#it really set high expectations for the remainder of the game!!

[konfizry]

the indignation experience in tales of arise is not one of “holy shit they put indignation in tales????” as much as one of Indignation? At this point of the game? In this part of the battle? This early in the playthrough? Localized entirely within the second boss’ chamber? 

[tealin]

Antarcticans

I may not have used my sketchbook as much as I thought I would, with regard to locations, but I did fill a few pages with one of my favourite pastimes back in The World: people sketching.

My biggest anxiety about going to McMurdo was the human factor.  Whether it was school or work, a recurring motif in my life is that I do not do well in a big box full of Americans, and that is, almost literally, exactly what McMurdo is.  Sure, the continent wants to kill you, and every way of getting to and around it comes with risk of serious accident, but the only thing I was actually afraid of was finding myself in a stressful social situation and not having any recourse to escape.  I know how to build a snow cave.  I don't know how to deflect the ire of people who've taken a set against me – and, for whatever reason, I tend to rub people in the States the wrong way.  When I was shortlisted for the placement, the person handling the admin briefed me about the process and asked me if I had any further questions, and I raised this concern.  She responded that, speaking purely from her own experience, she had never felt more comfortable being herself than when she was at McMurdo.  Not knowing who 'herself' was, I took this with a grain of salt, but it was an encouraging answer nonetheless.

It turned out that the best thing about McMurdo was, in fact, those very people I had been afraid of.  Everyone I met was absolutely splendid.  In my first days there, my supervisor joked that if you shake the world, all the best people end up at the bottom; the remainder of my time there proved how right she was.  One of the main things that attracted me to the Terra Nova story, and has kept me committed to it for so long, was how wonderful the people were – far outside what I had come to expect from humanity.  Warm, genuine, accepting of and attentive to each other, a wide range of personalities and dispositions that nevertheless got on and functioned together as a society, in the face of environmental and emotional extremes ... I needed to know such people were possible, and clung to them as an ideal.  It was a wonderful surprise to discover that they would not be out of place amongst their modern counterparts.

Is it because they're scientists, as someone theorised? But they're not – most of the people at McMurdo are support staff, working in the kitchen or waste disposal or shuttle fleet; helping the science happen, yes, but that's not necessarily why they're there, personally.  Is it because a harsh environment triggers something in the human psyche to support each other, rather than compete?  Maybe, but these people seem like they'd be solid wherever they are, and were like that before going South.  

I suspect there is an element of self-selection – something about the sort of person who would want to go to Antarctica correlates with a certain mindset, one that gels extremely well with others who share it, however different they may be in other respects.  There is no denying that everyone there is a bit odd.  They tend to be types that exist on the fringes back in The World and, like me, may struggle to conform to its values.  A few years ago, I came across this adage from an Antarctic veteran: "You go the first time for the adventure.  You go the second time to relive the first time.  You go the third time because you don't belong anywhere else."  Many of them live in remote places, or travel, or do itinerant work when not on the Ice.  There is a bit of a running gag in Where'd You Go, Bernadette? that everyone doing a mundane job in Antarctica is a high achiever in something amazing, who left it all behind – and that's not exactly untrue.  Perhaps what unites Antarcticans is an awareness of what really matters, when you get right down to it: they've played the game enough to see through it, and are done with it.  "Glory? He knew it for a bubble: he had proved himself to himself. He was not worrying about glory. Power? He had power." So Cherry wrote about Wilson in 1948, but many modern Antarcticans might sympathise.  When you come out the other side of self-aggrandisement and jockeying for status, and are happy just to be yourself and let others be themselves, you get a happy, harmonious society.  Or so it would seem.

At midnight on my last day there, I had a deep conversation with someone I'd only met in passing before, but who was totally down to have a long talk with a random stranger on a footbridge in the middle of the night. I presented her my hypothesis that no one at McMurdo was popular in high school.  No, she replied; there may be a handful who were popular in high school ... but they're not popular at McMurdo.  Maybe the secret is in there somewhere.

Anyway, I didn't do nearly as much people sketching as I'd have liked, given that the base was populated entirely by Characters, but these are the pages I did manage to get. 

Two pages of random McMurdites, likely in the Galley:

These last four are from a meeting where team leaders were presenting their projects to some high muckymucks visiting from the NSF. I was only there because my project was allotted a space in the presentation, but the main focus was the massive Thwaites Glacier project, a collaboration between the US Antarctic Program and the British Antarctic Survey to study one of the most unstable regions in Antarctica.  They quite rightly took up the whole meeting time, and the privilege of being there meant I learned a lot about the project.  My longstanding habit is to draw during meetings, so I captured some of them in my sketchbook while absorbing the science into my head.

Notable characters in my sketches include: - David Vaughan, heading up the British contingent of the Thwaites team, was quite an engaging and affable guy but had a concentration scowl that puts mine in the shade. I was shocked when I heard he died of cancer earlier this year (2023) – a great loss to BAS, glaciology, and Antarctic science generally. - When Erin Pettit isn't studying glaciers with an eye to climate change, she's taking girls on wilderness adventures to foster an interest in science and art, as well as self-confidence. - Britney Schmidt, Queen of Icefin, not only earned my profound respect but has a whole episode of PBS's Terra dedicated to her work developing sub-ice autonomous robots with the aim of exploring Europa. (Seriously, so cool.)

I could go on about Antarctic people, but there's nothing so good as showing you, and luckily I can do just that. PBS sent a small team down in 2018 to do a YouTube series, and one of their episodes is all about the cool people who call McMurdo home.  It might make my point better than all my whittering, and is certainly more fun. If you'd like to see more, Werner Herzog's film Encounters at the End of the World is much of the same, but more so.  It had been recommended to me several times, but I hadn't managed to get my hands on it until a week before I left, when it turned out a Cambridge friend had a copy and lent it to me.  'I don't know how true it is,' he said, 'but I want it to be.'  When I got back, I was happy to confirm to him that it was, indeed, exactly like that.  And I miss it so much.

[adipostsstuff]

THE THING ABOUT DANGANRONPA THAT YOU SAID SOUNDS FUN AND COOL!!! a friend of mine is really into the whole series but I've never seen or played anything, if I were to jump into the web series, is there any previous knowledge I need? :O

BOYS (gn) WE GOT ANOTHER ONE!

Omg I'm so excited that I managed to get you interested in this Web series, it's really good but I didn't expect you would actually show interest!

The web series can be found on YouTube under the name Danganronpa Despair Time, there are playlists for the prologue, chapter 1 and the first part of chapter 2. The series went on hiatus part way through chapter 2 due to the creator's health (who does all of the writing and art by themself btw) but the remainder of chapter 2 is nearly finished so can be expected to come out soon (which means you got in at a perfect time lol). There's also bonus episodes, free time events and character music videos which aren't necessary for understanding the main story but can provide interesting information that I would personable leave until after watching the main series should you wish to do so. There's also quite a hit of info on their Tumblr page @danganronpadespairtime which I would check out that also has the progress bar.

In terms of Canon game knowledge, I'm not sure if there's anything you need to know. It is based off the timeline of the main games but everything that you need to know for the series is explained so I don't think you necessarily need to know what happens, someone else who's seen the series can correct me if I'm wrong (it does spoil the canon games though, particularly the first one, so bear that in mind). While it is set in the same timeline, the story is completely original, at least so far, so I think you're good, though if you're not planning to get into the canon games or if you don't care about spoilers for them you could ask your friend if there's anything you dont get. It would probably be helpful to know the structure of these games but I can just explain that right now: 16 Ultimate students (high schoolers chosen by a special school that are the best among high schoolers in the country in a particular field) are trapped in a closed location by a robotic bear (which can be replaced by other animals in fan projects) and the only way to escape is to kill another student without getting caught. Once a body is discovered the remaining students have to investigate for a while before they are made to participate in the class trial where they discuss and eventually vote for who they think did it. If the majority vote is correct only the killer is executed but if it is wrong everyone except the killer is executed and the killer gets to leave.

A bit more propaganda: I talked about my blorbo in length but really all of the characters are great. I can think of a few you would like but I won't say who so your experience can be as unbiased as possible (not sure if that's the right word haha). Not to spoil anything but the series does treat its characters in a similar way to how Milgram does, and, no, I will not elaborate. There is actually a significant crossover between Milgram fans and DRDT fans, though usually the pipeline is the other way around, so you already have other mutual to talk about it with, yay.

[legitimatesatanspawn]

How many heroes are there in Hero Academia's Japan? No, seriously. How many?

Math time~! (it's 1 am why am I doing this.)

We know of... (checks notes) 8 named schools, 3 of which are anime-only. U.A. High alone has 40 hero students per year (assuming two full classes AIZAWA) and that doesn't get into other departments having students get hero licenses too.

Let's go with the idea of just the 8 schools just to show how insane this is, even setting aside the possibility that there's more (or at least one per prefecture). 8 schools, for sake of simplicity let's say they have the same number of hero course homerooms and students and while I doubt it let's go with the idea that they all get their licenses. So 8 times 40 = 320 students in one year including UA.

320 new heroes to compete with, not counting all the pre-existing heroes or people from other countries.

Placing "keep reading" here because it got long and rambling but basically "WHERE ARE ALL THE HEROES?!". "In this essay I will.." is a threat and a promise with me, so read on if you want to.

This doesn't get into independently trained heroes getting licenses, or any school with a 'minor' heroics education, or a school that spams out larger numbers in place of a supposed quality education. Or if there is indeed a school per prefecture to make it easier on would-be heroes to train near where they live.

And this doesn't get into the… let's say 40 years worth of heroes already trained and working? Including All Might. All Might and characters like Gran Torino and Recovery Girl are likely outliers to how long a hero can stay a hero whether by burnout/overwork, injury/death, or retirement.

Guess work time:

Let's assume that most heroes only do 20 years tops due to the high stress and risk of the job, 30 if they're more 'paperwork heroes' (research/management) or the PR-main ones like Uwabami.

Let's assume that 5% of each class quits/dies in year 1 of their job because it's more dangerous then they expected or there was a slip-up. Numbers might go up for some schools and numbers might go down for others but 5% is a good even number for the schools as that's 1 hero per homeroom.

10% more might quit/die within 5 years. That's another 2 per homeroom. Normally I'd say more but I can't think of how many would bail on average. 5 years is enough time to go "wow it's not just me, this job sucks". But we can say they keep at it for the sunk cost fallacy.

We know the fandom-popular teachers are about 30 so that's 15 years on the job. So another 5 for injuries or deciding to finally hang up the hat seems about right to me. All Might is an outlier. Recovery Girl is an outlier. I don't know why Torino is still in the game but he too is an outlier even assuming he's not as old as he looks. (I mathed his age before and decided he was around 72-77 years old by canon era. Which is past retirement age for a lot of jobs.)

ANYWAY

Upward max of 12800 heroes total who graduated from the 8 schools over 40 years. Not getting into heroes coming from other countries or going to other countries.

Halve that for the 20 year typical max, add in... 17% of the other half for everyone still working past 20 years. And don't forget to take out the 15% for heroes lost during years 1-5. So total heroes currently running would be at 5568 just from the known schools. (Jesus.)

and that's before all the stuff with the plot from Izuku's entry onward.

I still wanna know how the rankings work and where everyone is on it. How they calculate it. I want to know where Nedzu falls on the JP board. But I'll never know.

And... how many heroes quit when the plot really went going? When they lost All Might as a safety net and buffer? When heroes were being blamed?

Even if it's just 1% of the remainder, that's 56 heroes. if it's 10% that's 557. Either a small but noticeable chunk or a VERY BIG chunk. All these people who said "I'm not paid enough for this" which... fair, you get to say when it's enough, but also? Literally your job you chose? Not so much fighting terrorists though but you do fight people under the assumption that their crimes (real or assumed) are a form of terrorism (I'll never get over Kamui Woods claiming a giant jaywalker blocking traffic was "pure evil" I MEAN REALLY and with like 5 heroes chomping at the bit to fight him? definitely too many heroes running around).

And now teenagers are being conscripted to make up for the numbers. Where's all the adults who while they don't have hero training could still fill the position? Is this because civilians are constantly shown as being either in need of protection or in need of being stopped?

yet we don't see any of the other numbers in any of the fights. We also don't see any other schools in any of the fights. AND we know that some of them turned out to be villains - or rather sided with the enemy faction.

This shows why I hate it sometimes when I overthink a setting! Where are the other heroes?!

[mettywiththenotes]

Hello! It might sound really odd, but I'm writing a fanfic and it's set in the UK. I saw that you're British. The characters are in secondary school (Year 11), and while I do my fair share of research, I am hopeful that perhaps you can aid me with this. if it's not too much trouble, of course, and only if you're comfortable with it. I appreciate the trouble of reading this long ask in the first place!

I know it varies for each school, but any bit of information will be helpful! In case you wish for examples of what I search: What do you do in form and do the students in it always change? Do you use phones in class? What school trips were like (and did you have school trips out of the UK?)? Would you usually use the bus or walk/use a car? And so so!

Please, it'd be a great help to my writing! It might never be truly accurate, but I wish to get as many details as I can about school life in the UK. For me, any shred of detail is important!

Thank you so so much for reading this, I appreciate it even if you don't answer. :)

Well first of all, thank you for thinking of me with this, it's very nice that you did :)

Also very new. Never expected anybody to come to me about this kind of stuff lol

And yeah, you're right, it really does vary between schools

I'm not sure if I could help much because I can't exactly remember everything that happened in high school. It's really just a blur for me. But I'll list what I can and do remember:

Also, I'm not in school anymore, so this is just from when I was there. Idk what may have changed since then

What we did in form -

The most common was doing the register, making sure everyone was there. Then the rest from there would vary. Sometimes our form teacher would talk to us about different topics, like bullying or organizing our stuff. And sometimes they'd have nothing to talk about, so we'd either talk to each other (our friends yknow) or talk to the teacher about something

Or sometimes the teacher had little activities for us to do. Either to improve organizing our work or just other activities (idk, drawing or card games. it was just supposed to pass the time)

I would probably equate it to a free period, depending on if the teacher had something to talk to us about or something for us to do. But you're definitely supposed to stay in the class throughout it

For year 11's, the very last year of high school, we would normally be told to complete any work we had in form time. So if the teacher didn't have anything to talk about, they'd say "okay, for the remainder of our time, do any work you have left to do in silence". If you had to do coursework on the computer then you had to ask if you could go get a computer, and if the answer was no (depending on time left in form), then you'd just do something else. Draw or something. Or complete any written homework you have

In my school, we were given form booklets, which were just like a simple schedule book. The first couple of pages had school rules and such, then there was a little section where we recorded our "target grades" (basically a whole "what could i have done better/what could i do next time" thing for each of your lessons and what grade you got in them for each year you were in the school). And the majority of the book was what could probably be described as a calendar schedule for each day of the week and a notes section (for anything you needed to remember to bring or do during the week)

And with the whole "teacher gave us stuff to help organize" thing, that would usually involve the form booklets too

I'm not sure what you mean by "do the students change", but I'm assuming you mean if any students can just go into any form, and the answer is no

There are forms for every year. Like, one year 7 form classroom wasn't for every student in year 7. The form rooms were split up between different rooms, at least 20 students to each room. So the form rooms would be assigned as 7A or 7B etc, so you could assign at least 20 students to one of the rooms and give them a number

For example, "which is your form?" "mine is 9C" "oh so you're in year 9?" "yep"

So each student was assigned a form room to be in, and they always had to go to that form when it was form time, and you have to do that all the way until you finish high school. Unless one of the students was bad and continuously disrupted form time in their own classroom, in which case the teacher could probably assign them to a different form so they didn't cause any more disruptions

Form time was usually had in the mornings before classes. You'd get there, the teacher would do the register, you'd do whatever in the remaining 30 minutes, and then go to your first class

Sometimes we'd have form time in the middle of the day though. Which, again, acted more like a free period than anything else. I think it was kind of rare to have in the middle of the day though. Sometimes we talked about stuff with the teacher, sometimes we didn't

(so I guess you could basically say it's like homeroom? I guess that's what Americans call it. sorry if I'm like, overexplaining stuff you already know, I'm just trying to cover it all)

Do you use phones in classes? -

As far as I remember, no, we weren't allowed phones in classes unless the teacher specifically said "you can use your phone". I can't remember why they would be used in the classroom, if ever. Maybe if the calculators weren't working, so you could use the one on your phone?

It was rare that they allowed it though. You couldn't even use your phone in the hallways, nevermind in the classrooms

You had to completely turn your phone off or mute it as soon as you got onto school grounds. No one was there as soon as you got into school to enforce this rule, they just kinda trusted us to do it (so obviously you had to be sneaky if you wanted to use it during the day)

If you ever needed to make a call without using your phone, you had to go down to the reception and talk to whoever was behind the desk and ask them if you could make a call. You'd tell them the number and they put you through to whoever you wanted to talk to

And this is kinda obvious but I'll say it anyway - if you got caught with your phone out, you had to give it to the teacher and you'd get it back by the end of the week. I think

What school trips were like -

Again, not sure about this one

They were... chaotic, I guess. As much as it can be when there are a bunch of teachers trying to look after a whole group of kids all at once for a whole day. You'd go on a coach with the rest of the other students and go to the place (wherever it was), and it was kind of a struggle to organise everyone

Sorry, but I don't remember much about what they were like

I do remember that we went to the movies though. Sometimes it would be as a reward if the class did good on exams

I'm sure we went to other places but. can't remember where else

Did you have school trips outside of the UK? -

Yes

I never went on any though

The school's funding wasn't great, so there weren't a lot of trips outside of the country. Since I was at the school, I can count maybe 1 or 2 trips that people signed up for. The only one I can remember specifically is a trip to Paris though

Transport -

Car. I was driven to school by my family

There were buses, but I heard they were hell (other kids being shitty yknow), so I never went on one

I'd walk home if family wasn't available to pick me up

-

Uhhh I'm not sure what else you want to know lol. I don't know how much you know, so...

I guess I'll just mention food real quick?

And the queen/royalty and history. Can't forget that

-

Cafeteria -

We call it Canteen

(I have no idea why)

It's usually the same experience I guess? You're supposed to pay for food, but there were kids who had free school meals. There were also those who had packed lunches with food from home

Cooking -

Food Technology

So the teachers asked you to pick a recipe for something you wanted to make, then you had to bring ingredients from home and cook it all in the classroom-kitchen at school

Might be exclusive to just my school but, the class was mostly written work. So you didn't get to cook all the time

(which I would say kinda sucked, and it did, but honestly preserving the ingredients for the class was a nightmare too. Food Tech was usually during the day, so it could be your third class of the day or last class, which meant you had to bring your ingredients in the morning, keep it somewhere safe in the school - whether it was in your form room or in the classroom-kitchen - and hope things didn't spill or get stolen. OR you had to bring the bag of ingredients everywhere with you. And then you had a problem if the thing you were cooking took more than an hour, because the class was only one hour. You were lucky if you had Food Tech for 2 hours. So like I said, a nightmare)

UK History -

Let me just say that we don't learn about the monarchy, or at least, not all of it

The most we learned about history was the Tudors, the black plague, and the Victorians I think. King Henry and his six wives

It should definitely be mentioned that I hated history class and so didn't pay a lot of attention in it, but I know that we didn't learn about the monarchy

We didn't learn about the queen, or the king, or whatever happened in the past with them. The most we learn about it is from our families (and whether they tell us the whole truth - if they know it - or the "good" version is completely up to them, unfortunately), the media (who kiss royal ass like no tomorrow) and from the internet, if we choose to question what we're told

Other british people on this site have told me the same thing, that they didn't learn about the monarchy in school either, so. take that as you will

I don't know if it depends between schools though so *shrugs*

-

Oh yeah and I'll mention the whole teams thing

-

Teams -

Yeah there's assigned teams for the students

And again I'm not sure if this is exclusive to my school or if it's every school, but we had 4 colour teams (red, blue, green and yellow)

And kids would get sorted into these different teams

I can't exactly remember what they were for??

I think, at the end of the year, one of the teams would get awarded points depending on how well students did in tests and good behaviour and stuff and the rewards could range from like. a trip to the cinema or just a trip in general to somewhere fun (like an amusement park) or a free school day (where your entire team would go into a classroom and just watch movies and do activities and stuff for the whole day) or something like that

I'm sure not every school did this, but mine did

-

That's it. I guess? Send me another ask if there's something else you wanna know specifically

But this is just from my experience

Hope this helps in some way :)

[crystalelemental]

Unit “Teambuilding” - Norman

But Christ, if you thought Glacia was bad, wait until you hear about this guy.

General Overview I am not going to mince words.  Unless Cheren's grid goes even worse than Glacia, Norman is my uncontested worst unit in the entire game now.  He is actually that bad.

Imagine your entire life has been a meme.  You're a striker who not only didn't get multipliers for damage, but is also a Normal type who can't hit opponent weaknesses, who is somehow further limited by the fact your main damage move, Double Edge, kills you instantly.  It's hard to imagine anything worse off than that.  Even Roark, who has the same instant death problem, can be memetically charged up to one-shot an opponent if so desired because Rock-type means you have advantage sometimes.  But not Norman.  Norman just gets to be sad, waiting for his grid, and watching the newer recoil characters get better and better values, until modern free BP units get a full Standfast 9.  The anticipation is killing you as you wait for the reduction of recoil that is your due. And when it arrives, what did they give you?  Standfast 5, and Standfast 3.

Let's do some quick math.  Double Edge deals 25% of damage to you as recoil. Standfast 5 cuts that by 50%, then Standfast 3 cuts that remainder by 30%. Effectively, the total is 65% reduction in recoil.  This means you take 8.75% recoil from your attacks.  Much improved, right?  Okay.   Norman has around 700HP.  If Norman deals 8k in one move, he killed himself instantly.  For context, if he deals 4k, he is half dead in that one move.  4k is not a high benchmark. Dealing 4k is like maybe half of the sides on a good day.  It's certainly not breaking records.  He does it twice, and he's dead, with no other damage applied.

Norman was trained wrong as a joke.  His own Standfast tiles are bait tiles for inexperienced players who didn't know how to calculate the math.   Norman's damage comes from sync, which is Valerie-tier bad, with only a 50% multiplier for having paralysis on a foe.  Which is something he sets up really well, thanks to Hostile Environment 2, for a 90% chance on Body Slam.  That's something! Consistent paralysis and a multiplier!  He could deal numbers with sync nuke!

You know.  If it weren't for Whitney.  Norman's sync, provided foe is paralyzed, hits for 8547.  That's with three nodes and the Hostile Environment 2.  Whitney's sync nuke, with full Inertia, hits 15,330.   Without Inertia, just with the flinch that she can now set up, it's 11,497.  With both, it's 19,162.  In fact, with only +2 speed, from one use of X Speed, Whitney hits 10,183.  She outdamages him the instant she gets one (1) X Speed use in.

Maybe one day, Norman will get an EX, and be able to hit that sweet, sweet AoE damage in CS that could do something better than Whitney.  But until such time, Norman has exactly one job.  He paralyzes.  That is all he is here for.  He is equivalent to an Eggmon.  Hell, at least the eggmon gets speed boosts or Gradual Healing or something, and is exempt from harsh criticism for not having a grid at all.

I...cannot do this.  Look, I'm sorry, I won't.  Admittedly, I don't always love doing these things for characters I'm not excited about, and having looked this over? There is nothing for him here.  He's a paralysis bot for Gauntlet, nothing more.  If you expect him to contribute literally anything else, don't.  And I can't with that. What am I supposed to teambuild exactly?  Like oh yeah, "I think he'd do really great with like...SS Morty and Hilda against Cobalion, because he can keep paralyzing it."  Yeah, he can, but so can Tech Electabuzz.  "You can use him with an Electric-type that can't paralyze reliably, like Elesa, against Tornadus!"  Yeah you can, but again, so could like...Erika.   Who's actually more reliable because Piercing Gaze means Stun Spore never misses, while he's technically still under 100% success, to say nothing of Erika's debuff to special defense and huge MGR potential.

To level with you...sure.  You can probably win a match with him.  I will undoubtedly try just to see if it's possible.  Sonia, Hop, Hilbert; the usual suspects for buffing, and Classic Elesa for paralysis with debuffs, since he will definitely need both.  There you go.  There's your attempt at offense.  And when that turns out to still be a challenge because they only gave him a 50% bonus to sync and removed his chance at DPS, you'll understand why I'm so thoroughly at a loss.

[landinoandco]

A Game of Chess

Carlos Sainz x reader

Request from @leesuhnakamoto-krys "Carlos Sainz x reader fluff"

Warnings: fluff, a slight reference if you squint.

Word count: 2.2 k

Requests are open :)

This year - due to the current pandemic - there were to be two races in Austria, however to keep with the theme of ‘no two races the same’ they were to be called different things: the Styrian grand prix for the first race and the Austrian Grand Prix for the second. This weekend saw the first of the two and your boyfriend Carlos Sainz finished a respectable 6th place behind his former teammate and current best friend Lando Norris. 

The majority of the grid had decided to stay in the surrounding area, making the most of the time they had - not only to keep on training but to explore. 

Travelling the world with Carlos was a dream come true and you were so lucky to be able to do your job on the move - you were a travel blogger/vlogger and were pretty well known for it as well. A large following of people that enjoyed watching your weekly lifestyle and travel vlogs alongside the photography that came with it. 

It was the Monday following the race so Carlos had taken it as a rest day, you had woken up that morning in his arms, tracing circles on one of them as you both spoke about your plans for the day. 

“And a haircut is what I really need.” He said to you, as you moved a strand that had fallen into his eyes. 

“No, I like it long, you look more -” You paused. “Mature.” Giggling, you moved your hands up to run your fingers through his hair. He shook his head at you, a large smile plastered onto his face. He leaned forward onto his forearms, connecting your lips together for a brief second before pulling away and rolling out of bed. Leaving you, still huddled in all of the covers, watching him as he strode across the room to the hotel chest of drawers, pulling out two t-shirts; one of which he put on and the other being chucked in your general direction. 

“So, cariño, what is your plan for today?” Carlos asked, flopping onto the bed and looking up to you.

“I think I’m going to go and explore the town, some of my followers have recommended a few places so I think I am going to check those out, take a few photos-” You trailed off as he began to draw patterns onto the palm of your hand. You smiled fondly at him, you had met just before lockdown completely by chance after you bumped into him in a train station. He had asked for your number and feeling like he had given you no reason to say no, you did and as it turns out, it was the best decision of your life. “What is your plan for the day ahead, mi Amor.” 

“I think I am meeting Lando this afternoon at a café down the road. I’m going to teach him to play chess.” He said proudly, emphasising the word ‘chess.’ 

“Chess?” You questioned, reaching over for the top and putting it on. It was one of his old team McLaren t-shirts, you scoffed at his still apparent loyalty to the team; admittedly it was your favourite but Ferrari didn’t need to know that. 

“Yes.” Carlos stated, he then pointed at the t-shirt you were wearing. “I would recommend not leaving the hotel room with that t-shirt on. I don’t want to get into trouble.” He fought to keep the smile off of his lips. Your eyes lit up, “I wouldn’t even dream of it, mi Amor.”

You had agreed with Carlos that as soon as you had finished what you had set out to do that morning, you would meet him in the café alongside Lando. “Do you fancy playing a game of chess with me, later?” You had asked before you went your separate ways. 

Carlos gave a lopsided grin and kissed your forehead. “We will see, cariño, we will see.” With that he stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked down the street. Styria was a beautiful town, a handful of buildings situated in the mass of rolling hills and mountain tops that covered the landscape for as far as the eye could see. 

You had walked up to a stone viewing point at the peak of the town, a small bench that overlooked the south past Styria and into the Austrian countryside.

You loved this time you got to yourself, it allowed for you to sit and reminisce; bathing in all of the memories that lead up to this point in your life. You thought back to the day Carlos asked you to move to Italy with him - due to him changing teams. It almost broke your relationship, the thought of leaving all of your family and friends behind in England but in the end you decided it was an adventure too thrilling to pass on...

It was a breezy summer evening in London, the clouds had blanketed the city and a faint rumble of the traffic could be heard from your apartment. Carlos had messaged you earlier that day, asking if he could talk to you when he got home - for the remainder of that afternoon nerves had settled comfortably in the pit of your stomach. At last you heard the unlocking of the door, your head whipped around to see a tired looking Carlos to fall through the door with a sigh. As soon as he looked up and saw you sat on the sofa, his eyes gleamed. “Mi amor.” He said tiredly, his brows knitted momentarily before he nodded his head. “Right, my text message.” You nodded unsure of where this conversation was heading. It was early days in your relationship so anything was possible. 

“I got an offer from Ferrari-” He started, making his way over to you, you watched him intently, nibbling on your lower lip. “It’s an offer that in this industry you don’t turn down, obviously there is a lot to consider because it would mean leaving McLaren and-” He sighed, “This country behind.” 

A line appeared between your brows, you didn’t speak for fear of interrupting his train of thought. He took your hand in his. 

“If I signed with Ferrari, I would have to move to Italy-” Your mouth made an ‘o’ shape. “Which is why I wanted to ask you if you would come with me.” 

You definitely didn’t expect him to ask this, any expression that was on your face before had been wiped as you took to staring. “I’m asking a big thing and obviously you don’t have to answer straight away.” He rushed in response to your dumbfounded expression. 

For the next few days - after that conversation - the atmosphere between the pair of you had become tense, you had decided to call your sister and explained the whole situation to her. In a nutshell she called you an idiot for not saying yes immediately.  

“I’ve been thinking-” You began to Carlos that evening . “I would love to move to Italy with you. It’s a good opportunity to really write our story, explore the world - together. It will be such a great adventure.” Carlos didn’t need to ask you twice and he enveloped you into his arms and span you around, meeting your lips with his. 

“I love you.” He said, placing his forehead on yours. That night was also the first time those three words were exchanged. “I love you too.” You replied sweetly, your lips brushing his as you did so. 

You smiled fondly at the memory. You were so lucky to have found Carlos - actually you found each other - you like to believe that it was the universe who had a hand in it. Carlos was your soulmate and you were honoured to be able to call him that. 

Deciding it was time you made your way back to him, you started on your journey back to the main town - down the steep, winding path, birds darting overhead and the chirp of crickets sounding in the hedgerows. 

You reached the café and as soon as you opened the door, you were hit with the smell of warm coffee, you went over to the counter and ordered yourself a latte - casting your gaze around the old fashioned shop, you were surprised to see that only a few people were sitting inside; an older couple, who had taken extreme interest in the pair you were here to see. You chuckled to yourself as the barista placed your drink onto the counter in front of you. 

“Drew quite the crowd earlier.” He leant over the counter, pointing to the pair, they were stuck in an intense game of chess and by the looks of it - Lando was winning. Carlos looked up, shaking his head as Lando moved another one of his pieces off of the board; as he did he noticed you standing there and waved you over. 

“Yes, I bet they did.” You chuckled, taking the drink and nodding ‘thanks’ to him. Carlos pulled a chair up for you and motioned to the chess board in anguish, “You will not believe it, mi Amor. He is beating me.” Lando was sat on the other side wearing a cocky grin and his arms crossed onto the table. 

“So what you are trying to tell me, Carli , is that you taught Lando too well and now he is beating you.” You pointed out, the corners of your eyes crinkled. Carlos only glared at you, sighing dramatically. Lando played incredibly well and did take the victory, punching his arms in the air as he called out ‘checkmate.’ 

“The student becomes the master.” He cheered, high fiving you and offered to shake Carlos’ hand but Carlos pouted and pushed it away with his index finger. “No. How on earth did you win? I’ve only just taught you.” He cried out. 

You looked at Lando as Lando looked at you, both fighting the urge to laugh. You couldn’t hold it in as you held onto the table - both doubling over. 

“I love you, Carli, I really do but - boy - are you a sore loser.” You managed to say. 

“Well, cheers, mate.” Lando said getting up, wiping the tears from the corner of his eyes. “I’m going to head off now. Dinner with Jon.” You waved as he left, fist bumping Carlos on his way past. 

“Do you fancy a game with me now?” You asked, your elbow was resting on the table so you leant on the heel of your palm. 

“On one condition.” Carlos said, setting the chess board back up, “As long as you promise not to beat me like Lando just did.” 

“Of course, mi Amor.” You said, a hint of mocking in your tone. You admired the way he scrunched up his nose as he concentrated, working out what his first move was going to be. 

“The aim of chess is to be in control of your opponent, you want to be able to trick them into doing exactly what you want them to do.” Carlos said, moving his first piece. “You have to play with dominance.” He added theatrically. 

“You want me to be dominant?” You repeated incredulously, a smirk toying with your lips. “Well, why didn’t you say so. After all this time-” 

“Mi Amor.” He gasped, lowering his voice. “Not like that -” He stammered, a pink flush rising up his neck. You only winked in reply and made your move. 

“Go on, tell me more about chess.” You urged him on, watching as he went to make his move. He paused, met your gaze and narrowed his eyes. You shrugged innocently and he carried on; his gaze softened as a reminiscent haze coated his eyes. 

“You know,” Carlos began, placing the chess piece down and resting both of his elbows onto the table. “When my dad first met my mum, he taught her how to play chess and they used to sit in the kitchen on a Sunday morning after church and play. It was then my mum who taught me, on the weekends when my dad was away racing; we used to sit in the kitchen together on a Sunday after church and play. It was always the highlight of my weekend.” You watched as he fondly spoke about his family, warmth filled your chest. 

“You teach me well then and maybe we could turn it into a tradition.” You spoke gently, reaching over the table to take his hand in yours. Awe transformed his face as he gazed at you. 

Many years later you would end up making it a tradition, as you taught your daughter how to play on a Sunday after church as she watched her daddy race. You would tell her the story every time you would go to play and every time you would think about how lucky you were to have bumped into that stranger in the train station. They say that you will find your soulmate when you least expect it and after all these years - you would have to agree. 

[bephabodybag]

Love Bites pt 3

Eddie MunsonxHendersonFemReader

Summary: You’re Dustin’s older sister and have had a secret crush on Eddie Munson since before your brother joined Hellfire Club. Dusin knows and has told you not to ruin his friendship with Eddie, but you can’t help yourself anymore. You think Eddie feels the same.

What to Expect: Definite s4 spoilers, follows plot closely w/ few changes, fluff, slow burn, eventual smut, sweet eddie, friends to lovers, possible kinks (haven’t decided), cursing, mention of drug usage (pot, drinking), def 18+

CHAPTER THREE

“Dustie! I’m almost ready!” 

You called to your brother as you frantically ran fingers through your dark hair. You’d showered and changed since getting home from school. You had put on an old Ozzy t-shirt that you’d cut the neck out of so it showed more of your shoulders than a regular t-shirt. You’d changed into a pair of tight blue jeans and chose to go with your Converse to keep the outfit more on the casual side. Pursing your lips as you double checked yourself, you grabbed your jacket and purse before running into your brother in the hallway. “Hey, thanks for being okay with this,” you said to him with a small smile. 

Dustin huffed and nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t embarrass me tonight…you’re welcome.” 

You could tell it still made him slightly uncomfortable, but you were thankful he was at least trying to be cool about this. It was because he cared about you. You loved your baby brother, too. It had always just been you, Dustin and your mom so you and he were incredibly close. Especially after the things you’d been through in recent years. The Upside Down and very real threat of death had brought you two into a deeper bond. It was the reason you and Robin had gotten so close in the last year. She’d become your absolute best friend, and closest confidant. She’d even felt comfortable enough with you to tell you about Vickie. 

“We’ll be back later, ma!” Dustin called as you two headed out of the house and down to your car. It was a school night so Hellfire was starting an hour earlier than usual. The initial part of the car ride was quiet and music wafted up from the speakers filling the comfortable silence between the two of you. Pulling up into Mike’s driveway, Dustin hopped out of the car and jogged to knock on the Wheeler’s front door. Nancy answered and gave you a quick wave before she disappeared and Mike reappeared in her place following your brother back to the car. 

“Hi, Mike!” 

“Hey, y/n. Thanks for taking us tonight,” Mike responded with a small nod. 

“No problem. I’m actually gonna  hang and watch the campaign tonight.” 

Dustin rolled his eyes as he buckled his seatbelt. “She’s only doing it because she likes Eddie,” he said over his shoulder to his best friend. Mike seemed surprised by the admission and his jaw hung open for a moment. “Really? You like Eddie?” Oh, God. Why had you agreed to do this? Pressing your chipped fingernails into your temples, you sighed before putting the car in reverse and backing down Mike’s driveway. “Yes, but I don’t think Eddie knows so can we all just agree to play it cool?” The boys nodded, Dustin more feverishly. “Thank you.” 

The remainder of the drive to Hawkins High School was mostly quiet on your end. You listened to the boys excitedly talking about the campaign they were in the middle of. It made you smile that despite everything; The monsters of the Upside Down, losing WIll and El, and starting high school, they’d found a place where they fit in. Pulling up beside Eddie’s van, you could see the light coming from the windows where they were having Hellfire. You grabbed your things and got out of the car, following the excited pair of boys into the building. Your heart was thudding against your chest and your palms felt slightly sweaty, but you were excited. 

You followed your brother inside and your blue eyes lit up at the sight. The long table with a large game board on it, an expansive set up as the members of Hellfire gathered around with their notebooks, sodas and snacks. They were all excitedly chatting as they set up and as you gazed around the room, your eyes finally caught Eddie’s. Grinning from ear to ear, he opened his arms. 

“Henderson! Our guest of honor!”

You blushed and waved as Eddie headed over to you from his spot at the head of the table. “Glad you came tonight. You’ve got the best seat in the house. C’mon,” he motioned his head as he lead you to a seat beside him. “This is great, thanks Eds,” you glanced over with a sweet smile before leaning back and relaxing against the cool plastic of the chair. You caught him staring at you and you both looked away with heat on your cheeks. How were you going to make it through this whole campaign? 

“Alright everybody. Be on your best behavior for y/n. She’s a guest. Now…where were we?” 

Eddie began to quickly recap the previous part of their campaign, using grand hand gestures and different voices. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him. They way he captivated the other players and, admittedly, even you. You weren’t playing with them, but Eddie had caused you to begin to feel invested as they went on a mission to find the dark wizard, Vecna. 

Your eyes then cast over to your brother. You smiled to yourself. Thankful he’d been okay with you coming tonight. Then you thought about what he’d let slip out on the drive over. Perhaps he was tired of playing middle man and wanted you and Eddie to finally just admit everything. You definitely weren’t ready for that. Shaking off the thought, your attention drifted back to the Dungeon Master himself. He was engaged with Mike but he did manage to glance over at you and give a playful wink. 

After another hour or so, the campaign came to a close for the evening and Eddie said they were to reconvene Friday night. Everyone began gathering their pencils and dice. Dustin and Mike were chatting with Lucas who’d surprisingly been able to attend Hellfire that night. It had to be hard to balance the basketball team and the outcasts. A hand on your shoulder grabbed your attention. You stood up and smiled at Eddie, hanging your coat over your arm. “This was really cool. Thanks for letting me sit in,” you said with a smile that made your cheeks hurt. 

“Maybe one day you can join the fun. You said you knew the game, yeah?” 

“Yeah, I do. I even have a binder with the character info.” You gave a small shrug.

“So I got a question, Henderson. Uh, wanna maybe hang out after Hellfire Friday?” He was looking down at his feet as he spoke. You were fidgeting with a loose strand of your coat. “Uh..y-yeah. That’d be cool. We’d just have to get Dustin home first, if that’s okay.” You were trying to play it cool, and it was becoming increasingly difficult. You glanced toward Dustin. “I gotta get him home now, though. Thanks again, Eddie. I had fun with you,” you said, reaching out and giving his hand a soft squeeze. 

“C’mon Dustin. We gotta get Mike home, too! You need a ride Lucas?” 

The three of them headed outside to get into your car. You lingered for but a moment, giving Eddie one last smile. He waved back as you reached for the door. 

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

[panda-noosh]

something gained {george weasley x reader}

  words: 13.8k

  summary: you’re a beater on the slytherin quidditch team, so naturally, george weasley is your worst enemy.

   genre: fluff

   notes: masterlist - ask me about commissions! - enjoy my good pals. 

----

  the crowds are loud this morning.

   much too loud for a nine am rise, in your opinion, though you appreciate their enthusiasm. the bellows echo through the changing rooms, rattling the walls, poking at your nerves like a teenager prodding a zit.

    you sit on the floor, your back against the wall. around you, your team buzzes, making battle plans to defeat gryffindor, but you can barely hear them over the paired chorus of the chants outside and your own heartbeat. sweat rushes to your palms, and you gingerly wipe them on your quidditch gear.

    “we’ve got this one in the bag,” marcus flint says for what must be the seventeenth time since you first laid eyes on him this morning. “they’re not getting away this time. if we have to get violent, we will.”

   “and start the season off with a disqualification?” you pipe up. “wonderful game plan. very well thought out.”

    “it’s you who needs to listen up the most, l/n. you’re a beater - i want to see you causing damage.”

   you roll your eyes. “i cause damage every bloody game, flint. you don’t have to tell me how to do my job.”

    flint’s lips curl into a frown, his dark eyes glaring at you. you refuse to meet them, instead picking up your beaters bat from the side and getting to your feet.

    “the match starts in two minutes,” you point out. “are we gonna keep talking shit or are we gonna get out there and beat gryffindor?”

    much to flint’s dismay, it’s your tiny little speech that seems to get the slytherins riled up. they cheer, stampeding from the changing rooms, each giving you a warm clap on the shoulder on their way past. flint stays behind, glaring daggers into your head.

   you nod at the open door. “after you, captain.”

    and so, despite the hidden rivalry you and flint have with each other, you walk out onto the quiddich pitch together. the cold air immediately sets you off, a feeling of dread settling in the pits of your stomach; it’s always been easier to play in the warm weather, when the risk of rain is minuscule and you don’t have to worry about obtrusion's. now, however, the sky is overcast and threatening. frost coats the grass beneath your feet. you have to rub your hands together to bring feeling back into them.

    the gryffindors are already there, as you expected. oliver wood stands tall in the centre of the field, his team crowded around him. they all look so confident, a feat the slytherin team have yet to master; your people walk onto the field with heads held high and shoulders drawn back, but the tension between them is always so tremendously obvious that it takes away from the confident aura they’re always trying to convey. it’s not something you’ve ever tried to fix, because there’s only so much you can do.

   you and marcus wade to the centre of the field, giving each other a brief nod before taking your places, marcus right in front of oliver, and you stood by his left shoulder. 

    madame hooch addresses the two captains, ordering them to shake hands before the game begins. as soon as she blows her whistle, you kick off and soar into the air.

   the cold is immediately a disadvantage. it whips at your cheeks and claws at your throat until your eyes are watering, definitely not a good thing when you have to keep an eye out for a two ton flying ball coming right for you.

   you do what you’ve always done, though, and fight through it, blinking the tears away at any moment you are given. as the match progresses, however, those moments get few and far between, the tension rising between the two teams.

    you stop paying attention to the score board, because you have to. already your mind is racing, focusing on a million different things at once. you have to keep an eye on all the gryffindor players, make sure you know where they are so you can knock them from their brooms - and you do. with the skills of a world cup player, you pummel the gryffindor players into the ground one by one, repeating the process when they clamber back onto their brooms.

    “doing well, l/n!” flint cries, whizzing past you at lightening speed. you give him a thumbs up, distracted for only a second, but it’s a second too long.

   you know of the weasley brothers, the beaters on the gryffindor team. they’re good. they come from a family of decent quidditch players, and their childhood training shows through. you’ve played them a handful of times, and they’ve always been equal competition.

    they take your distraction as an opportunity.

    the bludger is whizzing towards you before you can even drop your hand back to your brooms handle. you hear it, the screech as it races in your direction. you cry, slamming your hands into the front of your broom in any attempt to do a downwards dodge, but the bludger catches the rear end of your broom and sends you spiralling towards the ground. 

    your feet slam into the mud and you stumble. pain spears through your ankles and legs, making you whimper, but the anger and determination chases the feelings away, increased only when lee jordan calls out, “gryffindor scores!” over the loudspeaker. 

    you growl, low in your throat, and remount your broom. you kick off with renewed vigour, heading straight for the weasley twins. they circle the pitch, darting to and fro with a synchronisation you and the other slytherin beater could never emulate. it makes you mad. it makes you so, so mad, because this is a competition, and how are you ever meant to win a competition if your team won’t even cooperate? 

    “oi! goyle!” you yell.

    goyle spins in midair, scowling the minute he meets your eyes. “what the hell do you want? we’re in the middle of a match!”

    “i want you to do your fucking job!” and just to demonstrate your point, you slam your bat into a bludger heading right for goyle’s distracted mug.

   he whirls back around, gets ready to scream at you, but you’re already whizzing towards the centre of the pitch. the crowd is louder than ever now, but you have to ignore them, you have to keep going, you have to do some damage, just like flint told you back in the changing rooms. 

   your arms ache. your ankles throb. your fingers are numb, wrapped around the handle of your broom, but you push past all of it. you become a monster, unrestrained as you chase after the bludgers, catching them with your bat, speeding them at gryffindor flyers with a ferocity you have never before showed in a match. 

     one of the bludgers smacks george weasley right in the face. you hear his nose crunch from halfway across the pitch.

    you punch the air. “take that, asshole! woo!”

    the game continues, brutal by the end of it. your nose bleeds when oliver wood catches you with his arm; you get a free hit for the penalty, though, so you’re not even mad. george weasley’s own nose is broken, dribbling blood throughout the remainder of the match. multiple players have nose-dived into the grass.

   but at the fifty minute mark, lee jordan has to grudgingly call out, “draco malfoy has the snitch, the little pest-”

    and that’s the game over. a win for slytherin - first win of the season.

    you zip to the floor to an immediate group hug. it’s uncomfortable, with none of the slytherin players really knowing how to handle affection, but your own excitement chases away the awkwardness. you bundle draco into your chest, one hand in his hair, the other shoved in the air in a pose of victory that the gryffindors scowl at.

   you meet the eyes of george weasley. he cups his nose in one hand, holding his broom in the other, and never before have you seen such malice in someone’s expression. it sends excitement coursing through you. you give him a grin, a sarcastic little wave. he scowls, turns on his heel, and follows his retreating team back to the changing rooms, where they can wallow in their loss for the rest of eternity for all you care.

    ---

    in all your years at hogwarts, never before have you seen the gryffindors and the slytherins more hostile towards each other than they are after the match.

    you tend to stay out of house confrontations. you don’t see the point in them; you’ll play a little dirty during a quidditch match, but you won’t be caught dead sneering at any other houses on your days off. it’s pointless. it’s a quick way to get into some not needed trouble.

    but things are being taken a little too far now, and you’re struggling to keep your nose out of it.

    everywhere you go, a gryffindor has something to say. a puny little first year will yell insults at you as you walk to class. a third year will throw something at you in the dining hall. fellow fifth years will make it their life’s work to make your days a collage of living hells, just because your team managed to beat theirs during a quidditch match.

    “it’s getting quite ridiculous now,” you say into the fire, the head of your father bobbing up and down within the flames. “the match was a week ago, and the gryffindors still haven’t got over it.”

    “so quidditch is still as competitive as it was back in my day then, eh?” your father says, before breaking into a fit of coughing that you have learned to ignore over the years; he hates it when you bring up his peaked appearance, or the way his eyes sometimes roll into the back of his head without warning.

    “i suppose so,” you mumble. “i don’t know what they want me to tell them; i’m just the beater, for christs sake.”

   “hey,” your dad scolds. “everyone in a quidditch team is important.”

   “yeah, but i’m not the one who handed their arse to them on a plate, am i?”

   “you helped with the process.” your dad smiles, tilting his head a little bit; he looks at you like this sometimes, like you’re holding the world in your hands. you suppose it comes with you being his only child, his last remaining family. he is yours, as well, though neither of you ever talk about it. 

   after your mother died, it was just the two of you. at ten years old, you were too young to do much in terms of helping, but then you aged and got your acceptance letter to hogwarts, and for a long time, you were fully prepared to ignore it, pretend you never received it and get on with the faux muggle life you had been trying to settle into these last few years. however, your father has always been a smart man, and even after he started getting sick, he was always telling you to go ahead and do it - go to hogwarts like you were supposed to, like you had always dreamed. 

   and now here you are, miserable.

    “i miss you,” you say when the silence gets too much. you can hear his heart monitor over the crackling flames, and it puts you on edge. “how are things at home?”

   “oh, the usual,” he replies. “days are boring without you, love, but i’m cheering you on. you’re making me so proud.”

   you smile. “i try, dad, i try.”

    “well-”

   before your father can finish his sentence, however, the door to the slytherin common room bursts open. a group of three stampede into the centre - draco, goyle, and crabbe.

   you frown. “do you lot not see i’m a bit busy?”

    draco spins. his hair stands on end, and black soot covers his face. his eyes are startled but wide with a fury you have seen far too often on the young boys face - it still makes you snicker.

    your dad sighs. “i suppose i should let you handle this.”

   “talk to you later, dad.”

   his face disappears up the chimney, leaving you alone with the three panting boys.

   you stand, wiping your hands on your robes. “what happened to you?”

   “those bloody weasleys!” draco exclaims. “oh, i’ll get them. i’ll get them back, i swear to it!”

   you raise a brow. “the weasleys? you’re gonna have to be more specific.” 

   “well, who else?” draco gestures to his soot-stained face. “them filthy twins think they’re soooo funny with their little jokes, but wait till my father hears about this! they’ll be out of this school before they can even blink!”    

   you raise a brow. “is this about the fucking quidditch match?”

    “yes,” draco snaps. you can see the tethers breaking away, his temper rising as he trails his fingers through his hair, breathes heavily through gritted teeth. “of course it’s about the bloody quidditch match. them gryffindors wouldn’t know fair play if it hit them in the face; they just can’t accept that the better team won.”

    you bite your lower lip. it’s been days of this exact same behaviour, these childish pranks just because the gryffindors are mad that the slytherins finally had a taste of victory.

   it makes you mad.

   you curl your fingers into your palm, gazing down at the three younger boys as they pace back and forth, treading ash in their wake. you’ve never been overly fond of crabbe and goyle, but you’ve always looked out for draco - call it an older sibling kind of thing, but you’re always the one sitting next to him when he has something to rant about, always the one rolling your eyes and putting him in his place, because you’re the only person in the world he will actually listen to.

   your protective instincts flare up before you have a chance to stuff them back down again. 

    “i think i need to have a chat with the weasley twins,” you say.

   draco’s head snaps around. “what?”

    but you’re already grabbing your cloak, dragging it over your pyjamas. 

    “y/n, what are you even going to say to them?” draco demands. when you don’t respond, he groans and grabs your arm. “if they do anything-”

    “they’re not gonna murder me, draco.” you shake him off, offering a warm smile. “i might murder them, though. we’ll have to see.”

    draco doesn’t argue. he watches you go, open mouthed and exhausted. you crawl out of the slytherin common room and into the hallways, thankful that curfew has yet to appear - you can march through these corridors with as much anger radiating off of you as possible, and filch can’t say a damn thing.

   that’s exactly what you do, because your fury only builds the longer you walk. it’s one thing for you to be harassed in the corridors by angry gryffindors; you’re a fifth year, and you’ve been through this many times. it’s a completely different thing to go after draco.

   and you understand, of course, that draco malfoy is hardly someone who needs to be protected, covered in bubble wrap for fear of shattering. he’s a little shit, and you’ll admit that as soon as the next guy.

   but he’s like a little brother to you in the sense that he was the only person in the world who knows about your fathers illness, and he hasn’t told a single soul.

    you round the corner, and that’s when you see him. it’s one of the rare occasions the weasley twins aren’t joined at the hip, because as far as you can tell, fred is nowhere in sight. george stands - alone - at the top of the stairs, waving goodnight to a group of gryffindor girls. there’s a slight red tinge to his cheeks, like he’s been running through wind, and you hate how adorable it looks.

   you push aside this thought, replacing it with the anger settled in your system. you march right up to him, grab his arm, and shove him up against the wall with the strength built from years of being quidditch beater.

    he stumbles, eyes widening a fraction before he realises what’s happening. his hand doesn’t even stray to his wand when he sees you, which just makes you mad; you want him to put up a fight. you want him to do something, anything that gives you an excuse to draw back and punch him in the nose. 

    “l/n,” he sneers instead. “what a pleasant surprise!”

    “you really are a piece of shit. you know that, right?”

    he laughs. it’s so jovial, so easy.

   you hate it.

    you shove his chest, willing his attention back to you. “i’m being serious! why can’t you and the rest of your slimy gryffindors just accept the fact that you lost? just because you’ve been lucky with potter on your team, doesn’t mean you’re exempt from losing.” you lean forward. “which, just to remind you, is what happened - you fucking lost, so suck it up and deal with it.”

    george blinks. that stupid grin is still on his face when he says, “christ, y/n, i haven’t even said hello yet!”

   you groan, stepping away from him to trail your hands through your hair.

   george points, squinting one eye in your direction. “draco does that all the time. is it a slytherin thing?”

    “what’s your obsession with draco?” you spit. 

   “he’s a tit. never leaves my brother alone, so he doesn’t.”

   “and is ron not capable of fighting his own battles?”

   george scoffs. “oh, he is, but being the amazing big brother that i am, i like to take the burden off him sometimes.”

   you scowl. george grins.

    “pathetic,” you grumble. “all of you. absolutely pathetic. when the next quidditch match comes around, you’ll be forgetting all about this one.”

   “ah, but the slytherin’s won’t, will they? you lot will be basking in your only victory in three years for as long as you can.”

    you growl, lunging for him. george laughs, placing his large hands on your shoulders to keep you at arms length, and you’re honestly not even sure what it is you plan on doing - scratching his eyes out? punching him in the face? some muggle fighting tactics you don’t understand?    

    “this is adorable,” george comments, casting a glance over his shoulder to where a painting of Sir Edmund Christo hangs behind him. “isn’t this adorable, Christo?”

    you groan, step away from him, shocked at how angry he can make you in such little time. his eyes glint in amusement as he stuffs his hands back into his robes and says, “finished?”

    “go to hell, george weasley,” you spit.

   his eyes pop open. “oh, look at that! you can tell me and fred apart!” 

    “leave draco alone,” you growl. “or next time i’ll put my hexes to good use.”

    ---

   the threat was idle. you weren’t actually going to hex george, or any of the gryffindors for that matter. you love draco dearly, but risking expulsion for him was not something you were willing to do.

    nonetheless, george seems to take your threat seriously, as he leaves draco - and the rest of the slytherin quidditch team - to their own devices. at one point, you even notice him telling ron to stop glaring over at your dinner table, and ron actually listened.

    “this might be the first time in hogwarts history the slytherin and gryffindors haven’t been at each others throats constantly,” says blaise, taking a seat next to you.

    draco scowls, still glaring over at the gryffindors despite your previous scoldings. “it’s weird. i don’t like it. they’ve got something planned.”

    “okay edge lord,” you grumble through a mouthful of yorkshire pudding. “this is literally why we can’t have nice things; you ruin it with your pessimism.”

   “coming from you, that means nothing.”

   you slap the back of his head. draco swats your hand away.

    “look, we don’t have to worry about the gryffindors any more,” you continue. “it was one quidditch match - they can’t hold a grudge forever.”

    “quidditch is a serious game,” blaise says through a snicker, because he’s never understood the fascination, no matter how many hours you and draco spend explaining it to him.

       “serious, but not enough to start a bloody house war.” you tap draco’s hand. “now stop staring and eat your roasties; you’re starting to look desperate.”

   draco scowls, but prods his fork into a roastie nonetheless.

    but now your attention is caught, no matter how much you want to forget all of it. the gryffindors aren’t worth your time and attention. they’ve done nothing but make your life a living hell these past few days - most of your hogwarts experience, actually - so why give them even the tiniest bit of your attention?

    you glance over to the gryffindor table. george is already looking at you.

   it’s reflex when you scowl. your eyes meet his, and you remember the night before when he was laughing, teasing you for your anger, and with those memories comes a surge of fresh anger, all pointed directly at him. you wonder if he feels the same, if he perhaps shielded his own frustration with humour; you don’t know an awful lot about the weasley twins, but from what you have gathered, that seems to be a common theme. they play pranks, and they tease people, and deep down, they are most likely dying inside.

    dying because they lost a fucking quidditch match.

    you look away when george sends you a grin. “idiot.”

   draco looks at you. “huh?”

    “nothing.” you stand, brushing your hands down your robes. your dinner was finished a long time ago; you were only staying seated to make sure draco didn’t throw himself into further conflict - not after you smoothed things out the night before. “i’m off to the library for a bit. you-” you poke draco in the cheek. “stay out of trouble, alright?”

    draco stares after you; he knows what off the library really means, and you appreciate that he isn’t blabbering the truth to the entire table. you give him one final smile before walking off, heading straight for the slytherin common room.

   it’s empty when you clamber inside. slytherin’s don’t spend an awful lot of time in the common room - that means socialising with one another, sharing pleasantries, and none of you are particularly fond of that kind of thing. you don’t mind, hating the faux pleasantries yourself, but it also gives you free rein to use the fireplace whenever you please.

  you sit on your knees and pull your wand out. it takes a bit of memory power before you can utter the spell your dad has illegally been trying to teach you since you left for your fifth year at hogwarts, but you eventually manage it. your body shrinks - at least, that’s what it feels like - and before long, heat is clawing at your face, and you’re staring into the family living room.

   what used to be the family living room. now, it’s empty besides your dad, curled up in the arm chair, watching the muggle news. he doesn’t notice you at first, giving you the time to analyse his form without him putting on a brave face. 

    he looks sick.

   very, very sick.

    you swallow thickly. his hair is thinner today than it was yesterday, if such a thing is even possible. his baby bird bones are tangled upon the arm chair, covered by an exceptionally thin blanket that makes you hope with every fibre of your being that he has the heating installed, running at full blast. his lips are chapped, and his eyes are bruised from lack of sleep, and just seconds before he turns to see your head bobbing in the fireplace, he coughs blood into a light blue handkerchief.

    his eyes widen when he spots you. he quickly shoves the handkerchief into his back pocket, stumbles from his arm chair and drops to his knees by the fire.

   “y/n!” he exclaims. “goodness, you could have made a little bit of noise. i didn’t even notice you!”

    “hi dad,” you reply quietly. “how are you?” 

    “very well.” he grins, grabbing the thin blanket you suddenly despise. “i’ve been crocheting, finished this a few nights ago. i was thinking of sending it to you, but the owl isn’t back yet, so you’ll have to wait a little longer.”

   you force a smile on your face. it must be a family trait, all these forced smiles. “that’s great, dad. you’re getting good at those.”

    “yes, well, i’ve got a lot of time on my hands now that i’m not running after you.” he scowls, but it lasts only a second before his expression breaks into a grin. “but enough about me; how are things with you? hogwarts treating you good? are those kids still giving you a hard time?”

   “dad, we spoke yesterday. how much do you think has changed?”

   he waves a dismissive hand, dropping his chin upon a shelf made by his interlocking fingers. “each day is a chance for new experiences, my dear.”

    “i nearly got in a fight with one of the beaters from the gryffindor team.”

   your dads eyes widen. “love, what have i said about using violence as a way to solve problems?”

    “i said nearly!” you exclaim, folding your arms across your chest, and even though he can’t see your arms, you know for a fact he is imagining you in this very stance, so familiar from your childhood. “he’s a real pain in the arse, dad, you don’t even understand. he winds me up something shocking.”

   “who is this boy anyway?”

   “one of the weasleys,” you grumble. “george.”

   your dads eyes pop open. for a brief moment, there is a flicker of life back in his body, startling you. “a weasley? goodness, y/n, i remember that family well! molly and arthur were in my year at school!”

    “yeah, well, george and fred are in my year at school, and they’re a set of bastards.”

    your dad chuckles, because that’s what he does when you get like this; he laughs, and he shakes his head, and he pretends you have the potential to be a Hufflepuff, just like he was back at hogwarts. 

    “i’ve never met them personally,” he says. “but i’ve never met a bad weasley in my life; some could be a bit overbearing, but they always had good intentions, and i think that’s what matters.”

    “i don’t think george has ever had a good intention in his life.” you slump forward, propping your chin on your palm. “all he cares about is quidditch and making people’s lives a living hell.”

    your dad frowns. “oh, love, i don’t think that’s true. i think you’re just angry at him. what did he actually do?”

    “he’s been tormenting draco since the quidditch match.”

   “is draco your little successor?”

   you scowl. “draco’s a little shit, and i’ll be the first to admit that, but george and fred are just taking the piss now. the match was a week ago. they need to get over themselves.”

    he hums in response, looking thoughtfully into the fire. “well, i hope you don’t mind me saying, love, but you’re quite competitive when it comes to quidditch, too.” 

    “not that competitive. i’m not a sore loser, that’s for sure.”

    “listen, i’ve never been an avid quidditch player, so i don’t know what it feels like getting sucked into that environment, but i’ve seen you get into some pretty deep dramatics over it. maybe george is just doing the same thing.” he shrugs. “nobody likes losing.”

   you scowl; sometimes you hate your dads ability to make sense, to explain every situation like it’s the worlds fucking philosophy. huffing, you cross your arms and lean your head upon them, staring at your dad with a disproved expression.

    he meets your gaze and laughs, raising his hands in faux surrender. “i’m just saying, love. i’m happy you’re sticking up for draco - god knows that boy needs a friend - but i don’t want to be receiving any owls from your teachers informing me about your expulsion because you’ve got in some fight with a boy in your year.”

     “i can’t make any promises on that, dad.”

    he rolls his eyes, no malice in the action. “whatever. just be a little wise, alright? you’ve got exams coming up, and i don’t want you flunking over something like this.”

    the mention of exams makes your stomach churn; through all the drama taking place these past few days, you had forgotten all about the end of term exams, approaching much quicker than you’re prepared for.

    dad smiles, as if reading your expression. “you’ll do great, love. i know you will.” he glances over his shoulder, spots the clock hung on the wall before turning back to you. “you should get going. it’s getting late.”

    you raise a brow. “will you be alright on your own?”

    “i’ve been on my own for a while now, sweetheart - i’ll be fine.” he smiles, blows you a kiss before swiping his arms through the fires flames, sending you back to the common room before you can even blink.

   ----

    christmas settles amongst the hogwarts students, and exams are dangerously close.

   quidditch must be set to the back burner, a fact that leaves you slightly depressed as you wade through what feels like a hundred hours of classes you have no interest in. revision piles up around you, leaving with you very little sleep and very little patience.

   call it a slytherin thing, but the desperate need to succeed has overtaken your entire being these past few weeks. you haven’t even spared george weasley - or any of the gryffindors - a glance, too absorbed in spell books to pay attention to their continued jeers. 

    george doesn’t go near you.

   you find it weird, of course, but that tiny voice in the back of your head scolds you any time you think too deep into it. you have to remain focused on exams, and exams only, because you have not left your dying father on his own for so long just to come home with no O.W.L’s. you have to succeed for his sake, to show him these difficult few years have not been for nothing.

   you’re in the library with draco on this particular day. outside the high windows, snow drifts pleasantly from the sky, and you can imagine the quidditch pitch in that moment, beautifully blanketed with little snowflakes that you will have no access to, because you’re stuck in the stuffy library with a slytherin fourth year who wouldn’t know the meaning of concentration if it struck him in the face.

    “why are you even here?” you snap, just as draco makes another comment about a passing gryffindor fourth year.

    draco raises a brow. he’s leaned back in his seat, so casual, textbooks open in front of him, though he pays them no attention. you don’t think he’s even glanced at one since he sat down. “what do you mean?”

   “i’m trying to revise.” you tap the front of your potions book to exaggerate your point. “in case you’ve forgotten, our exams start in a week. i don’t have time to sit here and scowl at gryffindors with you.”

    “i never invited you to scowl at gryffindors with me.” he throws a pencil across the room, just missing a distracted first year. “i can do that perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.”

   you slap his arm down, giving him your customary grimace. “wind your neck in, draco. how many times do i have to tell you you’re not special just because you’re a malfoy?”

    he opens his mouth to respond, but takes one look at your deadly scowl and goes quiet. he huffs through his nose, folding his arms over his chest as he leans over his textbook and gets to reading.

    you join him, tracing your wand over the words that are failing to embed themselves in your mind. why you ever decided to take potions - with snape as a teacher, no less - will forever be beyond you, and one of the greatest mistakes you have ever made in your hogwarts life. nothing he says makes any sense, and although you’re in his house, he still derives great pleasure in seeing you suffer at the hands of-

    “malfoy! are you studying?”

   your head snaps up. draco joins you.

   walking through the doors, and the most likely suspect of the jeer, is george weasley.

   your heart barrels into your stomach, a fresh surge of anger coursing through you at the mere sight of him. he’s done so well keeping himself to himself these past few weeks, and seeing him now - right back to square one - makes you want to punch him in the face all over again.

   because he strolls towards your table with that stupid little grin on his face, the evidence of a smirk taking place upon his face, and you hate that it suits him so well. you hate that you can’t even bring yourself to deny his attractiveness, no matter how hard you try.

    you slam your textbook closed. “let’s go, draco.”

   “what does he want?” draco stands and calls over to the approaching weasley twin. “where’s your dumb little sidekick, weasley? got lost in the halls?”

    “oh, would you-”

   your protest is cut short by george’s laugh. “actually no. he’s got a revision class with professor sprout, so i thought i’d come in here and check on my favourite beater.” he looks at you, smiles. “got a minute?”

   “no.” you scoop your textbook into your arm and stand, grabbing draco’s collar. “let’s go, draco. one more wrong move from you, and mcgonagall might not be so nice.”

    draco thrashes against your grip, grabbing the table to prevent you from dragging him right past the grinning weasley and into the hallway. “what do you want with y/n?”

    george raises a brow. “why would i tell you?”

   “because i’m their friend, and last time i checked, you’ve done nothing but torment them since that bloody quidditch match.”

    you groan. “again with the quidditch match? i thought we dropped that ages ago!”

    “apparently malfoy here holds grudges.” george turns to you again, ignoring malfoy’s disgruntled protestations. “i literally just want to have a chat; no funny business.”

    “no funny business?” draco screeches. “don’t listen to him, y/n. anything he wants to say to you, he can say in front of me.”

    a burst of affection blossoms in your chest. you push it down, turning to draco. “i can handle this, mate. you just go and find pansy or whatever it is you do. i’ll catch up.”

   draco narrows his eyes, going still in your grip. “you’re sure?”

   “when have i ever not been able to handle myself?”

   he pauses. “good point.” giving george one final warning glare, he straightens his robes rather theatrically and strolls from the library like nothing happened, like he hadn’t just made a massive scene on your behalf.

    with draco gone, you and george stare at each other. he’s got these pretty brown eyes, a little wide, a faux play on innocence. you see right through him, though. you recognise the glint of mischief he does nothing to hide, dancing behind those pretty brown eyes.

    finally, he says, “got yourself a little body guard, have you?”

   “draco’s protective.” you gesture towards his discarded chair. “take a seat, i guess.”

   grinning, george sits. you follow his lead, scooching your chair back a little bit; you have no idea what he has up his sleeve, and you’re not willing to find out.

    “what do you want?” you ask.

   “i know you and i didn’t exactly hit it off when we first spoke,” he begins.

    “that’s not my fault.”

   he pauses. “i think it was, but that’s not why i’m here.”

   you scowl, folding your arms over your chest. “you were the one being a dick to draco; you started it.”

    “i started it? you were the one pushing me up against a wall! and not even in a good way!”

    “because you were-”

   “being a dick to draco, yes, i heard you the first time.” george shakes his head, trails a hand through his hair. “now you’ve got me off track and i haven’t even been sat for two minutes.”

    “i don’t want to hear any apology - i know you don’t mean it.”

   george scoffs, glancing at you without entirely looking up, which is a look you never thought you would find attractive, but here you are. “i didn’t come here to apologise. in case you didn’t catch on, i don’t think i did anything wrong.”

    “no, you never do.”

    “but, i did come here to talk to you about something. just something i heard on the grapevine.” 

   you pause.

   george smiles, but it holds none of his usual playfulness. this smile actually looks genuine, maybe even a little soft.

    “so i was walking through the corridors - all on my lonesome - the other night, when i came across the slytherin common room.”

    you blink. you don’t know what else to do, having no idea what he even means. 

   he continues. “the door was left open, which i thought was a little weird; usually them things just close over by themselves, and you’ve got all the passwords and protection spells and stuff keeping peeping toms out, isn’t that right?”

    “what are you-”

    “does anyone else know your dad is sick?”

   you honestly would have preferred it if he had just drop kicked you then and there.

    you stare at him, waiting for a punchline that very clearly does not exist. you can scarcely believe your ears, let alone come up with a decent response to such an obtrusive, confusing question. confusing only because you have no idea how he could have ever found out, no idea how he just managed to peek his head into the slytherin common room when every enchantment claims it impossible.

    george stares back at you, his smile still present. it’s still soft, like he’s trying to test the waters, but you see no kindness in it now. 

   you push your chair back, very nearly stumbling over its legs in your haste to get as far from him as possible. that grin fades, his eyes narrowing as he tries reaching for your robes, but you pull away before he can get too close.

    “you nosy little shit,” you hiss, voice trembling. “you nosy, disrespectful little bastard!”

    “hey, hey, hey!” he stands, palms up in surrender. “i’m not teasing, i’m genuinely curious! you never talk about it, so-”

    “i never talk about it because it’s nobody else’s business. especially not some filthy little gryffindor who thinks he’s owed the god damn world!”

    george’s eyes widen. “that was so uncalled for. i was giving you someone to confide in!”

    you laugh, bitter and harsh. it makes george flinch. “and you think that person should be you? after everything? go to hell, george weasley.” you turn on your heel, not even bothering to gather your textbooks, or your quill - you’ll get them later. “and keep your massive nose out of things that don’t concern you!”

    and before george can say anything, you’re speeding out of the library, trying desperately to halt the tears threatening to pour down your face.

   ----    

    “i don’t understand how he found out. how could the door just stay open?”

    you keep your voice down, terrified of the other slytherins hearing what you have to say; the changing rooms are already packed, people fighting over garments and equipment, marcus already mouthing off about the lack of preparation the team had for this game due to exams.

    draco sits beside you, knees pulled to his chest. he stares out at the open space, kneading his bottom lip between his teeth in that thoughtful way he always does. his brows are furrowed, eyes narrowed.

   “it doesn’t make any sense,” he says at last. “the entrances to the common rooms have enchantments and all that stuff on them. sounds to me like he’s lying through his teeth.”

    “but then how else did he find out?”

   draco hollows out his cheeks and shakes his head. “beats me.” he turns to you then, slaps a hand against your knee. “but we can’t focus on that just yet. we have a match today.”

    you sigh, tilting your head back against the wall; your energy has long since been sucked out of you, a week straight of exams not leaving you in the best state, though the excitement of finally being back on the pitch drives you to stand and join the rest of the team.

    slytherin versus hufflepuff today; should be an easy enough win. 

    you mount your broom and get started as soon as the whistle is blown. 

   soaring through the air, your adrenaline kicks back in. for the time being, you are able to ignore the anxiety throbbing in the back of your head, focusing only on the task you have been given. a few hufflepuff’s are wiped out in as little as ten minutes into the match; the slytherin’s in the crowd are howling their excitement, jumping up and down with fists in the air. 

   you look down, meaning to wave at blaise as he jumps up and down in the stands, but it is not blaise your eyes immediately land on. 

   you spot the shock of red hair almost immediately, sitting in the stands with his eyes trained on you. you’ve seen him at these matches so many times - and why wouldn’t he be? a player on the qryffindor team, an avid quidditch player. why shouldn’t he be watching you play right now?

    despite this, his presence distracts you. 

   “y/n!” draco shrieks, before a bludger whizzes past you. goyle, the god send, just manages to knock it away before it slams into your ribs.

   you spin, gasping. goyle sends you a dark look as draco calls out, “you okay?” you give him a shaky thumbs up, take one final look at george in the stands before whizzing across the pitch, determined not to let your attention slip again.

    but he’s there. he’s there, and there’s no way you can ignore him after yesterday. that smile of his, those big brown eyes, his confusion when you lost your mind and started yelling at him. it just felt like the right thing to do, and even now - after having a bit of time to think about it - you’re still angry. what draco said was right - george was probably lying through his teeth when he-

    “y/n!”

    goyle isn’t on the ball this time.

    you spin just in time to get a bludger straight to the chest.

   it knocks the air out of you, sends your broom spiralling to the floor. your fingers - surprisingly numb - slip from the handle, and you crash into the grass, flat on your back. 

    “mother of god,” you groan, rolling onto your side as madame hooch blows the whistle for a time out.

    draco is first by your side, slipping to his knees. “are you daft?”

   “no, i’m winded.”

    “bloody hell.” he grabs your arm, rolling you onto your back. you stare at the sky, disoriented. “can you keep playing?”

   “yes.”

   “are you just saying that?”

    “probably.” with one hand curled round your middle, you push yourself up. draco helps you to your feet, hands you your broom, and before madame hooch - or madame pomfrey for that matter, who is yelling at you from the sidelines to go over for a check up - you mount your broom and kick off again.

    your entire body screams in protest the entire time, ribs burning, chest tight. it takes everything in your power not to slip into unconsciousness. black dots sneak into the edges of your vision, but you push them away and keep playing.

   you keep playing, but not necessarily well.

    you make a hit for a bludger with your bat, only for marcus to curse you out for nearly taking a swing at his head, instead. your broom spirals in all different directions, you suddenly unable to keep it under any resemblance of control. your hands tremble against the handle, eyes slipping, slipping, slipping-

    the whistle blows again. you open your eyes. you’re on the ground again.

    “someone get them to the infirmary!” madame hooch screeches. “the match will commense with the sub - where’s crabbe? crabbe!”

    “no,” you grumble. “no, i can play. i’m fine.”

   “you’ve just passed out, you idiot.”

   george’s voice startles you back to reality. your eyes snap up, meeting his just as he puts an arm beneath you and hauls you off the floor. 

    and you could protest. you want to protest, because george weasley - of all people - should not be the one carrying you to safety, but your chest aches, and all your muscles are on fire, so you don’t even move. you just flop against him, trying desperately to keep consciousness as long as possible.

   it doesn’t work out that way, though. the black dots take over your vision before you’ve even reached the infirmary, the last thing you see being george’s furrowed brows and worried scowl.

   ----

   you wake up to darkness.

    curtains drawn, a quilt tucked beneath your chin, body comfortable against a soft mattress, you’re half tempted to just roll over and go back to sleep.

   that thought is squashed when you look to your side and spot george sat by your bedside.

   he’s fast asleep, head drooped, arms folded across his chest. he looks peaceful, though his hair is mussed, like he’s trailed his fingers through it numerous times.

   you push yourself onto your elbows and glance around; you’re in the infirmary, your body feeling good as new with whatever spell madame pomfrey put on you. clearly she thought you needed the rest, as it is now pitch black outside, and the curtains around your bed have been drawn to separate you from the other patients.

    you grab your wand from the bedside table and whisper “lumos.”

    george jerks awake.

    his chair screeches against the floor, making you wince with the volume. it sounds particularly loud when you’re in a room with people fast asleep, and apparently george thinks the same way. he squints into the darkness, before his eyes pop open at the sight of you.

    “you’re awake!”

   “what are you doing here?”

    in all honesty, you don’t mean to sound so harsh. it just kind of happens, a reflex when it comes to george weasley.

   he frowns. “i came to make sure you didn’t choke on your tongue in your sleep. i know how you slytherins can get.”

    “what happened?”

   he settles back in his chair, regarding you with a tired expression, though his raised eyebrow and wild hair make him look oddly attractive beneath the pale wand light cast upon his face. “you don’t remember?”

   “i remember. . . bits and pieces.” you wince. “we lost the match, didn’t we?”

    george smiles. “it was bound to happen. hufflepuff still had a full team by the end of it, and i think diggory was using slytherin’s weakness to his advantage.”

   “but we had crabbe as a sub!” 

    “crabbe is god awful. goyle’s on thin ice. you’re the only beater on that team keeping things going.”

    you scowl, slumping back against your pillows. it’s not like you had desperately high hopes for slytherin to win, but the fact that it was you who forced the loss upon them makes you angry - and a little bit embarrassed. 

   you flick a glance at george. “is flint mad?”

    george scoffs. “who gives a shit what flint thinks?”

   “i do. he’s the teams captain.” you close your eyes, throw your head back. “he’s gonna give me such a bollocking when he next sees me.”   

    “you were a little distracted up there.” george leans forward. “what happened?”

    and then you remember.

   that moment, just before the first bludger was barrelling towards you. you’d spotted george in the crowd, that shock of red hair, and his eyes had met yours, and you just zoned out. it was uncontrollable; once it started, you couldn’t drag your mind away from it - the fact he was there, the fact he was looking right at you, the fact you kind of wanted to talk to him.    

    “it was nothing,” you grumble, awkwardly picking at the quilt covering your legs. “i just felt a little ill, that’s all; not really the day for a match, was it?”

    george scoffs. “i’ve seen you play brilliant games of quiddich in blizzards, y/n. don’t sit there and tell me a little wind put you off your game this time around, because i know it’s a lie.”

   you scowl, but make no attempt to correct him. there isn’t really any point when he’s looking at you with that grin on his face, an eyebrow raised, a silent dare for you to go against him right now.

   you look back down at the quilt. “i could have carried on playing, you know. i was fine.” 

   “you fell unconscious when i was carrying you to the hospital wing.”

    “that doesn’t mean anything. my body gave up because the adrenaline stopped, but if i’d have just carried on playing-”

   “you probably would have broken a few more ribs.” george taps your nose. “and we can’t be having that.”

   you swat his hand away, scowling. “i still hate you, you know.”

   his smile drops, and for the first time since you woke up, he actually looks upset. he stares at you, those doe-like, mischievous brown eyes forcing you to look away, because you can’t stand them for very long without getting all giddy. it annoys the hell out of you.

    slowly, he leans back, fingers clasped in front of him. “is it because of what i said about your dad?”

   you close your eyes. “i was hoping you wouldn’t bring that up.”

   “but that’s it, isn’t it?” he pushes. “you think i was out of line for asking you about it. you think i was teasing you, or something.”

    “it’s not exactly far-fetched though, is it? you’ve dedicated your entire life to taking the piss out of people from slytherin, so why should i think i was any different?” 

    “because you are different.” george grits his teeth, like the words have caused him physical pain to admit. “i wasn’t - christ, y/n, i wasn’t making fun of the fact your dad is ill. i’m not that bloody cruel.”

    “with the way you treat draco? had me fooled.”

   george’s nostrils flare, lower lip disappearing behind his teeth. “are you and draco a freaking couple or something?”

   “no.”

   “then why do you feel the need to stick up for him every two seconds?”

   “because he’s my friend, george, that’s why!”

    george rolls his eyes, like the mere idea of draco malfoy having friends is unbelievable to him. 

   “what?” you push, leaning forward to meet his eyes. “why is it so difficult for you to wrap your head around the fact i’m friends with malfoy?”

    “because you’re so much better than him.”

    he says it like it hurts, teeth gritted, eyes refusing to meet your own. he says it like the walls are crumbling and this is his last chance to admit the truth. he says it like he hopes you don’t hear him.

    you stare, unable to comprehend his words, because they don’t really make any sense to you. “no i’m not.”

    george stiffens.

   you barrel on, suddenly passionate. “no, i’m really bloody not. i got sorted into slytherin for a reason, george, just like you and all the other weasleys got sorted into gryffindor. draco and i, we think alike. we deal with problems the same way.”

    “that’s bullshit,” george scoffs, finally looking up. “you keep malfoy in check, because you know the difference between right and wrong.”

    “i keep malfoy in check because i’m not an idiot. just because i stop him from doing daft things, doesn’t mean i don’t agree with his intentions.”

   george swallows. you watch his throat bob, the emotion slipping into his stomach, forcing that mask upon his face that you saw disappear for only the briefest of moments during this confusing conversation.

   finally, after a moment, george claps his hands to his knees and stands up, not unlike how your dad rises from his arm chair on his particularly bad days. all huffs and puffs, grunts of discomfort, bones creaking from lack of movement.

    “alright then,” he says simply. “i’ll leave you to it then, shall i? you can get back to - i don’t know - plotting doomsday or something.”

    you growl. “grow up.”

   he gives you a wave, sarcastic, over-the-top just to make you mad. you don’t humour him with a response, instead just watching him leave with your arms folded over your chest, anger seeping into every inch of your freshly-healed body.

    it’s crazy how he can do that to you so easily, how he can wriggle his way into your brain, convince you he has good intentions, only to leave you feeling angrier than when he first walked in.

   ---

   you get out of the infirmary that day, having fully healed thanks to madame pomfrey’s magic. you thank her, offering to send some flowers up to her room as soon as possible. she smiles and says, “just like your father.”

    you manage to avoid flint for most of the day. him being the year above you, it’s easy to miss him in the hallways, and you certainly have no classes together. however, you were a fool to think he wouldn’t be tracking you down any time he possibly could, because as soon as you sit down at the slytherin table that evening, he is right beside you in seconds.

    you glare at your mashed potatoes, speaking through gritted teeth. “don’t wanna hear it, marcus. really, really don’t wanna hear it.”

    “and we didn’t want to lose the match, but here we are.” he shoves your tray away; your food lands on the floor. none of the other slytherins look up. “you gonna explain to me what happened?”

    “why do i need to explain anything to you?” you shoot back, before gesturing to your upturned dinner. “get up there right now and get me a new plate, or so help me god-”

   “you’ll what? sabotage another match?” 

   your eyes widen. “sabotage? i didn’t take a bludger to the chest on purpose!”

    “explain your little performance with weasley then, huh?” flint leans forward, so close you can smell the peppermint on his breath. “has he finally got in your brain, yeah? managed to turn you against us. i don’t forget that your dad was a hufflepuff. and what was your mother?”

   you scowl. “keep my parents out of this.”

   “oh yes!” he exclaims. “a gryffindor! funny how that works, isn’t it? i can imagine you have a soft spot for the enemy, growing up with one and all that.”

    fury erupts in your chest. you stand, nostrils flaring, fingers curled into fists at your sides; so easily you could draw back and punch him, flatten him on the ground of the great hall in front of everyone. so easily you could make him pay for throwing your parents into this.

    but you don’t. you’re tired. you remember your dads voice, his silent plea for you to just take things easily this year. he isn’t well enough to handle any more trouble you may bring to his doorstep.

   and so, it’s with hesitance that you step away from the slytherin table. you lean down, lower your voice to an almost deadly whisper when you say, “i’d sleep with one eye open, you little shit.”

    you turn on your heel and start towards the door, starving but you don’t care. you have to get out of there before you lose your temper even further, before you banish the sound of your dads voice and make a mistake.

   ----

    draco finds you a few hours later, because of course he does.

    he probably heard all about your little altercation, and you have no doubt in your mind that it’s made him mad. you’re protective of him, but it works both ways, and draco has proved that on multiple occassions.

    the door to the common room bursts open, revealing a brief glimpse of the lunchtime crowd finally emerging from the great hall. you look up from your textbook, squinting at the sudden onslaught of light. draco stands in the doorway, nostrils flaring, eyes firm on you.

    your lips twitch, an attempt at a smile. “hello.”

   “what did he say to you?” draco demands. “if he said anything about your dad, y/n, i swear to-”

    “calm down,” you grumble, slumping into the arm chair. “you know how flint gets; he doesn’t know when to hold his tongue.”

   “yeah, well, he’s going to fucking learn, isn’t he?”

    you look up, because he must be joking. draco might be intimidating to some, but it all comes down to a name at the end of the day; he couldn’t hurt a fly even if he tried. he certainly couldn’t go up against marcus flint.

    but the rage in his eyes leaves little to the imagination about what he wants to do. he turns on his heel before you can even stand up, fleeing the common room in search of marcus flint.

   “draco!” you stumble up, dashing after him. “draco, stop. what the hell are you even going to do?”

   “have a little chat with him.” he picks up his pace, as if afraid you’re going to stop him. you have to start jogging, pushing past fellow confused students in your haste to grab draco before he does something stupid.

    but the world is plotting against you, it seems, as draco rounds the corner and comes face-to-face with the slytherin quidditch team captain as he makes his way to his next class.

    both boys freeze, and for a moment, you think draco’s respect for the older man might just break through. for a fleeting, hopeful moment, you think draco will come to his senses and turn away before any real damage can be done.

    and then he punches flint right in the face.

   you cry out, stumbling over your own two feet in your haste to get to draco before flint - stunned and confused - can come back around. even draco seems shocked at his own actions, staring at his fingers with wide eyes, face paling.

    “idiot!” you hiss, grabbing his arm and dragging him back, but marcus is already regaining his composure, looking at draco with nostrils flared.

   you raise a hand in marcus’s direction, trying in vain to drag draco behind you. “alright lads, lets calm down, yeah? we’ve got classes to get to!”

    “get out of the way, y/n,” marcus growls.

    “don’t talk to them like that,” draco snaps, lunging forward. you try in vain to keep the smaller boy from doing any further damage, but he’s determined, and you know how draco gets when he’s determined. he fights against your grip like a snarling dog, spitting curse words in flint’s direction, half of which you don’t even pick up on.

   you’re too busy staring at marcus, silently daring him to do anything.

   because, the thing is, marcus knows you just as he knows every person on his quidditch team. you’re the beater that keeps the team upright, the only one of the three beaters he can actually trust to win them a match. you’re the one he’s studied for years as you play the game by his side, and he knows you won’t take any shit.

    but either will he. that’s the beauty of being a slytherin. you know that as well as anyone.

   and that is why you can do nothing when marcus dives forward, malfoy having just called him some awful name, and grabs the younger boy by the front of his robes. he shoves you out of the way, your shoulder crashing into a passing first year. you hastily apologise, stumbling upright, trying to get between them as draco yells and makes a fuss, and marcus keeps so calm and collected, it’s almost scary, a scene you don’t know how to handle-

    marcus is pushed backwards.

    he falls on his back. you hear his wand snap in his back pocket, quills and parchment flying left, right and centre. draco stumbles, gasping for air, pressing a hand to his throat; his eyes snap to you, but you pay him no attention as you stare at george weasley, now standing guard over the younger malfoy boy.

    he glares down at flint, fingers curled into fists at his sides. the crowd stand shocked, some of them whispering “is that fred or george?” but you pay them no attention. your heart is racing. you’re so confused.

    marcus blinks. “what the fuck?”

   “why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” george snarls. 

    “i can handle myself, weasley!” draco barks, and that snaps you out of your reverie.

    you march forward and grab draco by the ear. he cries out, but you don’t pay attention to his pleas as you drag him through the hall, yelling out, “nothing to see here people!” over your shoulder. draco kicks and whines, but you’re furious - furious that he would put himself in such danger, furious that he couldn’t even finish the job he started, because george weasley - of all people! - stepped in to save his ass.

     you push draco into the nearest empty classroom you can find. “you idiot.”

    “he deserved it!” draco exclaims, rubbing the reddened tip of his ear. “jesus christ, y/n, let me help you! why do you let people like him get away with stuff like that?”

    “i don’t!” you bark. “i don’t let them get away with it, draco, because i handle it on my own! you don’t need to protect me!”

   draco scowls, folding his arms over his chest.

   you sigh, running a hand down your face. “you’re like a little brother to me, do you understand? if you get hurt one of these days, i’ll never forgive myself. it’s better if you just let me deal with things like this.”

    “why do you get to protect me all the time but i can’t protect you?”

   “because i can protect myself.”

    “or george weasley will do it.”

    you purse your lips, glancing over your shoulder as if george himself will be stood in the doorway; part of you kind of wishes he was. 

    “i don’t know why he did that,” you mumble. “he hates your guts.”

   draco scoffs. “yes, i’m aware of that. but i think it’s pretty obvious why he decided to step in.”

   you raise a brow, a silent question. 

    “that boy hasn’t stopped gawking at you since the first quidditch match,” draco explains. “don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. and also don’t pretend like he wasn’t the reason you got so distracted during the match against hufflepuff.”

    you blink, heat clawing to your face. of course it’s true - you never denied that to yourself - but hearing draco say it out loud, like it means something, makes your stomach curl. 

    draco chuckles, still rubbing his ear. “i must say, y/n, i’m surprised by your pick, but whatever makes you happy.”

    “george is...” you falter, the acidic adjective balancing on the tip of your tongue, just enough of a lie to leave you hesitant. “george is a. . . interesting character.”

    “all the weasleys are,” draco agrees. “but not all the weasleys have caught your eye, have they?”

   “shut up.” you fold your arms, biting your lower lip. “i don’t feel anything for george. nothing nice, anyway. he annoys me.”

    “he annoys you, does he?”

    “you know he does!”

    “i also know you’re getting very flustered right now.”

   you scowl, quickly turning away before draco can gather any more evidence of your true feelings through your appearance. “go to hell.”

    “tell me i’m wrong. tell me he wasn’t the person who distracted you during that match.”

    you open your mouth, ready to lie. you’re a slytherin. lying comes easily when it works in your favour, but you glance over your shoulder, and you spot draco’s raised brow and amused smile, and you remember that he is a slytherin himself, a slytherin who knows you better than anyone else in this damned school. he can read you like an open book, a skill he is clearly using to his advantage now.

   you grit your teeth, turning back around. “it was an accident. i just wasn’t expecting him to be there.”

    “the weasley twins never miss a game!” draco exclaims, a burst of laughter mingling with the words, like he can’t believe you’re even attempting to lie. “honestly, y/n, who do you think you’re trying to fool? the entire school saw how george reacted to you falling-”

   “how he reacted?”

    draco’s smile fades. “oh, of course.” he shakes his head. “of course, you wouldn't have seen him, probably wouldn’t have heard him, either.”

    you raise a brow, heat crawling up your face again. “what are you on about?”

    “y/n, when you fell off your broom that day, george bolted. he nearly gave colin creevey a bloody concussion, shoving his way through the stands. professor mcgonagall tried to stop him from getting on the pitch, but he wasn’t having any of it. even mcgonagall backed down when she saw his face.”

   oh.

   oh, oh, oh, that wasn’t what you were expecting to hear. not at all.

   the blood thrums through your veins, louder than it has ever been. you can’t respond, can’t even think straight, trying to remember that day and what happened during the moments before you fell head first onto the pitch.#

   but you remember nothing. you opened your eyes, and you were on the floor, and george was stood over you, calm as anything. not once did you think he may have actually went against the rules to get to you.

    “that doesn’t make any sense,” you mumble.

   draco raises a brow. “why doesn’t it?”

    “because george and i hate each other.” 

    and draco laughs. he laughs, head thrown back, loud and obnoxious. you stare at him, but you’re not even angry. you’re still in shock, overcome with a sudden need to find george and ask him about whatever draco has just tried telling you.

    because it can’t be true. george and you don’t get along. he’s the guy who hates draco, the guy who knows about your dad, the guy who does your head in more than anyone else in the world.

    he’s also the guy who carried you to the hospital wing when you were on the brink of unconsciousness.

   he’s also the guy who knows about your dad, yet hasn’t told a single soul.

    he’s also the guy who just saved draco’s ass, and maybe you’re thinking too much into it, but did he only do that because you made it so clear that draco is your friend?

    you swallow thickly, trailing your hands through your hair. “oh, draco.”

   “oh, indeed,” draco replies, still grinning. “here i was thinking you were smart.”

    “i have to talk to him.”

    “yes, well, go ahead.” draco places a hand on his forehead. “i’ll stay in here until flint calms down; i’ll be fine on my own.”

     usually, you would ask him if he’s sure. you might not even leave, instead choosing to sit with draco, sharing sweets, insulting each other’s life choices.

    but right now, you don’t stick around long enough for him to change his mind. you whirl on your heel, pure adrenaline thumping through your veins as you throw open the door and dart out into the hallway.

     george is in class. he has to be in class, because that’s where you’re supposed to be right now.

    you dash down the hallway, no longer caring about the teachers walking back and forth, all of whom are probably wondering what on earth you’re doing out of class right now. you pay them no attention, instead making a direct line for potions, where you know george is currently seated, probably bored out of his mind.

    you halt at the window of the potions classroom and peek over the top of the sill. there he is, seated at the back, chin resting on his palm as he stares at nothing in particular. at the front, snape paces back and forth, slapping a wooden ruler against the blackboard, a noise you are all too familiar with. 

    you grit your teeth, wave your hands back and forth, anything to get his attention. finally, however, it’s fred who sees you, and his eyes - identical to his brothers - immediately widen, a grin appearing on his face.

    you point to george, and fred gets the memo. he nods, gives you a thumbs up before tapping george on the shoulder and pointing in your direction. you make a come here gesture, to which george raises a brow, motioning to snape at the front of the classroom. impatiently, you tap your wrist, signalling to him that this is the one chance you’re going to get to talk to him, and you need to do it now.

    george rolls his eyes before throwing his hand in the air. 

    snape pauses his lecture. “yes, weasley?”

   “can i use the bathroom, sir?”

    “you can wait.”

    “no, sir, you don’t understand. i had one of hagrid’s fish suppers earlier, and-”

   snape slaps his ruler against the desk. “i don’t want to hear it! off you go, but be quick about it. any catching up you have to do can be done in my classroom during lunch.”

    “you’re the best, professor!” george stands and all-but runs to the door.

   as soon as he’s thrown it open, you grab the front of his robes and drag him down the hall, to a place where neither of you will be heard by the potions master.

    george stumbles after you, laughing louder than you’re comfortable with when the two of you are skipping class. you shove him into yet another empty classroom, closing the door and casting a quick spell to lock it.

    you spin, and as soon as you lay eyes on him, the speech you had planned dies in your throat.

    you just stare at him, because that honestly feels like all you can do. you’re struck by how gorgeous he is, those brown eyes you have never ignored, the messy mop of ginger hair, the chiselled cheeks and lanky body. all of it combined makes george weasley him, and it’s enchanted you quicker and more unexpectedly than you’ll ever be willing to admit.

    george raises a brow, folding his arms over his chest. “is this important, or am i risking a detention with snape for no reason?”     

   you blink, suddenly aware that you did not plan this out as well as you probably should have. what do you even want to say to him? what point do you want to get across?

   george tilts his head at your silence, leaning forward teasingly. he’s still got that smirk on his face, the one you refuse to acknowledge, because he’s only doing it to annoy you, and he looks so good whilst doing it. 

   you scowl in response. “you know flint is going to kill you next time he sees you, right?”

    surprised, george recoils. “that’s what you wanted to say to me?”

    “i’m giving you a warning. i know marcus flint really well, and he’s not going to let this slide. you should probably start thinking about leaving hogwarts next year, just to give you a better chance-”

    “y/n, for christ’s sake.”

    you deflate. your shoulders slump, the energy seeping from your body in one clean swoop. you groan, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes, as if doing so will push the stress and confusion from your brain.

    “i don’t know how to do this,” you grumble. 

    “don’t know how to do what?”

   “say thank you.” you drop your hands; george has stepped a little closer. you inhale sharply, ready to recoil, but those brown eyes of his keep you trapped.  

   he raises a brow. “you want to say thank you?”

    “i know you don’t like draco,” you mumble. “you didn’t have to stand up for him back there, but you did anyway. god only knows what would have happened to him if you hadn’t stepped in.”

    “he needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.” george shrugs. “but he’s still the year below us. flint should have handled things better.” 

     you nod, pursing your lips. it’s the gyryffindor mindset, a mindset you will never properly understand, but a mindset you grew up witnessing, because your mother always had the same one. whilst you were usually all for getting revenge, your mother always calmed you down by telling you that, sometimes, it was better to take the high road. sometimes, you needed to protect people weaker than yourself.

    “plus,” george is quick to add. “he pushed you. that was a step too far for me.”

    startled, you look up. “that was a step too far? you don’t even like me, george!”

    george’s smile slips. his brows furrow, pinching in the centre in a most adorable way. outside, students bustle back and forth, class ending; you’ll have to deal with snape, and so will george, but right now, neither of you really care. george just stares at you, and then he starts shaking his head, and then he’s laughing.

    you recoil. “what’s so funny?”

   “you really are daft,” he says. “absolutely daft in the brain.”

    “what are you talking about?”

    but he only continues to laugh, throwing his head back. he turns on his heel, hand inches from the door handle, ready to leave this conversation at that, but your eagerness to know more drives you to stop him. you grab his robes and pull him back, stumbling just enough to push him against the wall, your chest inches from his own.

    his laugh dies, breath catching in his throat as he stares down his nose at you. “not this again.”

    “what are you talking about, george?”

    he smiles. slowly, he lifts his hand and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your heated cheeks. you’re startled by the touch, half ready to pull away from him, but you stay frozen, trapped in his gaze.

    “i don’t hate you, you know,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “in fact, i think i’ve actually grown quite fond of you these past few weeks.”

   it doesn’t make sense. none of it makes sense. in your head, you replay the relationship formed between you and george, the constant bickering, the harsh words, the dire need to be as far from each other as possible - a need that was never met, because somehow, you always found yourself drawn to him, even when you convinced yourself he was the last person you wanted to see.

    you swallow thickly, trailing your hands down his robes, flattening the creases you made in the material. he watches your fingers as they graze over the collared shirt he is wearing, lingering just by his stomach before you flinch away and step back, chewing your bottom lip.

    george grins again. he’s always grinning. you don’t want him to ever stop grinning. “you alright there?”

    you nod. “fine. why wouldn’t i be fine?”

    “i don’t know, but you look a little shell shocked.”

   you scowl.

    his grin widens. “there’s that look i’m so familiar with!”

   you roll your eyes. “go to hell, george weasley.”

    ----

     last quidditch match of the season.

   slytherin versus gryffindor.

   marcus is all but foaming at the mouth.

   you and george are making faces at each other from opposite ends of the pitch.

   draco nudges your arm as madame hooch goes through the rules. you glance at him, raising a brow in silent question.

    “stay focused, please,” he whispers, nodding at george who is busy giving goyle the middle finger. “i get you two are friends now, but this match is important to us. get your head in the game.”

    you scoff. “when have i ever not had my head in the game?” 

    draco raises a brow.

    you scowl. “that was one time, alright? i’ve got it this time. them gryffindors aren’t gonna know what’s hit them.”

    and so, the game begins. 

    it’s a dirty game. blood makes an appearance a few times. one of your hands get crushed by a bludger that goyle failed to block, so your knuckles are bloody throughout the entire match.

   and then there’s george.

    he circles you, singing ‘happy birthday’ at the top of his lungs. he smacks a bludger in your direction, but you dodge it and smash it back at him; it hits off the end of his broom, sending him swirling through the air. 

     he rises again, however, and joins your side. the two of you speed the length of the pitch, shoving and grabbing at each other’s brooms, laughing the entire time.

     “just give it up, l/n!” he jeers. “look at the state of your hand! there’s no way you can win this game now!”

    “piss off, weasley!” you yell back, before slamming your bat into an oncoming bludger, sending it straight for harry potter. 

    “oh, you cheeky git!” george exclaims, whizzing after the bludger to direct it elsewhere. you laugh, whizzing as high into the air as you can possibly go before madame hooch blows her whistle and scolds you. 

    the gryffindors start to struggle. you see it in the score board, how fast slytherin are catching up to them. harry is whizzing around like a madman, searching left, right and centre for the snitch that draco is also on the prowl for. you, however, keep your eyes on the bludger, every now and then diverting your attention to the ginger boy who keeps blocking your path.

    “you think this is a kids game, y/n?” he calls, snatching at the bristles on the back of your broom, yanking you back in a way that would usually deliver a penalty, but everyone’s eyes are on draco and harry, so nobody spots the discrepancy. 

    “oh, definitely not!” you yell back. “watch out, georgie; looks like goyle’s put himself into high gear!”

    you do a loop in the air, giving george no time to even process your words before the bludger goyle whacked in his direction crashes into his back, knocking him straight off the front of his broom.

   you would be lying to claim there was not a moment of worry, a moment of genuine contemplation to follow him to the ground, make sure he’s alright. however, that moment is short lived when george gives you the finger, clambers right back on his broom and continues the game with more brutality than you’ve ever seen him possess.

   you’re panting by the end of it, sweat dripping from your brow, seeping into the thin cloth of your quidditch robes. you’ve screamed yourself hoarse, throat aching and raw, but you manage to still scream victory when the final whistle goes off and lee jordan is forced to announce slytherin’s success over the loud speakers.

     you crash to the ground, immediately joining the group hug, draco in the centre.

    “that’s my boy!” you yell, ruffling his hair. “you absolute fucking legend, draco malfoy!”

    draco scowls, shoving your hand away. “don’t know why any of you are surprised.”

    you flick his chin before pulling him back in for a hug. 

    once the team celebrations are over, however, you turn your attention to george. you’ve been doing that a lot more often these days - looking for him in a crowd, wanting to share your joy with him, even when your joy swipes his own from right under his nose.

    you spot him in an instant, because - as always - he’s already looking at you. he’s scowling this time, but that doesn’t stop you from dropping your broom and skipping over to him.

    “we won! we won! we won!” you jeer, grabbing the badge on your robe and shoving it in his face. “see that, weasley? that’s the crest of a winner! that’s the crest of the best house in this fucking school!”

    george folds his arms over his chest, staring as you jump up and down in excitement. 

    he lets you continue until you tire yourself out. you laugh tiredly, pleased to see the tiniest twitch of george’s lips as he glares down at you. 

    finally he says, “finished?”

    “oh, don’t be a sore loser!” you throw your arms over his shoulders, because you’re tired and you don’t really care about anything right now. “tell you what; i’ll celebrate with you later on.”

    george recoils, arms still folded over his chest, making your embrace slightly uncomfortable, though you refuse to let go. “why would i want to celebrate with you?”

   “listen mate, take it or leave it; i have an entire team i could be celebrating with right now.”

     george stiffens. you lift your head, leaning your chin against his chest. he glares down at you, and before you can grasp what his intentions are, he leans down and pecks you on the lips.

    just like that. no explanation, no warning. the kiss lasts no longer than two seconds before he pulls away, breaks out of your embrace and says, “go celebrate with your slytherin friends.”

    he turns, starting up the field. for a second, you just stare after him, shellshocked, but then the scene replays in your head, and you’re suddenly overcome with the need to repay him.

    you dash after him, despite the ache in your legs and the exhaustion in your bones. you grab the back of his quidditch robes, spin him around, and it’s like he expects it - he drops his broom, stretches his arms out and catches you the moment you leap into his embrace and slam your lips to his.

   and it’s so strange, but so perfect, so relieving all at the same time. he holds you tighter, one hand coming up to cup the back of your neck whilst you busy yourself with trailing your hands through his thick, messy, windswept hair. 

   behind you, you listen to draco groan out the words, “now?” but it does nothing to deter you from the moment. 

   you pull away first. “i’ve changed my mind.”

    panting, george says, “about what?”

    “you should come celebrate with me,” you reply. “i don’t want to celebrate with my slytherin friends any more.”

     george laughs. in the background, you hear draco telling the other slytherins to just head up to the common room - you won’t be there for another few hours. 

[well-its-not-human-anymore]

Amazing, ok so, how would the guys react to a super cuddly friend, but like they're really scared of crossing boundaries so they never really touched or anything, but as soon as they get the green light from the boys they're like. Always somehow touching them, like arm around the waist, legs on their lap during movie night, hugs from behind whenever they can etc

I was so hyped to write this because I'm definitely a touchy feely type of person but I've also just recently been like "boundaries you fucking walnut" so this is right up my alley.

TMNT Headcanons

The boys reacting to a super cuddly reader:

Michaelangelo

Alright let's be honest here

Mikey is the most intimate dude ever

He has no problems with physical contact as long as you're chill with it

Which you are, you'll take a hug wherever you can get one

The two of you have had your own handshake since the second week of you knowing him

His family however, is unaware of this

Obviously they know April is cool with touching them, she doesn't care

But they had no idea how you were about it

That was until you stayed for dinner

You'd basically fought Leo to let you help clean up

They knew you and Mikey were close

When you couldn't reach the shelf that the plate you were holding was supposed to go on they did not expect you to handle it the way you did

"Oi Mikey can I get a lift over here?"

The orange turtle didn't even look at you, backing up just enough and putting his hand out for you

You placed your foot firmly in his hand and climbed fluidly onto his shoulders, settling on the ridge of his shell and sliding the dish into it's proper place

"can you get this one too angelcakes?"

Mikey passed a cup into your hands and you proceeded to set it on the neighboring shelf, still perfectly balanced on your living perch

His brothers didn't know what they were expecting from the two of you but it definitely wasn't that

Leonardo

Watching Leo train was enough to make you tired

You weren't even doing anything, just watching

But once he'd finished his training and sat down to meditate you got up and padded over to him

"hey, do you mind if I sit behind you and use your back as a pillow while you do that? I'm tired as shit but I don't wanna crash on the couch right now, Raph almost crushed my head last time."

This smug fucker had the audacity to laugh at you

"be my guest. Just don't move too much"

Que the excited brain, you dropped to the ground and backed up to him as he settled

Your head made a resolute thunk against his shell and within minutes you were passed out

Leo was thankful that you didn't snore

This became your routine, so much so that he found it hard to meditate when you weren't there

He missed the familiar weight on his back

He'd approached you on the couch one evening, you were mid-argument with Mikey over some sort of movie theory and didn't even notice him standing there

"y/n?"

Your head snapped around to look at him

"yeahhhh? Did I do something?"

"no, I was going to meditate. Are you coming?"

You bounced to your feet, knocking Mikey in the shoulder before wandering towards the other room

"you win for now Mikey, I gotta go be Leo's human paperweight"

"you're not my- you know what close enough."

Raphael

No no no listen listen

This man is touch starved

AND I MEAN TOUCH STARVED

If you so much as roll for affection and get a +3 he dissolves

But he's also pretty sure you'd hate touching him or any of his brothers so asking for a hug is out of the question

If you want to touch him you'll initiate, right?

In-fucking-correct

Then at some point mid session you managed to land a solid ass punch right to his mouth

He crumbled on impact, grasping his own face in shock

Coincidentally you were also grasping his face in an attempt to see his split lip

"holy shit dude are you okay? I didn't chip any teeth did i? Wow okay that's bleeding pretty badly- one sec, don't move!"

Your hands left his cheeks and you scrambled to your feet, sprinting out of the room in search of a first aid kit

Raph looked up when you returned seconds later, the small tin box in hand, and kneeled at his side

"okay you might want to ice that but I'd definitely get a second opinion from donnie"

He was still staring when you handed him a gauze pad for his lip

"I'm really sorry Raph, I didn't mean to rock your shit like that"

The brain™ is recalibrating

Systems coming back online

He used one arm to pull you into a hug

"nah I'm good, it's just a split lip, barely even hurts- AH SHIT!"

you busted out laughing, tumbling out of his hug and covering your own mouth to contain your giggles

"I'll go get that ice for ya then?"

"yeah yeah shut up"

Donatello

Donnie didn't like to showcase that fact that he hated losing

He literally couldn't with the family he had, everything was a damn competition

And this happened to be a literal one

You, raph, Mikey, and he had been playing COD for hours now

You lost feeling in your thumbs about ten minutes ago

You and Donnie had lost every match since you'd split into teams and you were both getting sick of it

Donnie because he was a fucking genius, why couldn't he win this game?

You because you needed to pee like fifteen minutes ago and you weren't allowed to get up until the final match was over

"get your head in the game Donnie"

"oh wow thanks for the advice y/n, let me pull it out of my ass for you"

You wacked his shoulder with a scowl, settling your elbows on your knees and leaning into the controller

Mikey and Raph looked way too smug right now, like they knew that they were going to win

Neither of you would live with that

When it came down to the last 7 seconds you managed to snipe Mikey, making raph, who'd been shot out a minute prior, yell in outrage

Having been declared the victor you both triumphantly threw your controllers down on the couch

He went for a high five

You went for a hug

You both paused

He shrugged at you, earning an excited grin and you let him tackle you with a hug

Your airways were very constricted but at this point you didn't care one bit

"hey don?"

"yeah?"

"you can put your head back in your ass now."

Just as a general rule of thumb, whichever turtle I put last is usually the one I have the hardest time coming up with things for. So if you notice that the last ones always seem to be lacking that's why. Brain be sucking on the remainders of my creative juice.

Hope you liked this tho! I enjoyed doing it! Stay hydrated 😉

-Mars 🌠

[thewildwaffle]

Humans are Weird - Birthdays

Another prompt from a lovely user on ao3

When humans throw a party, they don’t mess around. Or well, they do, that’s like half the point of their parties most of the time. What they don’t mess around with is the planning, preparation, and all-out general excitement and energy that goes into their parties. Scarsels, they'd only gotten halfway through the setup and decorating for Human Dana’s party and it seemed like it would be almost as much fun as the party itself! The special occasion this time was to commemorate the anniversary of Human Dana’s birth. When Peterrias was first told about the party plans, he'd been a bit blown away by just how much of everything there was. His people celebrated the anniversary of their hatching day, sure, but it was usually more of a happy acknowledgment of the day itself and of the life lived to that point rather than a formal festivity. Excited to be a part of such an important Earth culture custom, he had volunteered to help get things set up. There was a lot more that went into a human birthday party than he realized. At first, he'd gone with Human Jackson to help make the refreshments and treats that would be available to guests. He'd spent a little bit of time cutting up fresh vegetables that were edible for everyone on the crew to eat and arrange them on a colorful platter. That didn’t take long to do, but by the time he had it done, all the food preparation tasks that involved working with “safe” ingredients had already been taken. Not wanting to be in the way of preparations there, Peterias had wandered back to the main rec hall where the party decorations were at that point well underway. The humans had requisitioned party supplies the last time they’d stopped in a port with a half-decent market. Earth wares, as popular as they’ve become, were pretty easy to find, even very specific items like balloons, streamers, and a large pack of funny-looking conical hats.

Garubi sefra and human Jieun were setting up the streamers now. They twisted the thin strips of colorful paper into beautiful, swirling, drapes that swept from one side of the room to the other. He paused to take in the sight for a moment. There was something familiar about it all, but he couldn’t figure out why. Anyway, it was a lovely scene. Humans really did go all out. Or maybe this was just a good outlet for them to vent any pent-up creativity and partying they’d been holding in for the past few partecs aboard the ship. He suspected a combination of both. “Is there anything I can do to help here,” he approached the decorators. Human Jieun was having to climb up and down a step ladder to reach high enough to place the streamers. Peterias was one of the few crewmates aboard that stood taller than humans. That with his long arms and great reach, this seemed like the perfect job for him. With a little explanation, a few hijinks that went on while figuring out how to not get the tape to stick to him, he had the entire hall “decked out” as Jieun declared. There was still about half a roll of the decorative paper leftover. He watched it as he bounced it in his hand, smiling as it dawned on him why it looked so familiar to him. It looked just like a popular candy he enjoyed when he was a young hatchling. Wouldn’t it just be like humans to use pretty sweets as decorations? He had to admit, it was kind of a fun idea to multitask like that. Making sure no one was watching, he snuck a tentative nibble at the paper. It was absolutely disgusting. Definitely not a sweet ribbon! Oh, by the stars, it was so bitter! “Did you just try eating the crepe paper?” Jieun clapped a hand on Peterias’ shoulder as he came up from behind. “I’d guess from your face that it wasn’t very good!” “Pleah! Pleh… I… uh, you… you saw that?” He figured Jieun’s laughter was enough affirmation. “To be fair,” Garubi came to Peterias’ aide, “when I first saw the streamers, I thought they looked like large rolls of sweet ribbon as well.” Jieun’s smile remained as large as ever. “Yeah, but you didn’t try eating it!” Garubi took the remainder of the streamer roll from Peterias and went to put it away. “Not when you were looking,” Peterias heard the sefra mutter quietly before he got too far. Even though the room was already looking very festive, humans do not mess around when it comes to throwing parties. He helped Jieun and a few others set up some games and activities for the party. Once again, many hands might light work and the only thing left to do, so Jieun said, was blow up a few more balloons. “Thanks for helping set up though, I really do appreciate it. Dana’s going to love this! She has no idea we’ve got this planned, I can’t wait to see the look on her face!” “Glad to be included in such an important celebration of life,” Peterias closed his eyes and nodded to return for Jieun’s smile. “I am also very excited about the party. If I may ask, do you know how many years Dana is marking today?” “Uh, well, she’s turning thirty-seven in Earth years. I’d have to do the math to convert that to galactic standardized. I know doing that would make it a fraction of some sort.” Peterias tilted his head trying to recall what he knew about Earth. Their day cycles fell into an average length among inhabited homeworlds. The way they divided their days was a little funny but close enough that many humans had no problem converting to galactic standardized times. Years though, years seemed a little long to him, though he couldn’t remember the conversion rate right at the moment. Still, even if they weren’t too far off of GS time, thirty-seven was quite the number! He hadn’t realized Dana was a senior citizen! “That’s amazing,” Peterias’ voice was excited but respectful. “Do you think she’ll stay on the crew much longer then?” “Uh, yeah, I mean I don’t know what she’s planning, but I’d think so. I mean, why wouldn’t she?” “Well,” Peterias wasn’t completely sure how best to say this without sounding offensive or rude. He’d heard humans could be touchy about their ages later on in life. “Won’t she… won’t she want to retire soon?” Half of Jieun’s face scrunched up to make a funny expression. “Retire? Why would she want to do that?” “Um, well, you know… as most species age, they find this line of work to start becoming… uh, well a bit too demanding on… uh… elderly bodies?” Jieun stared at him without saying anything that Peterias started worrying that he had broken some human taboo about talking about getting old. “Dude. Dana’s turning thirty-seven, not eighty-seven. And even if she was, I still don’t think she’d retire. Have you seen her on duty? That lady loves blasting asteroids.” Jieun chuckled as if recalling a memory as he grabbed a rubber balloon and began forcing air into it through his mouth. As Peterias watched the blue shape grow in size, something Jieun said finally clicked. “Wait, eighty-seven? Do humans live that long?!” Jieun removed the balloon from his lips and tied the end so the air wouldn’t escape. “Well, I mean, with proper diet and exercise, a bit of good luck and good genes, yeah. I mean nowadays, it’s not too crazy to see people living and even being fairly active into their hundreds.” “What?!” Jieun had to be joking. Humans loved playing practical jokes. He kept waiting for his crewmate’s face to break into a wide grin and laugh at his attempt to “pull his leg” as the human saying went. As the tiks went by though, Jieun didn’t back down from his bold statement and instead started blowing up another balloon. “Oh,” Peterias shook his head. “Oh how silly of me. I forgot about the year ratio. Earth must circumnavigate it’s star fairly quickly. There for a bit, I thought you were saying humans could live for over 100 galactic standard years.” Jieun opened his mouth and let the half-filled balloon propel itself around the room wildly. “Uh, yeah, we can. Easily. I think the ratio is like, uh just a little over two-thirds of an Earth year for every galactic standardized year. Something like that? If we’re talking SG years, 130 is around the average life expectancy. 180’s getting up there. I think the oldest living human right now is pushing 195 SG years or something like that.” Shivers ran down Peterias’ whole body. He felt the proto-feathers along his spine rise up. He felt like he was frozen in place as his brain used 100% of its capacity to try to process what he’d just been told. There was no way. He’d have known about this before, right? Of all the rumors that flew around about humans, this would have been one of them, right? He kept waiting for a punchline, for Jieun’s nonchalant facade to drop and for him to start laughing at the hilarious joke he’d been trying to get Peterias to believe. But it didn’t happen. He wasn’t joking. Instead, Jieun held out his hand. “Let me see, I guess that would make Dana....” His fingers went up and down as he calculated, “Oh, a little over sixty I guess. In SG, that is.” He then went to retrieve the balloon he’d let escape before and proceeded to blow it up again, tying it off this time. Peterias just stood there, still frozen. He watched the human continue to put the final touches of decorations around the room. How old was Jieun? He saw human Jackson enter the room, being helped by several other crewmates as they carried in platters of prepared party snacks. How old was he? How old were any of the other human crewmates aboard the ship? How much had they seen and how much life had they lived even before they stepped aboard the ship? He was finally pulled out of his frozen state as everyone scrambled to hiding spots. Realizing he was still standing in the middle of the room, Garubi came up behind him and led him to a spot where he could crouch behind a chair. “Come on, they said part of the celebration is to jump out and surprise the birthday celebrant when they arrive at their party.” Peterias allowed themselves to be pulled along and even made sure to tuck their tail in closely so as to hide better behind the chair. It was futile, he was too large, but thinking on that right now seemed beyond his capabilities. Dana was indeed surprised when she arrived. She screamed, out of shock at first, then in delight. There was a lot of laughter, music, and talking, and a surprising amount of very bad, off-key singing to a very repetitive song. It felt almost like visiting a harvest festival back home, so happy and celebratory! Except unlike the festivals, this was for one person. Before, it might have seemed a bit excessive, even by human standards. Now he realized that with this celebration of life, there was a lot of life to celebrate. The planning and preparation that had gone into the party was well worth the effort. Peterias hadn’t had as much fun in some time. It wasn’t any one particular game they played or amusing story that was told that made it so much fun. It was more just, how happy everyone was. The humans, especially Dana, just seemed to radiate a warm happy energy that was particularly infectious. Peterias smiled as he watched Jackson get animated as he recounted an adventure he’d had as a youth on Earth. It was, of course, a story about him doing something dangerous and how he got out of it, and he had several delighted crewmates hanging onto every word. Peterias, chuckled as a thought came to him while watching the scene. Humans live such long lives. He’d had no idea. He supposed that some, after hearing Jackson’s story and knowing what ridiculous antics humans got into on the regular, might postulate that humans live so long because death itself is hesitant to claim them. As he looked around the room though, he caught eyes with human Dana who smiled that strange warm, and slightly scary way that humans do. She held up her hands together to form a shape that he’d been told was a symbol of love and mouthed the words “thank you” to him. Peterias nodded and smiled back. His mind started wandering again. Somewhere in his brain, the new information of human’s life spans was being put together with other tales and warnings he’d ever heard about them like puzzle pieces. That’s why everyone’s always worried about offending humans. They have such long lives that they could hold grudges for what would be lifetimes for other races. That’s why they’re so good at multitasking or will often come onto crews with multiple advanced skills. They have plenty of time to hone their talents. That’s why they can be so forgetful at times. They have a lot of life stored in their memories. There was a large collection of gasps and laughter from the crowd around Jackson as he finished up his story. Soon, Dana took over as the next storyteller about one of her own fool-hardy enterprises she’d had once. It wasn’t quite as much of an adventurous tale as Jackson’s had been, but it was a good story and she told it well. Peterias smiled as he listened in. He was glad humans lived so long, for a lot of reasons. Maybe those who half-joked when they said that death was afraid to claim humans were right. They certainly were a handful in the realm of life, they’d probably continue to be a handful in the realm beyond. In any case, whatever the reason may be, he was glad he’d have his friends around for a long time.

[keyofjetwolf]

What was your first?

So a horse walks into a rehab and says “ouch”. And not a lot. Then a great deal. While also saying nothing. It’s BoJack, in rehab, and going about as well as you might think!

“The Stopped Show” may not have been much about BoJack, but “A Horse Walks Into A Rehab” makes up for it by being 99.9% BoJack, setting aside the brief appearance of the other characters to set their stages for when we get back to them. Diane’s in a shitty motel, Todd’s in a seedy alleyway, Princess Caroline has her porcupine baby, and Mr. Peanutbutter continues to deliver cheer while everything around him burns AND drowns. I’ve now touched base with them about as much as the season premier, and we’ll get busy ignoring them.

As I said, BoJack is the star today, and we continue his quest for ... what, exactly?

Trying to pin it down, that “what is BoJack looking for” question, it’s a lot harder to answer than I expected, which marks another instance of me fucking myself, GOOD JOB ME.

I initially said “punishment”, but that isn’t true, or a least, is too easy. BoJack wants accountability for his actions -- which is a very different thing than punishment -- but he wants it in a way that also absolves him from having to do any work to rise above it. So you’d think he’d love this, the constant claim in rehab that he’s powerless. It seems like the answer to everything, a blanket pass to excuse his behaviour because he’s powerless. Why doesn’t he? I’m not sure I’m entirely clicking with the heart of that, so come with me as I have a poke at it.

For one, I doubt very much rehab would begin and end with “you’re powerless, oh well”. Addiction is some nasty business, but in and of itself, it’s a symptom, not the problem. That in mind, we swing back then to BoJack having to put in the work, only now it’s with the removal of his favourite coping mechanisms.

I think what he was hoping to get out of rehab was more along the lines of “Vodka is a naughty irresistible siren who topples even the most noble of men, but if you cross your eyes and click your heels, you’ll be free from her spell forevermore.” And yeah, no.

I think we get some of that in how, for a while, rehab seems to suit BoJack.

To the point I very specifically said to Doc as I was watching this, “Oh shit, did BoJack just become even MORE insufferable?” He’s okay so long as he has the comfort of the scripts and the regimented plant therapy and the same hike every day. When he starts to get fucked is when he has push further, when he has to work harder, when the treatment demands MORE.

“I notice you tend to deflect when I ask you about the source of your addiction,” his therapist says, causing BoJack to immediately deflect, first with a joke and then, when that doesn’t work, attacking the entire system. Getting to the root of his problem is the last thing BoJack wants, to the point where the entire episode ITSELF is one giant deflection. I made a joke in passing up there about our passing moments with each of the other main characters, but that’s actually it, that’s the heart of this episode.

Each of these are efforts by the episode to deflect what’s going on NOW, tempting us with something shiny and interesting, if only we’d take the bait. I ONLY JUST MADE THIS CONNECTION WELL FUCKING DONE SHOW

And of course, there’s Jameson’s story, which is part deflection, part contrast. She’s intended to appear at first like someone BoJack can relate to, a Sara Lynn Pt. 2 that he wants to save and in whom he sees so much of himself. In equal parts, he’s the adult trying to guide her and the force enabling her, and I’d have to do a bit more thinking on whether I thought his success with her was about him walking both sides of that line, or Jameson just, at the end of the day, being lucky. Either way, it’s also not really about her, so much as BoJack talking a really good game at her, while giving her all the tools to make the worst choices.

Which is, I think, where the episode finally settles. BoJack’s choices have been his own, but they aren’t made in isolation. Throughout this episode, we get moments, presented in reverse chronological order, that could on their own answer that key question: When was the first time you drank?

To settle your nerves to get through a scene everyone was counting on you to nail?

To fit in with the cool kids at high school?

To win your father’s approval?

What’s brilliant to me about each of these flashbacks is that the further into the past we go, the more willing we are to absolve BoJack. In the first, he’s a professional actor required to kiss an attractive and consenting fellow professional in the course of a performance. Nervous? Makes total sense. Getting plastered to do it? LESS SENSE.

The high school one is the most damning, which I adore. BoJack’s the butt of some light bullying by the jock, and I don’t mean to completely dismiss that it sucks, but the remainder of events before he starts in on the beers shows he’s hardly an absolute social pariah. And even if he were, once he begins to drink, BoJack doesn’t just become the life of the party, he becomes cruel (demonstrating quite well that jokes aren’t his only tool of deflection). Worse, that he KNOWS he’s doing it, but cares more about his positive attention than their negative. Still, BoJack’s a kid and peer pressure is a hell of a thing. This isn’t a good look, but it’s also not damning, if he’d come to learn from it. 

Now we jump the line to, I’d guess, ten or eleven year old BoJack, who walks in on his father having an affair with his secretary, but too young to recognize what he’s seen. Butterscotch can’t take the risk though, so he effortlessly manipulates little BoJack into getting drunk and passing out, then uses BoJack’s shame about it to keep him quiet on the whole evening. UNDER THE GUISE OF BEING HIS FRIEND AND DOING HIM A FAVOUR BY THE WAY. No question, Butterscotch is a son of a bitch, and the only thing BoJack did wrong here was crave his parent’s love.

Even with the high school one being a little more grey, they’re all pretty cut and dry. Remember that we’re following the thread of “When was the first time you drank?” and to land on the answer “When my unrepentantly dickish father lied to me to save his own ass” puts a pretty solid punctuation mark on the whole affair. Addiction may not be at fault, but Butterscotch Horseman is. Case closed, we can go home.

BUT WAIT WHAT’S THIS

Right at the end, when you think we’re done, there’s one more flashback. A party of some sort, possibly New Year’s. The house sounds empty, there’s only the looping of the record player, stuck repeating the same five seconds again and again and again. Butterscotch and Beatrice are passed out drunk, judging from the empty bottles around them. Was it a good party? A bad one? She has her back to him and they’re about as far apart as they could get while still remaining in the room, but also, nothing’s broken? It’s impossible to know.

What we do know is that BoJack, aged about where we saw him in the “Free Churro” flashback so maybe seven or so? Very young, at any rate, and he’s alone. There doesn’t appear to be anything in the room for a child, so it’s probably fair to say he wasn’t included in the festivities. Did he have something to do instead? His own party maybe? Friends to play with, someone to watch him? Did he even get dinner? From what we’ve seen, “no” is a much more likely answer to any or all of these.

AND NOW THE FIRST TO PUNCH YOU IN THE HEART

Tiny BoJack knocks back several gulps of vodka (like a fucking pro, may I add), then crawls onto the couch next to his unconscious mother, pretending for just a few minutes that she’s cuddling him until he, too, will fall into a drunken slumber.

RIGHT SO WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO WITH THIS JESUS WEPT

Had you told me “Just wait, seven year old flashback BoJack is going to muddy the hell out of this” I wouldn’t have ... okay, well, I know the show, so I probably would’ve believed you, but I would’ve been preemptively grumpy.

This isn’t his fault! But it is! This isn’t his parent’s fault, but it super super is! Nobody MADE BoJack drink the vodka, as the scene goes to great lengths to show. There is nobody to tell him to do anything at all. Beatrice is three fucking sheets to the wind, she has no idea he’s there and he could have pretend cuddled all night AND stayed sober. Did baby BoJack, like adult BoJack, take the drink to calm his nerves for an expression of physical intimacy? Would baby BoJack have even known that was an option? Remember, this is framed as the answer to the question “When was the first time you drank?” Not “took a drink”, but “you DRANK”, the phrasing of which I think is important. It’s all about the root of the problem. What I get out of that question is then is “the first time you drank to numb yourself”.

Baby BoJack is looking at this disaster, this mess that is his every day no matter how many party hats and streamers you stick on it, and he wants anything else at all. So he turns to the easiest thing he knows will take it away the fastest. The situation isn’t his fault. The opportunity isn’t his fault. But the response IS, in a way that EVEN AS I SAY IT, makes me feel shitty.

CONGRATS BOJACK HORSEMAN FOR MAKING ME SEE A LITERAL CHILD SLAMMING BACK VODKA STRAIGHT FROM THE BOTTLE AND MAKING ME GO “okay, but”.

SEASON SIX SHOULD BE A WALK IN THE PARK

[rax-writes]

Romeo & Juliet

Fandom:  Stranger Things Pairing:  Steve Harrington x Reader Warnings:  None Notes:  Shoutout to my dear friend @mxgyver​ for the inspiration ♥

You had been best friends with Steve Harrington since you’d arrived at Hawkins Elementary in the fifth grade. A kid named Kevin had been bullying him on the playground, and although Steve had been doing his best to ignore the asshole, you found yourself incapable of doing the same. Kevin had intentionally screwed up the science project you’d been working that morning, purely because he thought it’d be funny to torment the new kid, and in the moment, you were so upset that you said nothing. The anger set in after he’d already walked off, laughing to his buddies about what he’d done. So, seeing him bully another innocent person made your blood boil, and before you knew it, you were chucking the basketball in your hands as hard as you could at the back of Kevin’s head.

Kevin flew forward from the unexpected impact, landing flat on his chest on the cement, which knocked the wind out of him. Steve’s jaw dropped as he looked from Kevin to you, meanwhile the ball rolled back over to you, and you picked it up to tuck it under your arm. When Kevin sat up and spun around to locate the culprit, the agitation on his face turned to fear as he locked eyes with you. Apparently the sheer rage in your 11 year old eyes did the trick to let him know you meant business.

“Look, Kevin, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. But I do know that you’re just some jerk who thinks it’s fun to be mean to people for no reason. You’re a bully. And one thing you’ll learn about me is that I don’t like bullies. So, you really ought to be nicer to your classmates, or you’ll have me to deal with.”

The boy hesitated a moment, before he realized his friends were watching him, obviously expecting him to retaliate. He stood, then crossed his arms as he sneered at you, “Oh yeah? And what are you going to do about it?”

Whack!

The basketball hit Kevin square in the nose as he stumbled backwards, hands covering his face as he cried out in pain.

“That. That’s what I’m going to do about it.”

“You’re crazy!” Kevin yelled over his shoulder, as he ran off, his friends close behind.

“Yeah, and don’t you dare tattle on me, or a bloody nose of yours will be the least of your concerns!” you hollered, watching them retreat to the other side of the playground.

“Thanks for that,” Steve piped up then, and his tone seemed to be a mix of gratitude and bewilderment.

Shrugging, you explained, “Honestly, I mostly did it because he ruined my science project this morning. But also because I do really hate bullies.”

“Whatever the reason, I appreciate it,” Steve said with a chuckle. “Well, you’re obviously pretty good with a basketball. Wanna play HORSE?”

----------

That was 7 years ago, and Steve had been your best friend ever since. All through the remainder of elementary, middle school, and high school, the two of you had been inseparable. The two of you had shared a ton of fun and crazy adventures, as well as some hard times, and you were there for each other through it all. He had shown up on your doorstep 20 minutes after you called and told him about your boyfriend cheating on you, with a tub of ice cream in one hand and a Disney movie VHS in the other. Similarly, you had been there for him about three months ago, when Nancy Wheeler broke his heart.

You’d have never admitted it, but as you got older, you slowly began to realize that you liked him as more than a friend.

For years, you had pushed those feelings to the back of your mind. It didn’t matter how much you liked him; keeping Steve as your best friend was your top priority. You wouldn’t risk losing that. But, on one fateful evening, you found that you could no longer ignore how in love with him you’d fallen.

Your teacher was making your class do a miniature version of Romeo and Juliet as a senior project. Everyone had voted you and Steve as the leads, because you had such good chemistry – despite the fact that you’d spent ages telling people that you were just friends. And of course, the teacher wanted to include the scene where Romeo and Juliet kiss. You and Steve had both tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t budge. So, that’s what led to your current situation: sitting in Steve’s living room on a Wednesday night, a short distance separating you on the couch, practicing your lines.

“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair,” Steve recited, then ran a hand over his face. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Hell if I know,” you muttered, sounding equally as confused as him, before continuing. “Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.”

“Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take,” Steve said, then paused and cleared his throat. “And, uh… this is the part where they kiss.”

You could feel his eyes on you, but you kept your eyes glued to the script in your lap, not wanting to meet his gaze.

“Yep… so it is.”

“Do you… should we...?” Steve trailed off, then exhaled slowly, as if calming himself. “We could practice that part too… if you wanted?”

You looked up at him with wide eyes, and he backpedaled immediately.

“Actually, that’s a bad idea. That would be so weird. I honestly don’t even know why I said that. Forget this ever happened,” he rambled, waving a hand in the air exasperatedly.

“I mean…” you began softly, still looking at him despite the fact that he was now staring at the floor. “Ms. Myer made it clear that she wants us to stay true to the script. So we might as well get it over with now, rather than in front of the whole class.”

Steve glanced at you, and the two of you shared a few moments of eye contact before he exhaled again.

“No, yeah, you’re right. We should totally get it over with now. After all, it’s just for the play, right?” Steve said, with feigned nonchalance, and you nodded.

“Exactly! So we should just kiss now, rather than kiss for the first time in front of the entire class. But it’s totally not weird at all, since it’s just for the play. Obviously doesn’t change the fact that we’re friends.”

“Best friends!” Steve agreed earnestly, then ran a hand through his hair as he took a deep breath. “Alright, so, take two…. Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.”

Your eyes had been on your script when you felt his gentle fingers tilt your chin up to look at him. The two of you stared into one another’s eyes for a few moments, before Steve leaned in and pressed his lips against yours.

It was beyond everything you’d ever dreamed of – and you had definitely dreamed about it on more than one occasion. His lips were soft and sweet, and you instinctively leaned into him. But, far too soon for your liking, Steve pulled away, although only slightly. His face remained mere inches from yours, as he stared at you with an expression you couldn’t read.

“Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged,” he whispered, after a quick glance at the paper in his hands.

“Then have my lips the sin that they have took,” you responded breathlessly.

“Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged,” Steve responded, his voice still soft, before looking down at your lips. “Give me my sin again.”

You met his lips without hesitation as he bent down to kiss you once more, and his hand moved from your chin to cradle the back of your head, fingers burying themselves in your hair. Steve dropped the script to the floor, and moved his newly-freed hand to rest on your waist, as your own hands clutched the front of his shirt. The whole thing felt like a daydream, and in the moment, a white-knuckle grip on his shirt served as a way to ground yourself, a reminder that this was actually happening.

The kiss lasted far longer this time, his lips moving slowly and methodically against yours. After what felt like an eternity, you both broke the kiss to catch your breaths, and you realized then that your back was now against the couch and he was leaned over you, enveloping you in his embrace.

Steve rested his forehead against yours, breathing heavily – both from how long the kiss had lasted, and from the adrenaline of the fact that he’d just made out with his best friend.

“God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Steve whispered, then leaned back to get a better look at you. You smiled warmly at him.

“Ditto.”

“Why didn’t you then?!” Steve asked, surprised as a grin formed on his lips.

“I could ask you the same thing!” you retorted, laughing.

“Fair enough,” he conceded, matching your laugh. As your laughter faded, he grew more serious, although he still wore a small smile. “Truth is, I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you. At the time, I didn’t really have any close friends, so I just really wanted to be friends with you. Plus, I thought you were super cool, so I felt like you were out of my league,  ya know, romantically.”

“You thought I was cool?” you asked with a chuckle.

“Of course I did! You were the first person to ever stand up to Kevin Matthews, and you did it on your fourth day at our school!”

The two of you shared more laughter, before he added, “Obviously, now I know you’re actually a giant nerd, so the coolness has worn off.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Anytime,” Steve replied, then scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “So, I guess you kind of feel the same way then, huh?”

“I suppose,” you teased, and he smiled. “I didn’t fall for you when I first met you, though. I don’t know exactly when I did…. I think it was freshman year. I remember watching your first baseball game of the season, and thinking you looked really hot in the uniform, especially when you ran over to me in the bleachers, all excited after you’d hit a home run. You were a little sweaty and your hair was messy and god, you looked so good. Then, a week or two later, I watched you flirt with some girl, and I remember getting really mad about it but couldn’t understand why. It took me like three days to realize it was jealousy, and that I’d caught feelings for you. The feelings only got stronger over time, and eventually, I realized I was in love with you. But I was too scared of losing you as a friend to do anything about it.”

“The toughest girl I know, scared of losing me?” Steve quipped, placing his hand on his chest and giving you an exaggeratedly shocked look. You rolled your eyes.

“Only because I love you, smartass.”

Steve grinned brightly, then resumed his previous position, looming over you on the couch as his arm wrapped around your shoulders and the other rested on your waist once again. His lips hovered over yours before he said, “I love you, too,” and kissed you.

The two of you spent the rest of the night just like that: making out on the couch, making up for lost time, the play now long forgotten.

[sparkkeyper]

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Word Count: 3,797

Warnings: None    

Summary: Old habits die hard. Crowley and Aziraphale’s habits are very, very old. Building their own side is difficult when 6000 years of instincts won’t shut up. 

(Originally very loosely-based on the song "Baby, It's Cold Outside" but then it kind of did its own thing, haha. I was originally going to post this for Advent  Omens but uhhh you can see that didn’t quite happen. Written as ace but you can read it however you want, really. Guess what fools, it’s Soft Boi hours again!)

(Now on AO3!)

-----------

The snow had started early in the day. When Aziraphale arrived at the Mayfair flat it was just a dusting. But the flurry had become a proper snowfall, and then quickly decided 'go big or go home' and transitioned into a flat-out storm.

This didn't phase the two immortals in the slightest, of course. If anything, the swirling flakes outside made it feel even cozier inside. Crowley's sleek, minimalist flat had grown a fireplace for the occasion, and a very surprised new chimney on the roof of the building found itself venting smoke that somehow managed to bypass three floors.

They sat together on the plush sofa (obtained at Aziraphale's insistence several months prior, on the grounds that he wasn't going to continue coming over if there was nowhere comfortable to sit, and Crowley couldn't have that) and drank wine and talked and laughed and reveled in the feeling of being cozy and warm on a cold, blustery day.

Time had traveled on in the usual manner since Armageddon failed to happen. The two of them were unwinding slowly. Thousands of years of looking over shoulders did not evaporate in an evening, benevolent Antichrist or no, and 'our side' was a concept they were still carefully exploring. But what a glorious exploration it was.

There was no limit to the amount of time they could spend together. It was a dizzying concept that they were both adjusting to, but one that carried a thrill through it all the same. Crowley had been sorely tempted to buy tickets to every concert, play, and musical revue London had to offer and do nothing but attend shows for the foreseeable future, the two of them together. In public. He very well might have done too, if Aziraphale hadn't talked him down amid giddy chuckles. "We have time," Aziraphale had reminded him, and Crowley was ecstatic to realize that it was true.

He had relented to two a week.

It was elating. They stood closer together, they sat beside each other on public transportation rather than one behind the other, they gave each other teasing nudges with elbows.

And sometimes - when they were both at least a bottle in - one of them might even bump their hand against the other's, and fingers might intertwine, and an electric tingle would flood Crowley like a live thing, and most importantly neither would pull away for at least two solid minutes and oh wasn't that alone worth saving the world for?

Crowley spent a previously-unheard-of amount of time at the bookshop and Aziraphale's face always lit up like the sun whenever he walked in. He arrived early, stayed late, sometimes didn't bother going home at all, often showed up with wine or snacks, and they were together and it was wonderful. He had fallen asleep on the bookshop couch in the past, but these months he got the impression that Aziraphale had zoned the piece of furniture as specifically his. There was a permanent place set aside for him in Aziraphale's home, in Aziraphale's life. It made a warmth pool in his stomach to think about it despite the creeping winter chill.

Aziraphale had begun to visit Crowley's flat in return. The angel had never once set foot in the place until the night after the airfield - Crowley had never given him the address, to be fair - but now that permission had been granted Aziraphale was here increasingly often. It was so like the easy evenings at the bookshop, just with more austere surroundings. Music, alcohol, debates and memories and slightly drunken speculation. The occasional temporary twining of fingers. It was good.

It was overwhelming sometimes, this new 'good'.

Aziraphale always left the flat at the end of the evening, usually around ten. He had no reservations whatsoever about chatting until dawn in the bookshop but the flat was a new environment, Crowley supposed. Possibly something to do with propriety.

Possibly something to do with thousands of years of distance that they were both still figuring out how to cross.

But that was Aziraphale, all right: as slow and steady as a glacier when it came to his set, comfortable ways. So much had changed in the past few months and the angel had had to adapt quickly. Crowley didn't begrudge him taking a few things slow. Old habits were hard to break and their habits were very, very old.

Crowley understood well how shadows could linger even in the bright daylight. It was all well and good to say he was off Hell's payroll. It was another thing entirely when instinct crept up on him screaming that he needed to watch his back, to sit a row behind Aziraphale on the bus, to have forty excuses ready for when Dagon came auditing. It took considerable effort to override those instincts and remind himself that 'together' was okay. It was allowed. And still he'd so far only managed to turn the volume down on them, not silence them completely. He didn't know if he ever would. Crowley didn't doubt Aziraphale had similar instincts of his own. If the angel felt better setting himself a curfew, Crowley certainly wasn't going to judge.

But tonight they were here, and warm, and sheltered from the blizzard. As 'retro' had begun to slide back into style, Crowley had picked up a sleek addition to his stereo system that was at once a record turntable, radio, tape deck, and CD player, with added Bluetooth capability for good measure. Strains of Vivaldi swam through the room from a vinyl, mingling with the crackling of the fire and the clinking of wine glasses. Aziraphale was settled deeply into the sofa, his posture several steps short of perfect which was how Crowley knew he was truly relaxed. Crowley, as per usual, was draped over the couch like he'd never seen one before in his life, as though he had too many limbs and didn't know what to do with them all. It was good.

Life was good.

It was a little after ten when Aziraphale spoke up. "It's getting late." His voice was a bit distant as he looked out the window, snow glinting in the reflected light as it fell. "I suppose I ought to be going."

There was a note of regret to his voice, a lack of conviction in his eyes, that Crowley had learned to read over the long years of the Arrangement. A smile pulled at the corner of the demon's mouth, covered up easily by another sip of wine. It was a very old game they played, treading carefully along the outside edges of things that could not or should not be said aloud. Expectations, angelic ones in particular, built a lot of barriers. Aziraphale wanted something that wasn't allowed him - or wasn't supposed to be allowed him - and couldn't bring himself to reach out and grasp it. It was Crowley's job to find ways for him to justify the forbidden something to himself.

In the subtle language they shared, the angel was asking Crowley to tempt him, and how could Crowley pass up a request like that?

"Awfully cold out there," the demon drawled, gesturing languidly toward the window with his wine glass. "Snowing like nobody's business. Wind and ice and subzero chill. Terrible night to be out in."

"I'm sure it's not so bad."

"Not so bad? It's been raging for hours! Look at it! It's knee-high! You expect me to try and drive my poor car out in that mess?"

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the demon. "Ah yes. Imagine if humans invented other forms of transportation aside from your horrid car."

The demon's argument was all bluff and they both knew it. The Bentley could slice through the snowdrifts like a hot knife through butter if Crowley wanted it to. It wasn't the strength of the argument that mattered - it was whether or not Aziraphale could twist it to bypass the metaphorical roadblocks. Crowley rose to the challenge by sprawling back on the sofa with a smirk. "Other forms of transportation? You mean a bus, in weather like that? And good luck finding a cab out there, angel. City's practically shut down."

Aziraphale stood, giving his back a tentative stretch. "I could walk, of course. I've done it loads of times. It doesn't take much more than twenty minutes, not counting the care that has to be taken for ice."

"Walk, he says!" Crowley tossed back the remainder of his wine like a shot glass. "Think of it - the first angel in history to catch pneumonia! Bad job I'm not working for Hell anymore; they'd give me an award!"

"If doing those temptations in Qashliq for you didn't give me pneumonia, I'm quite sure nothing will."

"Are you ever going to let that go? It was over four hundred years ago!"

"It was February in Siberia, no I will not."

"Suppose you did stay a bit longer," Crowley ventured, changing tactics. It was a risk, coming at the problem from such a direct angle when they were both so used to ghosting along edges. "Bookshop wouldn't go anywhere, would it?"

Aziraphale blinked at the abrupt transition. "Well no, I shouldn't think so. It's just...I mean if I don't return home someone might notice of course and well...people will talk."

Crowley leaned forward over his knees, seriously. "Angel. When, in two hundred years in that bookshop, have you ever given a single fuck what your human neighbours think?"

Aziraphale drew himself up with a huff, and Crowley was delighted to see familiar indignation winning out over nerves. "I am an upstanding member of the community, I'll have you know. And it's not just my neighbours, of course - it's yours as well. That little old lady who lives on the floor below, for example. She always gives me that look when I pass her in the lift."

"What look?"

"You know! That look! Like she thinks she knows what's going on between the two of us."

The demon grinned like a Cheshire cat and gave a suggestive wiggle of his shoulders just for the expression it painted across the angel's face. "You're worried that my neighbours are going to think you and I took a tumble in the sheets?"

"They already suspect! Or at least she suspects." Aziraphale was trying so hard to keep a straight face, but mirth glinted behind his eyes. "Do you know what she said to me as she was getting out of the lift the other day? 'Don't forget to use protection; you don't know where he's been!'"

Crowley howled, leaning so far back in his laughter that he fell off the couch.

"I don't know what's more outlandish, the idea that we're in here having a lurid physical affair or the idea that I don't know exactly where you've been."

Crowley wiped his eyes dry and held out a hand so the angel could help pull him up from the floor. "Remind me to miracle her fridge so that all her milk keeps past its date. 'Don't know where he's been' indeed."

Aziraphale fought to get his own smile under control, for the sake of his argument if nothing else. "Yes, but it just goes to show, Crowley, people do notice. And they will talk, I'm sure of it."

"Let them," he waved it off. "I've seen tissue paper with more durability than human gossip. It'll all get forgotten in a day or two." Crowley leaned over and refilled both glasses.

"Right. I suppose it will." The angel took a tentative sip and sat back into the sofa again. "Silly thing to get worked up about, really."

On a regular night that might have been the end of it. They'd had their verbal tennis, they'd had a laugh, and Aziraphale had accepted another drink. But try as he might, the angel couldn't seem to settle. There was a stiffness, a tension to his spine that would not unwind. He fidgeted with the stemware, shooting furtive glances at the window, the fireplace, the clock. 

The ceiling.

The final notes of Vivaldi faded out, leaving the room in silence, and Crowley rose to swap the record. The discomfort radiating off the angel was almost palpable and it made his own spine crawl. "Aziraphale--"

"Only, the wind really looks dreadful," Aziraphale blurted out, jolting to his feet and crossing to the window. "I really ought to go before it gets worse."

"Can't get much worse than it is, I think," Crowley countered carefully. "Best stay where it's warm."

"I don't..." Aziraphale stared out at the London skyline, nearly invisible in the storm. Pale fingers worried absently at the hem of his waistcoat. His mouth was down to a thin line and there was quite a lot behind his eyes. He looked pained. "I shouldn't impose."

"You're not imposing if I'm offering."

"It isn't...it isn't right for me to stay!"

The demon set down the vinyl he was holding, something dangerous layering his words. "Says who?"

"I've been ignoring protocol too much as it is--"

Crowley gritted his teeth, a growl rising in his throat. "There is no protocol on our side!"

"I know!" Aziraphale snapped. There was a beat of silence and the anger in the angel's face melted as suddenly as it had come, leaving his expression frustrated and upset. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, almost apologetically. "I...I really can't...surely you understand why I can't just..." He ran a hand through his hair helplessly, eyes darting to the ceiling.

The demon set his glass down and moved over to the window.

It was a very old game they played. Crowley was good at his job and Aziraphale was good at the mental gymnastics required to fit through some of the more dubious loopholes. But every now and then they still lost.

He positioned himself in front of the principality, forcing Aziraphale to look at him.

"Angel," he said quietly, as though someone might overhear. "If you want to head home, I'll take you. You know I will. I'd just rather it be because you want to rather than because they would want you to."

Aziraphale looked truly miserable. "Crowley, you've been a marvelous host, you really have, but...I'm so sorry, I..."

Crowley stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. For just a moment the demon's face was soft, genuine. A bit sad but still impossibly fond. "Don't be." He gave the shoulder a gentle squeeze. "It's late. Get your coat, angel, it's cold out there." He doused the fireplace with a wave and stretched his back out. "Give me a moment to sober up and I'll start the car."

Aziraphale sighed, clearly frustrated at a great many things, but headed for the coat rack while the demon forced the alcohol from his system. "It ought to be fine," he muttered as the wine bottles in the corner finished refilling. "It ought to be fine. I can't explain it, I..."

"It's like someone's standing too close inside your personal space," Crowley finished for him quietly, pulling a coat of his own from the ether. "Like you're driving on the motorway and you end up in the blind spot of a lorry. There's no great outward change but all of a sudden the hairs are up on the back of your neck and your skin is crawling. And you just have this overwhelming sense of this is not a good place to be, get out."

"Yes," Aziraphale murmured unsteadily. "Yes, that's it exactly." His eyes found Crowley's, apologetic, searching.

"It is what it is, angel," he assured him softly. "We have time."

A weight seemed to lift from Aziraphale's shoulders. "I...thank you. Truly." There were things unspoken that Crowley could hear beneath that simple phrase. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for being patient with me.

Don't say that, hesitated on the tip of Crowley's tongue. Instinct was, of course, very old and very strong. He swallowed down the words and searched for new ones to replace them.

"You're welcome," he said quietly. The syllables tasted foreign in his mouth.

There was silence in the flat as he buttoned up his coat. Despite the passing months they truly had only moved the barest steps away from where they had been.

They had so very far to go yet.

But it was true. They had time.

"Right." He tried to break the mood as casually as he could, slipping dark glasses on and turning his voice into something light and easy. "Shall we be off then? After you, angel."

The lift ride down was silent, subdued. Something complicated was warring behind the blue eyes and Crowley wasn't going to even begin to touch on it until they were in the car. Aziraphale's steps faltered as he reached the glass doors of the lobby, and Crowley was halfway down the outside stairs before he realized he wasn't following.

"Oi, you coming?"

Aziraphale stared down at the space beyond the door with a peculiar expression: uncertainty and determination and anger and hurt. "I - I don't..." There was a moment of indecision, of frantic debate on his face, then he backed quickly over to the lobby bench and sat down hard.

Crowley pulled his coat tighter about himself as the wind bit through his clothes and ducked back into the building.

Aziraphale held very still, eyes closed and fingers gripping the edge of the bench.

"Angel?"

"Give me a moment. Please."

Crowley paced a cautious half-circle around him, instinctively scanning the principality for damage and the storm beyond the glass wall for threats. Another old habit - nearly useless now but one he wasn't going to be able to drop any time soon. He sat down beside the angel and the lobby was quiet for a very, very long time.

"I think," murmured Aziraphale at last, "if it's all right with you, I'd like to stay."

Crowley studied him closely. "Are you sure?"

"No." Aziraphale met his gaze. "I haven't been sure of much of anything, recently. Not since Tadfield. But I do not want to be forced back to the bookshop tonight."

"Shouldn't force yourself to stay if you're only going to be miserable."

"It's not so bad down here, that's the silly thing. But for some reason the idea of going back upstairs is just..." He laughed wryly. "What a mess I've made of the evening."

"It was a fine evening," Crowley told him earnestly.

"I thought so too, at least until the end there." He straightened, and looked a bit more like himself to Crowley's eyes. "And it's my most sincere hope that, with some more wine and another record, it might be again. Give me a few minutes. I think I can work up to it."

The demon took his glasses off and studied him closely. The determination in those eyes, the set of that jaw, were so familiar they hurt. There was a nervousness there, but there was a stubbornness as well. Like the glacier: slow, steady, but deep down so, so strong.

Crowley reached behind himself and retrieved a pair of full wine glasses that suddenly and thoughtfully decided to exist. "You know, I reckon..." he said quietly, handing one to Aziraphale, "that these will taste just as good right here as they would upstairs."

Aziraphale blinked. Glanced from his glass to the demon to the lift and back again. And his expression softened considerably.

"And if music and wine is what it takes to hang onto your company for a little longer, I s'pose that's the sacrifice I'll have to make, won't I?" He sat his phone down beside him and with a few taps Mozart began to play from its speakers.

Aziraphale stared deep into his wine glass, a smile spreading across his face that he didn't seem quite ready to share with the world yet. "A little unorthodox, isn't it?"

"And?" Crowley shrugged. "Last I checked, there's no protocol on our side."

"So there isn't. Do you know, I think I like that about it."

The demon lowered his voice. "Say the word any time, you know. We'll go, no questions asked."

"I know." Aziraphale let out a long breath and settled back onto cushions that were suddenly far more plush than anything the lobby bench had seen before. "But at the moment I'd rather be here."

The storm howled beyond the glass wall but the central heating vent behind them kept any stray chills at bay. They sat in gentle silence for a long time.

Piano Sonata No. 14 wound through the room, mingling with the warmth and the wine to kindle a sense of calm: a concoction of human magic that miracles, for all their power, could never replicate. Clever things, those humans.

Crowley traced a finger around the rim of his glass. "Can I ask what changed your mind?" he asked softly.

Aziraphale gazed off into the distance for a moment before looking back to his companion. "It was the 'you're welcome', funnily enough. You've always objected so vehemently to being thanked before."

"Yeah, well..." Crowley took another sip of his drink so as not to meet Aziraphale's eyes. "Like being in the blind spot of a lorry."

Aziraphale nodded. "It's..." He trailed off. Took a swig of wine and swallowed it down hard, as though for courage. "It's a comfort," he admitted so quietly that Crowley had to strain to hear him. "To know that it's not just me."

Crowley pursed his lips. "Not by a long shot, no" he confessed, equally quiet.

"I know accepting gratitude doesn't come easy to you. But you managed, tonight."

"It isn't a footrace, angel. I'm not asking you to keep pace with me."

"I know that. And I'm grateful. It's just... seeing you be brave makes me feel like...like I can be as well."

That smile was tugging at the edge of Crowley's mouth again. He reached out and clinked the edge of his glass with Aziraphale's. "Course you can be. Always have been."

The angel smiled back at him, warm and glowing and grateful, just the faintest hint of pink darkening his cheeks. With a daring Crowley had only seen behind the safety of closed doors and wine bottles, he placed a hand on the bench between them, palm up. 

Crowley took it.

Meeting him in the middle, as always.

"Careful, angel," the demon murmured in his ear. "Remember, you don't know where I've been."

Aziraphale gave an undignified snort into his wine glass and their laughter echoed throughout the lobby.

The storm raged cold outside, but here, in their own little in-between place, they were warm.

[words-for-holland]

Quarantine Series: Beat the Heat

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Summary: Tom hasn’t had to worry about another guy taking Y/N away...but the heat? Well that’s a story worth telling.

A/N: Only 1 more part left after this?! 🥺 Definitely not trying to prolong the wait on this just so QS can live on.

Check the Rest: Burnt Out | A New Look | Secret Cuts & Kisses | Breaking Friendships |The Birthday Week | Movie Night | Silence is Golden? | Birthday Date Night | Orinthophobia

Masterlist

Summer in London was anything but hot. It was your typical short, comfortable, partly cloudy type of summer with periods of rain here and there. It’s rarely below 60’s and never went over the 100’s. However one stubborn week in July turned out to be the hottest week London had ever seen. Forget high 90’s, the area’s temperature would push to 104 degrees that London itself might as well test postive for Cornavirus. For Tom, Y/N, Harrison, Harry, and Tuwaine, it was going to be a game of survival of the fittest.

“I swear global warming is a thing. This heat, the pandemic...It’s the end of the world!” Tuwaine groans as he desperately fans himself with his hand.

“Relax you drama queen.” Tom replies, as he sets up the air conditioner. “Okay so according to the Nest. If I just tilt the circle to left, it should turn the AC on in about 10 minute.” He states, reading the instructions aloud in hopes that cooling device works as expected.

“Well that was easy. So as long as we all stay inside and hydrated, we should be fine and there wont be any need for hand fanning.” Y/N justifies as she looks at Tuwaine, who was still fanning himself with his own hand.

“What? I sweat a lot when Im hot. Im just doing my part.” Tuwaine defends, as he shrugs his shoulder. “When the ten minutes pass and the air is on, I’ll stop fanning.”

Surprisingly, the air conditioner was working as expected! Tom had never felt so proud of himself, that it was all he talked about for the remainder of the day to everyone in the household. Especially since Y/N’s career was all so focused on technology. Tom wanted to make her proud and show that he too can handle techy stuff on his own. “See Y/N, I programmed the Nest all by myself, and I even downloaded the app so I can change the temperature from my phone no matter where I am.” He gloats proudly. “If you feel hot when Im away in Berlin, you can call me and I’ll lower the temp for you.”

Y/N rolls her eyes while she laughs at her fiance’s nerdiness. Of course she knew just about anyone could figure out how to work a nest, but Tom was so proud of what he’s accomplished, she couldn’t really stop him from celebrating his personal victory. “What about me? If I get hot will you turn down the temp for me when you’re in Berlin?” Harrison mocked, as he batted his eyelashes to his best mate.

“You have a phone. You can do it yourself.” Tom says bluntly as he comes around to Y/N’s side on the couch.

“So does she!” Harrison points, accusingly.

“Yeah...but it’s Y/N.” Tom points out, speaking as if it was the most obvious reason.

Harrison turns his face back to the television shaking his head, mumbling “Whipped.” with a slight smirk.

Tom did not hesitate to throw an extremely large pillow toward his best friend before saying, “Of course I am, you div. That’s why I proposed to her and not you.”

Later that night, Y/N and Tom had already cuddled into bed, falling into a deep slumber...Well one more than the other. It got extremely hot for Y/N as she noticed the change in atmosphere. The air felt much warmer, her body feeling slick and sticky from her sweat. The heavy comforter, Tom’s arm wrapped around her body, and his warm breath behind her neck were making her extremely uncomfortable. It wasn’t odd for Y/N to move a little in her sleep. Tom was very much aware of that the moment they spent their first night together, but it was rare that she’d push him off and face the other side with no blankets covering her.

Tom felt an emptiness in his arms, and no extra weight on his legs and waist. Something was definitely off for him, and he lazily put his hand out to feel for Y/N with his eyes still closed. “Y/N?” He grumbled in his sleep, trying to cuddle back to her. “Why...you move?”

“Too hot.” Y/N mumbled back as she pushed him away again. “AC broken.”

“Fuck.” Tom groans, as both tried to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, it was nearly impossible for Tom to go back to sleep. Not only was it extremely hot, but he didnt have Y/N on top of him. A position he’s so used to sleeping in his own bed. He certainly wasn’t going to let a good 8 hours of sleep do him dirty like this. He rolled off the bed, as he padded his barefeet on the hardwood floor. Tom went downstairs finding exactly what he needed, carrying the bulk slowly as to minimize the noise and avoid dropping them.

He makes it back to his room, where Y/N rolled on her side snoring peacefully. Tom shook his head smiling at how adorable she looked even though it was probably way too early and dark to even make that assumption, but there was no need. He knew Y/N always looked beautiful to him even on her worst days. Tom plugged the two fans in, turning it to the highest setting. Air was blasting through the fans as it turned rapidly. The room that was once hot and sticky, was now cool and refreshing. In fact it started to get so much cooler, Y/N could feel the goosebumps on her arms. Her eyes were still closed but she instinctively turned on her other side, facing Tom. “Mm. It’s cold.” She mumbles in her sleep.

Tom smiles at her, slowly lifting her leg onto his and pulling her close. “I know darling. Come ‘ere. I’ll keep you warm.” His arm was now wrapped her waist, and he smiled even brighter in victory. As if a broken AC was ever going to prevent Tom’s cuddling sleep with Y/N. Broken house appliances should know about Tom is that when it comes to Y/N...if there’s a will, there’s a way.

The next morning, Y/N and the boys had already made their way to the kitchen, installing mini fans around the house. Tom was the last to come down after his victorious slumber, where he was greeted by a sacastic applause from his best mates. “Well done, Tom. Absolutely smashed it with the AC.” Harry cheers, sweat already drippin from his forehead.

“Yeah and nice going stealing the fans last night.” Harrison laughed, chiming in.

“Oh piss off.” Tom scowls at his younger brother, making his way to the Nest. “I don’t understand. I followed the directions.” He groans trying to check what went wrong.

YN popped up from the back, phone in hand. “Well sorry boys, looks like we wont have a working AC until the end of this week.”

“What?!” The three boys shot up in unison.

“Yeah, the AC’s parts are really old, but the electric company said that they can order new ones today and have it installed on Friday..so no worries guys. We’ll all just sleep downstairs in the meantime, till then.”

They all groaned loudly, like the drama queens they were, making their own way. Tom comes up behind Y/N. “Uhh that totally defeats the whole purpose of why I put those mini fans in our room last night.” He objected with a cheeky smile his face.

“Thomas Stanely Holland. You do not steal fans for yourself just so you have an excuse to cuddle me in your sleep.” She teasingly chastises, sticking her tongue out at him.

“Steal?! I’ll have you know I don’t steal fans..I gain them.” He wiggles his eyebrows ar Y/N, making her laugh. “Plus don’t act liek you didn’t love cuddling with me last night to protect you from the cold.”

“Stop. That’s too cheesy.” She snorts, trying to walk away from him.

“Make me, darling.” He dares, holding her in place as he continues to wiggle his eyebrows.

Y/N smiles at him, her hands slowly making their face to both sides of his face. His eyes closes, as she gently strokes on side of his cheekbone down to his jawline. She leans ever so slowly into him, just barely touching his lips. Toms arms around her loosen, ready to lift her chin up just so their lips could close the painful tiny distance of air. It was then Y/N took her shot, and ran away from Tom, yelling at Harrison that Tom was going to steal the fans for himself.

“Hey! That’s cheating!” Tom yells out, chasing after Y/N.

“No that’s called being clever.” Y/N cackles, poorly mocking her fiance’s British accent.

“God I cant wait for this AC to start working again.” Tom groans as he makes his way after Y/N.

Taglist:

@hollanddolanfangirl @parkerspillow @joyleenl @kihyunwifes @holland-bowen @in-a-lot-of-fandoms-tbh @marvelobsessedteenager @viwihere

[xbunnybunz]

The terrible, you. (2/5) [Wolf Keum x Reader]

Summary: After Wolf Keum unwittingly rescues you from seedy men in the dead of night, he can't shake you from his side. After a while, he's not sure if he wants to.

Genres: Romance

Date: June 16, 2020

-----

Wolf Keum did not consider himself a man of mild temper or endless patience. Even before his enrollment in Ganghak High School, his name was written in the books beside a blaring caution sign, touting him the district's most feral and impulsive brawler.

When he set foot into school as the new student who had beat the shit out of the fucker, Forrest Lee, he was unsurprised to find that a target was slapped onto his back by not only Hyeongshin students, but Ganghak seniors as well. It amused Wolf that seniors would find him to be a threat, given they had been cocky enough to publicly announce a week before his arrival that they would beat his ass bloody.

Though it was his ferocity and adrenaline that made him the hottest topic of Yeongduengpo, he was by no means dull.

Wolf didn’t often pride himself on wit or dexterity, but he had more than a few tricks up his sleeve to get him out of a pinch. This is why, on his first day at Ganghak, he expected there to be no less than seven people ready to jump him in front of his class. This is also why, before the end of the first bell, he had managed to disband the entirety of the menagerie with nothing but a single punch.

The psychology of hierarchy was a heap of bullshit, but it was still incredibly effective for someone who wanted to inflict fear. Pinpointing the overzealous ringleader had been easy enough, but knocking out five of his teeth in the middle of his obnoxious “lecture” was even easier.

Wolf remained unflinching when the body hit the floor, the silence that followed the sickening crack was deafening enough to hear the pearly molars clattering across the tiled floor. When he walked into his classroom, Wolf was acutely aware of all the people in the room, as well as the other six delinquents, pissing their panties. He knew he was safe for the remainder of his school year, but “safe” was not the game he liked to play.

The rest of the day was a hunting game.

Unbeknownst to them, Wolf Keum did not spare people. He was a natural predator, and he enjoyed every moment of the chase. He stalked, waited and pounced whenever the opportunity arose, and this time he didn’t stop swinging until he could mop the floor with their blood. When the last bell rung, he had made his way through the list three separate times. He relished in their wide-eyed terror, enjoying each time his bruised knuckles connected with an already-askew nose, blood seeping through the bandages- savoring feeling of the old reign crumbling under his cruel pursuit.

Rumors spread like wildfire, and soon everyone knew that Wolf Keum had hung seven of the strongest Ganghak seniors up to dry… Thrice.

He was keenly aware that this was why people often avoided him, but he was indifferent. The natural order of things had been set straight, and he was satisfied with keeping insects under his heel no matter how they begged, pleaded, or kissed his ass.

This is the reason why, when you appeared at Wolf Keum’s side for the very first time, every student at Ganghak High school flew into chaotic disarray.

The girls of Ganghak sat with their white knuckles pressed harshly against their lips, some praying for your safety while others silently cheer you on from the sidelines- also occasionally stopping to make sure they had a first aid kit nearby.

The boys couldn’t believe their eyes when a girl came strolling into the male wing of the school, a small pink plastic bag in hand. They became even further bewildered when you had parted your lips, blush dusting your cheeks, and dared to ask for audience with Ganghak High School’s wild card, Wolf Keum.

Wolf wasn’t as surprised by your appearance as he was entertained. He had recognized your uniform from the night before, but he didn’t think you would seek him out, let alone attempt to thank him.

Especially because it wasn’t his intention to help you.

Still, fate had dealt him his hand. He watched your form, bowed at the waist and offering up a single packaged cream puff.

He spent little time wondering how you knew his preferred snack down to the brand, and instead observed how strangely steady your hands were. From his seat he saw your still form, showing none of the tremors he was used to seeing from men twice your height and build in his presence. His eyes flickered back over to you.

It was impossible that you didn’t know of him, since you had so endearingly called him “Wolfy” the night before. And yet you had voluntarily walked into his den, finding not only him, but the some of the most intimidating students in Ganghak as well.

Did you not realize how absolutely fucked you were if he gave the word?

“Yo.”

You looked up at him, and Wolf met your stare with his own blasé gaze.

He crossed one leg over the other and leaned in close enough to see his own reflection in your eyes.

“What is this?”

Wolf hears you gulp, and watches your eyelashes flutter as you stutter for an answer.

“S-sorry, I hope you don’t think it’s weird. A wrapper fell out of your pocket yesterday after… You know…” You trailed off, and your eyes darted about, cheeks darkening.

While you were conflicted about admitting that Wolf had saved you in front of his followers, Wolf was silently wrapping his mind around why you had stuttered when you spoke.

In the meanwhile, all of Wolf Keum’s lackeys allowed their thoughts to wander. All of them exchanged incredulous, bug-eyed glances at the idea that Wolf Keum had somehow gotten busy yesterday after kicking the shit out of the Hyeongshin kids.

“I just wanted to see you again.”

Wolf felt the heat emanating from your face, saw your eyes darting skyward, down at the floor, anywhere and everywhere but at him.

He leaned back.

See him again?

A coy smile played on his lips; his eyes still upturned with delight. It wasn’t as if he had a shortage of shuttles at his beck and heed, but there was something so damn absurd about someone waiting on him of their own accord- something so fucking hilarious about someone seeking him out and bearing their defenseless, gullible mug to him of their own volition, and for some blasphemous reason, he liked it.

He plucked the pastry from your fingers and allowed electricity to spark where his skin made contact with yours. He watched, pleased, as you startle and bounce back up from your bowed position, eyes glimmering, cheeks pink and nerves frazzled.

Wolf let a lascivious smirk cross his lips and peered at you through his bottom lashes, knowing exactly what it was you came here for.

“...I’ll enjoy it.”

Your face broke into a wide grin, heat climbing up to your ears and seeping into the back of your neck.

“Thank you! I really hope you do!” You bow again and scamper off, throwing back one last glance at Wolf before escaping from his den, unscathed. He watches as you vanish behind the door; the cream puff wrapper crinkled quietly, seeming a lot smaller in his hand than yours.

Wolf Keum was not known for tolerating nuisances or humoring outlandish requests, he knew this just as well as the several gape-mouthed fuckers at his side. But true to his capricious nature, he was an individual heavily swayed by his instincts. And right now, the buzz in his fingertips where he brushed your skin stirred an endless abyss in his gut, strumming his wild and impulsive heart- demanding more, needing more.

You would be back. He knew it.

The hunt was on.