep, hair a mess.

She was already pulling her shirt over her head when she froze. Wrapped in a towel, Wanda stood at the sink, cheeks still flushed, damp hair falling over her shoulders.

“Shit—sorry!” Y/N spun around, nearly tripping over herself. “I thought you were in the kitchen—”

“In the kitchen?” Wanda said, voice teasing. “Sure. I knew you were coming.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait… you knew I was coming in here?”

Wanda stepped up behind her and gently closed the door, turning the lock with a soft click.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she murmured. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me like this before.”

“Yeah, but not when our parents are literally downstairs,” Y/N hissed, glancing at the door like it might betray them.

Wanda grinned, towel still clutched against her chest. She reached up and tugged gently at Y/N’s hoodie, pulling her close until there was barely a breath between them.

“And?”

Y/N groaned softly, her voice low. “You’re evil.”

“I know,” Wanda said, and kissed her — slow and warm and familiar.

****

The kiss deepened quickly. Wanda’s arms curled around Y/N’s neck, drawing her closer. Y/N’s hands slid to Wanda’s waist, feeling the damp heat of her skin beneath the loose fold of the towel.

Without breaking the kiss, Y/N gripped Wanda’s thighs and lifted her effortlessly, setting her down on the edge of the sink. The cool porcelain against her legs made Wanda gasp softly into Y/N’s mouth, but she didn’t pull away — she leaned in.

Their bodies pressed together, Wanda’s knees parting to let Y/N step between them. The towel shifted slightly at her sides, loose now, but neither of them cared. The moment felt suspended — like time had tucked itself away just for them.

Y/N’s hands rested on either side of Wanda’s hips, grounding them both. Wanda leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Y/N’s, her breath uneven.

“I missed this,” she whispered.

Y/N’s fingers brushed up Wanda’s back, gentle but sure. “You saw me this morning.”

“I still missed you,” Wanda said again, quieter this time. More vulnerable.

Y/N smiled, eyes soft and full of something deep. “Me too.”

Their next kiss was slower — more tender than hungry. It said everything neither of them could out loud. Every risk. Every secret. Every promise they weren’t ready to share with the world.

Wanda pulled Y/N even closer with her legs, her lips brushing the corner of her mouth.

“We have to be quiet,” she murmured, though her voice was laced with a thrill that said she didn’t really mind.

Y/N laughed softly, the sound warm against Wanda’s skin. “Then stop kissing me like that.”

Wanda’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she whispered, “Make me.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

She kissed her — not soft this time, but hungry. A kiss that said I want you, I need you, right here. Wanda melted into it, her fingers curling in the fabric of Y/N’s hoodie as her body leaned forward, pressing flush against hers.

Y/N’s hand slid between them, finding the edge of the towel draped loosely over Wanda’s lap. Her touch was careful but certain, fingers parting the fabric, revealing the heat and softness beneath.

Wanda gasped into Y/N’s mouth, her head tipping back slightly, the cold porcelain of the sink a sharp contrast to the fire building low in her stomach. Her thighs parted instinctively, welcoming the quiet claim of the one person who knew how to touch her without asking — and always with reverence.

Their breaths grew shallower, the air thick with tension and tenderness. Y/N's fingers brushed along Wanda’s inner thigh, slow and teasing, like she was memorizing every inch of her — like she wasn’t in a hurry, even though time never really felt like theirs.

Wanda’s lips found Y/N’s again, more desperate now, their kiss tangled with longing and restraint. The thrill of being just a room away from discovery only heightened the thrum between them, made every touch feel more electric.

Her voice broke near Y/N’s ear, breathless and raw. “I want you. I want this.”

As she whispered the words, her hand slipped down between them, cupping Y/N through her shorts, feeling the warmth and weight of her there — real, solid, hers.

Y/N gasped softly into her mouth, her body stilling for a moment as their foreheads pressed together. The look in her eyes was something between reverence and need, and just a flicker of disbelief that this girl — this bold, beautiful girl — was touching her like she was something sacred.

Because to Wanda, she was.

Wanda’s thumb moved in slow, deliberate circles over the fabric, her breath catching at the way Y/N’s hips reacted — a subtle shift, a quiet surrender.

Y/N closed her eyes, letting out a soft, shaky breath. “We shouldn’t… not here,” she murmured, her voice frayed at the edges. Then, even softer, “Besides… we don’t have a condom.”

Wanda pulled back just enough to meet her eyes — flushed, steady, certain — then gave a wicked little smile.

Without a word, she reached over to the edge of the sink and slid open the drawer, pulling out a small, silver package.

Y/N blinked, surprised. “Wanda…”

“I was hoping you’d follow me in here,” Wanda whispered, her smile still playing at the corners of her lips. “I grabbed it before I went to shower.”

Y/N stared at her — flushed, wide-eyed, completely undone by the fact that Wanda had not only thought about this… she had planned for it.

“That’s… dangerous,” Y/N said, her voice low and already fraying under the weight of everything she was feeling.

Wanda leaned in, brushing their noses together, her voice a breath against Y/N’s skin. “So don’t say no.”

Y/N's hands slid around her waist instinctively, tugging her close again. Her eyes searched Wanda’s face one more time — not for hesitation, but for permission. What she found was pure need, anchored in trust.

Then, suddenly, Y/N pulled back.

Wanda blinked, startled, lips parting with a soft, breathy pout. “Hey…”

But Y/N only turned toward the door, her steps silent as she walked over to check the lock — jiggling the handle gently to be sure. When she turned back around, Wanda was smiling, cheeks flushed, eyes burning with anticipation.

“Smart girl,” Wanda murmured.

By the time Y/N crossed the space again, her hands were already moving — thumbs hooking into the waistband of her shorts and boxers, pushing them down in one slow motion. Her length sprang free, flushed and already hard, and Wanda’s breath hitched.

Her eyes didn’t leave her for a second.

Wanda’s fingers curled around the silver foil, bringing it to her mouth. She tore it open with her teeth — slow, deliberate — never looking away from Y/N, her expression hungry and reverent all at once.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” she whispered, her voice low, almost in awe.

The moment pulsed between them — thick with heat, thick with want — and for just a second, the world beyond the bathroom walls fell away.

It was just them, and the quiet thrill of getting to have what they weren’t supposed to want.

Y/N’s breath caught as Wanda tore the wrapper open with her teeth, her eyes never straying from Y/N’s bare skin.

But before Wanda could go any further, Y/N cupped her cheek gently, tilting her face up until their eyes met.

“You’re the beautiful one,” she whispered, voice low but full of meaning. “And we really need to be quiet.”

Wanda’s heart fluttered at the softness in her tone — the way Y/N could make her feel treasured even when her body ached with need. She nodded silently, lips parted, cheeks flushed.

Then, without a word, she slid the condom out of its foil and took Y/N in her hand, her touch careful but sure.

Her eyes never left Y/N’s face as she slowly rolled the condom down over her length, inch by inch — the intimate act made all the more intense by the quiet, by the risk, by the love they still had to hide from everyone but each other.

Y/N’s hands settled on Wanda’s thighs, grounding herself with her touch, her jaw tight as she fought to stay still — to stay quiet — while Wanda touched her like she was something sacred.

The tension between them was palpable now, thick in the warm bathroom air, their breaths shallow and soft.

“Come here,” Y/N murmured, her voice barely more than a breath.

Wanda slid onto the edge of the sink, the cool porcelain contrasting with the heat pulsing between them. Her eyes locked with Y/N’s as she spread her legs slightly, inviting her closer.

Without hesitation, Y/N stepped forward and gently pulled Wanda nearer to the edge, her hands firm yet tender on Wanda’s hips, guiding her with careful reverence.

Wanda’s breath hitched as Y/N slowly slid inside her, the moment delicate and electric — a perfect balance of urgency and care.

They stayed locked in that quiet space, moving together gently, savoring the closeness and the love that no one else could touch.

Wanda perched lightly on the edge of the sink, the cool porcelain pressing softly against her skin. Her breath came in quiet, uneven bursts as Y/N’s hands held her hips with gentle certainty.

Slowly, Y/N eased inside her, every inch a careful exploration — tender, deliberate. Wanda’s eyes fluttered closed, lips parting as waves of warmth and need began to unfurl deep within her.

Their bodies moved together with cautious rhythm, like learning a secret language only they understood. The bathroom, small and dim, held only the soft sounds of their mingled breaths and the faint scrape of skin against skin.

Wanda’s hands found Y/N’s shoulders, fingers curling with tentative longing, anchoring herself to the moment.

“God, you’re perfect,” Y/N whispered, voice raw with reverence and something aching beneath.

Wanda opened her eyes, searching Y/N’s face — the flicker of desire, the promise, the vulnerability — and she reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from Y/N’s forehead.

Their pace deepened, growing more urgent — no longer just gentle exploration but a desperate claiming of the love they’d kept locked away for so long.

Wanda’s breath hitched sharply, her nails digging lightly into Y/N’s skin as waves of pleasure and longing crashed through her. Her body trembled, a delicious heat spreading from her core up through her chest.

“Detka,” Wanda gasped, voice trembling, breath uneven. “You feel so good—”

A soft moan slipped out, louder than she intended, and her eyes flew open in sudden panic.

Y/N’s hand was instantly over Wanda’s mouth, fingers warm and firm, pressing gently but firmly against her lips.

“Shh,” Y/N whispered fiercely, her eyes wide but loving. “Quiet, love. We can’t risk it.”

Wanda’s cheeks flushed crimson as she struggled to suppress the rising sounds, biting her lower lip to keep the moans from spilling free.

Y/N’s other hand tightened around Wanda’s hips, holding her steady, grounding her in the moment — reminding her they were safe, if only for now.

With a slow, steady rhythm, Y/N coaxed Wanda deeper into the shared breath of their desire — fierce, tender, and urgent all at once.

Her muffled moans vibrated under Y/N’s palm, each one a quiet confession of need and surrender.

“Fuck… princess,” Y/N murmured, her voice rough with want as she began to move faster, hips rolling with growing urgency.

Wanda’s body responded instantly, arching into the motion, breath hitching in sharp gasps despite the hand pressed to her lips.

The tension between them snapped taut — a fragile thread stretched to its limit — as waves of pleasure crashed relentlessly through Wanda.

Y/N’s grip tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, every movement an electric pulse of need and love.

“Shh, princess,” Y/N whispered fiercely, breath hot against Wanda’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

Wanda’s eyes fluttered closed, her muffled sounds growing in urgency, caught somewhere between desperate and rapturous.

But beneath that steady rhythm, Y/N’s own breath was quickening, her body trembling with the approach of her own edge — a burning heat pooling low and fierce.

She tightened her hold, guiding Wanda with even more urgency, their movements syncing like a perfect, wordless dance.

Wanda’s walls clenched around Y/N in an almost instinctual response — a deep, pulsing rhythm that spoke of trust, surrender, and something beautifully intimate.

The air between them thickened, charged with the raw power of their shared need.

Their breaths tangled, moans muffled yet fierce as they tumbled together toward the peak.

With a final, shuddering thrust, they broke through — a crescendo of pleasure and release that left them both gasping, trembling in each other’s arms.

Wanda clung to Y/N, forehead resting against her collarbone, heart racing, skin flushed and glowing.

Y/N’s fingers traced lazy, soothing circles along Wanda’s back, whispering soft reassurances as their bodies slowly settled into a quiet, tender stillness.

The waves of release still rippling through their bodies, Y/N didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, she leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to Wanda’s lips — soft and sweet, every movement a delicate promise.

Their breaths mingled, heavy and warm, as Y/N’s hand continued its gentle rhythm beneath Wanda, still coaxing the last shivers of sensation. Wanda’s eyes fluttered closed again, melting into the kiss, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

****

Time seemed to slow, wrapped around them like a cocoon, until the sudden, sharp knock on the bathroom door shattered the stillness.

Both froze instantly, hearts hammering loud enough to drown out the knock.

“Shit,” Wanda breathed, pulling slightly back so their eyes met — wide and panicked.

Before either could say a word, Pietro’s familiar voice cut through the tension, laced with mock disgust: “Alright, lovebirds. Enough grossness for this early hours of a Saturday. Get out of there before Melissa and Dad hear you and flip.”

Y/N blinked in surprise, then let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she pulled out, her movements slow but urgent.

Wanda hurried to gather her clothes, cheeks flushed but eyes sparkling with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. She tugged the towel away and dress herself fast, breath still a bit ragged, heart still racing.

Wanda glanced at Y/N, a playful grin tugging at her lips despite the adrenaline as she sees Y/N still a little hard. She stepped closer, hands finding Y/N’s waist, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to her lips.

“I’ll go now,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N smiled back, her fingers tracing light patterns along Wanda’s sides. “I’ll take a shower first before I go out.”

With one last shared glance, Wanda slipped quietly out of the bathroom, careful not to make a sound as she moved down the hall.

Y/N leaned back against the sink, watching the door close softly behind her, a small smile playing on her lips. She took a slow breath, removed the rest of her clothes, then reach down to remove the condom so she can step in the shower.

---

Leave your thoughts in the comment!

#wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #wanda maxmoff x y/n #wanda marvel #wanda x fem!reader #wanda x y/n #g!p reader

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neosaidwhoa · 3 days ago

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This reminds me of how the founders era sub fandom is the Naruto equivalent of the marauders sub fandom LMAOOO i love the collective creative power of fanon.

I really don’t think fanon is bad and I really don’t think death of the fandom is necessary though? And this is coming from someone who gets personally annoyed by some mainstream fandom mischaracterizations sometimes. Fandom and fanon is usually just a reflection of the kind of people who are in it. But I agree with your recommendation to not limit yourself to popular fanon trends.

I disagree with the statement that “the most authentic enjoyment of media comes from liking it for what it is and not what it *could* be”. I actually think imagining things beyond canon for “what it could be” is inherently an extremely authentic way to enjoy media. Transformative fan work that adds to or strays from canon is very important and meaningful for a lot of different reasons.

Also, I think context matters a lot for this conversation, maybe if I knew where you were coming from with these frustrations I would agree haha. I think for me, current mainstream Naruto fanon is very warped from the source material but I know that and enjoy some of it anyways, and I really enjoy the parts of fandom that think and write critically about both the source material and the fanon. Most of the people I choose to interact with also seem to enjoy both?

Ah, maybe my disagreement just comes from what I was thinking the definition of fanon is. I was thinking of fanon to mean “non-canon elements that are popularly accepted and used by fandom”, so it’s a given that fanon is not actually what happened. I realized maybe you were thinking of fanon to mean “non-canon elements that fandom popularly believes/insists is canon”? I would agree that I’d advise against trying to assert that fanon is canon. I’d recommend people not take fanon as truth and to study the source material itself if you’re interested in knowing what’s canon. I think this is what you were saying in your post, so I’m guessing you meant the second definition and I misunderstood you.

Anyways, all this makes me think of the Achilles and Patroclus top/bottom discourse that’s been spanning millennia (more specially discourse about their place in the erastes/eromenos dynamic) lol. The idea that they had sex or had this dynamic at all is fanon since it’s never said outright in the canon text they were referencing. But I’m glad all that fanon existed and exists and so much of the fandom activity around that particular element of fanon has been preserved for us to read about today.

death of the author yeah whatever but death of the fandom is so integral to enjoying legitimately anything like that is just a necessary step to take in ur head always. do not let them affect the text in any way exterminate them all with ur death ray. they r not real and cannot hurt u

#naruto founders #naruto founders era #naruto fanon #Anti Naruto fandom

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riddlemearose · 1 day ago

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you're taller. how fucking dare you.

“Tune!” Link hears someone yell and, even though it’s been almost two years since he’s heard that name said by that voice, he still recognises it on the spot.

He turns, peering around the armful of supplies he’s holding. There’s a young man in green with a familiar blue scarf approaching them at high speed, just barely below a sprint.

“Din’s tits.” Tetra says from beside Link, baffled.

“You’re seeing this too?” Link asks, and sees her nod out of the corner of his eye.

The Captain skids to a stop in front of them, out of breath, and grins as bright as the sun. “Ha! We found you!”

“How in Cyclos’ damned name are you here?” Link replies, awed, all but dropping the equipment in his arms. The closed crates clatter to the ground, missing the toes of his boots by inches.

“L-long story.” The Captain pants. “Holy shit, you both got taller.”

“That is how the passage of time works.” Tetra immediately counters, a smirk on her face.

The Captain snorts, loud and undignified, and shakes his head, studying them both “How long has it been for both of you?”

“About two years.” Link answers, looking him over as well.

It’s hard to tell but he thinks the Captain looks a bit older. Not by much but just enough to suggest that time had passed. And, way more importantly, Link definitely got taller over the past two years! He comes up to the Captain’s shoulders now.

Ha, that’s a clear sign that Link absolutely will outgrow him. That’s what the Captain gets for spending the entire war teasing him and Mask with stupid shit like ‘What’s the weather down there like?’

Well, his fun and games are all over now because Link is definitely going to have the last laugh!

“The sword is new.” The Captain eyes the Phantom Sword on Link’s back, a displeased frown tugging at the side of his mouth. “Second quest?”

“Second quest.” Tetra agrees with a dismissive wave of her hand. She squints back at him and teasingly points out, “You don’t look that old yet.”

“Thanks.” The Captain rolls his eyes. “Your concern for my life is very touching.”

“Well, you’re not dead at least.” Link offers, already ducking under the Captain’s retaliating swat that's aimed for the back of his head.

Despite his reaction, the Captain still looks fond. Link needs to tease him about that too: Captain Link, tactician and war hero extraordinaire, has gone soft.

“I do need to speak with you for a second, Tune, before he gets here.” There’s an almost tense edge to his voice, which doesn’t exactly bode well given Link’s past experiences with that tone.

Link frowns. “Who are you—”

“Warriors!” A new voice calls. They both turn to see a man striding towards them. He’s older than the Captain with shiny plate armour and interesting tattoos on one side of his face that Link can't quite make out from a distance.

Link squints at him. There’s… something about him, something that pings in the back of Link’s mind.

“Oh boy.” The Captain – Warriors, Link guesses, though that’s a pretty shit name if it’s really what he’s going by – mumbles under his breath, then waves at the man. “Over here, Time! I found him!”

Time’s face brightens – who’s picking these names they’re horrible – as he smiles, stopping beside them. He looks at Link and his smile turns smug. “Tune! I told you I was going to be taller than you.”

What? Link’s nose scrunches up. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Warriors smacks a hand to his forehead with a near-silent groan, but says nothing. Link peers up at Time’s face. Shit those tattoos are very vivid. And familiar. Why… does he recognise them?

Wait.

He’s seen that pattern before. He knows that pattern, WHAT?!

Link splutters and points an accusing finger at Time, furious. “Mask!? When did you get old?! WHEN DID YOU GET TALL?!”

Mask—Time—whatever-his-name-is throws his head back and laughs, somehow managing to retain that smug grin all the while.

“How do you think I feel?” Warriors grumbles in quiet commiseration, his hand still pressed against his forehead.

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOU!” Link yells, waving his hands madly. “HE’S TALLER THAN ME!”

Damn every goddess Link can think of. And he’d just celebrated that he was pretty sure he would be taller than the Captain too WHAT THE FUCK?!

“I’m taller than both of you.” Time agrees cheerfully, still looking way too smug.

Link literally has to glare up at him – fuck, he hates that there’s this much of a height difference, Mask is such a DICK – and crosses his arms. “I hate you. How old are you? You look ancient.”

“Older than you.” Time replies instantly, meeting Link’s gaze head-on and completely ignoring his insult.

Rude. Rude.

Link studies him again, this time from a tactical angle rather than a general glance. He thinks, pondering the scheme forming in his mind over for a moment.

… You know what, yeah. He’s pretty confident that he can easily go for Mask’s knees, just like he used to. Mask looks old enough to have forgotten about that trick.

There will be absolutely no consequences for doing this. Link’s got this in the bag; Mask is gonna feel his wrath.

#(Time did in fact remember that trick. They all got kicked out of the port)#linked universe #lu wind #lu time #lu warriors #feat tetra #riddel's fics #linked universe fanfic #this has been in my drafts for like. 2 MONTHS #here have it

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lila-lou · 23 hours ago

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✨Twenty-One - 1/4✨

Summary: You thought this trip was just a chance to unwind — until the door opened and Jensen Ackles was standing there, larger than life and way too real. Now you're spending your birthday week in his house, trying not to lose your mind over your childhood crush who, somehow, keeps looking at you like you’re not just some kid anymore.

-requested-

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, kinda immoral

Word Count: 6636

DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

AJ grinned as she rang the doorbell, clearly excited about your reaction to this trip. You, on the other hand, felt your stomach twist into knots. It wasn’t every day you were about to meet Jensen Ackles—a man you had grown up admiring, crushing on, and now, somehow, about to spend time with in the flesh.

The door swung open faster than you expected, and there he was.

Jensen Ackles stood in the doorway, casual yet effortlessly attractive in a plain t-shirt and jeans, his green eyes warm but curious as they landed on you. His light brown hair was slightly messy, like he’d just run his hand through it.

“Hey, kiddo”, he greeted AJ with a grin, pulling her into a quick hug before turning his attention to you. “And you must be Y/N. Heard a lot about you”.

Your brain short-circuited for a second. He heard about you? You barely managed to return his smile without looking like a total idiot.

“Uh—yeah. That’s me. Y/N”, you said awkwardly, cursing yourself immediately for sounding like a socially inept robot.

AJ laughed and nudged your side. “She’s just nervous. Big fan and all”.

Your eyes widened as you turned to glare at her, mentally screaming. She wasn’t supposed to say that! That was the last thing you wanted him to know.

Jensen chuckled, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Oh yeah?”, he teased, clearly amused. “Supernatural fan?”.

You swallowed hard. “Uhm—yeah. I mean—kinda”.

His smirk deepened, and you knew he knew. “Well, that’s good. At least you won’t be completely freaked out staying here for the week”.

You blinked. Wait, what?

AJ turned to you with a wide grin. “Yeah, forgot to mention that part. We´re staying here. Dad’s got plenty of space, and this way, we don’t have to waste money on a hotel”.

Your mouth went dry. A whole week… in Jensen Ackles’ house?

Jensen patted your shoulder lightly, the simple touch making your skin tingle. “Make yourself at home, Y/N”, he said, his voice smooth and warm. “It’s gonna be fun”.

And just like that, your already dangerous crush on him? It just got a hundred times worse.

As AJ disappeared into the kitchen, already rummaging through the fridge like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did—you found yourself alone with Jensen.

He smiled down at you, his green eyes studying you with an easy warmth. “So, you and AJ met at the shelter, huh?”, he asked, leading you through the house at a relaxed pace.

You nodded, still feeling slightly on edge just being here. “Yeah, about a year ago. I worked there while studying, and AJ came in for her internship”.

Jensen chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “That sounds like her. Always wanting to do a little bit of everything”. His voice was deep and smooth, the kind of voice that could make reading a grocery list sound interesting.

“Yeah”, you agreed softly. “She’s… definitely a lot more outgoing than me”.

He glanced at you, his expression turning thoughtful. “Not a bad thing”, he said, stopping at the base of the staircase. “Sometimes, the quiet ones have the most to say. Just takes the right person to listen”.

Your stomach flipped at his words. Did he just say something that deep… about you? Before you could even think of a response, he motioned toward the stairs. “Let me show you where you’ll be staying”.

You followed him up, trying your best not to let your eyes wander, except that was nearly impossible. The man was built like a damn Greek god. Broad shoulders, muscular back, those strong arms… it should’ve been illegal for someone to look that good in just a t-shirt.

“This is you”, Jensen said, pushing open a door at the end of the hall. The room was spacious but cozy, with a queen-sized bed, a soft gray comforter, and a window that overlooked the backyard.

“Wow”, you breathed, stepping inside. “This is… really nice”.

Jensen leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “Good. I want you to feel comfortable here. And if AJ gets too annoying, you can always escape in here”.

You smiled at that, your nerves easing slightly. “Thanks. That’s… really nice of you”.

He tilted his head, watching you. “It’s your birthday tomorrow, right?”.

Your eyes widened slightly. “Uh—yeah. How’d you know?”.

Jensen smirked. “AJ’s been talking about it for weeks”. He pushed off the doorframe, his presence effortlessly commanding even in such a relaxed stance. “We’ll have to do something special”.

Your heart skipped a beat. Jensen Ackles wanted to do something for your birthday?

Before you could embarrass yourself by overthinking, AJ’s voice called from downstairs. “Dad! You seriously have nothing good to eat! What kind of house is this?”.

Jensen sighed, shaking his head as he turned. “Guess I need to feed the gremlin before she starves”.

You let out a soft laugh, watching as he walked away. As soon as he was gone, you flopped onto the bed, face-first, groaning into the pillow.

A whole week here. With him. You were so screwed.

You had barely kicked off your shoes and sat up when Jensen’s deep voice echoed from downstairs. “Y/N! What do you want to eat?”.

Your brain short-circuited for a second. He was asking you? Like, personally? Not just assuming you’d go along with whatever AJ wanted?

You scrambled to the doorway, hesitating before calling back, “Uh—whatever’s fine! I’m not picky!”.

There was a pause, then his voice came again, closer this time. “That’s not an answer, kid”.

Your stomach flipped at the nickname. Not that it was unusual, he probably called people around AJ´s age “kid” all the time, but coming from him? It did something to you.

You took a deep breath, stepping out of your room and heading toward the stairs. “Um… pizza?”.

Jensen appeared at the bottom of the staircase, looking up at you with an amused smirk. “There. Was that so hard?”.

Your face burned as you shrugged. “I just—didn’t want to be a bother”.

He scoffed. “You’re staying in my house, Y/N. You better tell me what you want to eat. I don’t need you passing out on me”.

AJ suddenly popped out from behind him, a bag of chips in hand. “Yeah, trust me, Dad. Y/N gets all quiet when she’s hungry. It’s creepy”.

You rolled your eyes. “I do not”.

“She totally does”, AJ confirmed, shoving a chip in her mouth. “She’s like a little sad puppy until she eats”.

Jensen chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled his phone out. “Alright, pizza it is. Any topping requests?”.

You hesitated for half a second, but AJ was already answering for you. “She loves pepperoni and extra cheese”.

Jensen raised an eyebrow, glancing at you. “That true?”.

You nodded, feeling oddly exposed by how well AJ knew you. “Yeah”.

Jensen grinned, nodding as he scrolled on his phone. “Good choice. You and I are gonna get along just fine, Y/N”.

You swallowed hard at that, ignoring the way your heart did a weird little flip. Get it together. He was just being nice. Like a dad.

AJ, of course, wasn’t about to let you off the hook. “She’s also a total freak about garlic bread”.

Jensen looked up, amused. “Oh yeah?”.

AJ nodded, grinning like she had just exposed your deepest secret. “Like, I swear she’d marry a loaf of it if she could”.

You groaned, covering your face. “AJ, shut up”.

Jensen just chuckled, already adding it to the order. “Alright, garlic bread for the birthday girl”.

Your stomach twisted. Oh. Right. He knew.

It wasn’t that you hated birthdays, but growing up, they were never big for you. No extravagant parties, no expensive gifts, just a simple cake, maybe a dinner if money allowed. So hearing Jensen Ackles, the man you had crushed on for years, say it so casually? It felt… weird.

Nice. But weird.

“AJ mentioned you’re turning 21”, Jensen said, locking his phone and glancing at you. “Big milestone. We should do something fun”.

AJ perked up. “Oh! Can we take her out?”.

You froze. “Wait, what?”.

AJ turned to you, practically vibrating with excitement. “Dude, it’s your 21st birthday. We have to do something! A bar, a club, something!”.

Jensen smirked, crossing his arms. “You’re still eighteen, AJ. You’re not going anywhere”.

AJ groaned dramatically. “Ugh, technicalities”.

You, on the other hand, were too focused on the part where Jensen was apparently planning your birthday now. “I—I don’t know”, you stammered, suddenly nervous. “I hadn’t really planned anything. It’s not a big deal”.

Jensen scoffed. “Yeah, not happening. You only turn 21 once”.

AJ gasped, her eyes lighting up. “Ooooh, Dad, you should take her out!”.

Your entire body went stiff. “What?!”.

Jensen just raised an eyebrow at his daughter’s enthusiasm. “Uh…”.

AJ clapped her hands together, already hyping herself up. “Yes! Think about it. You know all the cool places, she’s never been to LA before, and she needs to live a little! It’s perfect”.

You opened your mouth to protest, because what the hell was she even suggesting?!, but Jensen only chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… guess I don’t mind playing chaperone for the night”.

AJ grinned at you. “See? Perfect”.

You stared at her, absolutely betrayed. “AJ, what are you doing?”, you whispered, mentally panicking.

She just smirked. “Giving you the best birthday ever, duh”.

Jensen stretched, cracking his neck. “Alright, pizza should be here soon. You two go set the table or something”.

You barely registered his words. Your brain was too busy spiraling. Because tomorrow night? You were going out. With Jensen Ackles.

You grabbed a couple of napkins, setting them next to the paper plates while AJ plopped down on the couch, watching you with a mischievous grin. “We need to doll you up”, she declared, tossing a napkin onto the table.

You groaned, already knowing where this was going. “AJ—”

“I’m serious!”, she cut in, sitting up and pointing at you. “You’re so pretty, but you always dress so… lamely”.

Your face heated up. “I do not”.

AJ gave you a look. “Y/N, I love you, but your entire wardrobe is, like, neutral colors and jeans. Do you even own a dress?”.

You hesitated. “…Maybe”.

AJ gasped dramatically. “Oh my God, maybe?!”.

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “Not all of us have unlimited shopping sprees, AJ”.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Money has nothing to do with it! You just need to, like… embrace your hotness”.

You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”.

AJ grinned. “Dude, you’re gorgeous. But you hide behind all these boring clothes and oversized hoodies”. She wiggled her eyebrows. “And since you’re spending your birthday night out with my dad, we need to upgrade your look”.

You froze. “AJ, it’s not like that—”.

“Oh, please”, She smirked. “Dad’s gonna be in full ‘protective mode’, but that doesn’t mean you can’t look hot”.

Your face felt like it was on fire. “AJ, I am not dressing up just to—”.

“Too late”, she sang, already pulling out her phone. “We’re raiding my closet after dinner. I have so many things that’ll look amazing on you”.

You sighed, knowing there was no way out of this. “You’re really set on this, huh?”.

AJ grinned. “Absolutely”.

Before you could protest again, the doorbell rang.

“Pizza’s here!”, Jensen’s voice came from the hallway.

AJ clapped her hands, jumping up. “Saved by the pizza. But don’t think I’m letting this go”.

You groaned, running a hand down your face as she skipped off to the door. Tomorrow night was going to be a disaster.

Dinner had been surprisingly easygoing. A lot of small talk, mostly AJ dominating the conversation while you and Jensen occasionally chimed in. He was easy to talk to—casual, funny, even a little sarcastic—but still, every time he looked at you, you felt hyperaware of yourself. Like he could see right through your nervous energy.

But then, once the pizza was mostly gone, Jensen leaned back in his chair, stretching a little before fixing you with a serious look. “Alright, birthday girl”, he started, “if we’re going out tomorrow, we gotta set some ground rules”.

You straightened slightly, feeling weirdly like a teenager getting lectured by a parent. “Rules?”.

Jensen nodded. “Yeah. First off, no posting about it online. I’m not super hounded by paparazzi, but I also don’t need some rando snapping pics of me in a club with a 21-year-old and spinning it into some weird-ass headline”.

That… made sense. You hadn’t even thought about that. You nodded. “Yeah, of course”.

“Second”, he continued, taking a sip of his beer, “I’m picking the club. I know a few spots that are discreet. Last thing you need is to deal with a bunch of drunk superfans losing their minds because they recognize me”.

You swallowed. Right. Because he was Jensen freaking Ackles. Just because he was so casual about it didn’t change the fact that millions of people worshipped him.

“And third…”. He hesitated for a second, then smirked slightly. “Look, I know you’re young, but just—don’t do anything stupid. Don’t disappear, don’t take drinks from strangers, and for the love of God, don’t hook up with some dude in the club bathroom”.

You nearly choked on your drink. “Jensen!”.

AJ screamed from across the couch, doubling over in laughter. “OH MY GOSH. AS IF”, She was gasping between giggles. “Dad, she’s—she’s the biggest virgin ever”.

Your eyes widened in horror. “AJ, what the hell?!”.

Jensen, to his credit, just raised an eyebrow, looking highly amused. “That so?”, he mused, taking another sip of beer.

You covered your face with both hands. This was not happening.

AJ was still cackling. “I swear! She’s like, scared of flirting. It’s adorable”.

You groaned, wanting to sink into the floor. “Oh my God, can we not talk about this?”.

Jensen smirked. “Alright, alright. No judgment, kid”.

The way he said it, so damn casually, made your stomach do something stupid. Like he wasn’t laughing at you, just… observing.

AJ wiped tears from her eyes, still giggling. “I love this. This is the best day ever”.

You glared at her. “You’re the worst”.

She just grinned. “And yet, you love me”.

Jensen shook his head, still looking entertained. “Alright, enough embarrassing Y/N for one night”. He pushed up from his chair, stretching. “I’m heading to bed. You two don’t stay up all night”.

AJ saluted dramatically. “Yes, Dad”.

You were still burning with embarrassment as Jensen walked past, clapping your shoulder lightly. “Don’t let her bully you too much, kid”. And with that, he was gone, leaving you a mess on the couch while AJ kept laughing.

The next day passed in a blur. You had tried to distract yourself, watching movies with AJ, helping clean up the kitchen, and avoiding thinking too hard about the fact that tonight, you’d be going out with Jensen.

But, of course, AJ had other plans. “Alright, birthday girl”, she announced, throwing open her closet doors dramatically. “Time for your transformation”.

You sighed, standing near the doorway. “I don’t need a transformation, AJ”.

She turned to you, hands on her hips, like a mom about to scold her child. “Yes, you do. You’re turning twenty-one. You’re going out for the first time. You are not—I repeat, NOT—going in your usual boring outfit”.

You huffed. “It’s not boring. It’s just comfortable”.

AJ gave you a look. “We are not prioritizing comfort tonight. We are prioritizing hotness”.

You groaned. “AJ…”.

She ignored you, already digging through hangers, tossing options onto her bed. “We need something sexy but not too much. Hot, but classy. Like… ‘Oops, I didn’t mean to be this attractive, but here we are’”.

You rolled your eyes. “That’s… weirdly specific”.

AJ gasped suddenly, pulling out a sleek, form-fitting black dress. “This. This is it”.

Your eyes widened. “AJ, that’s… tiny”.

She scoffed. “It’s not tiny, it’s perfect. Try it on”.

You hesitated, but one look at AJ’s dead serious expression told you there was no way out of this. Fine. You grabbed the dress and disappeared into the bathroom. When you slipped it on, you barely recognized yourself. It hugged your body in all the right ways, the hem stopping mid-thigh, the neckline just low enough to be dangerous. You stared at your reflection, heart pounding. Was this really you?

“Are you done yet?!”, AJ’s voice called impatiently.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped out.

AJ’s jaw dropped. “FUCKING. SHIT”.

Your face burned. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”.

AJ shook her head so fast you thought she might get whiplash. “Too much?! No, this is—this is perfect. Like, I almost want to cry. My little Y/N is finally embracing her hotness”.

You groaned. “Please stop talking”.

She ignored you, circling around like she was inspecting her masterpiece. “You’ve been hiding this under your oversized hoodies all this time?”. She gasped.

Before you could argue, a knock sounded on the bedroom door. Jensen’s voice came through. “You two ready yet?”.

Your stomach twisted into a knot at the sound of Jensen’s voice. Ready? That was debatable. AJ, of course, had no hesitation. She threw open the door, revealing Jensen standing in the hallway, dressed in a fitted black button-up with the sleeves rolled up just enough to ruin your life.

His gaze landed on you—and froze.

For the briefest second, you swore you saw his breath hitch. His eyes flickered down, taking in the dress, the way it hugged your figure, and then just as quickly, he cleared his throat, looking away.

“Well, damn”, he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “You clean up nice”.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to act normal. “Uh… thanks”.

AJ, meanwhile, was beaming like she had just won the lottery. “Told you she looked hot”.

Jensen shot her a look. “Alright, that’s enough”.

AJ just laughed, linking her arm with yours and dragging you down the hallway. “Come on, let’s eat. You can’t party on an empty stomach”.

Dinner was surprisingly… nice.

Jensen took you both to a quiet restaurant, low lighting, a cozy atmosphere, nothing too fancy, but still nice. AJ did most of the talking (as always), but you couldn’t help but notice the way Jensen would glance at you every now and then.

Little things—making sure you liked your food, refilling your drink before you even realized it was low. It wasn’t anything obvious, but it made your stomach flutter all the same.

When dinner wrapped up, Jensen tossed his credit card on the table before you or AJ could even pretend to argue.

AJ stretched dramatically. “Alright, time to go. Birthday girl has a club to get to”. You paused. Right. The plan. Jensen was dropping AJ off at home first, then… then it was just you and him. Alone. In a club.

By the time you pulled up to AJ’s house, she was already half-asleep in the backseat.

Jensen shifted the car into park and looked back at her. “Alright, kiddo, inside you go”.

AJ blinked groggily. “Ugh. Fine”. Then she turned to you, smirking just enough to let you know she was still AJ. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do”.

You rolled your eyes. “Which is…?”.

She grinned. “Nothing. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do”.

Jensen groaned. “Out. Now”.

AJ laughed, hopping out of the car. “Love you both! Don’t be lame!”.

And just like that, it was just you and Jensen. The car was suddenly too quiet.

Jensen exhaled, gripping the wheel for a second before looking over at you. “You ready for this?”.

You nodded, though your heart was pounding. “Yeah. You?”.

He smirked, shifting the car into drive. “Let’s find out”.

The drive to the club was quiet, but not exactly uncomfortable. Just… charged.

Jensen had one hand on the wheel, his other resting casually on the gear shift, his fingers tapping lightly as he drove. The streetlights cast quick flashes of gold across his face, highlighting his sharp jawline, the slight crease in his brow.

You, on the other hand, were trying not to lose your mind.

It wasn’t like this was a date, not even close, but the fact that you were alone with Jensen Ackles, dressed like this, going out for your birthday… it felt like something you shouldn’t even allow yourself to overthink.

But, of course, you were overthinking it anyway. After a moment, Jensen glanced over at you. “You good?”.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… haven’t really done this before”.

He smirked, eyes flicking back to the road. “First time clubbing?”.

You exhaled. “Yeah. Not exactly my scene”.

Jensen let out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, figured as much”.

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”.

He shrugged, lips twitching. “You just seem… more like the ‘cozy night in’ type. Movie marathons, takeout, that kind of thing”.

Your heart skipped. He had known you for barely two days and somehow already had you pegged. “…Not wrong”, you muttered, crossing your arms.

Jensen smirked. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll make sure you survive”.

You swallowed. Kid. That damn nickname. You weren’t sure why it bothered you tonight. Maybe because you didn’t feel like a kid. Not in this dress, not sitting next to him like this, not with the way his voice sounded so smooth and effortless.

You needed a distraction. “So, why are you even doing this?”, you asked, shifting in your seat. “Taking me out, I mean”.

Jensen hummed, considering for a moment. “Well, AJ was very insistent”.

You huffed. “Yeah, that sounds like her”.

He glanced at you again. “And… you only turn twenty-one once. Figured you deserved a proper night out”.

Something about the way he said it—calm, certain—sent a shiver down your spine.

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You do this often?”.

Jensen chuckled. “What, take barely legal girls to clubs?”.

Your face burned. “Oh my God—that’s not what I meant”.

He just laughed, shaking his head. “Relax, kid. I know”. Then, after a beat, he added, “And no. Haven’t really gone out much lately. Not my scene either, honestly”.

That surprised you. “Then why—?”.

He smirked. “Told you. Birthday rule. Plus, if I don’t do it, AJ will never let me hear the end of it”.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “She really does have you wrapped around her finger”.

Jensen sighed dramatically. “Tell me about it”.

The car slowed as he pulled onto a side street, the bright neon lights of the club flickering in the distance. He put the car in park, then turned to you, his expression suddenly more serious.

“Alright, some more ground rules”.

You straightened, nodding. “Okay”.

Jensen held up a finger. “One—stay where I can see you. I’m not dealing with you disappearing on me”.

You swallowed. “Got it”.

“Two—if any guy gives you trouble, you come find me”.

Your breath caught slightly. “Uh… okay”.

“And three—”. He leaned back, giving you a smirk. “Try to have some fun”.

You exhaled a laugh. “I’ll… do my best”.

Jensen grinned, then unbuckled his seatbelt. “Let’s go, birthday girl”.

Your stomach twisted as you stepped out of the car, the music from inside the club already thumping through the pavement. You weren’t sure if it was the nerves or the excitement making your heart race. But either way… there was no turning back now.

The bass from the club pulsed through the pavement as you followed Jensen toward the entrance. The neon lights cast an electric glow over everything, and for a moment, you wondered what the hell you were doing.

This wasn’t your scene. Not even close. But somehow, being here with him made it feel a little less terrifying.

Jensen walked up to the bouncer like he’d done this a hundred times before. The guy at the door barely glanced at him before unhooking the velvet rope. “Good to see you again, man”, the bouncer said, nodding.

Jensen smirked. “Appreciate it”.

You blinked. Wait.

“You know the bouncer?”, you asked as you followed him inside.

Jensen shrugged. “Told you, I picked a place that’s… familiar”.

You stared at him. “What does that even mean?”.

But Jensen just grinned. “Come on, let’s get a drink”.

The club was packed. Music blasted from the speakers, the air thick with heat and the scent of alcohol. Colorful strobe lights cut through the haze, illuminating the crowd of bodies moving in sync with the beat. Jensen led you through the mass of people, his hand hovering near the small of your back—not touching, but just close enough that you felt completely hyper-aware of his presence.

When you reached the bar, he turned to you. “What’s your poison?”.

You hesitated. “Uh… I don’t really know”.

Jensen chuckled, shaking his head. “Right. First time and all”. He turned to the bartender. “Two whiskey sours”.

Your brows lifted. “Oh, we’re starting with whiskey?”.

Jensen smirked. “Trust me”.

The drinks arrived quickly. You took a cautious sip, the mix of citrus and smooth burn of whiskey hitting your tongue. “Okay”, you admitted. “Not bad”.

Jensen raised his glass. “Happy birthday, kid”.

You huffed. “Still with the ‘kid’ thing?”.

He smirked, taking a sip. “Force of habit”.

You rolled your eyes but clinked your glass against his anyway. As you drank, you let yourself take it all in. The music, the lights, the fact that you were here, in a club, drinking with Jensen Ackles. The absurdity of it all made you laugh under your breath.

Jensen arched a brow. “What?”.

You shook your head, smiling. “Just… this isn’t how I thought I’d spend my twenty-first birthday”.

Jensen leaned against the bar, smirking. “Better or worse?”.

Your stomach flipped. You licked your lips, setting your drink down. “Still deciding”.

He chuckled. “Well, we’ve got the whole night. Let’s see if I can change your mind”.

Before you could respond, the music shifted—something fast, infectious.

Jensen tilted his head toward the dance floor. “You gonna dance?��.

Your eyes widened. “Oh, uh… I don’t really—”.

“Bullshit”. He smirked. “Come on. Let’s see what you got”.

Your pulse skyrocketed. “Wait—you mean… with you?”.

Jensen just grinned and held out a hand. You stared at it, heart hammering. This was so not a good idea. And yet… You took his hand.

Jensen’s hand was warm, his grip firm but easy, like this wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t dragging you onto the dance floor in the middle of a crowded club. Your brain screamed at you to protest, to tell him you weren’t much of a dancer, that this was dangerous territory.

But you didn’t. Because the second he pulled you into the crowd, the music swallowed you whole. The bass thrummed through your chest, the lights flashing in shades of blue and red, bodies moving all around you in time with the rhythm. You barely had time to catch your breath before Jensen turned to face you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Relax”, he said over the music. “It’s just dancing”.

Just dancing. You exhaled sharply, trying to convince yourself of that. But then Jensen moved. He didn’t go all-in right away. Just a casual sway, easy and effortless, his body rolling with the beat like it was second nature. His hands stayed at his sides, giving you space, but his eyes? They were right on you. He was watching. Waiting.

Your pulse skyrocketed. Okay. Fine. You could do this. You started slow, mirroring his movements, testing the rhythm. It wasn’t that you couldn’t dance, it was just that you never had, at least not like this. Not with him.

Jensen grinned when he saw you loosen up. “There you go”.

The music picked up, and without thinking, you let your body move. The alcohol in your system helped, making you just a little bolder, a little less aware of your own awkwardness.

And then, Jensen stepped closer. Not too close. Not inappropriate. But close enough. Close enough that when the beat dropped, and you turned slightly, his hand found your waist, just for a second, just barely there. Your breath hitched.

He leaned in, his voice low, just above your ear. “See? Not so bad”.

You swallowed. “Not bad”, you managed, but it didn’t sound nearly as casual as you wanted it to.

Jensen smirked, his fingers brushing your waist again, so light, so subtle, you almost could have imagined it. But you didn’t. Because when your eyes met his, there was something different there. Something that made your whole body hum with awareness.

The song shifted again, something slower, heavier. Jensen didn’t move away. Neither did you. And just like that, the air between you changed. It was no longer just dancing. It was something else. Something neither of you had expected.

Your pulse was out of control. You barely thought as you grabbed your drink, tipping it back in one go, the alcohol burning its way down your throat.

Jensen watched, his smirk deepening. “Damn, kid”.

You ignored the way that nickname made your stomach flip, setting the empty glass onto the nearest table. When you turned back, Jensen was still right there, his green eyes glinting under the flashing club lights.

Then, before you could process what was happening, he reached for your hand. And spun you. A quick, fluid motion—his fingers barely grazing yours—until suddenly, your back was against his chest.

He wasn’t touching you—not fully—but he was close. Close enough that you felt the heat of him, the warmth of his breath as it fanned across your shoulder.

And now? Now, you were really dancing.

The beat pulsed through your veins, your body moving with the rhythm. The hesitation you’d had before? Gone. The alcohol, the music, the way Jensen’s presence wrapped around you like a second skin, it was all too much, and at the same time, not enough.

You let your hands lift slightly, swaying to the beat, and that’s when it happened. Jensen’s fingers, just barely, brushed against your hip. It wasn’t much. The lightest touch. But it sent a sharp jolt through your spine.

You swallowed hard, hyper-aware of him now. The way his body moved so easily behind you. The way he still wasn’t touching you fully, like he was waiting. Testing. Like he was seeing how far this could go.

And you? You weren’t stopping him.

Another beat, another sway. His fingers pressed—firmer, deliberate—just at the curve of your hip. Your stomach tightened.

“Still with me?”. His voice was low, rough, right against your ear.

Your breath stuttered. “Yeah”.

Jensen hummed, a sound that rumbled through your back. “Good”.

You didn’t know how long you danced. Didn’t care. Because for the first time in your life, you weren’t overthinking. You were just feeling. And damn, did it feel good.

Hours had passed in a blur of music, lights, and the heat of Jensen’s presence. You had danced longer than you ever thought possible, had another drink (or two, who was counting?), and somewhere along the way, you had lost every ounce of hesitation.

Now, however, reality was hitting you all at once.

You weren’t wasted, but you were definitely buzzed—that loose, giggly kind of drunk that made the world tilt just slightly when you walked.

And Jensen? He was handling you. Not in an overbearing way. Not in a “let’s go, you’re done” way.

No. He was calm. Collected. Like this wasn’t the first time he had to lead a tipsy twenty-one-year-old out of a club.

His hand rested firmly at your lower back as he guided you through the crowd, his grip steady whenever you swayed too much. “You’re lucky you’re a fun drunk”, he murmured as he pulled open the club’s side door, letting in the crisp night air.

You giggled, feeling way too warm. “What’s a not fun drunk?”.

Jensen smirked, keeping his pace slow as you walked toward the parking lot. “The crying ones. The aggressive ones. The ones who throw up in my car”.

You gasped dramatically. “I would never”.

Jensen huffed a laugh, unlocking the car. “Yeah, well, let’s keep it that way”.

You felt light. Giddy. Like this whole night was floating around you in some hazy, surreal dream. When you reached the passenger door, you turned, swaying slightly. “You know…”, you started, tilting your head. “You’re really good at this”.

Jensen raised an eyebrow, amused. “At what?”.

You blinked slowly, trying to find your words. “Taking care of people”.

His smirk softened just a little. “Comes with the territory”.

You hummed. “Yeah… you’re like… a responsible, sexy bodyguard”.

Jensen froze. Your own brain stalled. Did you—did you just say that out loud? A beat of silence.

Then, Jensen smirked. “Sexy, huh?”.

Oh. My. God. You slapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “Forget that. That wasn’t—that was nothing—”.

Jensen laughed. Like, full-on laughed. “Alright, lightweight, let’s get you in the car before you start confessing more things”, he teased, opening the passenger door.

You groaned, hiding your face. “I hate myself”.

Jensen nudged you toward the seat, still smirking. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll let that one slide”.

You huffed as you slid into the car, your face on fire. Jensen shut the door, walking around to the driver’s side. You exhaled deeply. You needed sleep. Water. A new identity, maybe. Because fucking shit. You just called him sexy.

The second Jensen started driving, you knew you were in trouble. Your head was still spinning, your body warm from the alcohol, the dancing, and—let’s be honest—him.

You couldn’t just sit here in awkward silence after what you’d said. You had to fix it. “I just meant”, you started, turning toward him in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, “you’re, like, objectively attractive”.

Jensen’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Oh no.

“Like—like, obviously. People would agree”, you continued, rambling. “You’ve got, you know, the whole… thing going on”.

He raised an eyebrow. “The thing?”.

You gestured vaguely. “Yeah. The voice, the muscles, the face. You know”.

Jensen exhaled sharply through his nose. “Shit, (Y/N)”.

You panicked. “But not, like, in a weird way! I just mean you’re, like… manly. Like, rugged. You’ve got that whole strong, protective, could-break-someone-in-half vibe”.

Jensen’s jaw flexed. His grip on the wheel went white-knuckle tight. You were making this worse. You gulped. “Like—not that I’d want to be broken in half, obviously—”.

Jensen let out a rough breath, shifting slightly in his seat. You had no idea that your innocent, drunk little rant was currently making his dick twitch. But it was. Because all he could think about now was you—dressed like that, pressed against him on the dance floor, moving without hesitation. And now, sitting in his car, talking like this. About him.

His jaw was tight. “Y/N”.

You perked up. “Yeah?”.

Jensen huffed. “Stop talking”.

Your mouth snapped shut. For a second, you swore the air in the car felt different. Heavy. Charged. You glanced at him, blinking. “Did I—did I say something wrong?”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “No. You just… need to stop before you dig yourself in deeper”.

The rest of the drive was tense, but not because of any argument or discomfort. No, the tension was something else. Something thicker, heavier. Something Jensen should not have been feeling.

You sat there, legs crossed, fiddling with the hem of your dress, clearly buzzed and completely oblivious to what you had just done to him. To be fair, you didn’t know any better. You were young. Inexperienced. Completely innocent in ways you didn’t even realize.

And Jensen was not. That was the problem. That was why his grip was too tight on the steering wheel. That was why his jaw clenched every time your soft little voice rambled about how manly and strong he was.

Because you didn’t even realize what you were saying. Didn’t realize that any other man your age would’ve jumped at the chance to take advantage of the fact that you were sitting here, flushed and tipsy, calling him sexy without a second thought.

Didn’t realize that the words could break someone in half had sent a sharp, unwelcome pulse straight through him. Because he could. And that was the worst part—because you? You were so damn soft. So untouched. So sweet and nervous and trying so hard to make things right.

And here he was, a man nearly twice your age, trying not to think about how warm you’d felt against him hours ago. How easily you had melted into him when he’d spun you on the dance floor. How your breath had hitched when he touched your waist.

And now, you were sitting there, cheeks pink, babbling in that innocent little voice, so damn unaware of the effect you were having on him.

Jensen swallowed hard. This was not good. Not at all.

Then, your voice cut through the silence. “Are you mad at me?”.

He glanced over, blinking. “What?”.

You bit your lip. “I just… I didn’t mean to make things weird”.

Fuck. That lip.

He forced himself to focus. Shook his head. “You didn’t”.

You still looked guilty, your fingers twisting in your lap. “I just—sometimes I don’t know when to shut up”.

Jensen huffed a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. I noticed”.

You made a little sound of protest, smacking his arm lightly. “Hey!”.

He smirked, glancing at you again, this time, really looking. You were so young. Too young to be in his car like this, looking at him like that, trusting him completely. And he needed to get his shit together. Fast.

Jensen exhaled. “Relax, kid. I’m not mad”.

You softened. “Promise?”.

His fingers flexed against the wheel. Fuck, you had no idea. But still, he nodded. “Promise”.

And when you smiled, looking relieved, Jensen knew. He had no business feeling the way he did. Because no matter how much your words had messed him up tonight… You were off-limits.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick @lmg14

#jensen ackles #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you #jensen x reader #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles the boys #jensen ackles x female!reader #jensen ackles x y/n #jackles #spn cast

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happyk44 · 12 hours ago

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[Text ID: 1. Most of us think about love as something that happens to us. We fall. We get crushed.

But what I like about this study is how it assumes that [highlight] love is an action. [end highlight]

2. love really just is *sharing blankets* *driving together in silence* *this song made me think of you* *I made them for you* *having the most fun just talking* *cold hands warm hearts* *I got home safe* *you said you needed one so I found one for you*

3. I like to cook; I like to sew. They’re peaceful things, and they’re an expression of caring.

4. He loves history. He wanted to write a biography of John Quincy Adams. I, shamefully, knew almost nothing about John Quincy Adams, so I went online and bought every biography of him I could find. One day, he called me, claiming that we wouldn’t work out long term. He said he loved me but that we had different interests. [highlight] “What does love mean to you?” [end highlight] I said. “That’s an impossible question,” he replied. I, however, find love to be quite simple. Love is the stack of biographies on my nightstand with a bookmark near the end.

5. My dad was eating pistachios so I reached my hand out and he just started peeling them and giving them to me. Then suddenly went “I really hope you find someone who loves you a lot” and I went “enough to peel my pistachios for me?” And he laughed and said “yeah exactly” before carrying on giving me more

6. you save me half a bag of skins, the hard parts, my fav, dusted orange with hot

7. you make us tacos with shells I like and you don’t

8. No, baby, that was great, just let me hold you know. Let me run out, it’ll just take a second. I’ll be back before you know it, and then you won’t have to wait until morning. Sure, I’ll look at it right now. It’s no trouble. Sure, I can wait. Just let me know when you’re ready, we can go. Sure, I’ll come over and bring my tools. I don’t mind. Sure, I have time [highlight] I always have time for you. Sure, whatever you need. [end highlight] Whatever you need.

9. I hear my voice repeating what I used to say to my husband: Love is action, I used to say to him

/end ID]

love as action

mandy len catron / @sweetnd / joan didion / julia nicole camp / @honey-fire / danez smith / s. bear bergman / marie howe

#described #love #poetry #quotes #web weaving #reblogged #pics #mandy len catron #sweetnd #joan didion #julia nicole camp #honey-fire #danez smith

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81pastrys · 1 day ago

Text

Unplanned

Part 2 / 5

Summary— They find out how big of a mess they made and discuss their options moving forward— at their parents expense.

Warnings— pregnancy mentioned ; depression ; talks of arranged marriage

A/N— I’m moving fast with this IK but I plan the last one or two chapters to be how it all worked out and their happy lil family.

Series List

Main Masterlist

The weeks following were back to her normal schedule— studying, reading, classes. Her friends hounded her to spill on what happened but she was tight lipped about it. She had forgotten about protection and by the time she realized she could take a Plan B it was too late. All she could do was wait.

Carlos was losing his mind. He texted to check in a few times and got left on read multiple times. He had only told Max what happened that night, scared it’ll come for his racing. Everything was consensual except the unprotected part— but neither of them had thought that far into it. Stupid fucking teenagers is what they were.

It was now time for her to own up to the mistake and take a test. She researched how long it would take to even show up and a few weeks was enough. So, she splurged buying a few good tests. Her friends hadn’t heard from her for days after. Not knowing why nor what she had done.

Carlos sat in shock. Saturday after Qualifying he got a text. Not just any text, no, a text from her. A picture to be exact. It was a Live Photo, her hand shaking for the split second it played. Two lines on one test and ‘pregnant’ on the other sitting in the background.

The silence fell loudly. Carlos shut everyone out, she ignored any calls or texts. She even missed a day of classes. That’s when her friends decided it was enough and seriously worried about her. “If you don’t open this fucking door I’m calling the fire department!” Mia, her best friend, sobbed at her door.

She got up from her bed and unlocked the door, not even bothering to open it for Mia. If the hoodie and sweats told her anything— this wasn’t good. At all. Even if she was sick they’d get a text or an answer. She wouldn’t even miss classes if she was sick. This was bad.

“Oh my god.” Mia knew immediately. Her red face, the hoodie pulled over her unwashed hair, the loose sweatpants and the untidied room was enough for Mia to know something was severely wrong. “What the fuck happened in Monaco?”

She started sobbing again and fell into her Mia’s arms. “I fucked up.” She choked out. After a while of sobbing and more sulking she told Mia everything. That it was all consensual until the end. “I didn’t- we never talked about protection- I mean it was a hook up- but I’m screwed now.” She sobbed less now but tears were still streaming.

“Did you- are you okay?” The question hung heavy. She didn’t say anything but went to the bathroom and returned with a plethora of positive pregnancy tests. She thought Mia’s eyes were going pop out of her head. “No.” She shook her head. “No! This can’t- what?”

The initial shock was enough of an excuse for her absence and her friends let it be. She missed another day of classes but pulled herself up for the next day. She still looked worn and upset but she couldn’t miss another day.

No one questioned her and she trusted they didn’t know why. It was almost summer, and he seemed to be interested in talking it out and not just leaving her. It would work out— she thinks.

Carlos was in the same boat— well nearly. He told Max. That was it. He told Max to keep it quiet, not to tell anybody until he was able to talk with her. They were only texting and he wanted to talk with her in person about this. After Spain he was planning on flying to her.

“What are your parents going to say?” Max asked. Carlos confided in the younger kid since they were around each other most of the time. Max was as shocked as Carlos, as if it was his instead of Carlos’.

“Dios Mio, to get married?” Carlos guessed. “They are against whatever you call this in English.” He added. They wouldn’t take it lightly is basically his point.

“Is that what you want? To get married this young?” Max asked. Carlos shook his head slowly, his gaze locking in on Max’s eyes. “Well you definitely need to talk with her if you want to be involved.”

“I plan to, but if my parents want us to marry and she doesn’t want that then I can’t be involved.” Carlos mentioned. “Ay, I need to plan this out.” Plan he did.

Carlos flew out to the UK right after the race and before the next in three weeks time. They met in a semi-public but disclosed place as to not attract paparazzi or fans. He didn’t want to overwhelm her with that.

She didn’t look the same— not that he had seen her outside of the club or pajamas but she just looked different. It was awkward at first, they ordered fancy teas and made small talk. “I can’t tell my parents, they’re too strict and I just- they’re gonna hate me.” She said, her voice cracking as she did so. “I’d hate to put you in that position.”

He was confused, what position? “I understand that but what are our options?” He asked. He wanted to make it clear it was her decision on anything. They both didn’t mean for this to happen.

She sighed heavily and looked at him hesitantly. “My parents would want us married as soon as humanly possible, I don’t want to terminate the pregnancy- that’s not, that’s not what I want at all.” She admitted. “I can’t do this alone though, so if you don’t want-“

He placed a hand over hers and gave her a soft smile. “I won’t let you do it alone, that’s not who I am.” He said. “If you want me involved I will gladly be there.” She sighed a breath of relief for now. “My parents will say the same, marriage before kids and toda.” (Everything).

“There’s always adoption, but if we can work something out I’d like to keep the baby and raise them with you.” She said quietly, shy even. “This was not how I expected my summer to go.” She sighed.

“Ay dios Mio, me either.” He sighed. “We can work something out, I don’t plan on leaving you alone with a baby to raise.” He assured her.

They agreed on telling their parents and being there for each other as the texts— well paragraphs explaining everything— sent. Phone calls ringing simultaneously nearly a minute later as they shared a glance. As they expected their parents requested marriage immediately. Accepting to an extent considering the situation.

Part 3 will be longer I promise, I promise

@il0vereadingstuff @angelluv16 @justaf1girl @pandabiiissh @widow-cevans @itznotsophia @angstynasty @kallanfiona

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fafodill · 3 days ago

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I’m unironically invested in Snape and Hagrid getting along pretty well. Despite how much of a careless disaster Hagrid can be, talking to him must be a breath of fresh air after a week of dealing with the bratty pureblood snobs in Slytherin/their parents/the school board/Dumbledore and his inability to be direct about anything/Harry’s latest disaster/students who refuse to follow simple instructions and then get mad about it/Death Eaters/etc. Also, this has the very fun (to me) potential of devolving into like… Hagrid: :D :D do you want to see my new pet?? she’s a Firebeathing Hellmurder Deathbeast that’s been illegally smuggled into this country, isn’t she cute, her name’s Pumpkin and I won her in a card game :D Snape: Yes absolutely, would you mind holding this cursed severed head in a jar while I take a sample of Pumpkin’s venom for research purposes? Hagrid, completely sincere and not questioning the severed head: :D okay!! Her venom can dissolve flesh!! Snape, also completely sincere despite the resting bitch face: That sounds… fun. I imagine it has many uses.

(also damn, if you want a character to rescue teenage Snape from the Marauders my vote’s on Hagrid! he managed to keep the inside of his house off of the Map, and as much as he’s clearly fond of James I don’t think he’s very keen on people hunting their classmates for sport after having been targeted by Riddle…)

Thank you anon for giving more fuel to my platonic (?) Snagrid growing interest because I absolutely dig it.

Honestly Hagrid is a very underused character. It's partly jkr's fault (how convenient it is to always blame her) since Hagrid was like a sort of kind-childish-giant-trope who was here at the beginning to introduce Harry to the magical world and kinda... stayed that way. He is like an overgrown friend to the Trio which is, well, something some people have been discussing 'cause it's lowkey problematic since he's a grown-ass man... but he's also extremely non-threathening (if you forget about his very dangerous special interests). It's a bit of a shame that we didn't see more of his 'responsible' side but he is capable of great emotional intelligence and has a clear sense of friendship (like in PoA when he scolds the boys for letting down Hermione). So yes, I could absolutely see him defend teen!Snape!

Of course we can assume this didn't happen in canon since we never see Snape interact with Hagrid - if I'm not mistaken - but... it sounds like something that could have happened.

And really, cottage forest giant + gothic skinny boi bat ? Immaculate combo.

I want Hagrid to have protected teen!Snape! He wasn't a professor back then but he was roaming the grounds and could have seen the Maraudeurs hexing Snape and intervened. He's big and impressive. Snape would have fled as well in the other direction but what if sometimes Hagrid had spotted him studying outside in the shades? I could see him just waving at him from afar and tiny Snape just burrying his head in his books, not knowing how to react.

With time he'd have waved back maybe. Just a little bit. And Hagrid would have smiled from ear to ear.

And he'd have yelled at the Maraudeurs again and again. Because sure the kid was a slytherin but he wasn't hurting anyone (at least at the beginning) and it was pretty obvious he was lower-class and was mostly bullied because of that.

Imagine that with time he'd have maybe found a wounded/hexed Snape once and offered him to get him to the infirmary. Snape would have refused and with a bit of convincing Hagrid would have maybe managed to convinced him to come to his house so he could at least bandage him or offer him tea.

Imagine how awkward 13 yo Snape would have been in this weird hut with all the gigantic clutter around and then being offered a bucket of tea. He'd have barely answered Hagrid's questions, hiding behind his hair and looking like a wary little animal. Then Hagrid would have maybe showed him the very toxic rare beetles he'd have 'found' in Hogsmeade and little Snape who's ahead of the curriculum gets worried fascinated and perks up and starts babbling about what it seems to be.

Hagris tells him he can come whenever.

And they bond over that beetle. Even more when it lays eggs and Hagrid is overjoyed and Snape is excited but VERY WORRIED and doesn't know if he's supposed to warn the other professors or not.

And he goes back to the hut twice a week to observe the evolution of everything and finds that it's actually quite nice being there. It's calm and Hagrid praises his intellect and loved that he's being so curious. And he doesn't judge him for his clothes or his accent.

Of course in the middle of this beetle story they both almost get poisoned at least five times and when the eggs hatches it's a catastophy and they barely manage to kill them all contain it before the whole grounds are festering with poisonous beetles. Hagrid is very sad and Snape has no idea what to say so he just passes him his napkin-sized hankerchief as he weeps.

After that I believe you can have the beginning of - if not a solid friendship - then at least some sort of trust and companionship.

Had Hagrid been told that Snape invented sectumsempra and possibly hurt people with it (Hagrid is a gryffindor with a strong moral compass after all and we could assume he's not fond of slytherins) he could have scolded him and possibly distanced himself but I think that once he's fond of someone he's not letting them down.

So he'd have been able to hear Snape's side even if he didn't approve of his methods.

And imagine if he offered him once to spend Christmas with him in 6th or 7th year?I don't know about you but this sounds like dubious food, drooling dog and nice memories to me.

Yeah no, I dig a Snagrid friendship.

#severus snape #rubeus hagrid #gimme more of that #snapedom #snape fandom #severus snape fandom #snape community

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afloweroutofstone · 17 hours ago

Note

I recently have gotten more into learning about congressional caucuses, mainly how republicans are united under one, and democrats are more evenly split between the New Democratic Coalition, and the Progressive Caucus

IRT the recent post, and what one might do about that, do you think splitting the democratic party into two more ideological parties (moderates and progressives) would allow the moderates to eat away at some conservative support, while allowing progressives a more open platform for their ideas and building a base of their own?

seems to me at least republicans have been so successful because of their party discipline and ideological focus in terms of marketing—where democrats suffer. moderates don't want to be seen as too progressive, and progressives are demonized as being secretly moderate.

or maybe it's better to erode support as one united coalition, and only afterwards to think about splitting? I am just mostly interested in the idea of trying to get a multi-party system off the ground here in the US

Two important points. First, I don't think that the Democrats are more internally divided in their caucus structure than the Republicans are. House Democrats have the Progressives, New Dems, and Blue Dogs; House Republicans have the Freedom Caucus, the Republican Study Committee, and the Main Street Caucus.

Second, while splitting both of our parties up into several smaller parties is a scenario that I dream of, you can't just decide to do it without changing our electoral system. If you split the Democratic Party in two without any electoral reforms, then one of the two would dominate the other until they merge again.

The US two party system is not just a coincidence, it is actively encouraged by the way we structure elections. Using first-past-the-post plurality elections encourages voters to sort themselves into two parties to avoid "wasted votes" on smaller third parties; we'd need instant-runoff elections or proportional representation to change that. Third parties also face a lot of structural barriers put in place by our two main parties, policies put in place to disadvantage third parties and independents via ballot access, debate invitations, registration fees, public campaign financing rules, etc., etc.

We can choose to end the two-party system, but doing so means choosing to further democratize our elections.

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onbearfeet · 9 hours ago

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This is something that genuinely fascinates me about certain storytellers.

If you've ever been in a real emergency situation — blood and screaming, people will die if someone doesn't do something NOW and probably some of them will die even then — then you know that a lot of people will instinctively run in to help. They'll do it whether they actually can help or not. It's hardwired into a lot of humans, especially if the people in danger are children. (No shade. Mammals are often protective of their young.)

But not everyone will do it. Some people won't be physically or psychologically able to ... but some will have the knowledge and ability, and they just won't. Do. Anything. I grew up in earthquake country, so I think of it in terms of earthquakes; when the walls start to crack, everybody runs for cover, but not everybody grabs a baby on the way.

I'm a runner-in, always have been, so I'm fascinated by the stayers-out. I'm not usually interested in judging them (I can't honestly say staying out of, say, a burning building is a bad idea), but I do want to know what's in their head where I have the voice of an ancient primate screaming at me to save the troop.

The only stayer-out I've ever gotten to study up close was my probably psychopathic sibling, and I don't consider him representative of anything much. But the presence of that trait in a storyteller — much less one who takes on Superman of all characters — is baffling. Is there some kind of lack of empathy at work? Certainly Snyder seems to pick and choose who gets to be fully human in his movies, but that's a strange trait to find in a professional storyteller. Does he see stayers-out as heroic in and of themselves, as makers of difficult choices? If so, Superman really isn't the character to explore that through, what with his literal comic-book levels of power that enable him to save almost everyone most of the time. Maybe he was trying to make the best of Superman after Christopher Nolan comprehensively claimed Batman for a solid decade, and transplanted a Batmanesque moral dilemma like "Should I save the Joker?" onto a character for whom it makes far less sense?

The best hypothesis I have so far is this: Superman is a fantasy of power and goodness. It's a story about an incredibly powerful man who uses his power for good, and whose problems mostly arise from his power, his goodness, or both. Maybe Lex Luthor opposes him out of jealousy or fear of his power; maybe his goodness forces him to take on burdens that damage him psychologically; regardless, the best Superman stories turn on that axis. Perhaps Snyder was trying to question the legitimacy of that premise, or criticize the idea of a power-and-goodness fantasy itself in the way that some really good superhero fiction engages with those sorts of abstract concepts.

But given how much of Snyder's work seems to glory in fantasies of power and cruelty (300) or power and corruption (Watchmen) or ... call it power-and-badness fantasies, I guess ... I do have to wonder why he chose that particular fantasy to aim at.

I want to study that man like a bug in a jar, and I'm not sure I'll like what I find there.

not to shit on zack snyder again but it's really funny that he tried to make a big, grand, complex moral quandary on where superman should stand when he saves people around the world and then james gunn is like "he wants to do it because he thinks it's the right thing to do". sometimes going simpler means you get to the crux of what the character is all about much more efficiently. like wow it's really that easy

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gav-san · 2 days ago

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“No Takebacks" 3

Masterlist here

No Takebacks Masterlist

One Piece Masterlist Here

How it began Word Count: 4K

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

You are, to put it mildly, a spectacularly clean and deeply informed person.

You bathe regularly. You organize your notes. You have backup plans for your backup plans. You do not cause public scenes unless they are worth it. Unfortunately, this one was.

Because apparently, telling the truth about Lord Velcot’s very unfortunate incident with a spiced pear, a stolen wig, and three goats has consequences.

Who knew nobles were so sensitive?

The guards chased you down cobbled alleys, and your beautifully polished boots are caked with harbor mud. You duck into a quieter corner, heart hammering, and come face to face with a man leaning against a stack of crates, chewing a toothpick, and watching you like you’re a particularly interesting card game.

"You're in a bit of a hurry," he says. “Ex-boyfriend?”

You eye him warily. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet. But I hear you know a lot of things. And I'm in the market for information."

You don’t have time for this. "And you’re offering what, exactly?"

He jerks his head toward the ship just past the dock. “A ride. Quiet. No questions, except the ones I ask.”

You study him. Weathered. Sharp-eyed. The kind of man who doesn’t waste words or tolerate lies. You make a split-second decision and nod.

“Fine.”

You make it to the ship without being seen. You narrow your eyes at the size. It is beautiful. Stunning, even. A grand silhouette against the horizon, red sails snapping proudly in the wind. You expected something stately, maybe even majestic.

It’s too dark to tell.

“So,” you say, brushing dirt off your sleeves, “you the captain?”

He barks out a laugh. “Me? Hell no.”

You freeze. “Wait. What?”

“Captain’s below,” he says, grinning. “He’ll want to meet you once I tell him I brought aboard a high-value gossip with nice hair and good boots.”

You blink.

“You’re not the captain?”

“Nope. Name’s Benn Beckman.” He offers a hand. “First Mate to the Red-Haired Pirates.”

And that’s when you hear it. The laugh. Low. Friendly. Infuriating.

Shanks.

Your blood runs cold. You know that bounty. You’ve stared at the poster enough times to curse the smile.

You whirl on Benn. “You brought me aboard a Yonko’s ship?!”

“Careful,” Benn says, clearly amused. “He’s fallen for worse attitudes.”

“Worse than me?”

He shrugs, grinning. “You’ll fit right in.”

Frankly, you don’t care. You’ve had a very long day of being chased, betrayed, and slandered over what should have been a hilarious and harmless anecdote involving a pear and a powerful man’s poor choices. You accepted Benn Beckman’s offer because he looked capable, unbothered, and most importantly, clean.

And to his credit, he was.

He helps you up the gangplank without ceremony. You think maybe, just maybe, you’re safe.

The ship, however, is something else entirely.

You step aboard the Red Force and are immediately met with what can only be described as a deeply committed level of nautical chaos. Not the kind bred from incompetence; no, this is curated, almost artistic. Like someone had taken the concept of a functioning pirate crew and given it a bottle of rum, three chickens, and a head injury.

There’s laundry—actual dirty laundry—hanging from the rigging, flapping proudly like the sails of domestic surrender. A pair of polka-dot boxers snaps you in the face as the wind changes. You look up. They wave at you.

Near the helm, two shirtless crewmates are locked in what appears to be a very serious swordfight.

With baguettes.

They parry with the grace of seasoned warriors and the idiocy of men who have not tasted fear since puberty. One of them shouts “en garde!” in a terrible accent before taking a bite out of his weapon mid-duel.

You catch sight of a chicken. It’s wearing an eyepatch. You blink. It’s still there. It stares back, solemn and ancient, as if it has survived battles you’ll never understand.

The scent of rum hits you next. Not just a scent. A presence. The rum is in the air. The planks beneath your feet creak with the ghost of spilled drinks and bad decisions. You swear the wood itself is tipsy.

You stop mid-step, overcome by the visceral assault of sight, sound, and questionable life choices.

“It’s a pigsty,” you whisper, horrified. Then you blink again, gaze sweeping over the sun-drenched deck, the howling laughter, the chaos woven with joy and freedom. You swallow, shoulders slumping.

“A beautiful pigsty.”

Benn strolls past you like none of this is strange. “Home sweet home.”

You gape at a mug crusted with something you pray is not jam. “You said quiet ride. You said no questions. You did not say I’d share air with feral pirate frat boys.”

“Mm.” Benn eyes the deck. “They’re housebroken. Mostly.”

You side-eye him. “Why does it smell like aging citrus and despair?”

“It’s lemon oil,” he says. “Someone tried to mop. Once. In 2003.”

You inhale slowly, then blink at the sheer volume of abandoned teacups, rum bottles, and suspicious socks.

And that’s when he appears. Barefoot, laughing, and wearing a half-buttoned shirt like it’s a lifestyle.

Red hair. Ridiculous grin. No concept of personal space.

“Oh?” he says, clearly amused. “New passenger?”

You freeze.

This man is everything you go out of your way to avoid. Loud. Disheveled. Ridiculously charming. Probably sticky.

You look at Benn in betrayed silence.

He shrugs. “That’s the captain.”

You point at him in slow horror. “That thing is the captain?”

Shanks beams.

“Don’t worry, I’m mostly socialized for indoor behavior.”

You almost jumped overboard.

Benn claps you on the shoulder like this is fine and mostly to keep you dry. “Welcome to the Red Force.”

You murmur, “I would like to go home now.”

Too late. Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks if you’re the new quartermaster. The chicken clucks approvingly.

The ship sways.

So does your patience.

You sigh. “At least I’m not the one who smells like cheese.”

“Yet,” Shanks adds brightly.

You stare at him. Then at Benn.

“This is your fault.”

Benn lights a cigarette like he has all the time in the world and no reason to rush. The smoke curls slowly between his fingers as he leans against the rail, watching the chaos unfold across the deck with the kind of patience that only comes from long exposure to nonsense.

“Yeah,” he says, casting a glance in your direction. “But you’re not boring. So I’d say we’re even.”

You blink at him. Then at the ship. Then at the man dueling with a mop while wearing a long coat and absolutely no pants. You look again at the chicken. It’s still wearing the eyepatch. You could swear it gives you a nod of recognition.

You should leave. That would be smart. Logical. Strategic. But the guards are still combing the port for you with the zeal of men promised a bonus, and your name is now traveling on the wind with the kind of scandal usually reserved for pirates, murderers, and bad poets.

The Red Force may be a mess, but it floats. Which is already more than you can say for your reputation.

Benn doesn’t try to convince you. When you hesitate near the gangplank, he exhales and raises one eyebrow.

“If you’ve got something worth trading,” he says, voice even, “I’ll make sure the captain lets you stay aboard until the next island.”

You weigh your choices. Running into town would be suicide. Turning yourself in would be stupidity. That leaves you with pirates.

“I have information,” you say at last, slowly.

He doesn’t react much, but the air around him seems to still. “We like information.”

“But I want terms,” you add, folding your arms.

His mouth curves, the faintest twitch of a grin. “Let’s hear them.”

You gesture toward the ship, nose wrinkling as someone swings past on a rope, yelling triumphantly while wearing only one boot and a sunhat.

“If I give you something valuable, I want a ride. A clean bunk. And someone has to mop something. Or bathe. Or both.”

He tilts his head, amused. “That’s a bold list.”

“I’m flexible on the mop,” you say, voice even. “But I will not negotiate on the bathing.”

Benn’s hand extends again, steady and solid.

There’s a pause.

Then he laughs. Not mockingly. His laugh is warm and low, edged with honest amusement, like you’ve said something no one else had the guts or sense to say. Like you’re the first fresh breeze to hit this deck in years.

“You want to trade intelligence for soap and a mop?”

“Yes,” you reply flatly. “I don’t care if I’m surrounded by pirates, but I refuse to live like a damp sock in a locker room.”

Behind you, a voice cuts in, cheerful and far too comfortable.

“What’s this about socks?”

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

The barefoot, red-haired disaster. Wearing yesterday’s shirt and today’s grin, looking like he just woke up from a nap he didn't plan and liked it anyway.

You lift a hand and gesture vaguely in his direction without turning. “That one. He’s not allowed near my quarters until he can pass a smell check.”

Shanks sounds delighted. “You want to trade for hygiene? That’s a first.”

You finally turn to face him.

His smile could outshine the sun, and unfortunately, he knows it. The hair is tousled, the shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and there’s a suspicious smudge of ink or possibly rum on his neck.

You meet his eyes and don’t blink.

“You’ll thank me when your crewmates stop losing dice to mold.”

Shanks looks like you just proposed marriage.

Benn exhales smoke and mutters under his breath, “Oh no. He likes you.”

You frown. “Is that a problem?”

Shanks leans forward slightly, eyes bright. “It’s only a problem if you plan to survive.”

You stare at him.

He smiles wider.

You already regret everything.

Benn, in true first mate fashion, steps in before your brain can start planning escape routes. He leans in, clearly entertained.

“And what are you offering?”

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “How about Lord Velcot’s shipping ledger? The one that proves he’s funneling sea stone under a fake spice route.”

The grin on Benn’s face drops half an inch. His posture doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens like a blade being quietly unsheathed.

Shanks lets out a low whistle. “You’re just full of little treasures, aren’t you?”

“I am. And if you don’t clean that table,” you say, pointing at the sticky wooden monstrosity near the helm, “I’ll find another pirate crew. Preferably one with working soap.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Shanks laughs. Loud. Bright. Borderline offensive.

“Done,” he says. “Ride, bunk, and someone will mop. Hell, I’ll mop myself just for the story.”

You stare at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m absolutely not.” His grin spreads like a man daring the universe to top this moment. “Benn, get this woman a mop. And someone to fight over it.”

Benn sighs like a man who has already seen his future, and it includes too many suds and not enough peace.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

You tuck your notes back into your coat and follow them onto the deck.

Later, you sip tea in the sun and watch as Shanks dramatically splashes soapy water across the boards in what could only be described as a barefoot, interpretive dance about the concept of cleaning. He’s shirtless. There are bubbles on his nose. It’s unclear whether any actual cleaning is happening, but morale is up.

You smile to yourself.

You may be trapped on a ship full of chaos gremlins, but for once, you are in charge of the mop.

The crew likes you immediately.

Unfortunately.

You hadn’t planned on charming them. That wasn’t the goal. You were just trying to barter your way out of political fallout and away from the kingdom of cursed pears. But apparently, sarcasm, a visible disdain for clutter, and the ability to identify seven kinds of mold growing under the deck planks is downright hilarious to pirates.

They howled when you called the crow’s nest a sweaty crypt. They applauded when you slapped a dirty plate out of someone’s hand with your notebook. One of them tried to give you a chicken as a sign of respect.

You had no idea what to do with that.

They start calling you Doc, even though you’re not a doctor. Or Boss, depending on the day. Someone tries “Mom” once. You draw a knife without breaking eye contact. It never happens again.

You wish you liked them.

Truly.

But they’re filthy. Every last one of them reeks of salt, stale liquor, and the ghosts of forgotten laundry. You’ve seen things. Unspeakable things. A cup being rinsed and reused without soap. A man blow-drying his armpits near the lantern. Someone—probably Yasopp—eating something he dropped on the anchor chain and declared “still good.”

You considered setting the ship on fire once. Just to start over.

The only one who seems halfway civilized is Benn Beckman.

And he can’t be trusted. Because he listens to Shanks.

You learned that the hard way after you sat Benn down and politely explained your list of basic human decencies. Clean linens. Sealed storage. A fireproof filing system. You even wrote it out on proper stationery. Benn nodded with grave understanding, the picture of cooperation. Very calm. Very reasonable.

Five hours later, you opened the door to your freshly “cleaned” quarters.

Shanks was inside. Shirtless. Reclining across your cot like he had personally conquered it. He was drinking from your emergency rum stash with the smug air of a man who knew he shouldn’t be there and had every intention of staying anyway. In one hand, he held up a mop like it was a weapon, a trophy, or both.

“I mopped!” he declared, proud as sin.

“With what?” you demanded.

He pointed to a bucket. The contents were murky. Brown. Possibly sentient.

Beckman leaned into view from the hallway, chewing the inside of his cheek like he was deciding whether to laugh or flee. “He tried.”

You had nearly thrown yourself overboard.

Now you keep a spray bottle of industrial-grade disinfectant on your belt like a sidearm. The crew refers to it in hushed tones as blessed firewater. Some say it burned the sins off their souls. Others claim it just smells like lemon death.

You don’t care. You use it liberally.

You sleep with your back to the wall. You wear gloves when touching anything communal, including dice, maps, and whatever horrifying substance Lucky Roux calls “stew.” You keep an eye on Benn at all times.

But sometimes, when you catch him watching you with that slow-burn smirk, with the sharp glint of humor behind those steady eyes, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos Shanks dragged aboard, you wonder how long you can keep up the wall.

Because even if he is dangerous… He did refill your soap. And label it.

Now you’re drying your gloves over a barrel as the Red Force drifts lazily into port. The sun warms your back. The spray glistens on the ropes. For a brief moment, it almost feels like peace.

Shanks sidles up beside you, barefoot again. Pretending not to stare. Failing.

“You don’t have to leave,” he says.

You don’t look at him. You glance toward the docked ships in the distance, then down at his shirt. It has three stains. One is definitely jam. One might be ink. The third remains unidentifiable and probably deserves its own bounty.

“You’re wearing yesterday’s crimes,” you reply.

“But I smell like today’s breeze.”

“You smell like bad decisions and damp rope.” You flick a speck of something off your skirt and turn away. “I’m staying at an inn.”

“You could stay in my cabin.”

“I’d rather be arrested.”

He laughs, soft and low, like he enjoys the chase. You don’t look back.

You do not stay onboard for long.

Not because of the danger. Not because of the pirates. Not even because someone tied three spoons together and declared it a revolutionary navigation system while two others cheered like they had just solved gravity.

No.

You leave because you genuinely fear contracting a yeast infection from prolonged exposure to whatever biological terror is festering below deck.

You make it eight days. Eight heroic, disinfectant-soaked days.

By then, you have seen things. Terrible things. A sponge used for both boots and dishes. A sock employed as a makeshift coffee filter. Shanks, offering you a drink from a cup that had visible algae blooming like it had dreams.

You had stared at him in silent horror.

He leaned in, entirely too casual, and murmured with that maddening grin, “Don’t worry. I’m naturally fermented.”

That was it.

Something in you snapped. It wasn’t loud. It was surgical.

Within the hour, you were off the ship, pacing the harbor like a woman possessed, armed with a checklist, a full coin purse, and enough rage to fund a small revolution. You did not say goodbye. You simply shoved a note into Beckman’s hand and disappeared like some shadow-born avatar of responsibility and bleach.

The note reads:

Thank you for the ride. Please tell your captain that if he ever tries to flirt with me again while smelling like smoked socks and mystery fruit, I will file a formal complaint with the sea itself.

P.S. I hired a battalion of cleaners. You’re welcome.

P.P.S. Burn everything in the galley. Start fresh.

Two days later, the Red Force is crawling with uniformed, appalled, and absurdly expensive professionals. They come armed with scrub brushes, industrial gloves, and what may or may not be a priest. Holy water is applied liberally. Possibly exorcistically.

Shanks finds the whole thing hilarious.

“She paid for this? Really? That’s so generous.”

Benn doesn’t say much. He lights a cigarette and stares out at the sea. The note remains folded and tucked in his coat pocket, a faint crease at the corners where he keeps unfolding and refolding it. He looks like a man who saw the hurricane coming and let it dock anyway.

Because he knows.

You will be back.

Eventually.

After all, you still owe him information. Unfortunately, he still smells like cedar and is quiet competent.

You and Benn Beckman keep in touch.

Much to your ongoing dismay and your intense, justified distaste for his crew.

It begins with letters. They arrive without ceremony, sealed with a wax stamp that looks like someone crushed it beneath a boot. The pages inside are warm with the scent of tobacco and smugness. His handwriting is steady, economical, infuriatingly attractive. He writes in neat lines, clipped observations, sharp wit folded inside every sentence.

The contents vary. Rumors. Coordinates. Unverified sightings. Sketches of strange devices or ships caught using old, outdated codes. Sometimes, entire pages are devoted to mocking the hygiene rating of whatever new vessel he’s endured.

You write back.

Reluctantly.

Not because you enjoy it. Absolutely not. He is useful. That is all.

Your letters are precise. Waterproof ink, ruled margins, folded into thirds like any rational human would. You include bullet points. You underline statements like “I am not your contact. I am your cleaner.” One time, you enclosed a pressed flower. Labeled it carefully in red ink.

“This is what a normal person should smell like.”

Shanks found it charming. Unfortunately.

He refers you to interesting clients, which is usually code for irritating criminals with good coin and boundary issues. You vet them yourself. Half get rejected outright. The other half are tolerable, for pirates, and pay in full. You survive most encounters with your dignity and your laundry intact.

In return, you occasionally pass along corrected Marine patrol routes. Never enough to be considered a betrayal. Just little timing gaps. Slight detours. Adjusted weather patterns that help a ship slip into a port unnoticed, or avoid an inspection by thirty precious minutes.

It is not treason.

It is practical.

It is efficient.

It is also, depending on your mood, the only reason you haven’t tried to set Benn Beckman on fire.

And the Red Force does have ethics—not cleanliness, not order, not even basic definitions of personal space—but ethics nonetheless. That counts for something.

Besides, you are careful. Those ships you clear? They carry cargo, not people. Medicine, not weapons. And if someone tries to lie, you find out. They do not lie again.

Your network grows. Quietly. Efficiently. Smartly. The sort of network that doesn’t raise alarms, only eyebrows.

One day, Benn sends you a note.

Four words. No signature.

Need a favor. Urgent.

You groan, throw a pillow, pace your clean floor with clean feet and pure, distilled irritation, and then check your map.

You write back.

Is the red-haired one involved?

Unfortunately.

Fine. Send soap first.

He does. Lavender-scented. Wrapped in wax paper and respect. You hold it in your hand for five whole seconds before sighing like someone who has seen the cost of every decision.

You never should have gotten on that ship.

But you definitely should have charged more.

The next favor is messy.

Not morally. That part is simple. Some Celestial-backed trade ships have gone suspiciously quiet, and the rumors whisper about human cargo. You start digging. The maps are faked. The portmasters are bribed. Someone has the audacity to route through a canal that floods with raw sewage every third tide.

You send Benn a letter:

Your next client owes me two things: payment, and new boots. I am never returning to Shitwater Shoals.

He replies with:

Client says thank you. I say sorry. Shanks says ‘what’s a shoal?’

You burn the letter. Then send another.

If I die on one of these jobs, my ghost will mop your deck until it sparkles.

He sends back a bar of vanilla soap and a note that reads:

Then maybe the ship will finally be clean.

You are still not sure if it was flirtation or a cry for help.

Despite your contempt for the Red Force’s ambiance—its filth, its mystery stains, its tendency to celebrate bad ideas with fireworks—Benn never sends you jobs that waste your time. The favors are always worthwhile. Always interesting.

Rare documents. Stolen codes. Forgotten alliances wrapped in noble crests and blood-stained ledgers.

You work in silence. Bill in silence. Live alone. Clean. Far from the roar of drunken singing and the scent of salt-stained leather and over-oiled swords.

Until, every now and then, a new job arrives. Folded into a plain envelope. Delivered by hands that never ask questions. From a port you wouldn’t trust with your laundry.

Your name is scrawled on the front. Inside, there are coordinates and notes in Benn’s clipped handwriting.

No greeting.

Just the rough little BB initials scratched at the bottom like an afterthought. Or a signature.

Every time, you roll your eyes. Mutter something acidic. Stare at yourself in the mirror like you might still choose a different life.

You never do.

You pack your notes. Tuck a vial of disinfectant into your sleeve. And go.

Sometimes, you think about the Red Force.

Not fondly. Never fondly.

But with the kind of exhausted tolerance that allows you to mutter things like, “Idiots. But manageable idiots.”

And when Benn writes again:

He asked if you’re still mad.

You reply:

Define mad.

He laughs.

You never liked pirates. Not really.

But you’re starting to tolerate the bastards.

And that is, undeniably, worse.

#gav story #romance #one piece #shanks x the plot #shanks x reader #red force #cleanliness #akagami no shanks

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