#i was doing research for something else and stumbled across that and was like 'oh yeah'

[face-breaker]

me making settrigh more honey badger than wolverine + giving him an addiction to sugar & sweets + reading about how honey badgers actually do have a sweet tooth, hence their name

[dearlenore]

TE AMO MEANS I LOVE YOU. / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer doesn’t want you to feel homesick…

PAIRING: brazilian!reader x spencer reid / w/c: 1.3k / fluff

a/n: req so fire I don’t have anything to add😭 anon req here

You can barely feel your legs by the time you step through the front door. Everything aches—your back, your feet, your head. The combination of a long shift, missed meals, and a pounding homesickness you didn’t even realize had crept up on you leaves you disoriented and dazed. You drop your bag to the floor with a heavy thud and let your shoes fall off wherever they land.

“Spence?” you call out weakly, unsure if he’s even home.

No response.

Your heart dips. It’s silly—you’re not even mad. You just really wanted to collapse into his arms and let him talk about some obscure historical fact you won’t remember while you bury your face in the scent of his cardigan.

Dragging your feet forward, you turn toward the kitchen, hoping he might’ve left a note or something.

But what you see stops you cold.

It’s not just that Spencer is home—he’s in the living room, kneeling in front of the stereo, surrounded by what must be dozens of vinyl records and CDs. Some still in shrink wrap. Others open, their contents splayed out delicately on the rug, like he’s trying to solve a musical puzzle.

He doesn’t notice you at first. His long fingers are carefully placing one of the records into a sleeve. His lips move silently, probably reading the liner notes. You know that face—the one he makes when he’s concentrating too hard to hear anything around him.

You step closer, confused and stunned. “Spencer… what is all this?”

He finally looks up, startled, and then a wide, bashful smile spreads across his face. “You’re home early.”

You scoff, dropping your keys onto the counter and squinting at the organized chaos on the floor. “No, I’m actually late. I had to cover for Clara because her babysitter bailed. What is all this?”

Spencer stands slowly, brushing invisible lint from his pants. There’s a faint smudge of dust on his nose that makes him look boyish. “I was going to surprise you. I wasn’t finished yet.”

You blink. “With what? An entire music store?”

He chuckles and takes your hand, gently tugging you down to sit with him on the floor. “Do you remember a couple weeks ago, you said you missed home? That nothing here really sounded like Brazil?”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. It had been an offhand comment, murmured into his chest after a stressful day. You hadn’t even realized he’d taken it to heart.

“Well,” he says, excitement flickering behind his soft eyes, “I did some research. A lot, actually. I talked to a Brazilian record collector online, and I found a store that imports vintage and modern music. Some of it’s digital, but I thought it would be more special to have the real thing. Something you can hold and play and… feel.”

He gestures to the piles. “There’s MPB—Chico Buarque, Gal Costa, Caetano Veloso. Some Bossa Nova—João Gilberto, Elis Regina. A few funk carioca and samba records too. And—oh!—I found a Tropicália collection from the ’60s. It was hard to find, but the guy I talked to helped me out.”

You’re frozen, eyes moving from album cover to album cover, tears threatening to blur everything. He says each name so carefully, stumbling a little over the pronunciations but clearly trying.

“I thought maybe we could build a little library,” he continues, a bit shy now, like he’s not sure he’s done the right thing. “A musical version of home. For you.”

Your lip trembles.

“Oh no,” Spencer says, eyes going wide. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You launch yourself at him before he can say anything else, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you press your face into his shoulder.

He immediately holds you back, murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” even though you’re not crying from sadness.

“I’m not upset,” you whisper, voice thick. “I’m just… I’m so tired. And I missed you. And then I walk in and you’ve done this?”

He chuckles softly into your hair. “You sounded so sad that day. I didn’t know how to fix it. But I thought… maybe music would help.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

He blushes, his hands settling on your waist. “I wanted you to feel like you belonged. Even when you’re far away from where you came from.”

Your heart stutters.

You’ve always loved how brilliant Spencer is, how his mind never stops moving. But it’s this—his softness, his attentiveness, the way he listens—that makes you fall in love with him again and again.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His smile deepens. “I love you too.”

You glance at the records again, something bubbling up in your chest. “Did you really get funk carioca?”

He grins. “Yes, and I regret it already. Some of those lyrics…”

You burst out laughing. “It’s not all inappropriate, I swear.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because one of those songs taught me three Portuguese curse words I didn’t know before.”

You fall back against the couch, giggling uncontrollably. “Now you’re culturally enriched.”

“I’m something, that’s for sure.”

He stands and offers you a hand. “Come on. You haven’t even seen the best part.”

You let him pull you up, and he guides you to the little corner of the living room you’d both half-abandoned for months. It had been your reading nook at one point, but life got busy. The chair became a coat rack. The little table sat empty. But now, it’s glowing with soft light from a string of fairy lights. A portable record player sits on the table, already spinning a vinyl softly through the air.

The opening notes of “Águas de Março” float into the room—gentle, warm, familiar.

Your breath catches. “That’s… my dad used to play this when we were cleaning on Sundays.”

Spencer squeezes your hand. “I hoped it would feel like home.”

You sit down in the chair, letting the music wash over you, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, you relax.

Spencer kneels in front of you again, resting his arms on your knees. “Want to teach me the lyrics?”

You glance down at him, grinning. “You want to sing in Portuguese?”

“I want to impress your grandma next time we video call,” he admits sheepishly.

You laugh. “She already thinks you’re a genius.”

“I’d like her to also think I’m charming.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Okay. Repeat after me: ‘É pau, é pedra, é o fim do caminho…’”

He repeats it, tripping over the accent.

You giggle and gently correct him, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Better.”

“Again?”

“‘É um resto de toco, é um pouco sozinho…’”

He says it again, a little smoother this time.

You don’t even notice how much time passes. You teach him line by line, each repetition followed by laughter and a kiss, until your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Eventually, you end up sprawled together on the rug, your head on his chest, your hand resting over his heart. The music continues to spin, one record after another, creating a bubble of nostalgia and love and safety around you both.

Spencer’s fingers draw soft patterns on your arm. “Do you think it helps?” he murmurs. “The music?”

You nod against him. “It feels like I’m not so far away. Like my past and my present are holding hands.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Then it was worth every penny.”

“You’re too good to me.”

He hums. “I think you underestimate how much I love you.”

You smile, eyes fluttering shut.

No one had ever loved you quite like this before—with thoughtfulness, with quiet gestures, with an understanding that homesickness isn’t always loud or obvious, but it’s there. Like a shadow.

And somehow, Spencer had found the perfect way to bring the sun back.

Later that night, as you fall asleep to the soft hum of Caetano Veloso playing from your new collection, Spencer whispers, “I think I’ll start learning Portuguese.”

You’re half-asleep, but you hear him.

“Why?” you murmur, curling closer.

“So I can talk to you in your first language. The way you dream.”

And you think, just before sleep pulls you under:

This man is my home, too.

[aventurineswife]

Expanding on that Yog-sothoth ask:

Do you think Herta would abandon trying to get Nous to gaze at her again just to get the Creator to acknowledge her? Maybe she HAS glimpsed the Creator like Charles Randoph Carter glimpsed Yog-sothoth and is trying to reach that point once again?

I love the idea that while Sunday and Argenti are devout followers of the Creator, you might have Herta completely and utterly enthralled by them. That she has finally found something that can keep her entertained and captivated for eternity.

Do you think the others in the Genius Society would grow concerned for her? Like, maybe she for just a moment comprehended the Creators intentions and thoughts, and can no longer see anything the same (as is the way with madness).

And what if the Creator could potentially have Emanators *if* they manage to draw the Creators attention? Maybe Herta has become their very first Emanator in this AU?

And what about the Aeons themselves? What if they had a higher understanding of what exactly the Creator was, what the Creator was protecting the material world from?

I also just really like poking fun at Amphoreus with these kinds of things. Like yeah you have these sick ass Titans and a mysterious disaster creeping across the lands, that's pretty cool... let's introduce something far beyond your comprehension and let you stew in the fact your struggles are literally an ember compared to the catastrophes that have happened and are happening elsewhere in the universe xD

Oh, this is the kind of cosmic horror spiral I love to see.

Herta absolutely seems like the kind of person who would abandon Nous in an instant if she caught even the faintest glimpse of the Creator. Nous? Predictable. The Creator? Limitless, unknowable, all-encompassing. That’s an entirely different level of intrigue.

I love the idea that she’s had a fleeting moment of true understanding, a brush with something so vast and incomprehensible that it shattered her perception of reality. Maybe she glimpsed them in a dream, or maybe she pushed her research too far and stumbled upon something she shouldn’t have. And now? Nothing else matters. She’s spent eons bored with everything around her, but now she’s found something that truly, truly captivates her. She needs to reach that moment again, no matter what it takes.

Oh, the others in the Genius Society would definitely be worried. Herta’s always been detached, but this is something else. Maybe Screwllum, with all his calculations, realizes that her behavior is following patterns eerily similar to documented cases of those who have gazed into the abyss and lost themselves. Maybe Ruan Mei is concerned that her mind is unraveling in ways even she can’t predict. And then there’s Herta herself, completely unbothered, utterly enraptured—because in her eyes, she hasn’t lost anything. She’s gained something that no one else can comprehend.

Hell, what if even Nous is concerned? The Aeon of Erudition prides itself on knowledge, but even it must recognize that some things aren’t meant to be understood. If Nous itself refuses to acknowledge the Creator’s existence, yet Herta has seen them—what does that say about her?

The idea of the Creator having Emanators in this AU is so good. Unlike the Aeons, who choose and shape their Emanators, the Creator doesn’t actively grant anything. Their presence alone is enough to change those who become attuned to them. Maybe it’s not a conscious decision—perhaps Emanators arise naturally, by sheer virtue of comprehending even a fraction of the Creator’s thoughts.

If Herta is the first, it would be fascinating to explore what that means. Does she gain new abilities? Does she become something more? Maybe she starts speaking in ways that warp reality around her. Maybe her very existence starts bending the minds of those who interact with her. Maybe even she doesn’t fully understand what she’s becoming, but she’s embracing it because this is so much more interesting than anything else she’s ever done.

Oh, absolutely, the Aeons know something. Maybe that’s why they don’t interfere with the Creator. Maybe that’s why some of them are so obsessed with their own paths, because they understand that in the grand scheme of things, the Paths are the only thing keeping them from falling into total insignificance.

Maybe IX is the only one that truly understands the Creator’s nature, and that’s why it remains silent. Maybe Nanook has seen too much, and that’s why it seeks destruction—because it knows that, ultimately, the universe is just entropy waiting to be acknowledged. Maybe the reason Nous won’t look at Herta isn’t disinterest, but fear—fear that she has gone beyond Erudition into something it cannot comprehend.

Amphoreus, thinking it’s the center of its own cosmic drama, only to be faced with the sheer scope of the universe and realizing it’s just another minor tragedy in a sea of countless others?? That’s hilarious and tragic at the same time.

Imagine their reaction when the Trailblazer or Dan Heng just casually drops, "Oh yeah, there are things way worse than your Titans. Your world isn’t even close to the worst the universe has seen."

And the Heirs? Losing their minds trying to rationalize this, trying to cope with the knowledge that all their struggles are a footnote at best. That even the greatest calamity they’ve ever faced is just one of an infinite number of stories unfolding at this very moment.

This AU has insane potential. Horror, existential dread, philosophical debates, and just the right amount of humor at the sheer absurdity of it all.

[bippityboppity69]

Phraesto- Courtship

(I'm back and with another Phraesto smut! The grip this man has on my brain... anyway shoutout to @httpsbearily because their Phraesto oneshot about scorpions made me research scorpions and their courtship, which includes dancing, holding claws, and the males stinging the females. Very interesting.)

Something strange was in the air.

Merlin let out a breath as they wiped their brow. Fanning themselves from this oppressive heat. Ever since they had stepped into the Dusk Lord’s tomb, they had felt strange. An odd scent lay in the air, musky, strong, it made their head spin yet it was not unpleasant.

Yet, it did lead to them falling down a hole. One that sent them plummeting all the way down to the bottom of the tomb. Now surrounded by sand and buried treasures, that strange scent seemed stronger here.

“Oh, what’s this?”

Whipping around toward the voice, yet nothing was there. What? They could have sworn they heard a man’s voice. A deep throaty chuckle echoed around them. Merlin took a deep breath, attempting to calm themselves down. Strange. The scent was before was back and stronger.

“A little mouse has fallen into my nest.” Red smoke swirled around their legs, an odd sound following. As if something chitinous rushed over stone. “Whatever shall I do?”

They needed to get out of here. Away from the red smoke, from the strange scent that took their senses from them. Taking a step back, hitting a solid wall. Freezing as something wrapped around their waist and squeezed. A large hand grabbed their chin before jerking their head up.

Above them was a tall man, one with dark grey skin and hair as red as blood. Broad shouldered and muscular, eyes like rubies burned into their own. Two long scorpion tails swaying back and forth behind him. Merlin now realizing the third was wrapped around them.

“You are not a normal mortal.” Hypogean. He was a Hypogean. “Ah~ Magister Merlin, what an honor to meet you.”

The tail around their waist released, the Hypogean circling them. Tails swaying in the air, a name popped into the Magister’s mind. Phraesto.

“How about a deal Magister? I will let you go and even guide you out.” Wait, what? “All I require is a dance~”

A dance? He didn’t want their magic or anything else, just a dance? That seemed…too good to be true. However, they were also stuck in this tomb and had no idea how to get back to the others. In short, they were stuck.

“…Alright, just one dance.”

Merlin took his hand, hot against their own. A pleased hum leaving Phraesto as he pulled them closer. Interlocking their fingers together as his other hand went to their waist. Guiding them into a slow dance, much like a waltz.

This…was quite pleasant.

Merlin placed their other hand on his shoulder. An act that seemed to satisfy Phraesto as he smiled at them. Easily following this odd dance, allowing the Hypogean to lead. It was easy to fall into the rhythm, almost hypnotizing in fact.

The three scorpion tails hovered behind them. The middle one pressing the stinger into their back. Wincing as a sharp pain hit their back. Merlin gasped as heat flooded their body. Stumbling against Phraesto, who merely hummed, still leading their dance. Seeming to pay no mind to the Magister’s stumbling steps.

“You know, I always fulfill the desires of others.”

The heat was now mixed with arousal, face flushing and pupils dilating.

“Yet, my own, are so rarely fulfilled.”

Shaking their head to clear the fog, trying to pull their hand away. Another sharp sting at their back. More heat, more arousal. The grip on their hand got tighter as Phraesto grabbed their chin. Pulling them into a kiss, electricity shooting through their body, a moan slipping out.

“But tonight, I will fulfill my desires~”

Being pushed against the ground, Phraesto above them. Panting as hands undid their robes, pushing the fabric away. Fingers trailing down their body, each touch making them jolt. Across their chest, down their stomach, pushing their underwear down their thighs. Even that motion making a moan slip out.

Red eyes entered their vision, Merlin surrendering to his kiss. Back arching as fingers brushed against them, eyes half closing as they pressed inside. Squirming against the touch, two scorpion tails wrapped around them, holding them in place.

“So I thank you Merlin.” The third tail pressed against their back as Phraesto grabbed their hands. “For fulfilling my desires.”

A loud cry filled the air as the third tail stung them, just as Phraesto sank inside them. Gasping at the large cock that filled them, sweet pleasure filled their body. The sensation overtaking everything, crying out as hips rolled against theirs.

Thrusting inside, hands caressing their body. A never-ending wave of pleasure and bliss. Merlin trembling against him, pawing at his chest. Lips moving but no sound emerging.

“Mhm~ Enjoy yourself my mate. I’ve ensured we will not be disturbed.”

[sp00kygoddessxx]

🔥Yearning🔥

Dean Winchester X Reader Word Count: 669

The bunker was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of machinery and the distant rustle of papers. You sat at the table, engrossed in research, your brow furrowed in concentration as you pored over ancient texts and lore.

Dean Winchester leaned against the doorframe, watching you with a mixture of admiration and longing. His eyes traced the curve of your silhouette, lingering on the gentle slope of your shoulder and the way your hair fell in soft waves around your face.

"Hey, Y/N," he called out, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

You looked up from your research, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Hey, Dean. What's up?"

Dean sauntered into the room, his movements fluid and confident. He leaned against the table, his gaze locking with yours. "I was thinking... maybe we could take a break from all this research. Have a little alone time, just you and me."

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the suggestion. "Alone time? Dean, we're in the middle of a case. We can't just drop everything."

Dean's expression faltered, a hint of disappointment flickering in his eyes. "I know, I know. It's just... I miss you, Y/N. We've been so caught up in hunting lately, I feel like we never get a chance to just... be, you know."

You softened at the sincerity in his voice, realizing just how much he needed this moment of connection. Setting aside your research, you reached out and took his hand in yours.

"I'm sorry, Dean." you said softly.

Dean's expression brightened, and he squeezed your hand affectionately. "It's okay, Y/N. I get it. We've got work to do."

But you could see the disappointment lingering in his eyes, a shadow of longing that tugged at your heartstrings. You couldn't bear to see him like this, yearning for something that seemed just out of reach.

An idea sparked in your mind, a sudden realization of what Dean truly wanted. With a mischievous glint in your eye, you rose from your seat and took a step closer to him.

"Actually, Dean, I think I might need a break from all this research too," you said, your voice low and sultry.

Dean's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his gaze locking with yours. "Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?"

You closed the distance between you, standing so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Well, how about we take that alone time you were talking about? I think I could use a little... distraction."

A slow grin spread across Dean's lips, his eyes darkening with desire. "I like the sound of that, sweetheart."

With a swift movement, Dean swept you into his arms, his lips crashing down on yours in a fierce, passionate kiss. The world melted away as you lost yourself in the heat of the moment, the taste of him intoxicating and addictive.

As the kiss deepened, the hunger between you ignited, a primal need that burned with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. Dean's hands roamed over your body, his touch igniting a fire within you that threatened to consume you both.

With a sense of urgency, you stumbled backward, your lips still locked in a desperate embrace. Dean pressed you against the nearest wall, his body flush against yours as he devoured you with an insatiable hunger.

Every touch, every kiss sent sparks flying between you, a symphony of desire that crescendoed in a dizzying whirlwind of passion. In that moment, there was nothing else in the world but the two of you, lost in a haze of pleasure and longing.

When you finally came up for air, panting and flushed with desire, Dean's eyes met yours, a fierce intensity burning in their depths. "God, I've missed this, Y/N," he murmured, his voice husky with need.

You smiled, a rush of warmth flooding your chest. "Me too. Now fuck me winchester."

[fullofgutsndopamine]

What’re You After (Some Kind Of Disaster)

or: you and hasan are rivals for trivia night. Until one day, you come up with a plan.

tw/cursing, drinking

one of four miniseries

more hasan here

Thursday’s became your favorite day, easily.

cheap beer at your local pub, walking distance, and a chance to nerd out with your fellow classmates over a basket of too greasy fries.

everything would be perfect.

if it wasn’t for the other team.

the other team is everything you hate.

to begin with, when it’s a subject one of them know, they all have an elaborate hand shake they do, some kind of loud cheer and high fives passed around the table, clapping each other on the shoulders-

and they always looked over at your table, smaller, but crowded, elbow to elbow with your friends, poured over the piece of paper with the questions on them-

they were polar opposites, acted like this was some kind of event they stumbled into, by accident and oops became the top team.

they were cocky, and your team was determined to knock them down a few pegs.

You come in early to steal their table.

it’s petty, at the very least, but part of a strategy you and your best friend Sarah, spent the week planning. Anything to throw them off their game, to confuse them.

you walk in straighter than usual, shoulders squared, ready to proudly take the table in the corner, right by the trivia hosts stand-

and the son of the bitch is already there.

you can’t remember his name. you try to not remember your enemies name, but if you thought really hard about it, you could swear it was something with a ‘H’. Henry, maybe? No, that’s not right. it was a name you hadn’t heard before-

you get into the threshold of the door and his eyes meet yours with a smirk, sets his pen down and takes his glasses off, eyes narrow as he picks up his drink and takes a sip.

bastard.

you duck your head and walk to the normal table, about to text Sarah to abort the plan, when you slide into the seat, ready for it to be over-

“were you trying to take our table?”

you jump when you hear his voice, fumble with your phone, don’t want him to get the satisfaction of seeing your face red-

“Why would we want your stupid fuckin’ table?” you call back, not looking at him as you open a text to Sarah: “it’s not the table that’s making you win.”

he laughs, appears at your table, “That’s right. it’s skill.”

“skill is putting it generously. cheating, is the running theory-“

“You all think we’re smart enough to cheat? flattered, truly. This seat taken?” he asks, pulling out the wooden stool but not sitting.

“is-is this your fucked up way to try and psych the opposing team out?” a smirk falls on your lips and you hope it covers for the red on your face, “are you all threatened by us?”

you try to ignore the hurt evident on his face.

“Oh, just like trying to steal our table, yeah?” he pushes the stool in. “Good luck tonight, you all will need it.”

and he stalks back to his table.

okay, so you sort of feel like a dick, yes.

he seems the most reserved out of the table, like he accidentally stumbled into this group of people. sure, he shares the high fives and whatnot, but when they huddle together, the rare times they do, he always seems on the border, on the outside looking in.

you turn in your seat, ready to offer the seat up again but his glasses are back on the crook of his nose and he’s poured over a book-

luckily, the rest of your team meets up before the guilt can really eat at you, something for later tonight, when your seconds from sleep, to keep you up, is when you’ll remember this-

Annie slides in across from you.

“So,” she begins talking right away, picking up your glass of water and drinking immediately without asking. Annie talks a million miles an hour, loudly, and everyone else is simply along for the ride, “I did some research on pen names, but like, fuck, what an absolute rabbit hole that was. Did you order food yet?”

she continues talking, mostly about ordering food for the table, and your half listening as his table fills in behind you. (Was it an H on second thought? is it? wade?)

“those bastards are going down.” is the first thing Sarah says when she comes in, her book back is overflowing as usual, and she has three different pens and two pencils in the bin of her hair- “i brought my lucky charm.”

Annie groans comically, “Sarah, they already don’t take us seriously. they’re going to take us less seriously if you take your stupid fucking glass elephant out-“

“hey!” Sarah narrows her eyes, “we don’t talk bad about him. no disrespect. Here, now he’s pointing at you. Look of shame. take that in, babe.” as she turns it towards her.

“this is why they don’t take us seriously,” you groan, rubbing your forehead, “Henry or wade or whatever the fuck- saw me try and steal their table.”

“Henry?” Sarah says at the exact time as Annie says: “William?” with disgust.

their heads whip around to the other table, catch him looking at you and they duck further in their seats before turning to you: “His name is Hasan-“

“are you fraternizing with the enemy, you son of a bitch?” Annie says immediately, and her voice is loud enough you throw a used napkin at her in hopes it doesn’t draw more attention to her.

“i’m not fraternizing with anyone. keep your voice down, jesus christ.” you groan, “he just saw i tried to take the table and talked to me, briefly.”

“Spill.” Sarah says immediately, “Did he say anything that we could use against him? Did he admit to cheating?”

“The complete opposite,” you sigh, tearing at your napkin, feeling like a dick again. “He asked to sit down and i all but shooed him away. He looked like a beaten dog.”

Annie and Sarah look at each other from the corner of their eyes, a shared look with a smirk.

“what?” you groan, “i hate that look. what?”

annie and sarah both lean in at the same time, almost hitting heads with you, “listen. we have an idea, okay-“

Sarah interrupts, “and listen to the whole thing before you shoot it down.”

“Ask him out.”

You snort. it’s loud, and ugly, and if your mother was here, she’d grip her necklace and glare at you about how ladies act in public-

“Yeah!” Annie says, “Listen. Okay. you ask him out. distract the other team so he’s so lovesick or busy or whatever that he misses or the team falls apart.”

you shake your head, “y’all are out of your god damn minds-“

“Hasan!” Annie breaks from the huddle, waves him over, “cmere.”

“Annie, no. you son of a bitch-“

Hasan was drawing in his notebook, wasn’t paying much attention to his small group, narrows his eyes, but obeys, stalks over.

“If you all want a truce, i already tried to make one with this one here earlier,” he teases, jams his thumb at you. “and the answer was a loud no.”

“That’s only cause they wanted to ask you out for a drink after,” annie takes the lead, “to celebrate”

“celebrate?” Hasan smirks.

“either way it goes, a drink on us.” Annie insists.

his eyes narrow, not sold yet.

“How about this, if you win, you two get a drink together. our treat. if we win, we’ll leave you and your team alone.”

he snorts, “didn’t you win a certificate last week for longest running streak of not winning?”

“dick.” you say gently under your breath, but he doesn’t hear it.

he shakes his head, “yknow what? deal. I could always use a drink.”

and he sticks his hand in the middle of the table, annie going for the shake but he ignores it, shakes it off, ducks his head so he’s looking at you: “it’s a deal, yeah? c’mon.”

you hesitate long enough for annie and sarah to both kick your shins under the table and you sit up a little straighter, swallow all the pride you have: “it’s a deal.” as you tighten your hand around his.

he doesn’t see the smirks and shared glances the three of you share.

[ruru195]

The super fan of felixs sneaking their way into felixs excavation team pretending to be one of the new rotating members when the questers dont join sneaking photos and trying to get close on the excuse of wanting to learn from the best and just making things uncomfortable but felix being the nice fella he is holds his tongue with the thought their new to this team their just excited

For the Record

The sun beat down on the canyon floor, casting long golden shadows across the dig site. The air buzzed with heat and excitement—after all, Felix’s newest excavation had already uncovered several promising relics that hinted at a lost ceremonial chamber buried deeper beneath the sandstone.

The rotating excavation team had arrived the day before, a mix of fresh graduate students and junior researchers selected to work alongside Felix for the season. As always, he greeted them warmly, shaking every hand with his signature polite smile, never quite losing the glint of wonder in his hazel eyes.

And then there was… them.

The newest addition to the team stood out immediately. Not because of their clothes—though the camera always slung around their neck was a bit much—but because of the way they looked at Felix. Like he was both a celebrity and a holy relic.

“I’ve studied all your books,” they’d gushed barely twenty minutes into orientation. “All of them. Especially your work on the Ilden Mirror and the sun crypts. You’re basically my hero!”

Felix had smiled politely, trying to deflect the attention. “That’s kind of you to say. But we’re all here to learn and work together, yes?”

Still, over the next few days, things only grew… weirder.

Wherever Felix went, the super fan wasn’t far behind. They asked questions, not just about the excavation, but about Felix’s personal life. Where do you stay between digs? What’s your morning routine? Do you write in your field journal every night? What kind of tea do you drink?

Felix, trying to maintain a gentle tone, would always redirect. “Let’s keep the focus on the site, alright?”

They nodded. Then took more photos. Of him.

Sometimes when Felix turned, he’d catch their phone angled just a bit too long in his direction. They were never overt, never disruptive enough to accuse of anything concrete… just lingering. Too eager. Too starry-eyed.

He tried to excuse it: They’re new. They’re just excited. Maybe they’re awkward around someone they admire. Felix had been there once too, so he offered grace. That was his way.

But when he came back to his tent one night and found the flap unzipped and his mug—a simple, worn cup Oswald had given him years ago—missing from his table, he paused.

“Did anyone move my—?” he began the next morning.

The fan appeared at his side almost instantly. “Oh! I found your cup outside, I thought maybe it blew away? I washed it for you.” They handed it over with a smile that was far too self-satisfied for something so trivial.

Felix took it, jaw tight. “...Thank you.”

By the end of the week, even the rest of the team noticed.

“Are they always this… intense?” one whispered. “They tried to ‘accidentally’ brush Felix’s hand four times during lunch.”

When the fan started posting photos to a private account—#FelixFever—and one of the interns stumbled across it, Felix finally sighed.

He’d tried to be patient. Understanding. Kind.

But now he had a team feeling uncomfortable, a project at risk of being overshadowed by the behavior of one person, and a very persistent admirer who’d clearly crossed the boundary between academic respect and personal obsession.

That evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the cliffs in amber and coral, Felix calmly approached them.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he began gently. “But this is a professional site. I’m here to work, and so is everyone else. I need you to respect the boundaries that come with that.”

The fan’s smile faltered. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“I’m not angry,” Felix added. “But this can’t continue. If it does, I’ll have to ask the faculty coordinator to remove you from the rotation.”

The next day, they were gone.

And when Oswald called that evening—worried after Felix hadn’t replied to a message—Felix finally let out a breath and muttered, “I swear, next time they rotate a new batch in, I’m installing background checks.”

Oswald snorted. “Told ya. You’re too handsome and too polite for your own good.”

“…You think I’m handsome?” Felix teased, eyes crinkling.

“Shut up and come home soon. Your fan club’s driving me jealous.”

They both laughed.

And the next day, the dig site returned to its usual rhythm: ancient stories waiting to be uncovered, and Felix—quiet, kind, brilliant—back at the center where he belonged.

[tenderlywicked]

I got so impatient that I started filling my own prompt. Wild Blue Yonder AU: the Doctor and the Master get stuck with the Not-Things :)

It’s not like the Master has something against eldritch beings per se. Arms that are too long or a dropping jaw—it’s not as disturbing for him as it clearly is for the Doctor. He’s been an eldritch horror himself, not just once, so he can sympathize. Moreover, appreciate the ability to adapt and survive at any cost. It’s a matter for envy rather than scorn or dread. He’s not even that shocked to see his own face on someone else: after all, there had been six billions of him once.

But it’s plain ridiculous that one of these not-things is able to imitate his speech patterns almost perfectly, and yet gets it wrong how many hearts and knees he has. It’s a sign of hackwork, and he despises that. On the other hand, in the current circumstances such incompetence is in his favor. It means the creatures aren’t unbeatable, they tend to miss the most obvious things.

He’d be more content and optimistic about it, though, if the Doctor hadn’t been clumsy enough to get separated from him, ending up on some other level of technical corridors. It’s nothing but irritating because without the Doctor there’s no way out: the TARDIS will come back for him. He isn’t to blame for the spaceship’s baffling reconfigurations of course, but still, he should have been more careful.

To the Doctor’s credit, he’s now probably rushing about, trying to find his missing companion, despite the row they’d had before the TARDIS had run off on them both. (The Master is still of opinion that this time the Doctor’s indignation had been apropos of nothing. Yes, he’d summoned the Toymaker into the universe, so what? He’d played his final game and won, he’s alive thanks to that, and the blasted universe is fine too, more or less, despite a few tiny time paradoxes all of this had caused. Should he have just died from a stab in the back instead? No, thank you very much.) Anyway, no matter their disagreements, the Doctor will be looking for him, desperately, the Master is sure of that. Instead of doing the same, he unhurriedly goes searching for something else.

They’d discovered the bridge and the control rooms, but surely, there must be living quarters somewhere on the spaceship. It’s not as big as the Mondasian one, so it doesn’t take the Master much time to locate them, along with what he’d been hoping to find—another set of surveillance equipment. He turns it on, and there it is, the second dot on the screen, the Doctor still braving the labyrinthine corridors on his own.

The Master fumbles with settings and finally finds the right camera in the hall the Doctor is about to pass…right in time to see him stumble across the false Master. And is it really that surprising what happens next? There’s no sound, but the Doctor’s face is quite expressive—it’s easy to see when wariness turns into wavering. Then, sequentially, come incredulity, hurt…and hope?

“Oh for fuck’s sake, still falling for sweet talk,” the Master mutters aloud as the Doctor takes a timorous step towards not-him, only for what he must expect to be a reunion hug to turn into a chokehold.

The creatures won’t kill him, they know he might regenerate, the Master tells himself, switching between the cameras as he follows the Doctor being dragged back to the bridge. They are more likely to keep him for further research.

What had his doppelgänger told the Doctor to earn his trust so quickly? Theta, I missed you so much? The Master tries to persuade himself it’s just curiosity, but also, deep inside, he knows there’s a bitter feeling too, akin to jealously: he never seems to say the right words that would convert the Doctor to his side so easily. One of his silly regenerations had wanted to stand with the Doctor, but would the Doctor ever stand with him?

Maybe he’s not entirely fair, maybe that’s just his old resentment speaking. In his place, the Doctor would undoubtedly rush to rescue at once. In his own place, the Master chooses to see what happens next. He just has to find out how to turn on the sound.

That's the first part, more horrors are to come ;)

[galaxiasgreen]

📚🐦‍🔥Stay With Me

Slow burn Garreth x F!Reader romcom-mystery [T-Rated, 8.3k words]

"Now, I need you to ruffle yourself up a bit. Make yourself look dishevelled." He starts doing that to himself, raking his hand through his hair, unbuttoning his shirt collar, bunching up his cloak. You copy him, unsure, and when you're done, he thumps the door. Hard. "What? Garreth—" He lifts his hands. "May I?" "May you what?" "Touch you?"

During the next tutoring session, you admit you have no friends, so Garreth's determined to be your first.

It doesn't go quite to plan.

[PREV][read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

2: A Near-Death Experience

The tutoring sessions continue.

On Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings, Garreth says goodbye to his friends, mentally rehearsing excuses for not doing your assigned homework, and makes his way to the agreed meeting spot. You both decide to change it frequently – sometimes in the library, sometimes in unused classrooms, and once or twice in the Great Hall, after dinner is served and the house tables are cleared of crumbs and spillages. And although he peddles his whoopsies, I missed a few questions by accident, you see through the lies and scold him for laziness anyway.

It becomes... somewhat of a strange routine, and even stranger, he accustoms to it quite naturally. His friends get used to hearing your name – Prim – mentioned in daily updates. One time you actually come up to him outside the required hours, before he sits for lunch at the Gryffindor table with Leander, Natsai and Cressida. You stall awkwardly for a moment, unwilling to interrupt his conversation.

"'Afternoon, Prim," he pipes when he sees you – then notices your closed expression. "What's the matter?"

"I'm sorry, I— have to reschedule tonight's session."

"Oh." To be honest, he's not that disappointed, but it does make him sad to see you clearly put out. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Just some family issues, is all. I have to sort it this evening. Would you be willing to meet tomorrow instead?"

Though curious, he decides not to pry.

"Or, and here's a crazy thought... we cancel it."

"Not a chance."

"Tomorrow it is. Good luck with your family things."

"Work on your transfiguration spells in the meantime."

You go then, back to the Ravenclaw table, and Garreth takes his seat. He notices then that Leander, Natty and Cress are staring at him. Grinning.

"What?"

"That's your study buddy?" Leander wiggles his brows. "She's cute."

"She sets me homework."

"... All right, less cute."

Natty elbows him. "Don't be mean."

"I may not be into swots, but if Garreth really gets off to the sadistic torture of history essays, fair play to him."

"Eat an entire Dugbog, Prewett."

"Having said that," Cress cuts across the boys, expectantly steepling her fingers, "we would like detailed descriptions of your alone time together. You know, for research purposes."

When they all await his answer, actually serious, Garreth scoffs. "You lot are mental. I make a new friend and you instantly think something else is going on?"

"Yeah," says Cress, "because you're you."

"Don't know what you mean."

"When you fancied Nerida Roberts," says Leander, "you just happened to stumble upon her at the boat house. Every day. That wasn't a coincidence, was it?"

"That was a long time ago!"

"It was literally last year."

"You're one to talk, Mr Fancy Every Girl Who Looks at Me Twice," Garreth remarks. "Prim and I, we're just studying."

"Oh, that what people call snogging nowadays?"

Leander narrowly dodges the bread roll. Garreth doesn't keep entertaining their silly notions – his friends have a penchant of taking the mickey out of everything. They don't really believe anything untoward happens in your tutor sessions...

But now that it's out there, he's surprised to find his best friend is kind of... right. You are cute. You have a pleasant face – if it weren't scowling all the time he might even look at you long enough to find you attractive. When the conversation moves on, he takes a discreet peak of you at the Ravenclaw table, nursing your food, textbook open, not saying a word to anyone else. What family issues do you have? What's so pressing that it's forced you to put aside your upcoming O.W.L.s?

At the next tutoring session, he dares to ask.

"Sort your family things out, then?"

Your shoulders rise – again, an easy sign that he shouldn't have asked. Yet this time you reply.

"Yes, I did. Thank you."

"Was it bad?"

"Did you finish the homework I set you?"

The dismissal is obvious, but he lets it slide.

By October, you've warmed to him a little. He notices, in the way you don't scold him for being late, in the way your notes are less neat, in the way your tone relaxes as you instruct him on his pitiful wand technique. Most importantly you're less focused on only doing revision, letting other topics of conversation slip through the cracks. It culminates in a session on a Friday evening, when night has fallen and the library is quiet as most – okay, all – students have left their workloads behind for the weekend.

"I... have a question for you."

He's scribbling some key points for his Divination essay. "No, I can't remember where the witch trials took place. Salami, Mass-Murder-something, or whatever."

"No, that— that's not what I was going to ask." A beat. "And it's Salem, Massachusetts."

"That's what I said. What was your question?"

You hesitate long enough for him to look up from the parchment.

"What... actually happened last year? You know, down in the caverns below Hogwarts? With the goblin rebellion?"

He preens a little. "Ah." Finally, a chink in your armour. Finally you've asked the question most normal people asked the day after it happened. He sets his quill down. "That's a long, exhaustive story, not one for the weak-minded. You sure you can handle it?"

You give him the look.

He winks. "Just checking. It all begins with my friend, Missy – new student, started here last year. Remember her at the Sorting Ceremony? Came late, much taller than the first years, went to Slytherin?"

You nod. "I thought it was unusual to see someone start in fifth year."

"It was. Then it turned out she was spending the whole year with Professor Fig trying to stop the goblins mounting an attack on the school. No idea how she got involved, but it was a right muddle. Last year was just..." He blows a raspberry. "I had another good friend in Slytherin too. Sebastian Sallow."

Recognition flashes in you. "Wasn't he expelled?"

"Yeah. For murder. Also cursed my friend Gibby." Still, Sebastian showed nothing but remorse at his trial, and Garreth doesn't have the heart to think any worse of his friend. For a Slytherin he was great company, but Azkaban won't be treating him well; it deflates him a little. "Anyway, he showed up to fight against Ranrok with Missy and me and my friends. We were all determined to help her. Missy's the sort to want to do everything herself, but you know me. I can convince a Hippogriff it's a Horklump."

You crack a smile at that. He feels gratification. A real smile!

"Ranrok and his goblins were there, going on about taking over wizardkind, blah blah blah, and we banded together to defeat them. With the professors' help, of course." He's sworn to omit another truth, that Missy absorbed some sort of primordial magic into her body. That she's basically Bombarda in human form. "Ranrok was defeated, Gibby woke from her curse, and Hogwarts and the wizarding world was saved. You're welcome."

"That's astonishing," you mumble. "And you did that all with your... friends?"

"Of course. I mean, I wouldn't say I was friends with all of them before. Imelda would've happily fed me in pieces to a Flobberworm, for example. Now she would probably feel guilty enough to sacrifice me to something a little grander. A Grindylow, maybe. And I thought Ominis was an uptight arse, but actually he's not as intimidating as he pretends. I've been getting to know him a little better this term." He grins. "Once you have a near-death experience with someone, you're kind of obligated to be friends with them for life."

You tilt your head, taking this in.

"And you?" he asks. "I guess you were hiding out in the Ravenclaw common room when it all went down?"

"No. I was in the library."

"What? Why?" You make a face. Obviously, Garreth. "Studying, right, right, but didn't you... you know, think maybe this was the end of life as we know it, and decide you didn't want to spend it with a nose in a book?"

"I mean... what else was I supposed to do?"

"Er, accept your terrible fate and brave death with your friends?"

Your lips form a thin line then. Your expression sours.

"I— I don't have any friends."

He laughs, because the statement is so absurd it's unbelievable, but when you flush, he cuts himself short.

"That's— that's just nonsense! How can you not have friends?"

"I just— don't."

"As in, you had friends but then you had an epic fight and no longer speak to them? Or... or you never had any to begin with?"

Your silence speaks volumes, and it stuns him. Five years you've been here, and not made a single friend.

"What about the other fifth-year Ravenclaws?"

"They're all friends with each other. Not me."

"And the girls in your dorm?"

"We're polite."

But not close.

It really hits him then. His aunt hasn't just assigned you through an alignment of the stars, because you happen to need help with every subject he's good at, and he happens to need help with every subject you're good at. She's also bound you together because you are lonely. Because, despite everything, Garreth is good with people, and you're... not.

The machinations of his clever Aunt Matilda. Oh, how sly.

But all right. Maybe this was more than a lucky coincidence. Maybe this was his aunt's scheme all along. But he can gain something from this, too: fulfilment from your enforced time together. If he can bring you out of your shell, help you engage with your life here, not just the books, then you will be better for it, and he will feel accomplished.

And less of a failure.

"Well, I can be your first friend then," he says. "That is, if you want."

Surprise colours your cheeks, and your eyes dart back and forth across him, searching for the lie, the trick.

"Why?"

"Because it's sad, that's why," he says earnestly. "Everyone should have at least one friend. You should really find someone in your year, but you know. I'm pretty great too."

"I— I guess, but..."

"But what?"

"I mean," you sound flustered, "I don't really know how to have friends."

Merlin's beard, this is not the conversation he thought he'd be having today. Or ever. "It's easy. You spend time together. You laugh and empathise with each other's anecdotes. You tell one another that Garreth Weasley is a delightful young man— that was a joke," he tacks on at your deadpan expression. "You just... you know, enjoy each other's company. Just like – prepare to be shocked – we're doing right now."

Your brow furrows. "You're not doing this because you want to, though. You're doing it because you have to."

He leans back then, contemplative, because it's true. At least, it was. Now, though he finds the studying part extraordinarily dull, he rather likes coming to meet you. You're stern and aloof, but in a fun way. He can prod you and find a sense of gratification when you bite back.

"Maybe at the start, but actually, you're all right, Prim."

"I still hate that nickname."

He laughs. "Good. There, that's something friends do too. Give each other terrible nicknames."

"Then what should I call you?"

"Handsome, obviously."

You roll your eyes. Another emotion. He swells with pride.

Your next session, which you decide should take place in the Transfiguration classroom itself – with his aunt's permission, of course – is two days later, after a particularly gruelling Herbology class (Arthur Plummly almost lost his hand and six-and-a-half toes). Still, he looks forward to seeing you again, and you work on his terrible attempts to change a pawn piece to a queen as you chat.

"What do you like to do in your spare time?" When you look at him, confused, he notes airily, "Friends have common ground. You know, like sharing hobbies?"

You shift and place your wand down. "Okay, well... I like to bake."

"To bake, huh? That's a very Muggle activity."

You shrug. "My mother is a Muggle, so that makes sense."

"You're a Muggle-born?"

"No. My father is a Squib."

"Oh?" That's an interesting combination. "That must've been a surprise for him."

"It was," you say fondly. "I suppose he thought he was going to have an ordinary family when he and my mother— when they moved here from Asia." You seem stiff suddenly. "Then I came along. We lived in— a regular Muggle neighbourhood. I wasn't aware of my father's heritage and neither was my mother, so she wasn't best thrilled when I got my letter, though it did bring her comfort to know the truth behind the many times I accidentally set fire to her washing line."

"We've all set fire to a washing line once or twice in our lives," he muses. "Is she superstitious?"

"Very. It's different in Asia."

He waits for you to elaborate, but you don't.

"Well," he says, going back to the original topic, "baking's great fun. I don't do it much at home, but my sister Clara's a fiend for it. Loves stuffing herself with cakes. Surprised you like it, to be honest. Bit ironic for someone bad at Potions."

"If I get the wrong measurement of flour," you say haughtily, "the bread isn't going to explode in my face."

"Fair point, but they're both about the coming together of ingredients to make a homogenous whole. If you approached Potions like that, you'd do much better at it, you know."

Your bottom lip juts. "I still prefer writing essays to blowing up cauldrons."

"That will change once I'm through with you."

"Doubt it."

He snorts, but fine. Rome wasn't built in a day, as the phrase goes, and this Rome might take an eternity to build.

But he's not one to give up.

"We'll see about that. And you'll have to bake me something soon. Not to brag, but I'm an excellent judge of a good cake."

"... You just want free food, don't you?"

"Obviously."

He walks you back to the Ravenclaw common room the next session – by total accident, mind, because he's chatting so enthusiastically about some potion ideas and you obviously don't have the heart to stop him.

"You brought Mr Weasley, I see," the eagle knocker sniffs once you reach the door. For a voice so musical it can sound so bloody smarmy. "Back from another revision session?"

"That's right," you say politely.

"Don't be nice to it," Garreth murmurs. "This knocker has attitude and doesn't deserve it."

"Only to you, because you think pranking me is entertaining."

"... I mean, it kind of is."

"Well," it says tartly, "you've never been able to solve any of my riddles, and that is something I find amusing."

"Yeah?" He's feeling particularly brazen today. "Go on, try me."

You quickly stifle a snort – which he doesn't miss – as the knocker clears its throat.

"Very well. A simple one then. What has eighty-eight keys, but no lock?"

He repeats the riddle to himself, twice. Nothing comes.

"A... key... collector?" He gives you a sidelong glance – you have sealed your lips together. "You already know the answer, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Ravenclaws..."

You wait, presumably so he can attempt another answer, but in the end he crosses his arms, frustrated. "All right, I give up."

"It's a piano." You turn to him. "Keys, but not referring to door keys."

In hindsight, it's really obvious, but the damn eagle knocker smarts.

"Correct." The door opens. "You may enter. You," it looks pointedly at Garreth, "need to work harder."

Don't I know it. Garreth sticks out his tongue. Very mature. You let out a sharp laugh, which makes him smile.

"You'll get it next time," you say. "I'll see you next Monday?"

"Next Monday," he confirms.

He finds himself still smiling on the way back to Gryffindor. He'll solve one of those riddles one day, if only to prove he can.

And, maybe, to impress you.

Inspiration strikes near Halloween. A genius idea, if he does say so himself, for something so simple. A drink that makes you float off the ground, like a Fizzing Whizzbee. Fizzing Whizz-beer, even.

Yes, he thinks, that's very clever. Instead of listening to Professor Garlick's treatise on the properties of Venomous Tentacula, Garreth hunches over his planting station and scribbles some ideas for the concoction. He'll need a slew of ingredients. Firstly it has to taste good – so Mallowsweet and sherbet is a must. Standard ingredient to mesh it together, then some sort of acid and base, for fizz.

Then he'll need the key thing rumoured to make Fizzing Whizzbees. Dried Billywig stings.

Where's he going to get dried Billywig stings? They're a bit of a rare commodity, given that they have the ability to grant temporary levitation. He can't buy the ingredients at J Pippin's, not with his aunt enforcing a ban on his going to the village (for fear of doing the very thing he's doing right now, naturally).

The answer pops into his head. Honeydukes. They have tons of them, used in their own sweets. But then, of course, he'll need to sneak inside...

And for that, he needs an accomplice.

Aptly, the very girl he considers first is next to him, sat upright, hands on lap, patiently listening to Garlick's lecture. He leans over.

"Missy. Pssst."

Her expression doesn't change as she leans towards him. "What is it?"

"How would you like to be part of something extraordinary?"

"Depends on what that is."

Slytherins and needing details, ugh. "Would you be up to, ahem, grabbing a few more ingredients for me?"

She bolts upright exactly when Garlick turns to them – rather an unnerving ability of hers which probably has something to do with that strange magic now running through her veins. Garlick smiles sweetly, unaware of their conversation, and continues down the row, marvelling on Tentacula leaf sizes. Missy leans to him again.

"The answer to your question," she says, "is no."

"No? You don't even know what I'm going to ask."

"I can read your parchment."

"I haven't written everything down."

"It literally says ask Missy to nick Billywig stings from Honeydukes."

Hmm. Perhaps nick was a strong word. "You nabbed the Fwooper feather from Sharp's office."

"And you got me in trouble for it."

"You get yourself into trouble all the time, need I remind you of, let's think... the entirety of last year?"

"Precisely why I'm trying not to this year," she says coolly. Merlin, her and her eerie composure. "Can't you do it?"

"'Course I can. I'm just asking you to accompany me. Give me an alibi if my aunt happens to notice I'm missing. I'll watch your back, you watch mine, you know?"

"You can't even watch your front," she says. "Why not ask someone else? Like Leander or Natty? Or Cressida?"

"None of them understand my talent for potions, Missy." And I don't want to drag them down if this goes horribly wrong. "They're above stealing."

"And I'm not?"

He arcs an eyebrow. She purses her lips.

"Just because I can doesn't mean I will. How about Everett?"

"That troll brain couldn't be sneaky to save his arse."

"Imelda?"

"I rather value my life, thank you."

"Gibby?"

"Would trip on her own feet before she even left her common room."

Missy scowls. "Well, I'm sorry, but it won't be me."

He groans – too loudly, as this time, Garlick does look over.

"Everything all right, Mr Weasley?"

"Everything's grand, Professor," he says, brooding. He doesn't have many options, if Missy won't do it.

Then lightning strikes a second time.

You could go with him.

Yes. This is a potion, after all, and you are but his acolyte, sponging knowledge from his inventive genius. He's determined not to make all his sessions laboratory-based, after all, just to doubly prove a point that a classroom isn't always the best place to learn. A trip down to Honeydukes would reinforce the memory of Billywig stings in your mind so hard, forgetting it for your O.W.L.s would be impossible.

And, bonus, he could dress it all up as a learning experience, and definitely not slacking.

So that Tuesday, a day before your session, he grabs you after dinner in the Great Hall.

"How would you like to have a fun session tomorrow?"

Your deadpan expression doesn't falter. "Your definition of fun is very different to mine."

"Honestly, why does no one trust me?"

"Do I really need to answer that?"

"... No, obviously not." He leans closer to you – you smell of peppermint. "Bring a bag, wear comfortable clothes, and meet me in the third-floor corridor, five o'clock sharp."

"Before dinner?" Your bottom lip curls. "What are you planning?"

"I promise, it'll be brilliant."

He winks and leaves, not giving you the chance to say no.

You meet him in the third-floor corridor the next day, in typical you fashion, half an hour early. It's quite surprising to see you in casual clothes, a tidy blouse and cardigan, tweed breeches and sensible shoes, all beneath a plain cloak. Your reticule ropes around your shoulder, but for once, it doesn't bulge with books.

You frown. "What's wrong with your jumper?"

"Hmm? Oh." He tugs at it beneath his own cloak. "My mama knitted this for me. It's red wool."

"I can see that. I meant the... design?"

"It's a G. It stands for Garreth."

"Why does it look like a man hunched over the privy?"

"Hey, letters are hard, and I never said my mama was any good at knitting. Come on."

He takes you to the statue of the one-eyed witch. He taps his wand to it. "Dissendium." The witch swivels, revealing the dusty trap door beneath. You freeze when he kneels to open it.

"What exactly are we doing?"

A rush of stale air funnels out when the door swings opens to a ladder below. "We're going on a little adventure to grab a rare potion ingredient."

Your tightening face betrays panic as your gaze flickers between him and the rungs.

"Adventure? Garreth, I didn't agree to that."

"You agreed to our tutoring session. Time to broaden your perspective, Prim. No essays today."

"And where does this lead?"

"Hogsmeade."

"Hogsmeade?" You step back. "Oh no, I can't go."

"Why not?"

You bite your lip in the silence. It's a very odd gesture that for some reason makes his heart stammer.

"I don't have permission to go to Hogsmeade..."

"What." Another day, another question that's not a question. "What do you mean, you can't go to Hogsmeade? Wait, wait. Have you ever been?"

You are silent. Merlin's sweaty armpits.

"You can't have never been, Prim! How do you get stuff? Quills and books and potion ingredients?"

"I ask the teachers."

He scoffs. Auntie Matilda must have known. "You're definitely coming now. No, no objections, Prim."

"My parents—"

"Don't have to know. Unless there's a specific reason you can't go?" Silence again. "Are you allergic to, I don't know, village air?"

"No."

"Halloween cheer?"

"No."

"Other people?"

"Yes," you say, then remembering yourself, "But not actually, no."

"So then what are they afraid of?"

"They're just— protective."

His brow furrows. It's absurd really. He shouldn't question it. He knows he's lucky when it comes to family – that his have never cared about what he does in his free time so long as he does what he's meant to during his school time. You've mentioned your Muggle mother is jaded with the magic world, so maybe this is her superstitions coming into full force. She doesn't trust an entire village of wizards.

Though that doesn't explain why your Squib father is the same.

"Then," he insists, "we are going to have a great time having a little look around. I'll be with you so you don't have to panic about... whatever it is you're panicking about. We can't go to J Pippin's, of course – Parry Pippin would mount a Graphorn for the opportunity to snitch my whereabouts – but the Three Broomsticks, definitely. Sirona Ryan's a treat." When your brow crumples, he says again, "Nope, this is a non-optional adventure."

"But—"

"Too late, I'm kidnapping you."

And he offers his hand.

You stare at it like it's a foreign object, leaving him in this awkward limbo where his hand is just... hovering there, waiting. Something light dances behind your eyes, sweeping colour across your face, and you reach over, slip your fingers, warm and delicate, into his. He makes the first step down, testing the weight, as he always does – you never know when this old thing will break – and it holds.

"Mind your step."

"This doesn't look safe."

"It's safer than a spider's den."

"That bar is so low it's in Australia, Garreth."

He hits the ground, followed shortly by your graceful alight, and dust swirls up at the disturbance. The trap door shuts, and he hears the grind of the witch's statue clanking back into place.

"Lumos." Your wand tip lights, and your face comes back into view as you take in the sight of the stone staircase. "What's this ingredient we're getting, then?"

"Dried Billywig stings."

"A Billywig's sting makes you giddy," you recall, "then makes you float."

"That's right."

"Wait." You clasp his arm – the touch surprises him. "You're getting it from the sweet shop?"

"Yep."

"But— you can't buy it, surely?"

Ah, yes. When he asked you to come along, he hadn't exactly thought about the intense cardinality of your moral compass. "Well, no, but I promise they won't miss them."

Your eyes go round. "You're stealing?"

"Goodness, Prim, I'm not robbing Gringotts! They have loads, won't even notice a handful are missing." You glare at him, making him wince. "I'll leave a Sickle on the counter, all right? I really need them—"

"For what?"

"A new potion I'm making! Beverage, really." He grimaces harder as your glare intensifies. "It's a Fizzing Whizzbee drink! Or, as I like to call it... Fizzing Whizz-beer."

You continue to stab him with eye daggers, completely unaffected by his extremely clever pun.

"So this isn't a Potions revision session, is it?"

"Is too. What potions use Billywig stings? If you can answer that, I'll let you go, on my honour."

But you are silent, and he knows he's got you.

"If it'll make you feel better," he suggests, continuing on down the steps, "I'll let you quiz me on Divination questions as we go."

It doesn't seem to assuage your doubts, but it does distract you enough that you pad after him, cautious of where you place your feet. You fire off questions Garreth only half-heartedly attempts to answer until, beyond the broken lift shaft, the rocky path tapers into a promontory over a deep cavern. The bridge here last time lies in a wrecked heap on the cavern's wet floor, far, far below.

He peers down at it, suspicious. "This a lot more... treacherous than I remember."

You squint at the other end of the splintered walkway, protruding over the gap.

"Do tell."

"Your sarcasm is noted and not appreciated."

"Do you know the spell to repair it?"

He pouts. "I'm not that incompetent." He takes out his wand. "Reparo!"

The pieces whirl back into place. Garreth feels good about the way your eyebrows dance in mock surprise. You test the build with a toe, pressing onto the wood cautiously, then stride over to the other side.

He preens as he strides after you. "See? I can do Charms."

"Not that incompetent," you say, with a tone that might be a little wry. "Your words."

"Hey, only I can parrot myself back to me. Unless I'm complimenting myself, in which case, feel free to copy."

Your lips quirk, which sends another flutter of pride through him. He likes that he can do that, make you smile, especially since you're usually so frosty. Like a great hurdle has been overcome between you. He follows you down the bridge, whistling Ernie Lark's tune – which you quickly decide is the most annoying song ever, and if he would kindly stop you would be most appreciative, which of course he doesn't – before you meet another three felled bridges, this time overlooking an abyss of damp earth, brimming with silty ditchwater.

"Why has this place been destroyed?"

"Good question. No idea."

"Don't you come down here frequently?"

"Not if I can help it. I don't need to sneak into Hogsmeade when my parents have already given me permission, remember. It's only because I'm technically under watch that I have to go this way. Last person probably wanted to use it as hex practice."

"How did you find out about it?"

"My cousins Leon and Hector. They knew every nook and cranny in this school. Could make a map if they really wanted."

He repairs the bridges one by one, and you cross each with apprehension. He should probably feel offended that you don't trust him, but, well, the wood is mossy and rotting, even after repairs – nasty – so it's no wonder you're so antsy. He's been here plenty of times though, so it doesn't concern him in the slightest.

You reach another tunnel, carved through the rock face, as he steps off the bridge behind you. Something scurries by your feet, and you shriek.

"A rat! A rat!"

Without thinking he thrusts out his wand.

"Fera Verto!"

Direct hit. The rat warps into a goblet, clattering onto the ground.

"Look at me go," he says. "A Transfiguration spell!"

You hoist a sigh, say, "W-Well done," and come to stand next to him, close enough that your peppermint scent threads through. "I'm glad you have been listening."

He puffs out his chest. "My aunt will be so pleased."

"I mean, that was a second-year spell, so..."

"Let me bask in my victory a minute, won't you?" he mutters. "Not a fan of spiders, and now not a fan of rats?"

"Who is? Wait. Don't say yourself."

"Come on, have you seen them nibbling cheese? It's adorable!"

You roll your eyes.

When the stone wall comes upon you, he sets the braziers to light, opening a crack in the door, and ushers you through. The end of the passage – a ladder leads to the surface, and the Honeydukes cellar. He climbs up and peers through the trapdoor first, into the darkness of the storeroom. "Coast is clear."

"All right." You seem to remember yourself then, and ripple with displeasure. "I can't believe I'm condoning theft."

He makes a show of taking out a Sickle and waggling it in front of you. "Not stealing if I pay for it."

He climbs into the storeroom and offers his hand to help you up, and your touch crackles through his palm again, making his stomach swoop. Strange. He enjoys the look on your face as you take in the place around him, the shelves upon shelves of sweets, jarred confections, crates that hum, bottles that pop and giggle, the sweetness and tang in the air, the pastel and neon packaging. He spots the dried Billywig stings immediately and pockets a few, making sure to place the Sickle in a visible spot. Hopefully the proprietor Patrick Redding won't be too mad about it – a Sickle for three stings is definitely overpaying, and it's not like he's flush with gold, here.

"You have your stings, then," you say. "How do you propose we leave the storeroom without being caught?"

He grins. "I do have an idea."

"... Why do I get the impression I won't like this idea?"

"It involves acting."

"Garreth," you chide, with a little fleck of fear too. "I... I can't—"

"Trust me, you won't have to say a word. He'll have no clue." He tugs you to the backdoor. "Now, I need you to ruffle yourself up a bit. Make yourself look dishevelled."

He starts doing that to himself, raking his hand through his hair, unbuttoning his shirt collar, bunching up his cloak. You copy him, unsure, and when you're done, he thumps the door. Hard.

"What? Garreth—"

He lifts his hands. "May I?"

"May you what?"

"Touch you?"

"Touch— what?"

"Better be quick, Prim. He'll be coming by now."

The handle rattles. You look panicked.

"Fine, yes—"

And he pulls you in until you're flush against him, until there's no space between you. He can feel the way your body curves against his – there's a surprising suppleness to you, to your waist beneath his fingers, to your chest, moulding with his. As your face closes on his, your breaths cloud together, only for a second, long enough for him to detect peppermint again, for his stomach to plunge into his legs. Your eyes dart between his, surprised, and your face lights up—

The door opens. Patrick Redding splutters when he sees you both, and Garreth immediately pushes you away.

"Mr Redding! So sorry, sir. We were just—"

"What in Merlin's name— Mr Weasley?" His eyes slide to you, but of course, he doesn't recognise you at all. "What do you think you're doing in here?"

"Well, sir," Garreth says, smiling bashfully, "when a pretty girl asks you to take her somewhere private..."

Mr Redding makes a disgruntled noise and ushers you forwards. "No, no, I don't want know. Out, both of you. And have some decorum, please!"

You barely get the chance to take in the sight of Honeydukes before Redding shoos you out the front door, depositing you onto the high street. Its quiet out, the sky a dark bowl above, flecked with winter stars, and the square is lit with strings of lanterns that glow golden pools on the cobblestones. A very romantic sight, and a perfect first impression.

"Huzzah!" Garreth says, quite proud of himself. He throws up his cowl in case anyone might recognise him. "Told you it would work. Hope he doesn't snitch to Auntie, mind, but I don't think he will, because then he'd have to explain that a student snuck into his stockroom to snog— Prim?"

He notices, then, how deeply your face is awash with colour. How you can't look him in the eye. His gaze travels to your hands, knitted together, restless by your waist. Your very nice waist. He immediately questions the thought, because, first of all – nice waist? Merlin. Second of all, he shouldn't be thinking such things at all. Especially not about you.

"I— you—" You cross your arms, turn away. "Why didn't you tell me that was your plan?"

"Because you'd never have agreed to it."

"Well... yes, but— but you didn't have to hold me so close."

"I think he'd be suspicious if we weren't close, Prim."

"Yes, but— think about what he must think now!"

"He doesn't even know who you are!"

"Yes, but— ugh, never mind!"

"What?" He wiggles his eyebrows. "Did you enjoy being handled in my lordly grasp?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

He laughs, and likes to believe you're lying, just a little. If you've never had friends, after all, he doubts you've ever courted. You huff and keep distance between you, and his stomach flutters as his eyes go back to your waist again.

The feel of you... it lingers.

"Nonetheless, my plan worked." Dispelling the frivolous thoughts, he grins and opens his arms. "So welcome to Hogsmeade, Prim."

Your face softens as you take in the sights. There's only two hours before Honeydukes closes for the evening, so he gives you quick version of the patented Garreth Weasley tour – less of the history, more of a rundown about the best places to hide for pranks, where the teachers frequent, and where the Dark wizards go, and ergo where you should avoid. You only contribute once or twice to conversation, but you absorb the cosy atmosphere, the crooked buildings and crazy, cranky peoples, your attention wholly taken. Annoyingly he can't read whether you're enjoying yourself. There aren't many students out, owing to how late it is and the fact that it's a weekday. As the grand finale he takes you to the Three Broomsticks, conscious of how both his and your stomachs rumble. He'll have to fork out more Galleons for food, yes, but it'll be worth it.

"Late out, Garreth?" Sirona greets him when you walk in, rising from a table she's scrubbing. "You should be going back soon, shouldn't you?"

"Was just showing my new friend Prim around."

"Ah," she says warmly, and smiles at you. "Didn't think I recognised you. Welcome to the Three Broomsticks, Prim."

"It's not Prim," you say quickly, shooting him a glare. "It's actually—"

"A round on me, Sirona," Garreth interjects, batting his eyelids at you as you fume. "My treat, because Prim's never been to Hogsmeade before."

"Never been? Well, then you have an excellent tour guide. Garreth knows all the best hotspots." Sirona heads around the counter as you both take a seat. "You can have a Butterbeer each on me today."

"Ever had Butterbeer?" he asks you, as Sirona prepares the drinks.

"No," you say, earnest and slightly fearful. "It looks very... sweet."

"It is. You'll love it."

You don't love it. In fact, you hate it, wincing so hard you choke when the first sip goes down your throat.

"That's revolting."

He shrugs and pulls your tankard over. "More for me!"

You sigh and sink down into your chair, and he sobers. A blue aura permeates you.

"Hey," he says, quieter now, "you're enjoying yourself, right?"

It takes you a moment to answer. "Yes."

"But you're worried."

"I'm worried."

"You'll be fine. Your parents aren't here. Seems kind of mean that they won't give you permission."

"It's not that simple."

"Why?"

"It's just not." You lean forwards, frustrated. "Are you going to tell me what potions use dried Billywig stings then, or not?"

You seem to do that a lot, change the subject when things get too heated. He lets it go, because you're having a nice evening and he doesn't want to spoil it, but still... what's not so simple about letting you come to Hogsmeade? As long as you know where to avoid, the place is harmless.

"Well," he says, leaning forwards as well, spinning his drink around. "Think about it. Billywig stings cause giddiness and levitation, right? So what potion do you think it would be used in?"

"A potion that would induce dizziness?"

"If you mean Dizziness Potion, then yes, but you're missing the big one."

"... Floating Potion?"

"Try again."

"I... don't know."

He plucks his eyelids. "Wide-Eye!"

"Wide-Eye? Why?"

"... Why-de?"

"Garreth."

"It wakes you up. Makes you giddy."

He orders a bowl of fried squid, some chips and, because you insist, a garden salad, and you share it over revision chatter – A. K. A., you asking him for answers he doesn't know to questions he doesn't understand. After a while, he notices you relax, less vigilant about glancing around, paying better attention to him and his wayward conversation topics.

But the night can't last, and when the clock strikes quarter-to-seven, fifteen minutes before Honeydukes closes, you clear the table.

"We should go back."

He downs the rest of the Butterbeers – he feels it sloshing in his stomach, gross – and shoves the rest of the nibbles in his mouth, then calls his thanks to Sirona as he heads outside after you, pulling up his cloak hood.

When he gets to Honeydukes however, with ten minutes to spare, he finds Mr Redding has been all too proactive in preventing another unfortunate encounter in his stockroom again, as the door is now well and truly padlocked. Garreth tugs at it when Redding is distracted by customers.

"Dragon dung," he mutters, as you keep an eye out. "It's locked tighter than Azkaban."

You frown. "Are you a wizard or what?"

"Encouraging breaking and entering, Prim? You surprise me."

"Just hurry. I really don't want to get caught."

He draws his wand. "Alohomora."

The lock doesn't budge. Ah.

"We may have a problem."

You glance over as he tries again, and panic overrides you. "It doesn't work?"

"It has an advanced Locking charm that I can't break."

Something wars on your face before, "Switch with me, quick."

He swaps places just as he catches a flash of Redding's hair from behind the candy floss machine. Coming towards them. He nocks his wand, sending a basic cast at a jar of hardboiled Noisy Treats, which sends it crashing to the floor, piercing the air with a zoo of lion growls and elephant toots. Redding doubles-back, cursing – but for how long?

"I don't know what you're going to do," Garreth mutters, "but you need to do it now."

But you're already waving your wand in a complicated, impossible-to-copy pattern. "Alohomora Perplexitas."

The lock hisses, as if resisting, but then the hook gives way. You grab his arm and yank him inside, and clamber into the secret passage before Redding spots the busted padlock. The darkness and silence is sudden, though his heart beats like a drum.

"You have been keeping secrets," he murmurs, when you light the passage. "You know advanced lock-picking spells?"

"Advanced unlocking spells," you correct. "Come on."

He easily keeps up with your marching along. "Not going to tell me how you know an advanced unlocking spell, then? Or more importantly, why?"

"No."

"I mean, I think a slight explanation is owed."

"I just know it."

"How mysterious. Are you secretly a cat burglar? Little hypocritical of you to be calling me out for stealing."

You stomp over a rock. "I've never stolen anything."

"Then why—"

"I'm not going to tell you, Garreth," you snap, "so stop asking. Please."

Oh. That stings a little. "All right then. Forget I asked."

The silence after that isn't so companionable. He mulls over it as you cross the bridges, unyielding in your fervent pace. You seem determined not to look in his direction at all, because you know as well as he does that the whole knows complicated lock-picking spells is suspicious as a Niffler in Gringotts. It's clear that, whatever the reasons for your proclivity for the prohibited, he doesn't want to end what has been a fun evening on a sour note. As you go to cross the last bridge before the lift shaft, he hurries to catch you.

"Prim—"

You stamp down. The bridge groans suddenly – then, without warning, it collapses, and you're falling. He acts on instinct, grabbing your arm, digging his foot for purchase as the rotten planks splash onto the ground far below. Wand lost, as well as the light, you hang, the darkness so thick he can only see the whites of your eyes, wide in fear.

"G-Garreth—"

"I've got you."

He hauls you up a little too hard, and you stagger into him. His hands end up on your waist again – Merlin, him and his stupid instinct – and you quickly step back.

"T-Thank you. I thought we repaired the bridge?"

"I— thought so too." It was a brief touch on a girl's waist, Weasley, get it together. "The wood here is pretty decayed, though. Guess it's not particularly stable even if we repair it."

He draws his wand to light the place, then summons yours from the depths. You repair the bridge this time, but hesitate to cross it. "I don't trust this anymore."

"Well then, time for another lesson!" He slips his hand into his bag and pulls out, to your shock, a potion bottle. "Prepare to be amazed!"

He winds his arm back and flings, and the bottle explodes all over the bridge – turning it to stone.

"All right, that should last us approximately, hmm... five seconds."

"What?"

He grabs your arm. "Go, go, go!"

Together you hurtle across the bridge, you shrilling. It holds, rock clacking beneath his boots, and by the time you're both on the other side, the stones peel back into wood, groaning from the transformation.

"What was that?" you shriek, rattled, taking your arm back. "You have potions in your bag?"

"A great potioneer never comes unprepared. That," he says, grinning, "was my version of an Edurus potion. Know what that does?"

"I have an inkling that it turns things into stone."

"It gives the drinker a stone-like skin, yes, and boosts their durability. My adaptation turns objects into stone. Granted, it doesn't last very long. Think I need more Ashwinder eggs..."

You hug your arm. "I-I'm sorry."

"Er, I know you're smart, Prim, but I don't expect you to know everything."

"No," you say, flushing again, "I mean, for... for snapping. I... didn't mean to snap. Well, I did, but..."

His eyebrows rise. Colour him surprised, you apologising for something? He thinks for a millisecond about teasing you for it, but then he registers your face again, that injured expression and downcast eyes, refusing to look his way, and the retort tumbles back down his throat.

"No harm done, Prim. I shouldn't have prodded." Instead, he smiles. "Now come on, let's get out of here."

You don't say anything, but even in the waning light of the tunnel, he catches a hint of your grateful smile.

You ascend the lift shaft without complication and hurry back up the steps. When he reaches the ladder, he taps his wand to the trap door above and mutters "Dissendium," again to move the statue before opening the door, and offering a hand to help you back out. In the natural light, you look a right state, dishevelled but for real this time, and he imagines so does he.

"Well, that was fun," he says, dusting himself off. "Looks like I was right, wasn't I?"

"About what?"

"Near-death experiences."

You scoff. "That was hardly near-death, was it?"

"Not what your face said when you dropped off that bridge."

He stares at you. You stare at him.

And to his surprise, you crack a genuine smile, and let out a single – single – chuckle.

"I suppose there is something to be said about near-death and... and being friends."

That fills him with a distinct sense of joy.

... Which gets stolen one breath later.

"Out revising, were you?"

He freezes. Spins around. By the doors, Professor Weasley waits with her arms crossed and her lips a thin line. Her gaze travels down you both, your very non-studying clothes, the dirt on his cheeks and hair, the torn knees of your trousers.

Oh Merlin, he's so dead.

"Auntie!" He pries a grin from somewhere inside. "What brings you here?"

She doesn't fall for it, not even for a second. "Honestly, Garreth, you weren't subtle, coming out of the passage."

"What passage? I don't know what passage you mean."

"Who do you think your cousins learnt it from, hmm? Because I can tell you, just because I'm a professor now doesn't mean I wasn't a student before." Her stringent gaze diverts to you. "And I admit I'm most surprised at you, Miss—"

"We were studying, Professor," you say, with all the grace of a ballet dancer. "I know it doesn't seem it..."

"It looks like you skipped dinner to take a trip to Hogsmeade. Which I remember barring you from doing, Garreth."

But you're quick. "We skipped dinner, yes, but we only went into the passage."

He glances sidelong at you, trying to hide his surprise at your total composure.

"I was having Garreth practice his Transfiguration there, since there are plenty of rats, and I thought his Fera Verto could do with some work." The lie unfurls from your tongue with such practice, he could swear you wrote it beforehand. "Garreth, on the other hand, was testing my potions knowledge."

"Yeah," he says, catching on. "Billywig stings?"

"Cause giddiness and levitation. Used in Dizziness and Wide-Eye potions."

"Edurus potion?"

"Gives the drinker a stone-like skin. Has Ashwinder eggs."

"See?"

Matilda's sternness doesn't waver. "Whose idea was this?"

Garreth laughs sheepishly. "If I said it was only my idea if you like it, would you be mad?"

She stares for one second, two.

Then softens.

"I only want to suggest a more formal approach to your tutoring sessions, please. Stick to Hogwarts grounds." She doesn't include what she really means: to stay where she can keep an eye. "I'll ask the house elves to bring you some supper to your dorm rooms. Don't let me catch you doing this again."

"Yes, Professor."

She hovers for another moment before she goes, and all the tension exhales from Garreth's chest.

"That was close." And Merlin's beard, this girl is a good liar. His gaze slides to you, stone-stiff – but it's too late, he perceives you anew again. "Can't act, hmm?"

You flush. "I can't act. I only lie when I have to—"

"They're basically the same thing!"

"— and I was telling the truth. I did recite ingredient properties, and you did practice Fera Verto." Your face deepens in colour. "I didn't want to get in trouble, all right?"

"So you know how to do a complex Unlocking charm and you can just roll out a lie when you need to? Really starting to believe this whole cat burglar persona you have."

"I'm not a cat burglar."

"Then what are you?"

"No one." He doesn't believe that, and you know he doesn't. "I've had enough excitement for one night. I'm going back to my dorm."

"Prim." You halt, and he says with sincerity, "Thank you for covering for me." He quirks his lip. "Or covering for yourself, and inadvertently covering for me, too."

Your eyes dart between his again, and he remembers that slip of a moment in Honeydukes, the both of you intertwined, your surprise just as intriguing.

"You're welcome," you say quietly. You bow your head. "And— thank you. For showing me around today. I... had fun."

"Good. We should do it again some time." He grins. "You'll be the first to taste my Fizzing Whizz-beer when it's ready."

You shake your head, turning to go again. "If it's anything like Butterbeer, I think I'll pass."

It is, quite possibly, the highest praise you'll ever give.

[PREV][read Chapter 3 on AO3, read Chapter 3 on Wattpad] [Divider credit]

[amphetamine-keen]

Battle Jacket Tips! Yippee!!

I'm hyperfixating, so be warned that this might be rambly and a lot longer than it needs to be, but I promise these are good tips

I'll try to put all my rambles in small text and if it gets too long, I'll stick it under a read-more-- oh, would you look at that

For starters, what is a battle jacket? Maybe you've just stumbled across this post and have no context, or maybe you're researching bc you think you might be interested in making one, here's a short explanation:

Battle jackets are a popular garment in a lot of alternative communities. Punk and metal are the biggest two that I'll be focusing on, but there's genuinely no limit to the "genres" that a battle jacket could belong to. I don't like country music, but like, if you want to make a country battle jacket, do it! Have fun!

Battle jackets are typically either leather or denim and covered in patches and pins to the wearer's taste. Punk battle jackets might include more political sentiments and DIY than say, a metal battle jacket, but of course, there are no rules, and my battle jackets tend to be a bit of a mix of punk and metal. Remember: There are no rules, these are all just suggestions.

The Base:

A few suggestions for your first battle jacket:

Do thrift your starting garment. If you can't find something exactly like what you're looking for, don't sweat it. Find something "good enough" and get started. That's what fabric dye and scissors are for. DIY or Die is the motto here. My most recent battle vest started life blue and with sleeves. Now it's black with big yellow panels in the sides.

Do get your jacket a little bigger than usual. Patches can stiffen up the garment and make it feel tighter, plus, if you wear it year round you'll wanna be able to put it over your coat in the colder season. I actually have two vests, a warm weather and a cold weather vest. The warm weather vest is a lot smaller so it doesn't hang off me when I'm just wearing a shirt, but I recommend starting with a larger vest and doing the "warm weather" vest as a second project.

Don't buy a premade battle jacket, especially fast fashion. The whole point is to make it to your tastes, so buying a jacket with someone else's patches and pin picks kinda mucks up the best parts of making a unique, custom garment. Also, the fast fashion industry is horrifically exploitative, and supporting it financially isn't very punk. If you've already done so, don't beat yourself up. We're all learning and growing. Take the things you learn and grow from them in the future. That is punk.

The Patches:

The biggest patch on a battle jacket is your "back patch." They're huge and seen as the sort of "keystone" of a jacket. They're not a requirement, but I like them a lot. Usually, the patch is of the wearer's favorite album, or something similar, but they can be anything you want. Tarot cards, art pieces. Go nuts and find something that brings you joy. My first vest was very "traditional" with a Metallica Master of Puppets patch, but my second one has painted + embroidered handprints from all my long-distance friends so I can keep them with me <3

Do buy directly from band websites, or from the merch stands at live shows! That's my favorite way to get patches, even if they might be expensive or have iffy manufacturing ethics because it shows where my vest has been and what it's seen.

Do buy from small businesses and online vendors. Try your local craft fairs, or Etsy shops for patches you like. They might be pricier, but that's just because the seller isn't exploiting factory workers and valuing their own time.

Do make your own patches! I might go more into this later, or on a different post, but there are a lot of ways to make your own patches. Embroidery, paint, stenciling, etc. You can get fabric quarters at most craft supply places for like $3 USD tops or free if there's a local Hobby Lobby. Acrylic paint works, though it might crack a bit over time. Fabric paint is pretty widely available and gives a smoother look.

Don't just buy wholesale packs of patches on Amazon. Like the above point about premade jackets, bulk patch packs are often made in exploitative sweatshop conditions, and Amazon should be used sparingly because even if the manufacturer is ethical, Amazon's warehouses are not. Also like the above, don't beat yourself up if you already bought a pack of patches. I did it too, when I first started, you live and you learn.

Don't wear patches for bands you don't know. I mean, you can, I'm not a cop, but you will look like a poser.

Non-Patch Editions:

I said it before, and I'll say it again. There are no rules. You don't have to limit yourself just to patches to customize your jacket. Have fun with it. Here's a list of options to give you ideas, based on things that I've done or want to do on my own.

Embroider directly on the fabric! I put spider webs and violets on my vests just because I like them and think embroidery is fun.

Spikes and studs!! You can get packs of spikes from lots of places (some more ethically than others) or you can make your own. As a disclaimer, some music venues may raise issues with pointier bits, as they could cause injury to other people, so use your best judgment.

Add other metal bits! Can tabs, lighter hoods, chains, keys, washers, nails, bolts, and pieces of scrap metal are all pretty fun to play around with!

Corsetting. Whether as a resizing measure or just for the aesthetic, get some eyelets and throw some ribbon in there. Could be fun!

Pins! I've mentioned them before, but also you can make your own with some bottle caps and a safety pin. Or repaint buttons you already have. I've kept the same little pronoun pin I repainted with nail polish for almost a decade, and it's still in great shape.

Putting it all together:

These are some general tips for putting all the pieces together, and honestly was supposed to be the whole post, but I like to talk so here we go!!

Lay out everything first before sewing it down. I have ripped up more patches than I care to admit, just to sew them back down on another part of the jacket.

Big tip for the mix-patch crowds, keep all your political patches on the front of the jacket. The idea is, if some asshole has a problem with your opinions, you want to see them coming. You don't want them sneaking up behind you.

Thread. Elder Punks often recommend dental floss for fastening patches to your jacket bc of its strength and rightfully sew (hahaha!). However, if you'd like more colorful options, try upholstery thread. It's super strong, and it's what I use on all of my own jackets. Though, I do keep floss and a needle around for convenient repairs. The box has its own thread cutter!

Needles. If you're like me and have shitty old person hands at the ripe old age of 23, those tiny dollar store needles will make your hands cramp up like a motherfucker. For this reason, I use doll needles. My default needle came in a walmart pack, and I use the smallest gauge, 3 in long needle. The thicker ones are too hard to get through the fabric. It's much easier to grab and easier on my hands.

Thimbles. Even with big-ass doll needles, sometimes it's difficult to grab them well enough to get through really thick fabrics. That's what thimbles are for (not to keep you from pricking yourself with the sharp end). Get yourself one, or improvise something similar, it will save your life.

Stitching. Sew down all of your patches, even the ones that claim to be "iron-on" because in my experience the iron-on adhesive fails pretty quickly. I recommend a whip or blanket stitch, so the edges don't peel up or fray (as handmade patches might). If you're moshing, a lot of folks claim that floss is best because it keeps people from ripping off your patches. Respectfully, I think that's a bunch of horseshit. If you don't want your patches ripped off, make them harder to grab onto. Keep your stitches small and close together so assholes can't get a grip on them. That said, I've never actually had someone try to rip off my patches in the pit or otherwise, so use your own discretion.

Washing. A lot of hardcore crust punks will tell you never to wash your battle jacket, but crust punk isn't for everyone. I wash my jacket every year or so, and it's pretty easy to do as long as nothing on your vest is susceptible to damage in water (I had some early patches that I finished with Modpodge that were ruined in the first wash, so keep that in mind). If you're confident in your stitchwork, just toss the vest in a garment washing bag or a pillowcase and chuck it in the wash with everything else. If you're a little more cautious, it's easy enough to hand wash it in a tub/sink and hang it out to dry. Don't use bleach or you'll probably ruin something.

[aroacewxs]

Idk if this has been asked before but Im curious to know how you think wxs all found out about their aroace identities? Personally I think Nene was the one to introduce the label to everyone else during like a group discussion where everyone is like 'yeah I just don't get the hype around romance' and nenes just like 'um. Guys are you all aromantic too?' followed by confused looks from everyone else, cueing Nene to explain it

cue me dancing around: I LOVE THIS QUESTION. this is a sign for anybody else to ask me about aroace wxs hehehe they make me happy. and i will answer in depth

starting off with tsukasa: i mentioned this here before but tsukasa to me is so oblivious aroace with sex repulsion. he doesn't particularly understand the sentiment attached to sex or romantic dates and is even more confused about the norms surrounding these things

i also don't think tsukasa will actually take the time to research what he's feeling. too much theatre in that brain. he wouldn't even consider that this feeling, feeling detached from romantic and sexual attraction, was not something everybody else experienced. he just assumes that this is how everybody lives, there's no way people actually go on dates, smash lips and all that. that only happens in plays and movies!!!!!! and then his world slightly falls apart/lh when he finds out all this is real

emu would just be like "okay!!!!!!!" and move on with her day i think. i like your thought about how nene would introduce the term to them first and everyone would be like "oh. OH" LMAO i think emu would accept it the quickest. look into it a bit maybe, consider a few of the experiences she's had regarding her lack of romantic and sexual attraction and go "ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" as a lightbulb flickers above her. and then she kisses her friends because she likes to do that

nene and rui would think about it the most. before knowing what the term aroace meant, they definitely thought they were broken, that they were falling behind. for rui, it went hand in hand with the alienation he experienced from his peers, and for nene, she believed that she just didn't have these feelings because she was embarrassed to make friends in the first place. forget romantic lovers. but it would catch up to her as she enters high school because she believed that by now, she should have some sort of desire to pursue a romantic relationship like how everyone else around her did.

they would both go on thorough internet deep dives, watching different videos about attraction, browsing the aroace subreddit, etc. this is a little silly but i think nene stumbled across jaiden animations' aroace video and had her life permanently changed by it (me). i like to imagine nene and rui walking home together one day and then nene suddenly saying "i think i'm aroace," to which a wide-eyed rui replies with "same. what the freak" and they'd quietly share their findings as the sun sets behind them.

tldr: nene and rui think about it the most -> emu and tsukasa remain oblivious -> nene and rui come out to each other -> they bond over their shared experiences -> nene comes out to wxs first -> introduces the term -> tsukasa and emu's lives are changed -> they move on. show must go on

thanks for the ask :D

[guard-dog-boyfriend]

I'd love to hear more about the yandere face-off you had to win your goddess over

OH MY GOD I JUST GOT MORE LORE ABOUT THIS TOO!!! OKAY LONG PETTY STORY BELOW

So it's 2021. I have just moved to Texas with my cheating lying ex, and am stuck living with her family while she starts using the close proximity to abuse me. We have thoroughly broken up and I'm throwing myself into the aforementioned pixelmon server from the story of how I met My Goddess. Me and Her are getting along swimmingly and when my abusive ex is gone I'm enjoying gaming with Her and the other people of the server.

Fast-forward to June of that year. Me and My Goddess have officially gotten together and as this was her first relationship, we were mildly insufferable in the puppy love phase. Like. She would say "I love you" literally every five minutes levels of insufferable to the people around us (I admittedly miss it sometimes haha).

And this got on the nerves on one of her friends. At first we thought they were like... just PDA averse or something, but one day this friend, we'll call him H, shows me and My Goddess, his base, which happens to have a statue of My Goddess's Minecraft skin in it for some reason, and starts like... acting really weird. Like, everytime me and My Goddess are even slightly affectionate he's telling us to stop or getting angry. He starts saying "I love you" to My Goddess completely out of the blue, and just being REALLY fucking possessive of My Goddess and aggressive towards me.

Eventually, H pulls My Goddess and me into a private discord call away from the server where he starts going on this tangent about how he just wants his friend back and that he loves Matchu and can't stand seeing us love each other, and that he just wants to let us know because the last time he had a crush on a friend and they got together with some else he ended up stabbing their partner and ending up in juvie for some time. And we don't want that happening again now do we?

And I'm just sitting there like... Okay fucker, you wanna play ball let's ball, you wanna threaten to stab me?! Yeah no, fuck you. Obviously My Goddess also went on the defensive but I admittedly played a pretty big role in what happened next.

So, I would like to remind y'all I'm in a heavily abusive domestic violence situation at this time that EVERYONE in the server knew about. And this dude, just threatened to stab me. So I simply tell the server owner who is also one of my best friends, and H gets kicked so fast he doesn't even have time to process what happened. And the server owner tells everyone what happened, so no one is talking to this dude now.

And eventually H comes crawling to me begging for forgiveness and playing the system card, telling me his 'bad alter' did it type shit, I immediately tell him I have DID and have been an aware system for four years at that point and that bad alters aren't a fucking excuse for not taking responsibility. He begs for me to "give [My Goddess] back". Eventually, I end up blocking him, and everyone else in the server ends up blocking him too. In a matter of days, he lost all his friends because he threatened me.

It's not as bad ass as I originally made it sound, and I kinda played up the sad and pathetic hurt uwu bean at the time because I was... just kinda like that. But I've gone through a lot since then so my personality from back then is basically unrecognizable to me now. Me and My Goddess are still going strong obviously, but as for the new lore (because this happened three years ago) I went down a ahem research rabbit hole when I accidentally stumbled across his social media. He is still single and also a VERY gay dude. No shame for being gay obviously, I'm pansexual and both me and My Goddess are trans, we don't shame for being queer. But like... He's into super duper built muscle men now and My Goddess is a dainty transfemme with dreams of being built like an hourglass, like.... I think it's a good thing I won that face off lmao.

[what-if-i-just-did]

Guilt & Revenge: Surgery (2)

Whumptober, Day 25: Surgery

Guilt & Revenge Masterlist

Shorter and less forcused on the actual surgery than planned, but I'm honestly surprised I managed to finish it at all considering the personal stuff I got going on rn. I'm dedicated to actually making it through a writing event for once. Maybe I'll improve it later, but for now, here's today's chapter. Also I know nothing about USAmerican hospitals and I did zero research so this is probably inaccurate as hell. Hope you enjoy and lmk to be added to the taglist!!

TWs: waking up in a hospital, long-term captivity, crying, and mentions of torture, a cell, minor whump (17yo), restrained while sleeping, and guilt about escaping captivity

Amber woke up groggily, and confused. There was weight on top of him that he didn’t recognise, and his bed was definitely not this soft. Something else felt wrong too, but he wasn’t quite registering it. He tried to move a bit, but something pulled at his arms when he did. He’d been left restrained in his sleep? Why? It had been a long time since they just left him restrained. Oh well, he didn’t quite care.

Wait, no. there was light behind his eyelids. What was going on? Were they still there? Did they forget..- Amber opened his eyes and his thoughts went dead. This wasn’t his cell.

The pure confusion had his heart skyrocketing, and for the first time, he realized the ticking sound wasn’t the clock, and it was actually a beeping sound, and it sounded an awful lot like a heart monitor. Soon, there was a hustle around him. Women wearing medical garb- women that weren’t Eileen or Mercedes- rushed over and started making a hustle. He was still half-asleep, and couldn’t comprehend anything that was happening. Where was he?

After a few minutes, the brain fog started to clear. He was clearly in a hospital. That still left him with a lot of questions. One of the nurses looked him in the eyes. “Sir, can you tell me your name?”

“D- Amber. Amber Ruane. Where am I?”

“Okay Amber. You were found with extreme punctures in your chest and rushed into surgery. You lost a lot of blood. We’ve given you transfusions and stitches, but you’ll need to take it easy for quite some time. We’ve uh.. “ She shared a look with the other nurse. “We also noticed evidence of.. repeated trauma of all sorts. Legally we’re required to report this to the police. It could stay at just that, or you could choose to prosecute. Whatever you want. We also have resources for trauma survivors that are available to you- “ 

Tears silently slid across his face not even halfway into her sentence. He was out. It was over. But he felt guilty. He didn’t deserve to be out. The last thing he remembered was just a regular torture session… wait, no. Something had been wrong.

“Amber, are you listening to me?”

Being called his real name was overwhelming to him after so long without. “How- how long was I gone?”

It was 2023 when he was taken. He’d been seventeen. How old was he now?

“You’ve been unconscious for a few days. Listen, do you have anyone we could call to come visit or pick you up? You’ll probably be discharged in a few days.”

He searched his mind, and finally stumbled onto the one person that had always been there for him. Who else could he call?

Starting to sob in earnest, he nodded. The nurse smiled kindly and handed him her phone.

He stared at it for a second. He still knew the number by heart, of course.

“Hi, how can I help you?”, came the voice through the phone.

“Noah-Elise?”

[lizz-the-box]

Even in Lawless Lands We Still Have Faith: Prologue

I have been wanting to make my own rendition of the 'Blind Faith Au' i had posted a small thought about it in an earlier post i made and wanted to give it a shot! :D

this is inspired by 'Who needs trust when you have faith' by ItsBasilnotBasil on ao3 it's amazing you should go check it out if you've never read it before :)

“NO! You don’t understand!”

Ford frantically grabbed onto the journal, trying to snatch back his journal from the hold that Stan had on it as he clearly was too immature to have his life’s work in his possession. Especially since he seems to be so hung up by Stanford’s simple request.

“You said you wanted me to have it, so I'll do what I want with it!”

Stan wrenches the book away from Ford as he says this. He doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get any of this (not that he’d tell Ford that), Ford calls him up here to buttfuck nowhere, which he used the last of his money to even get up here to begin with. Just to tell him to go fuck off with his dumb fucking book and never come back. Well fuck that if Ford is going to give him this book he’s going burn it, if he’s so hell bent on no one else getting this book. 

“MY RESEARCH!”

Ford launches himself at his brother, throwing Stan and himself to the ground close to the switch, the journal flying across the room. Stan lies prone for a sec feeling his stitches on his side pull uncomfortably, before hastily getting up when he watches Ford scramble to get the journal. Stan shoves his brother into the ground as he runs past and snatches the journal off the ground. It was then he turned to say something, maybe say something witty or snarky or maybe to tell Ford that ‘fine he would leave’; Stan unfortunately wouldn’t know because as soon as he does turns he gets body slammed into the door behind him and onto a very sharp desk-consol-thing. On top of him was Ford’s anger consuming his face as he tried to wrench the book away from Stan.

“Want it back you’re going to have to try harder than that!”

Stan shoves all his body weight into his brother landing them both onto the floor. An electrifying whirl begins; crackling and sparking, the machine rising in pitch and frequency as the two brothers shove each other around the room not noticing the noise at all. 

Stan and Ford are now back at the entrance of the control room both tugging at the journal. From an outsider's perspective one could almost mistake the two for dogs fighting over leftover scraps; bearing their teeth and barking hoping with some vindication that their words would hurt the other.

“YOU LEFT ME BEHIND YOU JERK, IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE US FOREVER YOU RUINED MY LIFE!”

“YOU RUINED YOUR OWN LIFE!”

THUMP

CKSSSSSHH

“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

“STANLEY!”

Ford watches as his brother slumps over, much like when a puppet's strings are cut. The fresh smell of burning flesh permeates through the air encircling around Stanford; reminiscent of a boa constrictor suffocating him. Ford stares at the now bright almost luminescent brand, no burn that he put on Stanley as Ford stumbles to get up he frantically utters an, “Oh my gosh imsosorryareyouo- OW”

He was then interrupted by a hard punch to the face causing Stanford to flail backwards onto the lever in front of the portal. The sounds of its whirling, crackling and high pitched humming expand and crescendo filling the basement with its music. The sound once again, going unnoticed by the two. 

Stanford slowly gets up from where he fell; eyes never leaving Stan's lurking form as he stalks closer to Ford hand gripping onto his shoulder. Looking eerily close to that of a predator cornering its prey.

“Some brother you turned out to be…”

He steps closer

“You care more about your dumb mysteries than your family…”

There’s a pause. They stare at each other and for that one moment, it seemed that Stan was trying to search for something in his brother's eyes. What he was searching for, Stan wasn’t too sure, sadness? A look that told Stan, Ford didn’t hate him? Again he didn’t know, but whatever he was trying to find in those all too sharp eyes was not there, only a burning hatred and anger was found. So in his own unfiltered anger Stan moved…

“WELL THEN YOU CAN HAVE THEM”

And made the biggest mistake in his life.

Stanley pushes his brother…

It feels as though time was both moving all too fast but also excruciatingly slow, like time itself was playing an awful game of tug-of-war as Stan watches his twin float up and into the portal. He’s saying something but he can’t hear it nor whatever Ford was yelling, over his own head buzzing so loud.

I need to move, i need to save him, i don’t know how but I need to move NOW

But his body seemed to be against him as it just. Won’t. MOVE. It was as if something was blocking him from making that leap, that jump to help his brother get away from that damn portal.

I can’t just stand here,

I need to move,

I NEED TO SAVE HIM

As Stan forced his foot to step forward, it was then whatever was keeping him there dissipated. Like a barrier was broken. Not that he was all too concerned on what that meant as his first and only priority was getting Ford away and safe from the portal currently trying to suck him in. 

Determination rushed into every fibre of his being as he ran past the caution line and jumped, gravity sliping immediately allowing Stan to float towards his brother. Luck seemed to finally be on his side as fords body hadn't gone through the swirling vortex of light yet; though he was getting dangerously close, he wasn’t too late. Stan was moving quite fast thanks to the jump he made earlier and he was able to grab onto his brother’s outstretched hand gripping for dear life. 

Unfortunately that’s when Stan’s luck dies off, because although Stan was able to grab onto his brother’s hand, he was a little late to try to wrench his twin out and onto the ground away from the portal. Ford’s body had started to be consumed by the portal. Not that Stan seemed to notice nor did he care as he holds tight onto Stanfords hand and uses his lower body to propel against the portal frame so that he can reef Ford out of the portal.

Come on come on come on please work pleasepleaseplease

Ford’s yelling something, he should really be paying attention but he can’t seem to focus. Stan’s pretty sure he says something back; maybe to yell at him back, to tell him to fuck off and let him help him, or maybe to say that he was sorry? It didn’t matter though, none of it did, all that mattered was fixing his mistake and getting his brother safe.

The buzzing in his head is getting louder.

Come on body work for me here, I need this to work please just let me fix it, 

Let me fix my mistake PLEASE

But it was no use, the gravitational pull was too much, at this point ¾ of Ford’s body has been consumed by the portal and was progressively more pulled in as Stan tries desperately to pullpullpullwhyisntthisworkingpleaseicantloosehimagagainbecauseofmymistakes–

But it was no use as more and more of Ford's body was slowly getting consumed by the swirling vortex that made up the inside of the portal. There was a look that will haunt Stan in his sleep as he watches the last bit of Stanford's face was swallowed into the jaws of the machine.

Before he could even attempt to mourn, Stan, whose hand had been holding onto Ford’s hand orwhatwasleft was fastly getting consumed as well by the portal. 

In the matter of seconds to the world but hours to Stan, he too was consumed by the portal.

Mere milliseconds after the last of stan is in the portal, a bright blinding burst of energy dispersed outwards evaporating the portal. Leaving the basement with an empty space where the structure should have been. As if it never existed in the first place.

The only trace that anything happened down there was a blindingly white crack on the ground in the center of it all.

Slowly growing in size as it consumes

And consumes

[suspiciousasphalt]

first post here 🤪

jongerry wip

i’ll probably post on ao3 once i’ve got more written.

There’s something wrong.

They can tell as soon as they wake up.

The blanket over them is too thick, thicker than any that they own and musty with disuse. They open their eyes slowly, taking stock of their surroundings. There is a coffee table in front of them. (Are they on a couch?) The table is clean, except for several stains, tea maybe? Or coffee? Their eyes flick up and they jump back, shoving into the back of the couch.

“AHhhh” Whoever is in front of them also jumps back a bit, tripping on the coffee table, and stumbling to catch his balance. “Ah, um, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I-I’m Jon.”

“Right, and where am I?”

“Uh, the breakroom? The Archives breakroom? In the Magnus Institute, that is. I, uh, I was leaving for the day, and I saw you in here?” Right- Gerry remembers, now. Gertrude had them hunting down a Leitner. Except it hadn’t just been a Leitner, whoever came across it had it for too long, and had fully Become by then. It was so far gone that it’d begun growing patchy fur, and its ears were sharp. Gerry’d spent hours running through London, weaving through alleyways until they'd finally gotten a jump on it. Gertrude demanded an update, and as soon as they finished, they crashed on the break room couch.

“And who are you?”

“Right, Gerard, they/them for now. I… freelance, for Gertrude.” Gerry popped their neck, and watched Jon. Instead of the usual confusion that they’d come to expect from the stuffy academic types that seemed drawn to the Magnus Institute, Jon just nodded and stuck out his hand.

“Jonathan Sims, he/they. Just call me Jon, though.” Gerry smirked in amusement.

“Well Jon, nice to meet you, but I doubt I’ll be seeing you with enough frequency to call you anything.” Jon sputters a bit, and grows red in the face (In a way that is totally not cute, shut up brain) and occurs to Gerry that maybe that was a bit rude. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. I just don't tend to stick around the Institute longer than I have to.”

Jon just raises an eyebrow and looks at Gerry's current tangled-in-a-blanket state. Now it’s Gerry’s turn to blush.

“Well, usually. In my defense, it’s been a long bloody day, and I needed to crash.” Jon looks curious at that, but decides not to ask. A wise decision- Jon would get no answers from them. “Anyway, I better be off.”

Gerry gets up and pulls on their jacket, but pauses when they see the clock.

“Wait, why are you just leaving? It’s like 7:00? And what are you doing in the archives? Nobody ever really comes down here.”

“You’re down here.” Ah so Jon’s a prickly one. Gerry just gives him a Look, and Jon blushes again.

“Mr. Bouchard told me that I’m transferring to the Archives tomorrow, as an assistant. And that was at 5:00, and then I tried to finish up my work so no one in research would be stuck with what I didn’t get done. Then I was about to leave and realized I should probably go meet my new boss… So then I came down here and Gertrude just glared at me a bit before stomping off upstairs. I waited around for a bit, because I thought it might be rude if she came back down like only a few minutes later and I was already gone? But it doesn’t seem like she’s coming back anytime soon. And then I, ah saw you in here? And I didn’t think anybody else was down here, um, ever? So I just came in to look, and now we’re… here?”

Okay, so the rambling is a bit cute, and Gerry has half a mind to be amused, but there are more pressing concerns.

“Sorry, did you just say you’re going to be an archival assistant?”

“Um, yes?”

“Have you signed any papers yet?” Gerry’s properly concerned now, and Jon seems to be getting agitated.

“Yes? I signed the transfer papers?”

“Damn, Gertrude’s not going to be happy with that.”

“Excuse you, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh Gertrude has been absolutely refusing to get new assistants for years. I would have thought Elias would have wanted to avoid pissing her off. No wonder she hasn’t been back yet. She’s probably ripping him a new one” Jon visibly bristles.

“Well excuse me, but I hardly see how having an assistant would be a bad thing. I mean, if the state of this place is anything to go by, then she certainly needs one.”

“Oh try telling her that. Or don’t,” Gerry gives a cynical snort, “she’s going to be right pissed no matter what anyone says.”

“Whatever,” Jon scoffs, “Too late now. She’ll either have to deal with me or take it up with Mr. Bouchard.”

“Oh I imagine she is.”

It isn’t until Jon is storming away, and stomping up the stairs that Gerry realizes that they were probably being rude.

“Well Shit”

[primewritessmut]

💞 😬🎉🤯

💞 Who's your comfort character?

I mean, recently? Probably Mobius M. Mobius. He’s such an interesting character and I like turning him around in my brain like a Rubik’s Cube. Twisting one side to see if/how that changes the other sides. But historically, it’s been Venom. Eddie and the symbiote brought me a lot of comfort when I’ve needed it at different points in my life and I imagine they will continue to do so.

😬 Which of your fics would you be most horrified for friends, family, or coworkers to stumble upon?

Oh my god. All of them? There really is something behind the mortifying ordeal of being seen. There are a few people in my life that know I write fanfic but they (almost) never ask to read it and I never offer. Of the two that have asked to read something, we’ve literally never spoken of it again.

I tend to tell people the truth when they ask me what I’m writing about (“the vulnerability of trust and knife kink” or “a guy getting sounded by the alien that lives in his body”) and it’s a really easy way to gauge whether people are going to be cool or not. They usually do some combination of freeze/grimace/wide eyes and then, again, we NEVER SPEAK OF IT.

But, to honestly answer your question, I would probably be most horrified if someone stumbled across she’s not going to die today. That probably marks the true beginnings of my downward spiral.

🎉 What leads you to consider a fic a success?

Usually that I finish it. That’s the main reason I started writing fanfic in the first place: to fucking finish something. Up to the point of Need a Helping Hand? I’d literally never finished a story, just let them float free form through my brain or exist on lost post-it notes or in half-empty notebooks.

After a while, I also started making mini-goals related to most of what I was writing and that, too, becomes a mark of success in its way. Do I feel like I improved at writing banter? Did I effectively use first person pov? Was there finally not a happy ending for once?

And then, you know, the serotonin and dopamine factor. As in does it provide me enough?

🤯 What's a genre you struggle with as a writer (ex. romance, action, etc.)?

Fantasy. Historical. Mysteries and Thrillers. Honestly anything that requires me to do a ton of research or think too deeply about the world of the story.

Like I said somewhere else, I mostly write linearly, straight out the gate, from beginning to end with no planning. If a story requires a lot of planning (which I think all the above genres do) then I’m going to get gummed up in the works and never write anything.

Huh. Maybe that’s why I never finished anything before NAHH? I was always trying to write fucking fantasy.

x