#SHE IS SO ME I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH!!!!

[sardonicplague]

So, I didn't want to do this here but this is too long for the replies, unfortunately. Sorry Crim for making it look like I'm replying to you, but since it would be too tedious for the replies, reblogging my own reblog just seems the most logical to me.

Anyway, I'm sorry @purpledemonlilyposting for literally doing the thing! I'll admit that for me personally it is force of habit at this point because I personally find saying 2SLGBTQIA+ to be too much to type every time, so that's my bad for not being more careful with my wording since I know you don't like it. I am sorry for (unintentionally; I will explain in a minute, but I want to be fair to your feelings here, which are valid) lumping you in with a word you don't like being used for you because I'm really not trying to just shit all over you here. I generally respect you and like your content for the most part, but I spoke in frustration, which is generally not a good idea where clarity is concerned. That was not kind of me, and I ought to have been more careful.

But I need you to understand that this conversation is so genuinely frustrating to younger queers because it seems like all you're doing is firing off smug quips about us younguns not knowing or being able to understand what our reality or history is unless we've personally lived it in order to shut down conversation when no single one of our experiences with The Community (henceforth referred to as such to avoid using EITHER debated term) are universal. But I am not going to argue about this long because frankly Crim did it better, I'm just going to be repeating most of his points, and all I really *wanted* to do was express my disappointment and upset that you could really have read the entire long post Crim wrote about it being an academic term and still have seemingly nothing but quippy retorts to shut down arguments rather than have a conversation about your disagreements without it dissolving into more snappy quips.

Since you called me out in the replies though, I'll throw my two cents in for whatever it's worth. But I cannot stress enough that I'm not going to engage with this topic much beyond what I'm saying here if we’re going to just talk past each other.

So, I equate my use of the word queer in those tags to the use of The Fuck Word.

There are certain folks who don't like swearing for various reasons—some perfectly valid—who might say if I, just for example, exclaim "what the fuck are you doing?" in astonished reaction to something they are doing as "swearing at them". Now, to me personally, I'm just swearing. Not swearing AT them. Just because I'm speaking TO or about them doesn't mean I'm swearing AT them because in this instance the word fuck is being used in a different context. It's being used as a descriptive word, not as a word to cause harm. To me, swearing AT someone is more like saying, "go fuck yourself", "you motherfucker", "you are a fucking idiot", etc. because it's being directed AT a person. The equivalent for the latter pejorative usage of the word queer would be saying, “you ugly nasty queer”, “I bet she's one of them *queers* (spoken with nasty intonation such as to indicate it's being used as a pejorative)”.

TL;DR if folks are not using it as a pejorative then it isn't being used as a pejorative, end of, even if you don't like the word. And the reasons I believe this can more kindly be explained by Crim’s reblog that you initially ignored. So when you perceive “being lumped in with the queer community” as the equivalent of being called a slur, it comes off as you playing semantic games. Now I'm not saying that IS what you're doing with bad faith intent, because I believe your feelings about this word come from a place of genuine hurt. I just think—and this is 100% just my opinion that you can feel free to say is presumptuous or whatever you'd like—that it is generally bad to let the traumatic feelings and experiences that you've had with individual bigots rule your behavior and language to the extent that you're cutting useful language out of your lexicon and then implying that other folks ought to do the same. Because even if you say “it's okay to say queer just don't use it for me because I take it as a slur”, you're still kind of discouraging its use by dint of labelling the word as As Bad As A Slur No Matter The Context.

Also, just for the record, I don't think that the “we are different and that's okay” and “we're normal, actually” arguments are mutually exclusive either. We ARE different to cishets, BUT that's normal, AND it's okay.

And we really don't need to be fighting over terminology right now anyway! There are bigger proverbial fish to be fried with regard to our civil rights and lumping other folks in The Community in with people who readily say slurs like the ones anon hatefully spewed at you is just kinda needlessly divisive.

Like, I just feel like we could have all dunked on that idiot anon *without* all this, yknow? Could you do that next time this happens?

Ask sent to my main blog.

You see how tolerant and progressive and totally not homophobic people who regularly use queer are?

[writingpandagoth]

Hello hello! I really really love your work and talent with all my being! You have helped me through these hectic weeks in my work and believe me you made me smile and laugh :) Could I ask for a request? If you like of course, don't worry if you cannot.

Reader has been in love with Professor Severus Snape since her 5th year (or any year you decide) , but of course because of their status and age (10 years of difference max) she never tells him so she writes a diary about him. Now, she teaches in Hogwarts (you can choose the subject) and has never stopped loving him (and the diary continues) but treats with respect and kindness...one day she forgets the diary and he finds it and, of course read it...fluff fluff please 🫣

(Could the reader be his first and only love please? Sorry I am being such a romantic 😥)

Thank you so much!❤️

I am glad that my writing has brought you joy and I hope that it will be less stressful for you.😘❤️

Of course I can do that for you!

I hope this will bring you just as much joy as all the other stories.

Ink Stained Secrets

The office was cold.

Not because of the dungeons, though they certainly didn’t help—but because it didn’t feel like his yet. The shelves were still too empty. The desk too polished. The walls too bare.

He had returned to Hogwarts not as a student this time, but as a professor.

The offer had come unexpectedly. A last-minute resignation. A quiet note from Dumbledore. An understanding that he was... available. And brilliant.

“Professor Snape,” the Headmaster had said with a smile. “It suits you.”

He wasn’t so sure.

The students didn’t fear him yet. That would come later.

Right now, they whispered when he walked past. Stared at him like they couldn’t decide if he was still one of them. Some still knew his name. They remembered the rumors.

He kept his tone clipped, his robes immaculate, his expression unreadable. It was armor he wore well. He put Students into their place with such an authority that even the seventh years shut up the second he walked into the room.

The fifth years were the worst. Old enough to question his authority but still young enough to not do it out loud.

Students would come to class silently and leave as fast as possible once it was over. They started to fear his strict teaching and his coldness he always brought with him.

But under all those students one wouldn't quite wrap his head around.

He noticed you early on. Not because you were loud or disobedient—but because you were precise, focused and strangely unafraid of him.

Severus would catch you watching him closely almost like you were trying to understand something no one else saw.

He wasn’t foolish. He knew what it looked like, knew what a too-long gaze or a soft-spoken compliment might be misread as, especially him still being young and closer to the students ages than the other Professors.

So he carried on like every other day.

--

The dungeons are quieter after hours.

Most students bolt the moment class ends, eager to escape the chill and the lingering smell of crushed root and scorched cauldron. But you’ve always stayed a little longer. You tell yourself it’s to perfect your technique. To clean your station just right. To ask one more question, even if you already know the answer.

Professor Snape never sends you away.

He never says much at all, really. Sometimes he’ll offer a curt nod when you hand him a particularly well-brewed vial. Other times, he lingers at his desk while you pack up, eyes flicking briefly in your direction—but never long enough to feel like permission.

Today, your potion was perfect. Even he said so.

“Efficient,” he muttered when he passed your table, barely glancing at the pale violet swirl in your vial. “Clean execution.”

It wasn’t much.

But from him? It was everything.

Now you’re curled into your usual corner of the library—a hidden spot behind the stacks, where a small stone window lets in just enough moonlight to see by. Your school bag sits beside you. In your lap: your diary.

The cover is worn from your hands, the spine already soft from nightly use. You open to a fresh page and press your quill to it.

October 19th Professor Snape said my potion was efficient today. He didn’t frown. He didn’t sigh. He just said it and walked away like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was… more than I expected. More than I probably deserved. I think I admire him. Not just for his knowledge—though he’s brilliant—but for the way he carries himself. How he never bends for anyone. How he sees everything, even if he pretends not to. I think there’s something lonely in him. Something he doesn’t show the students. I don’t know why I notice it. I just do. He’s not kind. Not gentle. But… I think there’s a softness in him anyway. Somewhere. I saw it today. Just for a moment.

You stop writing, suddenly self-conscious.

It’s just a diary. Just ink. No one will ever read it. It doesn’t matter.

But still, you press your palm to the page, as if to seal the words in place. As if naming them out loud would make them too real.

He’s your professor, you shouldn't think of him like that despite him being only older by 6 years but already, you know: this feeling won’t fade easily.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

Falling for him is slow—like water slipping between cracks in stone. Quiet. Patient. Unstoppable.

At first, you really just admire him. His knowledge. His precision. The way his lectures never waste a single word. You start staying after class—not because you need help, but because it means one more minute in his presence. One more question. One more chance to hear him speak directly to you.

Other students think he’s cold, cruel, detached.

But you start to see something else.

He doesn’t smile, but he remembers things. Your favorite base ingredients. That you prefer silver knives to pewter. That you always adjust your heat clockwise when reducing. He never praises you, but he stops correcting you. That, in his language, says more than enough.

You start watching him more than you should. In class. At meals. When he walks the halls, robes sweeping like a shadow you’d gladly step into.

You start writing about him every night.

Not just about what he says, or how he moves. But how you feel.

November 1st I caught myself staring at his hands again. The way he handles ingredients—so careful, so exact. He never fumbles. He always knows what comes next. I wonder if he’s like that with everything. If his touch is always that sure.

November 13th Today he leaned over my cauldron. His sleeve brushed mine. My brain stopped working for a full five seconds. I hope he didn’t notice. He noticed. I’m doomed.

December 2nd The poem I wrote tonight is awful. Melodramatic. Completely unrealistic. He’d mock it if he read it. But I can’t help it. I dreamt about him again.

It gets worse before it gets better.

You don’t mean to let it grow this big. But it’s hard not to. He’s there, every day. And he’s not cruel to you. Not distant. Not warm either, but… real. Constant.

You write him into metaphors.

Into dreams you wake up blushing from.

Into quiet fantasies you’d never speak aloud.

And your diary that once was filled with your days, It becomes his.

Page after page, filled with his name and your love.

January 18th If I said it—if I looked him in the eyes and told him what’s in this book—what would he do? Would he laugh? Would he be kind? Would he look at me like I’m just a silly child with a crush on someone she doesn’t understand? I understand him. I see him. Even if he’ll never see me the same way.

But you never tell him. Of course you don’t.

He’s your professor after all and you are just his students whose heart can't stop screaming out for him.

So you carry on into your sixth and seventh year, never stop writing and never once stop looking at him.

You carry on even as your trunk is packed for the last time.

The dormitory is half-empty, voices echoing down the corridor as students say rushed, cheerful goodbyes. You stand in front of the mirror with your robes fastened, hair smoothed down, pretending your heart doesn’t feel like it’s caught behind your ribs.

You haven’t seen him since your last Potions exam. He handed you your marks without comment, eyes skimming over you like you were nothing more than a formality.

You wanted to speak to him, to just say something, to make him remember you but you stayed silent.

instead you went to the corner of the library, hidden behind the shelves with your diary in your lap—just like you were the first time you ever wrote about him. Your quill hovers over the blank page.

You take a breath. And begin.

June 24th I leave in the morning. I don’t think I’ll see him again. Not really. I could have gone down to the dungeons. Said goodbye. Thanked him. But I didn’t. Because if he looks at me like I’m just another student again, I think I might break. So I’ll say it here instead. Goodbye, Severus Snape. Thank you for the way you saw me, even when you pretended not to. Thank you for every second you let me stay behind after class. For every moment you didn’t push me away. I know you never asked for this affection. I know I never told you the truth but it’s yours. Every word. Every page. It was always you.

You close the diary and press your hand to the cover.

You don’t cry.

But you don’t smile either.

You just hold it to your chest, and walk away without looking back.

--

It has been nearly nine years since you last walked these halls. You were different now, Older, more open.

And yet, when your boots touch the stone floor, it’s like nothing ever changed. The same chill in the dungeons. The same hum in the walls. The same faint, citrusy-clean scent that hangs in the air when Filch is on a warpath.

You told yourself you’d accepted the post for the opportunity. That the role—Professor of Magical Theory—was a step forward. A chance to teach, to explore the subject you fell in love with before you ever picked up a wand.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with the man who used to haunt your dreams and walks these halls like a shadow.

You were lying.

It’s all still here.

And so is he.

You don’t see him right away.

Your first day is a blur of meetings, scrolls, schedules, a tour you don’t need and polite, distant greetings from professors who once gave you homework. It’s strange, being one of them now. Stranger still to stand at the staff table instead of staring up at it.

Your classroom is near the library. Quiet, sunlit in the mornings. You arrange the shelves just the way you want them. You unpack your books in careful stacks, placing your old, worn diary in the desk drawer with trembling fingers.

You’re not sure why you brought it.

Habit, maybe. Hope. The words are still there. The old pages. The poems. The confessions. The longing.

You tell yourself you won’t write about him again. You know you’re lying this time too.

You see him that evening on your way back from dinner, lingering in the corridor just outside the staffroom, when the door opens and he steps out.

Time doesn’t stop.

But it does stutter.

He looks almost exactly the same. A little older. A little sharper around the eyes. But still in those same dark robes. Still walking like he owns the silence around him.

Your breath catches before you can help it. He stops when he sees you. For a moment, you’re fifteen again but then he says your name.

No title. No surname. Just… you and just like that, you’re not a student anymore.

You manage a smile. “Hello, Professor Snape.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Not anymore.”

You try not to beam.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to call you Severus?”

His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. Warmer, just for a second.

“Long overdue,” he says, and walks past you.

Your heart doesn’t stop racing for a long, long time.

That night, you write again.

The first entry in nearly two months.

He said my name. Not like I was a student. Not like I was anyone he had to tolerate. Just my name. It shouldn’t matter. But it does. I missed him. Gods, I missed him.

It’s not awkward, the first time you sit beside him the next day.

You think it might be. You think maybe he’ll raise an eyebrow, make a comment, shift his chair ever so slightly away from yours.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything when you slide into the seat next to him at the staffroom table. Just nods once in quiet acknowledgment and pushes the sugar bowl a little closer to your side of the table.

The silence between you is companionable. The fire crackles gently. A few professors murmur nearby, caught in a conversation about House Cup logistics.

You sip your tea and glance at him over the rim of your cup. “Is it really tradition to bet on which first-year will cry first?”

His eyes flick toward you. “I wouldn’t know. Minerva usually handles the gambling pool.”

You grin. “But you do keep count, don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Just lifts his teacup to his lips, the barest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

You find yourself sitting beside him again the next day.

And the next.

It becomes a pattern before you realize it. Not something either of you speaks about, but something you both seem to expect.

The empty chair is always waiting. So is the second cup of tea.

One afternoon, you pass each other in the corridor outside the library. You nod politely. He pauses.

“You’ve started leaving your classroom door open,” he says, voice low.

You raise an eyebrow. “Observing my behavior now, Severus?”

“I hear less screaming when it’s open.”

You snort. “That’s because I bribe them with chocolate.”

“Unethical.”

“Effective.”

He hums. “You were always insufferably clever.”

You offer a bright smile. “Still am.”

He turns to go, but you catch the smallest flicker of amusement as he walks away.

You float through the rest of your afternoon.

He insulted me today. Or tried to. The way his voice softens when he teases—he doesn’t do that for anyone else. I shouldn’t read into it. But gods, it’s hard not to.

That night, you’re in the staffroom again, curled into your usual chair with a pile of scrolls and a quill that’s trying very hard to die. Severus walks in, his robes brushing the floor, and without looking, sets a steaming cup of tea beside you.

You smile up at him. “You’re going to spoil me.”

“Unlikely.”

Still, he sits beside you. Still, he stays.

And when you reach for your diary again that evening, fingers stained with ink and heart a little too full, you write:

He brings me tea like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like it doesn’t make my chest ache every time he does it.

He doesn’t speak much in meetings. You’ve noticed.

He listens, eyes half-lidded, arms crossed, contributing only when something truly ridiculous is said. Most of the staff steer clear of him. Or, more accurately, speak around him.

You don’t.

You sit beside him. Pass him notes with sarcastic commentary when the new Muggle Studies professor rambles. He rarely responds—but once in a while, he writes something back in tight, elegant script that makes you bite back a laugh and elbow him under the table.

And he doesn’t move away.

That part still surprises you. It shouldn’t. But it does.

You start to learn his rhythms again. When he’s had a bad day, he walks faster. Sharper turns. Less patience.

When he’s distracted, he fiddles with the edge of his sleeve. When he’s focused, nothing else exists.

You pass him in the corridor between classes and offer a half-smile. He nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might return it. You file that moment away like treasure.

One evening, you find yourselves alone in the staffroom. There’s a pot of tea already brewed. The fire is low. You’ve both had long days, judging by the slump in your shoulders and the stiffness in his jaw.

He doesn’t speak as you walk in. Just nods, gestures vaguely at the armchair across from his, and fills your mug when you settle.

For a while, you both sit in silence.

The kind that feels earned.

Comfortable.

You watch him as he reads, eyes flicking over the page of a worn book, one hand turning pages, the other cradling his mug. He looks tired. Older. But not hard. Not now. Not like this.

“You never drink tea during staff meetings,” you murmur, voice low.

“I never had to stay awake for them before,” he replies.

You smile. “So I’m not the only one who finds Professor Binns’s voice... soothing in a near-lethal way?”

“He sounds like someone enchanted a foghorn.”

You laugh softly. “I didn’t know you were this funny back then.”

“I wasn’t,” he says simply. “You were a student.”

There’s something in the way he says it. Not harsh. Not regretful. Just true.

“But I’m not anymore,” you say.

You don’t mean for it to come out that way. So quiet. So certain.

He looks at you. Really looks.

“No,” he says after a long moment. “You’re not.”

Later that night, curled in your office chair, you pull out your diary again.

The pages know your truths better than anyone ever has.

We’re not student and teacher anymore. I know that. But sometimes I wonder if he’s noticed. If he hears it in my voice. If he sees it in the way I sit beside him now instead of behind him. Sometimes he looks at me like he’s remembering something. And sometimes I think he’s trying not to.

--

You’re in your office when he knocks—two short raps, followed by the familiar creak of your door swinging open before you’ve even answered.

Only one person ever enters like that.

You don’t look up right away. You’re in the middle of writing—lesson notes on one scroll, your diary open on the other side of the desk, its worn cover tucked against your elbow like a secret kept close.

“Afternoon, Severus,” you say, dipping your quill again. “Didn’t expect you.”

He steps inside, hands folded neatly behind his back. “I came to return this.”

He places a slim book—Magical Chaos: A Theoretical Study—on the corner of your desk. A loan from your personal shelves, one you’d half-forgotten he took.

You glance up and smile. “Did it bore you senseless or was there a grudging ounce of value?”

He raises an eyebrow. “It was Tolerable.”

You grin. “High praise.”

His gaze drops then—to your desk. To the open pages of parchment and the small, leather-bound diary tucked beside them.

You see it the moment his eyes flick there.

“That thing,” he mutters. “You’re always scribbling in it.I think you even had it when I started teaching.”

You casually slide a spare scroll over it. Not rushed. Not guilty. Just... protective.

“I like to write,” you say, carefully breezy. “Some habits never die.”

He doesn’t look away and watches your every move. "Writing cryptic little secrets are we?”

You glance at him, smile teasing. “Always.”

His tone turns dry. “Plotting against me?”

“Of course,” you reply. “It’s filled with plans to subtly replace all your potion ingredients with decaffeinated alternatives.”

He steps a little closer, brow raised. “I suspected treason.”

You shift the scroll a bit more. “You never be able to prove it in court.”

He watches you in silence for a second longer, then makes a low sound—not quite a chuckle—and turns away, the book you lent him now forgotten on the desk.

“You’ve always been insufferable,” he says.

“And yet, here you are,” you murmur.

He pauses at the door.

Then, over his shoulder, so quiet it’s almost lost:

“I suppose I don’t mind the insufferable ones anymore.”

And then he’s gone.

You stare at the door long after he leaves, the ghost of a grin tugging at your lips.

You open your diary.

He asked about this book today. Stared at it like he was trying to read it through the cover. I wonder what he’d do if he actually opened it. If he saw everything I never said. The poems. The dreams. The little notes about how he looks when he’s tired or how he sounds when he says my name. I think he’d laugh. Or worse—he leaves. I wish I could tell him the truth.

The staffroom is dim and quiet that night, lit by the soft flicker of the fireplace. Most of the others have gone off to bed. You linger, scrolls abandoned in your satchel, the smell of tea steeping in the air between you and him.

Severus is reading. As always. One leg crossed neatly over the other, a book balanced in one hand, his tea in the other. You’ve lost count of how many nights have ended like this.

You don’t talk constantly. You don’t have to.

There’s a peace in simply sharing space with him.

You cradle your mug, watching the firelight flicker in the curve of his jaw. He looks softer like this. Not unguarded. Just... human.

You want to memorize him.

Instead, you say, “If someone had told me in fifth year I’d be having tea with you after curfew like it’s the most normal thing in the world…”

He glances up. “You’d have reported them to Pomfrey?”

“I’d have laughed first” you say, smiling faintly.

His mouth twitches. “Of course.”

A comfortable silence stretches again.

Then he says it—offhanded, casual.

“You were always kind of the exception. Most students never stayed in my memory after they left.”

It’s not meant to hurt but it lands anyway.

You keep your smile in place, because you’ve practiced it for years.

“You remember me?” you say lightly, teasing. “And care to tell what you remember of me?”

He gives a slow, deliberate nod. “You were curious. Persistent. Unafraid.”

You hold your breath. Waiting for more but that’s it.

Just a compliment tucked neatly into the past tense.

Just a memory. Nothing more.

You sip your tea, letting it hide the ache in your throat. You sit a while longer. He doesn’t notice that you’ve stopped speaking.

That night, you can’t sleep.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why it still hurts after all these years.

He sees you but not in the way you see him.

He sees the girl who stayed behind after class and he taught but he doesn't see the woman who loves him in silence with everything she has.

An in the darkness this hurts more than the years you lived without seeing him.

Eventually, you get up and light your wand, just enough to open your diary.

He said I was the exception. I think he meant it kindly but it only reminded me that I’m still just a memory to him. A fond recollection. One of the good ones. He’ll never know I loved him then and that I stayed in love with him all this time. And I think I’d rather break than have him pity me for it.

You wake up twenty minutes late.

The clock is cruel. Your robes are wrinkled. Your notes are in a tragic half-stack on your desk, and the rain outside is doing a frankly unnecessary impression of a full-blown thunderstorm.

You curse as you grab your satchel—too full, too heavy—and sling it over your shoulder while stuffing a half-eaten piece of toast into your mouth. The strap twists. The toast falls. You mutter something unprintable.

Your students are expecting you in ten minutes.

You are, officially, in chaos.

You charge down the corridor, hair clinging to your damp face, satchel slipping down your arm—and then you round the corner just outside the library and crash directly into someone solid.

Everything goes flying.

Scrolls, books, your wand, a quill or two, and—somewhere���your diary.

You stumble backward, completely winded—except a firm hand catches your arm before you fall.

You blink.

It’s him.

Of course it’s him.

Severus is standing there in his usual dark robes, a slightly startled expression flickering across his face.

His hand lingers at your elbow for a moment longer than necessary.

“Merlin,” you breathe, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry—I'm late—I wasn’t watching—bloody hell, everything’s a mess—”

“I can see that,” he says calmly, already crouching to gather your fallen things.

You follow, scrambling to collect scattered parchment and your now-soggy notes. Your heart is racing—not from the fall, not really—but from the way his fingers brushed your arm. The way he steadied you without hesitation.

“I overslept,” you say breathlessly, reaching for a scroll. “Horribly. I haven’t done that since my seventh year. My toast burned and then fell down, my ink exploded, I think I left my wand cap in the butter dish, and now I’ve just bowled over you and your books are a mess too.”

“Well be glad it wasn't Binns otherwise you would be never getting to class,” he says dryly, handing you a book.

You blink at him. “Was that… a joke?”

He doesn’t answer. Just lifts another book and passes it to you. Your hands brush.

You don’t notice the diary isn’t among the books he hands you or that instead he is the one picking it up with his own Books.

You’re already gathering your scattered dignity and rushing off down the corridor, muttering thanks over your shoulder and trying to tame your hair with one hand while clutching your scrolls in the other.

You don’t look back.

You don’t see the way Severus turns the leather-bound book over in his hand.

You don’t see the way his brow furrows—just slightly—as he recognizes it.

--

It’s later—long after the corridors have emptied, after the last of the lamplight has been extinguished—that Severus finally returns to his chambers.

The rain has dulled to a whisper against the windows. The fire in the hearth crackles low, casting shadows along the stone walls. A single candle flickers on his desk, already near its base.

And beside it, resting in the soft pool of amber light—

Your diary.

He sits down in silence.

His hand moves to it almost of its own accord. The leather is warm from where he carried it earlier. Worn at the edges. A deep crease in the spine, from being opened too many times to count.

He remembers it now—more clearly than he expected. You used to keep it tucked beside your textbooks in class, fingers curling around it when you thought no one noticed. You never wrote in it during his lectures, but afterward… always afterward, when you lingered.

He never asked what you wrote.

But now, the answer is in his hands.

He opens it slowly.

The first page is harmless—doodles in the margins, a few lines about Potions theory in your looping, careful hand.

And then—

His name.

Written small at first. Barely noticeable.

Then again. And again.

Some entries are dated other are just scattered notes.

He said “efficient.” I know it was just a word. But it meant something. From him, it always does.

His voice when he’s lecturing—cold, precise. But when he says my name, it softens. Only slightly. I might be imagining it. But I hope I’m not.

Then come the poems. He hadn’t expected those.

You touch the edge of a vial like it might flinch. You speak like your words are spells— measured, exact, never wasted. I could write pages about your hands, but I think it’s your silence that undoes me.

My essays. My notes. My dreams. You’re in every metaphor. Every margin. I want to stop. I do. But loving you feels like breathing now. Unnoticed. Constant. Essential.

He reads one. Then another. Then five more.

Some are clumsy, full of schoolgirl longing and nervous adoration. Others are refined. Raw. Painfully adult.

I wonder what your voice sounds like when it breaks. Not in pain— but in pleasure. Low. Ragged. Caught somewhere between a growl and my name. I imagine it too often. It never leaves me whole.

You’ve never given me detention. But I’ve imagined it. Alone with you after hours. Your voice lower, sharper— the kind of tone that makes me want to misbehave again just to hear it. And if you leaned over my desk and told me to watch my mouth? Gods, I wouldn’t.

He turns the pages like they might burn.

There are passages that stop him entirely:

I dreamt of him again. Nothing inappropriate this time. Just tea. A fire. Silence between us. He looked at me like I was something good. I think that’s all I want. For him to look and see me.

He doesn't know he made me love books differently. I used to think they were just stories. But he makes words feel like weapons, like gifts, like truths. I think I love him because he speaks like everything matters.

And further in—entries written years after you left school:

It’s been three years. I should be over it. I’m not. I don’t want to be. Loving him is the one constant thing I’ve ever carried with me.

Saw him at the Ministry today. He didn’t see me. But I knew that voice before I turned around. I still would’ve found him blind.

And finally, the more recent ones. The ones written after you returned to Hogwarts.

I sit next to him now. Drink his tea. Hear his quiet jokes meant only for me. He has no idea I write about him still. But every moment I spend beside him feels like stealing fire. And still I keep my hand in the flame. But I stay silent because I know he doesn't. And I rather have him like this than not at all.

If he ever read this, I think I’d die of embarrassment. But part of me hopes—just a little—that if he did, he might understand how deeply I’ve always, always loved him.

By the time he reaches the end, the candle has burned nearly to nothing.

The fire in the hearth has gone low. The room is full of shadow and quiet.

He closes the book. His hand lingers on the cover, fingertips pressed against the leather like it might still be warm from your touch.

He doesn’t speak because he’s just read every secret you were too afraid to say.

Now he knows.

--

You don’t realize the diary is gone until well past dinner.

You’re in your office, reorganizing your desk, pulling scrolls from your satchel when your fingers brush an empty space that should never be empty.

Your heart skips.

You pause, check again.

Not in the drawer. Not beneath the folders. Not tucked into your notes or behind your lesson plans.

Gone.

Your diary is gone.

You tear through your office, frantic. Check your classroom. Your quarters. Your desk again. It doesn’t make sense. You had it this morning. You know you did. You always keep it close.

And then—

You remember the crash in the corridor. The scrolls. The books. The way he helped you pick them up. The way he handed you everything but that.

Severus.

You don’t think.

You just go.

The hall to his chambers is quiet. The castle feels too big, too echoing. You knock once, sharp and breathless. You can hear his voice saying to come in and so you do.

The candlelight spills gently into his chambers as you step inside, heart pounding so hard it echoes in your ears.

Severus is seated in his armchair by the fire.

He’s calm. Still. Too still.

You don’t notice the diary at first. Not really. You’re too busy scanning the shelves, the table, the space around him.

“I—um—sorry to bother you,” you start, breathless, “but I think I might’ve left something behind earlier. A small book. Leather cover. Old. I didn’t notice it was missing until just now…”

Your voice trails off and your breath catches when you see it—your diary, resting closed on his lap. His hand lays lightly across the cover, fingers splayed as if he’s trying to absorb the words through touch alone. His face is unreadable, but not cold. Just… thoughtful.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he rises. His movements are quiet. Deliberate.

He steps toward you, crossing the room with slow certainty, and holds out the diary—fingers gripping the spine gently, like he’s handling something fragile.

You reach for it but he doesn’t let go. Your fingers pause against his, and that’s when your eyes lift to meet his. That’s when you see it.

The silence. The weight in his gaze. The way he’s not surprised. Not confused.

Your stomach twists.

“You read it,” you whisper.

Still, he says nothing and the panic crashes over you like a wave.

“Oh no—oh Merlin—okay, okay, I can explain—sort of, I think—I mean, not really, but I swear I wasn’t trying to be creepy or obsessive or anything weird like that, it’s just—I’ve had it for years and it’s stupid and sentimental and it was never meant to be read, not by you—not by anyone—and the poems? Those were a joke, a bad joke, and the dream stuff—well that was just me being overdramatic and half-asleep, and that thing about your voice? That was a metaphor that got wildly out of hand and not meant to sound like I was obsessed even though maybe it—okay, it did, but I was fifteen! And then I just kept writing, and I should have stopped, but I didn’t, because I couldn’t, because you were still—”

You don’t even see it coming. One second you’re mid-ramble, on the verge of hyperventilating—

The next, his hand is at your cheek and his mouth is on yours.

Your breath catches—a tiny, stunned sound escapes you, soft and startled against his lips.

And then your hands rise—unsure, trembling—and press lightly to his chest as you kiss him back.

It’s slow. Tender. Full of unspoken things. Not rushed, not hungry.

Just… true.

When he pulls away, his dark eyes meeting yours.

Your hands are still lightly pressed against his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart beneath your palms—calm, steady. Like yours is enough for both of you right now.

The room is quiet. The fire crackles in the hearth. You’re still holding your diary, but it doesn’t feel heavy anymore.

You try to speak. You open your mouth, something halfway between a gasp and a laugh rising in your chest, but—

Severus leans a fraction closer and murmurs, very softly, very fondly:

“You talk too much.”

Your breath catches and then you laugh. It’s shaky, bright, half-sob, half-joy.

“Do you blame me?” you whisper. “You read everything.”

“I did,” he says.

He tilts his head slightly, just enough to catch your eyes again. And you see it—the softness, finally uncovered. Not hidden. Not buried beneath sarcasm or shadow.

“I noticed you back then,” he says. “You were brilliant. Quiet. Stubborn. You never were scared of me and I really couldn't understand just what exactly what going on in your head when you looked at me.”

Your throat tightens.

“But when you came back,” he continues, voice gentler now, almost reverent, “you weren’t just the clever girl who stayed after class. You were this… calm, steady presence. Always lingering just long enough. Always close. And I—”

He pauses, then huffs a soft breath of a laugh.

“I thought I’d imagined it. That I was reading into your smiles. Your teasing. The way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t paying attention.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You were paying attention.”

His hand lifts to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Always.”

You’re both quiet for a beat. The silence isn’t tense. It’s full. Safe.

Then his eyes flick down to the diary still tucked between you.

“I do have to say some of those entries are very...intresting,” he says, utterly deadpan. “Poetic. A little dramatic. Especially the ones about detention.”

Your entire face goes hot.

“Oh my god—”

“I was flattered,” he says smoothly.

“You’re awful.”

“‘I believe the phrasing was 'the kind of tone that makes you want to misbehave again just to hear it'?”

You let out a strangled groan and bury your face against his shoulder, laughing and dying all at once.

He’s smiling now—actually smiling—and it’s everything you ever hoped for.

You feel his arms come around you slowly, gently, holding you close like he’s still not quite sure you’re real. Like he’s afraid letting go will send you back into his imagination.

You don’t pull away.

You press your lips to his again—softer this time, slower. He kisses you back without hesitation, like he’s spent a decade imagining this exact moment.

Your nose brushes his when you pull back, just enough to catch your breath.

He doesn't let go. Doesn’t step away.

Instead, his hand slips from your cheek to your fingers, curling gently around them—warm, steady, a wordless invitation.

He gives the lightest tug.

And you follow.

He leads you across the room in silence, the flicker of firelight dancing in your peripheral vision, until you reach the settee near the hearth. He sits first, his fingers still entwined with yours, and when he looks up at you—it’s not a question.

It’s home.

You sink down beside him, legs brushing his, heart still racing. And when he exhales, it’s like he’s been holding that breath for years.

You lean into him without thinking.

And he holds you like he’s never going to stop.

The fire burns low, casting golden light across the walls, across his face, across the place where your legs are tangled gently with his on the settee.

You’re both quiet now. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because the silence feels like part of him. Like something sacred.

His hand moves slowly against your arm, tracing soft, aimless patterns into your sleeve, as if he’s still memorizing the fact that you’re here—that you chose to be.

You lean into him just slightly. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, his hold around you deepens, anchoring you to his side like you’ve always belonged there.

Outside the castle walls, you hear the wind shift.

“I should probably go, it's getting quite late.” you murmur, not moving.

It isn’t a real suggestion. Not yet.

His hand stills. For a moment, he says nothing. Just breathes in the space between you. Then, so quietly it barely reaches above the crackle of the fire:

“Don’t.”

You look up.

His eyes are steady. Not guarded. Not questioning. Just sure.

You feel the ache in your chest swell, full and warm and impossibly tender.

“You want me to stay?” you ask, small, unsure.

He nods once, as if the thought of saying it aloud again might unravel something in him.

“Yes,” he says. Just that. “Stay.”

And somehow, that simple word undoes you more than any kiss. So you lean into him. You let yourself rest. You let your fingers curl over the hand he’s still holding against your arm.

“I will,” you whisper.

--

The study is quiet.

Only the ticking of the old brass clock on the mantel breaks the hush, its rhythm steady, grounding. The faint rustle of your quill glides across parchment—slow, deliberate, like your hand knows it’s writing an ending you’ll never rewrite.

Morning light spills through the tall windows in soft, golden waves. It warms the wood beneath your hands. Illuminates the leather cover of the book open before you.

Your diary.

The same one you’ve carried since you were fifteen.

There’s only one page left.

You breathe in slowly, steadying your hand. The ink is rich, even, but your heart stumbles with every word—not from nerves. No, not today.

But because it’s the last thing you’ll ever need to write.

You smile softly, and let the words come.

A knock breaks the stillness.

You turn, smile already forming.

Minerva peeks in, her eyes warm with affection. “They’re ready for you, dear.”

You nod, putting your quill away with careful fingers, brushing the cover like you’re saying goodbye to an old friend who kept all your secrets.

You rise.

And as you step into the sunlit corridor, your hand gently resting on her arm, your gown trailing behind you like moonlight on stone—

The room falls quiet once more. Behind you, the diary lies open on the desk, ink drying on the final page.

I never thought I’d reach the end of this book. I was fifteen when I started it. I wrote my heart into these pages—my secrets, my fears, my impossible hopes. All of it was him. And now, as I write this, Severus is downstairs—probably pacing, pretending he isn’t nervous. He’ll never admit it. But I know him too well by now. He kissed my shoulder this morning while pretending to look for his cufflinks. I think he just needed to touch me. I still can’t believe it’s real. That he read every word I ever wrote, and chose to stay. Today, he’ll choose me again and I’ll choose him, as I always have. I’m not writing this for closure. I’m writing it to say thank you. To the girl who never gave up. To the man who found his way to her. To the pages that held us until we were ready to hold each other. This is my last entry. The last words you will ever need to keep. I’m going to marry Severus Snape today. And I’ve never felt more certain of anything in my life.

[chosentragedy]

I came here to say that I absolutely hate being targeted just for simple drawing of Emmabruce. People are very biphobic on Twitter and they come up with the worst excuse and their own biases to hate on them even knowing the ship JUST CAME OUT. I cannot stress this enough but my art is personal to me. I draw for me and me first. Ships are supposed to be enjoyed and mess with so I don't get why people cannot just block or ignore the ships they don't like.

I also gotten a lot of "criticisms" in regard of my portrayal of them.

" " Because these shit are literally made up or fueled by their own biases.

If I make Bruce protect Emma is me making her a damsel in distress. If I make Emma protect Bruce is me making her a mother figure. If I make her mean then she's a mean girl. If I make her kind then she is OOC.

If I make Bruce a softy then I woobified him. If I make him sassy then he doesn't deserve Emma.

I can't win with these people and tbh I do not care.

Also the sentiment that Rivals artists cannot enjoy and draw their favs unless they read the 200 comics first is such a killjoy cause first of all. MR itself is not even comic accurate. Bruce is all joy and whimsical in compared to his comic counterparts and don't even get me started on Namor.

Some MR artists only make contents for Rivals and that's ok! After all the game has its own lore and universes.

I argue that many, including myself have started getting into comics because of MR. But OFC y'all should know how time consuming comics are and not everyone can sit through so much in so little time so just keep in mind and let us have the time to go soak everything in.

Also if you could just tell them nicely. I will tell you that most times PPL are very eager to listen. I have my own Hulk/Bruce experts friends who can help me with my art. If I need a fact check, I can just ask them for help.

At the end of the day. Fandom should be fun. Unless someone is doing something hurtful, I don't see why you should harass them like oh my God, grow up.

Thank you for reading my little rant!

[upperranktwo]

♡Happy Birthday Kanroji Mitsuri♡

1st June

[bixels]

Jesus man, relax.

[puppppppppy]

I cant sleep bc im thinking abt the time I saw a group of grown ass men and one pointed to an airplane and they all waved at it without thinking (affectionate)

[theyarebothgunshot]

watching my mom's journey from being part of the GA to a full buddie truther who wants to know the bts tea has been truly fascinating and fantastic for me personally lmao so i just wanted to share some highlights

before 7x4 my mom simply never even mentioned anything remotely hinting at seeing buddie's potential or any queer coding. she did predict that eddie made buck chris' godfather though and i guess thought that was normal behavior idk

during 7x4 however, she kept on remarking on buck being jealous of eddie spending time with someone else. but when tmmy kissed buck, she gasped cause she fully expected buck to not be into it

after that episode she started to think out loud and said "well lately, i have been wondering if buck might like men.... because of how he is around eddie...."

she quickly came to the conclusion that tmmy and buck had zero chemistry, unlike buck and eddie, and she said it was a shame they didn't cast someone else for the role of buck's bisexual awakening lmao

for the longest time she couldn't really see eddie's side of it. but then! 8x6/8x9/8x10 happened. and where she first had said "this is a reeeaaaally slow burn, if they are gonna go there", she changed her tune and said "they are really ramping it up, it's so clear that they are building up that relationship."

[soullessjack]

idk i just think it’s a little weird that almost every character who gets the “innocent baby” / “little ray of sunshine” treatment usually ends up just having neurodivergent traits and actual negative traits in the show that nobody pays attention to. like idk man it just feels like diet infantilization to me and it’s a teeny weeny bit uncomfortable to see all the time

[affluent-havoc]

Kyoko time! Also, keep in mind, spoilers ahead ^v^

For her first outfit, the casual attire, it's nothing too crazy. Feel she'd still be rocking those boots as she's older. Kyoko just gives me boot energy after all. I like to think she's got strong legs and can kick fairly well, her boots adding to that strength. At the same time though, I just feel she just really enjoys wearing boots. Maybe it's that extra height or the very chunky look they have. Whatever the case though, she's a woman who's not giving up those boots. Additionally, I'll be honest. Most of the choices I made for her casual attire are entirely off of vibes. For instance, I feel she'd still be a skirt gal which is why she has a skirt here. This also applies to the bow on the back of her hair and the braids. How I interpret Kyoko is that she's not one to wear overly girly accessories that are very bright, loud, and vibrant. However, she still enjoys the subtle show of her femininity and feeling pretty! Thus, the braids and the black bow stay! They're just moved to the back of the head instead of one side. As for her work attire, for one, she's still doing detective work in my au, perhaps helping Makoto on the side since they're both roommates in the same apartment. I also decided to give her pants for her work attire, not because she couldn't do it with a skirt. This is Kyoko after all! She'd be able to manage. Feel with age though, Kyoko would be less likely to prioritize her style and instead goes for practicality for work. She has more of a social life now anyway so she can let her style shine and be as pretty as she wants then. Oh, and before I forget, she's got an eyepatch too! I left it open for interpretation in regards on what exactly happened. For those who mostly ignore the anime's addition to the canon, it can just be that she got the injury during a case. For those who like aspects of the anime though, the scar on her face is from that time she almost died. With how the poison dispersed, I like giving her this scar to show that effect! Plus, if they were going to do a fake out death and not just kill her off, at LEAST give it some impact by having her be physically scarred! That's my 2 cents here though!

As for physical features, I drew her a bit more stocky here, still very much a feminine shape though stronger as well. After all, she's still fairly active though it's not like she's jacked or anything either. I don't think she'd lean to wanting a more muscled appearance. Not to say she couldn't kick ass! Her legs have a bit of toned muscle to them and her arms do as well. It's all subtle though! Moreover, I like to think though that Kyoko's in a good balance from how she treated detective work back then though. Though she'd still do some risks for solving a case, she's less likely to throw her entire life in jeopardy. She's ensuring she's eating properly, treating her body well. Thus, the pear shape of her body is showing a bit more here as well as the fact that she's a grown woman. I also thought it'd be cute that, no matter if Makoto or Kyoko ever become parents, they are destined to have mom and dad bods, even if it's subtle. Additionally, with her age, life experience, and all that she's gone through in her life along with the others, she is much more willing to accept aid. Perhaps during her time working on case work at home, she gets some input from Makoto since they're living together and she also generally respects Makoto's thoughts and opinions. Some other aspects of her physical appearance I wish to mention here is her hair. I honed in a bit more on that practical feeling for her by having it shorter but still expressing her femininity. She's also wearing Makoto's boxers here as well. Just wanted to drop that tidbit in there as well >:]

For the most part, I can say I'm fairly happy with how she's turned out! A good mix of what makes Kyoko who she is with a mix of my own flairs! More to come soon! (1) | (3)

[louroth]

Hello hello everybody! It is time for another months progress, and I am so excited to share with you, all the things I have gotten my grimy little gremlin hands on. First off, what we are all here for; writing. I have been on fire, to be honest! Last month I churned through the last of the first batch of erotica stories (there's 6 (!!!) of them on my patreon already) and set them up for publishing along with two more unseen ones- I'm still going over the logistics of where to publish for the best revenue (I know this sounds boring, but I have to make an income somehow, and hopefully find another audience as a smut writer on other platforms 💀 I love writing it so why not!), and I am making headway, learning the ins and outs of self publishing. On patreon, there are also two Q&A's that are written in a bit more fictional manner, in character: a more fun way than just writing answers straight up and down. I have enjoyed those so much! There's a bunch of other stuff I haven't even mentioned- honestly, I have to say, I'm really proud of my output on Patreon even though I have been really anxious about writing full time. It's going great! I have to thank my new friends and support-network on discord; you make this all worth it. I cannot express how fun it is to shoot the shit with you in vc, gaming together, or seeing your shenanigans in gen or your in depth theories (thanks for the brainworms!) or memes or staring longingly at the fanfic channel or drooling over your art (ouro related or not) or... Gah. You are just amazing people, and I will waste no opportunity in saying so. Thank you forever and ever and ever an-

When it comes to OUROBOROS, I am happy to announce that the next chapter is damn near done! I was halted because of the discovery that dashingdon is no longer supported by it's creator, and have been working on the twine version ever since, earlier than I expected- it's tough work, but I am so excited to make this an actual game made entirely by myself, and not submitting to a company that quite frankly leaves a bitter aftertaste. It is taking long to make because I want to make it mobile compatible from the start, which there isn't a lot of resources for. But I'm doing my best! The plan is that I will be posting the next chapter for Patreons in the coming month, and then treat you to a full twine release here on tumblr. I haven't made any rewrites when porting the twine build, but I would like to do that too... so we will see; this plan is not set in stone. I will just have to see how it evolves over the next month. Yes, beta-readers is still on the schedule, just holding off a little while while I wrap my head around this new coding landscape.

Other than that, I have been working on the set aesthetic for ouro, which has been really hard, a lot harder than I expected. You all know I am no wizard when it comes to graphic design, but I want to at least develop a set palette and imagery and portraits that is cohesive to the story. The work is ongoing, and I don't have much to say about it- even though it is taking a lot of my brain power. I'm hoping I can come to some kind of set and in depth conclusion that I am happy with before the twine release, because I want the game to feel like a treat to open up and play; a world to get lost in.

That's it! If you want to see weekly and more in depth dev-logs, you know where to go. I hope you have an amazing day or night, and we will see each other soon. xx

[team5ds]

going thru the old screencaps and it is still comical the way the writers sold us "aki izayoi wants to be a doctor, no REALLY" is just:

she saved a little girl from falling off the building that one time in the hospital. for the record: i still do not believe this was intentional foreshadowing to her career.

crow saying "maybe being psychic is the power to heal people" after what really saved them is her making her big ass dragon real, preventing debris from falling and crushing them. she did not use her psychic powers to heal them at ALL, it was literally just saving them

saying "i don't know what i want to do" after graduating from duel academy, a school for duelists then seeing the little girl she saved (again, not medically or through any actual use of medicine, just stopped from falling off a building) is enough to go "i want to be a doctor"

like. there is no other build up. oh and also the ones that are legit foreshadowing occur in the final 10 episodes, so it really does feel like a hack rush job trying to convince us she wants to do this. it feels like they went "we have to make aki leave neo domino. i know - we'll ship her off to germany to do medicine" and then someone rightfully pointed out that she's literally never expressed an interest in medicine in her life, so they had to come up with the final two bullet points to try to sell it.

could it have been sold better? sure. but since i think the plot point is stupid and ultimately inconsequential (because nothing about changing aki's career even causes any issues to the plot - you can pick a new one out of a hat & claim she has to move for it no problem), it just pisses me the fuck off.

not only that, it's paired with such fun writing choices as "lua and luka forgive their estranged parents to move to england", "jack gets factory reset to his season one self in that he rejects the idea of love wholesale in favor of obsessing over beating yusei", "crow hogan becomes a cop", and "yusei is forced into his father's career path because Sins Of The Father (that didn't actually happen)" so like. it's not like aki is wholly unique in having a randomly generated reason to leave neo domino city that doesn't fully make any sense if you examine it too closely. i think they just wanted the plot beat of "everyone except yusei leaves neo domino to live their own lives" without really putting much thought into what each of these characters would DO with their lives post wrgp.

[drowxiv]

WIP WEDNESDAY

I've agonized over this for like 6 hours. I tried to find the "least dark" thing that was in a shareable state. Every WIP I have is only a first draft.

Beneath the cut I've hidden: extremely light mention of spice. Light combat. Swords. One mention of a very small and superficial wound with zero descriptors.

I likely won't participate in this often but I've mentioned my writing enough in tags that I should probably share a snippet-

In the Underdark there was no sun to mark the passing of a day, only an eternal night flecked with the colorful lights of bioluminescence and magic. The Drow city was densely packed into a large cavern, with eight noble houses rising like giant stalagmites, reaching towards misty clouds that formed and fell in a never ending cycle. There were certain hours when activity dwindled and the world felt quiet and the magical glow dimmed, but it never went out.

During such an hour, when the off duty guards were in the barracks beginning to reverie, Viedyn took advantage of an empty training hall. As captain of the guard he was expected to be the best of them and he kept his skills honed accordingly. In the absence of a proper sparring partner at such an odd hour he put himself through a series of drills instead. He enjoyed the familiarity of the repetition and the weight of his sword and shield in hand. The air itself whined as his blade skillfully cut through it. He threw his power behind every practiced thrust and slash, relishing the way it made his muscles burn. The wicked black armor he wore moved fluently with his body, the metal plates sliding over one another smoothly while his long black velvet cloak whipped behind him.

The sound of footsteps that were not his own halted his sword mid air. He diverted the momentum into a flourish and brought the weapon to rest at his side, turning to see that two guards had entered the hall. His chest tightened when he realized they both wore the crimson cloak of the Matron's personal guard. Neither wore a red crested helmet or carried the large black spear they would've had if they were on duty, but that did little to ease his concern. He held no authority over them, they only answered to the Matron. They had their own training halls and barracks so there were few reasons for them to be in his, especially at that hour.

The shorter of the two guards was unfamiliar to him, but he instantly recognized the taller one as Savri. She was as powerful as she was cunning. Weeks prior, she’d ambushed him in a dark corridor, slamming his back into a wall with enough force to knock the breath out of him before he could even draw his sword. He'd been uncertain of her intentions until her lips graced the edge of his ear and she told him exactly what she wanted from him. Her words were only accentuated by the press of her hand against the armor between his legs, catching his breath in his throat. It had almost unraveled him.

Now, facing the prospect of dealing two armored Matron's guards, he wished it had.

Drow society placed heavy expectations on him, especially as a noble born male, to oblige such requests. But in a society which values power above all else, there was nothing more intimate or dangerous than relinquishing that power.

Savri's previous attempt to claim him ended with his sword against her throat and the point of her dagger nestled between his ribs just beneath the side buckle of his armor. Equally matched. They stood in the corridor, breathless, locked in a deadly embrace and traded barbs so closely that they could feel each other's breath with every word. If she'd closed the distance between them and sealed her lips against his, he would have surrendered. Instead, she vowed to take him and he'd smiled wickedly and invited her to try.

Power and pride bound them both.

Viedyn watched impassively as the unknown guard barred the door, making it clear that his invitation had been accepted. The two approached him side by side, each resting a hand upon the hilt of their sword. They had worn their hair up, Savri's in a neat braid and the other's in a low bun, which told him they anticipated a fight. Against two he would be at a severe disadvantage. The training hall was wide enough that they'd be able to maneuver around him easily. Even with his skills and training he wouldn't last long once they managed to flank him.

He rolled his shoulders beneath his armor as they approached and clicked his tongue condescendingly. “My disposition must really gall you if you're reducing yourself to relying on assistance to take me, Savri.”

A dark smile graced her sharp features. “On the contrary, Viedyn, I enjoy difficult males like you because it makes overpowering them more satisfying.”

“Enough that you're willing to share?” He teased.

“If it achieves my goal." Savri replied with a hint of annoyance seeping into her tone.

Viedyn inclined his head in a mockery of a bow. “I'm flattered you would make such a concession.”

“Then drop your weapon and surrender yourself, I would prefer to take you unscathed.”

“No.” He wasn't intrigued enough to obey. As the first son of his house and the Captain of the guard, his obedience wasn't given freely. He was, however, intrigued enough to stay even in the face of certain defeat.

“You're outmatched.”

“I am.” Viedyn admitted coolly, raising his shield and sliding his foot back into a ready position. “But I would be remiss if I deprived you of the challenge you enjoy.”

“Fine.”

Viedyn lunged before either of them drew, slamming his shield into Savri, sending her stumbling back and buying him a few precious seconds to focus on the guard she'd brought with her. She was shorter and slighter in build than him but she was still highly trained. He swung hard and she drew just in time to block his blade. Steel screeched against steel as he pressed the attack. He had her in an awkward position with her blade still angled downwards from the draw and her arms trembled beneath the effort to hold him off. Up close he was able to study her face, it was one he'd seen before but he had no name to match it. Her dark lips were drawn back in a fierce snarl which bared her teeth and her bright red eyes seethed. He couldn't tell if she wanted him, or if she simply wanted the satisfaction of laying him out. Given her position and his, both were strong possibilities.

Footsteps to his left drew his focus and he saw the attack in time to raise his shield. There was a satisfying clang of metal and he felt the power of the strike reverberate through his arm. In the same instant he hooked the other guard's ankle with his foot and yanked hard, sending her stumbling backwards, granting him the opportunity to throw his weight into shoving Savri back with his shield before she could strike again.

“I thought you wanted me unscathed, Savri.” Viedyn taunted as he took up a ready position once more. Raising his sword and shield defensively.

“I said I would prefer it.” She corrected him.

They closed in on him in unison, Savri aiming low while the other went high, playing to his disadvantage. Viedyn dropped to one knee, slamming the bottom of his tall kite shield into the ground as he did so, ducking easily beneath it to deprive Savri of a target while he raised his sword and caught the second attack on the downswing. He sprung to his feet and used the momentum to force them back once more. It wasn't something he would've tried on a battlefield. In the training hall it was just risky and unexpected enough to be advantageous once, he wouldn't get away with it a second time.

He could tell Savri was pulling her strikes to avoid maiming him. A deflection off the top of his shield which could've sliced his cheek open stopped short, and a brief opportunity to skewer his thigh went ignored. The other guard was far bolder and he had to watch himself more carefully when she went on the offensive.

Savri went low and he smirked even though he was forced to jump out of the way to avoid her. She was likely trying to bait him into taking his shield to the ground again. The second guard took advantage of his abrupt change in position and pressed another series of attacks. One sent his sword wide and he was forced to take another hit against his shield. When he dropped the shield to engage her third attack he realized he'd lost sight of Savri.

The sting of a sword nicking the back of his leg let him know exactly where she was, and that she wanted him to know where she was. Her subtle way of taunting him.

With renewed urgency he pressed his own attack against the second guard, driving her back with a powerful strike, buying himself precious time. He twisted and caught the glint of Savri's blade out of the corner of his eye. Out of instinct he raised his shield and the strike glanced off but he didn't have time to answer her with an attack of his own before he had to turn once more. They were wearing him down quickly and his muscles burned from the exertion.

The second guard was already charging when he turned and he ducked behind his shield just in time to catch her blade against the top of it. In desperation he threw his shield arm wide, forcing her blade to follow and slashed at the same time, sending her backpedaling. He started to turn and froze when he felt the cold kiss of a blade against his throat. His cold blue eyes instantly flicked to the wielder and Savri greeted him with a satisfied smile.

She had him.

He remained still, closing his eyes for one long steady breath. When he opened them again his right hand followed suit, allowing his sword to drop to the ground with a loud clatter, acknowledging his surrender.

“There, that wasn't so difficult.” Savri purred in a dark and condescending tone. The edge of her sword ghosted over his skin with careful precision, sending chills throughout his body as she lifted it to the underside of his chin and pressed upwards. With regal grace, he rose to his full height and lowered his shield to his side, never taking his eyes off her as he did so.

[britneyshakespeare]

Had the extremely upsetting experience of a mutual of like 6 years going off on me for occasionally making posts about supporting Harris because apparently that makes me a g n cide denier who refuses to learn and grow, with all of my views just being assumed not even from what I've told them I believe or what I've posted before, but just because I DON'T post particularly the kind of things they THINK I should be. When I pointed out how much they were just completely assuming about stuff I'd never talked to them about, I was told it doesn't matter what I do in real life or "care" about if I simply disagree with their conclusion and vote for her anyway. Like they were absolutely not sorry for the level of maliciousness they not just assumed of my character, but for some reason thought appropriate to bring directly to me before unfollowing me. No apology whatsoever for how discomforting or upsetting that might be and certainly no acknowledgment that I could disagree with them and still be a good person. I just got another even longer rant about how they fundamentally can't fuck with me because of this one thing, no matter WHAT else I do in my real life (which I pointed out that they do not know), and how I'm directly supporting fascism.

Like seriously what is it about Tumblr that makes people think they know someone based off of occasional posts? There were just such DEEP assumptions they were making of me and going off of very little or absolutely nothing. Around the time I first became mutuals with that person I used to express my personality and beliefs and talk about what was going on in my life a lot more openly, but I've significantly scaled back on doing that in many ways for many reasons. One of my major ones is privacy and the way I've had strangers outside my followers and following circles just find random things I say and dogpile me for it. I was fundamentally changed after some T Fs did that to me like 3 years ago. I also just didn't have many conversations w that person anymore (I message people in general on here like 10x less than I did circa 2018-2019, which I'm somewhat sorry about!). My point is to say I think this person felt comfortable assuming that they knew me, especially who I am in 2024 at the age of 25, much better than they actually did.

One of the specific things they accused me of was being afraid of learning and growing (because I don't perform social media activism on here like they think I should). Like AFRAID to take criticism. When again I've never received criticism from them or had to respond to any criticism on here before as pertaining to my views on... well, absolutely any of the issues they accused me of not caring about. They essentially treated it as if the only thing in the world I cared about was the US election and characterized me as the most out-of-touch liberal they could possibly imagine, because I'm not "pushing" Kamala Harris to be better (Oh?? Should I do that on here?? Does she read my blog??).

And most hypocritically what they said was that I only *sometimes* *vaguely* post pro-Harris things (I often post like 5 or fewer things in a day though?). But here's the kicker. "Because I know I'll get shit for it. And rightfully so."

Really????? Not a single person, anon or not, in my messages or in a tagged post or anything, has ever given me shit before for saying who I'm voting for. I'm actually NOT afraid of "getting shit" for that opinion, I just don't start fights with people who are anti-voting. And why should I??? I genuinely don't believe in trying to change the minds of strangers on the internet about that sort of thing. I'm just not confrontational about it; that is so not the same thing as being "afraid of getting shit." I'm not posting ENOUGH about my support for Harris, therefore I'm afraid. But therefore they can also make all these assumptions about me being their strawman for an ignorant Harris supporter.

I'm afraid of getting shit but I still post anyway? But if I weren't afraid of getting shit I'd be posting a lot more?? This is ALL based on their assumptions of what my blog *should* look like, based on what I really and truly believe. My level of posting every now and then is an accurate gauge of my feelings on complex, sensitive, global issues. Because I'm voting for the Democratic presidential candidate and I'm ok sharing pretty much just that little glimpse of myself.

I really don't think that person knows just how inappropriate and insulting that is to just say all of that to me. Like they really know what's going on in my head. Their first message began and ended with like "I'm sorry I love you I just can't take it anymore" but they clearly weren't sorry enough to try and be more respectful to me, and they didn't love me enough not to default to extremely ungenerous assumptions and attacking me based off of those instead of any actual words I've said that they take issue with.

Online radicalization is real and it's not necessarily bad because your political views can start to fall well out of the contemporary Overton window. The way you find it appropriate to treat people whose views, however common, seem to fundamentally misalign with yours... that does matter. You can't just assume the worst of everyone and then act on that in how you approach them as individuals. And then be shocked that you don't stay friends with them. You can't be confrontational with someone about an issue you've never had an honest conversation about, and then expect them to take your bad faith in them as reasonable well-meaning criticism.

I'm afraid of criticism??? I'm afraid of criticism. No I'm not. This person and I have never had an issue before where they criticized me and I got harshly defensive. It was ALL projection. The entire tone of their messages was as if all their anti-voting posts recently were somehow in communication with the occasional go-vote-for-Harris posts that I make. That's not a conversation. I don't post for your satisfaction. I don't post in "response" to my mutuals I disagree with. I just post what's on my mind, sometimes, about some things. I really again can't stress enough how baffled I am by this

[gemstarstarlight]

Everyone go check out the arcane tag the lesbians are losing it

[xxplastic-cubexx]

I am also the youngest but I am the favorite (as the one who has never gone to prison it’s not hard lmao) and I feel Pietro vibes hard but I think it’s more of “being a little fucking gremlin” that gives youngest vibes to me.

Also say the word and I’ll fight your brother for you. You’re awesome and deserve good things.

yk in retrospect any time ive hung out with people and ive been A Little Shit and i tell them im the youngest in my family they always say 'i can tell' so i think youre onto something

[cuteniarose]

The consequences of my poor financial decisions are here!!