#i have spent too much time on this at this point

[kenyummy]

✰ 07. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 07. a fools own parade.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: im not really sure if it counts as it's a very small passage but tw for a lil bit of an identity/existential crisis??? not very sure haha I mostly just write what comes to mind

also, first father appearance! yay! he finally shows up, and he's as mysterious as ever, hehe. next chapter will be either dink focused or ... someone else... 🤔🤔🤔

You dab at your nose with a tissue, cringing at the sight of crimson still pouring out from it. How hard was that guy's chest, anyway?

A thick bandage is stuck tightly on your nosebridge, taped to your skin and soaked in blood. Changing it every hour was a giant pain, but you'd rather have a bloody bandage than clothes.

Thinking back on it, you almost can't imagine the look in Tim's eyes again. Nothing strange. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but different enough to make the hair on your arms raise.

(You're the greatest anomaly in his life. Isn't it natural a detective wishes to solve such a damning mystery?)

How differently his entire composure grew once he saw you laying there, dirtied hands clutching your face. Was it normal for a guy like him to change his entire stance at such a moment? You'd be inclined to believe he couldn't care less about something like this, from all those diary entries spanning several years.

But seeing that look, when you'd stopped him from coming closer, putting distance between you two, as you thought there'd always been, how could you possibly think that? That look of worry, fingers twitching as he reached out, and expression of pure betrayal when you'd stepped backwards. Away. From him.

Wasn't that how it'd always been? You couldn't stop thinking. Maybe you were wrong? Maybe your spidey sense, for the first time in your life, was wrong?

They say that a fool's time spent thinking is wasted time.

You spent hours sitting at your desk pondering all of this. What it meant. Why your siblings seemed to all give you this strange, sinking feeling in your stomach. Raise goosebumps up your arms.

Soon, these thoughts spiralled back to your home. How you could help Reed. Speed up the process. Not wishing to mess with his delicate work nor rush him, but also getting restless with this family.

This family who's known you for their whole lives, yet seems to similarly know nothing about you. This you, their you, any you. Too little to care, too much to hate. The worst kind of balance that upset the universe and made your stomach twist with bile.

But at this point, you weren't too sure who was who, which was which.

If, tommorow, you'd lost everything and if you were caught in a blazing heat, would it be you who had died? Or somebody else? Would it be you in that coffin, underneath a stone who's name carved into it, did not belong to you?

The concept of being your own person, what did it mean? What could it mean when there were more of you, exactly the same, only shaped by their environment? An endless amount of copies, down to the genetic level, each in different worlds yet unmistakably the same?

When you stare into the mirror, nothing is the same except the red that flows down your knuckles when you slam your fist into it. Nothing remains the same except what you look like inside.

Though—in the end—even that belonged to them, didn't it?

You barely ever see your sister, nor her blonde friend. The ginger haired woman has more pressing matters to attend to than ever seeing you, it seemed—something you'd actually grown to appreciate, seeing how positively suffocating those other "siblings" had started to become.

Dick, who was thankfully off in Blüdhaven around now. Jason, who should be out doing his own thing, but seemed to always spare some time for you... as much as you insisted on him not doing that. Tim, who always stared with a little too much intensity and danger hidden behind a sharp smile.

And Damian—your only blood-related sibling, seeming to take great pride in such a fact as he brings it up far more often than not.

You'd begun to realise a distinct lack of a parental figure in your...—

This. This life.

Not yours. This life absolutely was not yours. Everything is seriously messing with your head. Belonging to another unfortunate soul, who happened to have your name, shared your face and voice, yet was everything you never were. Experienced things you never did, yet as you lived in a freedom they could never dream of.

You pitied them more than anything else. But that didn't mean you could just give everything you've ever known up. Your people, your city, your friends, your freedom. This blood that runs through your veins and makes your heart beat steady—it may belong to them, but you never will.

As it spills, you will be free. Losing that chain that binds you and perhaps you will be allowed to feel that wind hitting your face once more. Allowed to swing, fly, feel air and be everything you were destined to become.

Your suit forms over your body and you leap out of your window, leaving nothing but a gust of wind in your wake.

The Spectacular Spidey seems to swing and never sleep—the alliteration in the title of this news article you've read makes your head hurt. Said only as an unfortunate pun referring to how you swing from building to building, and only operate during night hours.

Because, despite everything, it is still you.

(Yet, still careful on avoiding your dearest family... as difficult as that may be—your senses are seriously saving your skin... wait, now you're using alliteration—)

You don't have anything against working during sunlight. In fact, it would be preferable for you. But escaping from school has now become increasingly more difficult after you'd "opened your heart" to MJ and Harry.

Both were completely convinced you were spiralling down a bad path after how you'd acted with Jason, or concerned for both your homelife and general wellbeing—sometimes you truly did damn yourself for picking such good friends.

Nevertheless, you couldn't possibly be worrying about something like that right now, when there's a much bigger problem right in front of you.

A man dressed in a rag-like coat lay beneath your heel, defeated and hands bound together with your webbing.

You'd originally expected to leave immediately, hoping to catch Reed before he was off looking for whatever new part he needed for his grandest project. But now, you can't even hope to move at this point—swamped by flashing cameras and microphones shoved into your face.

Suddenly, you're so incredibly grateful you wear a mask, because you aren't too excited at the prospect of having such unflattering photos of you taken.

"Spidey! What are you doing in Gotham?"

You stammer, "Uh—well, you know—"

"Spiderguy! What's your thoughts on the articles calling you a knockoff Batman?"

"How am I anything like him?" You gesture to your bright red suit. "Also, it's not Spiderguy—"

"Spidey! Spidey! How do you create that webbing fluid? Is it organic? And is it environmentally sustainable? Who's going to clean it?" The reporters move closer and closer.

You inch backwards, "Uh—well, you know, my webbing dissolves in a couple hours by itself, and of course it's sustainable—"

Before you can finish, a multitude of voices all ring through your ears at once. Piling atop eachother, all at the same time, forming into a mush of different tones and accents, indistinguishable from one another.

You can't even hear anything anymore, not until a voice, loud and clear, cuts through a multitude of others and strikes your ears with ease, "Hey, Spidey! Our viewers have a question for you—how have you gotten past Batman? I'm sure you know he doesn't allow metahumans in Gotham, right?"

You freeze. Shocked, but soon, that shock soon morphs into confusion at what exactly a metahuman is.

"I... uh—" You glance to the side. You know, doing this will spark way too much gossip for your own good. Doing this is practically asking for those headlines that, while technically true, are completely outlandish. You were a reporter yourself (for your alter ego, to be fair—but it still counts).

You know this can't end in any other way than complete disaster.

That's why you reach up, webbing to a building and wave goodbye to those pesky paparazzi, "No comment!" With all the wit a Spider must have, you decide that your flight or fight response instead chose: Web away with a sly remark.

"They should be around here, Batman."

Oracle's voice rings out through the earpiece. Barbara had taken the liberty of helping him in his little crusade after seeing that stunt on live television—that spider-hero running away after hearing that metas weren't allowed in Gotham... though, it provided more questions than answers.

Babs was growing restless. For one: that reaction possibly explained why they were so wary of any member of their family even coming close to them. Always running at the first sight of them, webbing away faster than they could hope to catch up. Escaping Batman and his Robin, Babs couldn't help but wonder about them.

They're good. Smart. They're not some new hero. Clearly whoever's behind that mask has experience.

But this raised far too many questions in it of itself. Why had you only popped up now? Why not years ago —if, judging purely by her own gaze, with the years of experience in crime fighting you must have? Why Gotham?

And perhaps, the most daunting question of them all, "Who exactly are you, Spider?"

Bruce's gruff voice reaches her ears, "What was that?"

Her eyes widen, not realising she'd spoken aloud. Shaking her head, she relents, "No... sorry, it's nothing. Right... according to witness sighting and where they were last spotted, you should be meeting them in the middle right now. Do you have any sightings?"

Bruce shakes his head, jumping over to the top of the next apartment block roof—cowl landing in a swoop behind him. "No. Not yet. See if there's any new sightings."

Bruce Wayne was beginning to grow tiresome of this new hero's antics. Running around through Gotham without a care in the world—all too bright and cheerful as if this was all that mattered. Running around as a meta—unchecked and absolutely dangerous.

Nothing good could come out of this. Not without knowing exactly who you were and what you wanted. He never was a dictator type—never had it in him—but with a crime-riddled city like Gotham, he had little choice.

One small mistake could ruin everything. Collapse all that he's worked so hard to create. A better city, a better future. A regular human—as he is—couldn't possibly ever handle a rouge meta... and in the end, this city may not want him, but he really is the type of hero it needs.

So, that's why, instead of patrolling through his sector—he asks Orphan, Batwoman, and Spoiler to take over for tonight, so he can do some much needed digging into this anomaly.

Tim told him that his webbing sample, one he managed to collect around a month ago, when he'd first come into contact with them, had dissolved within hours. Not enough time to perform any kind of intricate testing, not by a long shot.

Batman has taken the almost passive stance—uncharacteristic of him—but now, he realised with such a slippery Spider, he had to do what he does best, and corner them.

His whitened eyes dart up at the flash of red that flies past him. He snaps his head back and finds the Spider—the one he'd been looking for all this time—swinging from building to building, fast.

But not nearly fast enough. With one false swoop, Bruce is after you, grappling towards you, eyes narrowed and mind absolutely determined.

"Batman? Batman?" Oracle pipes up—he assumes she's been talking for the past couple minutes, but only realised she was speaking into his earpiece now. "Can you hear me? Do you have a visual?"

"I see them. Nearly have them."

The Spider darts their head over their shoulder almost frantically—moves stuttering when they see how close he's gotten toward them.

"Hey! Why are you so obsessed with me, huh?" Thrir voice calls out—unlike anything he'd ever heard. "I mean, okay—yeah, I get it. But if you want a fashion taste like mine, I can make you a suit of your own!"

He clenches his jaw to stop himself from saying anything back.

Their voice grows more framtic at his silence, "H... Hey! You're getting really close, there—let it go! I'm not a villain! I swear!"

More silence, and they seem to let out a loud groan of frustration, seemingly aimed at him.

They stop. Heels landing flat atop a building, and Batman, with his cowl wrapped around him like a cloak, follows on their heel, stalking closer towards them.

You raise your hands in defence, stepping backwards and shaking your masked head, "Waitwaitwait—! Don't get violent with me, I don't want to fight you!"

"Then what do you want?" His voice grows deeper, more gruff and cold. "No metahumans are allowed in Gotham without my permission. There's too much trouble that comes with it. Too many difficulties."

He pauses. "Too much crime. Too many deaths. Unnecessary, preventable ones. Who are you to be an exception?"

"I said wait—!" You shriek as he practically stalks into your personal space bubble. "I'm not a metahuman!"

He stops in his tracks. "... What?"

You let out a heavy sigh, now that he's stopped. Batman taps on his earpiece, "Oracle, can you hear this?"

"Reading, Batman."

You look around, to see nobody. "Oracle? Who's Oracle?" You never read anything about an Oracle.

"None of your business. Now speak. If you aren't a metahuman, what are you?" His whitened eyes narrow, and suddenly those pointy ears aren't so silly looking anymore.

You blink. Once, then twice. "Would you believe me if I said I was from an alien planet full of spider-people?"

Despite the reprocessing telling him your backstory would have on you being near non-existent—you still aren't too fond of the idea of the Batman, your father, knowing your secret backstory.

Besides, Oscorp really does exist in this universe, too—Norman is actually pretty nice. You don't want any unwarranted blame falling on him.

"Not a chance." He folds his arms over his bat-symboled chest and you falter with a sigh.

Worth a shot.

"Fine." Not to say he was the reason you finally relented—but his stare was pretty unnerving. "I was bit by genetically modified spider on a school field trip. It altered my DNA so I became stronger, faster, could stick to walls and became three times more flexible than the average person."

You finish with a winded breath, eyes scanning his expression for any hint of an emotion. You found none.

"Why should I believe you?"

Pausing, you glance away. Crouching down on that rooftop, on the ledge, staring down at the city below. Dimly lit roads and the people littering it. So much like your home, yet so different.

You could see why Batman was this city's protector. You could see why he was so careful about this world, and you almost respected him for it. At the same time, though, you couldn't help but think to all those chicken-scratched diaries.

By a helpless child, unable to depend on anybody but him in this world, and he had still failed. For that, you couldn't face him. Not now, not ever.

"You don't have to believe my story." You finally manage to unlodge the words from your throat. "I'm just saying that whatever your rules are—my existence doesn't defy them. You have no reason to keep chasing me down."

His sharp, whitened eyes narrow. It's the only thing visible in such deep darkness where he lingers.

"Actually..." Oracle's voice rings out through Batman's ears. "Their story... might have some truth to it. Check this out—Oscorp's been working on developing a, quote, super-powered spider. Says spider venom is the cure for disease and pandemics. They've been developing in this field for a while."

A super-powered spider sounds absolutely ridiculous, he thinks. But nothing he hadn't seen before. In a world full of aliens, heroes, personification of life, death, and everything in-between—he shouldn't be surprised at the prospect of gaining superpowers from spider venom.

Looking down at you now—slouched, facing away from him, and almost seeming restless... "Oscorp."

You look back at him, confused. "Huh?"

"Did that spider come from Oscorp?"

... You bite down on the inside of your cheek, hard. Looking back away before you could stop yourself. "No. I'm not from around here. I live far. Far away."

"What do you mean by far away? Why are you in Gotham, then?" He steps closer, to the point he's standing over you with all that intimidating bat-aura that makes the criminals of Gotham run for the hills. Still, you can't bear to see him. Because if you do, you know you'll spill everything you've been holding in like a waterfall.

"I don't know," you admit, honestly. "I don't know why I'm here. I want to go home, but I don't know where that is anymore. All I know is that, while I'm here, I might as well help people. Because... that's what I do."

For a moment, there's no sound other than the honking of cars on a busy road. He's quiet, as silent as he always is. Always was. For a moment, you think you almost see him as that father from so long ago.

But only for a moment.

"... How old are you?"

To your surprise, he doesn't immediately go to accusing you of lying again, or keep his standoffish persona any longer—only asking you this simple, yet strangely personal, question.

In simple words, you're really confused. "What? Why does that matter?"

"You sound young. Too young. And from the way I've seen you fight, you're experienced in fighting high, street-level crime. If I had to guess, I'd say you've been doing this for at least three years. Maybe more."

Sweat beads at the back of your neck, and suddenly everything starts caving in, crumbling like failed architecture. How did he know? How could he have possibly—

Batman continues, "The way you talk, and the way you behave in the public eye, you can't be an adult. I'm assuming you're a child. Meaning you've been fighting crime since you've been in your early teens, right?"

"What are you talking about?" You stand up at your full height, staring up at him. Glaring, as well as you can manage from underneath those refractive lenses. He doesn't back down. "I'm not—"

"You're a child," He repeats. "Don't carry this weight. You don't have to carry the weight of—" Gesturing towards the ground below, he stares down at you, strangely sadly, "All this. Especially not all by yourself. Not as a child."

The only word you want to spit out at him is hypocrite.

"Don't act all high and mighty. That Robin you have looks 12. You're saying a 12 year old is capable of fighting crime but I shouldn't? I'm nearly an adult, for god's sake! I'm—"

You slap your hands over your masked mouth, but still continue. "Don't treat me like I don't know better. You don't know me. You have no idea what has happened in my life."

"I only take Robin under my wing because he needs it. So I can watch over him."

You glare, "So what? So he can turn out like you?"

"So that he doesn't."

And to this, your lips feel sealed shut. You want to say something, but you can't. What could you possibly reply to this?

Even Oracle is silent. Not a word, not a peep. Nothing. The honking of cars has ceased, and it's like the world itself had just gone quiet for that one, stunning moment.

"You're not from here, so I don't know you," Finally, he speaks, and it's like the silence has been shattered like glass. "You're right. But... you're a child. You aren't obligated to this. This isn't your responsibility—to make this world better. If you can live normally, you should."

Isn't such normalcy why you ended up like this in the first place? All those entries, wishing to be like the rest of them—and here your father is now, telling you to be yourself.

If only they had heard this, you think, bitterly. Then, you'd know you were right. That he would only ever see you if you had become one of them.

The thought makes your stomach churn. How pretentious could this man—this devil—possibly be?

"You're wrong. To live normally like this, when I was given the strength to be better, to do things to be a better me... that's just wrong." You clench your fists, hard. "I already made that mistake before. It doesn't matter whether I'm 18 or 80. All that matters is that I'm doing what I know is right."

You pause, allowing the words to sink in. "But to discard the normally in your life is a waste. That's why I live the way I do. To protect the normalcy around me, the ones who can't protect themselves. With great power comes great responsibility... my responsibility is to be the best Spidey I can be."

...

You angle your wrist up and don't bother to look back at him when you walk away, "You and your birds can come after me all you want, but I won't stop doing what I think is right. 'Cause I'm a hero."

When you thwip away, you aren't so sure how you'd forgotten that. How a hero protects the ones they love above all else.

Your family aren't heroes. Perhaps, to the public, and even the whole world—but not to you. They'd failed to protect that child, a miserable, small child, left in that massive world.

To make it so they felt they had to save people, to take that responsibility of power to matter—that was their greatest failure.

"... Batman?" Barbara's voice is a dramatic shift from the silence that started to consume him. "Batman,are you okay? Batman? ... Bruce? Are you..."

He takes a moment to regain his composure, world still spinning as he speaks, "I'm fine. They're... they're okay." Saying the world's like they're hard to spit out, or like he's unsure himself. "I'm coming home."

Barbara wants to say something. About that spider. About what they said to him. Power, responsibility, protection, normalcy, love. But she doesn't. By the sound of his voice, he seems just as frazzled as she is. A conflicted Batman means no good for anybody, including her.

So, she will let him think. Oracle can take a back-seat for now. So can Batman. For now, she's just Barbara Gordon. And he's just Uncle Bruce.

Holding her tongue, "Cass and Steph aren't back yet. Kate left a while ago... said there was something she needed to do. ... Everyone else should be at home, I think..."

"Okay." He murmurs, quieter.

Barbara shuts her mouth and leans back in her chair. There's nothing else for her to say, so once more, there is silence.

...

When Bruce returns back to the Manor, he finds himself pushing past everything and everyone, including Alfred, and rushing up the stairs. Not even bothering to take off his suit fully—tossing his helmet behind him and walking away.

Down a hall to the left, then up right, then left again. Stopping once he, finally, stands in front of a door. Blank. Colourless, dull. Like the rest of the manor, blending in away from those extravagant suits and too-bulky armours.

After a brief moment of confliction, he brings his fist up, and knocks. Standing there, almost the size of the doorway, waiting for any kind of reply.

"Hello? What—"

You freeze at the sight of your father staring down at you—this time, his eyes were as blue as ever and his face was less grim. This time, you could see the greying of his dark hair and the crease of his brows.

This time, there was no escape.

"[name]." He says your name as if it's foreign, unfamiliar. Testing it out like a new spice or seasoning, then seeming to come to the conclusion that he likes it. "It's been a while."

You're frozen in place, mouth open yet unable to speak. What could you possibly do now? Run? Swing? Duck past—

A hand places itself on your shoulder and every siren in your body blasts itself tenfold. Blaring like the most buzzing and painful alarms—so awful that you have to grab the side of the doorframe to stop yourself from falling over.

Panic gnaws at every side of you, chest rising and falling erratically when your headache grows.

What is this? This is so much worse than when I'm with Jason—

His face morphs and blurs as does his words, yet you manage to catch the few, "I think we should spend more time together. Become closer, like how it was before. You are my child after all. The only one who doesn't have patrol or scoutings with me. That calls for more regular ways of bonding, right? That's my responsibility... as your father."

He's smiling. Hardly so, but you're about to collapse. A deafening buzz in your skull, you spit out any agreements you can manage through squeezed eyes, waiting for him to go, to leave, so for a moment, you can finally breathe.

"I'm glad you agree," he says, moving back. Clearing his throat, he looks down at you, recovering as he gives you space. "Next week, then?"

You clutch your head, jaw taut and stance tense. It's a wonder how he hadn't noticed your absolute discomfort, but you digress—just wanting him to go. "Sure."

"Good, then—" Before he can finish, your door slams shut in his face and once again, that barrier has returned. Bruce pauses, staring at that slab of wood keeping you from his line of sight.

Bruce lingers for a few moments longer, fingers hovering the handle, before retracting back and swallowing thick.

Batman walks away, but glances twice over his shoulder, cowl falling behind him.

You slump down your door with a heaving sigh, feeling your head start to clear and breathing stabilise.

That feeling of fear, of utter terror—it was the feeling you'd get with Jason and Tim, but tripled. It was torture. Absolutely awful. Unbearable. You'd not relt anything while you were Spidey on that rooftop, but seeing him here now send your senses spiralling into a whirlwind of chaos.

You grab your head and it falls onto your knees, pulled up to your chest.

Your eyes fall bleak and everything blurry again. Are you going to cry, like a child? To prove him right again, that you're afraid of this? Of him?

Maybe you were more similar to his version of you than you were lead to believe. Maybe—

Still, though, your phone buzzes.

A strange sounding noise compared to the cheap, hand-me-down one you had in your other room. Probably spammed with stupid videos from MJ, and worried texts from Harry. Maybe even the odd "how are you?" from Matt, or something.

(You still don't know how he texts, but that's beyond you).

You pick up your phone, despite the lingering thought it could just be from one of your family members. Siblings, or father.

... You were half right.

From a contact customised to say, the #coolest auntie, there's a text.

Hey, kid. Let's go out. It's been way too long.

You stare down at the bright phone screen for a few seconds longer than you should've. Surprised, sure, but just as confused. Swallowing and considering your options for a second.

You haphazardly let your fingers fly over the keyboard. If your contact name for her was this comfortable, she must be a good person, right? Maybe she could provide an outside perspective on everything. Your family, their hero-lives, even you.

You press your lips tightly together narrowing your eyes down at her contact profile picture. Short, red hair and a smug smile. Pale skin, and the features reminiscent of your father.

Sure. Where?

When you watch the text bubbles pop up on the screen, you can't help but wonder what exactly you're going to do next.

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taglist is open!

[alchemistc]

Robbie slaps a glossy looking flyer on the table. Palm down, eyes narrowed, pretending like hell the slap of her hand against the wood grain didn't sting as she squares up, all four-feet-three-inches of her, like she's preparing for battle.

Tommy's slumped in his chair and still half a head taller than her.

He doesn't quite cower, at her glare, but at thirteen she's just about ready to explode at any given moment.

They don't talk about the time he sat on the floor with the bathroom door at his back and read the instructions for inserting a tampon in the calm, cool tones of a man so far out of his depth he might as well have turned into pressurized meat juice mist while Robbie had a panic attack just inside.

They don't talk about the massive argument they'd had in the middle of TJ's the first time Robbie back talked Evan with all the angst of a girl about to experience the pimpliest, testosterone fueled ragiest few years of her life. (Evan had gotten a kick out of it and Tommy had spent a week listening to his deep dives into the Beauty Of Puberty with the skepticism of an only child who never shared a bathroom).

Robbie rolls her jaw. Grabs the flyer and shakes it in Tommy's face. It's a riot of color, and Tommy has to squint to make out the words. Fuck, he does need those reading glasses.

"Why is the paper making you look homicidal?"

"We never go to Pride, dad!"

Ah.

Well.

That.

Tommy slumps further in his seat, which puts Robbie at eye level, and boy howdy is she gonna make his life a living hell until the hormones settle in...a decade or so. The glare is all Evan, emotions unchecked and just out there for the world to see. He's so fucking grateful neither of his kids took to his 'repress until you pancake yourself' way of handling a single emotion.

Tommy never bought into the rainbow crap, couldn't ever push himself into participating in a world he'd denied himself so long. Nothing against it, himself, just - a line he kept somewhere off behind and to the left where he couldn't look it in the eye.

And Evan...

Well. Being an 'ally' switched to throwing up the Bi Flag in his Instagram profile and he never really shifted any further than that.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" Tommy asks, because last week she'd spent an hour in the yard yanking weeds with the ferociousness of a terrier with a nest of rats over some kid in her class named Michael and to this point hasn't shown that her interests stray farther than that. Fuck. Has he missed something?

"Uh, yeah, that my gay dads are quiet homophobes who won't take their kids to a fuckin' parade."

Oh well that's a lot of different things to put in check, right there.

It's his own damn fault for laughing hysterically every time their toddler dropped an F bomb.

It's his own damn fault for blowing off the drag queens with petitions outside the library a month ago.

"Your father is a Kinsey two-and-a-half on a good day, and don't say fuck."

"Internalized homophobia is still homophobia, dad." She rolls her tongue over her teeth. Sends him a challenging look. "Fuck." She pronounces it like it has seven syllables.

"If you're gonna challenge me you better be able to use it in a sentence properly."

"I want to fucking go to fucking Pride with my fucked up not straight dads but they're both fucking repressed fucking losers."

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Tommy jokes, and the flyer crumples in his daughters fist. And - yep, there's the shriek.

Evan's gonna be pissed that he isn't curbing the language a little more.

Which he absolutely will do. Later. Once Robbie isn't a good leap away from the knife block.

His kids aren't violent people, by nature. Robbie has a mean left hook and an eye for taking people out at the ankles he encouraged far too much before she hit ten. Danny cradles spiders in the cup of his hands on the way out the door while giving Tommy a wide-eyed and judgemental berth.

Robbie crumples up the flyer a little more. Stares at him like she's wishing there was enough weight to it to cause damage to his thick fucking skull if she were to throw it.

She blinks, and those are - yep, those are tears.

"Sweetheart," Tommy starts, and Robbie launches herself forward, embraces Tommy just in time for some sobs to really kick in, nonsensical phrases leaking out of her as she cries, and cries, and cries.

He's good at this part. The part where they can't see his face, where he can cradle them to him and rub their back and murmur nonsense back while they do a better job feeling, and then regulating their emotions than he had until his late thirties.

"Ms. Frankie said she'd take me but I don't wanna go with Ms. Frankie," he gets, as another wave breaks, and he has to shift his weight against the onslaught of two sharp ass knees heading straight for his belly. "Ms. Frankie has a crush on Dad and I hate her."

Ms. Frankie absolutely has the hots for Evan. Ms. Frankie's son is a bully who thinks he's better than everyone else by virtue of accepting and picking on everyone equal-opportunity style.

Ms. Frankie is definitely not taking his kid to her first Pride.

Shit.

God damnit.

The tears dry up, eventually.

Tommy tries not to think about the fact that he's not gonna be allowed to comfort his pre-teen like this for much longer. Tries not to think about the fact that she's gonna stop asking for it, soon enough, and he'll have to make do with words from the other side of a slammed door.

"I'm not wearing rainbow anything," he says, like he's surrendering a crucial air base, and Robbie leans back with narrowed eyes.

"I have that face paint Jee gave me for Christmas."

"You get one cheek to work with," he negotiates, even though he's well aware he's gonna leave the house with more color than he's worn in twenty-five years.

"Dad let me do his whole face for New Years," she wheedles.

"Dad has better coloring than I do. Those jewel tones make his eyes pop. And Dad doesn't have to know how many times you dropped an F-bomb on me ten minutes ago."

He's fucking up his kids. Teaching an almost teenager how to properly blackmail someone is just one of many ways he's doing it while he digs his own grave.

At least they're not fucking scared of him.

"Two cheeks, and we post a picture on Dad's Insta because Ms. Frankie stalks him there and she'll be so jealous."

"You're diabolical," Tommy tells her, and her wet, snotty, lopsided grin makes something in his heart swoop. She's all Evan, and he loves her so fucking much he stopped trying to figure out where to put it the first time she latched a tiny little hand around his pointer finger and burst into the exhausted tears of something new to this world. "If you ever teach Danny how to manipulate someone like this I'm gonna start reporting you for war crimes."

"Danny's too nice, it would hurt his feelings to even think about it."

Yeah. Not sure where the fuck he got that from.

"You watch out for him, don't you?"

He's aware there's a dynamic at play here that he shouldn't overly encourage. Doesn't want her feeling like she's gotta parent her younger brother, it's just -

"He doesn't need it. Sometimes when he says nice things to people I think he destroys their whole world for a few days."

Tommy takes her out for ice cream and broaches the subject of the parade before Evan realizes Tommy's spoiled her dinner.

Danny's eyes go bright and gleaming and he sends a look at his sister that Tommy is absolutely certain he should be worried about, because they've clearly been plotting and scheming for days.

When June sixth rolls around Danny wakes up early, pounces on the bed, and hands Tommy the ugliest fucking shirt Tommy's ever seen, bright and lurid and awful, and Robbie doesn't even have the decency to hide her smug look when she stumbles blearily into the kitchen, following the smell of scrambled eggs Tommy spends an extra ten minutes dyeing with the organic shit Evan brought home last week.

[cloverstellar]

I think something a lot of the general audience for stranger things is forgetting to consider is WHY Will is so interwoven into Vecna’s plan in season five, and how him dying doesn’t make sense.

Will has now been essentially confirmed as a lead if not the new total main character of stranger things in the date announcement trailer. Why? If he was just a target for Vecna’s possession, wouldn’t the season be marketing him more like it did with Max in season four? While Max had a pivotal role in being possessed by Vecna, she wasn’t THE main character for four, and Vecna clearly needed her dead (and had no qualms about killing El at the end too).

Vecna DOESN’T want Will dead.

Will, while under the influence of the mind flayer in season two, said (in a gross summarization) “the mind flayer wants to kill everyone BUT me.” and now it’s been confirmed by Will at the end of season four in his talk with Mike that it was ALWAYS vecna targeting him, even from the beginning. that means vecna doesn’t want Will dead, and needs him alive. He needs Will for something beyond just being a spy, because a spy is useless once everyone is dead. Why keep Will alive after killing everyone else in season 2?

(putting everything else under a cut bc I ramble)

something about Will is incredibly important to the new seasons plot outside of just a potential possession. If Vecna wanted to possess him for spy purposes or for another gate death, why Will? It doesn’t make much sense outside of that lingering connection to him, because all the characters now know that Will could at any point be walking eyes for Henry, which renders being a spy useless. so why is Will so important to Vecna? It was confirmed by the duffers that we’ll finally see why Will was taken, confirming that it wasn’t just a simple accident like it was portrayed as in season one. And here’s the one reason I can think of:

Will has powers, and Vecna needs them. Maybe not powers in the traditional stranger things hand-raised-bloody-nosed sense, but maybe in a way that’s a bit more like Kali? Something creative. Most powered individuals in stranger things usually make things levitate and mess with objects/minds and can enter the void, but I think Will’s has something to do with his position in the party. Something more abstract, which we know is possible since Kali has powers totally different from El’s. His powers may even play into him being an artist.

We have already seen him using true sight, though I’d argue that it’s actually shadow walking or shadow step, an ability used by clerics in DnD to teleport in shadows (the upside down in this scenario). If he was just seeing flashes of the upside down, the mind flayer wouldn’t have been able to reach him. His soul was genuinely partly in the upside down. (It’s also why he was able to hide so well while down there- and why Jonathan said Will could hide anywhere to hopper in season one- clerics can naturally conceal themselves in shadows, so he could camouflage himself to the upside down better than most).

Will is, throughout the show, consistently being compared to his DnD classes (be that cleric or wizard depending on the characters POV or timeframe). I’d argue he’s paralleled to and called his DnD character more so than any other character, both in merch and onscreen. that’s important because his DnD character HAS POWERS (magic class user), and the duffers been spending all this time building up to the reveal of it in season five. you could say that’s purely coincidental, but if we call back to season two, Mike tells Max that Dustin is the bard, wills the cleric, lucas is the ranger, he’s the paladin, and that el is their MAGE.

mages are wizards. Wizards in DnD gain their powers through intense study and training (El spent her life in the lab dedicated to honing her powers with Papa) and clerics (Will) get their powers from a connection to some divine entity or dimension/creature (Aka the upside down) and whatever new powers Will gained he got from his overexposure to both the upside down and the mind flayer.

what’s interesting though is that even though Will is a cleric, Will calls HIMSELF a wizard, aka “Will the Wise” multiple times both in the show and in comics, and Mike is the one who’s still calling him the cleric.

This could mean that Will’s supernatural plot for season five COULD play into him being a multiclass, and having elements from both his cleric role with Mike and his own self-identifying role as a wizard play into his powers and association to Vecna.

Regardless, Will’s character (be it cleric or wizard) is associated with the light class. It’s why he can use fireballs and cast light spells (use the lights in the upside down). You know what Vecna is called in season four?

a dark wizard. Vecna is the character foil to Will’s (and El’s) light wizard. You know what wills character can cast? Fireballs! What hurts the upside down? Fire. Alongside that, Will clearly has a connection to the gates as well (hence interdimensional cleric powers), and I think it’ll have something to do with Vecna’s leaked line of Will being a builder with him. “We are going to do such beautiful things together, Will, such beautiful things…”

Vecna could need Will’s potential ability to bring the upside down fully into Hawkins, especially since he’s weakened. As we’ve seen in BTS photos, Hawkins hasn’t fully merged into the upside down yet. If the infection of Hawkins slowed to a near stop, Vecna will need Will’s ability to bleed the two worlds together (seen in season one when he nearly opened a gate in the wall of his home), and he’ll do that by trying to appeal himself to their shared experiences over being different, another nod to them being character foils.

(physical evidence of them being FOILs >> their identical drawings)

if henry’s appeal to their similarities doesn’t work, then that might be how a possession could come into play, and Vecna will try to turn Will into a puppet again if he refuses to become his secondhand.

And that’s what’s going to make Vecna fail. He’s going to underestimate Will’s support system. While they’re clearly two sides of the same coin and henry knows that, Will has love and support and family, whereas henry distanced himself from and killed everyone while under the influence of the flayers particles in his system.

That’s a big recurring theme in stranger things; that love conquers all. (Which could be how Will unlocks his powers in season five but that’s another story)

It’s how Max narrowly evaded her death time and time again- she both imagined her happiest moments with lucas and El and latched onto it. Will HAS that in Joyce, in Jonathan, in Dustin, in Lucas, in El, in Hopper, in Mike, but Vecna thinks he doesn’t, because WILL doesn’t think so either. At least not yet.

it’s glaringly obvious that despite being surrounded by people in seasons 2 and onward, Will feels terrifyingly alone. Nobody else has gone through what he has. He feels like he has no one in his corner, especially in season four when Mike pulled away. But part of his “coming of age” as the duffers called it for season five will most likely be his realization that he isn’t alone, that there’s people who unconditionally love and support him through it all, and I think that’ll tie into byler’s relationship blossoming too.

on a more legitimate analysis note, I’ve seen a lot of people comparing Will’s scream of “RUN!!!” to his scream of pain while possessed as the upside down was torched. But to me, I think it was more of a direct callback to when the mind flayer showed up and he yelled “GO AWAY!” Over and over before the possession took place.

But what’s new is the anger in Will’s scream. He could be getting possessed and telling his friends to save themselves, OR he’s fighting back against something while telling his friends to RUN. That’s will, retaliating against whatever he’s looking at above him. Fully surrendering himself to the danger rather than trying to make it disappear. He’s terrified, but also determined and so incredibly angry. (and his eyes are green, not brown like when he’s possessed) He’s not screaming for the monster to leave out of pure terror like his possession in season two, but actively fighting and intentionally putting himself in harms way.

It’s both a significant showing of his character growth and in my opinion a hint that he’s not being unwillingly possessed, but rather giving himself up as a target while someone escapes. A sacrifice. But logically, that only works if he’s important enough to be worthy of that much attention to Vecna. he has something valuable, or is at least significant enough of a threat to warrant that much distraction to save everyone else (him having powers). Honestly, I’m hoping his abilities tie into the creation of the upside down. It’s clear now that there’s a border on the edge of the pocket dimension, like a literal snapshot of Hawkins, and I think it’d be cool to tie in his position as an artist and cleric/wizard into the creation of the upside down alongside El and Henry’s contributions. Among other things, electrical/light centered powers and interdimensional travel powers seem more likely to happen but I think it would be dope to see how that plays out.

ANYWAYS I have more to say but I’m tired maybe I’ll post more later

[nightbornangel]

road trips with joel !! ˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡☆

you always pissed him off cause you had your feet up on the dash at all times, your shoes scuffing the old leather of his truck. he had old country on the radio, windows rolled down and the sun kissing your skin. you always looked beautiful in joel’s eyes but something about you seeming so relaxed on the little road trips you took every summer made you extra beautiful to him. johnny cash idly played as his big hands gripped the wheel, driving down endless empty highways. you got bored sometimes so you played silly little games with joel, his hand resting gently on your knee. “y’know i love spending summer with you, doll.” he always said, grinning from ear to ear. he loved you so much it made him sick — the time off work was always worth it.

“joellll i spyyy some sheep!” you giggled, pointing out of the window at a flock of sheep grazing in a field. “aw they’re so cute, i’d love a little baby lamb.” you hummed, tossing your hair over your shoulder and looking over at joel with puppy eyes. “darlin’ we can’t have a baby sheep in the house.” he chuckled, patting your thigh affectionately. “but why not?” you pouted playfully. he chuckled again to himself, shaking his head and grabbing a cold pepsi from the cooler in the backseat.

the nights were spent in shitty motels, giggling as you were tangled in those scratchy floral sheets. neither of you cared, you were just happy to be together. a cigarette hung from joels lips as you both lay in bed, his hand gripping the soft flesh of your hip. “god this place really is awful ain’t it darlin’?” he chuckled, taking a long drag before stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray on the side table. “yeah but it’s okay joel, im with this hunk in bed.” you giggled, nosing his cheek lovingly. he loved you so fucking much. that night ended in joel’s head between your thighs, feasting on your sweet juices — he loved spoiling his girl.

sticky popsicles from the seedy gas stations you visited, the smell of gasoline and cigarette ash is all you two knew on the 3 weeks of your road trip, sometimes you spent nights cooped up in the back of the truck when you were too tired to find a motel — tucked beneath a gingham blanket, you both watched the stars through the sunroof of the car, stealing kisses and breaths mingling. everything was so intimate with joel, you didn’t think you could ever love someone as much as you loved him. one particular night you were snuggled up in the backseats, seats all the way down as you cuddled up trying to get comfortable on the worn leather of joel’s old truck. “joelll you’re tickling me.” you grumped, commenting on his beard tickling the back of your neck. joel chuckled, kissing the crown of your head. “sorry baby, just can’t resist kissin’ ya.” you blushed at his words, even after all of your time together he managed to make you blush.

again, that night ended with you on top of him — hips bouncing up and down greedily on his length whilst you took what you needed from him. hips moving in circles as you buried your head into his neck, whining a pretty. “joel..!” as you came — he followed not long after, shooting his warm load inside of you. you both basked in the afterglow, truck windows all foggy from the intensity of it all. you looked up at him, all sweaty and tired as you lay your head on his chest. “joelie do you think we finally have a baby?”

the pics r purely for the vibes !! nothing to do with the storyline or readers appearance. i saw the pics of sabrina and was soo inspired to write something about road tripping with joel hehe. 🫣

[nqueso-lies]

lol long time 9-1-1 fan here (who's been on twitter a LONG time). Are buddie fans forgetting that over the past 6 years they have beef with (and have pissed off):

bucktommy fans (for obvious reasons)

bathena fans (they have continuously complained that bobby and athena have too much screen time, which pissed of bathena fans [rightly so])

some henren fans (they know buddies use henren to justify that their not mlm fetishers and prove they "care about representation")

any fans that liked Taylor, Lucy, Shannon, Ana or Marisol

the 9-1-1 lone star fandom (BoBs spent YEARS provoking them about literally everything and were assholes to them when the show got cancelled)

tarlos fans (they said that tarlos was "trying to be" buddie and claiming that buddie was "more important and influential" than tarlos. Also they constantly talked shit about carlos and said he was "inferior" to eddie)

station 19 fandom

s.w.a.t fandom

the rookie fandom

random twitter users who pointed out that ryan was a racist/anti-semitic/anti-vax asshole

the twitter GA (cause of that one thing that happened with the famous gay poet)

there are probably more i'm forgetting cause they have pissed off a lot of people

but yeah, we're the ones who voted on the poll that none of us knew about *note sarcasm*

although thanks for thinking there are 15,000 of us. i thought bucktommy had "no fans" but apparently there are a lot of us :)

Annie coming in hot with facts is always a favorite kink of mine.

[roc-haze]

From the Pushing It Down and Praying series

Something, Somehow, Someday | WillNE

This fic is a bit of backstory/continuation from the previously uploaded part ‘Where We Start’. You can find all of the links and bits here on the link below. For the most part, these chapters are in chronological order. But the context is necessary!!

A week post drunk yap in George’s bath

It was moving day. Y/N found herself sitting on the floor of her empty flat. She’d spent the last week having tough conversations with Alex - chats about dividing their finances, finding their new apartments, letting go of the future they’d once dreamed of. It wasn’t easy, farewelling the familiar. Alex had taken it well. The “I love you but I don’t think I’m your forever person” had landed better than Y/N had expected. Turns out he had known it had gone stale too. He didn’t raise his voice or beg her to stay. He had simply just said, “I think you’re right. We’ve outgrown each other.” All that said, the emotional part was heavy.

Y/N had plans to run with Theo, but found herself packing her belongings. Alex was still hanging around, packing up the last of his vinyls. They’d ultimately decided to both move out of their shared place, feeling like a new place would help them to start fresh. A quick call to Theo with a rushed explanation of “sorry mate I can’t come today, Alex and I have split so I’m moving my things out” hadn’t put him at ease like she’d hope it would. Instead, he’d panicked and immediately put a call into a few of the boys for help.

30 minutes later, Theo was walking through her front door, coffee tray in one hand and an almond croissant in the other. “You didn’t sound too good on the phone. I thought you could use some help”, handing her a coffee and croissant before wrapping his arms around her and embracing her in a hug.

“A hug would’ve been enough but the coffee and pastry is the cherry on top.” She smiled softly, letting out a breath.

“I thought it might be” Theo laughed, squeezing her tighter.

Catching a glimpse of Alex in his peripheral, Theo pulled away. “Hey mate!” He approached, hugging him. Alex had once been a part of the fold. He was happy to host dinners at home, attended the group parties and participated in the fun runs. The group loved him as much as they loved Y/N. But at some point, he stopped joining in. He got busy at work, found his own group of friends, wrapped himself up in his own interests.

“Okay so, professional cleaner is coming on Tuesday,” Alex spoke to Y/N. “Is there anything you need my help with before I take off?”.

“Okay. Well. This probably won’t be the last time I see you, but I just want to say,” Alex looked toward Theo, who took the hint and attempted to look busy. “Thank you. I’m really sorry things didn’t work out between us.”

“I dunno, I’d say they did. We’ve got nearly a decade of success.” She grinned, holding her arms out for a hug. She spoke quietly in his ear, “how lucky am I that you are the first man I’ve ever truly loved.”

Alex, not knowing how to respond, just held on a little tighter. A few moments later, they pulled apart, his hands softly grabbing her cheeks. He kissed her gently. “Love you.”

And with that, he put his key on the counter and walked out of the apartment.

“That nearly put a tear in my fucking eye.” Theo spoke from across the flat. He caught her eye, the two of them immediately breaking into laughter.

A thump at the door silenced them. “The fuck are you two cackling at?” Freezy spoke, sending them into giggles again.

—-

Theo had organised for the rest of the boys to meet them at Y/N’s new flat. Lux had been sent to IKEA to pick up the remainder of her flat pack furniture, Reev had stopped in at the garden nursery to pick up a few pieces for her and Harry was expected to be late (but would arrive with alcohol).

Freezy, Y/N and Theo lay spread across the floor of the new apartment. They’d taken turns dragging box after box into the service elevator, eventually deciding to call it a day and pass off the work to the others.

Not long after, Lux arrived with the boot of his car stacked to the brim. He walked through the door, carrying several IKEA boxes. “Right, where do you want this?”.

Y/N chuckled, biting back the lump in her throat. “Bedroom. Those look like bookshelves.”

Putting the box down in the bedroom, he walked back out. “And where do you want me?”.

She sat up and held her arms out for a hug. Lux grabbed her hands, pulling her up and into a tight embrace. He spoke softly. “You and I have been friends for a long time, so I don’t always feel like I have to tell you I love you. Because you already know. But I do.”

“I know. I love you too. Thanks for being here.” She spoke, voice muffled by his shoulder.

The rest of the crew - Reev and Harry - showed up not long after, but it was Theo, Freezy and Lux who held her together. They were like the big brothers she had always wanted.

Hours later, they were sat on the living room floor assembling a flat pack shelf when Harry approached her, handing her a glass of wine. “I brought something a bit stronger too but thought I’d test the waters.” He laughed, leaning down to kiss her temple. Theo took over the assembly, taking her screwdriver. “Go sit down.”

Y/N took a seat on the couch, Lux sitting beside her and offering a quiet presence. “You know I’d totally understand if you wanted to have a quiet minute in the bathroom.” He spoke, searching her eyes. They had all felt the way she had been on edge, as if she were terrified to close the chapter.

“I’m okay,” she had replied with a tearful smile. He just wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into him, as they watched Theo fight with the flat pack.

“You’re not okay,” Lux spoke softly. “And we love you all the same.”

By the time sunset had come along, Y/N was mostly unpacked. Theo had put together and organised her bookshelves, Freezy had hung her artwork, Lux had colour coded her wardrobe, Reev had placed her favourite plants around the apartment and set up her vinyl collection, while Harry cleaned as they went and refilled their drinks. Sat on her couch and beanbags, the six of them shared Chinese food and watched an episode of a shitty show.

Will had messaged her: “Hey, call me later.”

She hadn’t yet, but she would.

———-

In the days following the move, Y/N found herself adjusting to the quiet.

It was all new - only cooking meals for one, not having to worry about someone else’s socks ending up in her laundry. She’d gotten to a new normal. Freya had kept her busy, taking her out on long walks, while Talia invited her over for pasta nights at her and Simon’s place.

Unsurprisingly, the boys rallied around her.

Theo would stop in at her office to have lunch with her, bringing her pieces of PR he’d received so they could unbox it together. She came home to find her favourite bottle of wine on the doormat with a tag on it reading “saw this and thought you’d like it - Harry xoxo”. Lux had shown up on a Thursday evening armed with takeaway, having rented one of her favourite movies to his Amazon Prime account. They showed up.

She also called Will. He listened.

——

Post dinner antics and his first tour of the apartment, Y/N decided to invite Will over .

I got a bottle of red with our names on it, she’d texted. And a cosy looking bathtub to yap in.

Be right there.

He opened the door to her flat, finding her on the couch with a cup of tea in hand. She was in flannel pyjamas, hair in a bun, pimple cream in its all glory. It was the most her she’d looked in a while.

He kicked off his shoes like he’d done it a hundred times before and grinned. “It smells like you’ve been baking.”

“Oh, I have. There’s some brownies for you.”

They sat on opposite ends of her couch this time, knees touching.

Their plans to sit in the bath and yap had been abandoned, choosing to instead sit on the couch, drink tea and share warm brownies.

“I’ve got a thought,” Will spoke, mouth full of baked goods.

“Oh fuck, that’s a scary thought.” Y/N laughed.

“Oi!” He laughed, jabbing her knee. “Why don’t we save the bath chats for the scary stuff?”. He paused. “Wait, poor choice of words. Bath chats are for when you wanna tell the truth but it’s a little frightening.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Also reserved as an excuse to abandon loud parties.” She quirked an eyebrow.

“Done deal.”

A few hours later, she sat on the couch as Will dug through her vinyl collection.

Putting on one of her favourite Joni Mitchell records, he sat back down.

“I like this version of you,” Will said quietly, as she leaned her head on the armrest.

“What version’s that?” she murmured.

“The one who finally chose herself.”

——

By now, everyone knew. Will was in love with Y/N. Y/N was in love with Will. She was just going through it. Hadn’t finished grieving the end of the better part of a decade.

There was no secret between friends like theirs. Lux had caught Will staring at her once during dinner, and didn’t even need to say anything. He just patted his back and passed him another drink.

Theo had pulled Y/N aside at the dinner where she’d spilled her guts and told her, “When you’re ready, he’s ready. But until then, we’ve got you.”

Even George, who had pushed a little too hard at the Clarke-Hill-Dixon tour celebration had shown up at the reception desk of her work with flowers and coffee from her favourite cafe. “I feel like we have this sibling relationship sometimes and I took it too far,” he’d apologised. “These probably aren’t as good as any sort of bouquet Will would get you.”

“What’s Will got to do with you bringing me flowers?” She had asked.

“I figured you’d realised you were in love with him by now.” He’d replied, grin cheeky as ever.

——

About 4 weeks later, it happened.

They hadn’t kissed yet.

They hadn’t needed to.

She wasn’t ready.

He wasn’t going to push her. Instead, he kept a respectful distance. He’d known her for over a decade. He’d been in love with her for years. Waiting 6 weeks for her to deprogram from her relationship was the least he could do.

On a Saturday evening, they walked out of the cinema after sharing a few glasses of wine and a bucket of popcorn.

Stopping under a street lamp, Y/N stopped in her tracks. Will stopped too. “You okay?”.

“I think I’m there. I’ve arrived somewhere, I think,” she said softly.

He didn’t ask what she meant. He just nodded, gently resting a hand on her cheek. “Okay.”

And as they arrived at her door, she hesitated to close the door behind her.

“Will. Can you do me a favour?” She spoke softly.

“Yeah, what’s that?”.

“Kiss me.”

He stood closer, searching her eyes for any hint of cold feet. His hands found her waist, gently pulling her in. He leant down, their lips gently brushing before they eventually met.

Her hands traced along his arms, finding a place to rest in his hair.

Will broke the kiss to speak, murmuring “I can’t believe this is happening”. Y/N spoke, “you are so hot but shut up”. He didn’t need to be told a second time, stepping into her apartment and backing her into the wall by the door, devouring her in a searing kiss.

Goosebumps spread across her skin, his hands leaving a trail of fire wherever they touched. A decade of watching her love someone else. A decade of longing, loving, yearning for her when he didn’t have a name for it yet. A decade of her loving the wrong person, when he’d been in front of her the whole time. The kiss said it all.

She was his. He was hers.

No more pushing it down.

—

A/N: Annnnnd we’ve unlocked a new part! Let me know your thoughts pls xx

I do have a part related to this that just explores the platonic relationships within the group. Is this something you guys would be interested in? I know that some of you tend to enjoy the character building chapters 💌

TAGLIST: @mosviqu @octaneink @clarkeysbedchem @mrswillne @meglouise00 @jonnybernthalslover @clarkey4life @asmoothoperator @clarkeyscvntymullet (opt in or out any time - drop me a DM or comment) 🩵

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

🍪 — 𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐨

☕ — paring・minho x reader // genres・ fluff alphabet headcanons! // words・2.7k // warnings・mild cursing and kissing ig.

a/n・i finally wrote something everybody clap!! this was fun asf to write and i took it as a little challenge to myself to write for somebody other than felix. (should i make this a silly little series while i'm finishing up my felix bodyguard fic ((teaser here)) because this satiates my need to yap and share my opinions.) (credits to @vampzity for the idea <33) (((please ignore any errors. i spent 3 hours writing this and posted it at 4 a.m. as always, if there is any please make me aware!! thank you so much for reading my love and stay tuned for my new 1,000 followers event!!)))

a — affection (how affectionate is he? how often does he show affection?)

minho is affectionate if you catch him at the right time. i don't think he'd be the type to throw his arms around you in the middle of walmart, but he'd brush the small of your back when somebody's close to you or interlock pinkies when walking down the aisle together. oh yeah, and he's totally the king of interlocking pinkies. he's interlocking pinkies at every public event, it doesn't matter where it is. around the boys, he'd probably pull you onto his lap and gently rub your thighs whenever you're talking. alone, i think that's when the affectionate minho starts coming out. he's a little more romantic, and a lot more shy.

b — beginning (what would he be like as a bsf; how would the friendship start?)

you were probably scared as shit to talk to him. he totally has this cold, intimidating vibe going on, but the moment, you, the most stunning person he's ever laid eyes on, starts talking to him—yeah, he's blushing like a maniac. he'd pretend to be all nonchalant knowing damn well that the moment you text him he's giggling and kicking his feet. he'd probably be all shy at first, never quite meeting your eyes and giving you small smiles at the start of your friendship, but oh, once you start getting comfortable with him, you realize how much of a menace he is. gives you butt taps all the time then blames it on a gobsmacked seungmin, hands raised and definitely terrified of you smacking him in the face. probably met at a grocery store or boba shop. still tries to act nonchalant, but the second you call him cute he's hiding his face in your neck.

c — cuddles (does he like to cuddle; how would he cuddle?)

speaking of hiding into necks. lee minho is a slut for cuddles, but he'd never actually admit that. he'd like it when you're laying on top of him, your warmth and heat surrounding him. extra points if your thighs are straddling him and your face is buried into his neck. chefs kiss. he'd be in a big hoodie, tired from a long day of slaying and drags you from the kitchen onto the couch and forces you to lay there (you love it) until you've both fallen asleep, the sound of your soft breaths and the smell of smoke coming from the cookies you abandoned. (nobody died in the making of this fanfic)

d — domestic (does he want to settle down? how good is he at cooking and cleaning?)

does minho wanna settle down? hmmm, i don't really know? i feel like with the right person yes, but far, far, farrrr into the future. it's already established that he's an amazing cook so he'd make you the most delicious, mouth watering meals you've ever tasted.

e — ending (if he had to break up with you, how would he do it?)

it all depends on the reason why you're breaking up. is it bad that i could imagine him doing it over text? if he's breaking up with you because of distance or if you did something crazy like cheating i feel like he'd definitely do it over text just because he'd be too emotionally exhausted to talk to you in person. if it was a mutual decision he would sit you down and have a conversation about it and then hold you while you both cry then agree to be there for each other no matter what.

f — fiancé (how does he feel about commitment; would he want to get married quick?)

minho wouldn't be the type to act off impulse, he'd definitely put a lot of thought into marriage. minho also wouldn't be the type to cheat so he knows that this commitment is forever, and wants to make sure you're ready for that. he would wait until it's the right time to propose. until, you're both in a good spot in your careers, your life, and your relationship. he would wait, but secretly, he's been wanting to marry you since he first heard the words "i love you". he would also psych himself out of it at least 12 times and go to chan for help. bonus: he'd propose on the bay with a picnic and a sunset, trees and flowers all around you. it would be downright magical.

g — gentle (how gentle is he; emotionally + physically?)

minho is such a baby at heart. he would be so gentle with you emotionally and physically. he would be the type to apologize a million different times if he accidentally hurts you and holds you close to his chest if you ever start crying. he might not be able to express his emotions very well, but he'd hold yours like they are the most precious thing in the world to him. he's so careful with your heart. RAAAA i literally love him so much he's my shala!!!

h — hugs (does he like hugs; how often does he hug you; what are his hugs like?)

his hugs would smell like the manliest cologne and feel so warm. he'd hug you tightly and love for you to bury your face into his neck. he's shy with hugs at first and would be so nervous to have you in his arms, but the longer you're together the more he craves your hugs. though, he's still totally shy.

i — i love you (how fast does he say i love you?)

minho would say the three magic words four months into your relationship. let me set the scene: you're walking, pinkies interlocks and your face is tilted at the sky. the stars look so beautiful at this time, and the more you look the faster you start connecting the constellations. minho had been muttering about something, nothing really important, just the kind of talk that fades into the background of a beautiful night. he chuckles when he notices your expression, bright and dazed, as though looking through the heavens. "are you listening to me?" he asks, amusement dancing in his tone. " 'm sorry, it's just...how could anybody not love the sky? it's so beautiful." you mutter mindlessly. he hadn't realized it until just then, how much he'd miss you if you were gone. those silly, trivial things like a nice cup of tea or smiling at a stranger, how you found the beauty in everything—even the bad stuff. you make his life worth living. it hits him like a ton of bricks, like somebody yanked the rug out from under him and now he's falling straight into your arms. that's when he says it—"i love you." you both stop. for a second, he wonders if he messed up, and then you let out one of your little happy squeals and press the words—"i love you,"—onto his face about as many times as there are stars in the sky. he realized two things that night. one: he was completely and irrevocably in love with you. and two: he wanted to be your husband.

j — jealousy (how jealous does he get; what does he do when he is jealous?)

minho gets jealous when he's using that resting bitch face to the max. that tongue in cheek thing he does? oh yeah, that's coming out full force the moment he sees another man flirting with you. if you're at a bar and some cocky mf struts up to you he's giving him the deadliest death glare, then looking him up and down and scoffing as if a man like him being in the vicinity of you is the most amusing thing he's seen all night. he wouldn't even try to say anything because he trusts you and knows you wouldn't do anything. it's funny, really, how this guy thinks he has a chance. after you're done smushing this guy's ego underneath your heel he'll get all pouty and be holding you the rest of the night—probably due to the alcohol, but we don't talk about that.

k — kisses (what are his kisses like; where does he like to kiss you; where does he like to be kissed?)

he'd give you so many forehead and nose kisses!! you'd get more of those kisses than lip kisses, especially around the boys. you'll just be laying there, existing, and suddenly his lips are puckered against your nose. it's so sweet. he will kiss you and then act like your heart didn't just melt into a puddle on the floor. he likes cheeks kisses, but like most of minho, he won't actually admit that. the second you give him a cheek kiss he's grinning from ear to ear and his entire face is a bashful shade of red.

l — little ones (how is he around children?)

minho would be so sweet with his own children, but with other peoples children he'd be like "get those snot goblins away from me!" minho would never call them snot goblin to their face, but he's definitely giving you that—get these snot goblins away from me!!—face when his auntie forces the baby onto him. with his own kids he'd totally teach them to be little menaces like sending them to pull pranks on the members. he doesn't like other peoples kid, but the second he's looking at his newborn babies face, all of a sudden his entire outlook on children have changed.

m — morning (how are mornings spent around him?)

the first morning spent at his house, you find him shirtless in the kitchen, a black apron reading the words: kiss the chef, the sweet smell of chocolate chips and pancakes clinging to his skin. that's when he realizes you do a little squeal when you're happy. it isn't loud or obnoxious, but it sure does scare the ever-loving shit out of him, spinning around on his heels and holding his spatula like a knife. you throw your hands up. he blinks, looks over at his pancakes (he should flip those soon), then back over to you. "what the hell was that?"you ignore him, sliding over to him with your socks."you made me pancakes!"he chuckles, running his fingers through his hair."yeah, i did."you bite your lip to conceal another giddy squeal, throwing your hands around his waist and pulling him into a deep kiss. he almost drops the pancakes.when you pull away, he's wide-eyed and his ears are bright red. he makes a vow to make you sooo many meals after this.

n — night (how are nights spent with him?)

nights are spent doing his 12 step skin care routine and chilling on his bed with snacks and a good movie, cuddled up beside each other. he'd totally let you do a silly animal shaped face mask and gorge on peanut butter m&ms while watching ginny and georgia (your pick not his). he would claim not to like the show, but he would take it as a personal offense if you tried to watch it without him. most nights are spent like this, quiet, calm and basking in each other's presence until you fall asleep.

o — open (when would he open up; does he say everything at once or does he wait to reveal himself?)

he's a total mystery, that adds to his nonchalant mystic. at first, he wouldn't reveal himself to you, mostly due to fear of ridicule. he would start to truly open up deeper into the relationship. he would make jokes about serious topics that made him feel vulnerable until one day, you grabbed him by the cheeks and reassured him that it was safe to talk to him. that's when he really started to reveal all those secrets.

p — patience (how easily angered is he?)

i don't see him as being a really angry person, he's more of a passive aggressive: eye roll and tongue in cheeks kinda guy. he'd be the kind of person to get pissed at himself more than anything, and only when he's asked you multiple times to do something than he might raise his voice , but that's very, very rare.

q — quizzes (how much would he remember about you; does he remember every little detail or is he forgetful?)

he doesn't cling to every detail like how some of the other members would, but he's also not the type to forget everything. it's more of a—he's literally always busy—and not a—he doesn't care about you—sorta thing. he would forget your favorite color, but remember the exact type of jewelry that you like or your favorite dish.

r — remember (what’s his favorite moment in the relationship?)

the first time he said "i love you." he can never forget that.

s — security (how protective is he; does he protect you; how would he like to be protected?)

minho would like to be emotionally protected. he's not keen on being vulnerable, so knowing that somebody holds the key to his heart can make him nervous. he likes knowing that it's safe in your hands. he protects you not only physically, but emotionally too. he'd be the type of boyfriend to step in front of you at any sign of confrontation, hands in his pockets and chin held high. he would make you feel so safe, placing his hand on the small of your back when you're crossing a road or pulling you into him whenever a creep is staring a little too hard.

t — try (how much effort does he put into dates, anniversaries, everyday tasks etc?)

he doesn't put a ton of effort into things, but that doesn't bother you because it's the thought he puts into it that makes up for it. he's so busy all the time, emotionally and physically drained, but he'll always make time for you. minho won't plan large, extravagant dates, but he'll run you a bath when you're cramping or massage your legs after a long day. he'll order takeout and throw tons of blankets onto the bed and have an in-home date night.

u — ugly (what are some of his bad habits?)

minho has a really bad habit of closing himself off during arguments and also having a quick temper. minho

v — vanity (how concerned is he with his looks?)

i don't think he'd care all that much about his looks at all, especially when he's with you. at first, he would be self-conscious about his facial expressions or the way he's dressed, but how he looks doesn't really faze him.

w — whole (would he feel incomplete without you?)

i don't think he'd feel incomplete if he's just working, but he'd be devastated if you broke up. he might send a quick "i miss you." text, but i don't think he'd be all that clingy.

x — xtra (random headcanons for him)

he's actually really shy!! he would try to prove that he's this cool, calm, collected baddie with amazing dance skills and perfect cheekbones, but around you he's a total spaz. he'd try to show off his dance moves one day and would trip over his own feet. he doesn't wanna mess anything up with you and would overcompensate any small mistake, especially emotionally because he knows he can look mean. he's also probably insecure about his resting face, give it lots of love and remind him you don't think he's mean!!

y — yuck (what are some things he wouldn’t like in general or in a partner?)

he wouldn't like boring people. i feel like he'd be most attracted to somebody who's kind and soft-hearted, yet incredibly passionate about their interests and are not afraid to show it. i feel like he would enjoy deep, intellectual conversations, but he also silly ones so somebody with the personality of a saltine cracker would not be the best suit.

z — zzz (what are his sleeping habits?)

he'd run hot in his sleep and kick you off of him in the middle of the night and then apologize profusely in the morning. he actually wouldn't mind if you were a blanket stealer because he's throwing the blankets off of him anyways. he'd either be a really still sleeper or the kind of person who randomly kicks in his sleep and he's rolling over and squishing you in between the mattress or he's as still as a statue. there is no in between.

[writingpandagoth]

Hiii so just wanna start off of how i am so in love w ur fics, and uhm a request here lol, so if we got jealous reader- can we get more jealous severus? Like, to the point hes thinking of going harder (👀) that night just so in the morning, when resder is absent or limping, full of hickeys, wrong tie/something with serverus would wear daily (can be placed in their students era w reader same year as him or as professors), anyway- yapping again, hope you feel better! *not forcing on this ask lol*

I have to say I nearly had a mental break down writing and adding the finishing touches.

But well Here it is.

Jealous Severus and a huge dash of Possessive claiming. (It's filthy and I feel ashamed...👀)

Hope you like it and it actually makes sense!❤️

18+ Content ahead.

(contains: Bondage, overstimulation, overuse of 'mine', multiple orgasms, hard unprotected sex and excessive marking.)

Marked

You came to Hogwarts quietly, without fanfare. Madam Pomfrey had requested a qualified healer to assist her with the increasing number of magical injuries and long-term spell damage cases. You accepted eagerly. Working in the Hospital Wing seemed like a dream job—peaceful, stable, tucked inside ancient stone walls full of magic and history.

You met Severus Snape your second day on the job. He was... terse. Condescending. And painfully observant. At first, he only visited when students turned up in his class with cauldron burns or potion poisoning, muttering curses under his breath about dunderheads and incompetence. He never stayed long, and he barely acknowledged you.

But over time, something shifted.

He started lingering. Offering dry commentary while you worked. Leaving tea on your desk and pretending he hadn’t. Watching you from the doorway longer than necessary.

He grew irritated whenever other professors spent too much time speaking with you. Whenever a visiting Auror complimented your potions work. Whenever a student dared to flirt. You saw it in the way his jaw would clench, how his voice would drop into a lethal calm, how he'd slide between you and the offender with just enough presence to make them shrink back.

Still, the two of you tiptoed around each other.

He never said anything. Neither did you.

You built something tentative—quiet cups of tea after long shifts, shared books, shoulder brushes that lingered. The feelings between you became impossible to ignore, but neither of you dared speak them aloud. It was too uncertain. Too fragile.

Then one night, you laughed at a joke in the staff lounge. A visiting Curse Breaker had said something charming, and you laughed without thinking.

You didn’t notice Severus approaching until his hand closed around your wrist and he pulled you into the nearest corridor.

You barely had time to ask what was wrong before he kissed you.

Now, years later, you live together in a tucked-away corner of the dungeons. Mornings begin with the scent of tea, the rustle of parchment, and Severus muttering darkly about dunderheads. You patch up his hands when he slices them during potion prep.

You bicker.

You laugh.

Your evenings end with his head on your shoulder as he reads in bed, your legs tangled beneath a thick wool blanket. There is comfort in the rhythm. In the quiet domesticity you’ve built.

And through it all, Severus remains the same man: brilliant, brooding—and unmistakably, undeniably possessive.

Then Gilderoy Lockhart arrived.

He bursts into the Great Hall like he owns it, dressed in layered cerulean robes and a smile so white it looks enchanted. The man sparkles. Literally. His cuffs are dusted in shimmer, and his teeth catch the light like glass.

Your first interaction comes during breakfast. You’re seated beside Poppy when he saunters over, balancing a plate of fruit and cheese.

"Ah, you must be the radiant healer everyone’s been talking about," he says, voice syrupy smooth. He takes your hand in both of his. "And just as enchanting as I imagined."

You blink. "Excuse me?"

"I’m Gilderoy Lockhart. Order of Merlin, Third Class, honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile."

You gently tug your hand free. „And I’m trying to eat my toast."

Undeterred, he laughs. "Witty, too! Marvelous."

From across the room, you feel Severus’s stare—sharp, unwavering, and heavy enough to press heat into your skin. You glance his way just in time to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. And as Lockhart continues his syrupy routine beside you, you and Severus share a glance so loaded with mutual what the actual fuck that it nearly makes you laugh.

But you don’t. Because Severus isn’t amused.

His jaw tightens, and you can see it: the silent calculus of which hex would leave a lasting enough impression on Lockhart without landing himself in front of the Headmaster.

You raise a brow, as if to say Don't do anything dramatic.

He raises one right back, eyes narrowing as if to say:

I promise nothing.

—

Over the next week, Lockhart makes a sport of haunting the Hospital Wing. 

The first time, Lockhart stumbles into the Hospital Wing dramatically clutching his wrist.

“Broom mishap,” he explains with a wounded wince. “Such a shame, really. Happened right as I was landing—a rather daring flip to impress a couple of second-years.”

You roll your eyes and gesture for him to sit. “You’ll live.”

As you wrap his wrist with precise, efficient movements, he leans in, placing a hand on your thigh and murmurs, “You have the hands of an artist, did you know that?”

“If you touch my thigh again, you’ll be dealing with broken fingers.” You reply dryly while tightening the bandage.

He winces dramatically removing his hand. “Ah—delicate and commanding. You’re an enchantress.”

You step away and snap your gloves off. “You're bandaged. Don't sprain the other one fishing for compliments.”

He chuckles. “You’re delightfully fierce. It’s very flattering.”

—

The second time, he arrives cradling his side and groaning.

“Cursed quill,” he announces. “Exploded mid-sentence while I was autographing a fan letter. Nasty thing. You wouldn’t believe the magical backlash.”

“Sounds harrowing,” you mutter, inspecting the small burn that easily could have healed on its own.

You turn before getting the burn salve.

“I think your touch alone could heal me.” He winks.

You grit your teeth trying not to smack the grin off his face. “I am trying to do my work here.”

“No one’s ever looked at me like that while applying burn salve,” he says, tone heavy with faux intimacy.

“Get. out.”

—

The third time, you hear him before you see him.

“Slipped on a stair,” Lockhart exclaims, limping dramatically into the Hospital Wing. “Right foot caught the edge, spun me around—nearly cracked my spine!”

You glance up from your logbook. “You walked in here just fine.”

“I have a high tolerance for pain,” he says with a wink. “Wouldn’t want to cause a fuss, especially not when it means I get to see you.”

You sigh and rise. “Let me check your back.”

He sits on the edge of the bed and, with unnecessary flair, peels his outer robes off his shoulders. “Right here,” he says, tapping between his shoulder blades. “Might need a healing salve... or a massage.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you pull out your wand, cast a diagnostic charm, and mutter, “Nothing’s bruised. Not even strained.”

He grins over his shoulder. “Your presence alone must be curing me.”

You deadpan, “I’m giving you five seconds to get off this bed before I summon Peeves and tell him you’re hiding lemon drops in your pockets.”

—

The fourth time, he walked in the Hospital wing.

You were with Severus. He had come to restock the Potions cabinet that was tucked in the corner of the Hospital Wing. You had just finished when he pulled you close and kissed you.

Slow. Lovingly.

That's when the door slammed open. 

Gilderoy’s voice boomed, carrying cheerfully through the space. "I’ve been meaning to stop by all morning, I’ve had the strangest cramp in my shoulder after breakfast—could be a sign of magical strain, perhaps even a touch of curse residue. Thought I’d get it looked at by Hogwarts’ finest."

You and Severus froze mid-kiss, mouths still close, breath mingling. Together, you turn your heads and fix him with identical, unimpressed stares.

Gilderoy was stepping into the ward, grinning like a fool, a stack of autographed portraits tucked under one arm and his wand waving vaguely in the other.

You and Severus exchanged a slow, deadly glance.

Yours said: Is this man serious?

His said: I will kill him.

Severus’s hand flexed where it rested on your hip.

You exhaled sharply. “Unless that shoulder pain is fatal, turn around and leave.” 

He stepped into the corner and hesitated when he saw Severus. "Oh, apologies, was I interrupting a... discussion?"

"A discussion," Severus said flatly, not moving, one hand still on your waist, the other clenched behind your back. His voice was taut silk—the kind you could strangle someone with. "Is that what it looks like?"

Lockhart blinked, glancing between you both. Finally, recognition flickered in his eyes. 

For a moment, he looked at Severus. Then at you. Then back again. His grin faltered slightly. 

“Of course. Right. Message received.”

He gave a theatrical bow and backed toward the door, nearly bumping into a supply trolley as he turned. 

The door clicked shut behind him a moment later.

He didn’t get the message.

One afternoon in the staff lounge a few days later, Lockhart corners you with tea and pastries.

"You know, I’ve been meaning to ask—have you ever considered modeling for a book cover? The way you carry yourself—it’s spellbinding. We could use a healer heroine. You’d be perfect."

"Absolutely not," you say.

"You mean now, of course," he smiles. "You just haven’t seen the right concept yet."

You’re saved only when Severus enters, eyes flicking between you and Lockhart with lethal calm before making his way over to you with slow, calculated steps.

"Ah, Professor Snape!" Gilderoy beams. "I was just telling your charming Woman about how she would be perfect modeling for a book. I do believe she’s intrigued."

Severus stares. "I am certain she isn't."

You try not to laugh leaning against Severus. He looks down at you his gaze softening slightly before pressing a kiss to your head.

Gilderoy watches the interaction an almost sly grin appearing on his face.

„Severus I was meant to ask," Lockhart says. "You and I. We could perhaps do a duel demonstration for the students? of course if you dare to take it up against me.“

You sent Severus a warning look but he ignores it and gives Gilderoy a pointed glare.

"When and Where."

The dueling demonstration is announced two days later. The Great Hall is transformed: long tables replaced with open space, a raised platform, students gathered at every corner.

Lockhart appears on the dueling platform in absurdly shiny periwinkle robes embroidered with gold runes and rhinestones. His cape flares dramatically as he turns, soaking in the applause like a rock star on tour. He bows once—twice—thrice, flashing a grin so bright it has to be charmed.

Across from him, Severus stands stone still. Cloaked in his usual severe black.

You stand just off to the side of the dueling platform, flanked by Minerva, Pomona, Poppy, and Filius. The student body buzzes with excitement around you, but the staff area is noticeably more tense.

Minerva’s arms are crossed, her eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like I’m about to witness a homicide?” she mutters under her breath.

“Because you might,” Poppy says flatly, glancing toward Severus, who stands utterly still—arms crossed, wand already in hand, gaze locked on Lockhart like a predator waiting for the excuse to pounce.

“He looks... extra broody today,” Pomona offers carefully, sipping her tea with both hands. “More than usual.”

“He didn’t speak once in the lounge this morning,” Filius adds quietly, peering over his spectacles. “Just glared at Lockhart like he was calculating how to vanish a body without leaving magical residue.”

Minerva snorts. “He probably was.”

You cross your arms, staring toward Severus—shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

“I’m worried he won’t hold back,” you say.

Minerva hums. “I’m worried he’ll hold back too little.”

Filius sighs. “At least we’ve got four trained magical adults here in case something explodes.”

“Or in case we need to restrain Severus,” Pomona adds brightly.

You all go silent as Lockhart calls out, voice booming across the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen! Today, you will witness an elegant display of defensive magic. A Duel in style, precision, and power! Of course, I’ve agreed to duel our own Professor Snape—though he insists on no applause until after he gets up.”

You exhale slowly. “Merlin help him.”

Minerva mutters, “He’s going to need more than Merlin.”

Severus doesn’t react to Lockhart's taunt.

He simply raises his wand—slow, controlled, deliberate. His dark gaze locks onto Lockhart with the kind of intensity that makes the hair on your neck rise.

Lockhart grins wider, clearly mistaking Severus’s restraint for hesitation. “Now, students, observe closely. This is what a seasoned professional looks like in a duel. Grace under pressure. Style with strength—”

A sharp flick of Severus’s wrist sends a shimmering blue arc of magic whipping across the space. It hits Lockhart square in the chest.

He stumbles back, robes flaring, nearly tripping over his own feet. The charm doesn’t harm—it’s designed not to—but it’s enough to rattle him. He straightens, laugh loud and forced.

“Ah! A bold opening move from Professor Snape! Very clever. I let him have that one, of course. All part of the show!”

Severus's eyes narrow. His wand twitches again.

This time the jinx is faster. Tighter. It whistles through the air, forcing Lockhart into a desperate duck and roll. He hits the platform hard with a theatrical “oof”.

Still, he tries to play it off, scrambling upright with a lopsided grin. “Ah, testing my agility! That’s right. Stay limber, students!”

Severus says nothing. His movements are surgical. Controlled. He steps forward once, casts a nonverbal binding charm that winds toward Lockhart like a silver ribbon.

Lockhart jerks back, barely blocking it with a flamboyant pirouette and a muttered counterspell that shouldn’t have worked.

Your brow furrows.

That spell should’ve locked him down.

You glance at Severus.

He’s already clocked it.

A heartbeat later, Lockhart pulls something small and glittering from the cuff of his robe—quick, subtle, but not subtle enough. A charm crystal, preloaded with a burst spell.

He mutters an incantation under his breath and slams it to the ground at Severus’s feet.

The explosion of light blinds the front row of students.

Gasps erupt. Several stumble back.

Severus staggers back shielding his eyes. When the glow fades, he’s still standing, unharmed—but his expression has shifted.

Cold. Flat. Lethal.

“Cheating,” Minerva mutters under her breath from beside you. “Dear Merlin, he actually tried to cheat.”

The next spell from Severus is not theatrical. It’s not for show.

It’s fast. It’s sharp. It knocks Lockhart backward with enough force to drop him to one knee.

Lockhart wheezes, trying to mask his panic with another grin. “Aha! Professor Snape keeping me on my toes! Just—testing reflexes! No need to worry!”

But his eyes flick toward you.

And winks at you before blowing a kiss.

An actual kiss.

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose, taking deep breaths and shaking your head in disbelief.

“Oh dear,” Minerva mutters softly beside you.

“That was stupid even for him,” Pomona says into her hand.

Filius doesn’t speak. He just shakes his head once with a sigh like he’s mentally preparing for a funeral.

Poppy, seated just behind you, whispers, “Is he suicidal?”

Severus hasn’t cast again. Not yet. But the shift in his posture is clear: his stance tighter, one foot forward, jaw locked. His grip on his wand has gone white-knuckled.

You know what it means.

That’s the moment right before he stops pretending to care about consequences.

You barely have time to process before Severus casts again.

This one slices the hem of Lockhart’s cloak and splits the air with a snap loud enough to make the students flinch.

You step forward just as he is about to cast again.

His eyes snap to yours. The fury in his gaze wavers—not gone, but caged. For now.

You don’t break eye contact with him as you give him a shake of your head and you keep holding it until you see his shoulders drop by half an inch.

His next spell is slower. Measured. A soft, almost lazy disarming charm.

Lockhart’s wand flies from his hand and clatters across the platform.

He stares at it, red-faced and panting. There’s a long, stretching silence.

Then Gilderoy forces a chuckle and turns to the crowd of wide-eyed students.

“And that, children, is why you must always stay alert in a duel! Quick reflexes, good posture—never underestimate your opponent!” He laughs as if he hadn’t tried to cheat mid duel and lost anyway.

You glance at Severus. He lowers his wand, but his shoulders are still tense. His eyes—when they flick toward you—are burning.

There’s a beat of silence before cheering erupts from the students.

You exhale, watching how Severus descends from the dueling platform in measured strides, cloak billowing behind him, expression cold enough to freeze stone. His eyes are fixed on you—not in anger, but in singular, furious purpose.

You don't hesitate and move instinctively toward him.

Lockhart hops down from the platform, dusting off his robes as if he'd done more than stumble through the duel. He cuts across the floor with a speed that doesn’t match his usual saunter, clearly determined to reach you first.

„That was quite the Duel wasn’t it?“ he says breathlessly, inserting himself between you and Severus like he’s the hero of this story.

He flashes that ridiculous smile, eyes still glimmering with self-congratulation. “You looked a little anxious back there. But I assure you, I had a dozen counters lined up—just didn’t want to overshadow Severus too badly.”

You arch a brow. „You barley stayed on your feet at all.“

“I had everything under control, of course. Just a few... strategic slips.” He steps closer to you.

You stare at him, expression flat. “You cheated.”

He laughs, waving it off. “Misdirection! Classic dueling technique. Very advanced. Don’t worry, I’m absolutely fine. No need to fuss over me—though I wouldn’t say no to a quick evaluation later, if your hands aren’t too full.”

Then—like he hasn’t just lost a duel, cheated, and nearly earned himself a coffin—he reaches for your hand.

Minerva, standing nearby with her arms crossed, mutters, "Don’t do it, Gilderoy."

But he does it anyway.

Before you can pull away, he is bowing theatrically to kiss your knuckles.

Severus moves instantly. He’s beside you in two steps, hand shooting out to grab Lockhart’s wrist. Hard.

The entire Hall goes quiet.

Severus leans in, voice low and lethal. “Touch her again and you won’t have a hand left to sign your fan mail.”

Lockhart swallows.

You can feel the tension pulsing off Severus’s body like magic ready to snap free.

You gently lay your hand on Severus’s arm—not to stop him, just to remind him you’re still here. You don’t pull him back. You just anchor him with touch, not command.

He releases Lockhart’s wrist and storms out of the Hall, cloak snapping like a thunderclap behind him.

The silence he leaves in his wake is heavier than any spell.

Minerva exhales quietly, glancing toward you. “Well,” she says dryly, “that’ll be a storm in the dungeons.”

The other Professors just nod in agreement as you make your way to follow Severus.

—

The last straw came on a late afternoon in the staff lounge. Sunlight slants through the tall windows, casting warm gold across the old rugs and worn armchairs. 

Minerva is knitting with sharp precision in one of the armchairs, Filius reading the Daily Prophet at the table, while Pomona sipping tea with a warm biscuit in hand. You’re flipping through a medical journal in relative peace when the door bursts open.

Lockhart enters with his usual flourish, arms full of what appear to be newly printed photographs of himself mid-duel.

"Ah! There you are," he says, striding toward you, ignoring the eyes that flick his way with mild disdain. "I’ve wanted to come back to you about a proposal I made not long ago. You’d be perfect for one of my upcoming book covers."

"No," you reply without even looking up.

"Come now, don’t be so quick to dismiss it again," he insists, dropping into the seat beside you. "It’s a series on famous magical duels—what better face for the healing heroine than yours? Poised, intelligent, alluring. Readers will fall in love with you by the end of the introduction."

You exhale slowly and close the journal. 

"Lockhart, I am not interested in being on any of your books. Or being near you. and if you truly believe that I would then you are more delusional than your Fanclub."

He winks. "You’re funny when you’re flustered. Very photogenic, too. I’ll have to talk to my publisher—"

"Don’t," you cut in, voice like steel. „Just leave. I was trying to enjoy the quiet afternoon."

Flitwick doesn’t look up from the Daily Prophet. "And we were enjoying the quiet too, before you arrived."

Gilderoy grins, undeterred, and sits far too close, leaning in. "Just five minutes of your time. I thought perhaps we could schedule a photoshoot? We could try a few poses—maybe something by the lake? Windswept hair, dramatic expression, healer robes slightly open—"

„I said I’m not interested."

"Oh, come now. You’re far too stunning not to be on a cover. I thought perhaps we could chat about it over tea? Or dinner? I simply meant to say I admire you—and I’d love to get to know you better. Properly, I mean."

From the corner of the lounge, Minerva speaks up her tone a warning, "Gilderoy. You know she’s with Severus.“

"Yes, yes, of course. But can’t blame me for trying. If he truly cared, he’d be here, wouldn’t he?"

"He is," comes a voice low and venomous from the doorway.

The room stills.

He crosses the lounge in slow, lethal strides. Before Lockhart can retreat, Severus grabs him by the collar and yanks him away from you.

"Don't you know to keep your hands off what doesn’t belong to you?" Severus snarls, each word laced with fury.

Lockhart stammers, cheeks pale. "S-Severus, it was just a bit of harmless fun—"

"You will not touch her. You will not look at her. You will not speak her name. She is mine."

No one in the lounge moves. Minerva lowers her knitting slightly, watching but not interfering. Flitwick raises an eyebrow slowly folding the newspaper. Pomona sips her tea completely unbothered.

Severus releases Lockhart with a shove and turns to you, expression still thunderous. He takes your hand and, with that same silent authority, he pulls you up from your chair and out of the lounge, fingers laced tightly with yours, cloak billowing as you disappear down the corridor together.

Severus doesn’t speak a word as he leads you into your quarters. His grip is ironclad—unyielding, uncompromising. You watch him closely knowing that whatever is going to come from him, he needs it.

The door clicks shut behind you, and something in Severus breaks.

No words. No warning.

He grabs your face and kisses you like he’s drowning—like the only way to breathe is through your mouth. His hands are bruising on your jaw, his tongue insistent, almost violent. It’s need—sharp, feral, possessive.

You moan into the kiss, dizzy from the force of it, from the way he moves like he’s starved. Your fingers knot in his robes as he backs you into the wall with relentless purpose. His hands are everywhere at once—gripping your waist, sliding up under your blouse. 

His mouth trails to your throat, the bite he sinks into your skin is sharp, punishing. You gasp—and then his tongue follows, softening the sting, marking you with care wrapped in cruelty.

“Mine,” he snarls, voice wrecked and dangerous against your neck. “He looks at you like he has a right. Like you’re something he can claim.”

Your breath stutters, but your answer is instant, sure. “I don’t want him. I want you. Only you.”

He lifts you into his arms and carries you to the bed like a man who can't bear a second of space between you. 

Clothes are ripped, not removed. His fingers tear through fabric with a purpose that borders on cruel. You’re bare in seconds, and he doesn’t give you time to shiver. He mutters a spell and with a flick of his wand, silken ropes snake from under the bed, coiling around your wrists and ankles, binding you spread wide to the four corners of the mattress.

And then he stares. Drinks you in like you’re the last thing keeping him sane.

“Fucking perfect,” he rasps, crawling onto the bed between your legs. “Tied open for me. Nothing you can hide. Nowhere to run.”

He leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“Everything I’m about to do to you—he’ll see it on you tomorrow.”

You shiver at the sight of him above you—his eyes black with hunger, the furious flush in his cheekbones, the way his chest rises like he’s trying not to tear you apart too fast.

“You’re mine,” he growls, crawling over you like a predator. “Say it.”

“I’m yours, Severus. Only yours. Body, soul—everything.” you whisper, your voice shaking with need.

His mouth crashes into your neck and he bites—hard enough to bruise. You cry out, but it turns into a moan as his tongue follows, licking and sucking, leaving hot, dark hickeys blooming across your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach.  

His mouth works you like he’s stamping every inch of you with his claim. And you’re panting for him, back arching, tugging helplessly at the restraints as heat coils hard in your belly.

His hand moves between your thighs sliding two fingers through your slick folds.

“Already dripping,” he growls, voice low and dark with satisfaction. “And I’ve barely started. All this because you know you’re mine.”

He circles your clit—slow and tight—never breaking eye contact as he watches you squirm, moan, beg. He builds you up with cruel precision, rubbing you faster, harder, until your hips are bucking, legs trembling. 

“Don’t even think about holding back,” he says. “You’ll come when I say. And you’ll keep coming until I say stop.”

You gasp, thighs trembling. “Please—”

“Now.”

It hits like fire.

Your back arches off the bed, wrists yanking against silk that doesn’t give. You scream his name as your orgasm tears through you, long and sharp and blinding.

But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pause.

He leans down, mouth sealing around your clit, tongue flicking with devastating force while his fingers plunge into you—fucking your soaking cunt through the aftershocks, dragging them higher.

He fucks you on his fingers until you come again—louder this time, hoarse and wrecked and trembling uncontrollably.

“Like a Goddess,” he croons, voice gone dark with lust. “So greedy. So desperate. Taking everything I give you.”

He pulls back. Your body limp and completely undone. Standing above you, he strips—piece by piece. His outer robe hits the floor, followed by his frock, then his shirt—each movement slow, calculated, deliberate. He’s peeling away the layers, the armor, everything that’s ever separated you from the storm of him.

And then you see him—stripped bare, cock in hand, already thick and leaking. The hunger in his eyes is savage.

“Beg for it. Beg for me.”

“Please, Severus, I—I need it—need you—make me yours.”

He groans like he’s breaking.

“Good girl.”

He climbs back between your thighs, presses the head of his cock to your entrance—and slams into you with one brutal thrust.

You cry out and your back arches hard off the bed, wrists pulling helplessly against the silk restraints. You’re wide open and trembling beneath him, every inch of you laid bare.

He hears the sound of your bindings stretching—your desperate, futile attempts to escape the unbearable pleasure—and it only spurs him on. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You feel like heaven. So tight. So perfect. You were made for me.”

Severus watches your face twist in pleasure, in helplessness, in surrender. And it breaks something in him. He braces himself above you, elbows on either side of your head, nose brushing yours, his cock driving deeper. Every muscle in his body screams to be closer, to bury himself inside you so thoroughly that you forget anyone else ever existed.

The only thing you can do is take it. You’re nothing but sound and sensation—bound, open, filled again and again until your thoughts scatter like ash and you’ve never felt more wanted.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” he growls into your ear. “How much I want you. How much I need you. My sweet treasure... all tied up, helpless, aching for me.”

Another thrust, brutal and precise, leaves you sobbing into the sheets.

“Mine.”

“Yours!” you cry, barely coherent. “I’m yours, I’m yours—”

He kisses you then—rough and possessive, swallowing your words as he pounds into you harder, the bed rocking beneath you with the force of it. 

“That’s it,” he growls, leaning down to bite at your breast, sucking hard until another hickey darkens your skin.  “Give yourself to me. You want this—every thrust, every inch. You want what my body’s doing to you.”

You sob his name, already feeling how yet another orgasm builds. Severus watches every reaction. Every twitch, every sob, every gasp fuels the heat surging through him.

“You’re mine,” he snarls against your neck. “You love this. Love the way I make you feel. You’re so needy. So vulnerable. Only for me. I own you. Every fucking part.”

You can’t answer. All you can do is cry out as he slams into you, over and over. Your head turns to the side, mouth slack, eyes glassy. Every thrust punches a sound from your lips. Your wrists pull at the ropes again, but you’re not trying to escape—you’re trying to survive the pleasure.

“You’re taking it so well,” he breathes, almost reverently. “So fucking well.”

He leans down and grabs your chin, turning your face toward him. “Look at me.”

You do—barely—and he kisses you again before thrusting harder, deeper, rougher. One hand slides between your thighs and finds your clit.

You cry out, shaking.

“Yes. That's it,” he murmurs. “You’re so close. Let me feel it. Come for me. Again.”

Your third orgasm hits like a lightning strike—your legs shake violently, hips jerking as you sob his name. Your body clenches around him, back arching off the mattress so hard the ropes creak. 

But there’s no relief. No mercy. Severus doesn’t stop—doesn’t slow. He fucks you through it, harder than before, every thrust deep and punishing, pulling gasps and sobs from your throat.

“That’s three,” he groans. “Still not done my love. You’ll be too sore to walk tomorrow. He’ll see what I’ve done to you. You’ll wear me like a damn medal all over your skin.” 

He licks a stripe up your neck, sucks just below your jaw until the bruise blooms like a signature.

You can’t speak. You’re shaking, every nerve lit up, too sensitive and too needy all at once.

He shifts just enough to get closer, to press more of himself onto you—his forearms bracketing your head, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. His hips never stop, cock slamming into you with feral rhythm, thick and hot and insistent.

His voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “Look at you. You’re shaking for me. Writhing. Crying. And you’re still taking me.”

You moan—a broken, pleading sound—as his hand slides back down your stomach, between your thighs.

“Too—much—can’t,” you whimper, your body twisting against the ropes.

“Yes,” he hisses. “You can. You will.”

His fingers return to your clit—merciless. The contact makes your whole body jerk, overwhelmed, desperate, breath stuttering in your throat. You can’t pull away. Can’t run. Can’t do anything but take it.

“You’ll give me every drop of yourself,” he growls. “Until you can’t think. Until all you know is me. Until your body forgets anything but the way I own it.”

You scream. The pressure is building again—impossibly fast, impossibly much. You thrash your head against the pillow, tears streaking your cheeks, your hands white-knuckling the ropes.

Severus leans down, mouth at your ear, voice low and cruel.

“I want you ruined. Fucked so deep into this bed you forget what it’s like to walk. I want my cock to be the only thing you remember. You can take it. You’re my good girl. You’ll give it to me.”

“I—I can’t—” you sob.

“Yes,” he snarls. “You fucking can.”

His thrusts turn brutal, his cock slamming deep over and over. The rhythm is punishing, his grip on your hips bruising, grounding you as he takes every inch of you.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his mouth dragging down your neck. “This cunt is mine. Your cries are mine. Your fucking soul—mine.”

Your fourth orgasm rips through you like a goddamn detonation—violent, unbearable, unholy. You scream, full-throated and raw. Your vision whites out, your back bows off the bed, ropes straining with the force of your body’s helpless reaction.

Severus groans loudly as you clench around him, his own body starting to unravel.

“Fuck—yes, that’s it, that’s it—” His voice is hoarse, falling apart. “You’re so fucking perfect—so tight—taking me so well—mine—fucking mine!”

He slams in one last time, deep and rough and final, with a growl so raw it sounds like a roar.

His cock pulses deep inside you, spilling heat in long, desperate bursts. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Just presses deep and stays there, shaking with the force of it, his hands gripping your thighs like anchors.

You’re shaking violently, tears streaking your cheeks, body twitching from the aftershocks. Sweat slicks your body, and your skin is painted with his marks. 

You feel owned. You feel loved. You feel his.

Severus doesn’t move right away. He slumps over you, panting hard, his body shielding yours like a second skin and his forehead pressed to yours.

His voice is hoarse, ruined. “Mine,” he whispers. “My good girl. My perfect, ruined girl.”

You’re trembling, boneless beneath him. With a whispered word from him, the ropes loosen.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your swollen lips.

“He will never dare touching you again,” he breathes and holds you tighter. “You own my heart and life."

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, the tip of your nose. His hands cradle your face.

You try to say his name, but your throat catches—raw from moaning, from screaming, from sobbing out every piece of yourself for him.

His hand cups your cheek instantly. “Shh.” he whispers, voice wrecked but warm. “Don’t move. Let me take care of you.“

He slowly eases himself from your body with care that borders on reverence. You whimper at the loss, at the sensitivity, at the way your body clenches instinctively in protest.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know. My love I got you.”

Severus slips from the bed, and for a moment you feel cold—empty—but then he’s back, cradling you in his arms. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, holding you close and carries you to the bathroom.

He murmurs soft spells as the tub fills with warm, jasmine-scented water. Candlelight flickers to life around the room, casting everything in gold. Eventually sinking into the tub with you in his lap, your back against his chest, arms around your middle.

You can barely keep your eyes open, but you feel him everywhere.

He reaches for a soft cloth and begins to gently wash you—between your legs, down your thighs, over every bruise he’s left behind. Each touch is careful, like he’s trying to kiss the soreness from your skin through his hands.

“My gorgeous love,” he whispers, cloth gliding over your stomach. “I love you. I love you like I’ve never loved anything in this world.”

He tilts your head back against his shoulder and kisses your temple. „I’m yours, You own me, love. Completely. You’re my everything. You’re my peace.“

When he’s rinsed you off, he lifts you again—drying you with the fluffiest towel you’ve ever felt, dabbing between your legs with exaggerated gentleness. He doesn't miss a mark. Not one. He kisses your rope-burned wrists, your bruised thighs, your shoulder.

Then he whispers a warming charm into the fabric of one of his old and worn shirts and slips it over your head. His hands glide down your arms, smoothing the material like he’s wrapping a gift.

You’re almost asleep when he carries you back to bed, tucks you under the sheets, and climbs in beside you. He curls himself around you, chest to your back, arms tight around your waist.

“I meant it,” he says, voice low, full of weight. “You are my peace.”

You murmur his name, voice slurred from exhaustion.

He nuzzles into your neck. “You gave me everything. Now rest my love I will watch over you.”

He kisses your shoulder one more time.

Then your jaw.

Then your cheek.

Then your lips.

Over. And over. And over.

Until your breath slows. Until your eyes finally close. Until sleep takes you again in the safest place you know.

His arms.

—

You are very late the next morning.

The staff room door creaks open and you step inside—slowly, carefully, like every step sends another jolt of soreness through your thighs. Severus is right beside you, his stride perfectly composed, while you walk with a limp that’s impossible to disguise. Your face is unreadable, but your eyes flick sideways, shooting him a glare that he pointedly ignores.

He looks smug—obscenely so.

You, however, are doing your best to maintain dignity, clutching a book against your chest and pretending your body isn’t on fire. You’re dressed in one of Severus’s black button-downs, oversized on you, falling just to mid-thigh, and hangs off one shoulder as if even fabric knows it shouldn’t try to contain you today. The collar is wide, stretched, slipping low to reveal your throat and collarbone.

Your neck is an unapologetic canvas of possession. The hickeys are bold and brutal—angry red and dark violet, the kind of bruises left by a man who needed the world to know you were his. Some are sharp, singular bites of color just beneath your jawline; others are sprawling, almost violent in their spread, traveling in a map of passion from your throat to your collarbone and disappearing beneath the parted buttons of Severus’s shirt. They’re layered—some overlapping—proof that he returned to the same spots again and again. There’s no mistaking what they are. And there’s absolutely no effort to hide them.

Every head in the room turns. There’s a ripple of quiet laughter. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just amused. A little impressed. And entirely unsurprised.

Your voice is hoarse, wrecked. "Don’t. Just... don’t ask."

Severus peels off and moves toward the corner, his robes sweeping behind him. With casual precision, he starts preparing tea with an unmistakably smug gleam in his eyes.

Minerva hums, her eyes meeting yours, and one finely arched brow rises in dry, wicked amusement. "Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, dear. We all know Severus."

Poppy looks you up and down with practiced healer eyes, noting every limp and mark with a knowing smirk. "Honestly, darling," she says, half amused, half teasing, "you should take the day off. Merlin knows you've earned some bed rest."

Pomona chuckles warmly behind her teacup. "Well, that explains the noise ward I noticed around the dungeons last night."

Filius nearly chokes on his own tea, coughing into his sleeve with suspiciously twinkling eyes.

Then the door opens.

Gilderoy Lockhart strolls in, humming as if he owns the place and sees you from behind.

"Ah, there you are! I was looking for you last night—wanted to clear up that little misunderstanding. Surely we can start fresh—"

You turn around to face him.

He stops mid-step and eyes widen at the sight of you.

Before you can speak, Severus does.

"She was busy," he says simply, not even looking up from preparing tea.

You shoot Severus another glare as you limp toward your usual seat. You lower yourself into your chair with a soft hiss. He meets it like a man wholly satisfied and just calmly pours another cup of tea, adding a potion from his robes and sets it down on the table in front of you. He stays standing right beside you.

Gilderoy blinks. "Right. Yes. Of course.“

His eyes flick from your neck to Severus’s face—and linger. There’s a beat of tension. A challenge unspoken.

Severus meets his stare, cold and unreadable. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. His gaze alone says it clearly: 

Try, and see what happens.

For a second, Gilderoy almost looks like he might. His mouth opens, the glimmer of a smirk starting to form—as if he thinks this is a game.

You cut him off with a hoarse voice sharp enough to slice.

"If you try to flirt with me again after everything that’s painfully obvious right now, you’re even dumber than your smile suggests."

The smirk dies. Gilderoy’s mouth snaps shut.

"I’m with Severus, and I don’t want anyone else so whatever fantasy you’re clinging to—kill it. Publicly, if possible."

Minerva lets out a quiet, impressed hum, the corners of her mouth twitching despite her best effort to appear composed. Filius hides a cough behind his hand that sounds suspiciously like a poorly suppressed laugh, his shoulders shaking with barely-contained mirth. 

Pomona lifts her teacup in a silent toast of amusement, while even Poppy lets out a snort.

Severus lifts his teacup to his lips, slow and deliberate, smug eyes still locked on Lockhart.

Gilderoy backs away with a forced smile and a muttered, "Quite right. Understood. Perfectly clear.“

He turns sharply and leaves without looking back.

Laughter bubbles again around the room—quiet but no more hidden.

You sip your tea letting the potion in your tea soothe your raw throat, and allow yourself one small, smug smile as you lean your head against Severus’s side.

He leans down pressing a gentle kiss to your head.

[guppiechuu]

here in the dark, my sacrifice ༺♰༻ s.j

out in the world, you’re just an angel, but here in the dark, you’re my sacrifice.

length: 1.4k

warnings: smut, unprotected sex (wrap ur willy), creampie, praise kink, pet names, multiple orgasms, mirror fucking, soft dom jake (kinda sorta?), attentive and caring sex, but filthy nonetheless

synopsis: the others are always teasing you and jake for being too vanilla, but you both know the truth: you might not be the kinkiest couple in the world, but soft doesn't have to mean boring.

⤷ chuu's 💌 ── .✦ so. desire: unleash. what the fuck. ummmm the english version of bad desire had me quaking in my boots, so i needed to write a little something something to ease my..... afflictions..... please enjoy this late-night nonsense. heeseung. jake. when i catch you.......

——

People often teased you and Jake for being, well, boring.

The others loved to rib him whenever you were around, playfully suggesting that your time together behind closed doors was "too vanilla."

"I doubt you guys have even made it past first base," Sunoo would tease, snickering behind his hand.

"Yeah, come on, y/n. You can tell us," Jay smirked. "Is he boring or what?"

Your face burned when they joked about your sex life, but you were used to it by now. Jake always came to your defense, his fingers finding yours reassuringly as the others laughed to themselves.

"You guys have serious boundary issues," He complained.

"Bo-ring."

Jake rolled his eyes. "What, 'cuz I don't like slapping my girlfriend around? You're a freak."

"Just saying, a little pain never hurt anybody," Jay said, wiggling his eyebrows.

You scoffed. "That's the definition of pain, genius. Maybe we're just smart enough not to share the details of our sex life with nosy idiots like you."

He raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. But if you ever need advice—"

"Shut it," Jake cut in, throwing a pillow in Jay's direction. "You wouldn't last five minutes with her."

Your face flushed at that.

It didn't matter how much they teased you. Deep down, you both knew how wrong they were. You didn't need fancy toys or props to have a good time; Jake gave that to you all on his own.

"Good girl, baby," He panted, his voice tickling your ear. "Keep taking it for me. Mhm, just like that."

You whined, face pressed against your mattress. Jake had your ass in the air, his body bent over yours to whisper filth into your ear as he fucked you, nice and slow, feeling every inch like it was a mile.

Your voice was hoarse, limbs aching, pussy convulsing around his cock as he dragged in and out of you. Three orgasms in, and your legs were starting to give out, your thighs trembling as he ran his hand up the inside of them.

"Can you talk, baby? Say my name."

"Jake," You moaned, pushing your hips back into his.

His lips brushed the back of your neck, trailing down your spine. It sent shivers up your body, only adding to the way you were quivering under him.

"You're shaking," He murmured. "Too tired? Should I stop?"

You shook your head. Insistent. Stubborn. Jake loved that about you—how you'd let him take you all the way to the edge, until you could hardly move or speak. He loved pushing your limits. Finding out just how much you could take before you were completely spent.

He pulled out of you slowly, hissing at how sensitive his cock was. He hadn't come yet; he wanted to ruin you first.

Jake pressed his mouth to yours as he pulled you up from the bed, supporting your weight with an arm around your waist. You groaned, legs shaking, as he walked you backwards towards the two mirrors that slid in front of your closet.

He liked fucking you against them. Watching the panes fog up around your skin, how your fingers would slip and slide against the glass. Mostly, he liked making you watch as he pushed you past the point of no return, until you were drooling all over your reflection.

"So pretty," He mumbled into your neck, turning you so your back was flat against his chest. He reached a hand around to slide between your legs, teasing your aching cunt with his fingers. "Look, baby. Look how fucking hot you are."

You could hardly see, too fucked out to be able to truly appreciate the way you looked, but Jake drank it all in. The glitter of your skin, the flushed color of your cheeks. He fingered you harder, earning an exhausted groan from you, your head back against his shoulder.

"Can I come, baby? Think you can take me one more time?"

"Mmm," You hummed, your pretty face scrunching into a frown. "W-wanna feel you again, Jakey."

He laughed lightly. "You're shaking, princess."

"I can do it. Please?"

Fuck, you were so good for him. Always wanting to take more even after he'd spent hours inside of you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and sank his teeth into your shoulder, digging his fingers into your hips.

"Gonna feel so good," He breathed, angling himself at your entrance. "You're doing so well. One more time. Come for me one more time, princess."

You let out a moan as he slid back inside you, so stiff it almost hurt. You propped your elbows up on the mirror, head falling down between your shoulders as he fucked into you, hissing at how tight you were around his cock.

"Mmmmm, this pussy's so good. You're such a good girl, y/n. Still so wet for me."

Jake's strength was waning by the second. He couldn't keep his hands off you, not now that he was chasing his own orgasm. He ran his palms up the slope of your back, admiring the line stretching down your spine. Gripping your shoulders, he snapped his hips against yours, watching with his lip between his teeth as your ass bounced against his thighs.

"Jake," You moaned, "F-fuck, don't stop."

"I'm not gonna stop," He groaned, sliding his hands down your arms. He pulled you backwards, holding your wrists down by your sides as he jerked into you, filling you up just right.

"M'not stopping, y/n," He moaned, "I'm gonna cum— gonna make a mess in you just like I promsied."

Tears pricked your eyes. That was all you'd wanted. To feel Jake shaking on top of you as he spilled, his breathy moans filling the room.

But Jake was a giver. He hated cumming before you did. Oh, and you did. Once, twice, three times. He needed to see you undone before he could give you the satisfaction of filling you up.

You came on his cock for a fourth time, barely able to hold yourself up as your pussy tightened, sucking him in even deeper.

"Oh, fuck," He breathed, feeling the stuttering sensation of his own climax catching up on him.

He reached an arm around you to grab your throat, pressing lightly at the sides. You whimpered, knees buckling as he fucked his orgasm out on you. If it weren't for his grip around your waist, you'd have been on the floor.

"Fuck, y/n," He gasped, pressing you into the mirror. The panes shook as he jutted into you, your fingers fogging up your reflection.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. God, baby, I'm— fuck!"

Jake buried himself all the way inside you, cock twitching as he came. Deep. Brutal. Long overdue.

You both shuddered, bodies sliding against each other with sweat and saliva. Exhaustion was creeping up on Jake, but you were already gone, body sinking as your legs went out.

Jake lowered to the ground, supporting most of your weight as you turned in his lap. You managed to keep him inside you as you rotated to face him, your legs going on either side of his, arms wrapping around his neck.

"You okay?" He asked gently, his chest heaving against yours

You nodded against his neck, digging your fingers into his hair, relishing in the ache of your muscles. God, you were gonna sleep well tonight. Only...

He inhaled sharply as you moved your hips, walls clenching around him. "Really, baby? Still not done?"

You shook your head, winding your hips against him. Jake hissed, still so sensitive, but didn't stop you. Fuck, he loved how horny you were for him. He'd fuck you all day if he could.

"You're gonna pass out," He said gently, lifting your head to look at you. "Look at you, so tired."

You smiled at him lazily, cheek pressed into his palm. "Feels so good, Jake."

He was already half-hard again, slipping around inside you. You ground your hips on him, trying to commit the feeling of him pushing up against your bruised cunt to memory.

"Want more."

He kissed you, gentle. Tender. "Are you sure, honey?"

You nodded tiredly, completely cock-drunk, entirely fucked out. But that was typical you, begging him for just one more. And who was Jake to say no?

The others could tease all they liked, talk about how you'd never make it past first base. It was all bullshit anyways. They hadn't the slightest idea just how far you could go.

[mariacallous]

Going purely by biography, Donald Trump is the most urban of presidents. Raised in Queens, he spent much of his life thirsting for nothing so much as praise and acceptance from the Manhattan establishment, something that forever eluded him.

But as president, he’s waging a steadily growing war on cities and all they represent.

Fomenting anti-urban resentment is nothing new for Trump’s party, but in this most unbound of presidencies, the war is both practical and rhetorical, reaching high and low with dramatic funding cuts and petty vindictiveness.

Consider congestion pricing in New York City, in which drivers are charged a toll for bringing vehicles into central Manhattan at busy times of the day. In its short time in operation it has been an extraordinary policy success: Traffic is moving faster, accidents and noise complaints are down, more visitors are coming, and the money being generated by the tolls will help pay for upgrades to the public transportation system, where ridership is up. So, naturally, the Trump administration is determined to force the city to end the policy (that effort is tied up in the courts).

Why do they even care? Urbanism in any form seems to strike them as an affront. If we have to have these despicable concentrations of humanity, at least they should be built so that if you’re forced to go there you never have to leave your car.

Liberals “want you to take public transportation,” Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy huffed recently on Fox Business. “The problem is that it’s dirty! You have criminals, it’s homeless shelters, it’s insane asylums … it’s a work ground for the criminal element to prey upon the good people.”

But despite what Duffy claims, millions of people ride the New York subways every day and somehow emerge with life and limb intact.

People living in rural areas and small towns are constantly told by conservative politicians and media figures they trust that American cities are hellholes of violence and decay, so they come to believe that if they set foot in a large city their chances of surviving even a few minutes are iffy at best. When I made this point on Bluesky, dozens of people replied that this is exactly what relatives or friends of theirs believe.

“We live in San Diego. My dad & stepmom in rural TN are scared to come visit ‘because of what could happen,’” said one. “I live in a city of 100,000 in Arkansas,” said another. “I have co-workers who live in tiny outlying towns who won’t go to downtown restaurants after dark because they are scared.”

As it happens, crime has fallen precipitously since the covid spike of 2020 and 2021, and 2025 could see some of the lowest crime rates in modern times. The covid crime spike hit rural areas too, though few seemed to notice. That’s especially true when it comes to conservative media, where histrionic coverage of urban crime is a mainstay (especially at election time). And while crime does happen on the New York subway, it’s also a place where all the riders on a car will swing into action together to corral a bag full of live crabs.

[paperstorm]

Thank you for the tags @carlos-in-glasses @carlossreaders @thisbuildinghasfeelings @annoyingcloudearthquake @everlastingday!

“You know what’s weird?”

“Hm?”

Staring out into space toward the row of chairs in front of them, TK slowly says, “It didn’t occur to me right away that your parents knew Iris, too. That they must’ve known about … everything.”

Carlos swallows again, mouth suddenly dry.

“Your mom said something about her this morning, when I went to their house looking for you. And it didn’t hit me right then, either. Other things on my mind, I guess. But then at some point later I went … oh yeah. You grew up together, obviously they knew her. Knew you were married.”

“They did, yeah,” Carlos confirms, with a lump in his throat.

To their right, someone is thrown suddenly into a coughing fit, and a nurse hurries over after a few moments with a paper cup and some water.

When the commotion quiets, TK asks, “Did they know that I didn’t know?”

“TK, I’m …”

“No, you don’t have to … I’m just – trying to put all the pieces together.” TK looks at him, and Carlos sees sincerity in his eyes.

He shakes his head. “No. I didn’t ask them to lie to you. Mom found out that you didn’t know about an hour before I told you. She was really pissed at me.”

“How did you make sure it would never come up while we were all together?”

“I didn’t,” Carlos admits. It’s on the list of things that seem so short-sighted in retrospect. “I just hoped it wouldn’t.”

TK hums and nods, looking back out toward the intake desk. A frazzled looking woman is holding a toddler on her hip, his poor little face covered in a nasty rash. Carlos wonders if it’s contagious.

“You told me you came out to them when you were 17, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you married Iris when you were …?”

“20.”

With a soft, incredulous laugh, TK asks, “And what did they think about that?”

“I don’t know.” Carlos shrugs a shoulder, thinking back to that time. Every moment spent with his parents felt like their house was carpeted wall-to-wall in eggshells.

“You told them you’re gay and then three years later you got married to a girl and they didn’t have any questions about it?”

“I’m sure they had lots of questions. They just didn’t ask them.” Carlos shifts in his chair – his discomfort not purely physical despite the fact that the seat is hard and unforgiving. “I think … at least a part of me was hoping they would finally say something. They’d acted for years like I never came out at all, so announcing I was engaged was like a game of chicken to see who would blink first. I don’t think at the time I saw it as clearly as that, but looking back … I think part of me wanted to shock them into acknowledging me. Maybe if they’d said something, it would’ve felt like them calling our bluff and Iris and I would’ve realized it was a terrible idea and not gone through with it.”

“But they didn’t.”

“They didn’t,” Carlos confirms. “They acted happy for us and gave us the money for the security deposit on an apartment as a wedding present.”

“Do you think they were hoping it was real? That you weren’t really gay after all?”

Chewing for a moment on the inside of his cheek, Carlos wishes he could say no. He’s come a long way with his parents, a lot farther than his 20-year-old self could have even imagined, but there are still so many things that go unaddressed. He truly doesn’t know the answer to that question. He believes they love him for who he is in the present, but he can’t say he knows what they were thinking all those years ago, and he says as much.

TK exhales. “I guess you come by it honestly.”

“Come by what?”

“Not talking about things.”

“Oh.” Carlos closes his eyes for a moment and blinks a few times in quick succession after he opens them. The peeling linoleum of the yellowed floor stars mockingly back up at him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

TK presses his lips together and nods.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos says softly.

“I know,” TK answers. There’s empathy in his smile, and then he slouches down a few inches in his chair so that he can rest his head on Carlos’s shoulder.

Tagging @theghostofashton @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @eclectic-sassycoweyes @carlos-in-glasses

@bonheur-cafe @actual-sleeping-beauty @herefortarlos @heartstringsduet @alrightbuckaroo

@goodways @lightningboltreader @emsprovisions @freneticfloetry @liminalmemories21

@reasonandfaithinharmony @ladytessa74 @never-blooms @sanjuwrites @orchidscript

@jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @honeybee-taskforce @hereghostslive @thisbuildinghasfeelings

@just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @ironheartwriter

@butchreyes @anactualcaseofthetruth @ditheringmind @whatsintheboxmh

@nisbanisba @chicgeekgirl89 @carlossreaders @denizoid @everlastingday

@rangersoup @ambernotember

@certifiedflower

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[hischiershoe]

ooooo 02. "actually, we're leaving early, we have something to get to." "no we don't- oh, okay fine i'll call you guys later." + clayton keller please 💗

tysm for sending in!! i’m a little nervous for this since i’ve never written for him before but i hope you like it <3

warnings: i changed the prompt up a teeny bit and just a bit of jealousy but that’s it!!

Clayton was trying to not to let it get to him. Really, he was, but the longer he had to watch your new coworker inch closer and closer to you until he couldn’t even see space between you, the more frustrated he got. Of course he trusted you and he knew you would never knowingly put him in the position he’s in now, but he also knew you had a habit of mistaking blatant flirting for friendliness. It was something he never faulted you for, he never would, and he tried to keep his cool when it came up.

However, it was only a matter of time until his resolve had dissolved entirely.

When you walked into the bar with Clayton and a few of his teammates, you hadn’t expected to run into a few of your coworkers. The two of you had gone to the bar a dozen times before and you’d never seen anyone you knew, so of course you jumped at the opportunity to briefly infiltrate their group before you went back to your boyfriend. You had no intention of spending too much time with them because while you did like the ones who were there, you already spent 40 hours a week with them and you would much rather be with Clayton.

“You should come out with us more often,” Cameron, one of your newer coworkers, suggests as he leans against the table and looks down at you with a friendly smile.

“Maybe,” You lightly chuckle, your gaze sliding across the sea of people until you find Clayton.

He’s already looking at you, though you know he probably hasn’t looked away from you since you broke away from him, and he looks… Not mad, necessarily, but he doesn’t look happy, either. The expression etched on his face is something you rarely saw, but it made heat crawl up your spine and to your cheeks all the same. You only break away from his stare when he starts walking towards you, and you shift your focus back the people in front of you.

“At least hang out with us now,” Cameron gleefully calls out, “You’re already here, may as well stay a while.”

“Actually,” Clayton’s voice smothers your own, placing a protective hand on your hip and tugging you into his side, “We’re actually leaving. We’ve got somewhere else to be.”

“What? No we don’t—,” You feel him gently pull on your body and your feet are moving away from your coworkers, “Okay, well, I’ll see you guys at work!”

Clayton’s hand moves from your hip to grasp your hand in his own as he guides you out of the bar, not even sparing a fleeting look in the direction of his teammates. Though you do, and you don’t miss the amused and smug looks a few of them toss in your direction. You wordlessly follow him out to his car, only casting a curious glance at him when he holds the passenger door open for you. He slips into the drivers seat and leans over the center console to place a small kiss to your lips before he’s reversing out of the parking spot.

“So,” You draw out, lip pulled between your teeth and eyes trained on Clayton’s face, “What was that about?”

“What was what about,” He mumbles, though you both know he’s playing dumb.

“We weren’t even there for thirty minutes,” You point out, “Why didn’t we just go back to the guys?”

Clayton takes a deep breath before his focus briefly shifts towards you, “Didn’t want to have to look at whatever-his-name-is all night, or him to look at you.”

“Who,” Your brows furrow in confusion, your hand moving to grasp his that was placed on your thigh, “Cameron? Why would he look at me?”

“He was flirting with you the whole time you were over there,” He groans, like speaking the words make him physically nauseous, “Even Kess said something about it. Didn’t like it.”

You purse your lips as you think about what to say next because you didn’t think he was flirting, but you’d never been the best at picking up on things like that. Even when you had first met Clayton, he had to drop the act of subtly and be upfront with how he liked you because you always mistook him for just being friendly.

“Well,” You start, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, “Even if he was, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve already got the guy I want and I don’t intend on getting rid of him anytime soon, even if he gets a little jealous every once in a while.”

“I was not jealous.”

[schraubd]

In Defense of Government Waste

It's a pretty common refrain, particularly among the people who have recently found themselves leopard chow: "I support cutting government waste, but ...." The "but" usually is something like ".... but my job really is valuable" or ".... but this program really is important to the community" or ".... but they're going about it all wrong." And of course, my first thought when reading that is "who supports 'government waste'?" Well, here I will. Sort of. The easiest point to make is that one person's "waste" is another person's "valuable job" or "program important to the community." How much of what people imagine to be "waste" actually is quite valuable? A lot, I'd wager. We're already seeing how frequently people could use of dose of Chesterton's fence -- the fact that they don't understand why there's a government program doing X does not mean that there is no good reason why there's a government program doing X. Bring back small-c conservatism! But I'll take a bigger swing. Let's stipulate that there is some amount of actual, undeniable government waste: money being spent inefficiently, savings that could be obtained with better processes, programs that serve no valuable purpose other than make-work, etc. I'm sure that's true. So who could oppose trying to root that undisputedly wasteful activity out? Well, I might. Might is the operative word. It depends on how much waste there is. Because ferreting out wasted dollars ... costs dollars. And runs the risk of false positives, either of which can make the "anti-waste" program end up costing more money than it saves. DOGE might end up being an example even as it took a chainsaw to a huge range of government programs. And while DOGE may be distinctive in just how idiotically it is being run, the broader principle holds: there is, in any system, some amount of inefficiency that it is paradoxically more efficient to ignore, because the time, energy, and cost of trying to uproot it will dwarf any potential savings. One area we see this a lot is in the management of entitlement programs that are "means-tested" or have other barriers and hoops to jump through for recipients to prove their eligibility. The goal is to ensure that no one who is, say, not actually poor or not actually unable to work gets a share of government money they shouldn't. But the usual result of creating these hoops is actually a large drop off in enrollment by eligible families, who find the requirements too confusing or onerous to navigate, even as it creates extra layers of bureaucracy and administration that are expensive to run. We'd almost certainly be better off just swallowing the fact that some "undeserving" people will enroll -- "waste" -- in exchange for better and more streamlined service for the people we are trying to target. It's not soft-heartedness. It's both more empathic and more efficient -- a win-win. Now again, this is dependent on how much waste we're dealing with. Where waste, fraud, and abuse are rampant, then tamping down on them probably is both necessary and cost-effective (in part because where these things are rampant, there's also a lot of low-hanging fruit that can be picked without much effort). The point, though, is that "cutting waste" isn't self-evidently a good thing; it needs to be cost-justified. And my sense is that the story of widespread of government waste is just that -- a story -- and that in most cases "anti-waste" activity does more harm than good. via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/Ss5gaUu

[districtunrest]

On the Air

for @mollywog

inspired by this nonsense

The thing Hazelle misses least about her old home is the television. Sleek and alien, set into the old wooden wall like a black mirror, it would turn on by itself whenever the Capitol thought they needed to watch it. It couldn’t be switched off until the closing seal, after the anthem. Nobody ever had a problem watching the Hunger Games, not even during brownouts. 

There were heavy fines if the home television was damaged. Gale used to try to cover it with a blanket but she’d pull it right off before someone saw through a window or an open door. So, instead, he took to sitting in front of it at dinner, his elbows spread to cover as much of the carnage as possible.

Except those last two years, where he made no move to cover it. He sat facing it at dinner when he wasn’t watching it with the Everdeens, waiting for Katniss.

Hazelle finds herself thinking of that now as she sits before a radio that’s been set on the fireplace mantel. She’s in Katniss’ living room but the radio belongs to Peeta. Hazelle knows that’s becoming a fuzzier boundary by the day now; what she doesn’t know is where he found the junky old thing.

Peeta turns a dial on the radio and it crackles to life. He fiddles with it until they can hear the evening weather report. And then he turns another knob, where they catch the end of a high cackle.

“There she is.” He crawls backward until he’s sitting against Katniss’ legs, leaving her and Hazelle to the couch. 

Hazelle has never met Johanna Mason, and she’s never listened to her new radio show all the way through, either. There’s too much swearing and talk of matters she can’t have playing out loud in the house with her children home. 

But tonight she won’t have to turn it off. She can listen to the whole thing, no matter how sideways it gets. And with tonight’s guest, it just might.

Johanna’s talk show is known for many things but it’s a special occasion altogether when another victor joins her. So far, she’s interviewed Beetee and Annie. It was the first and only interview Beetee gave since the war, and they spent more time heavily discussing the new album of the winner from that singing competition than any worthwhile update on their lives. It was the same with Annie, where they talked about everything and nothing. They laughed a lot. They laughed so much there would be seconds of on-air silence as they fought to catch their breaths. 

As far as Hazelle knows, Katniss and Peeta have declined to guest star themselves, given they intend to go to their graves without another interview or television appearance. But they still like to tune in.

While Peeta comments on missing the cold open and the opening jingle, Johanna Mason is saying, “-and anyway, who's counting?” 

“Not me,” Haymitch replies, and Hazelle smiles despite missing the joke. 

He sounds the same. Of course he would.

He and Johanna spend the first few minutes catching up, which she leads into with an irreverent, “So, what’s new with you?” as if the entire world didn’t upend itself last year.

“Whole lot of nothing,” he answers. “Let’s see… I got a bird feeder but haven’t gotten around to getting birdseed yet. My porch railing’s wobbly. Gotta fix that when I get home.”

Johanna laughs. “You sound like an old man.”

“I am retired,” he points out, and Hazelle can picture him shrugging a shoulder in time with his brows in that offhand way of his. “Meanwhile, I see you couldn’t stay out of the limelight.”

“Can’t help myself,” Johanna agrees. “Much better to be on this side of it.”

“You’ve become a professional complainer,” he says, which makes Katniss and Peeta crack up.

They go back and forth like this, and Hazelle can tell they’ve done this for years. It’s surprisingly nice to just listen in; it feels like meeting one of his friends at a party, but all the banter and inside jokes are actually funny, even from the outside. She bets Johanna will get him laughing - really laughing - in no time. Maybe it’ll sound like the one he’ll give Hazelle from time to time, often enough that she’s started to miss it. 

It was his therapist’s idea that he leave for a bit. He needed time away for himself and to go wherever he wanted for a change. She’s surprised Haymitch agreed to it. 

It’s not lost on her that he’s only been gone a week, and here he is on a late-night show. At this rate, he'll ironically dive off a cliff if he's bored enough. Though, Hazelle supposes he’s in good company with Johanna in more ways than one. She’s another victor, for one, and she’s in recovery herself. It’s something Johanna doesn’t hide on her show, that talking the country’s ear off at home in her pajamas serves her more than being high in a train car, on her way to nowhere. 

It’s not long before Johanna broaches the similarity herself - in her way. “I’m so fucking bored now. Aren’t you?”

“I’m here, ain’t I?” There’s a wry, knowing smirk in his voice. Hazelle can picture the moment it fades a little from his face.

“I make my bed every morning.”

“I match and fold all my socks.”

“I’m now ambidextrous - at jerking off,” she’s sure to clarify.

“Oh, no,” Katniss grumbles, digging her palms into her eyes, while Haymitch laughs out in surprise.

“A leftie now, huh?” he asks.

“Always was for when I was lonely. And then rightie was for when I wanted someone who knows what they’re doing. Sobriety has taken that from me.”

“Shame.”

“Well,” Johanna starts leadingly after a half-second pause, “what’s your schedule now that it’s working again?”

“Oh, please no,” Katniss begs now, trying to stand, but Peeta keeps her legs in place. She leans over for a pillow that he intercepts over his shoulder.

“Don’t you break my radio!” he chides with a laugh. 

Her arm propped on the headrest, Hazelle rubs her temple and ignores how she can feel both their blushes.

Somehow all of this happens in the beat it takes before they hear Haymitch’s reply. “All right,” he says, conspiratorial, “now that the kids back home have destroyed the radio, what did you really want to ask?”

“Who’s your favorite?” Johanna asks back immediately.

“Leftie - Wait, no! Peeta!” 

Hazelle snorts as they erupt into laughter over the sound waves. She takes in Katniss with her face in her hands, her shaking shoulders betraying her, while Peeta has thrown his head back into her lap, laughing himself red. 

Johanna returns with, “Ah, Haymitch. A class act, as always. So glad you could come tonight.”

“Easy there, dollface. Happy to end all the voicemails once and for all. It was really getting pathetic.”

“Yeah, I was running out of ideas. Clearly,” she adds pointedly. “Which leads me to our final, special segment for the evening.” She clears her throat, the sound punched from the radio like the old time clocks at the mine entrances. “Haymitch.”

“Johanna,” he mimics.

“You’re forty-three this year. That’s not that old.”

“I count it in dog years.”

“Shut up. Anyway,” Johanna goes on, “you’re funny, crazy, rich - Whoops, misread my notes. You’re crazy rich. And you’ve looked worse.” Hazelle can attest to that. 

Haymitch coughs in wry disbelief. “I’ve looked better.” She can attest to that, too.

“Stop interrupting me on my own show. What I’m getting at is, you’re kind of a catch. It’s just, you know, your reputation precedes you.”

“Sure,” he says, more curt than before, like he’s lost interest. This is completely at odds with their rapt attention in Katniss’ living room. 

“Where is this going?” Peeta asks aloud in a hushed voice while Katniss looks on in dumbstruck horror. Hazelle shakes her head a little but neither of them is looking at her. She’s quickly getting the impression Haymitch doesn’t know, either.

“And as we both know, sometimes what we need is a little outside help. So,” Johanna resolves, making her flinch from six feet and two thousand miles away, “I took the liberty of putting a little something together for you.”

Nobody breathes as this is met with a few seconds of silence.

“Did you now?” It sounds innocent enough - which is to say, bored and dismissive. Hazelle can only imagine the look that came with it.

Johanna is undeterred. “I did! Allow me to share.” There’s the muffled sound of thin papers crinkling - a newspaper being opened, maybe - and then she clears her throat again. “From the personal advertisement section of the District Seven Post: Veteran in his forties with a house, outdoor pets, and too much time on his hands. Tall enough, dark enough, handsome enough. Looking for something, anything.”

Hazelle’s mouth drops open. Katniss and Peeta have their own reactions but she cranes her ear past them so she doesn’t miss what Haymitch says next.

Which is: “Sounds more like a lonely sod than a catch.”

Her eyes drop to her hands folded in her lap. They’ve been clenched so tight the past couple minutes, her knuckles are white and her fingers sore. She works to loosen them.

“The people of Seven would disagree with you there,” Johanna counters. “You got quite the response.”

Hazelle can almost hear the joints in her hands creak as they tighten again.

“I’m sure. You left it too open. Looking for something, anything?” Haymitch quotes, not hiding his derision. “That sounds desperate as all get out.”

His tone is so flat, so flippant, like this is nothing to him but a flopping segment he gets to pan in real time. It might be true. 

He and Hazelle, they’re both alone. They’ve both commiserated about how people make that weird when it doesn’t need to be. It’s okay to be alone. 

She knows he’s lonely. She’s lonely, too, in some ways. It lessens when they’re together, and she’s thought he might feel the same at times. But his therapist told him he needed to get away for a bit, and so that wasn’t something Hazelle could bring up without it meaning things he might not be in a place to receive well.

Johanna interrupts her thoughts. “First of all, you’ve never been clear about your type. So I cast a wide net. And secondly, I wanted to make it true to life without giving you away-”

“I’m not desperate,” he cuts in, his voice a little more raised and irked now.

“Yeah, you’re perfectly content with your bird-less bird feeder and your wobbly porch railing. And leftie,” she adds. “Let me go through the responses. I think you’ll be surprised to find how many people are just looking for someone to talk to.”

“Yeah, sure - talk.”

“Since when did you get so stuffy? You could use a good bit of anything, to be honest. Look, here’s a letter from a guy in the logging camp outside of-”

“Don’t share it on air!” he all but sputters, indignant. “These people didn’t know they’d be broadcast.”

“Oh, hush, it’s anonymous. I don’t mess around with that. The plan is, we’ll go through them and you pick who has the pleasure of going on a blind date with you. That’s what you’re doing tomorrow, by the way. That dinner reservation we made? I’m actually staying home.”

“Johanna-” 

Hazelle’s heart clenches at how desperate he’s starting to sound, wearing thin at the edge of his exasperation.

“I mean, I can sit at a different table if you want. I’ll wear a hat and one of those fake mustaches-”

“I didn’t sign up for that, Jo,” he presses, talking over her. “I won’t do it.”

“Oh, come on. Why not? You have nothing else to do. Just you and your birds - Oh, wait,” she corrects herself breezily, very much on purpose, “you don’t even have-”

“Enough!” he shouts, so loud his microphone shorts and whines. Hazelle is already wincing. 

It feels like the whole world goes quiet and waits with Johanna. 

Haltingly, Haymitch grits out, “I’m… sort of seeing someone already.”

There’s more than a few seconds of on-air silence. Nobody is laughing.

Finally, finally, Johanna comes back with, “Oh.” It’s not dripping with intrigue or even guilt. 

Then, there’s a shuffling of papers.

“Could’ve prefaced with that,” she goes on under her breath, probably for comedic effect. “And there’s no way I’m getting you to share more about-”

“Not a chance.”

“Right.” A small exhale, not quite a sigh. “Well, folks, you never know what you’ll get with me. Sometimes I don’t even know. Special segment cancelled.”

The show ends soon after; Johanna tries to recover the conversation, fill the time with something else, but Haymitch has lost all will to participate. Hazelle almost feels for her, as someone who’s also been on the other end of a sullen Haymitch with his shutters closed.

The living room sits silent through the ending jingle. Hazelle has never heard it until now. 

Peeta breaks the following silence. “Huh. Guess he’ll say anything to get out of a date. And he took the episode down with him. That’s the earliest she’s ever wrapped up.”

Katniss leans back and crosses her arms with a huff. “Serves her right. She had no business doing all that.”

“You can’t say you weren’t a little curious, though? To see how it went? I think it’d be nice if he got a little date out of his trip.”

“Do you hear yourself?” she asks back, her brow raised. “He’s supposed to go and find himself. Not shack up with someone in another district.” She looks disturbed at the thought. 

He starts to grin at her. “What, you think that’s how every date should end?”

“No, I’m just saying-”

They go on like this. But Hazelle barely hears them. She’s staring at the radio.

She’s certain there’s nobody like that in Haymitch’s life. They talk too much for that not to come up. They go on too many walks for her not to notice a whole other person in his life, someone he’s seeing. He’s never even said anything about wanting to date, let alone starting to.

But… Hazelle has the oddest sense Haymitch wasn’t lying just then, like the kids assume. While they could all tell he was starting to feel cornered, his escape didn’t seem painless, either. If that was a last-ditch effort to get Johanna off his case, he held onto it longer than necessary, like he was holding it close and didn’t want to give it up. 

Because maybe he thinks there’s truth in what he’d said.

Which begs the question of who the hell he thinks he’s talking about - because it’s not Hazelle. 

But if it’s not her… who else could it be?

She runs through anyone she can think of in the district that’s even on a first-name basis with him, that she’s heard him commend more than complain about. 

There’s no one else. 

Hazelle doesn’t stay long, which Katniss and Peeta pay no mind; they invited her over to listen to the show, and that’s over now. She leaves thinking about the responses Johanna garnered with her ad. Hazelle ignores how much it eats at her stomach, that she almost heard reply after reply of people interested in something, anything from him - almost heard him give his impressions, deliberate with his host, and pick the winner. All while Katniss and Peeta bickered over it, none the wiser to Hazelle burning a hole in the radio beside them. The idea of a follow-up episode on how the date went makes her face twist up. She has to shake the thought from her head.

She imagines herself reading that newspaper. The man in the ad does sound pretty lonesome - that goes without saying - but he sounds intriguing, too, with baggage of his own. Just like her. Just like so many people these days. She’d read that and reach out and wait to see if anything came of it. Maybe he'd pick her and they'd go to dinner. Someone else might have minded if the man in the ad ended up being Haymitch Abernathy - but she wouldn’t have. At the very least, it would make quite the story, and Hazelle could use some lighter stories in her life again. 

Too bad he’s seeing someone already. 

She just would’ve liked to have known that before the rest of the country.

coda

[idliketobeatree]

having a lot of messy catwin thoughts, may i?

the tale of edwin and the cat king is cautionary, but it's a hopeful one and i'll die on this hill. i would narrow it down to a simple "play with your food for too long and it'll bite you",

and also, "there's a difference between freedom of body and emancipation of soul, but both come from a place of confinement."

it works in both ways. like all spells, flexibility comes with a price to pay. the cat king discovers first-hand that too much pleasure can kill you; by letting himself enjoy edwin's presence, he grows a sense of affection he was not prepared for when giving out the task.

what's more interesting, he never even planned to win by making edwin stay in port townsend. the cat king essentialy sets himself up for failure by giving a brilliant and meticulous boy– a goddamn detective– a riddle which he can easily solve. it takes edwin what, a few days to get close to the exact number?

of course, he expected that. eventually.

what he's really willing to bet on is the time spent with edwin, hoping he'll warm up to him by sheer proximity. the amount of stolen moments depended on his luck, if the boy turned out to be extra clever, maybe he'd have two or three days. maybe a week or more. from his experience, perhaps enough to break the uptight tease's composure.

but typically it ricochets, because he's the one getting hopelessly and romantically attached by the end.

with the events unfolding, the cat king gets progressively more trapped within the bounds he set himself. some of them he can't escape and it's fine, like his kingdom, an enclosure as much as a reluctant playground.

(credits to the king, making sure they are on equal grouds for this game at least— with the caging bracelet, edwin also cannot escape.)

the point is, it's been a power exchange since the beginning, and with the exception for the very first meeting, each little rendezvous ends with edwin reaffirming his agency.

edwin's body is physically unmovable from the town's area, but his mind's eye toys with the budding attraction for the cat king almost out of his control. so you have a ghost who can hop to anywhere in the world– who's brilliant brain expands to the edges of human reasoning, ever evolving, never stilling– who has a best friend at his side, and he's still so. terribly. lonely.

and you have a trickster who's rightful place comes with the job title– who can get anything he wants and be whoever he needs– who after three or four regenerations and probably hundreds of years still hasn't learned how to let people in without bleeding out in the process.

and look: that's the point. they have to hurt each other. it purifies them. the confusion, the baring of teeth and cheeks, the knowing naked looks. they need each other like dark soil needs essential nutrients.

edwin experiences an epiphany: apparently, being cornered can lead to a greater understanding of yourself. and also, desires have a mind of their own? who'd have guessed? they're capable of manifesting through his ghost body and only by facing them upfront— by having a facsimile of a honest conversation with the cat king— edwin can make peace with what he wants, and who he is. for edwin, the trickster represents forbidden and not easily accessible freedom of a physical body, with all its needs and peculiarities.

but for the cat king, oh my. edwin represents the true freedom of soul.

i mean, look at what hell dragged in. took a little over a week for this white lily to bloom, confident and devastating in its beauty, when it should be charred black or wilting.

but you like his secret parts, don't you? are you even aware of yours? if he asks, will you let him dig in?

[nicolejones412]

Out of Sync Part 5

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: You've found yourself with the 107th fighting Hydra, where you meet a handsome Sergeant. But something just isn't right.

A/N: Not much to say about this one. Let me know what you think!

Read Part 1 here. Read Part 2 here. Read Part 3 here. Read Part 4 here.

FIC:

A few weeks passed as Shuri did tests to figure out the core of the brain washing, and you spent them mostly recovering.

Your stay at the raft had taken more of toll on you and had influenced your decision to stay in Wakanda more than you'd like to admit.

After you were starting to feel better, Shuri proposed that you take a look in Bucky's head.

"We will keep him sedated, but not fully in cryo like he's been. You may have better luck than we have at finding the root."

You nervously agreed. As much as Bucky seemed to trust you, you were still learning to trust yourself. What if you did mess him up even more somehow?

You tried to push the thoughts away. There was no way those could be helpful.

So you sat down next to the table he was laid on, and pressed your fingers into his temples.

Your heart broke as you searched his mind. You sifted through memories until you saw some that looked...wrong was the only word you could think of.

You saw a cryo chamber, not unlike the one he had just been in, but this wasn't Bucky.

You moved toward it, and placed your hand on the glass.

The dark eyes of the Winter Soldier shot open, shocking you back to your body as Bucky tried to sit up on the table, fighting his restraints and searching for a weapon as Shuri stepped back and security was called.

You looked down at him and his eyes locked with yours, full of anger and fear.

And a determination to kill.

You blinked and you were back in his head, just having entered the room with the Winter Soldier.

You exited his mind, not wanting to risk disturbing anything further. You opened your eyes and saw Bucky, still under on the table.

"What did you see?" Shuri asked. "You look pale. Are you-?"

"I found it," you said. "I found the Winter Soldier."

Now if you could just figure out how to get your abstract view of his mind to line up with Shuri's scientific view, that would be great.

-

Months passed, and it seemed that slowly Shuri was making progress. Between the two of you, you were able to locate the specific area of the brain that had been hijacked, and Shuri was working on a solution to help him heal. Some fancy science stuff and some therapy combined with a bit of luck and one day he would be clear.

One of the first days they woke him up and had him walking around, you joined the Dora Milaje who were escorting him.

You spent most of the time giving him a tour to the best of your understanding. He was mostly silent, taking in all the sights. He'd hum in agreement or give whatever responses were polite, but that was about it.

As you prepared to turn back, he spoke up.

"Thank you."

You turned to him, wondering exactly what he meant. He said it with too much gravity to mean your mediocre services as a tour guide. You couldn't help getting a glimpse of his surface thoughts. Lots of fear and self-hatred going on.

"Of course." Was all you could think to reply.

-

You settled into a routine as Bucky adapted over the following weeks. Wakanda had truly begun to feel like home.

Of course that was when you got a call from Natasha.

"We need you to come in."

And of course you'd go.

It was relatively simple. There was a terrorist organization with Chitauri weapons, they just weren't quite sure where. You were less recognizable than the rest of the Avengers, as keeping out of the public eye had been your preference. Add your telepathic abilities and you had the best chance of quickly figuring it out without being found out.

And you were more likely to be able to call for backup if needed.

There was a knock at your door as you packed a bag. You knew who it was before you answered. You'd grown used to his mind at this point, and he was thinking pretty loudly, thoughts racing.

"So you're leaving?"

"Nat says they need me. Shouldn't take took long."

What if you don't come back?

"Of course I'll come back. It'll be-"

You didn't realize until you'd already replied that he hadn't asked out loud. You turned to face him, struggling to read the expression on his face.

"I'm sorry. That's got to feel incredibly invasive. Just with all the connecting I've been doing combined with how loud you were thinking."

"It's fine." He looked down at his feet. "I mean, those powers of yours have been a great help to me, and I may not trust my mind, but I do trust yours."

You paused for a moment before turning back to pack, really not knowing how to reply to that. You wanted to ask him why he was thinking so loudly. Why he seemed so worried. But you thought better of it. You'd obviously become close, who wouldn't?

Combine that with how long he's been on his own or surrounded by people who just wanted to use him, you couldn't blame him.

You threw your bag on your shoulder. "I'll be back in a few days, maybe a week." Bucky nodded.

"Just, stay safe out there." You nodded and walked past him toward your ride.

-

You were made on day 2 of being undercover, so you had to improvise. You really hadn't planned on the number 1 Psychrono superfan being part of this organization, and you were so focused on finding the location of the weapons, that you didn't really have a heads up.

You almost turned time back, but what were you gonna do? Shoot the guy who named you? You were brand new there was no way that was gonna go well. Convince him not to out you? Not likely. Better to conserve energy.

So no more undercover, you were just going to have to convince them you were mad at the government over the whole Sokovia Accords thing and you didn't tell them who you were because you assumed they wouldn't believe you and you wanted to make sure their operation was worth really being a part of before revealing you were enhanced.

Please tell me no one told her about Blue Ridge.

Crap does she know about Wintergreen?

That would have to be enough. They seemed to buy your story enough, now you just had to convince them you were worth keeping around. At least long enough for Cap and the others to get to you since you signaled them and passed on the intel as soon as you got the location.

Just in case they decided to just shoot you now, at least they got the info. Not that you intended to die today.

You stood with your hands in the air as three of them huddled up. At least they hadn't had the good sense to restrain you. Would make it easier to run if the opportunity presented itself.

It's too risky.

What are we gonna do? Kill an Avenger?

Is she even an Avenger anymore?

Maybe she'd make a good hostage.

Or maybe she does want to help?

Steve's thoughts broke through the noise.

Brace!

You braced yourself and put your hands behind your head just before an explosion rocked the building. You curled yourself down, covering your head as others were knocked from their feet, but you immediately recovered and made for cover.

You felt a sting in the back of your calf as you dove behind a metal desk. You drew your weapon, adrenaline helping you ignore the gun shot wound in your leg for now, but running for real might not be an option.

The chaos continued, and most of the focus turned to the explosion, but there were still shots aimed in your direction.

You felt a pain in your stomach. Like you were being pulled backward by your belly button.

You drew your weapon, trying to decide between firing and just waiting it out, when something landing on the ground in front of you.

A grenade.

You panicked and tried to wind back time in the split second that it blew.

The tugging sensation got more powerful and then everything was quiet.

The gun fire stopped and when you opened your eyes it was far to bright.

As your eyes adjusted you realized you were outside, sitting on the ground in a field by a pond, and as you turned to see a building you didn't recognize, you fainted.

-

Read Part 6 here.

A/N: What happened? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I hope y'all are enjoying this one!