#its been sitting in my wips for a while though so i just wanted to finish

[buttonheart]

Babygirl

#my art #dabi #mha #bnha #my hero academia #im in a bit of an artistic grave rn and i think it shows #its been sitting in my wips for a while though so i just wanted to finish #not everything you make will be the love of your life and thats ok!!

[gyuwoncheol]

Room Service

↳ A part 2 to 15 Minutes

Pair: Scoups x f!reader

Genre: Smut, Concert!Cheol, husband!Cheol, dom!Cheol, 18+ only (MDNI).

Summary: The only thing hornier than pre-concert Cheol is post-concert Cheol. Lucky for you, you’re the only one in the world with an all-access VIP ticket to this immersive experience.

Warnings: Porn with plot, Concert!Cheol, dom!Cheol, daddy kink, breeding kink, big dick!Cheol, pussy drunk!Cheol, cock hungry!reader, so. many. orgasms., quickie sex, unprotected sex (stay safe, children), oral (f. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), lots of making out, creampieS, slightly public sex, dick riding, manhandling, pussy slapping (like once), use of color system, overstimulation, body worship, breast/nipple play, hair pulling, spitting, crying during and after sex (but it’s not a kink), dirty talk, use of pet names (my love, baby, princess, baby girl, angel), fluff at the end. Please let me know if i missed something, i can’t remember all the filth. Not thoroughly proofread.

WC: 4.1k

Author's Note: Did I get carried away? Hell yes. is this the filthiest thing I’ve ever written? Could be. Except the other wip I have also for Seungcheol might just beat it. Thank you so much again for the love on 15 Minutes. I hope this 2nd part lives up to it.

Author's 2nd Note: For new readers, you don’t have to read 15 Minutes as this can stand on its own, but it would make more sense if you did read it.

“My good girl.” 

Seungcheol chuckled as he plunged deep into your cunt, his cock pushing through your mixed cum that you so diligently kept in as instructed, “so good at following instructions huh?” 

“Fuck baby, you’re so messy” Cheol cursed, mouth watering at the sight of your stored cum slowly dripping out of your hole as he dragged out his entire length until only the tip was in. You groaned when you felt globs of it trickle down your thigh, your husband’s large hand slowly pushing you down against the back of the couch. You felt him engulf you, his chest against your back, hot breath on your ears, “cat got your tongue, babe?” The man teased just as he thrusted his length back into you, causing more cum to overflow from your hole.

It had only been roughly 30 minutes since the concert finally ended, the boys doing all the post show rituals from changing clothes to shooting backstage content, and as soon as that was over, Seungcheol had all but dragged you to another dressing room, not even saying anything as he unzipped your jeans and dragged your very soiled panties down. Not that you were surprised though, post-concert was always when Cheol was the horniest, with all that adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

You could feel the prominent vein on his cock drag through your walls deliciously as he alternated between slow and fast thrusts, an arm snaked around your torso while hot phrases flew from his mouth.

“Fuck, pussy so tight.” 

“All mine.” 

“I’ll give you all my babies.” 

“Gon’ pump you full.” 

“My good girl so desperate for cum.” 

“Cheol!” You screeched in between moans when you felt him hit that sensitive spot particularly rough.

“Did you watch me tonight, baby? Why weren’t you in the stands?” He asked suddenly, as if he wasn’t still railing you from behind.

“C-couldn’t g-go” you squeaked, willing yourself to form words when all you really wanted to do was whimper in pleasure, “had to… be— behave… fuck!” 

“Behave?” Cheol clarified even though he sensed where this was going. In all the times they rushed backstage in between sets, not once had you moved from your spot, sitting cross legged on top of the large black trunk cases situated right in front of the screen which broadcasted the events on stage.  “Words, baby” he said sweetly yet firmly when he saw you nod eagerly.

“Yes! Behave. Had t-to… k-keep.. shiiiiit,” you groaned, your elbows harshly rubbing on the leather material of the couch after another rough entry of Cheol’s cock, “keep da-daddy’s… cum… in me.” You finished off your defense and you could already see your husband’s smirk without even really looking at him.

“Aren’t. You. Such. An. Angel.” Seungcheol punctuated each word with a deep harsh thrust.

“And all yours.” You punctuated as you looked back at him, both your eyes glazing in lust. The loud sound of skin slapping skin and your pussy squelching at every thrust was unmistakable, the room smelled of sex. The group’s leader was sweating even more than he did when he got off stage, his warmth radiating onto your body as he kept you impossibly close to him, jackhammering his cock in your cunt. 

“Shit shit shit shit..” you cried out loud when his other hand suddenly rubbed fast circles on your clit.

“FUCK!” Seungcheol growled at your release, your pussy clamping down on him so tightly that it triggered his own. He stilled within you in an instant, bodies folded in half against the leather couch, your husband continuously muttering incoherent words as the feeling of your fluttering walls drove him to another level of cloud 9. 

“Yah! You two better eat already if you’re really planning to go all night” Seungkwan scolded in his best mom voice when the both of you entered the buffet area hand in hand.

You hid your face on Cheol’s shoulders, suddenly very aware of all 12 boys looking your way. They were very much aware of what you two had been doing and why you were doing it. In spite of the never ending teasing and playful disgusted looks they give their leader, the members had all told you they were excited for Cheol to become a dad mostly because it meant he’d get off their asses. 

“We’re actually going ahead. We’ll take a different car.” Your husband announced, a gentle squeeze to your hand when some of the boys howled at the implication of both of you going back to the hotel first.

“Really not wasting any time huh?” Soonyoung smirked despite having his mouth full of noodles 

“What? She’s leaving soon!” Seungcheol whined.

“Y/n still has a week left!!” Mingyu corrected with a roll of his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, still not enough!” Cheol replied. He gave a curt nod to Jeonghan, calling his name firmly as if to say ‘i leave the kids with you.’

“Hyung, seriously, you both have to eat.” DK was next to remind you both as he knows you’re both still running on empty stomachs.

“We’ll get room service,” your husband called out, inching closer towards the exit doors that would lead you to the vans.

“We hope it's the food kind! And maybe let y/n get some real sleep after!” Joshua’s reminder had you giggling, glad enough to know the boys still cared for you even though all you’ve done was hog all of Seungcheol’s free time.

Surprisingly, you had both managed to stay well behaved in the car ride home. If anything, you two were very sweet, your head resting on Cheol’s shoulders as he held your hand through the ride and absentmindedly played with your fingers. 

Even when you had both showered together in the hotel room, your husband did not try to make any advances, he simply cleaned you both up, even giving you a nice massage on your scalp when you lathered your favorite shampoo. 

Contrary to what his members may think, Seungcheol wasn’t too adamant about fucking you all night. He could see how tired you actually are and Mingyu was right, you did still have a week left with him. He just wants to make sure you are cared for like his queen this whole trip, whether that meant blowing your back or giving you 8 hours of sleep, he didn’t mind. 

“Tired, baby?” He asked as he secured the knot on your fluffy hotel robe.

You lazily smiled at him as you settled in bed, pulling him towards you for good measure. “I’m ok.”

“Hungry? Wanna get some food now?” 

“Want you to kiss me.” 

Seungcheol was taken aback by the boldness of your request, not because it was the first time you asked, but because you both have definitely done more than just kissing these past 72 hours. He smiled sheepishly as he climbed over you, settling on your side as his chapped lips kissed your soft ones. You clutched onto his hand on your neck, sighing happily when you felt him deepen the kiss. 

“Someone’s happy,” a low chuckle from your husband.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, “i love your kisses.” Despite the raunchy sex, there was always just something so nice and intimate about kissing your husband. His lips were always so plump against yours and the way he’d hold you securely always made you feel like you meant the world to him. 

“You’re so beautiful, i love you so much,” Seungcheol admired your bare face before sucking on your lower lip.

You moaned out an i love you too but it only got swallowed by the man who couldn’t get enough of you. You climbed on his lap, trapping him in between your legs, taking control of this little makeout session you were having. Inevitably, the more you kissed him, the more your hips moved on its own accord, grinding on Cheol’s robe-covered bottom half. 

You were moving erratically, wanting to chase a high you knew you needed if you were to fit Cheol’s dick again tonight. 

“Daddy, please...” you cried, annoyed that you just couldn’t get to where you wanted to be 

“Please what, baby girl?”

You whined desperately at the dangerously low tone in your ear, “please make me cum.” 

Record time is what you’d call it, the way Seungcheol went from flipping you over to casting your robe open to having his mouth suck on your clit harshly. You couldn’t even process it, all you knew was your throat was straining from how you were screaming his name with how he lapped at your cunt. His tongue licked bold stripes from your hole to your clit before he'd suck the sensitive bud. If there's anything Cheol has perfected, it's his hand-mouth coordination, the way he perfectly syncs his plush lips to suck at your clit while two fingers sink in you and curl to graze that spongy spot inside your walls. It should really have you embarrassed at how quick it could unravel the coil in your stomach. Your orgasm exploding in colorful bursts behind your eyes whilst soaking your husband's face in a mess. 

"I forgot how sweet you fucking taste," he groaned, slurping the juices leaking from your hole. He peeked up at you from where he was, your mouth agape and chest rising and falling while your fingers still gripped on his hair. You were hissing from oversensitivity but you should've known that post-concert Cheol was a starved man. When he deemed he had swallowed all of you, three fingers prodded at your entrance that had you arching your back from the bed only to be pushed down with your husband's free arm. "Stay still, baby. Daddy's not done yet." 

"Fuuuuuuck, " you panted, going delirious from the overstimulation your pussy was feeling. You writhed in vain as Cheol smothered your cunt like a full course meal. When you tried to squirm away, he delivered a slap to your pussy that sent shocks all over your body. "I'm cu- fuck! I'm cumming," you shuddered, thighs closing in on your husband's head. 

Seungcheol chuckled at your state, a proud grin across his face when he finally settled beside you. After pulling back to back orgasms from you in less than 10 minutes, he knew you were oversensitive and just needed to not be touched. "You okay, my love?" 

"Just.." you panted, "Just a minute." 

You rolled over on your stomach when you regained enough strength, and slowly but surely got on your wobbly knees to climb on your husband's thick thighs. Seungcheol wanted to squeeze your bare breasts but seeing as you were still slightly swaying, he decided to hold you securely by the waist. "what're you doing?" He mused while watching you fumble with the knot of his robe. 

His dick twitched at the sight of your lust blown, hooded eyes. "Daddy..." You smiled, god, you were so far gone, "Wanna ride you." 

Seungcheol moaned, hurriedly helping you untie his robe and throwing it to the floor. You salivated at the sight of his hard cock slapping against his stomach, red tip leaking with precum. Anchoring your palms on his chest, you kept your eyes trained on him as you sucked on your tongue before letting some of your saliva drool onto his length, your hand immediately gripping and spreading the fluid along his shaft, thumb grazing at the slit.

“Holy shit,” he cursed, hips bucking into your hand on instinct. A wicked smile crossed your face, delighted with the effect your actions had on him.

Cheol's eyes rolled to the back of his head when you finally let your pussy glide against his cock, coating it even more in your wetness.

"Fuck baby, what's gotten into you?" He hissed as you picked up your pace, grinding his cock against your wet folds, always making sure to let the tip kiss your clit when you move down. "So fucking needy for daddy's cock huh?" 

You moaned when one of his large hand squeezed your right breast and his dick leaked more precum onto his stomach. The sight of you, head falling back and mouth parted, was immaculate. He wished he remembered where his phone was right now, it would've been the perfect photo to take for him to get off on in the future. He committed it to memory as best he could, but even that thought immediately flew away when he finally felt you sink into his dick. 

"Oh my god,” you moaned in unison.

Seungcheol wasn't so sure if he was wincing from your nails digging into his chest or from the vice grip of your cunt on his cock, but either way, both felt like heaven to him. "Baby girl, you just came twice and you're still so fucking tight.”

"C-can take you, daddy. Please... p-promise!" You begged, lowering yourself to take in a few more inches of him. The stretch was familiar yet it still had you squeezing your eyes shut and biting your lower lip. 
Afraid he wouldn't be able to stay still any longer, Cheol took the matter in his own hands, sitting up to bring your chest flush against his, connecting your lips in a heated kiss to distract you from the pain. He still tasted of you and a slight hint of your minty toothpaste. When he felt you relax, his strong hold sank you onto him until he was fully sheathed. You broke from the kiss, head falling back once again at the overwhelming feeling of being so full. 

"Cmon, baby, thought you wanted to ride me?" He sucked on the column of your throat, causing you to swivel your hips. "There you go. You can do it." God, his voice was so sinful it made your insides churn. Another strangled moan left your mouth when his wet tongue made contact with your right nipple, licking and sucking before he kissed between the valley of your breasts, only to nip at your left bud.

"Oh my god, Cheol!" You pulled at his hair, wanting him to leave your sensitive breasts alone. 

He laughed dryly at your attempt but still allowed you that space. He let go of your waist to lean back with his palms against the mattress to have a full view of you. "Cmon baby," He spurred on, "show daddy what you got." 

Choi Seungcheol was simply left with no regrets at his challenge. His eyes almost turned completely black when you decided to fully bounce on him. When you found a good pace, you alternated between bouncing and grinding, one hand squeezing your breast as the other held onto his knee for support. "Fuck, daddyyy," you cried at the stretch, and he could just feel your pussy clenching on his cock even more.

"So fucking needy," he spat, "Can't get enough of my cock." 

You shook your head at his words, mewling when your clit rubbed deliciously at his pelvis and his engorged head kissed your cervix. "D-daddy.." 

"That's it, baby girl," Seungcheol cooed, bucking his hips up to meet yours, "get off on me, ride me 'til you shake. Need you to cum, princess." 

Encouraged by your husband's words, you lifted ‘til just the tip was in before sitting down on him harshly. He continued to praise you and how delicious your warm pussy felt, a string of very lewd words produced with every swivel of your hips. Your face contorted in pleasure and he knew you were close, "touch yourself," came his instructions.

"shit!" You cursed, cumming on the spot when two of your fingers rubbed against your clit.

Seungcheol beamed at how well he knew you, your tells and your triggers when you're about to cum. But what he didn't see coming was just how fast the sight of you getting off on top of him would quickly bring him to the edge too. If he didn’t catch it at the last second, he might have just spilled in you.

In one swift motion, not even pulling out of you, he flipped you on your back and trapped you under his weight. You yelped when he pumped into you, catching you off guard as you were still trying to ride out your own orgasm. 

"Ba-aby, fuck. You're d-driving me insane," he growled, "don't you dare fucking close your eyes. Keep 'em on me." 

Your fingers weaved through his hair, as you desperately tried to follow his instructions. If only he wasn't hell bent on reaching his high, Seungcheol would've laughed at how often you'd train your eyes to look at him every time they kept trying to roll to the back of your head. "Daddy's gonna fuck a baby in you, you want that, princess?" 

"Y-yes daddy! yes!" You mewled, both your legs being lifted up, calves resting on Seungcheol’s meaty shoulders, while he inserted a pillow below your ass. "Fuck me full, daddy, please,” a breathless request.

He folded you in half, planting his knees on the mattress and bracing himself on your sides. Seungcheol drove his cock into you, hitting you so deep that you felt him just below your cervix and you moaned the loudest that night. Strangled moan after strangled moan came out of your mouth while throaty grunts and curse words flew off from his, all this mixed with the explicit sound of your sweaty bodies colliding.

"m-more, daddy! More, please!"  

"Fuuuuuuck, you're insatiable, so fucking tight," Seungcheol moaned. His movements were rough, pulling out of you completely before fully slamming back in and going deep with every move. The sex was everything close to animalistic, you could feel him in the deepest parts of you, consistently hitting a spot that made your brain short circuit. "So needy for my cum, want to be filled so bad."

"Daddy, so- oh my god. So fucking big.”

“Princess, I-I’m.. s-so...close,” he warned, staring at your teary eyes while your hands intertwined behind his neck. Seungcheol buried his cock in you, not bothering to thrust out of your grip, instead grinding endlessly to help stimulate your clit against his pelvis.

"Cum with me, Cheollie. P-please."  

Your husband growled before his hips jerked twice, hot spurts of his cum painting your walls white. His eyes boring into yours and the feeling of being so full only triggered your own release, rendering you into a babbling mess. Seungcheol connected your mouths in a kiss, not caring that you were already out of breath. He interspersed them with praises of how good you felt clenching on his cock. 

"I love you, Cheollie." 

"I know baby, I know. I love you too," he breathed, hissing at how hard he still was despite just hitting his climax. His dick was almost painful in your tight hold, "give me one more, yeah?" 

Before you could even process his question, you were already flipped on all fours, whining at the temporary emptiness. "Wha- Cheol, I-" 

"Be good for daddy, yeah? One more, princess. One more to get you round and full." But who were you to deny your Choi Seungcheol? Your husband who was just as ready to start a family with you like he's always dreamed of. Your arms gave way when you felt him breach your abused hole once more, your limp body allowing him to control your hips even more. He was kneading your ass, surely leaving handprints in his wake. 

"Ch- ahh!" You cried in a silent scream, the pleasure you were feeling just devouring your every being. You could feel the goosebumps rise on you scalp and run to the tips of your toes as Seungcheol pounded you from behind. "Cheollie... Oh.. oh! fu-uuuck." 

He pulled you by your hair harshly, your back flush against his chest, the low rumble of his voice affecting your body, "Call me Cheollie again and you won't get to cum." 

"Daddy!" you whined apologetically, tears freely flowing down your cheeks. 

"There you go, not so hard huh, princess?" Seungcheol teased, an arm wrapping around your shoulders while the other cupped at your cunt. "Color, my love?" 

"G-green, daddy.. Pl-Please... just j-ust cum in me." 

"Fuck, you sound so broken... So greedy for my cum." Seungcheol relentlessly fucked up into you, until his pace grew erratic and bent you both forward. He stopped himself with his forearm to the mattress so as not to crush you, but with your muscles already weak, you simply face planted into the soft hotel pillows, drool and tears staining the white sheets.

"All mine," your husband chanted repetitively, stilling inside your pussy as it clenched around him tightly. Your orgasm rippled through you in a big tidal wave that Seungcheol could just feel your slick coat him anew. Your whole body shook uncontrollably, jolts of electricity alighting all your nerves. With one last loud call of your name, Seungcheol shot his load inside you, white ropes of sticky cum filling your cunt to the brim. His own thighs trembling as he finally collapsed on you, knocking out the little air you had left. He whispered i love you's to your ear, riding out his own orgasm which lasted longer than the both of you expected, especially when he just came a few minutes ago. 

In your two years of marriage, you don't think you've ever been this spent after sex, and neither did Seungcheol. But nothing catches his attention faster than the sound of you sniffing followed by a tiny hiccup. He moves up and pulls out of you so quickly that he hisses harshly, but you whine out even louder, causing alarm bells to ring in his head. 

"nooo..." you cry pathetically, your voice barely above a whisper, "come back."

"Baby, what's wrong?" Seungcheol pulls you towards him, eyes scanning your body for any abnormal pain, dreading the next few words out of his mouth, "did I hurt you?" 

You shook your head no, your hands grabbing at his chest to pull yourself closer to him and bury your face in his neck.

"Princess..." he started gently, still not completely sure if you were really okay. "I need your words. Need you to tell me if I hurt you." 

You choked as you tried to speak, voice straining from all the noises you've made tonight, but you were well aware your crying did nothing to comfort your husband. "I'm okay." 

"Was I too much?" 

"No. Never." You assured with a soft kiss on his chest. "So good to me." 

Seungcheol let out a sigh of relief at your words. "Wanna tell me why you're crying?" He asked, moving you both on your side so he could look at you properly, one hand soothing your back. His warm breath tickled your face, as he tried to wipe away your tears with the softest look in his eyes. 

You felt another squeeze in your heart while warmth crept up in your cheeks, both your hands instinctively covering your face when tears pricked at your eyes once more. You mumbled something but Cheol couldn't really understand and he didn't want to push, so he held you tighter instead, leaving kisses on your shoulder as his free hand brushed your hair. He could feel your tears wet his neck and shoulder and he willed himself to stay patient and calm. 

"I'm sorry," you squeaked after a long bout of silence between you two, "am I scaring you?" 

"A little bit," Seungcheol chuckled. 

You looked up into his eyes, wanting to make sure he knows he did nothing wrong, "I'm just overwhelmed," your voice began to crack again at the last word, "I... I just... I really want a family with you, Cheol," you sobbed, your hands attempting to cover your face again but your husband was quick enough to grab at them. His own cupped your face instead, a thumb wiping at your tears as he let out the brightest smile, his own cheeks dusted in a light pink shade. "I really want this to work, Cheol." 

"I do, too, baby but in our own time, yeah? If it’s for us, then it will happen one way or another. Let's not pressure ourselves too much. I don't want you to pressure yourself too much," your husband comforted, "Besides, with or without kids, I already have you... and Kkuma… you're already family to me."  

You were pretty sure you felt your heart grow a size bigger at his words, mentally thanking the heavens you had a husband who adored and loved you so much.

Your moment was cut off by the incessant buzz of a phone and when you looked towards the bedside table to check, sure enough your device was vibrating towards the edge. Picking it up to stop the ring, your eyes grew wide at the notification that flashed on top of the screen, a smile dancing on your lips as you comprehended the app’s words in black font.

"Cheollie?" 

"Yeah?"

"I'm ovulating."

Feedback and reblogs are highly appreciated ☺️

#now go douse yourself with holy water #svt #svthub #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen #svt smut #seventeen smut #scoups fic #scoups one shot #scoups smut #scoups imagine #seungcheol smut #seungcheol fic #seungcheol one shot #seungcheol imagine #scoups x reader #seungcheol x reader #svt one shot #svt fic #daddy cheol #daddy scoups #paula writes ✨ #paula writes smut #paula thots #Room Service #15 Minutes

[notjustjavierpena]

Wake

A/N: Finally another part of my darksugardaddy!joel. This has been sitting in my WIPs for a while, and I’m so pleased with how it turned out. Be kind to me as I haven’t written in a while and I feel terrible about starving you all of content.

Summary: Joel comes home to fuck your lights out. 

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader/You (No y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, dub-con with non-con elements, painful and rough sex, p in v sex, choking, passing out, degradation, abusive behavior, creampie, dirty talk, no aftercare, sugar daddy, daddy kink

Word count: 2k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50908876

Wake

It’s a late afternoon when you come to a realization; you don’t love Joel Miller, and you don’t think you could ever love Joel Miller. He is everything that you’ve been taught to hate if you want to believe in fairytales. Your parents would disapprove of him so immediately that you’d be terrified of them cutting you off from them if they knew of his existence.

You’ve never had a man be this rough with you, and only occasionally stroking your hair in apology afterward, but you suppose that the copious amounts of money spent on you - clothes that feel like armor around regular men and expensive bottles of wine that might as well have been potions designed to make you insane - is enough to make up for any unpleasantries within what you don’t dare call a relationship. 

You don’t love him but you can’t hate him. Not in a way that any other person would. How else would you surround yourself with pretty things? You’re no good at anything else than being what he needs.

Whenever he has had a bad day, you know the roughness will increase. It always starts the same; with a slam of the mansion door and a hungry search for you through the obnoxiously large building. He calls for you and you don’t dare not to answer, and in the end, he finds you in the extravagant living room - one of many - with its gold-rimmed glass tables and Chesterfield couches. You’ve been reading a book, but you put it down the second he enters and don’t even bother asking to read to the next full stop. 

“There you are,” he almost heaves for breath with exhaustion from his anger. He isn’t angry at you - you know this - but still, you find yourself treading lightly when his voice is so cold that the living room seems to drop a few degrees in temperature and causing your nipples to harden at the sudden change.

Then, as part of your ritual, he gets a thick wad of bills from the inside pocket of his suit and places it on the nearest surface. A bank transfer won’t do in these situations. He needs something physical, something he can hold in his hand and flash before you, and you know that he wants you to fall to your knees and beg for the warmth and dirtiness of the printed bills against your clean skin.

You’re just about to when he interrupts you.

“There will be more when you wake,” he promises, voice almost too quiet and restrained. Like he is saving his strength. 

You notice his choice of words; when you wake.

Wake.

You gulp. You’ll have to take it in stride. You’ll have to play the part.

You rise from your seat and he watches you patiently. You say nothing as you lower yourself onto the glass table and then lie down on your back, knowing it can hold because Joel would never buy a surface that he couldn’t have you on. 

You’ve learned not to wear anything too difficult to get out of, so it takes little time for you to pull off your skirt. Though you struggle a bit with your underwear since they’re already damp, sticking to the outline of your cunt and the sight makes Joel smirk like the Devil. Curse him, you think, for knowing that you can barely function when he looms over you like a giant, like a dangerous predator that hasn’t tasted blood for weeks. 

When you manage to maneuver your panties down your thighs, he twitches with impatience and curls his whole fist around the cotton fabric. He yanks them down and watches them twist into themselves as he pulls them down over the length of your legs and off your feet. 

They catch on your heels for the tiniest second. He gracefully undoes the ankle straps of them and drops each one onto the floor after taking it off. The anticipation is killing you, toying with your ability to breathe properly and even moreso at the humiliation of only wearing your top now. 

“Pull it down,” he commands, gesturing to it. You start to yank at the bottom to pull it over your head but he growls, “Down. Not off, stupid bitch.”

Oh. 

You pull the neckline down to settle it underneath your breasts, feeling like something on display with the way that Joel takes you in. His cock strains against the front of his pants, his breath uneven, when he cups both of your tits in his hands and pushes them roughly together. His thumbs skim over your hardened nipples, causing you to moan and he responds by pinching them instead until the moan transforms into a whimper.

“I’m gonna fuck you until your pretty little lights go out,” he mutters, pinches, and then tugs a bit on your nipples until you move involuntarily, “Lie still. Don’t give me any shit.”

He takes a step back, his gaze pinning you down whilst he undoes his belt. You refrain from shivering in case he tells you off once more, but you’re so close to doing it when you hear the noise of his zipper. A gush of wetness seeps from you, possibly smearing the glass surface that you are lying on. 

“Please,” you say pathetically.

“Please what?” He asks as if he doesn’t care.

“Daddy,” you present your cunt for him by opening your legs and Joel instinctively looks at your quivering slit, “Please fuck me.”

Joel steps between your legs, using his knees to push them even further apart. He towers over you, cock standing impressively into the air after he has shoved his pants and underwear down his thighs. He tuts at the desperate look in your eyes, “I barely make it through the front door before you’re spreading your legs for me.”

You want to argue that he was the one who sought you out, but he might leave you with a throbbing cunt if you have the audacity to play smart with him, so instead you just nod with a breathless ‘yes’.

He places one knee on the coffee table, following up with scooping a hand underneath the small of your back to align your lower pelvises. His grip is so strong, his bare skin, the amount you are allowed to feel, burns against your own. Like King Midas, his touch enriches you, turns you into something as valuable as gold. 

His cock breaches your tight cunt moments after. He watches you intently as your eyes screw shut with the inevitable sting that it brings due to his generous girth. He seats himself to the hilt inside of you and reaches something you didn’t even know a man could get to when he presses his hand into the spot where it rests on your back. 

“Good girl,” he praises with a strained moan, “How do you feel?”

“Full,” you say shakily and teasingly clench around him. 

He takes in a sharp breath, and before you know it, his free hand has come down on your right breast in a harsh slap. He adds to it by palming your throat afterward, tightly gripping it when you try to squeeze around his length again after not having been given time to react to the consequence of doing it the first time. You smirk up at him and he nearly loses his mind. 

“God, you just want it bad, don’t you, little girl?” His hips draw back and he keeps you waiting for the briefest second before slamming them forward again. The force behind his thrusts is borderline painful, but the way his hand arches your back makes his cockhead pound your front wall. 

The moans you let out are barely there, high-pitched or silent with the way he knocks all wind out of you whilst simultaneously cutting off oxygenated blood to your brain.

He fucks you like an animal, all groans and grunts, sweat dripping from his brow because he is too hungry for dominance to undress. He loves being able to quickly flee the scene afterward and loves leaving you with no clothes on so you cannot follow him. 

But it’s not the amount of clothes that he wears compared to you that gets you close to the edge. It is the fact that nothing around you feels real except for him. Even you don’t feel real but rather closer to an inanimate object that only comes alive because of the dark eyes that penetrate your own. 

You’ve known this fact for a while. Despite the love not being there, you know that after this arrangement has started - you don’t know what else to call it - his mere looking at you is what makes you materialize. 

Your fingers come up to curl around his wrist. You cannot breathe and it fucking hurts, only dulled by the way that your cunt starts to flutter with how close he has gotten you to the edge. You hadn’t expected him to make you come. 

With wide eyes, you look up at him in an attempt to tell him what is going on. He holds your gaze, pleased with himself as he drives into you, “I know, little girl, don’t have to tell me, I can feel you.” 

You don’t have the guts to fight his harsh hand. You take it with tears forming in your eyes and the feeling of your pulse pounding in your neck where it’s fighting to get past his bruising grip. 

“Say it, say that you love me, that you’re nothing without me,” he commands, but when you try to speak it is nothing but a squeak. He has his hand so tightly around your windpipe that you cannot get a word past your lips, drooling and shaking underneath his lack of mercy as your tongue feels too big for your mouth. He grins maniacally down at you as your vision blurs around the edges, “Made you speechless, did I? You filthy whore.”

You have always been familiar with the term putting someone’s lights out, but you’ve never understood the true meaning until Joel came into your life. You come hard, unfolding beneath his touch, with tears on your cheeks - and then there’s nothing.

Like a child falling asleep in a car seat, you have been carried up the stairs and into your bedroom. You sit up in your comfy bed and try to piece together how you have gotten here, and when you realize, it is because of your underwear and skirt messily and hurriedly sitting around your ankles. 

You tug your bottom garments up again. There is something sticky between your legs, and you know, immediately. what it is when you start to shift your legs and are hit with soreness. Everything hurts, but nothing seems to be broken or damaged. 

You glance to your right and spot the stack of bills that Joel had flashed earlier. It is neatly placed on the edge of the table along with a glass of water and some aspirin. You’ll take them soon, need to feel the ache a little while longer.

Instead of doing what is most comfortable (like taking the damn pills), you reach for the money instead. A delusional person would argue that they still feel warm, the temperature somewhere between newly printed and body heat. You take a few of them in your hand, and then you press them against your skin. The fact that you find it soothing is pathetic.

The wonder and innocence of being carried upstairs as a kid doesn’t translate into adulthood, you think, and then you lay down to fall into a deep sleep.

.

.

.

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#pedro pascal characters #joel miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel the last of us #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fanfic #joel miller imagine #joel miller smut #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #my writing #sugardaddy!joel

[bamsara]

A03 Questions Tag Game

I got tagged by: @kagedbird I tag: @onethirdofimpossible, @coffincrows, (first two that come to mind) and anyone else who wants to do the game

1 – How many works do you have on AO3?

At the time of writing this post, currently 30 fics. (Not including any fics or written works that are not posted to AO3)

2 – What's your total AO3 word count?

1,066,633

3 – What fandoms do you write for?

Formerly: Don't Starve, FNAF, Dragons Dogma, Invader Zim

Currently: Cult of the Lamb

4 – What are your top five fics by kudos?

Solar Lunacy, Celestial Omens, Bytes of Lunacy, The Rehabilitation of Death, Saturday Insomnia

5 – Do you respond to comments?

I try to but I also get very nervous responding because I often don't know what to say back and I feel like it's almost rude or disrespectful to respond to a comment, esp the very nice ones that are long and in-deph with just a keysmash or a bunch of emojis, but I do read every single one since I have email notifications on for them

I'd like to sit down and respond to many but I really don't want to make it awkward so pls dear god readers forgive me

6 – What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don't like unhappy endings. I enjoy angsty stories but I like when it's at least ending happy to me

7 – What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Not posted? Solar Lunacy

Ongoing? TROD

8 – Do you get hate on fics?

Not really? Most adults (in my experience) know the 'don't like don't read' rule and know basic online etiquette. I've gotten some for discontinuing a fic or switching fandoms though

9 – Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I don't write or draw NSFW! I like to make some suggestive themes sometimes, but I'm a very ace person, it's not something I do often. (I do have a current running goal that if my friend reaches their donation goal for their medical bills that I would give NSFW a shot, but again its not really my cup of tea)

10 – Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Nah I haven't written any cross overs, but I do draw them sometimes. Recently I've been spinning a Alice in Wonderland x COTL crossover in my head.

11 – Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yep. I've had people copy and paste my work, go in with a thesaurus to change a few words (like changing 'angry' to mad, 'upset' to 'sad', and so forth) to try and avoid detection and re-posted my written work under a different title name. AO3 staff took them down for violating their policy against plagiarism though

12 – Have you ever had a fic translated?

No. I wouldn't mind it so as long as I'm asked before hand, though not on anon so I can actually work with the person to prevent any mistranslations or mishandling, and that I don't want my work posted to other websites

13 – Have you ever co-written a fic?

I think I did when I was a teen but I cannot remember now

14 – What's your all-time favorite ship?

Eh I don't have any favorites, just ones I really focus on for a long while

15 – What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Pass.

16 – What are your writing strengths?

I can sit down for hours or several days and work on a writing wip completely in the zone. I cant do it on command but its at least something I can do

17 – What are your writing weaknesses?

Spelling and grammar, and sometimes long running sentences. I just kinda write, theres not really a goal for it to be perfect though so as long as the story gist and vibe is right, im fine with it

18 – Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I've done it before but only minor, had a friend help me with it (one or two lines of dialogue) Aside from that, I'm not comfortably fluent enough in anything to do it again without assistance

19 – First fandom you wrote for?

Soul Eater, when I was wayyy too young to be posting anything on the internet. My fanfics I wrote are still on fanfic.net to this day

20 – Favorite fic you've written?

It's inbetween TROD and EE&E right now

#sara shush

[golden-afternoon]

wahhh happy birthday Xiao!!! I wanted to finish writing this which I had sitting in my wips for a while now for his birthday but got really sad when I realized I wouldn't be able to get it done in time. Therefore the ending is suuuuper rushed and the whole thing is a little jank but I wanted to post it still even if it's not perfect. May revisit this later to fix it up a little!

Warnings - gn! reader, Xiao dealing with Xiao thoughts in his not exactly healthy ways, blowjobs n face fucking my favorites 😋, wet dreams, aaand I think that covers it?

Bitter.

Bitter was the taste usually lingering in his mouth. Bitter words waiting behind his lips, bitter bile at the back of his throat at best forgotten memories, bitter disdain as he swallows back his useless desires. The unpleasant flavor remains on his tongue most of the time, having come to accept it was simply another burden of his to bear.

How rare then was such a taste of sweetness?

Xiao swallowed thickly, almost on instinct to get rid of the unfamiliar sweet flavor that had begun to spread across his tongue, flooding his senses. His mouth felt incredibly dry and the action had done little to nothing to sate the urge to remove the offending taste.

So, so sweet.

It was so unbearably sweet, he wasn’t sure he could stand it.

So sweet was the sight before him, he could hardly wrap his head around it. The sight of you. You, there before him gazing up with those sweet, precious eyes of yours. You, so sweetly kneeling before him as though it were the most natural position in the world to be in. You, whose fingers delicately had been tracing along the hem of his pants, gently tugging at the silks that lie around his hips to set the fabric loose.

“What are you doing?”

The words left him, coming out in a low, biting tone, bitterness falling from his tongue with practiced ease. Yet, he made no effort to move away. He, the Vigilant Yaksha, the Conqueror of Demons, the great Alatus, was frozen in place like an animal caught by surprise in a field. His brows furrowed together he stared down at you, both trying to piece together the meaning of your behavior and why he had not moved yet. His heart was beating hard enough in his chest that he could hear the blood rushing around his ears in time with each beat.

Yet even with the sharpness of his words, you remained unfazed, simply smiling up at him with such tenderness, unaware that such a gaze made that sweet flavor flood across his tongue again, much to his growing unease. “You may try to lie to yourself Xiao, but it's clear as day to me that you need to spend some time relaxing.”

Even your voice was sweeter than anything he'd ever tasted. It made his stomach churn. No, not churn. That's not the right word. It was a lighter sensation than that. Almost… pleasant, even as it made him almost feel sick. A feeling slowly becoming more and more familiar to him the more time he had spent around you.

The adeptus was ripped from his hazy reverie as the gentle clink of metal hit the floor, followed almost immediately by those nimble fingers brushing against his hips as they gently began to pull down the last bit of fabric separating his shame from your eyes. His hands twitched with the impulse to shove you away, bitter guilt bordering on panic rising in his throat, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He swallowed again, his mouth just as dry as before as his golden eyes sharply watched every movement you made.

“What are you doing to me?” He asked, his normally cool and indifferent tone sinking into a slightly uneven rasp, shamefully hinting at how much you were affecting him.

Xiao felt heat wash over his face as a sweet laugh left your lips, leaving his question unanswered in favor of lowering the dark fabric further and further until his aching cock sprung free of its confines. A gloved hand instinctively lifted to his mouth to suppress the noise that came from him at the feeling, and even worse, the sight of your eyes being locked onto his already achingly hard shaft with such keen interest and fascination. If he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve been certain you were trying to kill him, what with how his heart was beating so hard it felt like it could burst at any moment. He ripped his eyes away from the painfully sweet sight, that strange flavor spreading across his tongue once more as saliva pooled in his mouth.

This was wrong. This shouldn’t be happening. He shouldn’t be allowing this in the first place! If he allowed you to do this, then all it would serve to do was hurt you in the end, he had no right to be so selfish-

A hitching gasp was ripped from his chest as he felt the softest sensation brush against the head of his cock. Sharp eyes immediately came right back to look down at you, his pupils dilating as he sees you with your lips still pressed to the tender, flushed skin in such a gentle little kiss. His dick twitched from the sweet sight, the motion making his sensitive skin lift away from those soft lips, giving him a brief moment of reprieve before it rested back into place, tapping against your mouth and effectively smearing a bit of the liquid leaking from him on those pretty lips, giving him such a shamefully lewd view that it drew a groan from him, unable to be muffled by his gloved hand.

Seeming to be encouraged by his reaction, he watched as your lips parted, that pretty pink tongue sliding out to lick up the mess he had left behind. A growled curse left him as he felt the sinful desires he’d been fending off came crashing in on him, nearly making his knees buckle under the weight of it. A soft hum of pleasure left your lips, seemingly enjoying his no doubt bitter taste. Surely that was just for show, he immediately assumed, slowly lowering his hand from his blushing face, only to instantaneously be proven wrong by your hands sliding onto his thighs for support as you leaned closer, drawing your warm tongue along his part of his length, lingering at the top to collect the rest of the clear fluid that had leaked out.

His restraint was wearing thin as the hand that had just been on his face now found itself settled on the back of your head, his gloved fingers curling loosely into your hair. Xiao remained silent for a moment, his face caught in a strained expression as he looked down at you, his golden eyes studying you with an intensity that he has found himself unable to hide any longer.

Your name left his lips quietly, the rasp of his voice barely audible above the steady rain coming down outside the open window. He began to card his fingers through your hair before managing his next words. “Do you really want to do this? If you keep going as you are, I may not be able to stop myself.” He warned in that same tone, wishing he had been able to speak louder, but he knew that if he had, it would have only made his voice waver.

Those sweet eyes stayed locked onto his as you processed the question, answering him with a smile and a playful little kiss to his head once more. “Then don’t stop yourself.”

Before he could have much time to comprehend those words, Xiao found himself curling his fingers into your hair with a grunt, nearly becoming winded from the feeling of his cock slowly be enveloped into the warm, wet heat of your mouth. Its not the first time in his long existence that he has experienced such intimate pleasures, but certainly it had been a very, very long time since he had even considered indulging himself in things like this. He’d spent so much of his time convincing himself he held no such desires, but here you were breaking down every wall he’d built with such ease.

Another growling curse left him as he felt his tip hit the back of your mouth, having brought a muffled little gagging noise to his ears. He shivered as the reflex simply made your throat tighten for a moment around the portion of him that had pressed towards your throat. That was enough to make him crack.

He adjusted his hold on your hair, curling his fingers in to maintain a firm, almost painful grip before he began to move, teeth sinking into his lip as he began to shift his hips. Vibrations from the sweet little yelp of surprise ran through his cock, only fueling him further in his aching need. Holding your head in place he couldn’t stop himself from dragging himself in and out along your tongue. Archons, you felt perfect. You let your jaw slack slightly to keep yourself from scraping your teeth along his shaft, encouraging him even more. His other hand, trembling slightly from it all, lifted to your flushed face, gently brushing aside and tucking away some loose hair that had fallen across your forehead, his pace never slowing down as those fingers join his other hand in holding you in place so he can keep you steady.

It was no longer a question of desire for him. He needed you. He needed you now more than ever and he had reached a point where he simply couldn’t hold back any longer. He began to push deeper, nudging his dripping head against the back of your mouth again, trying to gain purchase into your throat, but you couldn’t help but gag on his size. He frowned slightly, his eyes locked onto your dazed expression, lips sealed around as much of him as you thought you could take. A quiet grunt, followed by his lowered voice offering soothing words in the best way he could think to. “You can take it. Come on.”

Not the most reassuring thing to say, especially when this was immediately followed by his hands manually adjusting the angle of your head and simply shoving his shaft against your throat again, causing tears to well in those pretty eyes of yours as you gag on it again. Bitter guilt climbs the back of his own throat at the sight, but then he realized that you weren’t backing away at all. If anything, it seemed like you were trying to reach the same goal. Hands on his thighs to steady yourself, lips staying perfectly wrapped around his size, and even more, you kept trying to press closer, clearly seeing what he wanted and trying desperately to help him get there.

He breathed out another curse, the word faltering slightly as it rasped out, his hands grasping harder onto your head as he picked up his pace, thrusting harder and harder, fucking into your face until with one slick motion, he pushed past at last, your muscles loosening enough to allow himself to bury himself deep within your throat. Your nose pressed against his skin as he held you there for a moment, savoring the sweet feeling of you taking him in his entirety.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, the sound coming out like a hiss through bared teeth. This… this isn't right. So tight and slick around him, this amount of pleasure shouldn't be granted to someone like him. For a moment, even in his daze of pleasure, Xiao seriously considered pulling out, having become overwhelmed by it all, but then, he saw your eyes. Those pretty eyes that have haunted him far more than he cared to admit were now looking up at him in a way that made his heart nearly stop. Such a soft, overwhelmingly sweet gaze up at him through those long lashes of yours contrasted to the sinful sight of your nose bumping against his body, lips stretched around his aching length. All other thoughts immediately left his mind as he stared down at you with lips parted in awe. He may not deserve even a scrap of this amount of pleasure, but who was he to deny you whose eyes looked so positively needy. Gritting his teeth, he curled his fingers more into your hair, drawing a whine of slight pain from you, the sound almost entirely disappearing into his cock as he began to move again, fully intending to be slow and sweet, but perhaps rough desperation was just better suited to his natural bitter nature.

Gloved hands holding you in place he picked up speed, the slick sounds of your mouth and throat being used mingled with the sound of the rain, all of it rushing around to his ears and making his mind melt even more. Archons, he's not even sure how much longer he can last like this. He can see on your face that you're struggling to keep holding your breath but you keep letting him going, not pushing away in the slightest. The feeling of your thumbs lightly digging into his skin as you clung to him for support was nearly enough to send him over the edge.

He nearly growled out his words, wanting to at least warn you, “I think…. ah…. I think I'm at my limit…”

Xiao watched as those long lashes fluttered shut at his words, that sweet gaze disappearing in favor of close eyed focus and fervor, seeming to struggle to do your best to keep going, to hold on as long as you can to bring him over the edge. It drove him insane.

“Xiao!”

He was so lost in the sweet sensation, so close to the edge, he almost didn't hear the voice over the sound of the rain and the slick noises from below and-

“Adeptus Xiao!”

Xiao bolted upright in an instant, panting from the adrenaline as he struggled to gain his bearings, the sound of his blood rushing around his ears mingling with the gentle rain outside making his head spin.

He was… alone. And now rather uncomfortable in the sticky aftermath. Bitter guilt spread across his tongue and gripped at his heart, shaking hands reaching up to grab fistfuls of his own hair in frustration. How could he even think about you like that? Sure he was unconscious but he had absolutely no right to defile your sweet visage with something so selfish and wrong. He had no need for such desires. None whatsoever.

But he could hardly even convince himself of that when he realized it was your voice calling his name from the other side of his door, making him wonder with an ache deep in his chest if this was that bittersweet dream manifesting itself before him.

#sunny originals #a little bit of spice #genshin posting #xiao #xiao smut #xiao x reader #gwah i love him he wanted to come home to me so bad he arrived in the singular pull I had alloted for him #posting this before i get too nervous to

[billlydear]

BASIC BIOLOGY - BILLY HARGROVE X READER (PART TWO) | PART ONE | PART THREE

word count: 7396 // masterlist | inbox (please request) | WIP list

Summary: you're paired with billy for a biology project. you only visit his house once, but it's enough for you to understand why he doesn't want you to come over again. when he starts showing up more and more in your life, you realize that it's basic biology: you were made for him, and he was made for you.

Contents: graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of injuries, angst, fluff, happy ending

A/N: i hope you like this chapter! Billy and his love starvation seem like they’d latch onto the first real love they get, and I tried to establish that here. Please let me know what you think! 💞

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

You don’t expect to see Billy again for a while. Even though he’d thanked you, sincerely, awestruck, you hadn’t suffered through the tense car ride for nothing. He clearly didn’t want to talk to you about it, and he assumes you’ll pry.

You don’t really blame him, either. Because you want to pry. You want to beg for information, plead with him to give you a rundown of what hurts and where, so that you can fix it all. And then you want to pry about any particular allergies of his father’s, so that you can serve him shellfish pasta and make his death look like an accident.

It turns out, though, that you see him the very next day.

You don’t have your own car, nor can you even drive. You’re scared of it, of the thought of that much mechanical power granted to a simple human being, and you’d much rather walk or take the bus anyways. Your bike has a flat tire, or you’d be using it to ride back from the store.

All you’d picked up was a bottle of coke and a pack of gum - juicy fruit. The coke sweats a stain through the pocket of your jeans, but it’s secure, and not grating callouses against your fingertips with its puckered cap. All you hear is the thundering roar of cars speeding down the street next to you, your feet slamming against the pavement as you power walk home.

You’re only ten minutes out, in the final stretch, when you hear a particularly loud engine. It’s gotta be from a muscle car, and you wait for it to pass so that you can look without being obvious. But it doesn’t pass, the engine revs and then chugs once more, slowing to a stop right beside you.

You’re not in the practice of looking over at cars that stop next to you on the road, something eerie about the situation. But when you hear a newly-familiar voice say your name, you stop in your tracks.

“Y/N,” Billy calls, leaning over the empty passenger’s seat to brace his hand on the open window, “Hey, you need a ride?”

His face is red. It’s subtle, and you think that maybe there’s- is that makeup over it? Either way, you know there’s a mark, and you know why there’s a mark.

“Uh,” You stammer, glancing ahead at the sidewalk, “I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

“Where are you going?” He raises an eyebrow, “Aren’t you hot?”

“A little,” You become hyper aware of the sweat sticking to your forehead, the stickiness of your socks against your feet, “It’s fine, though. It’s only, like, ten minutes home.”

“Just get in,” He squints up at you, the sun in his eyes, “I’m heading that way anyways.”

“Okay..” You comply, ducking down to step off of the curb and fit yourself into his camaro, “Are you sure it’s not a problem?”

“Not at all,” He straightens up from where he’d been leaning out the window so that you can sit down, but he braces his hand on the back of your headrest. He uses it as leverage to look behind him to make sure he’s not pulling out into traffic, and when it’s safe, he peels away from the curb in what you now know is typical Billy fashion. Tires squealing, engine revving, confidence in his eyes.

“So,” You hum, digging the coke bottle out of your pocket so that you don’t smash it, “Why are you gonna be over by my place?”

“Oh,” he laughs, shaking his head, “I’m not. I just lied, knew you wouldn’t get in unless I said that.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, “Billy! You lied!”

“And,” He grins, nodding and readjusting his hands on the wheel as he turns you around a corner, “It worked, didn’t it? And now you’ve got a ride.”

“Thank you, Billy,” At your words you remember his own from the night prior, stiffening slightly in your seat, “Um, are you.. okay? Last night was.. Intense.”

“Yeah,” He takes a moment to answer, but when he does his voice is stronger than it was last night. He keeps himself preoccupied with ducking slightly to check his blind spot, “It’s nothing. I’m, uh- I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re okay, though.” You mumble, “Does it hurt?”

“Seriously,” He shakes his head, his curls flying around his shoulders, “Doesn’t matter. Just.. forget about it, okay?”

“Billy,” You gush, wanting so badly to respect his wishes for the sake of not starting an argument. But how were you supposed to forget possibly the scariest experience of your life?

“I’m not going to go around town blabbing,” You swear, “But don’t you think we should tell someone?”

“No,” He insists, voice sharp, “Because if he doesn’t get hauled in, then I get my ass beat, maybe even killed. And if he does get hauled in, then I’m the man of the house. And my summer job barely pays for the gas money it takes to get there, and Max is too young to work, and Susan probably doesn’t even want me, so then I’d be out on my ass, and- just.. No. It wouldn’t work.”

He’s heated now, cheeks flushed and eyes wild. His chest heaves with the breaths he wasn’t taking when he was rambling, and you let him catch up before you talk again.

“Okay,” You take care to keep your voice calm and soothing, “Okay, yeah, that makes sense. I won’t tell anyone, Billy, not if you don’t want me to. But.. but something has to give, y’know? I meant what I said last night,” You fiddle with the ridges on the cap of your coke bottle, “Come over anytime.”

He meets your eye in the rear view mirror, and no words are needed. There’s a tenderness in your eyes that’s reflected in his own, and beneath the cockiness that he slathers over himself, you see sincerity peeking through. He nods and it’s grateful, hopeful, even.

“You want a burger?” He sniffs, scrunching his nose and changing the subject. His hands are prying at the wheel, turning the car down a road before you can respond, but you’ve got leftover cash from the convenience store, so you nod.

“Sure,” You nod, “Uh, I guess I don’t owe you pizza money anymore.”

“No,” You’re glad that he takes it as a joke, instead of a painful reminder of the night before, “Max should be the one paying me, Jesus, I mean she ate half the box.”

“She’s a growing girl,” You scold him, “She needs her nutrients.”

“Oh, yeah, melted cheese and greasy pepperoni, real nutritious.” He scoffs, but there’s a smile on his face, “What’s your order, Doctor Nutrient?”

You’re tempted to order a salad just to fuck with him. But you don’t, you let out a breathy laugh and recite your burger preference. He nods, pulling up to the window of the only drive-thru fast food restaurant in town.

Part of you is that glad that you don’t go inside, and part of you is crushed.

On one hand, you’re sweaty from walking, and you probably don’t look your best because of it. You don’t feel like being in the public eye right now, you feel like curling up on your couch and relaxing for the rest of the day. 

But on the other hand, what is Billy feeling? Part of you, deep inside, a horrid little piece that wants to make you sad, tells you that he’s not going to go into a burger place with you because he’s embarrassed to be seen with you. That you do look sweaty and gross, and that he’s not going to risk his reputation for some girl in his biology class. You thought you’d had a sort of breakthrough with him, unlocked some part of him that no one else had, because of those minutes stuck hiding in his closet. You’d thought you were maybe even friends, not just partners for class.

But he orders and pays for a meal to-go, and you’re silent as his wheels screech against the asphalt as he pulls into a parking space.

“Here,” He hands you the tray that they’d given you, spreading a meager, flimsy napkin over his lap in its absence, “You take that, and just keep my fries in there while I eat this.”

“We can share it,” You offer, scrambling to balance the tray on the divider between your seats, but he pushes it back into your lap with a shake of his head and a large, strong hand, “No, no, don’t worry about it. One of us should have an easy lunch.”

“Thanks,” You murmur, choosing to stuff your mouth with burger instead of voice any of your internal monologue out loud. You eat in silence for a few bites, blaming it on your mouthful of food instead of your awkward reservations. But he glances over to get a fry, and sees you staring out the windshield, lost in space.

“Is yours drugged or something?” He teases, elbowing you gently in the side, “You’re zoning out, hard.”

“Oh,” You take a deep breath, chewing the last of your burger and swallowing it, picking at your fries, “No, I think I’m just tired from walking.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s good I picked you up, then. Where were you even walking?”

“Corner store,” You mumble around a mouthful of burger, “I wanted a coke. Oh,” You remember, sticking a hopefully-clean hand into your pocket to retrieve your cash, “Here, for the burger.”

“‘S fine,” He waves you off, “It was, like, two bucks. Don’t sweat it.”

“Billy,” You huff, “Just let me pay you back!”

“No,” He drawls, sipping from his fountain drink, “Stop arguing, or I’ll kick you out of the car.”

You fall silent, neglecting to remind him that you weren’t in his car to begin with.

“So,” His eyes flash over the stereo, and he breaks the momentary lull in conversation, “What kind of music are you into?”

“Anything, really,” You shrug, “I like it all.”

“Even pop?” His nose wrinkles, and he stares accusatorily at you from his seat.

“Pop’s fine,” You nod, “Classical is only nice when I’m trying to study.”

“Classi- Like, piano and shit? Jesus,” He laughs incredulously, “Are you ninety?”

“Hey,” Your mouth falls open, and you fall easily into teasing banter with him, “Classical music is not for old people! It’s for people who need music on to study but get distracted by lyrics.”

“Metal’s good for that, too,” He reaches across the center divider to snatch a fry from the tray, “It’s, like, 90% guitar, and half the lyrics don’t even make sense, anyways. Nothing to pay attention to.”

“I’m not surprised you like metal,” You hum, “Did a Mötley Crüe tape come with this car?”

“No,” He insists, and you catch the flash of his grin from the side of your eye, “I bought it on the way back from the dealership.”

He doesn’t want to drown out your giggles with music, so he waits until you take another bite to pop a tape in. 

“That’s real music,” He boasts as the sound blares to life, “None of that violin shit.”

“I like metal,” You promise him, foot tempted to tap to the beat of the drums, “It’s just not all I listen to.”

“Yeah, well it’s gonna be all you listen to in here,” He assures you, “I’m gonna turn you into a diehard.”

“You have all of, what, twenty minutes?” You laugh, “Billy, how often do you think I’m gonna be in your car?”

“Whenever you want,” He shrugs, “You think I’m gonna let you haul your ass around town without a car?”

“Billy,” You frown, swallowing roughly to stare suspiciously at him, “What are you talking about? You barely even know me, why are you acting like my chauffeur all of a sudden?”

“Barely even know you-” He scoffs, jamming a fry into the ketchup that’s pooled on your tray, “We’re friends, dumbass. That’s how friendship works, right? We do shit for each other?”

Your heart thuds to your stomach. Friends? An hour ago you wouldn’t have even called Billy Hargrove your acquaintance. Sure, you knew each other. Hell, you probably knew more about him than anyone else in school. But not because he told you, because you found out. It was an accident, a fluke, a mistake. He didn’t tell you on purpose, so it didn’t mean you were close. But maybe you were, maybe his borderline kidnapping of you was because he cared, because he liked you.

“Yeah,” You decide, “Yeah, we’re friends. And that’s what friends do. I just.. I can’t offer you much, can I? I mean, shit, you won’t even let me give you a $5 for lunch.”

His eyes narrow, and you’re nervous you said something wrong. He huffs out a sigh, jaw tightening, “Jesus, Y/N, are you gonna make me spell it out?”

“What?”

“You offered me a place to stay,” He mumbles, glaring daggers at his keys in the ignition, “That’s.. A lot, okay? And I appreciate it.” He says it almost angrily, and if you weren’t so taken aback, you might have laughed.

“So I don’t mind dumping you where you need to be. Or spotting you for lunch.”

“Thank you,” You echo his sentiment from last night, hoping that even though they’re about a burger and not a home, they’re just as sincere, “Thanks, Billy.”

“Don’t mention it,” He grumbles, stuffing the rest of his burger into his mouth so that he doesn’t have to speak.

Being friends with Billy Hargrove is interesting. He’s brash, abrasive, but he cares in his own way, you find out, when he stops hard at a red light and throws his arm out over your chest.

“Sorry,” He mumbles, gruff and stiff, “You okay?”

“Fine,” You nod, a little breathless from how the seat belt had rubbed against your skin, “You can pull over here, if you want. I can run around the back, it’s unlocked already.”

“I’m not dropping you off at the curb,” He scoffs, “I think I can manage your driveway.”

“Fine,” You tease, “I was just trying to make it easier for you.”

A small smile curves over his lips at your tone, and you know he’s not upset. You’re starting to realize that being friends with Billy is easy, as soon as you accept that he can be harsh. He’s not the type of friend to gush about feelings, you don’t think, preferring to quip back and forth, and you can handle that.

He pulls into your driveway, and spots a familiar red car parked three houses down.

“You’re neighbors with Harrington?” His eyes shade over with something that can’t be good, considering his well-known feelings towards the other boy.

“No,” You shake your head, “No, that’s his friend’s house. He just drives him around sometimes, I think. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

You shoot him a grin as your head rests against the headrest of your seat, and he can’t argue with that. He rolls his eyes despite the growing grin on his lips, and he reaches over to shove you.

“Get out of my car,” He groans, “And- here,” He tears a shred of napkin off of the leftover stash from lunch, digging for a pen to scrawl his number, “Call me whenever you need a ride. Or good music to listen to.”

“I’m gonna go study to Chopin,” You leer at him from your front steps, and he lunges, reaching out the driver’s side window to reach for you. You shriek, jumping out of the way before he can grab you, and it pulls a long, hearty laugh from his chest.

“Take it,” He reaches into his glove compartment to pull out a tape, red-and-black designs etched over the front, “I’m not driving away until I hear it blasting from your window,”

“My parents are home,” You gush, fingers curling around the plastic case, “I can’t!”

“Headphones, then,” He insists, eyes alight with amusement, “I’m expecting you to know the words the next time I see you.”

It’s a hefty promise to make, but you do so with a smile on your face.

You don’t get much studying done amongst Metallica. It’s hard to focus on finishing your biology project when you recognize a song you’d heard earlier in Billy’s car, and you hum the familiar tune, thinking of the way he’d tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the drums.

You think you’ve figured him out. He’s vibrant when he knows he’s alone, when he knows he’s safe. He’d panicked hearing that car door, those voices outside. He’d been rough, jagged, hurtful. But in his element, flying down the road with music blaring from his speakers, he’d been happy. All he needs is a safe place, and you’re glad he has one, even if it isn’t his home.

Biology is easy to finish, because you only have to cover half of the slack from being sent home early last night. Billy knows which of the last two drawings to complete, and you tuck your finished ones away in your folder, pulling out a sheet of math work to tackle next. Unfortunately, it’s less simple.

Dinner comes and goes, and you’re still working by the time the sky bleeds black. You’d been using the light from the window to aid you in your homework, so when it finally covers you in enough shadow to make you squint, you give up and make for your light switch.

It flicks on with a click, and when you whirl around to settle back on your bed, there’s a face in your window. You scream, backing yourself up against the door in the split second before you recognize the features.

Billy is staring at you from the window, hand up to the glass. You hear commotion from downstairs, a quick shout of ‘Are you okay up there?’ and thundering feet towards the hallway.

“I’m fine!” You shout at the gap in the door, praying no one comes to investigate, “I’m fine, I thought I saw a spider.”

You stand there, petrified, staring at him as you wait for your parents to go away. The commotion dies down in seconds, but they feel like hours as they tick away, leaving Billy pressed to your window. When you hear the soft wheeze of a couch cushion, then the creak of bedsprings, accounting for them both, you relax, breathe out a sigh and step forwards.

Even through the glass, you can tell something is wrong. Billy’s right eye is starting to shut, and you don’t think he’s doing it on purpose. It looks swollen, and there’s a purple hue blooming over it.

You work on unlatching the window, and in doing so you press your hand flat against the glass. It lays inches north of his own print, and he shifts his hand up to meet yours on the other side of the window. It’s touching, but you don't’ have time to evaluate it when your fingers snap the latch out of place.

“Billy,” You breathe, gripping his forearm to offer him leverage while he hauls himself up and over your windowsill, “Are you okay?”

He lands on the floor in a heap, and your heart sinks.

“No.” He groans, voice soft and wheezy. When he moves he rolls to clutch his stomach, and the only solace you find is that there’s no bloodstain on his t-shirt.

“I ran,” He groans, keeping his voice just quiet enough to be inaudible from another room, “I- I didn’t have time to get in my car, I just-”

“Okay,” You watch his chest heave with the effort of speaking, bracing a hand on it gently, to stop him, “Okay, save your energy. I’m going to go get you water, and an ice pack. Then I’ll fix your face.”

He manages a weak nod, then a raspy, ‘Okay.’

You slip into the kitchen with only a sheepish grin towards the couch at your spider cover-up. Luckily for you, you’re jumpy around bugs, so it doesn’t look out of the ordinary.

You tuck the ice-pack into your pocket, and you’re wearing such a baggy sweatshirt that it’s covered up. The glass of water isn’t suspicious on its own, and you make it back to your room without any problems.

Billy has hauled himself up to sit against your bed, head tipped against the mattress. There’s still no blood, but his face is tilted towards the light now, and you see copious amounts of bruising that definitely hadn’t been there before.

“Jesus,” You breathe, reaching for his cheek. He tenses as your hand approaches, and you pull back before you can reach him. You stand there, arm outstretched, waiting. Your fingers are only inches from his face, a blotchy purple mark over his eye that spreads down his cheek like poison. You wait, for a sign, a sound, anything to let you know that it’s okay to touch him, and what you get is almost more shocking than the sight of him.

He tilts his head to the side, nudging his cheek into your hand.

“You can touch,” He croaks, breath short and hot against your palm, “I don’t bite.”

If you’ve learned anything about Billy in the past 24 hours, it’s that he doesn’t like the mushy stuff. So instead of gushing, instead of promising him that he’s safe now, that his father can’t hurt him, you say it with your touch, and shift your tone to teasing.

“Oh yeah?” You kneel beside him, brushing your thumb against the underside of his lip and smearing away wet blood there, “Melissa MacDonald says you do.”

He laughs, a short, wheezing sound, and his cheek presses further into your palm as it apples with his smile,  “Yeah? Well, she asked me to.”

”Freaky girl,” You hum, eyes glued to his lip. You use the towel that you’ve wrapped around the ice pack, bunching a corner of it up and wiping it over the split skin. It morphs into a grimace when you touch it and he hisses, hand reaching up to grip your side hard.

“Sorry,” You breathe, your exhale fanning over his face, “Sorry, just- give me a second.”

When you’ve managed to get the blood off of his lip you shift your focus to his abdomen, and suddenly realize what you’re about to ask is very suggestive.

“Okay, um.. What happened to your stomach?”

“He kicked me,” Billy groans, “Boots on and all.”

“Okay,” You see a dark purple bruise spreading over his stomach from where his shirt has ridden up, and you toy with the edge of the ice pack, “Can I-? I need to see it..”

“Strip me, baby,” He chuckles weakly, “You can take it off.”

It’s a button-up, once tucked in and now rumpled from the commotion. The top buttons are undone, so it’s not hard to slip the last two out, spreading each side apart to showcase a truly horrific amalgamation of cuts and bruises.

“Ok-ay,” You hum, eyes wide in terror, “Um, this is.. A lot. Should we go to the hospital?”

“No!” His eyes flash with fear, and he grabs your wrist, “No hospitals.”

“”But-”

“But I can’t tell anyone,” He reminds you, gaze now sad and defeated, “No hospitals.”

All you can manage is a nod, tears gathering in your eyes as you stare down at his bare torso.

“Like what you see?” He drawls, and you glance up to see his lip bleeding again from how he’d smirked and torn the cut open.

“Not at all,” You admit sheepishly, reaching a hand up to press and hold the towel there, “Billy, this looks like you escaped a warzone.”

“I did,” He mumbles around the towel, “He’s the enemy.”

“What did you even do?” You ask, prodding gently at a patch of skin and apologizing profusely when his stomach tenses because of it.

“Someone.. One of our stupid neighbors,” He recalls, “Saw you last night. Said my old man must be proud I've got girls sneaking out of my window at night.”

“And… he wasn’t proud.” You grimace, pressing the ice pack to the largest bruise. It spans over most of his lower stomach, and it looks more painful than you can imagine.

“No,” Billy groans, writhing against your bed, “He was not. Didn’t even wait to get inside,” He squeezes his eyes shut, which you’re sure hurts his right one, “Just grabbed my arm and smacked me right there on the driveway. No one cared. The neighbor, he- he laughed. Thought it was all some big joke, I guess. When we got inside he pushed me over in the doorway and pummeled me. He kicked my stomach, and he-” Billy cuts himself off with a hiss of pain when you start dabbing at a scrape on his chest, “Stomped on my face. He used a fucking fireplace poker, that’s the gashes.”

“You can’t go back,” You cry, barely withholding yourself from a long, loud sob, “Please, Billy, you can’t go back there. He’ll kill you!”

“No, he won’t.” Billy heaves, shaking his head, “He wants to, I’m sure. But he knows he can’t hurt me too bad, or people’ll notice. This was a mistake, he’s gonna be more careful from now on. He might be a monster, but he’s smart.”

“But- but what if this happens again, Billy? He gets angry, real angry, and he lashes out, and he uses a fireplace poker-!” Your chest heaves with sobs that you’re barely able to withhold, tears streaming down your cheeks and dripping onto his chest.

“Hey,” He shushes you, a hand over your mouth, then uses the other to wipe your tears away, “Hey! Don’t think about that,” he scolds, but you’re sure it’s meant to sound reassuring, “He’s probably freaked right now. He thinks I’m ratting him out to the cops, or something. So when I come back, he’ll be more careful. He won’t be sorry, but I don’t care about sorry anymore, I know he won’t ever be. He won’t kill me,” Billy promises you, finally dropping the hand that’s covering your mouth, “He can’t afford a body on his hands.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, blink away the tears in your eyes, and nod. He seems satisfied at your silence, watching with droopy eyes as you clean off his chest.

“I’m gonna get bandages,” You murmur, leaving the ice pack on his stomach and padding to the door, “Move it if you need to, okay?”

He manages a weak nod in return, and you make sure to shut the door behind you when you leave.

Gathering adequate medical supplies isn’t the problem, concealing them is. You have to fumble your way through tucking bandages and gauze under your shirt, and the bottle of antiseptic doesn’t fit anywhere but in your hands. You keep it tucked against your side when you rush to your room, though, and you hope no one notices.

Billy doesn’t even ask what you’re doing when you press a wet cotton ball to his injuries, and you shudder to think of all the times he’s had to patch himself up. Does he sit in his room against his own bed, drink in hand? Does he stand in the shower, soap cleaning out his wounds? Does he sneak to the freezer, pressing frozen peas to his eyes?

You sniffle, and BIlly’s thumb rubs under your nose.

You frown, ‘Gross,’ And he chuckles weakly.

“I’m covered in blood, sweat, and-” He glances down at the droplets on his chest, “Tears. You think snot crosses a line?”

“My snot does,” You grumble, laying a bandage over a scrape on his chest and biting the inside of your cheek in concentration.

“Fine,” He huffs, smearing his thumb over your cheek, “Have it back.”

“Billy-!” You gasp, hand flying off of his chest and rubbing furiously at your cheek, “Gross!”

You’d be more upset but he laughs, really, truly, genuinely, and you think that maybe you can live with it.

“Snotface,” He cracks, and if you think for a second too long about the heartfelt lilt to his voice, it sounds like a term of endearment.

It’s hard to maneuver him in order to wrap his more serious injuries in gauze, but with a little cooperation, he’s wrapped like a mummy. It’s probably a sloppy nurse job, but you’re all he’s got, and you won’t give up on him because things are hard.

It’s his face that you have the real trouble with. You squint as you scan his features, looking at bumps and bruises and scrapes and trying to assess how deep they are. Your fingers turn his face this way and that, prodding, prying, pushing, pulling, until you decide that the light from above isn’t enough to see his smaller injuries.

“I need to move you,” You speak softly, “Up onto the bed. Can you do that?”

“Help me,” He bargains, and you’re happy to lift him to his feet.

He slumps against you while upright, but it’s not long before you can push him back onto your bed. He practically melts against the mattress, letting out a guttural sigh that’s almost too loud.

With a flick of your bedside lamp he’s bathed in a soft yellow glow, face now illuminated for all its abrasions to be seen.

His split lip is the least of it, you recognize with a sinking feeling.

Leaning over his face is awkward,and it hurts him when you turn his head. You suppose his neck is sore too, and it leaves you at a standstill.

“I can’t see that side of your face,” You huff, “Could you- I mean, it hurts really bad to turn your head?”

“Sorry,” He grimaces, testing the movement out again, “Yeah. Just- sit on the bed.”

“There’s no room,” You protest weakly, his broad form filling out your twin bed, “I’ll have to turn you around, we’ll put your feet at the headboard and your head down below, but that’ll take a lot of energy, so we should just-”

“Stop talking,” He pleads, eyes heavy, “Just- get on the bed, Y/N.”

“There’s no room!” You insist once more, and he groans, sitting himself upright despite your protests.

His arm slings around your waist, surprisingly strong for the state of the rest of his body. You scramble to fight his embrace but he hauls you up and onto the mattress, your knees digging into his thigh.

“Sit on my stomach,” He instructs you, then remembers it’s bandaged, “Or- or my waist. Just- sit down.”

It feels wrong. A boy in your bed, your legs over his waist, your hand on his chest as you lean over his face. You’re careful not to press anywhere that hurts, and you dab carefully at a cut near his eye.

“I think this earns you the title of best friend,” He mumbles, his breath hitting your face and warming your nose.

“Oh, yeah? Who was my competition?” You bite your lip to stop from grinning, shifting your waist against his own so that you can reach higher on his face.

“I dunno.” He’d shrug if he wasn’t lying down, “My car, maybe? There’s a cat that hangs out behind our house.”

“I’m not as cute as a cat,” You hum absentmindedly, picturing poor Billy with a car for a best friend, “I think it’s got me beat.”

“I dunno,” Billy murmurs, reaching up to thumb at the space between your brows. It knocks your concentrated frown loose, and he chuckles at your dazed expression as you peer down at him, “I’ll call it a tie to keep the peace.”

You busy yourself putting a bandaid over the bridge of his nose so that you don’t have to look into his eyes. You’re worried about what you’ll find there, if it’ll be the scared little boy you’d seen in them last night, or a charming young man. You’re not sure how to handle either, but you smooth the sticky patches of the bandaid out over his cheeks to try and aid the former.

“Done,” You whisper, and brace your hands on his face.

“Thank you,” He hums, sincere and sweet, “Really, I appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” You promise, “But for your sake I hope you don’t have to come over here like this again.”

“Me too,” He laughs, a short, breathy sound, “So.. uh, you got a car?”

“No,” You shake your head, “That’s why I was walking earlier.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” He cringes, hoisting himself up onto his elbows, “I’ll have to walk back.”

“Not now!” You push a hand against his chest, gently landing him on his back again, “You- you can’t! You need rest,” You reason with him, “Please, Billy, just stay here tonight.”

“Usually the girls kick me out when their parents get home,” He jokes, his tongue poking out to run over his lips, which you’re sure are sore from the cut. You giggle breathlessly, only then realizing that you’re still straddling him.

“Uh-” You rush to slide off of his hips, landing with a thump on the floor, “Sorry. I’ll go… um, do you need a change of clothes?”

“If you’ve got something,” He tilts his head up to watch as you fumble through your closet, “If nothing fits it’s fine.”

Luckily, you find a pair of sweatpants that are cinched with a tie, as well as a particularly average sweatshirt he’ll fit into. You step out of the room so that he can change, and thankfully he doesn’t seem to need any help. You use the time to change your own clothes, and when you emerge from the bathroom, you push your bedroom door open to find him on your mattress again.

“Bed’s comfy,” He marvels, turned onto his side. He’s pressed against the wall, staring at you where you’re frozen in the doorway.

“It is,” You nod, “Enjoy it.”

“You, too.” He prompts, patting the sheets, “Get up here, Y/N.”

“No, I-”

“You just stuck your fingers in my bloody cuts,” He groans, scooting even further back against the wall with a strangled groan, “I’m not making you sleep on the fucking floor.”

Logically, you know you should argue. He’s proclaimed you as his best friend but you’ve really only known him for a day. But he’s made up his mind, closing his eyes so that he can’t even see you disagreeing. His arms are crossed, and his face is set in a stubborn frown, brows tugged together beneath a bandage on his forehead.

Though his eyes are screwed shut, he pops them open when he feels the mattress dip beside him. His frown morphs quick and easy into a grin, his arm slinging around your waist to tug you closer from where you’re practically sliding off of the bed.

“I told you,” He drawls, “I don’t bite.”

“I’m not worried about you biting, Billy.” You mumble, stiff where he’s holding you. He notices, grin dimming as he lifts his hand away.

He looks almost annoyed, “So? What is it? Are you an insomniac, or something?”

“No, Billy,” you frown, biting the inside of your cheek, “I’m not an insomniac, I’m worried. Are you okay? I’m not a nurse. And- and I’m not tired, either,” You spring out of bed, standing beside it instead of laying with him, “I’m not going to sleep.”

He lays there staring, eyes hardening over from where they’d cracked open to ooze happiness. You watch it happen, watch him change until he’s the boy you know from school, deep, cutting glares and harsh movements.

“Fine,” He huffs, fighting to keep his face straight as he presses himself up off of the mattress with his palms, “I’m gonna go. Clearly- just.. Bye.”

“No, Billy..” You rush to stop him from reaching the window but he sticks out an arm, shoving you away with the side of it. He keeps his hands off of you, and you’re grateful, but it still sends you stumbling slightly.

He hears the sound of your feet thumping clumsily. He tenses up for a moment, shoulders drawn closer to his ears and legs locking. But he feels your hand against his back, soft and slow and smooth, and with each brush of your fingers there a muscle in his body relaxes.

“Please don’t go,” You finally beg, your voice a sweet whisper. It seems to have been the wrong thing to say, because his limbs lock up again, back stiffening against your palm.

“I shouldn’t be here,” He grumbles, gruff and weak.

“Yes you should,” You assure him, “Because you got hurt, and I told you you were safe here. We’re friends, remember, Billy? That’s what friends do.”

“We’re not friends.” He scoffs, and you can feel him slipping away. Every second that you stand there, hand on his back, soothingly brushing over his tense muscles, he seems to drift away, until you’re not even sure he’s with you anymore, just a foggy silhouette on the horizon.

“You said we were friends,” You remind him, lips nearly brushing his back, “What changed? Why aren’t we friends now?”

“Because..” He starts, and you wait patiently for him to continue, rubbing lines into his back over and over again.

“Because I want.. Because- Because friends-”

“You can tell me, Billy,” You promise, testing the waters as you creep forward. Inch by inch you snake your hand around his waist, carefully avoiding the injuries you know are lurking beneath his unbuttoned shirt. When your palms meet over his stomach you lean your cheek against his back, hoping that if you can squeeze enough love into him, he’ll come back.

“This,” He hovers a hand over your own, glancing down at your touch on his skin, “This is what… friends do, right?”

“Friends hug,” You confirm, “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah,” He chokes out, raising a hand to his face to smear away a tear that you’re sure has slid down his cheek, “Yeah I want that. But- but you got up, so I- I didn’t want to freak you out. You obviously didn’t want to, so-”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” You brush your thumb over his toned stomach, thinking about the way he’d stared at you from your bed, eyes sparkling and arms outstretched, “It’s just that… I want to do right by you, Billy. And I don’t think you get that a lot, do you?”

“No,” He rasps, and he starts to relax, back no longer tense as you practically whisper against it.

“Right, so..” You reason, biting your tongue before speaking out of nerves, “I think that you live like you drive, Billy. You blow past stop signs and you nearly run people over, you speed. You go so fast that you can’t slow down anymore, and you need someone to tell you to do that, or else you’ll crash.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I want to make sure you’re not rushing things,” You can feel his heated skin beneath your cheek, only the fabric of his shirt separating you, “You just got beat up by your dad, because of me, and I’m glad that you came here, but don’t you think that sleeping together is going pretty fast? I know we’re not like- sleeping together,” You mumble, cheeks aflame, “I just don’t want you to get ahead of yourself. You can.. You can have a hug anytime you want, and… we can sleep next to each other, too, but I need to know that you want that. That you’re doing it because you want to, and not because you think this is the only chance you’ll ever get. I’m telling you to slow down, Billy, you don’t have to rush if you don’t want to. I won’t kick you out if you don’t sleep in my bed, you don’t owe me anything for helping you, and I want to make sure that’s really what you want, and not just something you think you have to do. I… I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow with a clear head and regret it.”

By now your lips have reached his back, brushing softly against the material of his shirt as he stands by your window. It’s shut now, no one can see you from the outside, but his face is turned towards it like he’s examining the neighborhood. He’s not tense anymore, but he’s not moving either, and for a moment you’re nervous about having said the wrong thing.

“I’m not going to regret anything.” He murmurs, fingers ghosting over your own as he sets his hand over yours, “I.. I’m doing it because I want to, not because you’re the only person that’s nice to me. I’m doing it because… because I want to be-”

“You want to be…?”

“I want to be… held.” He whispers it like a curse, like he thinks the roof will cave and the floor will crack open to hell if he admits it. Your heart aches for the lonely boy, the battered son, the scared child, and you squeeze him gently in a hug.

“Okay,” You nod, and you know he feels it against his back, “I’ll hold you, Billy. Get back in bed, I’ll hold you.”

This time he’s less confident; not as suave. He turns towards you with a trepidatious expression, eyes tracking your every move like he thinks you’re going to give up the joke, turn, point, and laugh at him. But you don’t, of course, instead you hoist a leg up onto your bed and lay down clumsily beside him.

The mattress isn’t big enough for the both of you, so it’s a good thing you’ve agreed to hold him. You’re not really sure how to initiate it, you just simply leave yourself open, uncovered, waiting.

“Where can I touch you?” He glances up at your face, expression clouded with nerves.

“Anywhere,” You say without thinking, then stammer to fix your mistake, “I mean- I mean not like anywhere, just- anywhere.. PG.”

“Okay,” He chuckles, eyes once more heavy with sleep, “I won’t feel you up, I promise.”

When he braces a hand at your waist, cautious, unsure, you wonder if he’s ever not felt anyone up. Has he ever laid beside anyone before, just for love? Not for sex, not for lust, but for calm?

He looks nervous to continue, so you lean into it. You roll yourself onto your side, slinging his arm that’s on your hip to lay over your back. He scoots forward to meet you in the middle, and with a hand on the back of his head, you guide his face to press against your neck. His chin bumps your shoulder, and he nestles it there snugly. It means that his eyelashes brush your neck, that his lips part to release a shaky breath against your collarbones, and his curls tickle your chin.

“Is this good?” You ask, your voice a murmur into the crown of his head. He nods, and the action knocks his head into your cheek. He mumbles out a hasty, ‘Sorry’, and you laugh it off.

“It’s okay,” You drag your hands up his back, fingertips barely grazing his skin that his shirt has twisted up to expose, “It’s okay, Billy. This is okay. You’re allowed to want this, you know? You’re allowed to like this. You deserve this.”

Billy thinks he deserves a lot of things. A kick in the teeth, a tight pair of handcuffs and a drab cell, maybe even the fireplace poker. But he doesn’t think he deserves kindness, which is why he’s so confused why you’re gushing it like a fountain. 

He’s the type of person to make himself unhappy so that no one else can do it for him. He shuts out love and light and life so that no one can steal it away, no one can send him reeling when they leave. But tonight - he’s not sure why, maybe it’s the stinging wounds on his torso or the tickle of your fingers against his back - he’ll love.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove angst #billy hargrove fluff #billy hargrove oneshot #billy hargrove blurb #billy hargrove drabble #billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove x reader fanfiction #billy hargrove x fem!reader

[olichat-reads]

Say it

Bakugou x reader

Summary: Bakugou tells you he loves you

A/n: ugh the pacing is all over the place & its driving me MAD but i'm stumped on how to fix it so here you go (ノ ˘_˘)ノalso i'm realizing the common theme of hurt/comfort in almost all my wips & *cries*. established relationship.

🌟

The first time he said it, it brought you to tears.

Your entire body stiffened & you froze like you got shot, eyes wide as you stared at him. You barely registered the embarassed look on his face, how his face flushed & his ears turned pink. Everything seem to fade out, except for those words echoing in your ears.

"Oi, say som- are you crying??"

You blinked at that, only then realising your dampened cheeks.

Oh. You were crying, huh.

"S-sorry. I-i just-" you could barely choke the words out, your hands making useless attempts at wiping away the tears that wouldn't stop flowing. Damnit. Stop crying. The last thing you wanted was for Bakugou to associate his verbal affirmation of love with making you cry. Your tear ducts ain't listening though, so you resorted to hiding your face in your hands, sniffling while you collect yourself.

"Oi."

You heard Bakugou mutter, tone softer this time, before you felt his large hands curl around your wrists to gently pull your hands from your face.

"Look at me," he said in that soft tone that you couldn't help but cave into. "Please."

You forced your big wet eyes to meet his worried vermillion ones. His expression soft, a ghost of a smile lingering on his lips.

"Hey, pretty," he whispered adoringly.

You cracked a smile at that, your boyfriend's face mirroring your own. His big thumbs wiping your wet cheeks.

"What happened?"

"Oh g-god, Katsu, its not you. I just had such a shitty d-day. Everything went wrong & i felt s-so worthless & my head got so lo-loud & i just-" you blurted out, harshly rubbing your eyes, before meeting his unwavering gaze again.

"I just really needed to hear that," you sniffed. "Love you, Katsu."

"I didn't realize it was so important to you," he said, carefully tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ears before his brows furrow in slight concern. "Did it bother you that i've never said it before?"

"Nah. I knew you loved me. You say it in so many other ways," you mummured, smiling up shyly at you boyfriend whose face softened into relief & adoration at your words. Carefully & gently he wraps his arms around your small frame & engulfed you in a hug.

"Its just nice to hear you say it i guess," you mummured into his shirt as you nuzzled your face into his chest.

"Thank you."

Those two words is all he says, but you understood. Able to discern the relief & genuine gratitude in his voice.

Thank you for listening to all the silent 'i love yous' he didn't put into words.

When his hand always reaches out to wordlessly ruffle your head whenever he passes by your desk in class, making you squeak out indignantly for messing up your hair. When he sneaks his eggrolls onto your plate during dinner because he knew they were your favourite from the happy wiggle you did in you seat. When he sits at the other end of the bus during school trips but slips one of his earbuds into your hand for you to listen to the shared playlist he made of a mixture both your favourite songs.

They were all little things he did whilst barely sparing you a glance, much less a word. Sometimes he worries his feelings don't come across. That he's doing too little, his actions too subtle & miniscule to convey the depth of what he felt for you. Yet, each time he'd always catch the small smile on your face, something shy & bashful & full of adoration that reached your eyes. He'd watch that little smile reserved only for him & he knows he's doing something right.

Words have never been easy for Bakugou. But realizing you've heard him all this time when he didn't say a word, felt the affection he tried to convey in his awkward actions, he decided it didn't matter how it came out.

You'd understand what he meant despite however clumsily he said it either way.

"I really love you, idiot."

#oliwrites #bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #mha bakugou #bakugou katuski x reader

[pawified]

while i have a wip on the way here's a littl treat for my angels, it's based on my fave song by laufey called promise

info: being deeply in love with blade, you are scared to admit your feelings so you distances yourself from him.

"i think we should spend less time together." you say looking out the coffee shop window, as u sat across from your friend blade.

he didn't say anything for a while, he had a look of confusion on his face, he was trying to think back to see if he did something too cause you came up with this decision.

you see him trying to create a timeline in his head, " it wasn't anything you did, if that's what your wondering. i just think we spend too much time together." you can hear your heart beat grow faster. it pained you to do this, but how can you be friends with someone you're in love with?

"is that what you truly want?" he is staring into your eyes, eyebrows frowned causing lines to form. he is trying to read you like he always does when he thinks you aren't telling him something. blade can't understand why you are suddenly just ending your 4 year friendship.

it doesn't make sense to him, nothing ever does.

"yes, i think its best for both of us." you can feel the tears welling up in your eyes and your sure he can see them. "i just can't come to a reason as to why" his voice is laced with hurt.

He never really showed emotion in front of others in your 4 years of knowing him, sure he has gotten mad but never really was the one to be vulnerable in front of others. "everything doesn't always have to have a reasoning blade." you whisper, words barley meeting blades ears.

"i'm starting to realize that now." he bites back, he looks at you once more. your head is hanging down, eyes not meeting his. he scoffs and there's a screech, as he pushed out his chair from the table. he grabbed his coat, heading towards the coffee shop entrance.

before leaving he stops next to you, looking down. "whatever the reason is, i hope it was worth throwing our friendship way." his tone is distant and cold. "blade-" you try to call out for him but the entrance bell had already spoken for you, indicating he had already left.

you don't know how long you had been sitting in the coffee shop but when you left the time had past and the sun is now setting, you had so many thoughts running through your head. you've made your choice and there was no taking it back, you regretted everything you had done.

this wasn't some rash decision you made randomly. it was days, weeks, months and years of back and forth with yourself. constant days of "is this truly what i want?" "will this make me stop what i feel?" it all came boiling down to this exact moment, the weight that once sat heavy on your heart, sat twice as heavier than before.

you cried yourself to sleep that night and many nights to come.

as the days pasted, the more heavier that weight felt. you constantly checked your phone in hopes of blade messaging you. it's stupid, you know that but you longed for it, but it never came.

what you hadn't know is blade fought with himself on contacting you. he prided his self into respecting your wishes even though he refused to believe them. He wanted nothing more to have you around.

it's been almost a month since you parted ways with blade. you were standing on the side walk to cross the street, its cold and rainy.

As the crosswalk light changed signaling it was your turn to cross, you see a guy walking towards you, with shaggy , long, dark violet hair and he has pricings along his ear. As he got closer, you realize it wasn't him. you let out a exhale of breath that you didn't realize you were holding.

walking down the city sidewalk, you stand off to the side to get cover from the harsh rain, you take out your phone. scrolling through your contacts and looking for a familiar contact.

"𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑒 🐈 " you stall for a moment. debating if it was a good idea to call so randomly, anxiety bubbling up and creating things that go bond the person blade is. you take a deep breath and quickly press call listening to the phone ring, once , twice than a third time before a deep voice answers.

"❤︎?" he sounds like he just had woken up due to the state of his deep voice, you felt horrible. "i'm sorry, i did i wake you?" you apologetically say. your heart is beating, your pretty sure you're going to pass out from this whole thing.

"no, its fine. are you okay?" blade is always worrying about you, up until now he is still worrying. "m' okay?" you replied in a questioning tone, you shut your eyes. fuck this harder than you thought. "m' okay..i was just wondering if you had time to talk?" you hoped.

there was a pause, you quickly rush out an apology " you know what, im sorry. i don't know why i thought this was a good idea-" you sighed lifting the phone away from your face and going to end the call.

"❤︎." blade calls out, your name. you put the phone back up to your face, "yeah?" you softly say, the raining still patting against the roof of the building your standing under.

"i would love too talk, where are you? i will come over" you can hear the smile in blade's voice, it warms your heart in the cold weather. "no it's okay, m' out now. i can come over too yours .. if that's okay?" you tip toe around the question, smiling through your words. "that's more than okay."

#˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ #𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑘𝑎𝑖 — ♡ ᵎ #blade honkai #blade x reader #light angst #blade x female reader #໒ 𝑤𝑒𝑛’𝑠 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠 ১ #hm idk hw i feel abt dis ! #whack me in da cmmts pls #honkai star rail

[cheshiresense]

Anon:

Fandom: Harry Potter (CLV kinda?)

Character or Ship: Hadrian from CLV, I love Hadrian/Orion but that might not work here so it's totally up to you!

AU/Trope: I'd love to see an AU where instead of the CLV dimension, Hadrian is sent to a universe still with BWL!Neville but more similar to canon. Maybe with Slytherin!Hadrian and Hadrian taking some of the other Slytherins under his wing? I just really like the idea of a world where the "good guys" win and instead of (or in addition to) Orion it's the Slytherins who need Hadrian in their corner. Doesn't have to be all of them, whoever you prefer writing is fine. I am also down for bashing if you need to work that in. Thank you!

Tags: CLV AU, Slytherin!Hadrian, Canonical Prejudices, Draco Malfoy Bashing, kind of?, tbh this is more or less how I see him in canon lol but I know he's a fan favourite so fair warning, he's not the CLV version here, at least not yet.

-0-

Author's Notes: Hello, it's been a while since I've worked on these. I think I mentioned before that my tumblr inbox got glitchy so I actually couldn't find the other 6 requests from the last batch of 10 you guys sent in for 5+ Headcanons. So I set up an airtable form instead and got someone to test it, and this was the one they sent. It works, so in the future, I'll toss out a new post with the form link for more requests, and maybe I'll get through them in a timely manner lol.

If you're not in the UraIchi server, then you might've noticed that I've sort of been MIA on the writing front for a while now, the last time I wrote and posted something was like back in May last year, and honestly I've been kind of tired and burnt out ever since, and real life is kicking my ass a bit, so when I do have spare time, all I feel like doing is reading fics or webnovels and sleeping. But the winter hols were a nice break for me, and I've started on a couple new fic ideas and added to some wips on and off over the past few months, so I'm slowly getting back into it, and this 5+ Headcanons prompt was one of the things I've been working on. Hopefully, I'll be able to get back into posting fics soon.

ANYWAY, on to the stuff you actually care about: Slytherin!Hadrian, so basically amp up the hardened war vet and dial down the friendship magic XD Way back when I first started CLV, I did consider Slytherin for his House but it felt like everybody did that, plus the politics I would have to get into gave me a headache and I felt like I couldn't do it justice anyway, so I went with Hufflepuff. Slytherin does give me more options to play with a powerful Hadrian who has less morals about flinging that around to get what he wants though since he would be viewed as a halfblood at best and he'd need that currency to make sure nobody messes with him, especially if this universe is more canon than CLV (lbr, almost everybody is at least 50% nicer in CLV lol). So okay, let's give this a spin.

(AO3 Link Here -- I’ll add this to the collection fic on my AO3 to make it a round 15 but this one will be the last for that. If I do more, I’ll start a new fic.)

-0-0-0-

1.

Hadrian ends up being a Hatstall. He sits on the stool for a full seven minutes as the Sorting Hat sifts through his bloodstained memories with a silence so grim Hadrian is tempted to comfort it. Then it proceeds to send back memories of its own, the major points of recent Hogwarts history that would best help Hadrian fit in - Neville, the Boy-Who-Lived; an image of Hadrian's counterpart and an entire family still alive; Quirrell vanquished in first year, a basilisk slain and a diary that bled itself to death in the second, Remus teaching in the third but no Pettigrew in sight; Neville at odds with Potter, Gryffindors at odds with Slytherins, and Death Eater children who hadn't managed to come out of the last war as financially and politically secure as families like the Malfoys, subtly shunned for their parents' sins, while children from the Light side, the winning side, with parents who'd openly defied Voldemort, can do almost no wrong. On the surface, everything looks bright and happy. Beneath it, malcontent and despair bubbles and brews with hardly anyone the wiser, and those who are, are glad to look away.

The Sorting Hat offers no opinions of its own after it is done, only continuing on to extol the virtues of all four Houses while making an argument for why Hadrian would be perfectly suited for each of them in equal measure, before finally leaving the decision in Hadrian's hands.

"Even I cannot be certain where you would do the most good," the Sorting Hat tells him. "Nor do I know which House would do you the most good. There are many children in this school who could use a helping hand such as yours, and likewise, you too would benefit from the same. Who am I to decide which is more important? Perhaps it is most accurate to say that no matter where you end up, who you will help, and who you will allow to help you, a new future will unfold, one made possible only by your existence. Yours is a fate that demands change, Mr. Evans, for better or for worse. But when peril looms on the distant horizon, when our society insists on blind stagnancy, and its people have long stood divided, change is exactly what this world needs. Thus, I leave the choice to you. Where do you wish to go?"

Hadrian says nothing - thinks nothing - for a long deafening minute. The mounting whispers in the Great Hall are easy enough to tune out, and within the confines of his mind, the Hat too remains patiently silent.

The truth of it is - Hadrian is tired. Even now, in this moment, in this place, one year and an entire dimension and seven years away, he still feels like he does on most days— as if he's just walked off a battlefield at the end of one of those kinds of days that can break a man even when you think there's nothing left to break, yet still hyper-alert for the next enemy, the next fight, the next death, because he doesn't know how to do anything else, how to be anything else. On all the rest, of course, it feels as if he never left the battlefield at all.

He is tired, and he honestly doesn't feel like he's capable of helping anyone, not children, not the reflections of his loved ones, and certainly not an entire world that's rapidly revealing itself to be as stuck on a one-way train to hell as his original world had been.

He doesn't want to be a hero, doesn't know how to be one even after all these years, even when other people had always so desperately wanted him to be. A hero, until he'd proven unable to meet their expectations, and then he'd been their villain, right up until they'd needed a hero to stand in front of them again, and round and round and round they'd gone.

The only thing he could never be was just Harry, just himself, and now even Harry Potter is no longer his to claim.

But maybe that's not so bad, not when Harry Potter has always been more story than reality, a patchwork fairytale portrait of a boy, a man, a weapon, a sacrifice, stitched together by every hand except his own.

Maybe Hadrian Evans could be something different.

Gryffindor feels too much like repeating history, and Hadrian would rather not be forced to stare at the majority of those long dead to him day in and day out. Hufflepuff is too prone to crowding together for his liking, persistently eager to be friends with their own members even if they're quick to turn on those who aren't, and Hadrian doesn't think he can bear the overenthusiastic socializing that would require.

 Ravenclaw might be best, a House where even the most introverted can find a home if they have a thirst for knowledge, but at the same time, for a lot of them, once they latch on to a question unanswered or an opinion that doesn't fit their worldview, they won't let go until the question is exhausted or the opinion has conformed to what they consider acceptable, and Hadrian has too many secrets and no more patience to be what others what him to be to fit in with those sorts of people anymore. Besides, he's never quite forgiven that House as a whole. Marietta Edgecombe had been Ravenclaw. Quirrell and Lockhart and Trelawney had been Ravenclaws. Every single one of Luna's bullies had been Ravenclaws. He'd worked with members of that House over the years, taught them back when the DA had been up and running, and even been friendly with some of them beyond just Luna, but generally speaking, he has no positive emotions regarding Ravenclaw. He knows that he isn't being entirely fair, because Voldemort had been from Slytherin, and Pettigrew had been from Gryffindor, and the worst of the lot who'd spearheaded the damaging gossip and baseless accusations incriminating him - first for the Heir of Slytherin debacle in second year, and then the Cup nonsense in fourth year - had all been from Hufflepuff, but still, Ravenclaw simply stands out as that one House that holds no appeal for him.

That really only leaves one place he can go though, and Hadrian finds that he minds that a lot less than he once would've. Slytherin will have its own problems, him being a halfblood at best with a very obvious muggle surname, but Slytherins also respect power, and most of them have the sense to back off if they realize they're picking a fight with an opponent they can't beat. And once that's dealt with, Hadrian will most likely be avoided and left to his own devices, with only the occasional curse to his back to worry about. From a bunch of schoolchildren, that's a negligible issue.

In his head, the Sorting Hat chuckles. "Very well then. If you're sure, better be-"

"SLYTHERIN!"

But Mr. Evans," the Sorting Hat says in the seconds before it's removed from Hadrian's head. It sounds thoroughly amused. "Do not be so quick to underestimate your own heart."

And with that last ominous statement imparted to haunt him, Hadrian stands to lacklustre applause and makes his way to his new House as his tie settles into green and silver stripes.

The briefest of glances over the stretch of the Slytherin table tells him that none of the students seated where most of the fourth-years are gathered have moved to make room for him. That's fine. Hadrian would rather not be boxed in anyway. He takes a seat at the end of the table, smiles at the suspicious first-years around him, and then waits for Dumbledore's opening speech to finish so they can start the feast.

Fifteen minutes later, one treacle tart and a glass of pumpkin juice is all he can manage. He sips at some water for the rest of dinner even as he wishes it was something a lot more alcoholic. He speaks to no one, and no one tries to speak to him, although plenty of prying eyes and sneers of disdain find their way to him throughout the meal.

It makes him feel, Hadrian thinks with some humour, almost nostalgic.

Near the end of the evening, he thinks about going over to the Gryffindor table to find Neville, Ron, and Hermione. But he's in Slytherin now, so he doesn't know how they'll react, and after another moment of contemplation, he decides against it. Not much can embarrass him anymore, but he'd still rather not be put on the spot if the Golden Trio rejects his overture of friendship. It won't help his reputation in Slytherin either if he ends up making a spectacle of himself like that. There's plenty of time tomorrow to see how they'll feel about maintaining ties with a Slytherin without too big of an audience watching, and if they're against it, then, well, it's not as if Hadrian hasn't been living as a recluse over the better part of the past year anyway. He sees no problem carrying on exactly as he has.

Fate sent him here against his explicit permission but she sure as shit can't make him dance.

-0-0-0-

2.

Hadrian ends up shuffled into a dorm room with five very familiar Slytherins - Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott. He gets the remaining bed that's presumably been empty since the others' first year, and a very pointed silence coalesces at his back as he starts unpacking his clothes into his wardrobe.

He ignores it. Instead, he absently begins a count of how long it will take for someone - he's betting Draco - to put their foot in their mouth first. He casts a glance at the floor-to-ceiling window next to his nightstand; like the Gryffindor dorms, the room is circular so everyone has a view to the outside, but here, instead of winds and open skies, it's lake water that shimmers against the glass, with the shadows of passing aquatic life flickering by. It's not bad, just different; the ambience of it is almost soothing.

Someone clears their throat behind him. Hadrian hangs up his winter cloak before moving on to his books. They each get a desk too, complete with a mini bookcase, which the Gryffindor dorms don't have. They have to do their homework on their beds or in the common room. How unfair. But at least Hadrian gets to benefit from it now.

Someone clears their throat again, louder this time. Hadrian smothers a twist of a smirk and bends over his trunk again to fish out his towels and toiletries. His more personal belongings can remain inside, although he'll have to ward everything to the nines anyway.

A displeased noise that comes out gilded with that distinctly familiar Dudley-esque whine of a child who's been spoiled since birth and has never known hardship reaches his ears, and then finally-

"Are you deaf, Evans?!" Draco demands, and oh, look at that, Hadrian wins the bet.

He straightens and turns, idly fiddling with a packet of quills as his gaze falls on the blond standing puffed up and bristling by the bed opposite Hadrian's on the other side of the dorm. He looks him over, looks at Crabbe and Goyle bracketing him with twin expressions of oafish scorn, looks at Zabini standing a ways away, watching the whole room with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes, looks at Nott who doesn't look at anyone at all.

His attention returns to Draco, considering him for a moment longer before asking mildly, "Did you say something?"

Draco's cheeks flush pink even as he draws himself up and snaps, "You should at least have enough manners to introduce yourself!" His face narrows into a sneer, and Hadrian can almost predict his next words. "But I suppose even that might be too difficult for a mudblood to learn."

For a second, Hadrian wonders if he should tell him he's a halfblood. Then again, it doesn't really matter, and also some people consider halfbloods to be mudbloods too. And now that he thinks about it, the person he is in this world might actually be a muggleborn. But he was homeschooled so at least one of his fictional parents had to have known magic, right? Then again, they could've just been related to a witch or wizard but were muggles themselves. Who knows. Certainly not him since Fate couldn't be bothered to inform him.

"Evans, are you listening to me?!"

Hadrian blinks out of his thoughts. "Yes, I'm listening, what is it?"

Draco glares. His features are so… pointy at this age that the expression doesn't really carry the impact he's probably going for, but Hadrian figures it would be unnecessarily mean to mention it, so he doesn't. Instead, he quickly reviews everything Draco has said, and there wasn't actually a question anywhere in there, as far as Hadrian can tell, but maybe Draco really does want an introduction. Seems like a waste of breath though.

"Is there a point to introducing myself?" He asks. "Everybody heard my name at the Sorting. You even just used it so it's not like you don't know."

Draco splutters as if that wasn't what he expected Hadrian to say. He recovers after a moment and opts to glower harder instead, as if that would hide the way the pink in his cheeks is slowly turning red. Poor bastard. That's what you get when you have a pale complexion and fluster easily.

"Are you actually a mudblood then?" He demands contemptuously.

Hadrian honestly doesn't know, but he can't say that, so he volleys back, "Does Slytherin accept muggleborns?"

He knows they take halfbloods, but he can't remember any muggleborns in Slytherin, although if there are any, he doubts they would be willing to broadcast it, even if it means inventing a magical parent in their family tree.

"Of course not!" Draco refutes, sounding scandalized.

Hadrian can't tell if that's actually true, or if that's just Draco's own belief, but it does make things easier. "Then…" He shrugs. "If you already know, why are you asking?"

A beat of silence passes, then two. The red deepens in Draco's face as he hisses dramatically, "Are you mocking me?"

Hadrian suppresses a sigh. He probably is being too flippant for someone as high-strung as Draco, but it's still a far sight from mockery. He can definitely do better if he wants to taunt someone. Had his world's Draco been this easily riled up? They hadn't even really gotten into any exchange of insults yet. "I wouldn't say I'm-"

He stops.

Across the room, Draco has pulled out his wand, and when he realizes that Hadrian's broken off mid-sentence, the flush recedes from his face, and a triumphant smirk instantly takes its place instead.

"Since you've been sorted into Slytherin," Draco announces, raising his wand with a ridiculously showy flourish that makes Hadrian twitch with the desire to correct his posture. "You should know your place. Mouthing off to your betters is a good way to get cursed around here, especially when you're in the presence of someone like me." He sneers down his nose even as his chin tips up, all peacock proud. "My name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Even the likes of your kind should've heard of my family." He looks smug, as if a mere surname can protect him from anything when it comes down to it. "You'll be staying here for the next four years, Evans, and I guarantee you'll have a miserable time of it if you get on my bad side. But today's your first day at Hogwarts, so I can be generous. If you apologize, I'll let you go just this once."

An expectant hush falls as Draco finishes his little speech. Hadrian doesn't say anything right away, still turning over the packet of quills in his hands, still waiting. When nothing happens after a good five seconds tick by, and the silence gradually becomes strained, Hadrian finally nods at Draco's wand, "So are you going to use that or not?"

The stunned look of outrage on Draco's face is gold.

"Don't say I didn't warn you, Evans!" Draco snarls, jabbing out with his wand. "Oscausi!"

Hadrian has time to arch an eyebrow at the choice of a pseudo-silencing charm before he's flipping a quill into the fingers of his left hand. A swipe of his thumb leaves a chain of runes glittering along its shaft, and then he brings it up, catches the oncoming spell with the tip, and swats it aside with a flick of his wrist, all in one fluid motion. His right hand doesn't stay still either as his wand slides neatly into his palm, and a single wordless modified Expelliarmus darts out and attaches itself to Draco's wand.

The white light of the Mouth-Sealing Charm is sent soaring across the room, shattering against the door in a shower of harmless sparks, and in the heavy silence that follows, Hadrian smiles.

He thinks it's a very bland smile, if he does say so himself. At the very least, he's careful to not look too intimidating or too unhinged, the way he can sometimes get, if some of his dead friends were to be believed, back during the war. Nevertheless, it still makes Draco blanch white, makes Crabbe and Goyle shrink back, makes Zabini lean further back into a convenient shadow and Nott go utterly still from where he's sitting on his bed.

Hadrian glances down at the remains of his writing utensil, most of the barbs now burnt black. It was a regular quill after all, not exactly made to withstand so much magic. He looks back up, at Draco who has a white-knuckled grip on his wand, and with his own wand, he gives the other's a tug, just enough to make Draco's eyes go wide with something like panic, but not enough to actually disarm him and - considering the sheer amount of honed intent in the charm that even Draco can undoubtedly sense - most likely bend the wand's allegiance.

Hadrian holds it for a moment longer, and then lets go. Draco staggers back a step, jerking his wand down and reflexively pressing it into his chest as if he's trying to protect it, or maybe assure himself that it still belongs to him.

Hadrian tucks his wand back up his sleeve before stooping down to pick up the rest of the quills he'd dropped. The burnt one goes in the bin by his desk.

Nobody speaks. Nobody even moves. So Hadrian does.

"That took you almost five seconds," He begins almost conversationally as he opens a drawer to stash his remaining quills away. "From when you decided to fire that spell to actually firing it. And that's not even counting all the time you wasted saying the stuff before that, after you already took out your wand. It's stupid. When you draw with the intent to harm, you shouldn't give any warning at all. And the spell itself was slow. You should work on that."

He pauses, and there's still no response, which he supposes makes sense. He doubts anybody here wants to listen to him preach. He should just wrap things up since the plan is moving along so neatly.

"Anyway, this is pretty unfortunate," He switches gears and smiles again, as fit-for-public-polite as he knows how to be. It doesn't seem to make anyone feel better, but he also doesn't feel like he was that heavy-handed earlier, was he? Ah well, can't change anything now, and it's still in line with what he wants so it doesn't matter.

"I wasn't really expecting to make any friends since I know the average Slytherin's views on blood isn't exactly in my favour," He continues in light tones. "But I was hoping that we could at least remain on civil terms and get along as schoolmates, if only because we'll be living together for the rest of our time at Hogwarts. Since that doesn't seem to be possible anymore though, how about we just go with the simplest solution?"

Hadrian surveys the room and smiles some more. "You ignore me and I’ll ignore you. You attack me and I'll retaliate. An eye for an eye, so to speak. Everybody just needs to mind their own business, and there won't be any problems. That's fair enough, don't you think?"

His gaze settles once more on Draco. "Since you're the only one who's said anything so far, I'll assume you speak for everyone in this dorm. Draco Malfoy, right? So then, do we understand each other now?"

Across from him, Draco shivers imperceptibly like a rabbit caught at the wrong end of a predator's line of sight, but he also swallows and nods and gingerly puts his wand away. It looks like it costs him, but - at least for now - he seems both too shocked and too afraid to try anything else.

"Great!" Hadrian says cheerfully before cocking his head as a thought occurs to him. "Oh, right, one more thing."

He lets his smile fall away. Lets his expression smooth over into marble. And then he lets his magic flare, lets the pressure of it roll across the room like the black merciless depths of a storm-tossed ocean, lets it eclipse them all like death come to call, and then he brings it crashing down, not most of it, not even half, because he hasn't forgotten that these are children, that they're still young, and they can learn, they can be better, and Hadrian doesn't actually want to traumatize them permanently.

But he also remembers Draco - his world's Draco - telling him once, in a fit of aggravated exasperation during one of those times when they'd devolved into insulting each other's House traits yet again because they still hadn't understood what made the other tick, but they had also reached a point in their friendship where they'd started trying to, and kept trying.

"Slytherins respect power," Draco had said, not for the first time, but then he'd also added, for the first time, and haltingly as if he hadn't known why he'd had to explain it at all, "How else are you going to know they're worth your time? Or I guess worth befriending, in your Gryffindor terms."

"You don't decide whether or not to make friends based on how powerful someone is."

"Slytherins don't have friends. I only said friend because you're a Gryffindor and you don't understand anything else."

"Fine, you don't decide whether or not to associate with every single person you come across in your life based on how powerful they are either."

"Why not?"

"Why would you??"

"How else would you know they're strong enough to stand with you? Or competent enough to protect themselves? Power is a good starting line. If they're powerful enough, then they won't be afraid to face your enemies with you, and you can trust them to be capable of keeping themselves safe without having to keep an eye on them every minute of the day. Only brainless Gryffindors prefer doing things like throwing themselves in the line of fire and dying dramatically for each other and calling that a win. Let me tell you something, Potter - it's not a victory when you're forced to suffer a loss. You haven't won anything if you're not around to enjoy the aftermath. So the best allies must be ones who are powerful enough to not only achieve their goals but also survive them."

"…"

"Well, I will grudgingly admit that I didn't put quite that much thought into it when I was younger, but who did? …It's what I believe now though. Did I finally get it through your thick skull this time, Potter?"

After that particular conversation, Hadrian had understood a little better, even if he hadn't entirely agreed with it all. But he hadn't forgotten a single word, and Draco was right— as they are, these kids definitely aren't thinking that deeply, but Hadrian thinks that the core of it at least is the same. Slytherins respect power. And he has power in spades, so at the very least, he can make them respect him.

Of course, if that also happens to make them afraid of him, then, well, he was never aiming to be their friend or even ally anyway. So long as they leave him alone, it's fine.

He brings his magic to bear, allows the weight of it to fall and fall and fall, and he watches dispassionately as Draco goes grey, as Crabbe and Goyle's knees buckle, as Zabini flinches back like he wants to melt into the walls, as Nott curls into himself and may or may not have stopped breathing.

Hadrian catches Draco's eye, and doesn't let him look away. "I have no betters. Do I make myself clear?"

He'd spent half his life being beaten down by the Dursleys, told over and over that he was worth nothing, that he didn’t deserve food or clothes or kindness, that he was a waste of space and better off dead. He'd spent a good chunk of his Hogwarts career obliviously dancing to Dumbledore's tune, and then some more of it knowingly dancing to it because what else could he do with a target on his back. He'd spent over twenty years shackled to Voldemort, to his parents' legacy, to a war that had loved him a whole lot more than he'd ever loved it. And he'd been Fate's everything since before he'd ever even been born.

Some days, he wonders if he even knows what freedom is anymore. Or if he's ever known at all.

But one thing he is sure of is that he will never passively tolerate anyone controlling what he can or cannot do ever again.

Draco whimpers something like agreement, like deference, like surrender, and- that's enough. Hadrian reels it all back, all his magic hidden away again, and in the dizzying wake of its abrupt disappearance, Draco collapses, barely catching himself and his dignity with the edge of his bed. Crabbe and Goyle do crash to the ground, while Zabini has to steady himself against his nightstand, and Nott sways like he might faint.

Too much, Hadrian thinks distantly, and tries to feel bad about it because he really hadn't meant to go that far, but his lines in the sand have also long since blurred away beneath a tide of blood and corpses.

Mostly, he just feels tired, and it has nothing to do with his displays of magic tonight.

He breathes. Turns. Grabs a towel and his underwear and pyjamas and pretends everything's fine. It is fine, now. He's gotten what he wanted. "It's getting late. I'll shower first. Won't be long."

And then he's exiting stage right, straight into the bathroom, and it's a relief to close the door behind him.

Of course, that sentiment is one that's shared by probably every single person in the room.

-0-0-0-

3.

Theo is awake before anyone else the next morning. Or at least he thinks he is because he usually is. But everybody's curtains are drawn, and after last night, he doubts anyone was able to sleep right away, if at all, with the exception of their new roommate.

Hadrian Evans. Great Merlin, where had this person even come from? Even just the memory of his magic - vast and endless and utterly uncompromising - pressing down on them like the sky had fallen on their heads, makes his hands want to shake all over again. For a long, suspended, suffocating moment that could've lasted an eternity, Theo could've sworn he was going to die last night. And the most terrifying thing is that he is absolutely certain that Evans hadn't even been trying that hard.

Evans had radiated enough raw power to force all of them to their knees if he'd really wanted to. But he'd held back. He'd only given them a glimpse, just enough to warn them off. The rest of his magic had been out of reach, but present. It was there, reined in and waiting, but the shape of it and the depth of it had felt… unfathomable, as if it had no limits.

And that doesn't even account for the spellwork he had done. Theo had recognized the Disarming Charm, but last he checked, the average Expelliarmus only deprived a wizard of their wand. A more powerful one might send the target flying and even knock them out, but he's never heard of one that can… threaten to disarm your opponent at your leisure and - if Theo wasn't mistaken - force the wand to forsake its owner. Everybody knows that that's always a possibility in a real duel; if you win and take your opponent's wand, then that wand might not work for its owner anymore. But most of the time, you have to mean it, you have to set out with the intent to do it, the buildup of magic in the duel itself gives that intent a foundation, and there has to be an actual possibly life-threatening conflict of interest between the parties too, a real enmity that even last night - however excessive the exchange - shouldn't have qualified. Squabbles between students just don't count. If it did, with the Disarming Charm being taught in school, there would be a lot more students in need of new wands. The only way Theo can rationalize it happening anyway is that Evans must've been strong enough to compel the wand itself to leave its owner.

Pity he hadn't gone through with it in the end. Evans is powerful, but he's also… Theo is hesitant to call him soft, but if it had been Malfoy, if it had been Blaise or even himself or pretty much any other Slytherin, they would've done it. He's unsure of why Evans hadn't.

And then there had been the thing with the quill. Theo can't even explain that, and he'd mulled it over for half the night. He has the… incidental fortune of occupying the bed closest to Evans', so as soon as Evans had ducked into the bathroom last night, and the others had been distracted with pulling themselves together and possibly trying not to wet themselves, Theo had chanced a swift peek into Evans' wastebasket.

It really had looked just like any other regular quill, one that'd been burnt completely black and missing most of its barbs, but it had been a quill. He'd been tempted to open Evans' desk drawer to check the other quills, but - with Evans' ultimatum still ringing in his ears - he hadn't been that suicidal, so he'd refrained. But from what he could recall, the pack it had come from had looked just like the mass-produced writing utensils one could find in any stationery shop in Diagon Alley.

Whatever he'd done though, he had made it look like child's play. A quill and a Disarming Charm, so fast that Theo could've blinked and missed it. Could someone like that really have remained in obscurity all this time? Evans had apparently been homeschooled up until now, and they haven't even attended their first class yet, but by anyone's definition, after last night, he can't claim to be anything less than a prodigy.

It's… unbelievable. And not even because of any of the blood purity ideals that Malfoy likes to preach about. Theo doesn't think much of muggleborns or halfbloods, but he also doesn't think much of most purebloods, so he's fairly certain it's not high society prejudices that's driving his disbelief. It's just… He's never met anyone - not even his father, and Merlin knows Theo's been afraid of him for as long as he can remember - as effortlessly powerful as Evans had shown himself to be, and he doesn't understand how nobody has heard even a whisper of a rumour of this boy before he'd arrived at Hogwarts.

Someone like him shouldn't exist. Or perhaps there has been one, and that had been how the Dark Lord had made so many people bow at his feet or cower in their homes, but Theo had never met him in person, and so all he has is Evans' example to draw from. And not a single witch or wizard whom Theo's ever met could compare.

Has Evans just been hiding himself? Maybe his family hid him before they deemed him ready to face the rest of the world, and he's certainly proven that he can hide it when he wants to. But what kind of family can bring up this kind of wizard? Evans is only fourteen. None of them had thought him anything special before he'd revealed exactly how wrong they were. And he probably wouldn't have done even that much if Malfoy hadn't immediately taken a go at him, always so obsessed with making sure everyone knows he sits at the top of the food chain.

Well, he certainly doesn't anymore, and if Theo hadn't been caught up in the confrontation last night just like everyone else, he would've been tempted to applaud the spectacle of Malfoy being taken down a peg or ten. Before Evans' arrival, Theo was the one Malfoy liked to take jabs at every few days, and it was only partly because he'd had a halfblood mother. The Notts could've been said to be respectably rich once upon a time, but after the war had ended, with his father's political clout being almost nonexistent and most of their extended relatives either dead or in Azkaban, they'd been easy pickings for the Aurors. His father had escaped prison time with the Imperius excuse and some bribes, but that hadn't prevented multiple raids on their home and a hefty list of fines that had left their vaults near-depleted. And what little fortune they have left is reserved almost entirely for Theo's father's alchemy obsession that's more often focused on illegal research topics than not, as well as his black market dealings, although neither of those at least is widely known, or who knows if they would even have their ancestral manor left after the Aurors were done with them?

Malfoy loved reminding him of almost every one of those things as often as he could, and the most absurd thing is that - more than being born from a halfblood mother or poverty or loss of prestige - Theo's pretty sure Malfoy's biggest reason for disliking Theo is because Theo had refused to follow him around like Crabbe and Goyle back in first year.

So here they are now, and after three years, Theo had more or less become inured, not to mention it wasn't as if Malfoy only bullied him, or even bullied him the most - nobody could top that list while Potter and Weasley were around to fight for first place on it - but it had still been annoying and stressful because Theo was the only one who had to share a dorm with him. Considering the Malfoys' standing in society however, all he could ever do was stay silent and bear with it.

Admittedly, he'd been a little happy when Evans had been sorted into Slytherin, because between Theo and an unknown halfblood-at-best with no allies and no significant family background to speak of, the perfect prey in every way, Malfoy would definitely enjoy targeting the latter more, and even if the blond ponce still came after Theo, it would at least take some of the pressure off of him.

Now… well. That will still probably pick back up sooner or later, but Theo resents it less when he thinks about how it will take at least a few weeks before Malfoy will be able to strut around again after last night's humiliation. And also…

He thinks again of last night, of how Evans had basically smacked Malfoy down like he was nothing more than an unruly upstart getting above himself, and of that quiet oath too - I have no betters - and it hadn't even been pride or arrogance or superiority, only stone-cold certain fact.

He thinks of the fear he'd felt, but behind that, beneath that, more than that, there had also been nothing less than a breathless, heady, wondrous sense of reverence that had settled itself behind his ribcage, in his lungs, in the sudden hungry swell of curiosity that he'd just barely managed to lock behind his teeth, and it had only grown stronger after a night of fitful sleep.

He wants to see that magic again. He wants to know what else Evans can do.

And most importantly, he wants to know if he can do it too.

-0-

Ten minutes later, Theo hears Evans pull his bed curtains back. Very cautiously, he twitches his own curtains open half an inch to watch Evans get up, stretching languidly and scrubbing a hand through his messy black hair before gathering up his toiletries and a change of clothes. Like this, he looks completely normal, nothing at all like someone who could flatten all five of his roommates with a thoughtless flex of his magic. Even his eyes are just green now, no longer glowing like the light of a Killing Curse.

Of course, then Evans waves a hand at his window curtains, which obediently sweep open in response, and… yes, why not? Wandless magic seems par for the course for Evans, even if Theo has only ever heard of a handful of seventh-years capable of some very basic wandless spells if they concentrate hard enough.

Evans leaves for the bathroom as if casual uses of wandless magic is an everyday occurrence for him, and only after the door has closed does Theo let himself relax.

Evans had never even glanced over, but somehow, Theo thinks the other boy had known he was being watched anyway. But he'd said nothing, hadn't even given any indication that he'd noticed, let alone minded. Theo still isn't sure why he'd let Malfoy off so easily yesterday - because on hindsight, when it came down to it, all Evans had really done was scare them and scare Malfoy most of all; despite the verbal abuse and even the Dark charm Malfoy had shot at him, Evans hadn't actually hurt any of them in return - and Theo doesn't get it but maybe part of it is just because Evans doesn't take offence easily.

It seems unwise to Theo to not at least dole out some injuries as a reminder when that offence had been as insolent as Malfoy's, but perhaps Evans has his own measure of such things. Besides, Malfoy's known to say worse. Theo's looking forward to what happens if Malfoy forgets himself and says something even more loathsome. It's not impossible. Malfoy has been unchallenged since he came to Hogwarts. He's used to saying and doing whatever he wants, even to the upper years and those outside his own House. Most people ignore him when they can and indulge him when they can't, or otherwise manage or placate him with their own methods, but the one thing no one has ever done is tell him no, tell him to stop and make it stick. Potter and Weasley tend to give as good as they get, what with how short their tempers are, but they're louder and more obvious about it, so they get caught more often, which just makes them even angrier, so it never actually feels like they win, even when Malfoy doesn't either. Certainly, no amount of lectures or point loss has managed to deflate his ego.

But now there's Hadrian Evans. Theo doesn't need a second demonstration to know that Malfoy is outclassed in every way, but funnily enough, Malfoy himself might need it.

Theo eyes the bathroom door for a moment longer before finally getting up himself. He's barely set his feet on the rug before Blaise - in the bed on Theo's other side - also whips open his curtains, looking far more alert than he ever has this early in the morning.

For several seconds, they stare at each other in silence. And then - because he isn't sure if the other three boys in the room are awake yet - Theo pitches his voice even lower than usual and says, "He said Malfoy spoke for us."

Blaise blinks twice, and then something like distaste curves up at one corner of his mouth. "I heard."

Theo nods. They're on the same page then. Neither of them is particularly keen on this opinion that Evans has regrettably formed, Theo because of obvious reasons, and Blaise because he's Blaise.

Blaise has always been strange. He's the type who gets along with everyone and gets along with no one. You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone - biased Gryffindors aside - who would say a bad word about him, but they'd probably have to think a while if you asked them to describe something of personal significance about him too. It's not that he's average - he's never failed a class, and he's especially good at Potions - but for all that he can carry a conversation in a way that makes everyone feel comfortable and included, and he could probably talk rings around a politician without making them feel stupid, he also never lets anyone close enough to actually get to know him. He's approachable, but only when he wants you to approach him. He's generous with his smiles, but sometimes, it feels a little like he's laughing at you. He might say something condescending or spiteful to you one day, but he has the kind of charisma that makes you forget that the very next. People might call him friend and invite him over for a chat or a game of chess, but most don't make any attempts to go beyond that. And if you know what to look for, as Theo has learned to do, you would realize - Blaise views the world like it's one big boring joke, and his estimation of most of the people in it is probably somewhere around the level of dancing clowns.

Theo doesn't mind. The two of them aren't friends either. They're also not enemies though, and occasionally, they can be allies, but only when Blaise feels like it. Sometimes, the other boy will distract Malfoy from messing up Theo's potion in class or launching yet another diatribe on all of Theo's deficiencies, but Theo will never ask him to because he has nothing to repay Blaise with.

It works for them. Blaise does what Blaise wants, and even Malfoy can't control him. Theo is secretly envious of that— with the Zabinis' seat of power in Italy, it means they don't have that much clout in Britain, and yet nobody messes with Blaise, not even the few who don't buy into Blaise's charm or simply hate him because he's a Slytherin. Not even Malfoy messes with him, and even Theo can't tell if it's Malfoy's self-preservation instincts kicking in to ensure that he isn't about to go insulting someone with a black widow mother like Blaise's, or if Malfoy genuinely hasn't noticed that Blaise doesn't respect him at all no matter how pleasant his words can be. Honestly, when it comes to Malfoy, there's a decent chance of either option being true.

With all that in mind though, it's not a surprise that Blaise isn't pleased with being slotted in as one of Malfoy's lackeys, especially by someone as impressive - or, as Blaise might put it, entertaining - as Hadrian Evans has swiftly proved himself to be.

"It's fine," Blaise says next, rolling out of bed to get ready for the day. He's already regained his typical lazy slouch, as if he hadn't been just as terrified as the rest of them last night. His eyes slide to the bathroom, then away, unreadable but more focused than Theo's ever seen them. "We live in the same dorm, and we'll attend at least most of the same classes. He'll see soon enough that we don't share the same opinions as Malfoy."

Theo watches him dig into his wardrobe. "And then?"

"Then?" Blaise tips a more familiar look of knowing amusement at him. "Then you do what you want, and I'll do what I want, and at the very least, we'll have the good sense to not throw ourselves straight onto a hippogriff's talons like dear Draco."

Theo smothers a snort and rises to his feet. Neither he nor Blaise take Care of Magical Creatures, but everybody had heard of Malfoy's idiocy last year. The phrase "my father will hear about this!" had reached a record high by winter's end. Not much had come of it, not when Hagrid had had the likes of James Potter and Sirius Black and Albus Dumbledore championing him. Even Lucius Malfoy would - and had, more than once over the years - find it difficult to contend with the British wizarding world's vaunted war heroes when they join forces. In the end, Hagrid could continue teaching so long as he did it alongside a second professor hired by the school, and even the hippogriff got to live. Malfoy had not been happy, and he'd made sure everybody knew it too, but at least he'd also whined less about it once Slytherin House had learned to snigger about it where he wouldn't hear.

But 'throwing oneself onto a hippogriff's talons' had become rather popular vernacular ever since, subtle enough that even Malfoy couldn't call anyone out on using it without embarrassing himself, but funny to everyone who understood, and nobody could even say who'd started the phrase. Theo's money would be on Blaise though.

The bathroom is spelled so that nobody outside can hear anything when the door is shut, but they can hear the lock click open just fine, and almost in tandem, he and Blaise both immerse themselves in picking out their outfits for the day as if it's a task that requires every last bit of their attention.

Evans walks out. True to his word, he ignores them completely, neither greeting them nor sparing them a glance as he moves back to his section of the dorm. Theo watches him out of the corner of his eye as the boy folds his pyjamas away before proceeding to pack his bag. He catches a glimpse of an Ancient Runes textbook, and his mind abruptly flashes back to the quill. But… that can't be right.

Evans shuts his bag, pulls on his robes, and toes on his shoes. Like this, there's something vaguely familiar about him that Theo can't place right away, and the thought is gone again as Evans slings his bag over his shoulder and strides for the door.

He still doesn't look at any of them, and he's gone from the room a moment later. They might as well have been empty air.

Theo's fingers tighten around the shirt he's holding. Somehow, he-

-doesn't like it.

-0-

Malfoy gets up two minutes after Evans is gone, moving around with an exaggeratedly unaffected sort of poise that makes Theo want to roll his eyes. At least the blond doesn't try to make conversation until Crabbe and Goyle wake up as well.

Evans aside, Theo is the first out of the room, as per usual, although this time, Blaise accompanies him up to the common room and out of the Dungeon. It takes no time at all to arrive at the Great Hall, and this early, most of the four House tables are still empty of students, although more and more are gradually drifting in in groups of threes and fours.

Unlike the other Houses who like cramming into whatever space they see, Slytherins are more political about it. The end seats are left to the outcasts or first-years who don't know better yet, while the midway point of the table is typically reserved for the most influential students, such as those with the best grades or the largest range of social connections or the strongest family background, or some combination of the three. And everybody else arranges themselves between the two extremes accordingly. The only time that changes - from what Theo has heard - is when someone is so magically powerful that they can overwhelm everyone else. Then it doesn't matter what grades or connections or background they have because magic is respected most of all, although they would usually have some qualifications in those other areas. But either way, they would be given reigning place of pride in the middle with their chosen followers around them, and everybody else would sit where they're told to sit, regardless of their accomplishments.

Someone like that hasn't come along in fifty years though, not since the Dark Lord was still at Hogwarts.

So it's jarring to see Evans seated at the very end, furthest away from the High Table, with a book open in front of him and a steaming mug in one hand, but Theo supposes it shouldn't be. He's newly transferred in, and a halfblood besides, so he probably doesn't know about the traditional seating arrangement, and since it's still just the second day of school, it's not as if anybody else outside their dorm knows that Evans is anything but the unfortunate fourth-year with a muggle surname sorted into Slytherin, so he really can be considered an outcast.

Theo exchanges a look with Blaise before tentatively taking a seat at their usual spot a few feet away from the halfway point of the table. It doesn't feel right to… go over Evans' head like this, but it's not like they can really do anything about it at the moment. Theo in particular is technically sitting above his station, but his family is still one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, no matter how far it's fallen, and he gets decent grades in almost every class. He's also on friendly terms with Blaise, and the fact that he shares a dorm with Malfoy is a double-edged sword. Malfoy has the status to sit near the middle ever since he was a first-year, and it wouldn't look very good for him if he's seen completely spurning a Nott in his generation. So Theo is largely left alone so long as he looks like he's nominally part of Malfoy's group during mealtimes.

Theo spends the next five minutes sneaking sidelong glances down the table. Blaise does the same, and neither of them is obvious about it so nobody comes up to ask them any questions. Other Slytherins begin filing in, and more than one wrinkles their nose or sneers when they pass Evans, as if they've smelled something repulsive.

Theo has to make an effort not to wince every time it happens. Blaise watches with a shallow smirk hitched across his face and something cold and callous and thoroughly amused in his eyes.

By the time Malfoy - with Crabbe and Goyle on either side of him - sits down across from them, about half the table is full, plates of breakfast have started appearing, and Evans still hasn't looked up from his reading.

Malfoy - much less subtle - shoots something sulky and resentful with just a dash of fear down the table and mutters, "Doesn't even know how to sit properly."

Theo really does roll his eyes this time, although he makes sure to do it down at his scone. Before anyone can say anything else though, Evans unexpectedly straightens, his attention finally lifting from his book. Malfoy immediately stiffens as well like he thinks Evans had heard him from all the way down the table, which Theo wouldn't put past Evans's ability but also doesn't think that Evans thinks that Malfoy is worth that effort to eavesdrop on.

Evans looks around, but not at any of the Slytherins. He cranes his head over one shoulder, seems to catch sight of whatever he's looking for, and gets up, shutting his book and tossing it back in his bag. Then he's making his way across the Hall, past the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws, straight over to the Gryffindor table that's only partially filled at the moment but is also hosting the Golden Trio, who had just come down for breakfast.

 Evans stops a few feet away, and Longbottom, Weasley, and Granger turn to face him. What Theo can see of their expressions indicate that they're surprised and a little wary, but they also seem like they know each other. They converse about something, Weasley makes some exaggerated hand gestures, Granger smacks him, and then Evans says something else that makes the Gryffindors burst into laughter, startled but bright.

And then Evans moves forward and-

-sits down.

At the Gryffindor table.

Longbottom and Granger are smiling, and even Weasley - with his hatred for everything Slytherin - seems fine with it, going back to plating more food for himself while passing some sausages over to Evans.

In Theo's peripheral, Malfoy's face has lost so much colour that he could pass for a ghost. Theo can't tell if he's just that offended or if he's actually managed to comprehend the fact that he's already alienated possibly the most magically powerful student at Hogwarts from Slytherin House, to the point where that student doesn't even want to eat at the same table as them, and classes haven't even started yet.

Theo can't tell, nor does he care, but if he'd ever needed any more reasons to despise Draco Malfoy, this would be it.

He averts his gaze from Evans, even if the mere thought of him preferring a bunch of Gryffindors - and those Gryffindors at that; the only ones worse would be Potter's lot - over his own House is… grating. But staring isn't going to win Theo any favours and might just tick Evans off. Besides, there are plenty of others who have noticed a Slytherin sitting with Gryffindors, and they're staring enough for ten of him.

He starts on his breakfast. School has just begun. There's plenty more time in the future to observe Hadrian Evans.

-0-0-0-

4.

Within the space of a week, Theo is cautiously pleased to find that he shares all nine classes with Evans. The core subjects are mandatory of course, but in addition to Ancient Runes, Evans also takes Arithmancy, both of which Theo is also studying, and after three weeks, he gets a slightly more detailed picture of what Evans is capable of.

In class, Evans doesn't stand out, or at least not in a way most people would notice. He doesn't take the initiative to answer questions posed by the teachers, and his spells and potions aren't particularly dazzling when they're assigned practical classwork.

But every time a professor calls on him, Evans always answers correctly. Every time they have to practice a new spell, Evans doesn't clamour to be the first to show off, and he isn't the one who produces it with the most eye-catching burst of magic, but when he's asked to show his progress, he always does it exactly the way the teacher demonstrated it at the beginning of class. Even in Potions, all he does is work discreetly in the back corner on the Slytherin side of the room. He never finishes early, but he also never finishes late, never failing to turn in a textbook-perfect potion ten minutes before class ends, and a couple times, Theo catches Snape watching Evans with an inscrutable expression after the boy quietly hands in yet another flawless potion.

After three weeks, Theo can conclude that while Evans doesn't deliberately dumb himself down, and in fact is performing spectacularly across the board, he does it in such a reserved, inconspicuous manner that even most of the professors probably aren't going to notice until they've graded a good few months' worth of homework and tests.

He does it for every subject. Every single one, except Ancient Runes, and Theo is convinced that that's less because Evans didn't try, and more that… well, some brilliance just can't be hidden.

In the third week, when Babbling hands back their first assignment - Acceptables and Poors all around of course; some days, Theo isn't sure if he wants to strangle Babbling or himself, just to put himself out of the misery that is attempting to understand anything their Runes professor says - she holds Evans back at the end of class, and half the students snicker like they think he's in trouble or did so badly that even Babbling can't stand it, and it's the best joke they've ever seen. But two days later, some papers that Evans has left out on his desk while he's off doing something else, probably with his Gryffindor buddies, catch Theo's eye while he's on his way to his own desk. More specifically, the symbol of the Department of Magical Education stamped on them catches Theo's eye, and after some very hasty and very undignified neck-straining and squinting from a prudent five feet away, he more or less understands.

Babbling hadn't held Evans back because he was doing badly. Babbling had held him back because he was doing so good he would be sitting his Ancient Runes O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams on the twenty-third of October.

Three minutes after that revelation, Theo's still sitting somewhat dazed in his chair when Malfoy returns, Crabbe and Goyle in tow. The blond also spots the papers on Evans' desk and - after suffering day after day of, in Malfoy's increasingly belligerent opinion, being disgraced by Evans due to all the time he was spending with Gryffindors, and even three of the ones Malfoy hates most - practically lights up with a malicious sort of glee at the opportunity to get a little revenge.

He seems to have already forgotten that first night's lesson, and it hasn't even been a month yet. Sometimes, Theo is honestly baffled by Malfoy's Sorting into Slytherin. What ambition is there in a boy whose solution to everything in life is to fall back on his father and surname and family money? What cunning is there to speak of when he so often acts without even considering the option of leaving himself a way out, just in case his taunts and schemes backfire on him one day?

Or perhaps the real mystery is how he's managed to go this long without anyone telling him that the world won't always bend to his demands.

"O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams?" Malfoy says loudly as he wanders over to read the papers. He scoffs. "No matter how much magic he has, there's no way that's possible. He's just a fourth-year. And a halfblood! I bet he paid Babbling to sign him up for them. Everybody knows she's not all there so Evans wouldn't even have to pay her a lot to persuade her."

Theo flicks a glance at Blaise, who'd brought up the rear, a few seconds behind Malfoy, and had entered on near-inaudible footsteps in time to witness this latest snowballing disaster. The taller boy's lip curls, and his next words come out in such a nonchalant drawl that it takes a moment for Malfoy to register the bite of them, "Why would he do that though? He's not you."

Malfoy flushes an unflattering shade of red. "Zabini! That's not funny!"

Blaise's insults are always taken as jokes. Theo thinks that's the only way Malfoy can weather them, because he doesn't truly dare to cross Blaise, so even if he does know better, he still has to feign ignorance.

"It can't be possible," Malfoy repeats, turning back to the papers. "Otherwise, why hasn't he said anything about it? If it were me, I'd let everyone know! Obviously, he knows he'll fail, so he doesn't dare to spread it around."

Theo tries to wrap his mind around that logic, fails, and gives it up as a bad job.

"Then, why is he taking them?" Crabbe suddenly pipes up, blinking with a befuddled air in Malfoy's direction.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "Obviously, Crabbe, it's to impress the Boy Who Lived. You've seen how Evans is constantly fawning over Longbottom." And there's the jealousy leaking into his voice even as it strengthens as if he's gaining confidence in his conjecture the longer he speaks. "He's still just a vulgar halfblood with subpar upbringing after all. He needs political connections if he wants to make anything of himself in our world. And Longbottom's a soft touch, and an idiot besides at everything that isn't digging in the dirt. Just trying to take the exams is probably enough to make him think Evans is a genius."

He takes another step forward, almost hovering over the desk now, childish spite tarnishing his features. "Let's see what the rest of Slytherin thinks of this. We are in the same House so Evans should look for support from real purebloods. I'll help him out."

Malfoy reaches out, and Theo goes still, staring, avid and unblinking.

(Greedy.)

Hadrian Evans does not disappoint him.

Malfoy's hand lands on the papers, and it's as if a miniature explosion takes place. There's no warning as the desk ignites with enough interlocked, interwoven, bloody intricate runes to send anyone reeling. It blankets the entire desk in layers of circles and lines and eye-watering spirals, before even those disappear in a blaze of brilliant silver light that pulses once before bursting outward and knocking Malfoy clean off his feet.

Malfoy screams as he's sent flying across the room in a tangle of flailing limbs and flapping robes. Coincidentally - or not? - he lands on his bed in a graceless upside-down heap, the bag he's still wearing smacks him in the face, and the momentum tumbles him straight over the far side of his bed and onto the floor with a final muffled thump that cuts Malfoy's shriek to a yelp.

The light disappears, along with the runes. The room goes eerily quiet, and for a long moment, nobody moves.

It's Blaise who reacts first.

He laughs.

It's enough to snap Malfoy out of his stupor. The blond scrambles to right himself, pushing to his feet, fury and humiliation writ large across his face as he opens his mouth to shout, "Shut up, Zabini! Wait until my father hears about this! Evans will regret-"

There's a clatter. The door opens.

Malfoy shuts up so fast Theo wouldn't be surprised if he bit his tongue.

Evans steps inside, and then stops. He looks around, looks at his desk, looks at a still dishevelled and increasingly pallid Malfoy, and then he shuts the door behind him and heaves a very deep sigh.

"Seriously?" He asks in rhetorical tones. "I just went to borrow a library book. I couldn't have been gone for more than thirty minutes."

Nobody says anything. Evans sighs again before striding over to his desk. He raises a hand and combs his fingers through the air— or perhaps something only he could see, and that's proven correct as a runic array shimmers into existence, swirling together before reshaping itself into-

-a memory.

Specifically, it's a replay of everything Malfoy had said and done as soon as he'd gotten within three feet of Evans' belongings, complete with sound and colour. It's basically a pensieve without the pensieve or the removal of memories to supply it.

Theo wants so badly that his teeth ache with the leashed desire to ask a million questions immediately.

Patience, he reminds himself.

"Hm," Evans says once the memory's run its course, and the runes wisp away once more. Theo is both surprised and not when the other boy proceeds to pull out his chair, sit down, and dig out his library book, clearly intent to continue his work.

Behind him, Malfoy seethes, and before he can think better of it, or he simply doesn't think, he barks out, "Do you think you can treat me this way, Evans? Do you know who my father is? When I tell him about this-"

"Tell him then," Evans interjects, leaning back to slant a cool look at Malfoy. "Tell him you tried to steal my things, and my wards tossed you onto your bed, and the only thing it really bruised was your ego. Or you can lie and make up something that would make you more of a victim, and big bad mudblood Hadrian Evans bullied you terribly. What's the worst that could happen? Expulsion?" He huffs a laugh, and as far as Theo can tell, the thread of mirth that laces the sound is astonishingly sincere. "Malfoy, I don't actually care. I don't need Hogwarts."

He really doesn't. Worse comes to worst, which other school would be daft enough to not scoop him up if they see what he can do with runes? And that's not even getting into everything else he can do. Any school would accept him in a heartbeat and then laugh themselves to tears if Lucius Malfoy actually managed to get him ejected from Britain's sphere of influence on some trumped up charges just because his son went crying to him. Besides, since Evans had been previously homeschooled, he could always just return to that as well.

Malfoy opens his mouth, then closes it, and he does that a couple times, eyes wide in his face like he's never met anyone who has stonewalled him this way, who has challenged his authority so directly, more than once, and yet remains utterly unintimidated and untouchable.

Evidently, he never has.

Evans regards him for a few seconds more before sighing once more. "I thought I was clear enough that first night, but apparently not. When I say 'attack', I don't just mean with a wand. All my things are off-limits unless I say otherwise, so if I were you, I would keep my hands to myself. You don't want to know what my wards will do to you if they sense intentions worse than just petty theft. I hope you won't forget again."

He holds Malfoy's faltering gaze for a moment longer before turning back to his books and papers. Malfoy stumbles back a step as if he's been physically released, and he looks like he wants to pitch a temper tantrum but also doesn't dare. In the end, he storms out of the room without even straightening his robes or smoothing back his hair, and nobody tries to stop him or go after him, not even Crabbe or Goyle, who've both retreated to their beds, shoulders hunched, almost bowed, angled almost in Evans' direction.

Evans is already poring over his library book though, quill in one hand, inkwell set out, fresh parchment beside it. It's clear he's done interacting with the lot of them.

Theo almost lets it go, as he has every other time he wants to speak to Evans, to ask him questions, to know. He's already biting his tongue and swallowing down the words and opening his bag to fish out his homework.

Except-

It's been three weeks. Theo can be patient when he has to be, but more and more, it's… starting to feel like he doesn't have to be. He's had an entire childhood's worth of practice at dissecting emotions, at looking at a person's face and words and actions and taking all of them into account to figure out how they really feel, if they're angry at him or upset with him, if they're about to lash out even when they're smiling, or if there's still time to appease them even if they look like they're about to go for their wand.

Evans is harder to read than most, but at the very least, Theo can tell that he doesn't get angry often. In fact, there's only ever been that one time, that first night, and even for most of that incident, Evans had only acted to secure his own safety in their dorm once it became clear that Malfoy wasn't going to leave him alone otherwise. None of it had been driven by rage, not even when he'd nearly drowned them in the undertow of his magic over that particular handful of words Malfoy had jeered at him. And ever since then, Evans hasn't done anything except go about his business while ignoring theirs. That went for the rest of Slytherin too, and even some students in other Houses who don't like the fact that he's a Slytherin. Sometimes, they make snide remarks, usually behind his back, sometimes within his hearing range, and to a man, every student in their House has openly shunned him since he went to sit with the Golden Trio that first breakfast, but Evans has never given them a second glance, or really even a first glance, not out of anger or embarrassment or distress, and certainly not out of any desire for them to accept him, which just seems to offend them even more. But Evans is simply… indifferent to it all.

 Most importantly, as much as Theo has been able to conclude, Evans isn't prone to violence. He always seems calm and easygoing when he's with the Golden Trio, and quiet the rest of the time. And from the very beginning, he's never done anything to harm any fellow Slytherins, not even Malfoy. Even his wards seem to have some kind of function worked into them that would rate the level of threat first and only respond with the same degree of damage.

Actually, not the same— if Malfoy had been caught taking another Slytherin's documents without permission, important or not, it wouldn't be too much even if they cursed his hands in return. They probably wouldn't, because it's Malfoy, and people are used to being more lenient with him, but normally, even Malfoy wouldn't do something that gauche anyway. No matter how much they've spoiled him, his parents have at least taught him pureblood etiquette. He's never even tried to rifle through Theo's belongings.

 Admittedly, Theo had committed a slight faux pas as well when his curiosity had prompted him to read those Ministry forms, even if they were laid out on Evans' desk - unintentionally seeing them in passing was fine but the polite thing to do would've been to keep walking - but at least he hadn't been stupid enough to get too close, let alone put a single finger on them. Malfoy really only has his own poor impulse control to blame for going too far yet again, and Theo has every right to judge him for it.

 Although since it was Evans, Malfoy had probably categorized him as someone who doesn't deserve a pureblood's courtesy.

Even then though, Evans hadn't retaliated with anything more than the ward equivalent of a watered down Knockback Jinx, which is basically a common prank amongst rowdier students. Malfoy's pride had - once again - been hurt, but nothing else, even when it would've been Evans' right. And he hadn't gotten angry this time either.

Of course, Theo isn't foolish enough to think Evans isn't capable of violence when he wants to be. If he's pushed far enough, Theo is certain that the other boy could and would inflict some significant damage that would at least end with a visit to the Hospital Wing. Perhaps it was his magic, the relentless weight of it that said it wouldn't hesitate to crush them if they proved themselves a real threat. Or perhaps it was Evans himself, who looks at Malfoy after each stunt like he's putting up with a recalcitrant child that he has to go easy on because said child is too young to know better, except the detachment in his gaze also says that he's weighing Malfoy's age on a scale and waiting for the day his youth will no longer be able to compensate for his actions.

Frankly, Theo hopes that day will come soon. But that's his pettiness talking, and Malfoy in general is none of his concern. What Theo really wants is to learn all those things for himself. Well, not all, he's more than self-aware enough to know he's nowhere near as powerful as Evans, but some of those things - the spellwork, the runes - surely those things can be taught to others even if they don't have incredible amounts of magic? Even if it's slow-going and difficult, Theo isn't afraid to work for it.

So long as he learns even just a little of what Evans knows - and he clearly knows so much, knows the things that can actually be useful in real life - then perhaps, one day, maybe even before he graduates Hogwarts… escaping his father won't be a fool's hope anymore. And if there's a chance that he can do that, then no matter how exorbitant the price Evans names, Theo would be willing to pay it, even if it takes him the rest of his life to honour the debt.

But nothing's going to happen if they're not even on speaking terms. It's been three weeks. Already three weeks. Only three weeks. Maybe it really is still too soon, but at the very least, Theo doesn't think Evans will do anything worse than say no.

 At his back, he can feel Blaise's eyes on him, but he doesn't turn around.

 "Is that-" His voice doesn't crack, thankfully, but it comes out croakier than normal, giving away his nervousness. He bites back the urge to hex himself and tries again. "Is that taught by the time we graduate?"

 Evans… doesn't react, doesn't even look up. For several tense and increasingly awkward seconds, Theo thinks maybe the other boy will just continue ignoring him, or maybe he even thinks Theo is speaking to one of the others, not him.

 But then he writes something down and flips a page of his book, and then he raises his head and shifts away from his desk to face Theo.

 It's a little daunting, to suddenly have that piercing bright green regard aimed straight at him, but there's also no hostility that Theo can see, and that settles some of his nerves.

 Evans looks at him, then frowns, then asks in return, blunt, but amazingly, willingly enough, "You mean the wards?"

 Theo nods carefully, making sure he doesn't look too eager or too demanding. Masters of their trades are always rightfully reticent about their knowledge and skills to anyone who isn't their own mentor or apprentice, unless they're a teacher. Evans may not be a master signed and sealed and authorized to practice, but nobody who can write the exams at fourteen can be considered an amateur.

 Evans shrugs. "I haven't exactly flipped through the Ancient Runes syllabus of every year so I can't really say. If it continues at the same pace as third-year and fourth-year though, then probably not. You'd maybe get to the point of basic wards, but not much more than that. Compound wards like these-" He raps his knuckles against his own desk. "-put crudely, requires the use of runic coils to weave together multiple basic arrays, on multiple levels, in varying sequential order depending on how multifaceted you want the wards to be. It's not that difficult once you start getting some practice in, but from what I hear, you guys don't even begin practical work until after your O.W.L., which… I don't really get, but maybe Hogwarts is big on theoretical learning. But yeah, at that rate, I don't see how you could be constructing something like this by graduation."

 Theo's head is spinning. He didn't understand… anything in that summary except perhaps a general idea of "basic arrays". It's rare for him to feel so stupid.

 Evans is still watching him, and he doesn't seem impatient for their exchange to be over, or irritated that it's taking place at all. He looks like he's waiting for Theo to reply, so Theo hurries on to keep the conversation afloat.

 "So you didn't learn Runes following the Hogwarts curriculum when you were homeschooled," He surmises. "Does that mean the standards here fall short of the international schools?"

 It wouldn't be the first time. Britain's educational requirements have been growing more and more lenient for years. Correspondingly, their elective options have also been reduced to four due to budget cuts and lack of interest in anything harder than petting animals and making up death predictions. Every year, more second-years choose to sign up for Care and Divination than they do Arithmancy or Runes. It's one reason why the number of incoming students has been gradually declining and consists of more muggleborns than purebloods. Foreign schools are strict about accepting any children outside of their designated countries, but those in Great Britain and Ireland who want better for their kids and can afford the higher prices tend to prefer sending them to one international school or another instead of Hogwarts.

 But Evans shakes his head. "I wouldn't know that either. I didn't really follow any official curriculum when I was learning." He pauses a beat, like he's thinking about how much to reveal, or even why he's revealing anything, but then he seems to decide it doesn't much matter. "The person who taught me was a bit… unconventional about it. He was a very good teacher, but he wasn't actually a teacher with the degree and whatever else you need to be a Ministry-approved professor, so he didn't really care about following some checklist of what a student attending a magical school was supposed to learn. Plus he was kind of a genius at runes. Ward-cracking and disassembly in particular since that's what he majored in - he was a Curse-Breaker - but he was pretty good at almost everything else too, which meant he found the basic stuff pretty boring. So when he taught me, and he realized I didn't have any trouble getting the foundations down, and I could mostly keep up even when he skipped ahead to more advanced stuff, he basically ended up just jumping between the subjects he liked most, filled in any gaps along the way, and gave me free rein to research whatever I found interesting. And whatever topic I picked was the one he lectured on, or helped me look up if it was one of the few areas he didn't know much about."

 His expression turns wry, if only for a moment. "Apparently though, according to Babbling, that means there's nothing left for Hogwarts to teach me. But I don't know how I would compare to students in other schools."

 He finishes and falls silent. It's the most he's said since that first night, and it's clear as day that whoever this Curse-Breaker tutor was, Evans respects him a great deal, great enough to ramble on about him to a roomful of near-strangers, and considering what he'd had a hand in molding Evans into, he deserves every bit of that respect too.

 Theo envies it. He is oft a creature of envy, and it hollows him out a little more every time it rears its head, but he's resigned to it. He wonders why Hogwarts can't have a teacher like Evans' instead of the whimsical mess that is Babbling, who can never get through a single class without her train of thought wandering away like an untrained dog off its leash.

 "Then," Theo continues, carefully neutral, carefully watching for any signs of displeasure on Evans' face. "Once you pass your exams, will you simply have an extra study period slot? Or will you be required to attend another elective?"

 Evans blinks at him. "The first, I think. I might see if it's possible to take an owl-distance university course or something, but spare time in my day isn't bad either."

 "Then," Theo forges on, watching as Evans's mouth twists a little, like he knows that this is what Theo has been aiming for from the beginning. Theo can't tell if he disapproves though - he doesn't think so - and it's too late to divert his course anyway. "What do you think about tutoring?"

 Evans cocks an eyebrow. He doesn't say anything for several anxiety-inducing seconds, just scrutinizing Theo with a face blank enough to rival Snape's when he bothers to stop sneering. The quill in Evans' hand taps-taps-taps against his desk before the boy swings around in his chair completely to face Theo.

 "Tutoring," He repeats. "You want me to tutor you in Ancient Runes?"

 And at least he doesn't sound derisive, nor does he put any particular emphasis on any part of that question. It does make it harder for Theo to gauge how he should respond though.

 "Yes," He confirms, because straightforward seems to be what Evans prefers. He thinks, briefly, of including Blaise, but he doesn't actually know if Blaise would like tutoring as well, and even if he does, Blaise can ask for himself. Theo isn't that charitable, and Blaise might even take offense if he tries to be.

 "I can compensate you for your time," He adds, because he's poor by pureblood standards, but not so poor that he can't afford decent education, especially with the nest egg he's been secretly building on the side since he turned eight and realized his inheritance was only going to get smaller at the rate his father was drawing from it for his… extracurriculars. His seven years at Hogwarts at least have already been paid for, robes and supplies and even some pocket money included, because even Silas Nott isn't going to let his son go into public at even more of a disadvantage than he already is. So as long as Evans doesn't ask for a huge sum of money, or even if he does, and he's willing to take part of that payment in favours, then Theo should have enough from his own funds to cover the cost.

 Evans leans back in his seat and doesn't say anything about payment. Instead, he looks almost puzzled as he asks, "Why do you need tutoring though? Even if you want to learn stuff like this," He motions at his desk. "I wouldn't be able to even start teaching you how until you got at least the basics down, and that's what Hogwarts teaches, so is there any point in getting more of the same lessons from me?"

 For a moment, even Theo can't come up with a way to say 'yes, because Babbling can't teach worth a damn, and I don't actually know how I passed last year but I definitely won't this year with the way her lectures keep getting lost somewhere between class and Atlantis every bloody week' but in more polite terms, if only because Evans might not appreciate anyone badmouthing her since she's obviously the one vouching for Evans' qualifications in order to let him take his exams so early.

 Fortunately, Blaise has no such compunctions.

 "Have you seen the way Babbling teaches?" The other boy enquires in his usual lackadaisical tone, just aggrieved enough to sound invested, but mild enough to leech the provocation out of it. It also gives Blaise a foot in through the door, drawing Evans' attention to him without making it seem as if he's interrupting.

 Theo glances behind him at where Blaise is now lounging in his own desk chair, emptying his bag of textbooks and papers even as he glances over to meet Evans' gaze, and his expression has eased into an invitation to commiserate over Babbling's questionable teaching methods. All of it is designed to look casual and cordial, to keep this fragile first exchange lighthearted, if also full of a resigned sort of exasperation, funnelled together in order to lower Evans' guard.

 And it seems to work too, like it does with everyone Blaise turns his charms on. At the very least, the way Evans' mouth quirks in response looks reflexive enough to be genuine.

 "That's fair," Evans concedes, a wry sort of humour suffusing his voice. "She's not the best at… staying on topic."

 Theo has to suppress a snort, but something of it must show on his face anyway because Evans' eyes snap back to him, and a moment later, a quicksilver grin flits across the other's face, bright in a way that lights up his whole face, and perhaps Blaise will have to try harder after all because Theo realizes that this is what genuine looks like on Evans.

 "Okay, I get why you might want a tutor," Evans acknowledges. "But isn't there anyone better for that?"

 Theo blinks at him. "Better than someone who's ready to take his exams in a month?"

 Evans' eyebrows go up briefly, and something in his eyes sharpens. "No. Better than someone who's a halfblood orphan in Slytherin, stuck in a one-sided grudge-match with a pureblood brat who has all the maturity of a toddler and isn't going to be very happy if his friend starts hanging around the guy he wants to curse into the Hospital Wing."

 Orphan? is Theo's first thought, followed by, I wish Malfoy was around to hear that. But all of it is superseded by a defiance that bursts out of him before he can curb it, "We're not friends."

 Evans waves a hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know, Slytherins don't have friends. What I mean is-"

 "No," Theo says, wincing internally at how he'd cut Evans off mid-sentence. "I mean, we aren't friends. Normally, we aren't even civil acquaintances most days."

 Evans eyes him for a long moment like he can hear all the things Theo isn't saying. Theo's pretty sure Evans doesn't know about his family's circumstances - How would he? Why would he even care to look it up? - but he seems to be able to glean at least the gist of it in a single glance because he seems to accept it easily enough, and the next thing he says is, "Alright, but that doesn't change the fact that he's still not going to be happy about it."

 "Good," Theo says, once again before he can stop himself, and with more relish than he should convey. Even if he's often thought that anything that made Malfoy unhappy was a good thing, he's certainly never expressed it out loud. He doesn't know what's come over him, only that there's something about the way Evans is watching him, patient and without judgement, that makes him… bolder than he normally would be.

 And since he's already opened his mouth, he might as well keep going.

 "So long as you're willing, I don't mind what other people might say," Theo says as firmly as he knows how to be. "I need to raise my grades for Ancient Runes before I take my OWLs next year or I'm never going to pass. I would appreciate any tutoring you can spare the time for." He hesitates, but only for a beat. "If you want, in addition to monetary compensation, I can also snub Malfoy at dinner somehow. And you would know it wouldn't just be some show we put on either. Malfoy doesn't have it in him to be humiliated in public, even as a stunt."

 It's far more outspoken and far more audacious than Theo is accustomed to being, and he can feel Blaise's eyes on him again. But he gets the impression that if he doesn't put his cards on the table - that he really does want to learn from Evans, that it's his main motivation, even if it isn't the only one - then Evans might think Theo is playing some kind of trick on him, possibly on Malfoy's orders, and that's the last thing Theo wants him to believe.

 Besides, this is also an opportunity. Theo had been resigned to living under Malfoy's temperamental rule for the duration of his Hogwarts career. It wasn't as if he wouldn't be doing more of the same as an adult, after all. Considering the difference in their social status, Theo would still have to bow his head, and jump when told to jump, and remain courteously - or at least forbearingly - deferential in front of Malfoy whenever they see each other. At least this more childish version at school is giving him plenty of practice for the future.

 But now, there is Hadrian Evans, whose existence no one had expected and no one thus far can control, who isn't afraid of Malfoy, whom Malfoy is afraid of instead, and Theo honestly can't see that changing. Of course, the real world is very different from some squabbles between teenagers, and Theo has only known Evans for less than a month. But… call it instinct. Even if one day the Malfoy family can really make it so that Evans can no longer live well in Britain, Theo gets the sense that the other boy would rather up and move to a different country than ever submit to anyone.

 People with inborn power like Evans won't bow. They don't know how to.

 And if Theo can get even a fraction of that protection that openly siding with Evans might earn him, then the choice is obvious. He's long known that he isn't powerful enough or ambitious enough or even brave enough to stand on his own. That in order to thrive, or even to simply live a satisfactory life, it would be best to choose someone's shadow to settle in. Preferably, that someone would be willing enough to leave Theo alone most of the time and wouldn't ask too much of him, but he already knows he wouldn't be able to get that from his father or Malfoy.

 Then, there's no point clinging to either of them. Before, there had been no other choices, and between his father and Malfoy, Malfoy was the better bet, though it wasn't as if the blond ponce could've gotten him out from under Silas Nott's thumb either. But at least being - loosely - affiliated with Malfoy would, in the future, offer Theo some protection from his father's obsessive tendencies. It wouldn't do for one of Malfoy's circle of acquaintances to disappear under mysterious circumstances after all.

 Now there's a new player on the field. Of course, Evans probably doesn't see himself as one, and wouldn't care even if he knew. But that doesn't change the fact that his shadow casts a long and looming line, and somehow, it feels more like a refuge than anyone else's Theo has ever come across. Evans might not be willing to protect him, if only because he would have to make himself known to do so, and if there's one thing Evans has shown over the past few weeks, it's that he much prefers staying in the background. But even if he isn't willing to protect Theo, at the very least, he can teach Theo how to protect himself. So, Theo might as well take his chances with Evans, and the first step in doing that is to make it very clear to all and sundry that he's throwing his lot in with the halfblood Slytherin transfer.

 He hadn't quite been prepared to go this far when he'd first decided to speak to Evans today, but doing things by half measures doesn't bode well for him either. Prevaricating or at least being vaguer about his intentions might leave him an extra hand to play, a way to retreat in case associating with Evans becomes too dangerous one day, but no one likes a fence-sitter.

 In Slytherin, every decision is a power play, whether it seems like it or not. An insignificant word or action might result in large consequences that aren't always obvious until the waves and ripples have settled. And Theo's never been much of a gambler, preferring safety over potential riches. But the things he can learn from Evans are too tempting to pass over. Put in plain terms, he's technically using Evans as a means to an end, which no one in Slytherin wouldn't approve of, but for a good chunk of this House, Evans' blood would definitely outweigh any usefulness he might have, especially since he hasn't publicly proven himself in any way at all. And the way he spends all his free time with Gryffindors hardly helps.

 Still, it's a risk Theo's willing to take. And now the Quaffle is in Evans' hands, and all that's left is to wait for his answer.

 Of course, if Evans says no, then Theo can only hope Blaise is feeling magnanimous today and won't go spreading this little story around. Then again, there's Crabbe and Goyle too, and they'll definitely tell Malfoy, so it will get out either way.

 Such is Slytherin, where the only shared secret you can trust to remain a secret is when all other parties are dead.

 In front of him, Evans only raises his eyebrows for a moment before amusement quirks one corner of his mouth. "Well you don't have to go that far."

 Theo can't tell if the other boy understands the implications of publicly cutting ties with Malfoy, but he's relieved to hear it anyway. He'd do it if it's a condition Evans sets, if only to alleviate any concerns Evans might have of being played, but it's not as if he wants to do it. He would happily see Malfoy humiliated any day of the week, but Theo is at heart an introverted person. Open confrontation of any kind will always make him uncomfortable.

 Evans studies him for a while longer as if weighing his sincerity. Eventually, he says, "I'm not opposed to tutoring. Actually, I'm already doing that for Hermione every Wednesday and Saturday. Adding one more doesn't make much of a difference. It's just that I don't love tutoring so much that I want to do it more than twice a week. So," He smiles, and this time, his expression is one of a sharp sort of curiosity. "If you want me to tutor you, then you'll have to be okay with Hermione. And I don't just mean tolerating her presence enough to sit at the same table as her. I mean if you say one bad word about her blood, I'll take that as an attack on me and react accordingly. Understand?"

 Theo blinks once, twice, digesting that ultimatum with something like disbelief because- "Is that all?" And then, because it couldn't possibly be that easy, he hastily tacks on, "How much would you like to be paid?"

 Evans blinks back at him, looking like he's re-evaluating Theo on the spot. Then he makes a dismissive gesture and says, "I'm not short on money. Also I don't make Hermione pay so it wouldn't be fair if I made you pay." He sits back with a finality that starts bringing an end to their conversation. "Wednesdays and Saturdays, 4-6pm in the library. I know we share all the same classes so that shouldn't be a problem for you. Showing up isn't mandatory, you can just come whenever you want, and I'll tutor you in whatever you need help with. My only condition is that you treat Hermione with basic respect. Of course," His mouth twists into a strange smile. "That goes for her too. And her friends if they happen to stop by."

 Theo has to suppress a grimace at that, but it's mostly out of reflexive distaste. Even if Weasley starts flinging insults, he's sure he's heard worse than anything a Gryffindor could come up with, and his tolerance is high, so it doesn't much matter whether Evans can prevent it or not. Actually, it's already pretty novel that he would try at all. This is by far the easiest and weirdest deal Theo has ever been offered, which only makes him that much more suspicious, but Evans also adds no other terms, so Theo is forced to conclude that this really is all Evans wants from him.

 The sheer unfairness of what each party is bringing to the table is jarring. Does Evans not understand what's happening here or is he seriously willing to offer up his time and knowledge on a silver platter at basically no cost?

 Part of Theo wants to ask again, to make sure Evans really doesn't want anything else, but since they've come to this point, even if Evans were to ask for something in the future, Theo would have no obligation to give it. It's admittedly somewhat uncomfortable, to receive so much in exchange for giving back so little when he wasn't even the one manipulating Evans towards this outcome, but at the same time, wouldn't he just be stupid if he keeps pushing the issue? Complaining about not having to spend any money or owe any favours seems rather counterproductive, and even though Theo is willing to pay for a chance like this, that doesn't mean he wants to if he doesn't have to. Of course, he supposes it isn't very honourable of him to not at least insist on some form of compensation, but that's why Theo isn't a Gryffindor.

 So then.

 "Very well, I agree to your terms," Theo says, letting himself relax a bit more when Evans' expression doesn't change. And because even a Slytherin should acknowledge genuine goodwill, he shoves past his own discomfort and manages, if a bit stiffly, "Thank you, Evans."

 Evans makes a face that's something left of embarrassed. "It's just tutoring, you don't have to be so formal. Besides, you're still the one who's going to have to put up with Malfoy pitching a fit once he finds out."

 Theo almost shrugs. That's not anything new. He might have to field some curses hurled his way once other Slytherins realize he's no longer under Malfoy's "protection" and is seen spending time with a halfblood, but it's not as if he has no way of protecting himself from most spells that a student can get away with using in public at Hogwarts. He already has a few family wards set up around his bed too, so Malfoy can't get to him while he's asleep, and the only time he spends in the Common Room is when he's crossing it to leave the Dungeon or return to his dorm, so his Housemates aren't likely to be able to corner him there either. So long as he's careful, he'll be fine.

 Blaise's voice cuts into his thoughts, speaking this time with the lightest touch of concern seeping out from behind a thin veil of indifference that would've fooled even Theo if Theo didn't know the way Blaise can change his approach like he's changing clothes depending on his assessment of the person he's talking to. "You sure you don't need to ask Granger first before letting a Slytherin join your tutoring sessions? She might not be too happy to have Theo there. And her friends definitely won't."

 Evans' attention shifts again, and as with Theo, his gaze is neither friendly nor hostile, but it's different all the same in a way Theo can't quite name. "Is that my problem?"

 The room is quiet for a beat.

 Evans smiles, careless, casual. "I'm the one doing the teaching. Who I teach should be up to me, shouldn't it?"

 Blaise stares, unblinking, hands finally gone still. "Aren't those Gryffindors your friends though?"

 "Sure," Evans agrees. "Still doesn't mean they get to tell me what to do just because they're biased against Slytherins." He shakes his head. "I doubt it'll be much of a problem though. Like you said, they're my friends, and aren't I a Slytherin too?"

 Nobody says what Theo is certain they're all thinking— that in many ways, Evans isn't anything like your average Slytherin.

 (And in others, Evans is the very epitome of one, but the Golden Trio probably doesn't know that, do they?)

 "Are you saying other Slytherins are welcome in your tutoring sessions then?" Blaise says next, and it's the most straightforward Theo has ever seen him, skipping at least three prevarications and five backhanded compliments that Theo could've sworn Blaise would normally include just because he doesn't know any other way to speak. Apparently not.

 Except Evans' response is to huff a breath that sounds like laughter, except not in any way they've heard before, not as amicable, and Theo sees Blaise's smile grow a little fixed.

 If they were in the business of distributing vices, then excessive hubris would undoubtedly go to Malfoy, but only because Blaise doesn't have the same reckless self-defeating habit of flaunting what he has everywhere and retaliating like a rabid lapdog the moment he feels slighted, the latter of which is helped along by the fact that he doesn't hold many people in high enough esteem for them to offend him. After all, you wouldn't get mad if a ghost or a goblin or even a house-elf - as unlikely as that is - is rude to you, would you? At most, you'd punish the latter and move along with your day. And for those who do register enough as people in Blaise's eyes, well, Blaise far prefers retaliating when the other party least expects it.

 It's the same now, in the way Blaise blinks twice rapidly but doesn't otherwise react. Of course, since this is Evans, he won't be able to retaliate later either, not with any kind of success, so it's doubly impressive that the other boy manages to keep his pride nailed down and tucked away.

 "You know," Evans says lazily, mirth or perhaps mockery gleaming in his eyes. "You could just ask. Take a leaf out of Theo's book; it wastes less time."

 Because even Blaise's straightforwardness needs to take a stroll or two around the block first, and apparently, Evans had caught onto that possibly since the first time Blaise had opened his mouth since this conversation began.

 Blaise's lips thin, but after a moment of no doubt weighing the pros and cons, he shrugs gracefully like it doesn't sting and asks, "Then, may I join your tutoring sessions, Evans? I would also appreciate some assistance with my Ancient Runes studies. Of course, I will abide by the terms you've set as well."

 Theo listens and wonders just how much self-control those three sentences took. Before today, he hadn't even known Blaise was capable of it, and the fact that he is, for this, actually says a lot more about his regard for Evans than Theo had realized even just a minute ago.

 At least Evans doesn't make it harder for Blaise than that.

 "Sure," The other boy acquiesces with the air of a predator sitting back on its haunches. "On your own head though."

 At this, a trace of a smirk - his real one, beatific in its cruelty, instead of his regular fit-for-public one - cuts across Blaise's face for the span of a heartbeat. "No problem."

 Evans levels another long look at him before shaking his head with another twist of a smile. "Okay then. We're all good now?" He looks from Blaise to Theo and even spares half a glance in Crabbe and Goyle's direction before nodding, satisfied. "Fantastic. Back to work for me."

 He spins back around to face his desk, reaching for his quill, and the rest of the day passes as usual, without another word traded between them, even when they all get up for dinner. Malfoy comes back shortly before that, stalking over to his section of the dorm with the mulish single-minded intensity of someone unwilling to even acknowledge Evans' existence, although that probably won't last once he finds out what Theo and Blaise have agreed to.

 Later, in private, Theo remarks to Blaise, "I didn't expect you to care so much about your Ancient Runes grades."

 Blaise slants an indecipherable look at him even as a shallow smile stretches the width of his mouth. "Who wouldn't care about their grades when someone's offering to help raise them for free?"

 It's a rhetorical question and answers approximately nothing, but Theo wasn't expecting anything of substance anyway.

 Besides, when it comes down to it, he supposes it's not so surprising that Blaise can also see which way the wind is blowing, hard enough to tell anyone with decent enough instincts that a major shift in power is imminent.

 And no one likes a fence-sitter.

 -0-0-0-

 5.

 Hadrian would like it to be known that he isn't quite sure how he's gotten to this point in his life.

 Well, that's a lie, he sort of knows, or at least he can pinpoint all the decisions that got him from Point A to Point B, but he supposes he just wasn't expecting a couple Slytherins whom he'd always assumed - even back in his original world - were just Malfoy's lackeys in school, to commit, and commit hard. They hadn't even participated in the war on either side, as far as he was aware— Nott had died relatively early on under mysterious circumstances, and Zabini had by all accounts returned to his home country. To Hadrian, they'd been little more than faces in the background that he'd never even exchanged five words with in total before coming to this world.

 But within the first week after they've asked to join his tutoring sessions, Nott and Zabini - Slytherin/Pureblood Rule Number Who-Knows-What: you can't use someone else's first name until you're invited to - make it really fucking obvious who they're… supporting? Have sided with? Because Slytherin is a nest of brewing factions and shifting alliances and political doublespeak and even a couple blood feuds, and this is precisely why Hadrian doesn't want anything to do with this House.

 Except apparently, agreeing to tutor Nott and Zabini means he's… joined the power struggle? Formed his own faction? Decided to vie for in-House supremacy and possible world domination? Who knows because Hadrian sure doesn't, and he's determined not to know, because surely if he just continues doing his own thing, it'll become clear sooner or later to all and sundry that he has no interest in fighting a bunch of schoolchildren over whatever they think he wants to fight for.

 It's just that he can't quite do that either, because not even three weeks after Nott and Zabini start joining him in the library every Wednesday and Saturday with a wary but accepting Hermione, something that translates to them moving their seats to sit with him in class and - when they can make it look natural, if still deliberate - walking with him in the hallways, the displeasure and animosity in Slytherin House reaches breaking point.

 It's not as if Hadrian hasn't already been the target of multiple hexes and curses from his own Housemates. He's a halfblood who hangs out with Gryffindors— it's to be expected. But so far, the spells have always been in the realm of reasonable, ones that might make him trip down the stairs or rip his bag or screw up his potion, and he's been able to block or avoid them all, so he'd figured it wasn't that big a deal. He'd put the fear of a Horntail in Malfoy early on because he has to live with the berk, and he doesn't much feel like returning after a long day of classes just to have to butt heads with him every single time. But he basically has no intersections with the rest of the House, so he just hasn't bothered paying attention to any of them.

 Then, perhaps rather suddenly, Nott and Zabini are there, not so much orbiting him as they do hover from afar. But they join his tutoring sessions, and they're serious about learning from him, listening earnestly and asking questions and even checking out the books he recommends they read if they have time. There are holes in even the most simple of their fundamental knowledge of Runes - Babbling, read a how-to book on teaching for Merlin's sake - so Hadrian has to more or less start from the ground up, as he had with Hermione, but both of them quickly prove themselves more than intelligent enough to keep up, and they're startling enthusiastic - by Slytherin standards - about everything he teaches them. Nott is more obvious - more ravenous - about it, but even Zabini - who likes to pretend he's only there for the novelty of it or something and therefore tends to play up a laidback sort of indifference - never fails to complete the optional exercises Hadrian writes up for them once a week.

 And outside of the tutoring sessions, it's like they've decided that being tutored by him means that he's now their new Malfoy or something. Not that Malfoy was their Malfoy before, if Hadrian had understood Nott correctly, but they'd at least acted like they were part of Malfoy's groupies. Now they've done a one-eighty, and it's not as if they follow him around all the time the way Crabbe and Goyle do with Malfoy, honestly if you don't count classroom and dorm room, they're not even around him half the time, especially Zabini, but when they are around, when they move their cauldrons next to his in Potions class despite working separately, when they go down to breakfast with him despite splitting off at the entrance, when they trail behind him back to the Slytherin Dungeon after a tutoring session, they're so damn conspicuous about it that they might as well be waving neon-bright signs above their heads.

 In contrast, they don't even sit next Malfoy during mealtimes anymore, much to the blond's increasing red-faced ire that vaguely resembles a Silenced teakettle on the brink of boiling over. But now they sit at the end of the Slytherin table, which Hadrian has gradually gathered that that's not a good thing, but he doesn't know how to fix it either, and neither Nott nor Zabini seems to mind.

 They also talk to him now, not often, not just in private, and not just about Runes, although that does still take up the majority of their conversation topics, if only because they don't know each other that well yet. But in their dorm or in class or in the library or in the halls, sometimes, Nott would say something completely normal, like whether or not he owns an owl or if he's noticed Snape's increasingly intent attention on him or if he's found the secret passageway connecting the Dungeons to the sixth floor yet because climbing six flights of moving stairs isn't what anyone would call a good time. Zabini on the other hand prefers sharing obscure gossip that even most of Slytherin isn't aware of, sordid little secrets like whose parent has a mistress (or three) on the side that will very likely cause an inheritance problem down the road, who killed a cousin over the summer due to jealousy but has done a decent enough job of covering it up as an accident because said cousin had been the heir apparent, and even who had to go to Pomfrey for an Abortion Charm just last week but will likely have to break her betrothal contract - and consequently have her magic bound, as per the terms of said contract - in the future anyway because there's no hiding the loss of her virginity from the olde family magicks no matter how frantically she searches for a way.

 To the former, Hadrian responds the way he would if Neville or Ron or Hermione were to ask him similar questions. To the latter, he says, "You have serious issues, Zabini."

 Nott never smiles, but his body language is a little less closed off and his eyes look a little less hunted with every random conversation they have. Zabini is almost always smiling, and in response to Hadrian's incredulity, he only laughs like it's the grandest joke he's ever heard.

 They grow on him, is the thing. One's probably abused at home, and the other is honestly half a psychopath already, and Hadrian shouldn't care but he's always had a bit of a soft spot for broken people, people who don't quite fit in no matter how well they fake it, people who remind him of himself. And the war he'd survived had only served to destroy what little compunctions he'd ever had about getting too close to dangerous things.

 So they grow on him, day by day, and half a month in, the other Slytherins apparently can't handle it anymore.

 Hadrian's just coming back from dinner. Nott and Zabini are with him, having joined him once he'd bid Neville, Ron, and Hermione goodnight. They're halfway across the common room when Hadrian catches movement in his peripheral, and he has half a second to decide what to do, to abort the reflex to go for his wand, to cancel the shield ward sparking at his fingertips, to pivot around on the spot and abruptly swing himself right into Nott's personal space, which means Nott immediately puts on the brakes, and - behind him - Zabini has to do the same.

 Hadrian senses more than feels the curse that grazes the back of his robes and splashes against the far wall between a pair of suspiciously empty armchairs in an area that's normally a popular hangout spot. There's no sound, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way it oozes a sickly viscous purple that puddles to the ground and eats straight through the carpet before finally evaporating into nothing.

 He doesn't turn his head, doesn't challenge anyone into a duel the way his hands are itching to do. Instead, even before the spell disappears, he's already asking, "Did you copy down the Potions assignment from today? I just remembered I forgot."

 In front of him, Nott's turned three shades whiter, and he's already pale-skinned to begin with, so he obviously recognizes the spell. Zabini clearly does as well if the way he's gone gargoyle-still is anything to go by.

 If they'd continued walking, that curse would've hit Nott right in the ribcage. His left ribcage.

 A beat of silence passes. Then Nott takes a breath and answers in a voice that doesn't waver but is even more inflectionless than usual. "Yes, I wrote it down. I can show you."

 "Cool, thanks, let's go."

 Nobody else speaks, nobody even moves, as Hadrian leads the way back to their dorm.

 Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle aren't back yet so they have the room to themselves. As soon as the door is shut, Nott almost slumps onto his bed, hands shaking. Zabini pulls out his chair to sit, a smile hooked at one corner of his mouth, but absolutely nothing about the rest of him says amusement.

 (Slytherins don't have friends, and Zabini doesn't seem to know how to have friends, but Nott's probably the closest to one that his disposition will ever allow.)

 Hadrian looks from Nott to Zabini and back, and then he asks, "Who was that boy? The one surrounded by that group by the fireplace."

 The one who'd fired the spell. Don't think just because a bunch of students were arranged in front of him that Hadrian had missed the way his arm had moved, the jab of a wand, the blossom of light at its tip before the curse had flown across the room. Did they think he was blind?

 Nott blinks up at him, features still pinched. It's Zabini who answers, soft as silk, "Malcolm Avery, seventh-year."

 Hadrian takes a moment to digest that, to press that face into his memory before filing it away for later. He focuses on his roommates again instead and presses on, "Has this sort of thing happened before?"

 Because even if they're spending time with him, Nott's an old pureblood name, isn't it? And Zabini is Zabini, and everybody's heard of his mother. Even if they're shunned a bit, jeered at a bit, even hexed a bit, any serious assaults should only be aimed at Hadrian, right?

 Well, apparently not. That curse earlier had been a much Darker cousin of the Bone-Vanishing Spell, a variation on the more public-friendly Bone-Breaking Curse. If Hadrian hadn't seen it coming, if he hadn't stopped Nott in time, that thing would've not only shattered the left half of Nott's ribcage but also stabbed the resulting fragments directly into the nearest organs before dissolving into the bloodstream as a lethal poison— in this case, it would've been the heart and a lung. Nott would've been dead in under a minute, drowning in his own blood in extreme pain, and it's a tossup if even Hadrian would've been able to save him.

 Zabini - unsurprisingly - shakes his head. For all that he doesn't have an old bloodline to rooted in Britain, he still has enough family clout to grant him a strong backing. And that's not counting his own means of protecting himself. Hadrian had actually gotten the feeling very early on, from the moment they'd had their first conversation, and he'd only been proven right as they'd gotten to know each other a little better— Zabini has all the best traits of a quintessential Slytherin. And thereby also all of the worst. Magic-wise, Hadrian can overpower him in a second, but that's why Zabini knows not to make an enemy of him, knows how to bend and stretch and profit while he's at it. He doesn't need anyone to protect him.

 Nott on the other hand doesn't reply right away, and when he does, it's an evasive, "Spells like that would be an instant expulsion from Hogwarts, especially coming from a Slytherin, and from a seventh-year, they'd go straight to Azkaban. There are portraits all over the school. I'm not stupid enough to wander into places where there aren't any."

 Hadrian aims a flat look at him. "That's not what I asked."

 Nott purses his lips and stares at his lap. Hadrian waits him out.

 "…They've tried cornering me," Nott finally admits, grudgingly, almost resentfully. "There's no avoiding a couple areas with no portraits. But they never used a curse this Dark before, and I've always been able to slip away."

 Hadrian swallows the first three things he wants to say, to shout, because at his core, he likes to think he has a long fuse, but when someone crosses his line in the sand, his temper has always been explosive and violent, which won't help here.

 Besides, hadn't he more or less told these two to handle the consequences of letting him tutor them on their own? Even if they weren't Slytherins and actually had the mind to reach out for help, they probably wouldn't have come to him after what he'd said, so he has no one to blame but himself and the fact that he'd underestimated just how deep some Slytherins' senseless hatred runs.

 So he breathes through his first instinct, his second, his third, and then he pushes off the desk he'd been leaning on in favour of pulling out parchment and ink and the appropriate books.

 "Alright, come here," He beckons, spreading everything out on his desk. "I'm gonna teach you a Fourfold Rebounder Ward so you can wear it on you from now on. The variation I'm thinking of has a chameleon element, so it'll be both strong enough to deflect a curse on the level of the one from earlier and also camouflage it when it's bounced back at whoever attacked you. It's based off of intent too, so it won't act up in a scuffle or a practice duel or something, the other person has to really want to harm you with deadly intent, so keep your guard up for other stuff, and honestly, this should just be for emergencies, you should still try to dodge it because it's not good to grow overly dependent on stuff like this. I'm confident the runes won't fail when I'm the one making it but your reflexes will get rusty if you get lazy. It's a bit- okay, a lot more difficult than anything you're learning right now, but I'll do most of the work, you just watch and provide the magic at the end, and once your foundation is a bit more stable and we can move ahead to more interesting things, I'll come back to this first so you'll be able to learn how to do this yourselves one day."

 A long silence follows. Hadrian looks up. Neither of his roommates has moved. "What's wrong?"

 Another few seconds tick by. It's Zabini who gets up first, an odd smile on his face, one that Hadrian's never seen before. But all he says is, "Nothing's wrong. I was just hoping if we waited a bit, Malfoy will get back in time to see what we're doing and finally keel over from high blood pressure."

 Hadrian snorts with laughter. "Get over here. If that really happened, we'd be the ones who'd have to waste time carrying him up to the Hospital Wing."

 Zabini's expression says that that wouldn't be his problem but he only smirks and saunters over to Hadrian's desk with his chair. When they both turn to look, Nott is already on his feet as well. He doesn't say anything, but he looks steadier, and he's watching Hadrian with a strange gleam in his eyes that makes them look almost feverish.

 They settle down around him, eager - by Slytherin standards - to learn in a way that reminds Hadrian exactly why he likes to teach.

 He gets to work, explaining each step even though he knows most of it is going over their heads. That's fine though; for now, these wards just need to protect them properly, and in the future, he'll teach them how to protect themselves.

 -0-

 Of course, things aren't over just like that, because Hadrian's temper is an explosive and violent beast, and the only things that's changed from when he was still a teenager is the fact that he's gotten a lot sneakier about it as an adult.

 They aren't friends. But Nott and Zabini are his roommates and his students and kids that he's starting to genuinely care about, and nobody gets to walk away scot-free after fucking with the people under Hadrian's care so long as he's still alive to do something about it.

 Malcolm Avery is seventeen anyway. That's an adult by any magical community's measure, which means Hadrian doesn't have to hold back.

 It takes a week. A week of slipping out after curfew and eavesdropping on conversations, of finding out what the seventh-year's next practical Potions class will be working on and scanning all of Avery's belongings to see what Dark spells he's been mucking about with, and finally of filching Avery's cauldron for an afternoon while he's in class and replacing it before he returns to his dorm.

 When it happens, Hadrian isn't even in school. Even if he were, it wouldn't matter because he'd made sure to time everything just right, and all the fourth-years - and most of the rest of the student body too - are already in the Great Hall waiting for lunch to be served. Seventh-year Potions is in the morning block, and Avery always goes overtime when there's a practical.

 Hadrian isn't even in school, sitting his Ancient Runes exams at the Ministry all day instead, but he certainly hears all about it when he gets back that evening.

 A few minutes before noon, a silver doe Patronus comes bounding up from the dungeons with an urgent summons for Pomfrey, Dumbledore, and McGonagall. Nobody hears what is said, but the three staff members rush off even as the food begins to appear, and nobody hears from them again until half an hour later when whispers start going around about Healers from St. Mungo's being called and one Malcolm Avery being carried out the front doors on a stretcher because his condition is too unstable to be transported through the Floo. The professors don't really tell them anything except that there was a Potions accident, but - as these things do because the rumour mill at Hogwarts is healthier than ever, and there'd still been a few other seventh-years in class with Avery at the time - everyone more or less knows what happened anyway by the time afternoon classes start. Potions is cancelled for the rest of the day, because no one else was injured but Snape was too busy furiously documenting what had happened after running multiple diagnostic spells over the remains of Avery's cauldron to teach. Also, he has to submit said documentation and a Pensieve memory to the Aurors investigating the accident, which doesn't exactly say great things about his mood, so nobody's unhappy about being able to give Potions a miss.

 Apparently, Avery had been using his cauldron to make other potions - banned potions - in his dorm room. His roommates had been willing enough to keep mum and even give him a hand, and the book he'd been learning from had been found in his trunk. Thankfully, he hadn't managed to make anything too terrible yet, and his failed attempts hadn't managed to kill anyone, but he also hadn't cleaned his cauldron properly, and so there'd been a mess of residue potion and Dark magic clinging to the metal. Coincidentally, it had ended up reacting quite badly to the potion that the seventh-years were to work on that day, and the end result was a magnificent explosion that Snape had barely managed to protect himself and the other students from in the nick of time. There'd been no helping Avery who'd been standing right next to the unholy concoction.

 In the aftermath, the explosion had caused bad enough burns to disfigure Avery, but time and Healers would fix most if not all of that. Far more serious had been the potion damage to his body— the liquid had seeped right through his skin and disintegrated the majority of his left ribcage, and then it had gone on to chew even further, straight into his heart and left lung, an insidious venom that had dissolved into his bloodstream and sent him into convulsions that had wrung scream after agonized scream out of him until Pomfrey had deemed it safe enough to knock him out, although even then, his body wouldn't stop seizing from the pain.

 He'd still been alive when he'd been rushed out of the castle. Word has it that he's still alive now in St. Mungo's, except the Healers have no idea how to even begin treating him. Mixing multiple failed attempts at Dark potions, most of which even Avery's own roommates couldn't list all the names of or in which order he'd made them, together with one N.E.W.T.-level potion but in an explosion that had caused the maximum amount of entropy in the magic imbued into it— Merlin himself wouldn't be able to fix it with just a wave of his wand.

 By dinnertime, everybody is talking about it, and the professors have given up trying to stop them.

 (In truth, the outcome probably wouldn't have been quite so serious if Hadrian hadn't added a spell to amplify the toxicity and volatility of the residue in the cauldron, as well as several looping single-use runes to hide the volcanic buildup and also bind the whole thing to Avery alone so that it wouldn't have hurt anyone else even if Snape hadn't reacted in time. Without Hadrian's interference, it would've still exploded sooner or later, but Snape might've seen the danger signs in time to evacuate everyone from the classroom, and even if he didn't, the effects of the potion on Avery probably wouldn't have been so terrible.

 But then, that wouldn't have been enough. After all, lessons like these should stick.

 Avery will live, but he sure won't enjoy it.)

 It's almost ten by the time Hadrian gets back to the Slytherin Dungeon. Snape drops him off at the entrance before sweeping off to his own office in a dramatic billow of irritably flapping robes. He'd been at the Ministry for half the day just to piece together what had happened for them, but as Hadrian had ensured, the Potions master had been cleared of any negligence in the matter. The potion had very obviously shown no signs of exploding - three other experts had verified - and students are expected to take care of their own cauldrons from third-year onwards without the professor having to do weekly checks. Snape had been released by dinnertime, but he'd apparently decided to simply eat in the Ministry cafeteria and return with his student and Babbling, so here they are.

 Except-

 Just before Snape makes to leave, he turns and pins Hadrian with a long appraising look, clinical and penetrating. Hadrian stares back serenely, and maybe the fact that his mind is a steel trap wrapped around a battlefield would be highly suspect to anyone looking in, but he also doesn't feel so much as a brush of Legilimency from Snape whatsoever. The professor really is just looking at him.

 It's a strange new world.

 In the end, Snape doesn't say anything before walking off, and Hadrian is left to blink after him before letting himself into the common room.

 Everything goes eerily silent the moment everyone realizes he's back. Even if he hadn't said anything, someone - let's be real, it's Malfoy - had spread the news of Hadrian taking his Ancient Runes exams early, so pretty much everyone had known where he'd gone today. It was never a secret though so Hadrian hadn't cared, except when he steps into the room, it's very obvious that everybody is focused on him, and just as obvious that nobody is willing to make eye-contact with him.

 The younger students should've already retired for the night. At least everybody still in the common room, studying or playing chess or chatting with each other like any standard evening, are fifth-years and up, so most of these students had probably known - or had been told after the fact - exactly what that curse would've done to Theo Nott that day, and exactly who had been the one to attack him.

 And everybody knows what had happened to Avery today. More specifically, they know that what had happened to him today had been an almost perfect mirror of what he'd wanted to do to Nott one week ago. Nobody here believes in coincidences, and there's only so many people who would've had the motivation to orchestrate the entire accident down to the smallest detail.

 Most of them have known Nott and Zabini for at least a few years. Perhaps they're not on speaking terms, but they'd still been Housemates for a while. Something like this isn't really Nott's style, and while it is Zabini's, neither of them has the ability.

 The only real unknown is Hadrian Evans, and if they still can't put the pieces together at this point, they might as well sell their brains.

 The area by the fireplace, normally always occupied by Avery's group at this time, is empty today. Avery's at St. Mungo's, his roommates are in overnight lockup at the Ministry, and any who aren't but were part of Avery's faction are probably hiding up in their rooms. Nobody else has taken their seats, not even the students who usually do when Avery hasn't claimed it for the day.

 Hadrian walks towards the doorway leading to the boys' dormitory, and no one stops him. It feels like the entire room is holding their breaths. Nobody speaks. Nobody even moves until Hadrian is out of earshot.

 The dorm is likewise very quiet when Hadrian enters. Malfoy's bed curtains are already drawn, as are Crabbe's and Goyle's, but Zabini's are open, and he's lazing against the headboard with a book in his hands while Nott is still at his desk doing homework.

 They both look up as soon as the door swings open. Zabini stays on his bed but Nott even stands up as Hadrian shuts the door behind him. His whole frame is tense with a restless sort of energy, and he's staring at Hadrian with shining eyes. They both are, although in different ways. Zabini looks equal parts ecstatic and hungry, while Nott just looks the kind of deeply confused and deeply grateful that makes Hadrian want to set fire to someone, preferably whoever stitched this very expression into Nott's range of emotions out of the pieces they'd torn from him.

 Nobody says anything right away. Hadrian squints at them as he makes his way to his own bed, feeling vaguely perturbed, because he hadn't truly expected them to not connect what happened to Avery back to him, but he hadn't thought they would be so fixated on it either. Maybe a roundabout tactful thank-you from Nott, an offer of a favour at most. But not… this, whatever this is.

 He laments the fact that these two aren't more stupid when it comes to this sort of thing. Ron would be oblivious. Hermione would be determinedly oblivious. Neville… would actually react a bit like Nott, Ginny would react a lot like Zabini, Luna wouldn't react at all but she'd be extra cuddly for a few days, and gods, Hadrian needs saner friends.

 Not that these two are friends of course.

 He manages to get through a shower, brush his teeth, and climb into a bed before Nott is suddenly at his side, eyes still shining with something Hadrian really doesn't want to put a name to. Thankfully, he doesn't burst into any heartfelt speeches that would probably embarrass everyone within hearing range. Not so thankfully, he honest-to-fucking-Merlin bows, all archaic and meaningful in every way Hadrian has never learned and so doesn't understand, but even he can sense the weight and deference behind every word as Nott murmurs, "All of mine is yours, until the end of days. I would be honoured if you would call me Theo."

 "Jesus fucking Christ," Hadrian mutters, because sometimes wizarding swears just don't have enough oomph to encompass the never-ending circus trainwreck that is his life. He scrubs a hand over his face, peeks at Nott - at Theo - who's still halfway bent over, and of course, it's just his luck that he has no idea how to respond in the proper pureblood way.

 He would've preferred the heartfelt speech.

 "I'm a halfblood, I don't know how to respond appropriately," He says bluntly because he doesn't know what else to do. But he also flicks a Silencing Ward at Malfoy's bed, then at Crabbe's and Goyle's as well because you can never be too careful, and then he leans over and hauls Theo upright and catches his gaze and holds it, "I'll call you Theo if you call me Hadrian. One day, you'll be strong enough to take care of your enemies on your own, and you won't need anyone else to do it for you if you don't want them to, but until then, if all of you is mine, then your enemies are too, so I'll deal with them if it turns out that they still haven't learned after today. That makes us allies from now on though, which means we're equals, and that means you never, ever bow to anyone again. Not me, and not anybody else either. Understand?"

 Theo stares again, wide-eyed and lost and so terribly young, and sometimes, Hadrian wonders what it says about just how messed up the world is when broken kids can be bought so easily.

 Finally, almost dazedly, Theo gives some semblance of a nod.

 "Hadrian," He says, and something about him straightens, grows steel, settles.

 "Hadrian," He repeats and dips his head, not a bow, but respectful all the same, and his eyes are still bright with that unnamed creature, but at least he looks at Hadrian head-on. "Thank you. Goodnight."

 Hadrian sighs and figures that this is about the best he's going to get tonight. Maybe it'll dial back to normal in a few days. "Goodnight, Theo."

 Theo smiles, tiny, crooked, a little awkward. It's the first one Hadrian has ever seen from him, and that at least he can't be upset about.

 They can finally go to sleep though. Theo returns to his own bed, Zabini is still watching them both from his bed like they're his new favourite show, and Hadrian resolutely pretends he doesn't see anything else as he takes down the Silencing Wards before drawing his curtains, rolling over, and promptly making a sincere attempt at smothering himself with a pillow.

 His life.

-0-0-0-

End Notes: Ok wow so this got hella long and I didn't really get to all the stuff anon wanted whoops. Theo just… wouldn't stop thinking lmao, and also this AU has the potential to get so big so I ended up cramming in worldbuilding wherever I could. So unfortunately all you get is sort of a starting snapshot of where this is going and how Hadrian is going to turn out and a shitload of Theo's character. I kind of wanted to do him and Blaise's POV but I could only fit Theo, and I feel like getting Blaise through Theo's POV actually added to his character just as much as a personal POV would've. Anyway, those two are basically blank slates in canon so ofc I would pick them to write lolol.

#headcanon meme: answered #HP series #c'est la vie #hadrian evans #theo nott #blaise zabini #draco malfoy #headcanon #slytherin hadrian au

[fanficsiwillneverwrite]

On my umpteenth rewatch of lok, I had a sudden interest in old Zuko…. And let’s just say another wip is brewing in my brain now about Zuko and his involvement in book 3 :/

Zuko looks in the mirror and sees only a face he no longer recognizes: old, long past its prime. An old wound haunting him, even how many years later. It happened so long ago; only yesterday. Shaky hands rub the rough skin as the memory takes hold. It was for the better, he once told himself long ago. It led him on the path of good, toward the light. But the thought of giving such a punishment to Izumi… He admittedly was not perfect when it came to raising her, but he was no Ozai.

Through the reflection, he sees Akari, the Firelord’s senior aide, emerge from the golden doors. “Lord Zuko,” she says with a respectful and low bow. Her voice is distant, muffled, despite being so near. Just a reminder of his aging body. “The Firelord will see you now.”

He nods, acknowledging her, but his focus remains on the stranger–no, the old man–staring back at him, copying every move he makes. Akari backs away to give him space. And he touches a few wrinkles. Uncle always said they were a sign of living, far better than the alternative. His laughter still echoes in his mind; the steam of hot tea still lingers around him.

He moves away from his reflection and into the throne room where his daughter sits high above him in all her glory. Zuko smiles as he bows–and his old bones crack as he bends. Another reminder that the old man in the mirror and the boy who thought his destiny was to capture the Avatar were one in the same. “The Firelord has requested an audience with me. I would be interested in knowing what for.”

“Hello Dad,” greets Izumi gently as she stands. She approaches him, a familiar look of care mixed with concern permanently captures her face each time she looks at him. He knows it well. Old age brings on pity. No, Uncle would say, old age brings on care. They hug and, suddenly, he is drunk with the scent of familiarity. Once Mai’s favorite perfume worn now by a grieving daughter who wants only to keep her mother close. “How are you?”

“I am fine, daughter,” he assures, his hand squeezing her shoulder as if to emphasize the fact. Sadness lingers around them with Mai’s passing just over a year ago. “Though, perhaps it is I who should be asking you that very question. Avatar Korra has led us into a new age where spirits and mankind must now live together in harmony. As the Firelord, it is your duty to make her decision a reality. With some guidance from me, of course, if it doesn’t interfere with my nap time.”

She rolls her eyes as a smile forms. “I think sometimes I can make better sense of your snoring than your political babble,” she teases.

“Be careful what you say next, daughter,” he shoots back. “I still have claim to the throne, you know.”

“Like I’d give it back,” she tells him playfully. But her face turns serious. And like a stuck bandage, the news of why she has summoned him is ripped open quickly to ease the anticipation: “I’ve just received word from President Raiko in Republic City. It seems… Harmonic Convergence has brought back the Airbenders.”

His heart feels as if it has sunk. The Fire Nation’s greatest burden, their deepest regret—now, so suddenly, fixed? He would have to see it to believe it, especially if Raiko is the one reporting it. All the man cares about is the votes. “What?”

“I haven’t yet received word from Tenzin, but there has been at least one Airbender sighting in Caldera alone. Most, it seems, are in the Earth Kingdom.”

“That could mean trouble.”

The Earth Queen remains bitter over land now the United Republic of Nations and everything surrounding it, Air Temple Island included: Earth Kingdom territory, she makes false claims. While her father was timid, mostly oblivious as a leader, Hou-Ting is loud, demanding, and a complete tyrant.

Zuko turns, hurrying out the room. There is no time to waste. “I’ll head straight to Ba Sing Se—”

His daughter is quick to stop him. “The Fire Nation should not have any involvement there, dad. You know this.” His intent would be to liberate this new wave of Airbenders from the grasps of great tyrannical power, but the world might view it as another Firelord’s attempt to again dismantle the Air Nation. He blinks, seeing clearly now as his daughter faces him again. “Furthermore,” Izumi continues cautiously; they’re always dancing around his state of retirement. The nation is hers–it is her birthright–but he makes diplomatic trips around the world to assure peace, to continue what he and Avatar Aang started so long ago, yesterday. “A man your age should really be fretting over pai sho and gardening. Not the state of the world.”

The man she is describing is Uncle. Not him, never him. “I will not turn my back on the world when it still needs me,” Zuko insists. His reflection shows an achy old man with a story long ago completed, but as long as his heart still beats and the fire still burns, he can be useful.

“I know,” she says, “but… you can only do so much before it becomes too overwhelming for you.” She adjusts her glasses as a sigh escapes her. “Dad, I care only for your safety–”

“I am still capable–”

“–which is why I think it perfectly sensible for you to take in a ward.”

He stops, hurt–offended. “A-a ward?”

“One of Master Muromachi’s young pupils,” she continues. “Someone who can be your companion. Someone who will watch your back and defend you when you’re unable.”

Zuko huffs, rubbing his forehead in frustration. His daughter thinks him unable, an invalid of his craft now just because of a few wrinkles. Spirits! He is Lord Zuko, Leader of the Fire Nation and the Avatar’s Firebending Master. And she thinks he needs a sidekick? Some noble boy defending his honor? “No, absolutely not. I don’t need some child protecting me.”

Izumi rolls her eyes. “This isn’t a suggestion, dad. Master Muromachi is expecting you. We’ll go down there this afternoon.”

He stomps away stubbornly, like a child not getting his way. The roles were reversed long ago, just yesterday when he was still in charge, when he was still capable. “I can choose my own ward, can’t I?”

“Of course–”

“Then I’ll go on my own, if it pleases the Firelord.”

He exits before she can answer. Anger boils within him. He hates being the man who is old, the man who needs help. Most of his friends are gone now and this new generation is perfectly competent, his daughter being one of them, but the fire still burns inside him. The face in the mirror is the face he saw long ago–yesterday–when there was no scar.

The Fire Nation Academy for Gifted Boys is a secondary school for sons of nobles. It teaches Nonbenders how to fight through the art of swordsmanship. Only the best, or most wealthy, can attend. And the training is rigorous, not for the faint hearted. Tom-Tom became one of the academy’s pupils when he came of age, mastering sword fighting at the age of fourteen. Firelord Ozai always dismissed the school’s teachings, saying Nonbenders could never truly be masters without the ability of bending. In his final years, without his bending, his father learned the way of the sword, though he never tried to understand the relationship between a man and his blade, thus never becoming a full master of the craft.

These days the school is just as rigorous with Master Muromachi, a stern and, dare he say, cruel man, in charge of this new generation of fighters. The boys stand straight in a line when Lord Zuko arrives. Eyes forward, not one hair out of place, not a single crease in their suits. Their movements are in sync as they all bow low when Muromachi introduces him to them.

“You have honored this school with your presence, Lord Zuko,” Muromachi says with a bow of his own. He moves aside for Zuko to properly examine his students. “Please, choose anyone you think is worthy.” He gestures to the tallest of the group: tan skinned and golden eyed, Zuko sees a darkness in him that brings only suspicion. The way the boy eyes him; it’s not like the others. “Eigo here is our star pupil.”

“Is that so?”

Muromachi gestures again and Eigo assumes a fighting stance as he draws his sword. He dances with it around Zuko–impressive but, still, there is something about him that he doesn’t quite like–before returning to his spot in line.

“Very good,” Zuko tells him, “though I find your lack of moderation rather… unsettling.”

The boy’s expression darkens at the criticism. Not suitable for his company at all. Muromachi moves on without a visible reaction: “Pao,” he calls. And the next boy moves skillfully around the room with his blades. A mindless routine, practiced over and over again until perfection. He does what he is told and nothing more.

“Your moves, though highly skillful, lack originality,” Zuko notes. He will find something wrong for each of them. He does not need a protector, nor does he want one.

Muromachi becomes more tense as they move down the line, each boy weaker than the last. This Academy is a show and these so-called warriors are nothing more than performers this day in age, not like how they used to be, he will tell his daughter later over tea. That is why he did not choose a child today. That is why he should not have a ward.

Finally, they arrive at the last: the smallest of the group. A softness exists within him that the other boys do not have. Short hair above his ears cut in a wonky bowl shape and fierce blue eyes with a sparkle in them that shows he is ready, not to win but to fight for what is right—he knows those eyes. It hits him, suddenly. A girl, disguised as a young boy.

“Lee!” orders Muromachi, sweating profusely at this point. Zuko instantly understands the name is false, an alias to hide her true nature.

And the girl disguised as a boy begins her dance around Zuko. Her movements are hesitant. She nearly trips over her own two feet. Her two swords do not move together as one but rather as completely separate entities. An amateur compared to her peers. Muromachi is visibly appalled by her performance, but remains silent out of respect for his guest. Zuko, admittedly, is intrigued by the girl. Why would she openly go through such turmoil?

#zuko #prince zuko #lord Zuko #old zuko #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #legend of korra #lok #lok fanfic #atla #avatar the last airbender #also like I’m sorry for all the wips I’m pumping out but life is just up and down right now so

[gogesimp]

I had this idea last night, I replayed it in my head a few times and then this morning I saw this absolutely beautiful thread which had an uncanny resemblance to what I had thought of.

I contemplated whether I should bother writing what I had down and posting it somewhere. I haven't yet done it for this ship.

But what urged me to go ahead was the fact that this was more like a headcanon rather than an AU, and hence I wouldn't be adding to my very long list of wips.

So here goes-

This is set in the canonverse and both Satoru and Suguru are in Jujutsu High. The timeline is maybe before the star plasma arc or let's say something like that doesn't happen here.

Either way, both of them are sort of in love with the other. They have not outright confessed yet, because that'd be cheesy and Suguru's never gonna be the one who brings it up. But sometimes he feels he wouldn't have to.

Especially at times like these, where they are all alone in Suguru's dorm room, lights out with only the moon's beams to illuminate them and their tangled limbs.

Suguru's clothes are scattered around, some lying on the bed while others have been deposited on the floor. Satoru's haven't even made it to the bed where he is lying over his precious Suguru, just pausing to take in how beautiful he looks.

Long black locks splayed out on the pillow, skin dewy with sweat and a blush slowly spreading across Suguru's lovely cheeks down to his neck.

Satoru looks like a dream as well, if one were to ask Suguru. He loves lying on his back because from his vantage he can take in the ethereal form of his lover. In the dark, his eyes glow effervescent, the blue shining like sapphires. His white hair is tousled and sticking up at odd angles. On his milky skin Suguru can spy the blush sitting high on Satoru's cheeks & he can't help but turn a deeper shade of red when his eyes track down that thick, corded neck to his defined chest and muscled core.

He doesn't need his eyes to deduce how well endowed Satoru is so he brings them back up. His gaze gets locked with that cerulean one and he feels a big calloused hand gently cradling his cheek. Soft caresses are bestowed on his face. The other hand is wrapped around Suguru's cinched waist, holding him delicately, thumb brushing against the hip bone.

A silly thought enters Suguru's head. Before he can articulate it though, Satoru starts introducing a lubed finger and soon Suguru trades moans and whines for coherent speech.

The bed creaks in time with Satoru's thrusts. He doesn't go too fast or slow. It's like this man is taking his time to unravel the beauty writhing under him. Suguru's high pitched moans and breathy whines find a perfect complement in Satoru's guttural groans and huffing.

It's only after Satoru has finished and is now slumped over Suguru, using the soft warm body as a comforting bedding for himself that Suguru's mind brings forth the thought he had a few moments ago.

The smile stretching his lips seems instinctual, so does the way in which his hand finds its way into Satoru's hair and gently starts carding his fingers through the soft white locks, adding a scritch intermittently.

"Satoru...!"

The answering hum resonates within his body given the way Satoru is draped over him.

"I wanted to tell you something, a silly thought I had."

There is a stir and the body lying on top of him moves. Using his elbows to prop himself up Satoru stares into Suguru's violet eyes.

The hand which had been petting Satoru's hair slips down to now hold that handsome face.

It is indeed silly.

The way his heart picks up speed as he gets lost in the depth of those ocean blue eyes.

The way his heart clenches at how Satoru makes love to him, gently and tenderly. Treating each inch of Suguru as something precious and worthy of being cherished. Of being held close to and looked after.

It is indeed silly that Suguru finds the strongest sorcerer, the ruthless man he knows that Satoru is as cute and adorable.

Well right now he does look like a cub with the way he is staring intently at Suguru, expecting some reward or trinket.

"What was it Suguru?"

Snapped out of his trance he decides to not divulge his prior thoughts.

"Nothing really, just ignore I said anything."

Satoru pouts and Suguru just has to look away for his own health because his heart can't take anymore hits today.

"Awwww.. but I wanted to know."

"Stop pouting now, it really wasn't something big. What? You don't believe me?"

There is a certain glint in those blue eyes and Suguru feels just a tad bit nervous.

When Satoru still doesn't elaborate Suguru's unease increases and he tries to fill in the silence.

"Come on Sat-- umph"

Soft pink lips descend on his and they move gently. And Suguru can't help but sigh.

He feels so ....

It's right there, on the tip of his tongue. It's what he feels when Satoru's strong hands wrap around his waist.

It's the emotion bursting within him and making butterflies' wings flutter in his tummy.

As the lips retreat and warm breaths of air fall on his sensitive, tingly lips he hears the low rumble of Satoru's voice.

The words are spoken right against his parted mouth, eyes fixed on his and staring straight into his soul.

"I know. I know Suguru. And it's ok."

The lips move down to his neck where Satoru mumbles against the marked skin.

"You can take your time."

Suguru has to use all of his willpower to not let anymore of his tears fall. He realized a bit too late when one or two stray drops had leaked away and flowed down to his ears.

Satoru can probably sense them but Suguru still wills the tears away.

After Satoru has settled himself once again on top of Suguru, he finds his hands gravitate towards the man lying over him.

His fingers find the tresses while the other draws patterns on that broad back. His head slowly angles itself closer to Satoru's and that's how Suguru falls asleep.

He sleeps peacefully even with Satoru draped over him.

And as for Satoru, the gentle heartbeat of his beloved was the only lullaby he needed to make his eyes heavy.

His heart feels full, knowing that even though the words haven't been uttered what they feel for each other is tangible.

It might take time but they'll eventually get to a stage where verbal confirmation of their mutual feelings will come easy to both.

But for now this is enough.

This is it.

Thank you for reading this word vomit. Honestly this isn't exactly what I had thought of. It was waaaaaaaay better in my head. I wonder why I bother writing 🙃 but here we are.

#goge #satosugu #geto suguru #gojo satoru #五夏 #satosugu fanfic #my writing #jjk fanfic #satosugu headcanon

[mobbu-min]

Wip (for a leona x reader fic)

a/n I've been really busy with clubs, scholarships/college applications and family matters, that I haven't gotten enough time to sit down and write. im trying to make progess on requests and other stuff i had lined up, its just a really slow process. (if you've sent in a requests, don't worry, i see it!) but anways, i've been working on this leona fic, but i'm no where near done with it, but i wanted to show a little sneak peak. i wanted to get it down by the end of this month, but i highly doubt thats going to happen :/ i hope you guys enjoy and of course feel free to leave comments and such, ill try to get to them as fast as i can!

!tw! nothing but cursing

“You need me to do what now?” You asked the lion beastman. Setting down your bag, you sat down beside him. Wondering what was going on through his head.

“Do I really have to repeat myself?” He groaned, shoving his face in his hands. It was the first time you’ve ever seen Leona flustered, and you can’t deny that it was amusing. Shoving you to the side, he groaned, “Get that look off your face, herbivore.”

Chuckling, you set out the food you made and said calmly with a shrug of your shoulders and an amused smile, “Well, in my defense, it's not every day you get to see the Leona Kingscholar, so shy.”

“I’m not shy.” Leona grumbled. Taking one of the boxes of food, he began to pick at it like a child.

Poking him with your fork, you scolded lightly, “Leona don’t pick at your food just because you're embarrassed.”

“Jeez, what are you my mom?” Leona huffed.

“If I have to, sure.” You said bluntly. Hearing him huff and sigh, you put down your food and stared at him seriously. With a frown, you asked, “Leona, seriously, I don’t mind going with you. If anything it could be very informational.”

He was silent for a second, before groaning loudly. Flopping down to the ground, he covered his eye with his forearm. A deep scowl embedded on his face.

Picking up your food again, you took and bite. Letting him solve his internal battle. An idea popped into your mind that you knew would get a reaction from him. With a teasing smile, you cooed, “Or is it that you’re too embarrassed to be seen with a herbivore such as myself, hmm? You scared another predator might take interest in me~?”

While you were expecting Leona to grow flustered, you got the total opposite reaction. Sitting back up swiftly, he looked you dead in the eye and deadpanned, “As if someone would take interest in you.”

“And that's the Leona I know.” You said softly. Though if you were to be honest, you did feel a little offended but chalked it up to his remark. You weren’t expecting a grand display about you being his, or whatever. No way. “Then why are you so grumbly about it?”

“It's just Farena expecting me to…to…”

“To?”

“Ugh! It’s stupid royal shit that is complete bullshit!” Leona exclaimed. It shocked you to see him so worked up over this. He’s normally so unbothered by everything. This must really be messing with him.

Blinking away your surprise, you scooted over and placed your hand on his. Staring into his emerald eyes, you coaxed, “Hey, you don’t have to explain. Take your time, Leona, I won’t rush you, okay.” Looking deep into his eyes, you smiled, “I’m here for you, Leona. Don’t forget that.”

He stared at you in shock. His sleepy eyes glowing with emotions you couldn’t pinpoint. Calming down, he averted his gaze and stared off to the side, he murmured “Your breath stinks.”

“Leona!”

#leona x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #leona twst #leona kingscholar #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland hcs #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #mari wips!

[morganski-19]

WIP Wednesday

Hi, hello. I’m not sure what this is but these two have been consuming my brain for the last week and I just had to write something. This is a snippet for what I hope will be a 5+1 fic, but it’ll take me a while to finish it.

“Not going to say anything, Whiskers?” Angel teases, trying to get under the other’s skin, or fur. Still unsure of what is slowly blooming between them.

When Husk turns his face and looks at Angel for the first time since he left this morning, Angel’s breath can’t help but stutter. And if he still had a working heart beat, he’s sure it would have stopped.

“What do you want me to say?” Husk replies in his low, uncaring voice. Even though Angel was starting to see right through it.

Angel huffed. “Well, normally you have somethin’ to say whenever I get home.”

“Well,” Husk leans on the bar, “sometimes ‘normally’ changes. And you looked like you didn’t want to talk, so I didn't say anything. But if you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

Angel’s mouth is suddenly dry.

The dynamic between the two of them shifted some time ago, and Angel couldn't pinpoint it. Maybe it was a few months ago when Angel went out and Husk was the one who came looking. Maybe it was the time Cherri brought them out and Angel said no to the pills. Or maybe it was right before the battle where all Angel wanted to do was sit and talk to Husk. And the look that he knew painted his face as soon as Husk looked away.

The same face he felt the want to make now.

But now, he was tired. He felt used. His body was calling for sleep, and Angel knew he needed to go to bed. To his cold, empty bed.

Swallowing the rest of his drink, he stands. Takes a moment to bring the rest of his strength to his legs enough so he can walk up the stairs.

“Thanks for the drink, Husk,” Angel says with a slight yawn. Too tired to talk with his persona, so he just talks. “Night.”

“Have a good night, Angel,” Husk says while Angel walks away. Each word pulling Angel back to where he just was.

As he walks towards the stairs, Angel feels the familiar tingle underneath his skin that lets him know he’s being watched. Only this time, he doesn’t mind it. Doesn’t feel pressured to put on a show.

Instead, he turns back and looks, catching Husk’s eyes for just a second before the other man turns away. A smile finds its way to Angel’s face, and stays there until he finally falls asleep.

#huskerdust #husker hazbin hotel #angel dust hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel spoilers #mild #i love these two so much #they are slowly taking over my brain #wip wednesday #angel dust #angel dust x husk

[formula-fun]

Hi!!!!!!

So happy that you have found time to write again!

By now I have reread the story too many times so I have been trying to “force” your two amazing stories on my best friend in hopes of finding someone to scream together (I have successfully dragged her across most of the fandoms I have dabbled in) and she was very excited when I explained the plot and showed her my too-long asks on your tumblr to her 🤣

Of course she would love them as much as I do, and she would be running out of excuses for wips (hahahaha) when it looks like the final chapters might be happening!

Very very excited! Thank you so much for taking the time to write! 😘

Hey hey!!!

Aww thanks so much!! I know its not for everyone and wips sometimes arent everyones cup of tea either but i hope she likes it if she gives it a try!! ive had the wildest month in the world so im only now starting to clean them up, but really hoping to have them up soon before school gets crazy again <3

leaving a snippet here for you since i love it so so much but am unfortunately about to cut it!

In Brazil Max doesn’t even bother pretending he wants to use his own hotel room. Charles has only been settled for fifteen minutes when a polite knock rings through the room, and when he opens the door it’s to the sight of Max standing in front of it, tapping away on his phone, his backpack slung precariously over the handle of the suitcase resting beside him.

“Is the WiFi working for you?” he asks in lieu of a greeting, wandering past Charles when Charles steps aside.

“I don’t know,” Charles says, amused. “I just got here.”

“Oh. Same.” He flops backward onto the bed, his knees hanging over the edge, not looking up when his suitcase finally overbalances and falls to the floor with a clatter. He drops his phone somewhere over his head, stretching his arms until they shake. He looks lazy and content, easy with the way he’s made a place for himself in Charles’ space, like he knows he’s always welcome. Charles wants to get on the bed and crawl toward him, one palm on his sternum, and see what his mouth feels like against Charles’ upside down.

He swallows hard.

“Do you want to order room service?” Max asks him.

They have places to be. Charles is pretty sure they do, anyway. They always do. He and Max have been apart for barely ten hours. It’s not long enough to miss someone; not at all.

He lets Max pick up the menu and narrate it aloud to him, halfheartedly debating each item while Charles systematically empties his suitcase across the entirety of the room. Max finally toes his shoes off and slides backward to sit against the headboard, picking up the phone and fiddling with the cord as he orders them a ninety dollar pizza and a seventy dollar fruit tray and a fifteen dollar bottle of sparkling water, and then mumbles something about putting it on his room’s tab instead of Charles’, even though their teams foot the bills anyway. As soon as the phone thunks down into the cradle Charles drops the shirt he was pretending to fold and turns to crawl onto the bed and curl into Max’s side.  

Max’s hand settles on his waist, heavy and warm. “They said fifteen minutes,” Max tells him. His eyes are wide and soft.

Charles shakes his head. “That’s fine,” he answers. His chest feels too big—too full. Max is looking at him with a gentle kind of happiness, and when Charles thinks about him seeking Charles out and living in his space he feels too much. He doesn’t know what to do with it all.

He cups his face and kisses him in greeting, finally—means to keep it short and sweet, but Max pulls him closer immediately. It’s stupid; it shouldn’t feel the way it does, when they’ve barely been apart a day. It doesn’t matter.

He relaxes into Max’s hold a little too much, half-sprawled across his lap and unbalanced because of it. Max just rolls them until they’re laying sideways, their heads at the foot of the bed, kissing lazily all the while. Time turns soft and elastic, everything else drifting away, Charles caught somewhere in all the things they’re pressing against each other’s lips: hello’s and how are you’s and I missed you’s and I love you’s.

When a woman comes with the room service cart Charles has to get up and let her in with wobbly legs, his lips tingling. He winces behind her back when he registers her alpha scent as she passes him, a stark contrast to the happy tangle of Charles and Max’s scents that’s taken all of half an hour to permeate the room. There’s no way she doesn’t notice it, but she doesn’t say a word. Max gives her a bashful red-lipped smile and a tip that’s double the cost of their food, and Charles resists the urge to put his face in his hands.

#if i had words #if anyone saw me posting anonymously on ao3 in the last few weeks? look away #busy means too busy to work on the 68000 word project #it doesnt mean too busy to dick around on anon #lestappen #writing tag

[beaconfeels]

Snippet Sunday

Carrying along on my Steter leaves Beacon Hills fic. It’s motivating for me to get to share bits here, so I’m doing some sort of WIP post once a week when I can. Anyone else working on something they want to share? I’d love to see it! Say I tagged you if you want to :)

Stiles eats sitting cross-legged on the couch, half watching a show about home renovations while telling Peter about other shows he likes, how dumb people are about not being able to see past paint colors while buying a home, and assorted random facts that pop into his head. All around mouthfuls of food, of course. It’s disgusting. Peter wants to study him like a lab rat.

He tunes Stiles out from time to time, not that it seems to bother the boy much. Peter’s surprised he doesn’t mind Stiles’s rapidly gesticulating hands and nearly non-stop chatter as a background to his own thoughts.

He eats his steak and thinks about himself at that age, eager to graduate high school and move out of his family home. He knew, of course, that it would be frowned upon, but he also knew he needed out. In that respect, he and Stiles are very much alike.

He hadn’t needed someone’s help the way Stiles does though. He’d amassed quite a fortune that was all his own by that time. Frankly, Stiles’s predicament, and having to throw himself on the good grace of someone like Peter no less, has made him realize for the first time just how fortunate he’s been in that regard.

He grew up with money. He grew up with a generous allowance, and around people who knew how to handle money, who expected it to be there. He’s always been proud of the way he’s built on what he’s been given, and it wasn’t without hard work, but he supposes the way he was raised did give him certain advantages he hasn’t had to think about before.

Well, Stiles is with him now. The boy won’t have to be at anyone’s mercy for much longer. He knows he could keep Stiles beholden to him, it would be easy enough, but something about the idea chafes. It would be like keeping an eagle in a small cage. Peter knows plenty of people would think him capable of that kind of malicious cruelty, but he’d really rather see that eagle fly, see what it's capable of once it's given its full power. He has a feeling Stiles will be magnificent.

Even if the “eagle” in this scenario is currently licking the curly fry grease off his fingers, and has a shred of lettuce stuck to his chin.

Peter sighs and hands him a napkin.

#steter #steter fic #my writing #wips #snippet Sunday

[ghoulangerlee]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers (if you’d like). Let’s spread the self-love 💗

hello, hi thank you so much for thinking of me with this <3 ive been down in the dumps about my writing recently for absolutely no reason whatsoever!

but anyway, onto the meat of the ask <3

you share not the blood of our, our, ours / eventual Copia&Polyghouls / wip is one that I'm going to rec all the time. because its like the reason i started writing for the ghost fandom LMAO. i wanted to see something like this and so i wrote it. its at 70k, the touring hasn't even actually started and probably won't start til we hit maybe 100k but I'm so PROUD of this one <3

ill split in two to stay the same / aether/dew/mountain / completed

another one that became so very important to me. written for a friend as part of an exchange. its my first finished multichapter fic in forever.

baby even though you just want to live / copia&polyghouls / complete

i love the trope of dying and coming back wrong and learning how to love again. this came about because of a tumblr post i saw once and im glad i wrote the thing bc it birthed the second part:

maybe you do have a lot to give / copia&polyghouls / completed

same premise as the above fic but the first part is told from the ghouls povs after reviving copia while this one is told from copia's pov as he learns how to be alive again. its such an interesting thing to explore. i need to write the third part haha

either born in hell of heaven sent / copia/dew / completed / smut

so this is smut but its like. look i have an ongoing headcanon based around copia dew and aether being in a committed relationship with each other and i occasionally write fic reflecting that. this one is my fav one because i love the banter :)

thank you so much for this btw, because sometimes i guess i do need to sit down and think about why i love writing and why my own works mean so much to me and this allowed me to do that haha. <3

#ask replies