#might make a part two if you guys like this one ��

[covenofagatha]

Sugar, spice, and everything nice (Part 1)

Hot, rich, lawyer Agatha comes into the bakery where you work and she takes quite an interest in you (or Sugar mommy Agatha)

Word count: 2000

Warnings: none yet

A/N: hope you guys like this one!

The bakery is always dead on Sunday afternoons. 

You’re not really sure why, maybe people are getting ready for the week or something, but it seems that in the town of Westview, no one craves sweets on Sundays. 

You’re not complaining, though. That just means you get to sit in an empty store and scroll on your phone and still get paid. 

Working at the bakery part time was a nice way to make some money while you finish up college, and to be honest, you did really like it. Your coworkers were all super nice and it wasn’t a very demanding job either. 

And then the bell on the door rings. You look up from your phone, startled. 

It’s a woman that you’ve never seen before. 

She’s wearing a tight white blouse under a brown blazer and smart gray pants. Her long, dark hair flows freely over one shoulder and her pale skin and blue eyes are striking. She is attractive. 

It doesn’t help that you’ve always had a thing for older women. 

“Hi,” she says, coming to a stop in front of the counter. 

“Hi, what can I get for you today?” You ask the rehearsed question. You wouldn’t be surprised if you said it in your sleep at this point. 

“What do you recommend?” 

You’re not even sure she’s looked at the menu that’s posted above the counter. “Depends on what you like. We have cupcakes, cake, pastries. It’s all good. What are you in the mood for?” 

You might be imagining it, but it really seems like her eyes rake up and down your body. She shrugs noncommittally. “Something fresh, something…sweet.” You swallow hard at the glint of heat in her eyes. 

“I just took a batch of cupcakes out of the oven,” you say. “Do you like red velvet?” 

“Sure, hon. I’ll take three,” she says. You smile wearily and get to work packaging them up. She watches you the whole time. 

You ring up the purchase on the register and clear your throat. “That’ll be $7.50.” She smirks and pulls out her wallet, flipping through bills. She pulls one out and hands it to you and your mouth falls open. 

It's $50.

“Keep the change,” she says with a wink. She grabs the box and walks swiftly out of the bakery. 

You assume it’s a one-time thing and pocket the extra money. You secretly hope she comes back though. 

And sure enough, she struts back in three days later, dressed just as nicely as she was the first time. You’re working the morning shift before your afternoon class and you are sipping on a desperately needed cup of coffee. She must be really rich, you think as she walks up, a smile playing on her lips. 

“Morning, hon,” she says. 

“Good morning, how are you doing today?” 

“Better now,” she replies and you can feel your cheeks getting hotter. “Can I get an espresso and a piece of cinnamon crumb cake?” 

“Of course. Anything else?” 

She raises an eyebrow teasingly like she wants to make a joke but says, “That’s all, dear. Thank you.” 

“Your total comes to $8.75,” you tell her. “For here or to-go?”

“For here, please.”

“I’ll get you the cake and then the coffee will be ready soon.” 

When you turn back with the piece of cake on a plate, she’s holding another $50 bill between her fingers. 

“Oh, I can’t–” She cuts you off by putting it into your uniform shirt pocket and pats it. You freeze with her hand basically touching your boob. She smirks and takes the plate from your hand and goes to sit in a corner booth. You don’t allow yourself to look at her as you make her espresso. 

She’s on her phone when you walk over to her, but she looks up earnestly when you put the cup down in front of her. 

“Here’s your coffee,” you say and you’re turning around to go back behind the counter when she touches your wrist. 

“Why don’t you sit down?” She asks, and it’s clear she’s not asking. And even if she was, she’s tipped you almost more than you make in a day on two separate occasions. You plop down on the other side of the table. “How do you like working here?” 

“Oh, um, it’s nice. I enjoy it. Plus we get dessert for free so can’t complain,” you say, a little surprised by the question. 

“Are you still in college?” 

“Yeah, I’m graduating in the spring.” She nods like she’s deep in thought. “What do you do?” 

“I’m a lawyer,” she answers, confidence oozing from her voice. Her tipping so much makes a lot more sense now. You launch into a series of questions, absolutely fascinated by her words, and she gives you everything you want. 

You’re so engrossed in her stories that you almost miss the bell to the bakery ringing. You suddenly jolt and remember that you’re supposed to be working. 

“Sorry, excuse me,” you say hastily and dart back behind the counter. A man orders a croissant and a coffee and you get his order out quickly. You want to back over to the woman, but you feel like you shouldn’t, especially with the other customer in here now. You can feel her looking at you the whole time though. 

A few minutes later she walks back up to the counter and places her empty coffee cup and plate down. 

“Oh, thank you,” you say, surprised. You usually clean off the tables yourself. 

“Thank you,” she says. Her eyes sweep over your face. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.” 

“I’ll be here,” you joke lamely but she smirks regardless. “I’m y/n.” 

“I know,” she responds, reaching over again to tap on the tag that clearly says your name. You blush furiously and fight the urge to hide your face in your hands. “I’m Agatha.” 

“Nice to meet you, Agatha,” you say, trying out her name on your tongue. You like how it sounds, how it feels. 

“Have a good day, hon.” Before you can tell her to have one too, she’s on her way out of the bakery, the bell announcing her departure. You take a deep breath to calm your racing heart. How is it that she can have this much effect on you after meeting her twice? 

You take the bill from your shirt pocket and put it in the register, collecting the change. Sure she’s rich, but she doesn’t have to be giving you this much money. 

So why is she? 

You spend the rest of the day thinking about Agatha. 

The next day, she comes strolling in at the exact same time. You’re doing some school work on your laptop and you hope you don’t visibly perk up as much as you feel. You wonder if those three days you didn’t see her between the first meeting and yesterday she had come by when you weren't on shift. 

But that’s a crazy thought, because surely she isn’t coming by just to see you. She orders the same thing: an espresso with a piece of cinnamon crumb cake. 

She gives you another crisp $50 bill.

“I know you have money to burn, being a fancy lawyer and all,” you tease. “But please don’t go broke buying coffee and cake.”  

She laughs melodically. “Doll, I’m not just buying coffee and cake, I’m thanking the excellent service.” And once again, she’s made you flush. You inwardly tell yourself that you need to stop letting her have such an effect on you. 

You get her the cake and she goes to sit down at the booth from yesterday and you begin making her coffee. You’re lost in thought, wondering if Agatha will invite you to sit with her again, when your hand shakes as you're pouring coffee from the pot to the cup and splashes onto your hand. 

You gasp loudly and drop the pot. It shatters all over the counter and soaks your laptop. 

“Oh, god, no!” You groan and rush to grab paper towels. You quickly sop up the mess from your laptop and carefully collect the pieces of glass. 

“Everything okay?” Agatha asks and you turn to find her standing at the counter again, a look of worry on her face. 

“Yeah, god, I’m sorry, I accidentally dropped the coffee,” you sputter. You throw the towels away and open up your computer, frantically pressing the power button.

It doesn’t turn on. 

With a defeated sigh, you close it and pinch the bridge of your nose. Of fucking course. You aren’t sure how you’re going to pay for a new laptop. 

“You okay?” Concern laces Agatha’s voice. 

You scoff and shrug. “There could not be a worse time for my computer to break. I have school work that needs to be done – I have an exam to take! And now I have to go find time to go to the store and buy a new one and ugh. It’s just so frustrating.” It feels good to vent and then you realize that you’re talking to basically a complete stranger. You straighten up. “Sorry, let me get a new pot and I’ll have that espresso right up.” 

She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, doll. I’ll get it next time.” She winks at you. 

“Next time it’s on the house,” you say. She laughs like it’s some sort of inside joke. Granted, if she keeps tipping like she does, you could buy yourself a new computer in no time. 

You still don’t know why she’s doing it. You open your mouth to say something, maybe ask her what she’s doing here, but she cuts you off. 

“I have to go. I’ll see you later?” She asks, sounding slightly hopeful. 

“You know where I’ll be,” you answer, feeling a longing pang in your chest as her face lights up at your cheesy comment. 

“Sorry about your laptop,” she adds before she sticks another $20 in the tip jar. You gape at her as she smirks and walks out. She is quite literally just throwing cash at you. 

And it doesn’t stop there either. 

You’re just about to finish up your shift when a man walks in, carrying a white plastic bag and a clipboard. 

“Y/n?” He asks, looking at a piece of paper. You affirm and he puts the bag on the counter in front of you. “Sign here, please?” You’re not quite sure what’s happening at all but you do as you’re told. 

Once he walks out of the bakery, you practically tear open the bag to see what’s in it. The first thing you find is a note. 

Hope this will suffice. Let me know if you like it. X, Agatha. And then a number at the bottom. Your mouth drops open and you go back into the bag and pull out a box. You take the top off and inside is a sleek, dark, new MacBook Air. Probably close to a thousand dollars.  

“Holy shit,” you mutter under your breath. You run your hands over the smooth cover and open it up. It blinks to life and you actually laugh out loud. 

Fucking Agatha. You’ve met her three times and she just bought you a brand new computer because you accidentally spilled coffee on yours just that morning. 

Speaking of the older woman. You pull out your phone and type the number into it. 

It’s y/n. Thank you so much for the laptop! You are literally a lifesaver. Is there anything I can do to repay you? I’d give you free coffee and cake for the rest of your life, but I might get fired. Thanks again!  You decide it’s a good mix of gratitude and humor and send it. 

Bubbles immediately appear and you wait with bated breath. 

Finally a response appears and heat courses through your veins. 

Of course, doll, it’s my pleasure. And don’t worry about paying me back just yet. I’m sure we’ll figure something out ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anyone want to be my sugar mommy lol

[sturnioz]

shy!reader decides to show up at a frat house party after almost a week of radio silence.

꒰ part one ꒱ — ꒰ part two ꒱— ꒰ part three ꒱

you were telling the truth when you told kitty and nick that you were super busy. the timing of being swamped with classes and assignments, coupled with the betrayal and hurt of being isolated from the frat formal, actually worked in your favour. it provided a much-needed distraction.

your classes kept you somewhat sane. yet, the constant buzzing of your phone from chris became a source of anxiety, which made you eventually decide to put your phone on do not disturb.

you hated doing that to him—it felt hard and unkind—but you needed to focus. each time his name lit up the screen, guilt and frustration washed over you, but you knew you had to prioritise your studies.

it might seem hypocritical to say you had no time for distractions, especially since you still made time to meet up with kitty and nick for lunch. their company was a pleasant break from the weight of your responsibilities.

you even found yourself opening up about chris, wearing your heart on your sleeve as you shared the confusion and frustration you felt — letting them know that you struggle to articulate how difficult it is to figure out your emotions of what's right and wrong, especially since you weren't even officially dating him.

they listened to you patiently, letting you spill your thoughts while they threw in the occasional sarcastic remark about chris, and eventually, they gently nudged you toward the idea of talking to him.

after some hesitation, you agreed. deep down, you knew you had to. you're not a mean person; you don't have a mean bone in your body, and ignoring chris' calls and texts felt like the closest you'd ever come to being unkind. that realisation weighed heavy on you.

however, the thought of facing him made your stomach churn. the idea of seeing chris after having been 'mean' left you on edge, your heart racing at the possibilities. but, you reminded yourself that communication is essential, even when it feels so daunting.

talking to him felt like a long shot, but you were willing to take that leap.

friday afternoon arrives quicker than you initially anticipated, and your palms feel clammy as you walk beside your friend, heading toward the familiar frat house that's already overflowing with students, laughing, and the thumping bass of loud music.

as you approach the entrance, your lips part in surprise when some of the frat brothers notice you — their wide, goofy grins spread across their faces, and they wave at you drunkenly. you smile shyly in response, turning their waves with a small, but kind, gesture before your friend pulls you further into the house.

it doesn't take long for your eyes to land on chris. he's sprawled on the couch, man-spreading, a beer in one hand and a joint in the other. he's glancing up at a guy standing over him holding a wad of cash, and you watch as chris holds the joint between his lips before dipping his hand into his pocket, pulling out a baggie of colourful pills and handing it over in exchange for cash.

"where have y'beeeeen?" a voice jolts you from your thoughts, and you turn just in time to see nate approaching, his arms swinging wide as he embraces you in a drunken hug. his cheek smushes against yours, and you catch a whiff of alcohol and weed on his breath. "i felt like fuckin' hansel 'n gretal leavin' a trail of apples f'you to find your way back, kid."

his words making you giggle, and your friend steps in to help untangle you from nate's affectionate grip, causing him to huff dramatically as he leans into her, his arm wrapping around her waist instead.

"come on," your friend urges, trying to tug nate away from you. "let her go speak to chris."

"good luck... been a fuckin' asshole all week," nate murmurs with a drunken slur, and your smile begins to falter, a wave of unease washing over you. you know all too well that you're likely the reason for chris' mood. as nate stumbles backward, he turns his head, pointing at you with a grin, "m'serious about them apples! they're in the fridge f'you!"

as they move away, the laughter and music fade into the background, and you take a deep breath, preparing yourself for what's about to happen. your stomach swirls and churns with each step, the anticipation and anxiety building as you near chris, who remains unaware of your presence — too absorbed in taking a hit of his joint and counting the crumpled bills in his hand.

just as you're about to stand directly in front of him, his eyes flit up to meet yours. you give him a timid smile, hoping for a sliver of recognition or even warmth, but it falters and falls when he looks away, completely ignoring you.

the sting of his dismissal hits you like a brutal punch to the gut, and suddenly, you feel like you might be sick.

this wasn't how you had planned it in your head. you weren't supposed to be ignored... you were supposed to talk, to find some common ground, and hopefully, to be fine again.

your head is spinning, and your mind is clouded with confusion and hurt. the room starts to close in around you, the drunken students moving like a tidal wave, and you panic, your heart hammering against your chest.

in the midst of your spiralling, you catch sight of matt and kitty sitting on an armchair in the corner of the room, their eyes locked onto you. kitty pushes herself off of matt's lap, and matt follows closely behind, both seeming to make a beeline for you. but before you can even fully process their approach, your arm is suddenly caught in a tight grasp.

you're whisked away upstairs before you can even blink, the world around you blurring as you're pulled away from the chaos. panic surges through you, but gradually, a sense of relief washes over you when you're yanked into a familiar bedroom—chris' bedroom—and shock courses through you as you turn to see that it was him who brought you up here.

"relax," he grumbles, shutting the bedroom door behind you, which partially mutes the music from downstairs. "fuckin' dramatic for no reason."

even with his blunt, harsh words, there's an odd comfort in them, and you hate the realisation of how much you have missed him. the urge to suddenly hug him overwhelms you, but you hold back, wrapping your arms around yourself instead.

"nice of you to finally fuckin' show up," he continues, his gaze piercing as it drills into you, making you chew down on your plush bottom lip. he scoffs, shaking his head. "what? got nothin' to say? just—just gonna come here 'n show your face? all silent 'n shit?"

"i was busy," you respond, grasping at the same words you've been using all week, and the second scoff that escapes him makes you frown.

"right, right... 'cos it uh, didn't seem like you were busy when you were meetin' up with kitty and nick, yeah?"

"they met me for lunch on campus," you explain, your eyebrows furrowing a little. "i was still on campus.."

"what's your problem?" his question catches you off guard, and you blink, momentarily stunned. "like, what is goin' on? two weeks ago, you were fuckin' fine, and now you're ignorin' me? did i do somethin'?"

you take a deep breath, your eyes flitting to the side, searching for the right words before you murmur, "you didn't tell me about the formal."

"oh my god," your gaze snaps back to chris as he takes off his hat, raking his fingers through his tousled hair. a laugh of disbelief escapes his lips. "that—that's what this is about? 'cos... 'cos i didn't tell you about a fraternity formal that you have no interest in?"

you frown softly, "when did i—"

"kid, y'don't even like fuckin' frat parties, what makes you think you'd like a formal?" he huffs, rubbing at his jaw frustratingly. "y'wouldn't have even gone."

"it's the thought that counts," you reply, a bit more defensively than intended. you fidget on the spot, your fingers twisting together nervously as you try to steady your racing heart. "i... i would've liked to have been asked or something."

"yeah? so i could stand there 'n hear you say no?" chris shoots back, rolling his tongue across his teeth. "kid, i knew you would say no. that's why i didn't fuckin' ask — knew you wouldn't like that shit."

"but why didn't you tell me about it in the first place?" you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, that frustration and hurt bubbling to the surface as you swallow thickly. "is it because you was taking her?"

"not everythin' i do needs to be told t'you, kid," chris responds sharply, his tone cutting through the air like a knife. he then pulls a face, "her?"

"cherry." you whisper her name, trying to keep your voice steady despite the tight knot forming in your stomach.

"che—i didn't take cherry," he stares at you incredulously, his brows knitting together. "why the fuck would i take cherry? i went alone, dumbass."

his reaction catches you off guard, and you can't help but push. "but everyone saw you with her? and the photos?"

"yeah, she was there, but i didn't fuckin' take her — she was feignin' for them fuckin' pills, kid," The bluntness of his words strike you hard, and suddenly, embarrassment washes over you. you realise you had jumped to conclusions, just like everyone else, and you look down, biting your tongue as you desperately search for something to say.

silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable, and your gaze finds its way back to chris, who is already staring at you as if he's trying to decipher your thoughts. he tilts his head slightly, crossing his arms over his chest, a posture that feels confrontational.

"besides," he begins, his tone shifting to something more matter-of-fact, "shouldn't really matter to you who i go with, right? 'cos we're not datin', kid. we're just sleepin' together, yeah?"

his words hang in the air like a cold reminder, and you nod your head slowly in response.

"do y'wanna stop?" he asks suddenly.

you didn't expect that question, and your heart races. "what?"

"m'givin' you an out, kid.. d'you wanna stop?" his gaze is unwavering, searching your face for an answer, and you can sense the weight of the choice he's placing in front of you.

you think over his question for a moment, and you think hard, weighing the options. ending this arrangement with him would certainly be a lot less complicated, but the thought leaves you hallow.

chris has become the normal for you. he's apart of your routine, a presence that even though frustrates the hell out of you and makes you so confused, he also brings you an odd comfort and excitement. and not only are you experiencing new sexual things with him, you are enjoying the pleasures that come with it too.

"no," you answer softly, "no, not really."

"alright..." chris hums, and you watch as his shoulders seem to relax, his arms uncrossing from his chest at your response. he nods his head, licking his lips to wet them, before he asks, "you stayin' over or you plannin' on bein' busy again?"

your face heats up, your nose scrunching up and your lips forming into a small pout as your murmur. "i was serious about being busy..."

"yeah, okay, bun."

© STURNIOZ

[perdvivly]

Not waiting for chance or fate to dictate the terms of how annoying I’m allowed to be on the internet. I am choosing to answer them all now, unasked as I am.

1) This is mildly variable depending on the amount of effort I’m willing to expend. Typically the common theme is no adulterants. No sugar, no milk, no queen of England. If I’m getting fancy with it I’ll make an effort to time the brewing duration, 3mins for a black tea, 5mins for a green tea, 7mins for a herbal tea. But honestly the sort of depression chic I’ve been serving lately has been leaving the bag in and drinking it straight, tannins be damned.

2) Mandarin. Just seems like it’d be the most useful innit. Also, relatively harder to pick up non-magically given my native Englishhood.

3) God. I try not to honestly. No, but seriously, my sleep schedule has been all sorts of out of shape recently. I should work on that. At the moment it varies wildly day to day and depends on my responsibilities the days before and after the sleep. I’ve pulled a couple of all nighters recently and it gets screwy.

4) Maybe atla? I remember really liking it when it came out but not fully understanding the whole plot because I didn’t see it serialised until later. Maybe the simpsons? There’s something to say here about the earnestness of the earlier seasons and seeing a deeply dysfunctional family care about each other in ways they struggle to express—that gets glossed out as the production value rises in the later seasons—that’s like heroin to someone trapped in an irony poisoned world. But maybe that’s cope? Maybe it’s just the show I had the easiest access to as a kid. I guess I didn’t watch a whole bunch of tv or at least not a whole bunch that stuck with me.

5) Summer ez. (Have you seen her baphomet pics? 🥵)

6) In general, I doubt very much that either the optimist or the pessimist considers themselves such. It’s not really the sort of thing that admits of self-diagnosis in that way… Philosophically, the broader question is what? Do I align with Schopenhauer, Voltaire’s Leibniz, or Russel’s Leibniz? I’m not sure the tumblrinas care about the history of philosophy. I guess I’ll say to the extent that Schopenhauer relies on Indian mysticism, which I think is typically underrated, he’s simply mistaken about the world as will and representation. I’ll say that, I’m *not* a Buddhist. I think the doctrine of dukkha misses fundamental aspects of human existence. I’ll say that people have richer inner lives, deeper felt internal experiences, than you might assume from reading their little words on the internet. And that, on the whole, these are good things.

7) I mean, both ideally. Variety is the spice of life. If I had to choose I suppose it would be sunshine. But I’m terribly glad I don’t live in a world where I have to choose.

8) I have the cutest little book marks. My primary two at the moment are the sun and the moon, which I use for main text and end notes respectively. Though, I have been known to dog-ear in my time. I once got yelled at by my aunt for turning the corner of the page on my copy of Harry Potter and the order of the phoenix because it was a first edition and she was under the impression that it may be valuable some day. I was like, come on man, I’m 7. Don’t even piss. <- I didn’t say these things, but I was *like* that.

9) For the longest time I *only* wore steel toe capped boots because I ran myself over with an electric pallet stacker and tore my toenail off and decided I didn’t want that to happen again. I don’t do that anymore because I interact with heavy machinery less than I used to. Now all that matters to me is that they’re waterproof.

10) *My* signature scent like, I produce it? Or like I like it? I guess one of my favourite scents is lavender. But I've been told... Okay, it's important you guys know I do *not* have a yeast infection... I've been told some parts of my body naturally smell like bread, like, that sort of doughy yeasty (I s2g I do *not* (I did not hit her. I did not! oh hi mark)) smell that you get with bread sometimes. Is that what the question was asking?

11) I mean... That's broadly not for me to decide right? Unless the sort of dragons you're imagining have some sort of glamoury illusion magic, which seems plausible. Anyway, do you guys remember in Moby Dick when he goes on this wild tangent about how St. George and The Dragon was acutally about whales? And St. George's horse was actually a walrus or something. What was that about??

Okay, author's note, there's a time skip here. I've been scrolling through lists of dragons in popular culture for a while now and there are a pretty neat and widely varied selection of designs. I'll get back to you on this one.

12) It depends on why I'm writing! If it's a quick note to myself for future reference it'll generally be cursive, if it's an important document that will be read by other people generally it'll be print. If it's time-sensitive it'll be cursive. I remember writing essays for undergrad that I'm sure were totally illegible by the end of them, I think literally just a line on a page with occasional lifts and dips.

13) There is more information on wookieepedia than existed in my philosophy but a few minutes ago. The typology I've discerned is thus: blue - jock, green - nerd, yellow - geek, red - edgelord. And I'm a little bit of all of these, so I think any would be fine. Realistically though, I'm not sure a lightsaber is the best weapon in fantasy space-past-future where spaceships and lasers are common. Like, I'll let it slide because the original trilogy was doing a kirkegaardian faith thing and the prequels were doing a logic doesn't matter it's cool thing, and those are both respectable motivations to leave logistics aside for a bit.

14) Sad

15) Ice skates! I love ice skating!

16) I'm a youngest. I have an older sister, I think I talk about her here from time to time.

17) Well, how I would use it would depend massively on what it was. If the question is which superpower I think is the best then why not ask that? Which superpower would I have has a faint ring of incomprehensibility about it. It's really not clear which counterfactual is under consideration. *If* what?

Anyway, I think time control powers are up there right? Top five at least, easy. Imagine what you could do if you could stop time and sleep whenever you felt like it. I feel King Leerish about the ability to just be well rested. I would do such things, what they are yet I know not.

18) The problem with romantic relationships is that eventually, all of your most interesting clothing will end up in someone else's closet. I think my day-to-day wear tends to be mostly blues, blacks and whites. Not hugely interesting colourwise.

19) Snake, I think, they have fewer demands and I can't really handle any more pressure in my life than I already have. I would hate to be a bad bird mom... I would hate to be a bad snake mom too, but I think it's easier. Typically regarded as easier. I don't know.

20) Okay, so, it's like this right: medieval battle = will probably die. And it's also like this: behind city walls = safe, my friend and lover and confidant. And so, for very obvious reasons, it's gotta be a bow right? Like, I'm standing way out of the action and I'll shoot some arrows long range. But if that's against the spirit of the ask then it's gotta be some kind of polearm, like a halberd or something. Not even close. The advantage you get from distance is hard to overstate. Yeah, polearm for sure.

21) Mint choc chip, it's just such a classic. But also, I had a "london fog" flavour recently that was really compelling. It's just earl grey and vanilla but it's so good.

22) I'm more of a herbs person than a spices person. Like, hmm, I do really enjoy paprika and ginger and stuff like that, don't get me wrong. But it doesn't really hold a candle to the sheer universality of parsley or basil or oregano or mint. Herbs stay winning.

23) These days it's aptos because I am the worlds most basic bitch. And yes, I do still have a fondness for arial.

ask game that tells a lot about you.

how do you take your tea / coffee?

if you could be fluent in any language at the snap of your fingers, which one and why?

when do you wake up?

what was your favourite tv show as a kid?

summer or winter?

realist, optimist, or pessimist?

rain or sunshine?

how do you mark your spot in a book?

what are your favourite shoes like?

what would your non-perfume/cologne signature scent be?

if you were a dragon, what would you look like?

is your handwriting more print, cursive, or a mix?

what colour would your lightsaber be?

what is your defining personality trait?

roller skates or rollerblades or ice skates?

are you an only child? oldest / middle / youngest?

what would your superpower be? how would you use it?

what’s your clothing colour palette?

pet snake or pet bird?

weapon of choice in a medieval battle

the best ice cream flavour

what spices do you always use when cooking?

default font when typing?

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 10: The One About the Audibly Loud Lukola FanFic

I’ll address the elephant in the room. And, no, I’m not talking about Jake Dunn’s brown suit! Or, that he’s posing with a man. Or, that Tyler commented “Bellissimo!!!!” on Jake's post.

I don’t think a lot of people understood the connection I was making this morning about “Mis-Directed,” Gwilym Lee, and Jake.  So, now I feel the need to explain because I don’t want people running with a narrative that goes in the opposite direction of where I was taking it.

Sorry, JVN, you’re getting pushed to the side again. I promise, I’ll get to you one day.

Let’s go back two months…

On September 25, Nicola posted to her Instagram stories a link to Alex Babsky’s post, which was a picture of Nicola. She had her hair and make-up done but she was wearing one of her own dresses (the black dress she wore in Australia and Brazil). Babsky captioned his post “[pink bow] @nicolacoughlan in London today for…well, never mind what for actually [laughing emoji with hand over mouth] [winking emoji] [shushing emoji].” Nicola responded, “You’re amazing it was so gorgeous to see you xxx.”

Babksy’s caption sent the fandom into hysteria wondering what the hell Nicola was up to. It didn’t help that this was the same day Luke updated his Instagram bio and used “Xx” and it didn’t help that Nicola was wearing the black dress she allegedly wore on her beach walk in Brazil with Luke.

Do you want to know what I thought the photo of Nicola was from? I’m not going to lie – I thought it was pre-wedding makeup. Seriously, not kidding. It reminded me of my own wedding day. Formal hair and makeup and my own dress that was easy to take off without messing up the hair and makeup. I never said I wasn’t a little bit delulu.

On November 5, an author named Lucy Parker announced on her Instagram feed that she had a new Audible book called “Mis-Directed” being released in February 2025. The post came with pictures of Nicola wearing the black dress and the same hair and makeup as the September 25 post. Nicola (presumably) is reading the part of Hattie Murton, and Gwilym Lee (presumably) is reading the part of Anthony Rafe.

Oh, okay.

Turns out, I was wrong.

So, Nicola and Luke didn’t get married.

Fine.

I have always liked crows.

But, wait a minute – what the fuck is this Audible book about? A woman who stars in a romantic drama called “Leicester Square” (what the fuck?) which was adapted from a best-selling romance novel (what the fuck??). Then, in comes our antagonist, Anthony Rafe, who plays opposite of Hattie and, let me quote here, “But when very real chemistry sparks during their scripted love scenes, Hattie begins to think the industry’s legendarily heartless Bad Guy [Anthony] might just a have a pulse after all. And Anthony, for his part, is caught off-guard by the way his heart races when he’s around his aggravating onscreen lover. As reality starts to imitate art a little too close for comfort, the world’s most unlikely couple might just have more in common than they thought…” (what the fuck???).

Let’s start with Leicester Square. What the hell is Leicester Square? Oh, the name of the fake television show on which Hattie and Anthony star. Sure, Jan. Is it odd to anyone else that Leicester Square is the name of the location of where the London premiere of Bridgerton Season 3 took place? You know, the event that happened hours before Papsmear.

Then we have the make-believe show being adapted from a best-selling romance novel. Mmm hmm.

Let’s try and not make the connection between Luke and Anthony. Mmm hmm.

And, let’s add fuel to the fire and have two co-stars falling in love with each other.

Yeah, we get it. It’s a Lukola FanFic being read by none other than Nicola. I mean, the only way it could be any better is if Luke was reading the part of Anthony Rafe! But, no, that part is being read by Gwilym Lee (who is fantastic in everything he does, by the way).

Who is Gwilym Lee? Well, he’s an actor (my father calls him “Midsomer”). Ask Mr. Google about him. But, if you check out his Instagram feed, you will find that he knows Jake and has since, at least, 2022. Is it possible that Nicola met Gwilym through Jake? Yeah, it is.

Now, why do I find this situation intriguing? Specifically, why did I find the post from Jake this morning posing with Gwilym interesting (and a bit shady)? Let me explain.

The Jakholes took the “Mis-Directed” FanFic as shade towards the Lukolas. Yes, they went there because that FanFic does not (in the least) fit nicely into their Jakola narrative. I mean, if it wasn’t shade to the Lukolas, how weird the storyline must have been for Jake! The writing was audibly on the wall, in big red letters, but the Jakholes chose to spin it into something messier than my hair in the morning after sleeping on it wet.

What exactly is this theory? Well, per the Jakholes, Nicola hates the Lukola fandom so much that she sat and read (likely, for hours) this Lukola-coded FanFic just to spite us! I mean, Anthony is a bad boy in this story and “everyone loves to hate” him (don’t forget, Luke became the devil incarnate after Papsmear). And, Hattie is tired of the “brutal press, overly invested fans, and a cutthroat industry…[that] would give even Pollyanna an edge of cynicism.” The Jakholes believe this means Nicola is saying she’s really in love with Jake and she wants us all to know that by reading a Harlequin-style romance about a woman who falls in love with her costar! Oh, my God!! How could she?!

What in the actual fuck are the Jakholes drinking with this bullshit? I know, I know. I shouldn’t expect anything better from people who ship Jake with Nicola. In fact, if I was a Jakhole, I might buy into this conspiracy theory. But, I’m not a fucking Jakhole. And, guess what Jakholes? I don’t mind breaking the hearts of Lukolas by saying we’re probably never going to see sexy-hot Brazil pictures of Luke and Nicola, so I don’t mind telling Jakholes to put this theory back into Davy Jones’ locker and feed it to that bitch Kraken.

Let’s talk a bit further about the absurdity of this “Nicola is shading Lukola” subplot from Hell.

We will pretend Nicola hates Luke. She hates Lukola. She baits the Lukola fandom for shits and giggles.

What would this make Nicola?

It would make her a villain, for starters (and “villain” is me being extremely nice).

More importantly, it would make Nicola a PR nightmare.

Even if Nicola and Luke despised each other, do you believe Netflix, Bridgerton, and Shonda Land would allow Nicola to play games with the Lukola fandom? Talk about playing with fire!

The reality is the lines between Polin and Lukola are heavily blurred at this point. I hate to say it – and maybe a lot of you will view me as a complete asshole after I say this – but, if I learned Nicola was shading the Lukolas (therefore, in my opinion, trolling Luke), I would not be interested in Bridgerton Season 4. Or, Season 5. Or, any season after that. Or, in Nicola, for that matter. You’re welcome to have your own opinion about this but I would feel incredibly betrayed, and not just by Nicola. On top of that, for me, Polin has become Lukola. They’re so blurred, they don’t even resemble a line anymore. Maybe that’s a bad position to be in, but that’s where I’m at. Sorry, not sorry.

I’m not going to rehash the breadcrumbs left by Nicola that support Lukola – if you know, you know (or you can catch up by spending an afternoon on Tumblr). Even Luke, in his own way, leaves Lukola-coded crumbs. We also have damn convincing evidence that Netflix, Bridgerton, and Shonda Land support Lukola. I mean, even they’re blurring the lines with “Nicola and Luke’s Cutest Moments” and interestingly timed images of Polin. So, do you think they’re going to let Nicola fuck with that on a public forum?

That would be a cold, hard NO.

But, this Audible book – “Mis-Directed” – is loud and made louder because Nicola is reading it.

So, what is this Audible book? Shade? Or, Nicola being cutesy? I’m going to place my bets on the latter solely because, like I said, the Corporate Office is not going to let Nicola shade Lukola because it has a direct effect on Polin.

That’s not to say that the excitement of this Lukola-coded “Mis-Directed” FanFic wasn’t attacked by the Jakholes from all sides, and the wind – for the moment – was kicked out of it. That’s a different story for a different day.

But, what I found so intriguing about Jake’s post today is that, of all the people he could have included in his photo (because there’s obviously lots of people at this event), he chose Gwilym. And, this means people will look into Gwilym. People will realize that Gwilym is the other side of “Mis-Directed.” People will realize Jake and Gwilym are friends. People will realize that Jake’s friend is reading a Lukola-themed romance novel with Nicola.

And, if we agree that the book is not shade towards the Lukolas and we agree that Jakola is not real, what is the significance of the connection between Jake and Gwilym? Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m overthinking it. But, the connection – at least in my mind (and it’s been there since November 5) – is that Jake supports “Mis-Directed” because he supports Lukola and he has always been there, helping Nicola lay the breadcrumbs. He wanted people to look into Gwilym and make the connection. Jake could very well be the one who suggested Gwilym read the part of Anthony. Jake is the degree of separation.

I want to close this out by noting that Jake also liked the post Nicola has pinned on her Instagram grid – the black and white one about her Time 100 article. You know, the one where Nicola says, “A lot of people really want me to marry Luke.” Follow the links and it will take you to this article. That’s an interestingly placed like by Jake, in my opinion – as is his photo op with Gwilym.

[luludeluluramblings]

dream team back. we’re currently yapping central again (per usual)

both of us are straight up in a tim drake brainrot spiral too!!! he’s a delightful little weirdo. a strange little gentleman if you will.

tim is such a funny little guy!!! he also makes a solid yandere. you can’t outsmart him. you can’t escape someone who can find everything about you. On the upside, I feel like he’d be happy to spoil his darling. also he’d be like, really considerate in weird ways??? I mean like you don’t get privacy (or you get the illusion of it maybe but not actual privacy.)

like yeah you’re always being watched in some way, but the man has committed every single one of your favorites and least favorites to memories. He knows what clothing you like, what specific features you look for in everything, and if he doesn’t, by god, will he learn. He knows your favorite song, and he knows the nickname you went by in elementary school.

Do you think he pretends to be normal and basically sets things up to send reader to be like a little love story?? You meet by chance, and he fell first. He fell a LONG time ago, so now it’s his mission to make you fall too. And Tim Drake ALWAYS finishes a mission. (Even as a baby daddy candidate). He makes himself the best option, even if he’s not the father.

Yandere!TimDrake x PastFriend!Reader x Aiden Cobblepot

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Sooooo, I'm finally and slowly going through my ask box and you two may have sparked an idea just for Tim. I might have to do a Part Two for this. (I'm falling into the WIP trap. Help!) But, I love the thought of the Bat Family have competition when it comes to their darling. Gives them a challenge. Plus, I really wanted to use Aiden Cobblepot for this. I've been wanting to sneak him into something.

A/N: We have neglected!Sib!Reader, but what about a Neglected!Friend!Reader? Fun idea. Tim already knowing everything about you only to find you’ve changed and wants to study you all over again. Only this time he’s keeping you! (I’m very fond of Tim. I think he’s difficult to write for me, but I enjoy the little stalker so much.)

Warnings: Yandere Themes, Romantic themes, Tim can be read as kinda platonic, GN!Reader

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

You and Tim were once good friends. Well, he was your best friend. To him you were just a good one. High school buddies that would hang out all the time. At school only. And sometimes the rare gala you saw him at. It was rare you ever actually went to The Manor. You never asked to go. But, you had hoped to be invite.

Just like you had hoped that he might reciprocate that pesky crush you had on him back then. You had felt like it was so painfully obvious. Though it wasn't as painful when you finally figured out he was Red Robin and you waited and waited for him to tell you his secret identity. And, then you would tell him you already figured it out and you would look so cool.

Only, he never did. You both grew distant. You had put so much carful effort into keeping that distance from growing. Inviting him to hang out more. Asking him out for casual coffee. He always said the same thing.

"Oh, damn. I could really go for that right now. But, I'm just sorta busy. Next time though. For sure."

Over and over. He sounded like a broken character. Repeating the same phrase. One that you would hang around after the game was over to reminisce about all the fun adventures you both once had. However this was life not a game. You couldn't just restart and rerun the same adventures.

It made you ache when you finally moved on. When you finally pulled away. Because, Tim didn't even notice you were gone. His life to change. He didn't have to restart anything. You had lost your best friend and he didn't even care. It stung. It stung more than you realizing he'd never reciprocate your feelings.

But, like all things, time moves on and so do you. Leaving the past behind and starting a new game. One that you start to flourish in. Making new friends. Meeting new people. Building closer bonds and more healthy friendships. It had been interesting to realize how dependent you had been on Tim once upon a time. And, embarrassing. You can't help looking back on it with a wince. You almost want to reach out and apologize. But, that would be weird and you both live completely separate lives now. You hardly ever see him at galas now. Mostly because you don't go anymore.

Things, do change. You never expected your new partner would draw Tim's attention back to you. And, in such a terrible way.

You had a rough idea of what you were getting into when Aiden Cobblepot had asked you out to dinner. You figured he was only interested in you for your money or your half-decent looks or your family name and position. You had heard all the rumors about him, but still you went. Mostly, because you knew how dangerous he and his family were. And, you were… presently surprised.

He was a bit of an entitled asshole. But, he wasn't scared of getting dirty. You watched him lead you through the puddles of rain water and Gotham grim in the posh restaurant. He held more concern for you're clothing getting dirty than his, which were more expensive than yours. He paid for the date without flinching at the price. Encouraged you to try his own food from his plate. Talked about fond memories of the things he and his sister got up to as children while asking you about your own childhood.

Admittedly, you were easily seduced because after that the two of you became an item. You didn't even realize how official you were until he introduced you to his sister, Addison, and she was actually nice to you. Extremely nice. She did, however, threaten to kill you if you betrayed Aiden in any way, which was honestly fair enough.

Aiden and you were a bit on the opposite side of things, taste wise and morally wise. But, you both made it work. He continued his life of crime, but made no mention of it around you to keep you legally clean. You shared most of your life with him, letting him have a slight glimmer into normalcy. He liked to take you on fancy dates and show you a good time. You were happy to pull him inside just to spend personal time with each other. Of course, you both made compromises. Aiden had a taste for luxury, and you didn't mind indulging in it. Especially after you beat his ass multiple times in Mario cart. It was only fair you let him take you to a gala some point.

Little did you know that that was how Tim would come clawing and digging his way back into your life.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

For Tim seeing you again was like finding an old precious treasure. His life had gotten so difficult and complicate lately that just a reminded of all those old times was nice.

However, seeing you on the arms of the Penguin's son was a brutal wake up call. What were you doing? Had you hit your head? Was he blackmailing you? Drugging you? Everyone in Gotham could recognize the name Cobblepot and how dangerous they are. And, he remembers how smart you were so you couldn't have willing chose to be there. It's not logical.

For your safety, he reintroduces himself to you. Long time, no see. We should hang out some time and catch up. Only he means it. He can't let this happen. He can't let you fall in with a man like that. You're his friend. He'll win you over for your own sake. Ruin Cobblepot while he's at it because how dare he use you.

Even if you changed. Even if you don't smell the same. If your hair is different. If you dress different. Even if your very laugh had changed pitch, he knows you. And, if anything, he can just re-learn you all over again. It won't take long. He's done it all before. This time he'll savor though. This time he won't let you go as he pulls you back in. You were a good friend, this time he'll make you more.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: I’m starting to type up Part Three of Pregant!Reader, but I ended up coming up with another start to it with more drama that would be strictly for the BatBoys. The messed up drama in it sounds fun and challenging, but I won’t do it until I finish what I started with the blurbs I have planned included.

A/N: Smalltown!Meta!Reader Part Nine is going to take a while. I have big plans for it, but Pregnant!Reader is kinda outshining it.

A/N: I will post about the LoungeSinger!Reader and another idea I came up with that y’all might like that I’ll add to the concept list.

A/N: There’s a Tony Part Two coming, but it’s only halfway typed and still not that yandere-y. Need to fix that.

A/N: My asks box is full, so I’m gonna try to empty it, but I host Thanksgiving in my family and I’m also a Christmas nut, so I’m gonna be busy. (I have four Christmas trees in my house currently… But I’m not as bad as my in-laws! They had their trees up BEFORE Halloween.)

[julietsf1]

The Potion Project - Charles Leclerc x Reader (Harry Potter inspired)

summary: When a week-long potions project pairs two opposites, something starts brewing between them as well (12k words)

content: sweet Charles, cold reader, set at Hogwarts, who hired Gunther as a teacher? enemies to lovers

A/N: I'm entering my winter groove again and every year around this time I rewatch the HP movies & it got me feeling nostalgic guys!! with Charles being a big fan I just had to write something heehee :) I know he says he's Ravenclaw but I choose to ignore that

Franco fics soon! just doing some last proofreading

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The dungeons were colder than necessary. Not that it was unusual—I’d spent enough time in the Slytherin common room to acclimate—but there was something distinctly unpleasant about Potions. The damp air clung to the walls, steeped with the scent of overbrewed concoctions, the occasional waft of singed hair, and faint notes of despair.

Professor Steiner loomed at the front of the classroom like a storm cloud, his sharp eyes scanning the room as if daring anyone to breathe too loudly.

“Quiet!” he barked, his voice reverberating off the walls. Several students flinched, though Steiner’s theatrics were nothing new. “This is not a place for your idle chatter. This is my domain. You will respect it—or you will suffer!”

I stifled a sigh, adjusting my quill and parchment. Steiner was infamous for his dramatic speeches, though they were often more effective at frightening first-years than inspiring actual respect.

“Today,” he continued, his sharp accent cutting through the air, “we embark on a very special project. One that will test your patience, skill, and—most importantly—your ability to cooperate.”

I straightened slightly in my seat. It was never a good sign when Steiner emphasized words like patience or cooperate.

“This term,” he went on, “we will be brewing Amortentia.”

A ripple of excitement spread through the room. Amortentia: the most powerful love potion in existence. It was infamous for revealing one’s innermost desires through scent alone—a potion that required equal parts skill and trust to perfect.

“However,” Steiner added, silencing the murmurs with a sharp glare, “this is not merely an exercise in potion-making. This is an exercise in unity. You will be working with a partner from a different house.”

The murmurs returned, louder this time.

“Oh, Merlin,” Lando muttered beside me, leaning back in his chair with a theatrical groan. He was leaning so far back in his chair he might as well have been horizontal. 

My usual partner in crime was a typical Slytherin: confident, smug, and disliked for the dumbest reasons. Although Lando himself had claimed his house allocation to be the result from ‘Slithering in every girl’s pants’. A remark I mocked him for at every chance I got, of course. Not that he was wrong, though. 

“The potion is delicate,” Steiner continued, glaring at Max Verstappen, who was whispering something to Daniel Ricciardo across the aisle. “It requires precision. Focus. And most importantly—trust. Without these, it will fail spectacularly. Ja, you will fail spectacularly.”

“Now,” he said, pacing the front of the room, “I will announce your partners. Listen carefully—there will be no changes.”

The roll call began, each pairing met with a mixture of groans, laughter, and resigned sighs.

“Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri.”

Oscar, a soft-spoken Ravenclaw, looked visibly distressed. Lando grinned, clearly planning some sort of mischief.

“Carlos Sainz and Alex Albon.”

Carlos, the ever strategising Ravenclaw, gave Alex a polite nod. Alex, the friendly Hufflepuff that he is, returned it with a vibrant smile.

“Daniel Ricciardo and Max Verstappen.”

Max’s expression remained stoic, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Daniel, on the other hand, clapped Max on the back, loudly declaring, “This is going to be fantastic!”

“Fernando Alonso and Lance Stroll.”

The room collectively groaned. Of course. Two Slytherins working together defeated the entire point of inter-house cooperation, but neither Alonso nor Lance seemed remotely apologetic. 

Lance’s dad was also a professor, but he always denied that having anything to do with his seemingly never-ending luck. 

“George Russell and Ollie Bearman.”

Ollie, the youngest of the Hufflepuffs, looked ready to bolt. George, a Ravenclaw with an air of calm superiority, gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“Lewis Hamilton and Franco Colapinto.”

Franco, ever the optimist, grinned at Lewis. The Gryffindor Seeker offered a polite nod in return, his demeanor radiating quiet dignity.

“Pierre Gasly and Valtteri Bottas.”

Valtteri, the epitome of Hufflepuff steadiness, seemed unfazed. Pierre, a flamboyant Gryffindor, raised an eyebrow as if already calculating the odds of success.

“And finally,” Steiner said, his gaze landing on me, “Y/N and Charles Leclerc.”

I froze.

Charles Leclerc—the golden boy of Hufflepuff. Cheerful, clumsy, and infuriatingly optimistic.

He turned around from his seat in the front of the class, flashing me a grin that made my blood boil.

I glared at him, already regretting every decision that had led me to this moment.

...

By the time class ended, the room had descended into controlled chaos. The sound of chairs scraping, glass clinking, and voices clashing filled the air as everyone began gathering their supplies and—predictably—arguing with their partners.

Charles, bless his Hufflepuff heart, had already made a mess. He reached for a jar of billywig stings on the shelf, fumbled it like it was a Quaffle, and sent it tumbling to the floor.

“Sorry!” he exclaimed, bending down to pick it up—only to bump his head on the desk on the way up.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. This was going to be a disaster.

Across the room, Franco was chatting animatedly with Lewis, waving his hands so much I half-expected him to take off like a billywig himself.

“...and then there was this time during the Quidditch match when I nearly got hit by a Bludger, but I dodged it like—” Franco made an exaggerated dive motion, knocking a vial off the table. Lewis caught it effortlessly, his Gryffindor poise still intact.

“Focus,” Lewis said mildly, setting the vial back in place.

“Right, focus,” Franco said, clearly not planning to focus at all.

At the front of the room, Max and Daniel were already plotting, their voices carrying easily over the din.

“We’ll finish first,” Max declared confidently, his Slytherin arrogance practically radiating off him.

“Obviously,” Daniel replied, grinning. “We’re the dream team.”

“Be realistic, hermanos,” Carlos interjected as he passed, his Ravenclaw sensibilities clearly offended by their lack of a plan. “You haven’t even read the instructions.”

“We don’t need instructions,” Max said.

“That’s the motto of people who fail,” Carlos shot back, but Daniel just laughed and gave him a thumbs-up.

Beside me, Lando was enjoying himself far too much. He was leaning back in his chair, looking between me and Charles like he was watching the first act of a play.

“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” he said with a grin.

“I hate you,” I replied flatly.

“Don’t worry,” he added, clapping me on the shoulder like he was offering genuine comfort. “If you get desperate, just tell him the potion needs ‘a dash of love’ or something. Hufflepuffs eat that stuff up.”

“Don’t you have a Ravenclaw to terrorize?” I shot back, nodding toward Oscar, who was nervously rearranging his supplies like his life depended on it.

“Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with him,” Lando said, his smirk widening. “He already looks like he’s on the verge of a breakdown. All I have to do is mislabel one ingredient and—poof—chaos.”

“Remind me why we’re friends?”

“Because you love me,” Lando said simply, leaning back again.

Meanwhile, Charles, who had managed to gather most of his spilled supplies, was now trying to stack several jars precariously on top of each other. The top one teetered dangerously, and I opened my mouth to stop him—but it was too late.

The jar crashed to the floor, shattering into a million pieces.

“Sorry!” Charles yelped again, looking genuinely distressed.

Lando snorted. “Seven nights,” he said, shaking his head. “Seven nights of this. How are you going to survive?”

“I’m not,” I muttered. “Just make sure the epitaph on my grave says Death by Hufflepuff.”

By the time we reached the Slytherin common room, my frustration had only deepened. The thought of spending seven nights with Charles Leclerc—cheerful, clumsy, maddening Charles—was enough to make my head ache. 

Lando lounged on the sofa nearest the fireplace, looking every bit the self-assured Slytherin that he was. His legs were draped over the armrest, his tie hanging loose around his neck, and his smirk firmly in place.

“Well?” he drawled, twirling his wand between his fingers. “How does it feel to be paired with Charles ‘Sunshine and Smiles’ Leclerc?”

“About as thrilling as you’d expect,” I replied, sinking into the armchair opposite him. “Can’t wait to spend my evenings watching him trip over cauldrons while giving me a lecture on the power of friendship.”

Lando snorted, clearly amused. “At least he’s nice.”

“That’s part of the problem,” I said, slumping further into the chair. “He’s too nice. It’s unsettling. Nobody is that cheerful without some ulterior motive.”

“Maybe his ulterior motive is making you less of a cynic,” Lando said with a grin.

“Maybe my ulterior motive is not hexing him before the week is over,” I shot back.

Lando chuckled, leaning forward slightly. “Come on, he can’t be that bad.”

“He dropped a jar twice before we even started,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Twice, Lando. That’s not just clumsiness—that’s a cry for help.”

“Maybe he was nervous,” Lando offered, though the twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement.

“Why? Because I terrify him?”

“Because you terrify everyone,” he replied, laughing.

I grabbed one of the decorative cushions and threw it at him. Lando ducked, cackling as the cushion sailed harmlessly past him.

“Alright, alright,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “If Charles is as hopeless as you say, what do you think his Amortentia will smell like?”

“Sunshine and sincerity,” I said instantly.

Lando blinked. “Sunshine? Sincerity?”

“Yes,” I replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness. “The man practically radiates it. He probably spends his free time rescuing injured animals and helping old witches cross the street. Honestly, he probably smells like freshly baked bread, lavender fields, and the satisfaction of knowing he’s a better person than the rest of us.”

Lando howled with laughter, clutching his stomach. “Lavender fields? Satisfaction? You’re killing me.”

“Am I wrong?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Lando admitted, still chuckling. “But now I’m picturing him cradling a three-legged puppy while giving an inspirational speech.”

“Exactly,” I said, smirking. “The boy is too sweet and soft. It’s suspicious.”

“And here I thought you were being unfair,” Lando teased, shaking his head.

“Oh, I’m completely unfair,” I said lightly. “But you can’t tell me you don’t see it. He’s practically glowing.”

“Fair enough,” Lando said, still grinning. “What about Franco? What’s his going to smell like?”

“An older woman,” I replied without hesitation.

Lando froze for a second before dissolving into laughter. “Merlin’s beard, you’re right. Max and Franco, both of them. Older women everywhere, beware.”

I leaned back, considering. “Although, your potion might not be much better. Portuguese pastries, for sure.”

“What?” Lando exclaimed, sitting up slightly. “Pastel de nata?”

“Mm-hmm,” I said, nodding. “Which, let’s be honest, doesn’t narrow down your soulmate pool at all.”

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, covering his face with a cushion.

“Thank you,” I said sweetly.

Once Lando had recovered from his pastry-induced existential crisis, his expression turned mischievous again. “Alright, back to Charles. Do you think he’s already figured out what yours will smell like?”

I frowned. “Why would he care?”

“Oh, come on,” Lando said, rolling his eyes. “It’s practically inevitable. You, with your sharp tongue and overwhelming perfection. Him, with his golden retriever energy and clumsy charm. By the end of the week, he’s going to be hopelessly in love with you.”

“If you don’t shut up,” I cut in, “I will hex you into next week.”

Lando grinned. “You won’t do it.”

“Try me,” I said, narrowing my eyes.

“You’re just mad because I’m right,” he said smugly, leaning back again.

“I’m mad because you’re insufferable,” I shot back.

“Sure, sure,” he said, waving me off. “But when you’re proven wrong, I’ll be here. Ready to say ‘I told you so.’”

I reached for another cushion, but Lando had already leapt to his feet, laughing as he dodged out of range. “Goodnight, Y/N. Enjoy your sunshine and sincerity!”

“Goodnight, Lando,” I called after him, shaking my head.

The common room fell quiet after he left, save for the crackling fire and the occasional drip of water from the enchanted windows. I sank deeper into the armchair, letting my head fall back against the cushion.

Seven nights with Charles Leclerc. Seven nights of clumsiness, cheerful optimism, and broom polish.

This was going to be a long week.

…

The Potions classroom at night felt different. Quieter, somehow, but not in a peaceful way. The torches burned low, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls, and the faint scent of old ingredients hung in the air. I’d arrived early—not out of enthusiasm, but because I refused to let Charles Leclerc think I was the kind of person who was ever late.

The workspace I claimed was one of the better ones: a sturdy wooden table near the center of the room, far enough from the cauldron fumes of other students but close enough to Steiner’s desk to appear studious.

I began unpacking my supplies with the precision of someone who needed to keep their hands busy. Dried billywig stings, crushed moonstone, powdered asphodel—each vial was placed carefully in its designated spot.

“Y/N?”

I nearly dropped my stirring rod at the sound of his voice. Turning, I saw Charles standing in the doorway, framed by the dim light. He was holding a cauldron that seemed far too large for one person to manage, and the cheerful grin on his face was the exact opposite of how I felt about this entire situation.

“You’re early,” he said brightly, walking toward me with the kind of enthusiasm that could only come from a Hufflepuff.

“So are you,” I replied, already turning back to my supplies.

“Thought I’d get a head start,” he said, setting the cauldron down with a loud thud that made the glass jars on the table rattle.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to stay calm. “Great idea,” I muttered, rearranging the jars he’d displaced.

If Charles noticed my tone, he didn’t comment. Instead, he began unpacking his own supplies, humming softly to himself as he worked.

“What’s that?” I asked, unable to help myself.

“What’s what?”

“The humming,” I said, glancing at him.

“Oh,” he said, looking sheepish. “It’s a song my brother used to sing when he studied. Helps me focus.”

“Right,” I said flatly, returning to my vials.

There was a beat of silence, and then: “So, Y/N, what made you want to study Potions?”

I sighed, setting down my pestle. “Charles, do you think we can skip the small talk and just get to work?”

His expression faltered for a moment before he nodded. “Of course,” he said, his smile dimming slightly.

Good, I thought. This wasn’t a social event.

We’d been working for nearly twenty minutes when the first argument broke out.

“You’re stirring too fast,” I said, frowning at the potion as it bubbled furiously.

“I’m following the instructions,” Charles replied, his tone calm but tinged with exasperation.

“Clearly not,” I said, reaching for the spoon in his hand. “Here, let me—”

“Let me,” he interrupted, holding the spoon just out of my reach.

I glared at him. “Charles, the potion is about to curdle.”

“No, it’s not,” he argued, glancing at the cauldron. “It’s perfectly fine. You’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting?” I repeated, incredulous. “Do you have any idea what happens when Amortentia curdles? Because I can assure you it’s not ‘perfectly fine.’”

Charles sighed, his shoulders sagging as he set the spoon down. “Why do you always assume I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“Because you just spent the last five minutes stirring like you’re whisking pancake batter,” I snapped, gesturing at the cauldron.

“That’s rich coming from someone who spent half the session rearranging the ingredients instead of actually brewing the potion,” he shot back, his tone sharper than I’d expected.

I froze, narrowing my eyes at him. “I was organizing.”

“You were stalling,” he corrected, crossing his arms.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t trust me,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less certain. “You’d rather do everything yourself than let me try.”

“That’s not true,” I said, though the words sounded hollow even to me.

“Isn’t it?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “You’ve been micromanaging me since the moment we started. At least give me a chance before you decide I’m hopeless.”

I stared at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. Before I could respond, the potion hissed loudly, a plume of steam rising from the surface.

“What do we do now?” Charles asked, breaking the silence.

I sighed, grabbing the stirring rod. “We stabilize it. Slowly. Carefully. Without stirring like a maniac.”

The rest of the session passed in tense silence. Charles, to his credit, followed my instructions without complaint, though his earlier comment still grated on me.

By the time the potion had settled into a murky but manageable state, my patience was wearing thin.

“Well,” Charles said, stepping back from the cauldron, “it’s not perfect, but it’s not exploding either.”

“High praise,” I muttered, wiping my hands on a cloth.

He smiled faintly, his earlier cheerfulness tempered by caution. “Thanks for... guiding me,” he said, his voice careful.

I glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. For a moment, I felt a flicker of guilt for being so curt with him earlier.

“Just... read the instructions more carefully next time,” I said, my voice softer than before.

“Got it,” he said, his grin returning in full force.

I rolled my eyes, but there was no real malice behind it.

“See you tomorrow, Y/N,” he said, gathering his supplies.

“Yeah,” I replied, watching as he left the room.

As the door closed behind him, I let out a long sigh. One night down, six to go.

..

The Potions classroom felt less eerie the second night, though it still carried the same oppressive silence that made the sound of footsteps echo louder than necessary. I arrived slightly later this time—not late enough to seem unprofessional, but enough to make it clear I wasn’t in a rush to be here.

Charles was already at the table when I walked in, his cauldron set up and his supplies meticulously organized. He looked up as I approached, offering a polite smile that I didn’t return.

“Evening,” he said, his voice cheerful as always.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I replied, pulling out my notes and setting them down with a bit more force than necessary.

Charles blinked at me but said nothing, turning his attention back to his cauldron. For a few blessed moments, the only sounds were the clinking of vials and the rustle of parchment as we prepared our workspace.

“What do you like most about Potions?” Charles asked after a beat, his tone light, as though he were trying to bridge a gap I hadn’t invited him to cross.

I didn’t look up from measuring the powdered asphodel. “I’m good at it.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“It’s what you’re getting,” I replied curtly.

He chuckled softly, which only annoyed me further. “Alright, fair enough. I like Potions, too.”

“Congratulations,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

“I think it’s interesting,” he continued, completely unfazed by my lack of enthusiasm. “How you can take things that seem ordinary on their own—like herbs or minerals—and combine them to make something extraordinary. It’s like magic within magic, you know?”

I didn’t bother responding.

“I’ve always been curious about how things work,” he went on, oblivious to my silence. “That’s part of why I like Quidditch, too. There’s so much strategy involved—reading the game, anticipating moves. It’s not just about flying fast.”

I hummed vaguely, hoping he’d take the hint and stop talking. He didn’t.

“I started playing when I was seven,” he said, his voice taking on a more personal tone. “My dad taught me. He wasn’t a professional or anything, but he loved the game. Growing up by the sea especially, my brothers and I lost so many snitches and Quaffles in the waves. But he would never be upset about it.”

I accidentally spilled a pinch of asphodel, gritting my teeth as I cleaned it up.

“Y/N?”

“What?” I snapped, looking up at him for the first time.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even listening.”

“I’m listening,” I said defensively.

“No, you’re pretending to listen,” he countered. “There’s a difference.”

I opened my mouth to argue but stopped short when I saw the look on his face. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Look,” I said finally, sighing. “I’m not here to make friends, okay? I’m here to get this potion done.”

Charles’s expression hardened. “Good,” he said sharply. “Because I’m not here to make friends either.”

The words caught me off guard, though I wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Great,” I said, recovering quickly. “Then let’s focus on the potion and skip the personal anecdotes.”

“Fine by me,” he said, his tone colder than I’d ever heard it.

For a while, the only sound between us was the bubbling of the cauldron. The tension in the air was almost palpable, thick and suffocating.

We worked in silence for most of the session, our movements stiff and deliberate. Despite the awkwardness, there was something oddly productive about the lack of conversation. Without distractions, we managed to complete the first phase of the potion without any major disasters.

As I stirred the mixture carefully, I caught a glimpse of Charles out of the corner of my eye. He was focused, his brows furrowed in concentration as he measured out the powdered moonstone.

“You’re doing it wrong,” I said automatically, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Charles looked up, his expression blank. “Am I?”

“Yes,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re supposed to add it gradually, not all at once.”

“Right,” he said, adjusting his technique without argument.

The ease with which he accepted my criticism surprised me. I’d expected more resistance, another round of bickering. Instead, he just nodded and kept working, his movements precise and deliberate.

“Thanks,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now.

“For what?” I asked, frowning.

“For correcting me,” he said simply. “I’d rather get it right than mess it up.”

I didn’t respond, turning my attention back to the cauldron. There was something disarming about the way he said it, his sincerity catching me off guard.

We finished the session without any further mishaps, the potion a shimmering shade of lilac by the end of it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a step in the right direction.

As we cleaned up, the tension between us felt slightly less suffocating, though it wasn’t exactly gone.

“See you tomorrow,” Charles said as he packed up his supplies, his tone polite but distant.

“Yeah,” I replied, watching as he walked toward the door.

For a moment, I considered saying something—an apology, maybe, or a thank you. But the words caught in my throat, and by the time I found the courage to speak, the door had already closed behind him.

I sighed, turning back to simmering cauldron. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

..

By the time I arrived at the Potions classroom for the third night, I had resigned myself to another evening of tense silence and forced cooperation. The heavy wooden door creaked slightly as I pushed it open, the familiar smell of ingredients and old stone greeting me as I stepped inside.

Charles was already there, of course. Punctuality seemed to be his specialty, along with a perpetual optimism that bordered on exhausting. But tonight, something was different.

“Evening,” he said, looking up from the table with a smile. In front of him sat not just the usual arrangement of potion supplies but two steaming cups of tea.

I hesitated in the doorway, frowning. “What’s that?”

“Tea,” he said simply, gesturing to the cups. “I thought it might make things... less awful.”

“Less awful,” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I figured if we’re going to be stuck working together all week, we might as well try to make it tolerable,” he explained, pushing one of the cups toward me.

I stared at him for a moment, torn between suspicion and reluctant appreciation. Finally, I sighed and took the cup, the warmth spreading through my hands as I wrapped my fingers around it.

“Thanks,” I muttered, avoiding his gaze.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice soft but sincere.

I took a cautious sip, the rich, slightly floral flavor surprising me. It was good—annoyingly good.

“Didn’t peg you as a tea enthusiast,” I said, setting the cup down.

Charles shrugged, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “I’m full of surprises.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and turned my attention to the cauldron instead.

The session started smoother than the previous two, the tea serving as an unspoken truce between us. Charles seemed more at ease, his movements less tentative as he worked beside me.

“You’re adding too much powdered asphodel,” I said, glancing at his measuring spoon.

Charles paused, holding the spoon over the cauldron. “How much should I add, then?”

“Three pinches, not four,” I replied, my tone less sharp than usual.

He adjusted the amount without complaint, carefully sprinkling the powder into the potion.

“Better?” he asked, looking at me for confirmation.

“Better,” I admitted grudgingly.

Charles smiled, and for a fleeting moment, I noticed how his green eyes caught the torchlight, the flecks of gold in them almost shimmering. I quickly looked away, focusing on the potion.

We worked in relative harmony for the next hour, the bubbling of the cauldron filling the silence between us. It was almost... pleasant. Not that I’d admit it out loud.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Charles said after a while, breaking the silence.

“Is that a complaint?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not at all,” he replied, his grin returning. “Just an observation. You’re usually telling me everything I’m doing wrong by now.”

“I’m trying something new,” I said dryly. “It’s called patience.”

“Impressive,” he said, laughing softly.

“Don’t get used to it,” I warned, though my tone lacked its usual bite.

Charles chuckled again, the sound warm and unassuming. 

As the session continued, I found myself watching him more closely—not in judgment, but in curiosity. There was a quiet determination to the way he worked, his focus unwavering as he carefully measured ingredients and stirred the potion with practiced precision.

His hair, dark and slightly tousled, fell into his eyes as he leaned over the cauldron, and he brushed it back absentmindedly with his fingers. There was something almost... endearing about the way he frowned in concentration, his brow furrowed just enough to give him a boyish charm.

“Y/N?”

I blinked, realizing he’d caught me staring. “What?”

“You’re doing it again,” he said, smirking.

“Doing what?”

“Hovering,” he said, his tone teasing.

“I’m supervising,” I corrected, crossing my arms.

“Right,” he said, his smirk widening. “Supervising.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

By the time we finished, the potion was a shimmering, pearly white—a marked improvement from the murky disaster of the first night.

“Not bad,” Charles said, stepping back to admire our work.

“Could be better,” I replied, though there was no real venom in my words.

“We’ll get there,” he said confidently, wiping his hands on a cloth.

His optimism was still maddening, but I had to admit it was slightly less grating than before.

As we packed up, the tension between us felt noticeably lighter.

“See you tomorrow,” Charles said, offering me another one of his infuriatingly sincere smiles.

“Yeah,” I replied, picking up my bag.

I paused in the doorway, glancing back at him one last time. There was something about the way he stood there—his posture relaxed but attentive, his green eyes bright with that unrelenting earnestness—that made me hesitate.

“Thanks for the tea,” I said quietly.

Charles’s smile widened, and for a moment, I almost felt like smiling back. Almost.

“Anytime,” he said.

I turned and walked out before he could say anything else, the warmth of the tea lingering in my hands—and, annoyingly, in my thoughts.

…

Breakfast in the Great Hall was one of my favorite parts of the day. It wasn’t just the food—though the enchanted platters that replenished themselves with warm toast, flaky pastries, and perfectly brewed coffee certainly didn’t hurt. It was the calm before the chaos, a brief window where the day hadn’t yet demanded anything of you.

This morning, however, I found myself unusually distracted.

“Earth to Y/N.”

I blinked, realizing Lando was waving a piece of bacon in front of my face.

“What?” I snapped, swatting his hand away.

“You’ve been staring into space for the last five minutes,” he said, smirking. “What’s got you so lost in thought? Don’t tell me it’s Leclerc.”

“Of course not,” I said quickly, a little too quickly.

Lando raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, sure. So you weren’t just thinking about how you two are best friends now?”

“We are not best friends,” I said firmly, stabbing a piece of sausage with my fork for emphasis.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve stopped complaining about him, for one thing.”

“That’s because we’ve figured out how to work together,” I said, though the words sounded hollow even to me.

“Oh, you’ve ‘figured out’ how to work together,” Lando said, grinning. “That’s code for you’re warming up to him.”

“I am not warming up to him,” I insisted, though my cheeks felt uncomfortably warm.

“Denial is a powerful thing,” Lando said, taking a sip of his coffee with the kind of exaggerated smugness that made me want to throw something at him.

Further down the table, a lively conversation among our friends caught my attention.

“So, Hufflepuff versus Gryffindor today,” Carlos said, his Ravenclaw demeanor calm but his tone betraying a flicker of curiosity.

“Easy win for Gryffindor,” Franco chimed in, his Hufflepuff scarf loosely draped over his neck. “Leclerc might be good, but the rest of the team’s a mess.”

“Oh, come on,” Alex said, his loyalty as a Hufflepuff evident. “We’re not that bad.”

Max, seated beside Daniel, leaned back with a wicked grin. “I can’t wait to see Gryffindor lose to the worst sports team in the castle.”

Daniel snorted, nudging Max with his elbow. “You’re just bitter because we won last week.”

“I’m not bitter,” Max said, feigning innocence. “I’m just realistic. Hufflepuff’s overdue for a win, and what better team to beat than Gryffindor?”

George, always the voice of reason, raised an eyebrow. “You’re placing your bets on Hufflepuff? You have considered their statistics?”

“Not a bet,” Max said smugly. “It’s more of a prediction. Just wait—you’ll see.”

Daniel shook his head, laughing. “You’re lucky I don’t take offense, Maximilian.”

“Lucky,” Max said, grinning.

The banter continued, but I tuned out as I turned back to Lando, who was watching me with an annoyingly knowing expression.

“What now?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said, smirking. “Just wondering if you’re going to make it through the match without swooning.”

I glared at him. “I am not going to swoon.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, grinning.

By the time we reached the Quidditch pitch, the stands were already buzzing with excitement. The Gryffindor and Hufflepuff banners waved proudly in the breeze, their house colors painting the crowd in shades of red and gold, yellow and black.

Lando led the way to a spot near the middle of the stands, his Slytherin scarf draped loosely around his neck.

“You’re unusually enthusiastic about this,” I said as we sat down.

“I’m here for the drama,” he said, grinning. “And to watch you squirm every time Leclerc does something impressive.”

“I’m not going to squirm,” I said, though my voice lacked conviction.

“Sure, sure,” he said, smirking.

The match began with a sharp whistle from Madam Hooch, the players taking to the air in a blur of motion. The Gryffindor team, as expected, played aggressively, their Chasers weaving through the Hufflepuff defense with practiced ease.

But Hufflepuff held their ground, their Keeper deflecting shot after shot with remarkable precision.

Then there was Charles.

As Seeker, his role was less flashy but no less crucial. He moved with a quiet confidence, his sharp green eyes scanning the pitch as he hovered above the chaos. His dark hair was windswept from the speed, and there was a focus in his expression that I hadn’t noticed before—not the cheerful optimism I’d grown accustomed to, but something sharper, more intense.

“He’s good,” Lando said, nudging me with his elbow.

I ignored him, though I couldn’t deny the truth of his statement.

The game dragged on, neither team managing to pull too far ahead. The score was tight, and the tension in the air was palpable as the Snitch finally appeared, darting across the pitch in a blur of gold.

Charles spotted it immediately.

He shot forward like a bolt of lightning, his broom slicing through the air with precision. The Gryffindor Seeker, hot on his heels, was faster, but Charles was smarter, his movements calculated as he anticipated the Snitch’s erratic flight path.

I found myself leaning forward in my seat, my heart pounding as the two Seekers closed in.

Then, in a move so daring it made the crowd gasp, Charles dove.

It was reckless, almost suicidal, the kind of dive that could end in disaster if his timing was even a fraction off. But he didn’t hesitate.

His fingers closed around the Snitch just inches from the ground, and the stadium erupted into cheers as the whistle blew, signaling the end of the match.

Lando turned to me, his smirk practically splitting his face. “And there it is.”

“There what is?” I asked, tearing my gaze away from the pitch.

“You,” he said, pointing at me. “Blushing.”

“I am not blushing,” I said, though my cheeks betrayed me.

“Sure, sure,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “Just admit it—you’re impressed.”

I crossed my arms, trying to ignore the way my heart was still racing. “He’s fine, I guess.”

“Fine,” Lando repeated, laughing. “You were practically holding your breath during that dive.”

“Was not,” I muttered, though the words sounded unconvincing even to me.

“Whatever you say,” Lando said, grinning.

As the crowd began to disperse, I caught one last glimpse of Charles on the pitch, his teammates surrounding him in celebration. There was a faint smile on his face, not the broad, toothy grin I’d expected, but something quieter, more satisfied.

I shook my head, tearing my gaze away.

It was just Quidditch. Nothing more.

…

I arrived at the Potions classroom that evening with a small package tucked under my arm. It wasn’t like me to make peace offerings, especially not for something as trivial as a strained group project, but the nagging sense of guilt from Charles bringing tea the previous night had finally gotten to me.

If I was being honest, it wasn’t just guilt. It was the faint, begrudging realization that maybe Charles deserved a little credit for his effort. He wasn’t perfect—far from it—but he was trying.

The classroom was quiet when I walked in, the soft flicker of torchlight illuminating Charles already at our table. His head was bent over his cauldron, his dark hair slightly tousled, and the flicker of concentration on his face gave him an uncharacteristic air of seriousness.

“Evening,” I said, setting my bag down with a thud.

Charles looked up, his green eyes brightening when he saw me. “Evening,” he replied, his usual cheerfulness returning instantly. His gaze flickered to the package in my hand. “What’s that?”

“Cookies,” I said, sliding the package across the table toward him. “Consider it a peace offering.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and a grin spread across his face. “A peace offering? From you? Should I be worried?”

“Only if you don’t appreciate them,” I said, smirking.

He chuckled, opening the package and examining the contents. “These look incredible. Did you make them?”

“Obviously,” I replied. “Do you think I’d trust the house-elves to get the seasoning right?”

Charles laughed, a warm, genuine sound that filled the quiet space. “Well, thank you. Really.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said, trying not to let his sincerity catch me off guard. “Literally. Don’t mention it. To anyone.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

As the potion bubbled steadily, we found ourselves settling into an unexpectedly smooth rhythm, each of us quietly handling our assigned tasks.

“You know,” Charles said after a while, glancing at the shimmering surface of the potion, “this is almost... peaceful.”

“Peaceful?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “I think you mean tolerable.”

He laughed softly, adding a careful pinch of powdered moonstone to the cauldron. “Fine, tolerable. But admit it—you’re not having the worst time.”

“That’s a low bar,” I shot back, though my tone was more teasing than sharp.

Charles grinned, glancing at me as he stirred. “You’ve got a pretty high standard for everything, don’t you?”

“Is that a problem?” I asked, tilting my head.

“Not at all,” he said quickly. “It’s just... intense.”

“Intense?” I repeated, mock-offended. “Says the guy who just called potion-making ‘peaceful.’”

He laughed again, his shoulders shaking slightly. “Okay, fair point. But don’t you ever just... let things go?”

I stared at him. “Let things go? During a project? Absolutely not. That’s how you end up with an exploding cauldron.”

“Exploding cauldrons aside,” he said, still smiling, “I’m serious. Do you always approach life like it’s a competition?”

“Only when I feel like winning,” I said with a smirk.

Charles chuckled, shaking his head. “And you always feel like winning, I suppose?”

“See, you get it,” I said, gesturing to the potion.

He snickered, his green eyes bright with amusement. “You know, for someone so competitive, you’re surprisingly good company.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Surprisingly?”

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” he said quickly. “It’s just, you’re a bit... sharp at first.”

“Sharp,” I repeated, my tone flat.

“Sharp in a good way,” he added hastily. “Like a really good knife. Useful but intimidating.”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. “That’s the strangest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“Well, it’s true,” he said, grinning. “You’re efficient, you know what you’re doing, and you don’t tolerate nonsense. It’s... refreshing.”

“Refreshing,” I said, my voice tinged with disbelief. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Not when I’m trying to make someone smile,” he said, his tone surprisingly genuine.

I glanced at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

The conversation continued in that vein, shifting from light teasing to random topics.

By the end of the session, the potion was a shimmering, pearly white, its consistency smooth and flawless.

“Well,” Charles said, stepping back to admire the cauldron, “we didn’t blow anything up. I’d call that a win.”

“Low standards,” I said, though there was no real bite to my words.

He smiled at me, his green eyes softening. “I think we make a pretty good team.”

I didn’t respond immediately, my gaze flickering to the potion. “I guess we’re... okay,” I said finally, smirking.

“High praise,” he said, laughing.

…

I pushed open the heavy door to the Potions classroom, my steps measured but deliberate. My bag hung loosely from my shoulder, the weight of the day pulling at me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I wasn’t stomping or slamming things, but the tension in my posture probably gave me away.

Charles was already at the table, as usual, his supplies perfectly laid out. He glanced up as I approached, his face brightening briefly before his brows knitted together.

“Evening,” he said carefully. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” I replied, setting my bag down a little too heavily.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t push the matter.

The silence stretched between us as we began to unpack our supplies. I tried to focus on the potion, the familiar rhythm of measuring and stirring usually soothing. But tonight, it wasn’t enough to drown out Lance’s voice echoing in my head.

“Slytherin girls are all the same—good at charming their way to the top but not much else.”

The comment had been thrown so casually, like it wasn’t meant to sting. But it had, even though I hated admitting it.

I grabbed a vial of powdered moonstone, twisting the lid off with more force than necessary.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” Charles asked, his voice cutting through the quiet.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, though the sharpness in my tone betrayed me.

“Y/N,” he said gently, setting down his stirring rod. “Talk to me.”

I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “It’s nothing important.”

“If it’s bothering you, it’s important,” he said, his tone softer now.

I glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

Finally, I sighed. “Lance said something stupid. That’s all.”

Charles frowned, his easygoing demeanor shifting slightly. “What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, focusing on the potion.

“Y/N,” he said again, his tone firmer now.

I glanced at him, surprised by the intensity in his green eyes. He wasn’t going to let this go.

“He made some stupid comment about Slytherin girls,” I admitted finally, setting down the vial. “Said we only get ahead because we know how to ‘charm’ people.”

Charles’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening slightly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” I asked, forcing a laugh that sounded more bitter than amused. “It��s not like I haven’t heard it before.”

“Then they’re all idiots,” Charles said firmly, his voice low but steady.

I blinked, caught off guard by the heat in his words.

“You work harder than anyone I know,” he continued, his green eyes locking onto mine. “If Lance or anyone else can’t see that, that’s their problem—not yours.”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

Charles nodded, his expression softening slightly. “You shouldn’t let people like him get to you. They’re not worth it.”

I managed a small smile, though the knot in my chest hadn’t entirely unraveled.

“Come on,” he said, straightening. “Let’s get out of here.”

I frowned. “What?”

“The potion’s fine,” he said, gesturing to the cauldron. “You need a break. Let’s go for a walk.”

I hesitated, glancing between him and the table. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, his green eyes meeting mine.

Something about the quiet conviction in his voice made it impossible to argue.

The Astronomy Tower was quiet and still, the cool night air brushing against my skin as we stepped onto the open platform. The stars stretched endlessly above us, their light reflecting off the grounds below in a soft, silvery glow.

Charles leaned against the stone railing, his gaze fixed on the sky. “Better?”

“Maybe,” I admitted, my voice softer now.

He turned to look at me, his expression warm but serious. “Lance doesn’t define you, Y/N. You know that, right?”

I blinked, startled by the conviction in his voice.

“You’re one of the smartest, most capable people I’ve met,” he continued, his green eyes steady. “If he can’t see that, that’s his loss.”

There was a sincerity in his words that caught me off guard, making my chest feel uncomfortably tight.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, leaning against the railing beside him.

Charles smiled, the kind of smile that was small but genuine, like he didn’t need to say anything else.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward but peaceful, the kind that made you feel like words weren’t necessary.

As I glanced at Charles, I found myself noticing things I hadn’t before. The way his dark hair caught the moonlight, the soft curls brushing against his forehead. The faint dimple in his cheek when he smiled, even slightly. His green eyes, so vibrant in the dim light, seemed to reflect the stars above us.

He looked... different up here. Softer, somehow, but steady in a way that made me feel grounded.

I quickly looked away, focusing on the stars instead.

“You like stargazing?” he asked after a while, his voice low.

“Sometimes,” I admitted, my gaze still on the sky.

“It’s calming, isn’t it?” he said, leaning back slightly. “Makes everything else seem... smaller.”

I nodded, surprised by how much I agreed.

“I used to come up here all the time,” he said, his tone tinged with nostalgia. “Whenever I felt overwhelmed, this was my escape.”

“Overwhelmed?” I asked, glancing at him.

He smiled faintly, his gaze still on the stars. “Everyone expects you to be a certain way, you know? Happy, perfect, always doing the right thing. Sometimes it’s... a lot.”

I watched him quietly, his words hitting closer to home than I’d expected.

“But then I’d come up here, bring my favorite pizza,” he continued, his voice softer now. “And none of it mattered. It was just me and the stars.”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.

“That’s... nice,” I said finally, my voice quieter than before.

Charles turned to look at me, his expression thoughtful. “It is.”

The way he looked at me then, steady and unwavering, made something twist in my chest. It wasn’t the usual irritation I felt around him—this was something quieter, harder to define.

We stayed on the Astronomy Tower longer than I’d expected, our conversation drifting to lighter topics as the tension from earlier melted away.

When we finally made our way back to the dungeons, I felt... a little happy?

“Thanks for the walk,” I said as we reached the door to the common areas.

Charles smiled, his green eyes warm. “Anytime.”

As I watched him walk away, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something unfamiliar in my stomach, as a sheepish smile appeared on my face.

…

When I walked into the Potions classroom, Charles was already there, hunched over the cauldron with his usual air of concentration. The dim torchlight flickered across his face, casting shadows along the sharp line of his jaw. He looked up as I entered, his green eyes catching the light in a way that was unfairly distracting.

“Right on time,” he said, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Were you waiting outside, counting down the minutes to see me?”

I dropped my bag onto the table with a soft thud, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Leclerc. I was contemplating skipping entirely.”

Charles chuckled, standing upright and brushing his hands together. “And miss our bonding time? That would’ve been tragic.”

“Bonding time?” I repeated, crossing my arms. “Is that what you call this?”

“Absolutely,” he said, grinning.

“Sure it is,” I said, smirking as I pulled out my notes. “Don’t mess up my grade, Leclerc.”

“I can do both,” he shot back, leaning casually against the table. “You’re just jealous because I make this look easy.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Easy? You’re the only person I’ve seen spill powdered moonstone twice in one session.”

“I prefer to call that... experimental flair,” he said giving me a wink.

“Keep telling yourself that,” I said, rolling my eyes, grinning wide.

We settled into a rhythm as we worked, the potion bubbling steadily between us. Charles had a way of working that was simultaneously precise and frustrating, his movements deliberate but occasionally overthought.

“You know,” I said, watching him carefully measure out the Essence of Belladonna, “you don’t have to treat every ingredient like it’s a baby bird. You can be a little faster.”

“Fast doesn’t always mean better,” he replied, glancing at me with a pointed look. “Sometimes patience pays off.”

“Or sometimes you’re just stalling because you don’t know what you’re doing,” I countered, smirking.

He laughed, shaking his head. “And here I thought you were finally being nicer to me.”

“Nice?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Who said anything about that?”

“Come on,” he said, grinning. “You’re not nearly as mean to me as you used to be. Admit it—you’re starting to like me.”

I pretended to think for a moment. “I wouldn’t go that far. Tolerate, maybe.”

Charles laughed, the sound low and warm. “Admit it—I’m growing on you.”

“Like a particularly stubborn weed,” I said, smirking.

“Hey, weeds are resilient,” he said, grinning. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

By the time we finished, the potion shimmered with a pearly brilliance, the final stage completed without a single mishap.

“Not bad,” I said, leaning back slightly to admire our work.

“You mean brilliant,” Charles corrected, his tone light.

“Fine,” I said, smirking. “Brilliant. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he said, his green eyes crinkling slightly as he smiled.

We packed up in companionable silence, the tension that had once defined our sessions now replaced by something easier, almost... comfortable.

As I reached for my bag, I caught Charles watching me, his expression unreadable.

“What?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, his grin returning. “Just wondering if you’ve always been this stubborn or if it’s just me.”

“Definitely just you,” I said, smirking as I slung my bag over my shoulder.

“Good to know,” he replied, his voice soft but teasing.

I lingered for a moment, something unspoken hanging in the air between us.

“Goodnight, Leclerc,” I said finally, breaking the silence.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replied, his voice steady.

…

Charles and I were among the first to arrive, our cauldron resting on the designated table in front of Professor Steiner’s desk.

“Everything set?” Charles asked, glancing at me.

“Of course,” I replied, crossing my arms. “We’re the first ones here, aren’t we?”

“Just making sure,” he said, his grin soft and easy. “Wouldn’t want you to miss the chance to impress Steiner with your flawless execution.”

“Our flawless execution,” I corrected, smirking. “Try to keep up, Leclerc.”

“Glad to see you’re giving me credit now,” he replied, laughing softly.

As the classroom began to fill, familiar voices drifted through the air, weaving a tapestry of conversations.

“Alex, you’re going to spill that—”

“Relax, Carlos,” Alex replied, balancing their cauldron precariously as they set it down. “It’s fine. Look—steady as a broomstick.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” Carlos muttered, shaking his head.

“You think Steiner’s going to notice?” Max asked, eyeing their potion skeptically.

“Notice what?” Daniel replied innocently.

“The fact that it looks like swamp water,” Max said, smirking.

“Swamp chic,” Daniel said with a grin. “It’s ahead of its time.”

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Lando and Oscar setting up their station, Lando leaning lazily against the table while Oscar meticulously checked their notes.

“You’re doing great, mate,” Lando said, smirking. “Really carrying the team here.”

“You could at least pretend to help,” Oscar replied, shooting him a look.

“I’m supporting from the sidelines,” Lando said, grinning.

I rolled my eyes at their antics, turning my attention back to our potion.

“Alright,” Steiner began, his gravelly voice carrying over the room. “Let’s see how many of you managed to brew something that won’t explode.”

One by one, the pairs presented their potions, each receiving varying degrees of praise and critique.

Finally, it was our turn. Charles and I carefully carried our cauldron to the front, the pearly potion shimmering under the torchlight.

“Ah,” Steiner said, leaning closer to inspect it. “Now this... this is promising.”

Charles glanced at me, a small, triumphant smile tugging at his lips.

“Beautiful consistency,” Steiner continued. “No residue, perfect color, no burns on the cauldron. Very good work.”

I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride as Steiner turned to us expectantly. “And the scent?”

Charles stepped forward first, leaning over the cauldron to inhale deeply. His expression shifted slightly, his brows furrowing as if he was processing something unexpected.

“It’s... interesting,” he said after a moment, his voice thoughtful.

Steiner raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

Charles straightened, a faint, almost playful smile on his lips. “No. I think I’ll keep it to myself.”

The room stirred with quiet amusement, a few pairs exchanging curious glances.

Steiner turned to me. “And you, Miss Y/N?”

I hesitated before stepping forward, leaning over the cauldron. The scent was immediate, wrapping around me like a memory I couldn’t quite place. Saltwater, crisp and sharp, like standing at the edge of a windswept cliff. Beneath it, there was the faint, warm aroma of polished wood, something sturdy and grounding. And finally, a subtle hint of... pizza margherita?

I straightened, my heart thudding softly in my chest.

“Well?” Steiner asked, his tone expectant.

“It’s... balanced,” I said carefully, keeping my voice steady. “Very harmonious.”

Steiner nodded, looking satisfied. “As it should be. Well done, both of you.”

Charles gave me a small nudge as we carried the cauldron back to our table. “Balanced and harmonious, huh?” he whispered.

“What can I say?” I replied, smirking. “I’m good with words.”

As we sat down, the other pairs finished their presentations.

“I’m just saying, it could’ve been worse,” Daniel said as he and Max returned to their seats.

“How?” Max asked, raising an eyebrow. “How could it possibly be worse?”

“Could’ve caught fire,” Daniel replied with a grin.

Lando and Oscar were next, their cauldron emitting a faint but odd scent as Steiner leaned over it.

“Well,” Steiner said after a moment, “it’s certainly... unique.”

“See?” Lando said, clapping Oscar on the back. “Unique. Told you it was brilliant.”

Oscar sighed heavily, muttering something under his breath.

As the session ended and students began to leave, Charles lingered at our table, packing up his supplies with his usual care.

“What did you smell?” I asked suddenly, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Charles glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “Why? Curious?”

“Just wondering,” I said, trying to sound casual.

He smiled faintly, his green eyes catching the torchlight. “I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

I hesitated, quickly looking away. “Never mind.”

Charles laughed softly, the sound low and warm. “Suit yourself.”

As we walked out of the classroom, his words lingered in my mind, mingling with the memory of the scent I couldn’t quite shake.

Ocean. Polished wood. Pizza margherita.

It was unmistakable. It was him.

…

The Slytherin common room was quiet, the kind of rare silence that felt stolen rather than earned. I sat curled in one of the oversized armchairs near the fire, letting the green-tinted flames flicker patterns across the walls. The day had been long, but I was finally alone with my thoughts—unfortunately, those thoughts had been annoyingly preoccupied with one person.

I should’ve known the peace wouldn’t last.

The door slammed open, and I didn’t even need to look to know who it was. Lando’s footsteps were as distinctive as his personality—loud, unapologetic, and just the right amount of chaotic.

“Well, if it isn’t Madame Amortentia herself,” he announced, throwing himself into the chair across from me.

I sighed, not even bothering to look up. “Do you ever knock?”

“On a common room?” he replied, feigning shock. “What do you think I am? A bloody Hufflepuff?”

“Don’t let Charles hear you say that,” I muttered.

“Oh, so we’re talking about Charles now,” Lando said, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye.

I immediately regretted opening my mouth. “What do you want, Lando?”

“To know what you smelled, darling! Can’t believe you haven’t told me yet,” he said, grinning.

I blinked at him. “What?”

“The potion,” he said, his grin widening. “The Amortentia. What did you smell?”

“I thought you were in the room,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“I was,” he replied, shrugging. “But Steiner didn’t exactly announce your deepest secrets to the class, did he? So, what was it?”

I hesitated, knowing full well that any answer would only add fuel to the fire.

“Nothing important,” I said finally, turning my gaze back to the flames.

“Nothing important?” Lando repeated, his tone dripping with disbelief. “Y/N, it’s Amortentia. It’s literally the most important thing.”

“Not to me,” I said firmly.

“You’re such a liar,” he said, laughing. “Come on, tell me. I won’t judge.”

“You will absolutely judge,” I replied, glaring at him.

“Fair,” he said, smirking. “But I’ll keep it to myself. Scout’s honor.”

“You’ve never been a Scout,” I muttered.

“Semantics,” he said, waving a hand. “Now, spill.”

I sighed, knowing there was no escaping him. “Fine. It was... saltwater. And wood. And pizza margherita.”

Lando stared at me for a moment before bursting into laughter.

“Pizza margherita?” he repeated, clutching his sides. “Are you serious?”

I rolled my eyes. “You said you wouldn’t judge.”

“I lied,” he said between fits of laughter. “That is the most ridiculous combination I’ve ever heard.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “Glad I could entertain you.”

“But wait,” he said, sitting up suddenly, his grin turning wicked. “Saltwater? Wood? Pizza? That’s Leclerc, isn’t it?”

My stomach twisted, but I kept my face neutral. “It could mean anything.”

“Sure,” Lando said, smirking. “Anything like... broomsticks, the ocean, and the one guy who eats pizza at every Hogsmeade visit?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I insisted, my voice rising slightly.

“Oh, it means everything,” Lando said, leaning forward. “You’re done for. Absolutely smitten.”

“I am not smitten,” I snapped.

“You’re blushing,” he pointed out gleefully.

“I am not blushing,” I said, though my cheeks betrayed me.

“Y/N,” he said, grinning. “This is amazing. You, the untouchable, too-cool-for-anyone Slytherin, has a crush on a Hufflepuff.”

“Say that louder,” I said sarcastically, glaring at him. “I don’t think the first-years in the dungeon heard you.”

“Admit it,” he said, crossing his arms. “You like him.”

I stared at him for a long moment, the words forming on my tongue before I could stop them. “Fine,” I said quietly. “Maybe I do.”

Lando’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he was actually speechless.

“Wait, really?” he said finally, his grin returning. “This is even better than I thought.”

“Lando, I swear—”

“No, no, this is great,” he said, cutting me off. “You’ve got to tell him.”

“Absolutely not,” I said quickly.

“Why not?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Because it’s ridiculous,” I said. “And it’s none of his business.”

“It’s literally all of his business,” Lando said, grinning. “You smelled him in a love potion. That’s fate.”

“Fate doesn’t smell like pizza,” I muttered.

Lando laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. “Oh, this is too good.”

I buried my face in my hands, groaning. “Why are we friends?”

“Because I’m the only one who tells you the truth,” he said, his voice still tinged with laughter.

“And what’s the truth, then?” I asked, glaring at him through my fingers.

“That you like Charles,” he said simply. “And he probably likes you, too.”

My stomach did a little flip. The words hung in the air, heavier than I’d expected. I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed quiet, the crackle of the fire filling the silence.

“You should do something about it,” Lando said after a moment, his tone softer now.

“Like what?” I asked, my voice quieter.

“We need a party,” he said, grinning again. “And we invite him.”

…

The Slytherin common room was a cacophony of sound and motion, transformed into a celebration only Lando could orchestrate. The green-tinted lanterns overhead flickered in rhythm with the enchanted music, casting shimmering shadows across the stone walls. Snacks, drinks, and laughter filled the room, the air thick with the smoky tang of firewhiskey and the faint warmth of burning candles.

I stood near the snack table, nursing a glass of firewhiskey that burned pleasantly as it went down. The heat steadied me—something I desperately needed tonight.

Lando, of course, was everywhere. He flitted between groups like the chaos incarnate he was, occasionally pausing to throw me an annoyingly knowing look. I ignored him, focusing instead on the flickering green flames of the fireplace.

“This is your party, you know,” Lando said suddenly, appearing at my side as if summoned by my irritation.

“It’s not my party,” I replied, not looking up from my drink.

“Oh, it absolutely is,” he said, smirking. “Top marks in Potions, the best Amortentia the class has ever seen, and the most interesting guest list Slytherin’s hosted in years? You should be thanking me.”

“For what?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Making my life harder?”

“For making it interesting,” he replied smoothly.

I sighed, taking another sip. Before I could respond, the crowd stirred, and I glanced up instinctively.

Charles had arrived.

He stood in the doorway, scanning the room with a tentative smile. He wasn’t in his uniform tonight, and the change hit me harder than I expected. A dark sweater clung to his frame, the sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms, and his hair—perfectly messy—framed his face in a way that made his green eyes seem even brighter.

“Great,” I muttered under my breath, looking away quickly.

Lando, of course, noticed immediately. “Well, well, well,” he said, his grin practically glowing. “If it isn’t your boyfriend.”

“He’s not—”

Lando cut me off with a dramatic wave. “Oi, Charles! Over here!”

I barely resisted the urge to throttle him as Charles’s gaze landed on us. His smile widened slightly, and he began making his way over.

“Stop it,” I hissed, glaring at Lando.

“I’m just helping,” he said, smirking. “You’re welcome.”

Charles reached the snack table, his easy grin lighting up the space. “Y/N,” he said warmly. “This is... impressive.”

“Lando’s idea,” I said quickly, keeping my eyes on my glass.

“Well, he did a good job,” Charles said, his voice light.

I nodded, still avoiding his gaze.

Charles tilted his head, his brows knitting slightly. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” I replied, the words escaping too quickly to sound believable.

“You sure?” he asked, his tone softening.

“Positive,” I said, finally forcing myself to meet his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but nodded. “Alright, if you say so.”

As he turned to join Alex and Carlos near the fireplace, I exhaled sharply and took another sip of firewhiskey.

“That,” Lando said, appearing at my side like a smug apparition, “was embarrassing.”

I glared at him. “Go away.”

“Not a chance,” he said, grinning. “You’re making this too fun.”

Charles didn’t stay in one place for long. He moved through the room with a quiet ease, pausing to chat with everyone he passed. I tried to focus on anything else, but my eyes kept drifting toward him—his laugh, his smile, the way he leaned casually against the fireplace like he belonged there.

“You know,” Lando said, sidling up to me again, “you could just talk to him.”

“I talk to him all the time,” I replied, rolling my eyes.

“Not like that,” Lando said, smirking. “I mean really talk to him. You know, like a human.”

“I am human,” I snapped.

“Debatable,” he said, stealing a sip from my glass.

I snatched it back, glaring at him. “Lando, leave it alone.”

“Never,” he said cheerfully. “Especially not when it’s this obvious.”

“It’s not obvious,” I said, though the heat in my cheeks betrayed me.

“Oh, it is,” he said, smirking. “And honestly? You’re lucky he hasn’t figured it out yet.”

“Figured what out?” Max asked, appearing out of nowhere with a plate of biscuits.

“Nothing,” I said quickly.

“Y/N’s tragic love story,” Lando replied smoothly.

I shot him a murderous look. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, grinning.

The night wore on, the common room growing louder as the firewhiskey flowed more freely. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t avoid Charles forever. Every time I turned around, he was there—talking with Alex, laughing with Daniel, or glancing in my direction when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Lando, of course, continued to stir the pot.

“Y/N, Charles is looking for you,” he said loudly as I passed him on the way to the snack table.

“He is not,” I hissed, my cheeks flushing.

“Oh, but he is,” Lando said, smirking. “And you should probably do something about it before he gives up.”

“I’ll do something about you,” I muttered, grabbing another glass of firewhiskey.

Finally, as the night began to wind down, Charles approached me again.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, his voice warm.

I nodded, swirling the firewhiskey in my glass. “You?”

“It’s been nice,” he said, leaning casually against the table. “Good company.”

I smiled faintly, the warmth of the drink loosening my nerves. “Lando’s idea of a party is always... chaotic.”

“Chaotic, but fun,” he said, his green eyes glinting with amusement. “Kind of like him.”

I laughed softly. “That’s one way to put it.”

He studied me for a moment, his expression shifting. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

I hesitated, the weight of his gaze making my chest tighten. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just seem... different tonight,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Distracted.”

I forced a laugh, shaking my head. “Maybe it’s the firewhiskey.”

“Maybe,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. His eyes held mine, steady and searching, and I felt the familiar nerves in my stomach.

“Well,” I said finally, breaking the silence, though my voice came out softer than I intended.

Charles didn’t respond right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on me, his green eyes warm and with a light twinkle. The noise of the room seemed to blur into the background, leaving just the quiet weight of his presence.

His expression softened, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at his lips. The air felt heavier, charged in a way that made my chest tighten.

“I should go to bed,” I said abruptly, the words tumbling out faster than I meant. I stepped back, breaking the spell as I clutched my empty glass for something to focus on.

Charles blinked, seeming to come back to reality himself. “Yeah,” he said, his tone lighter now. “Yeah, uhm, I should probably head out too.”

There was a pause, something neither of us filled right away.

“Well, goodnight,” I said, glancing at him briefly before turning toward the stairs leading to the dorms.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, his voice soft and steady, following me even as I walked away.

I climbed the stairs quickly, my heart thudding harder than I cared to admit.

…

The dormitory was suffocating. My thoughts churned endlessly, replaying every look, every laugh, every moment from the party with Charles. His steady gaze, the faint smirk on his lips, the warmth in his green eyes—all of it had etched itself into my mind.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

Throwing on my cloak, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed past the rows of sleeping Slytherins. The common room was empty now, its usual flickering green light dimmed to a soft glow. Even the fire was just a faint ember, its warmth fading. The silence was a relief, but I needed more than that.

I needed space.

The halls were eerily quiet as I wandered, my footsteps soft against the stone. I didn’t have a destination in mind, but my feet carried me to the Astronomy Tower, as they so often did when I needed to think.

The moment I stepped onto the open platform, the cool night air hit me, sharp and bracing. The stars above stretched endlessly, their faint light illuminating the grounds below. I leaned against the railing, inhaling deeply and letting the quiet settle around me.

“You couldn’t sleep either?”

I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat at the sound of his voice. Turning quickly, I saw Charles leaning casually against the opposite railing, his cloak draped loosely over his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, smiling faintly. “But if you must know, I was taking a walk.”

“Taking a walk?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “At this hour?”

He shrugged, his green eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight. “Couldn’t sleep.”

I hesitated, gripping the railing tighter. “And you thought the Astronomy Tower was the best place to fix that?”

“Maybe,” he said, stepping closer. “Or maybe I thought I’d find you here.”

My heart stumbled at his words, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral. “Why would you think that?”

Charles tilted his head, his gaze softening. “You’ve been... different lately.”

“Different?” I repeated, my voice wary.

“You’ve been distracted,” he said simply. 

My chest tightened, and I looked away, focusing on the stars instead of him. “I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But I don’t believe you.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us felt heavier than the quiet night should’ve allowed. Charles leaned against the railing beside me, his shoulder brushing mine lightly.

“What’s bothering you?” he asked eventually, his voice low and steady.

“It’s nothing,” I replied quickly, though even I didn’t believe the words.

“You’re lying,” he said, his tone soft but firm.

I turned to glare at him, though there was no real anger behind it. “Why do you care?”

Charles smirked faintly, his green eyes catching the starlight. “Because you’re usually better at hiding whatever’s on your mind. This must be serious.”

I huffed, looking away again. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” he said lightly.

His calm, teasing tone grated against my nerves, and yet... it also made the tightness in my chest ease just slightly.

“Is this about the potion?” he asked suddenly, his voice dropping just enough to make my pulse jump.

I froze, my fingers tightening around the railing. “What makes you think that?”

Charles shrugged, his smirk widening. “Call it a hunch. You’ve been weird ever since we smelled it.”

“I haven’t been weird,” I said quickly, too quickly.

“Y/N,” he said, his tone filled with amusement, “you’ve been avoiding me, stumbling over your words, and blushing more than usual. I’m pretty sure that qualifies as weird.”

“I don’t blush,” I muttered, though my cheeks were already warming.

“You do now,” he said, laughing softly. “It’s cute.”

The silence stretched again, but this time it felt charged. Charles turned slightly, his body angled toward me, and I could feel the weight of his gaze.

“What did you smell?” he asked, his voice soft.

My heart raced, every muscle in my body screaming at me to say something, anything but the truth. But the longer I stayed silent, the more his gaze lingered, steady and unrelenting.

“Nothing important,” I said finally, though the words sounded weak even to me.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping closer. “Come on.”

“Are you done?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

“Not even close,” he said, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. “Because if I had to guess, I’d say it smelled like someone you know.”

I hesitated, my pulse quickening. “What makes you think that?”

Charles smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Because you can’t look me in the eye right now. That’s usually a giveaway.”

I exhaled sharply, the tension in my chest building with every passing second.

My pulse pounded in my ears as I looked away, my grip on the railing tightening. “It smelled like... saltwater. And wood. And... pizza margherita.” I said finally, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

Charles blinked, his expression shifting. “What?”

“I smelled you,” I admitted finally, the words barely above a whisper.

His green eyes softened, his smile fading into something more genuine. “Me?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” I muttered, looking away.

He was quiet for a moment, the weight of my confession hanging between us. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a teasing smile. “So, what you’re saying is... you think I’m handsome?”

I groaned, my cheeks burning. “That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you meant,” he said, grinning now.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Ridiculously charming,” he replied smoothly, his grin widening. ”At least, according to you apparently.” 

His bright eyes met mine, the teasing glint fading as his gaze turned serious. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because,” I said, my voice trembling slightly, “it’s complicated.”

“Nothing’s complicated,” he said gently, his fingers brushing against mine. “Not if we don’t let it be.”

I swallowed hard, the warmth of his touch grounding me. “I didn’t know if you felt the same.”

Charles smiled, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. “Y/N, I’ve liked you for a long time.”

I stared at him, my heart pounding. “You have?”

He nodded, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I smelled the cookies you baked for us.”

Before I could respond, Charles closed the distance between us, his movements deliberate yet unhurried. His lips met mine with a warmth that sent a shiver through me, like stepping into sunlight after a long, cold winter. The kiss was gentle, not hesitant but full of a quiet certainty that left no room for doubt.

His hand slid up to cup my cheek, the roughness of his fingertips against my skin grounding me, steadying the wild, racing thoughts that had consumed me for days. I felt the weight of his presence in that touch—calm and sure, like he had been waiting for this moment far longer than I’d realized.

I leaned into him instinctively, my hands grasping the edges of his cloak, the thick, familiar fabric anchoring me. His other hand settled lightly against my waist, pulling me closer. The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried yet somehow desperate, as if we were trying to say all the things we hadn’t dared to speak.

The scent of him—something crisp and clean, faintly woodsy—mixed with the cool night air, and my heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. My chest ached, not from fear or nerves, but from the overwhelming realization that this felt right.

When we finally parted, his lips lingered a moment longer, as though neither of us wanted the spell to break. His green eyes searched mine, earnest and unwavering, his breath mingling with mine in the stillness of the tower.

“I told you I never wanted to be friends,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at his lips, the words carrying a weight that felt familiar.

“Good,” I replied softly, my heart racing as I echoed his earlier words. “Because I don’t think I could ever settle for just friends.”

[greengoblinswifey]

𝑭𝒂𝒎𝒆’𝒔 𝑬𝒅𝒈𝒆 ・₊✧🩶 Part I

Pairing— Nicholas Chavez x Model!Reader

Warnings— Mentions of drugs and alcohol, Substance Use, Mature Themes.

A/N— Comment to be a part of the tag list, hope you enjoy this series <3

Series Masterlist

The glossy conference room table reflected the headline of the magazine tossed unceremoniously in front of you.

“America’s New Wild Child: From Runways to Rock Bottom”

Below it was a photo of you stumbling into a hotel lobby, visibly intoxicated, mascara smeared, and your once-iconic dress askew. It wasn’t just one headline, it was everywhere. Every blog, tabloid, and gossip page seemed to have some variation of your downfall plastered across their pages.

Your manager, Angela, sighed heavily from across the table, rubbing her temples. “You see this, right? The Shade Room picked it up. TMZ is all over it. Even Vogue is doing a piece on whether or not you’re the next Kate Moss, but not in a good way.” She leaned forward, her voice sharp. “You’re toxic right now. Nobody wants to touch you.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “This isn’t true. My ex-best friend—she’s jealous. She made this all up.”

Angela gave you a pointed look and slid her iPad across the table. On it was a video—paparazzi footage of you from a few nights ago. You were stumbling out of a car, practically being carried by someone, slurring your words as you waved off photographers.

You groaned and pressed your fingers to your temples. “Y’all please, that was one time.”

“It’s never just one time with you!” snapped Melanie, one of the executives at your agency. “This is becoming a pattern. And we’re not here to babysit you.” She stood, exasperated. “You’re one of the highest-paid models in the world, and now look at you. You’re a liability.”

Angela raised a hand to calm the room. “Give me a few days,” she said, her voice firm. “I’ll clean this up. We’ll fix her image. She’ll be the ‘it girl’ again. I just need time.”

Melanie crossed her arms but didn’t argue. “Fix it fast. Otherwise, we’re done.”

As the meeting wrapped up, you sat silently, staring at the incriminating headlines. After years of grueling work, endless runway shows, and clawing your way to the top, it was all unraveling because of your past addictions and your inability to leave it behind.

Angela pulled you aside as the others left. “You need to clean this up. No more excuses. No more scandals. And definitely no more drunken or high paparazzi shots. Got it?”

You nodded numbly. “Got it.”

“Good. Now, start small. Let’s use that mansion of yours. Throw a party. Invite everyone who matters. Show them the glamorous, sophisticated version of yourself. Make them forget the messy headlines.”

Your lips curved into a small, defiant smile. “A party? That, I can do.”

2 Days Later

The house practically glittered under the LA moonlight, perched in the most exclusive part of the city. Your glam team buzzed around you, perfecting every inch of your hair and makeup as you sipped champagne. Outside the window, you noticed the usually dark house next door was now bustling with activity.

“Looks like someone’s moving in,” you said absently, gesturing with your glass. From the corner of your eye, you saw a guy carrying a box inside. He looked young, around your age maybe two years older, and vaguely attractive, though you didn’t pay much attention.

“Maybe he’ll be better than the last neighbors,” you joked to your stylist, smirking. “If he’s cute, I might even invite him to the party.”

As the night fell, the party roared to life. The mansion was packed with models, actors, and influencers. Music pounded through the walls, and laughter echoed in every corner. You danced like you had something to prove, the champagne flowing freely. At one point, you made out with a fellow model on the balcony to the cheers of a crowd. You were chaos incarnate, and you loved every second of it.

Around midnight, you were helping a tipsy friend into a waiting limo when you noticed someone approaching from the house next door.

“Excuse me.”

You turned, your vision slightly blurred, and found yourself face-to-face with the new neighbor. He was dressed casually—jeans and a hoodie—but his sharp jawline and piercing eyes caught your attention.

“I’m Nicholas,” he said, offering a tight smile. “Nicholas Chavez. I just moved in.”

You arched a brow, leaning lazily against the limo. “And?”

“And I have an audition tomorrow,” he continued, his tone calm but firm. “Your music is loud, and I can’t sleep.”

You laughed, the champagne fizzing in your head. “Well, didn’t you know who you were moving in next to?”

His lips twitched, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I found out too late,” he said dryly, a pointed reference to the headlines.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “Funny. I’ve never seen a single headline about you.”

This time, he chuckled softly, though it was more condescending than amused. “Well, I’ll try to keep it that way.” His gaze flicked down briefly before meeting your eyes again.

You noticed, scoffing. “Nice try, but staring at my chest isn’t going to make me turn the music down.”

“Noted,” he replied smoothly, his tone unreadable. “But seriously, could you tone it down? Just a little?”

You waved him off, turning back toward the house. “Good luck with your audition.”

The door slammed behind you as the party continued to rage on. Whatever Nicholas Chavez wanted, it could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, you were untouchable—or so you thought.

You weren’t worried Nicholas would turn out like your last neighbors, the ones who had gleefully run to the press with tales of your ‘wild, disruptive parties’ adding fuel to your already blazing reputation as a noisy party girl.

The party raged on, and you weren’t exactly innocent in keeping it under control. The music blasted as guests danced, smoked, and drank with abandon. Lines of coke were casually set out on mirrored trays, and you caught more than one person lighting up joints in the corners. Even you, despite promising yourself you were done with that lifestyle, gave in after a few glasses of champagne, doing a line or two when a friend coaxed you into it.

By the time the sun started to rise, people were passed out on your marble floors, the air heavy with the stench of spilled liquor and smoke. You stumbled to bed without bothering to clean up, the haze of the night swirling in your head.

You woke to the sound of chaos downstairs—your housekeepers already hard at work, scrubbing every inch of the aftermath. Your head pounded as sunlight streamed in through your curtains. Groaning, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand and blinked at the time. It was already midday.

Dozens of missed calls and messages from Angela stared back at you. She’d been blowing up your phone about a last-minute shoot, one you had completely missed. You cursed under your breath, knowing she’d be furious.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled into the bathroom for a long, scalding shower. As the water poured over you, you couldn’t help but rethink the night before. You’d promised to get it together, to clean up your image, but it was getting harder to hold yourself accountable.

After drying off, you wrapped yourself in a silk robe and walked to your window. Across the lawn, you noticed Nicholas pulling into his driveway. He stepped out of his car looking exhausted, a coffee in hand, wearing a nice suit. You figured he must have just returned from his audition. It must’ve been early. For a brief moment, guilt pricked at you. If he hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, it was probably your fault.

Angela didn’t wait for you to sit down when you arrived at her office. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she snapped, slamming her laptop shut as you walked in.

“I’m sorry, A,” you began, your voice hoarse from the night before.

“Sorry?” she cut you off, standing up and pacing the room. “Do you know what I’ve been dealing with all morning?” She grabbed a folder from her desk and threw it onto the coffee table in front of you. A stack of printouts slid out, screenshots of articles and photos from the party.

The headlines were brutal: “A Drug-Fueled Disaster: Is Y/N Destroying the Modeling Industry?”

Photos showed passed-out models, trays of coke, and worst of all, a video of you taking a line.

You froze, your stomach twisting into knots.

Angela slammed her hands on the desk. “This was supposed to be elegant, extravagant, a chance to clean up your image. Instead, you turned it into some rockstar-adjacent drug den!”

“I didn’t know people were recording,” you said weakly, avoiding her glare.

“That’s not the point!” she barked. “You were supposed to set an example. Little black girls look up to you. This is the image you’re giving them?”

You exhaled sharply, frustrated. “Angela, with all due respect, I’m not their mother. I didn’t ask to be anyone’s role model.”

She rolled her eyes, her frustration palpable. “Well, congratulations, because you’re not much of one anyway. This is your last chance. Do you hear me? Last chance.”

You nodded quickly, desperate to make it right. “I’ll fix it. I swear.”

“I already have something cooking up,” she said sharply, leaning against her desk. “But in the meantime, go downtown, look beautiful, and give them something positive to talk about. No booze, no drugs, no nonsense. Just smile, shop, and sign autographs. Sober.”

You groaned inwardly at the thought of dragging yourself out in public, especially hungover, but you didn’t dare push back. “Got it.”

Your driver dropped you off at one of the most exclusive shopping districts in the city. Bodyguards lingered in the background as you strolled from boutique to boutique, taking your time and letting the paparazzi get their shots.

Every time someone asked for an autograph, you smiled warmly and obliged, posing with fans here and there. This was your coping mechanism—shopping your problems away, hoping the public would eat it up.

“Looking good, Y/N!” one of the paparazzi shouted as you exited a store with bags in hand.

You forced another smile, playing your part, and waved at the cameras before ducking into the backseat of your car.

When you arrived home, the guilt from last night gnawed at you. You couldn’t undo the noise and chaos, but maybe you could soften the blow. After all, Nicholas didn’t deserve to suffer because of your mess. Deciding to make amends, you ordered a small cake from a local bakery with “Welcome” scrawled neatly in frosting.

Holding the cake, you made your way next door and rang his doorbell. At first, there was no response, and for a brief moment, you wondered if he was ignoring you. Maybe he had seen the articles and already formed an opinion. The thought annoyed you, but just as you were about to turn away, the door opened.

Nicholas stood there in joggers and a fitted t-shirt, his face a mix of surprise and curiosity. His hair was slightly disheveled, and he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. His eyes dropped to the cake in your hands.

“Hi, neighbor,” you said with a small, sheepish smile.

He raised an eyebrow, reading the icing. “Welcome?”

“It’s for you,” you explained. “To welcome you to the neighborhood. And, uh, sorry about last night.”

His surprise lingered as he stepped aside to let you in. “Didn’t strike you as the generous, ‘welcome-with-cake’ kind of girl,” he said as you followed him into his sleek, modern kitchen.

The place was immaculate—white marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, and tasteful art on the walls. He set a glass down on the counter and gestured toward a barstool for you to sit.

“Well,” he added with a smirk, “especially not after a night like that. I’m surprised you’re even standing.”

You groaned, slumping into the chair. “Please don’t tell me you’ve seen the articles.”

He grabbed a knife to cut the cake. “The articles, the pictures, the videos, yeah, I’ve seen them.”

You groaned again, covering your face with your hands. “Great. Just what I needed. My new neighbor thinking I’m a train wreck.”

“Not thinking anything,” he said casually, slicing into the cake. His tone was calm, nonchalant. You couldn’t read him, and it annoyed you. Was he judging you? Laughing at you? You couldn’t tell.

You cleared your throat. “Anyway, welcome to the neighborhood. And again, sorry for the noise.”

He placed two plates on the counter, handing one to you. “Thanks. Want to eat this with me? That’s if you’re one of those rare models who actually eat carbs and don’t starve themselves.”

You shot him a pointed look. “Don’t joke about that. And yes, I’ll have a slice. Or two.”

He chuckled softly, taking a seat across from you. As you ate, you studied him a little closer. His face was sharp, striking, he was definitely good-looking, though in a boy-next-door-meets-Hollywood kind of way. Then it hit you where you’d seen him before.

“You’ve been everywhere lately,” you said, setting your fork down. “You were in that Lyle and Erik Menendez show, right?”

He looked up, surprised. “You watched it?”

“I caught the first episode,” you admitted. “It was really good. Intense, but good.”

“Thanks,” he said, his expression softening. “It was a tough project, but worth it.”

You leaned back in your seat. “Hollywood’s a mess. Be careful.”

He nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

The conversation felt easy, almost too easy. Sitting across from him, you couldn’t help but notice how his t-shirt hugged his chest and arms, or the way his jaw tensed when he chewed. You realized, with a twinge of irritation, that you were definitely attracted to him. The idea of tearing his clothes off flashed through your mind, but you quickly shoved it aside.

You had too much going on to add that kind of complication to your life. Besides, sex was supposed to be the last thing on your mind right now.

Standing abruptly, you pushed your chair back. “I should go. Thanks for letting me crash your place. Enjoy the cake.”

He walked you to the door. “If I need anything, should I come knocking?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t plan on babysitting you, but sure, I guess.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Noted, neighbor.”

The moment you stepped through the door, your phone buzzed. Angela’s name flashed across the screen.

“Good,” she said briskly when you answered. “You’re home. I’ll be at your place first thing in the morning.”

“Why?” you asked cautiously.

“There’s a plan,” she said, her tone leaving no room for questions. “I’ll explain everything then, and we’ll put it in motion. Be ready.”

She hung up before you could respond. You stared at the phone, curiosity swirling in your chest. Whatever she was planning, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of excitement. If this was your chance to claw your way back into the spotlight, you’d take it.

For now, you poured yourself a glass of water, settling into the couch as you tried to shake off the day. Tomorrow was a new start—or so you hoped.

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 51

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 48, part 49, part 50

“What if we let him stay with us,” Eddie says out of the blue, sitting on one of their new kitchen chairs.

Wayne stops unpacking glasses, turning to look at him. “What?”

“Steve, what if we let him stay with us. Just while he tries to find a place.” He fidgets with his hands, avoiding Wayne’s eye contact. “We’ve, uh, been talking, and he’s put off trying to find a place. Now that he knows the end date, he’s started looking but can’t afford any of places that are open right now.”

Wayne pushes the box back onto the counter, he can finish it later. He turns fully toward Eddie, leaning back on the counter and crossing his arms. “So, you want us to let him stay here.”

“Yeah, and it could be like paying him back, you know. For letting us stay with him. Return the favor, and everything.”

He sighs, wiping a hand down his face. “We don’t exactly have the space for that. Unless you’re planning on him sleeping on the couch.”

Eddie stutters, further ignoring Wayne’s gaze. Mouth opening with no sound coming out.

“Or is this the part where you finally tell me you two are seeing each other?”

Eddie freezes. “How did you know?”

Wayne shakes his head. “Cause I’m not an idiot. You two go from chewing each other’s head off to being super close and touchy. And I saw Steve try to sneak out of your room when I got back from a shift. He thought he played it off, but I knew.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Wanted to see how long it took you to tell me yourself. It’s been almost three weeks, and we all live together. You really thought I didn’t know?”

Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know. We were just feeling it out, didn’t want to tell anyone in case it blew up fast.”

“And now you want him to move in with us? Sleep in your room, in your bed. You really think that’s a good idea?”

“I thought you would be cooler about this. Steve’s a good guy, you know that.”

He does know that. But he knows a lot of things that leave him questioning. Even if it’s just from passing comments. Ammunition that could have been meaningless, but there was history behind it. History Wayne doesn’t know but can assume what it means.

Maybe he’s an ass for assuming. Maybe he’s just being overprotective. But when it comes to matters of the heart, people can be reckless. They can jump without looking just to get hurt in the end.

Steve might be a good guy for letting them stay in his house. He might be a good friend, a good role model for the kids. But a good boyfriend, for Wayne’s boy, he’ll never be good enough. No one will.

“I know. I’m just worried that letting him stay here would make a jump you’re not quite ready yet.”

Eddie nods, looking down at his hands. “It’s early, I know. And it’d be temporary. I just—I don’t want to leave him high and dry. He helped us when we had nowhere else to go, I thought we might be able to so the same.”

Wayne gets where his head’s at. He gets wanting to do something to thank Steve that would be anywhere near the way he’s helped them. Hell, Wayne does too. There are just so many reservations in his head. So many ways that this could go wrong.

“I’ll think about it,” Wayne concedes. “On a few conditions, it is actually temporary, and I’m the one who talks to him about it. You say nothing until I do, got it.”

“Got it.” Eddie smiles brighter than he has in a long time. “Thank you, it means a lot, even you just thinking about it.”

He sighs. “Yeah well, you have a point.”

“You’re not going to get, like, super weird and protective now that you know right?”

Wayne scoffs, going back to the box that needs unpacking. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve told me what happened while I was still in the coma. I know you didn’t like him around me. I know that has changed, but it’s different now. And don’t you remember back in my freshman year where I told you about that guy in my English class and you threatened to kill him if he looked at me wrong?”

He shrugs. “That’s just part of being a parent, can’t turn it off.”

That kid would have deserved what came to him if Wayne actually followed through. After the first few months of peace, he made Eddie’s life a living hell.

“Well, Steve’s a good guy, and he’s good to me, so just, tone it down a little bit.”

Wayne turns to look at Eddie again. He’s honestly surprised that this conversation is happening, but also glad that it is. Eddie’s hasn’t exactly seen that many people. Not in the town that threatens to crucify you for walking on the wrong side of the road. As far as Wayne was supposed to know, this was Eddie’s first time seeing someone. But he knew that on some of the weekends where Eddie would disappear for a night, it was to sneak into one of those bars down in Indy.

That was dangerous, this was less so. As far as Wayne knows, Steve’s romantic life is a mixed bag. Short term relationships and one long one that ended semi-badly. Sue him for being cautious. Sue him for looking out for his kid. After all the pain they went through in the past year, he could at least try to make sure heartbreak wasn’t added to the mix.

“You happy?” Wayne asks, watching as Eddie’s face softens.

“Yeah.”

“You being safe?”

“We haven’t gotten that far yet, but when we do, we will.”

Wayne nods. “Then I’ll tone it down a little. Just a little. Don’t go expecting miracles.”

The rest of the box gets unpacked, the glasses and other dishware slowly filling the cabinets. The home starting to really look like a home.

“Thank you,” Eddie says quietly.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Steve gets back from work late. Wayne wasn’t exactly waiting for him, but he wasn’t exactly not waiting for him. He was just in the kitchen, putting something together for a late dinner, knowing that Steve was going to be home soon. If it felt like a good time, he was going to bring it up. If it didn’t, he was going to give it a day.

But he can feel that protective burn bubbling up and can’t snuff it out. He needed to know.

“I know about you two,” Wayne says. More menacingly than he meant to, but doesn’t know how else to start this.

Steve freezes, hand on the fridge’s handle. Holding it open. “What?”

“You and Eddie, I know.”

He nods, closing the door and clearing his throat. “For how long?”

“Few weeks. You’re really not a slick as you think you are.”

Steve leans on the counter, crossing his arms. Ready for a lecture. “We were going to tell you, just wanted to make sure we weren’t making a mistake first.”

“Interesting word there, mistake.” Wayne’s pressing, trying to lure out what he needs to see. Make sure that this isn’t something he needs to worry about.

“I just didn’t want to lose another friend because of a relationship. It took me years to be able to be friends with Nancy. I didn’t want the same to happen with Eddie.”

Wayne nods. Satisfied with the answer.

“What you said a few weeks ago, that you saw the way I acted around him. And you wanted to stop the hurt before it started. I’m not planning on hurting him. I can’t promise I won’t mess up; I tend to do that a lot. But I always try to make up for it, to learn. I’ve gotten really good at apologizing.”

The protectiveness dies down, Steve hitting everything he wanted to hear. And Eddie’s right, Wayne knows that he’s a good guy. He’s made mistakes, but he’s grown. He’s changed. It’s as much as Wayne can ask for.

“You know, earlier today, Eddie brought up this idea of letting you stay with us until you find a place on your own.”

Steve’s face fills with shock. “He did?”

Wayne nods. “Yeah. As you can imagine, I had my hesitations. We don’t exactly have spare rooms like you do. But,” Wayne can’t believe he’s really saying this, but it feels right, “if you wanted, you could stay with us. With the promise that you find a place on your own, and that this won’t put an unnecessary strain on your new relationship.”

“I—” Steve tries to get out. “Thank you.”

Before Wayne can register what’s happening, Steve’s hugging him.

“Thank you,” he repeats. The words heavy with relief.

“Yeah, well. After all you did for me, it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

Steve lets go, taking a step back. “But you didn’t, a lot of people don’t. So, thank you.”

He realizes that there is so much story of Steve that he still doesn’t know. Hurt and pain that he keeps hidden away. Not for other people to see. Steve walks away before he can ask, or even question. Hesitating before walking down the hall to Eddie’s room.

This was going to be interesting.

apologies for the late post, I was at work and then driving home from break, and forgot to post before I left (like I planned to). And posting tag lists from mobile sucks ass.

tag list (closed): @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

@devondespresso, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @cheertain, @anti-ozzie, @autumncrocusandladybug,

@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,

@papergrenade, @waelkyring, @sweetheartprincess28, @katouasobj, @astercomoasflores

[lyricalt]

[tf2 minific] request: tie up job

sniperspy - rating T - sniper trying to flirt for his literal life

(NOW ON AO3)

------

“Oh, well. Hello there, darl. Ain’t this awkward,” Sniper says, glancing up from his scope when Spy’s foot steps over of the barrel of his rifle and stays there.

Spy looks down at him. His revolver isn’t pointed at Sniper, which is awfully lenient. Sniper, who is laying belly down in an extremely vulnerable position on the ground, notes that Spy makes a point to not put the revolver away either.

They don’t usually have run-ins like this. When Sniper takes on an extra side gig, he usually makes some vague reference to the location and Spy does the trick of avoiding the same general area. Unfortunately, vague comments don’t usually stand up to direct communication, which also don’t stand very well in the face of non-disclosure agreements signed with blood, metaphorical or otherwise.

“I hope that isn’t my asset you are attempting to assassinate,” Spy says, arching an eyebrow.

Sniper’s mark is, in fact, the very same asset Spy is probably trying to protect. There’s only one man sitting by his lonesome in his penthouse of pretty glass walls and likely stolen art pieces for some kind of money laundering scheme. Not that Sniper really understands most of it. He’s just a guy on top of a roof with a rifle, a bullet, and a hefty twenty percent deposit in his back pocket.

“No chance of voiding your contract?” he asks. He’d try and bat his eyes for a laugh but Spy’s got years of experience over him on that front. Besides, he shouldn’t need to resort to any more spy-ish tactics.

“Same chance of you nullifying yours, I’m afraid,” Spy replies with a ghost of a smile. He nudges Sniper’s rifle, making sure the aim’s no good. “My asset told me that someone might be after him. Imagine my surprise when the trail led to you.”

“Argh, that was right sloppy of me.” Sniper sighs. “What gave me away?”

“I find myself looking more towards rooftops lately,” Spy says, amused. He lets up on the rifle but slides his foot over Sniper’s firing wrist, pressing down hard until Sniper has no choice but to remove his finger from the trigger. “Now, you know I have to ask; who hired you?”

“And, as you might already know, I dunno. Got me a ticket from the clerk. They just wanted your man dead and I’m just some dummy bloke with a very long gun that can shoot very far.”

Spy groans. He lifts his revolver, pointing it at some non-lethal part of Sniper’s body. “I would hate to torture you for more information.”

Sniper flicks the brim of his hat up to give Spy a hopeful look. “I’m sure I could stand to have a little bit of torture. Who knows, might get me to admit some stuff. Maybe not relevant stuff to your mission. Depends on how hard you go. Y’had no problems tying me up to a chair two weeks ago.”

“How very unprofessional of you to bring that up. You know we’re both working right now.”

“I know, pookie. Just buyin’ some time,” Sniper says, grinning, and pulls the trigger.

Spy’s head whips towards the penthouse. There’s a crash of glass as the bullet goes through, shattering an entire window. The penthouse alarms start blaring.

The weight over Sniper’s wrist lets up by the tiniest fraction, but it’s enough. Sniper uses the second of distraction to take advantage of Spy’s foot as leverage, rolling his rifle over like a tripod to reload. He aims again and fires the second bullet. Spy flinches as the heat of the barrel sears his ankle.

“Bonza,” Sniper breathes, watching the mark fall over with a pretty new hole through their head. Gotta be proud of good work after all, even as Spy kicks the rifle away with an annoyed tsk.

“That was ill-advised,” Spy says, dangerous and low. “You didn’t let me explain. Now there will be other mercenaries after you. I’m only one of several. Your mark hired a team of us.”

“Right, right. I gotcha,” Sniper says and rolls on his back, sweet and innocent as a babe. He slowly puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Before you're obligated to capture me, can I make an offer?"

Spy's revolver tilts to the side, the equivalent of a shrug. "Might as well."

After a moment of making sure Spy won’t shoot him immediately, Sniper puts his fingers to the brim of his hat. Carefully projecting every movement, he pulls out a small slip of paper, like something that would come out of a fortune cookie.

“I’d like to hire you for the service of rescuing me," Sniper says, holding it out. "Here’s what I’ll pay.”

With the revolver still pointed at him, Spy takes the slip. He reads the lucky numbers.

“It’ll be easy,” Sniper adds. “You already know all their security details.”

Spy’s expression goes flat. “You left a trail on purpose. You knew I’d be working for them.”

“S’why I took the job, mate. Big boss cartel fellas are bloody hard to assassinate without some immediate opposition,” Sniper says, getting comfortable on the ground. He sees the end of Spy’s revolver dip downwards. “Already assumed that, even if I got the kill, there would be kickback. You bein’ one of them.”

Spy crumples the slip of paper in his fist. He puts it in his mouth and swallows it.

Sniper thinks the rice paper ought to be a nice touch. No chewing needed. Still, it doesn’t hurt to further his case with, “I did the math. My payout eclipses yours, even after taxes.” 

Spy stares at him. “You looked through my desk. That night when you said you couldn’t find the cond-”

“Plus! Even with the minuscule hit to your reputation—which, with your network, should recover in a month—I’d still come out on top,” Sniper interrupts, now rushing the pitch, “And I’ll still have leftover change to treat you to dinner and a screw at one of them nice resorts you like.” 

“You followed me. You took the job knowing I’d be there,” Spy says, sounding more affronted with each accusation. “You used me as an inside man.”

“Betcha so turned on right now. ‘Cause I did something heaps sneaky and underhanded. Like a rat bastard. Got you so hot for it, I bet.”

Spy’s gaze goes to the sky, as if questioning his life choices. He isn’t denying anything though, so Sniper can mark it as a triple win in his books.

“So, you gonna save me before your other guys start figuring’ it out, or what?” Sniper asks, dropping his voice into a small whine. He has a hunch Spy secretly likes hearing it. “C’mon, lemmie buy you out. You love all that turncoat nonsense.”

They stare at each other. From the corner of his eye, Sniper can see quite a lot of people gathering in the penthouse. The alarms have gone silent, which isn’t a very good sign. Laser sights start skimming the adjacent rooftops.

“What restaurant and which resort?” Spy finally asks, glancing at his watch.

“Non-negotiable, darl. They’re your type of shindigs though, I’ll promise you that.” 

Spy’s eyes dart to the penthouse. His earpiece seems to be going off, muffled radio calls crackling through. “You mentioned screwing.”

“Lucky for you, you get a loyal customer discount,” Sniper says, and since he’s already on his back, he draws up his legs to nudge against Spy’s. “You can have me à la carte.”

Spy looks at the not-so-subtle positioning of his legs for a good long while. After a moment, he taps his earpiece and says something brief in Italian.

Eventually, he tucks the revolver away and holds out his hand. “I can have a getaway yacht ready in fifteen minutes.”

Sniper takes it, and Spy’s hauls him up into a sitting position. If their hands stay joined for a tad longer than strictly necessary, Sniper doesn’t mention it.

“I’ll have to knock you unconscious first,” Spy says. He has a very promising gleam in his eye.

Sniper winces. 

“Aw, no. I can fake unconsciousness well enough,” he tries, but the whiny tone won’t work this time.

“Best to make it look authentic,” Spy says, leaning over to touch Sniper’s face, glove cold, but his thumb brushes against his bottom lip. He smirks down at Sniper in a very familiar way. “Relax your jaw for me.”

Sniper barely has time to do as he’s told before Spy backhands him into oblivion with the butt of his revolver. 

[aliens8n]

Lucifer Morningstar [ABC of smut]

I hope you guys enjoy this little bundle of headcanons!

Warning: Nsfw theme

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

 Lucifer is the type to wrap you in silk, fetch you the finest wine, and whisper sweet words until you're utterly spoiled.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He likes his wings and back! His wings are a bit more sensitive than most of his body so he enjoys the sensation they bring when touched in such a heated moment. As for his partner, he likes their hands, I don’t think there is a proper reason other than he just finds that body part fairly attractive and well obviously useful! 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He isn’t very fussy about it and rather easygoing about it depending on the moment! He does enjoy little mess. It's all part of the fun. He likes the aftermath the most!

E = Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He is the king of Hell!! He had lifetimes to perfect his skills after all. And he’s very confident in his abilities!

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He would not play favorites with this part. Why would he limit himself to just one? He prefers to keep things interesting, and spontaneous. With how flexible he am, he think it'd be a pity not to show off a little.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

This man is a fine mix! He can be either serious or playful! Sometimes He is playful, after all, what’s the point if you’re not having a bit of fun? But there are moments when things get serious, and he can be... quite intense.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Everything about him is perfectly groomed. He takes pride in his appearance, after all.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Occasionally he does indulge himself, but he prefers to make it much more exciting such as having an audience or even... Partner to help! 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Lucifer has a taste for the more intense side of things. A few that he definitely would bring to the bedroom is power play, and don’t worry he has no problem giving his partner the power if they so desire. Breath play? Absolutely! He finds that it adds such an exquisite edge. A frequent visitor in the bed would be the whole spectrum of BDSM... restraint, discipline, just enough to keep things interesting.

L = Location (favorite places to do they do)

Despite all his beautiful kinks and willingness to experiment, this sweet king's all-time favorite spot to get freaky in is his bedroom. After all, nothing beats privacy and comfort.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Want to get him excited? Show that you mean business and not afraid to well play with the devil! Power and confidence are the way into his heart and pants!

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

He will NOT do any sort of genuine harm! Nuh-uh, he might be the King of Hell but he has some morals. Another way to turn him off is overdoing teasing and playing and then giving nothing.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving absolutely but isn’t going to say no if you want to put in some work!

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He isn’t the biggest fan of them as he prefers to take his time and fully indulge himself but he won’t just completely shut down the idea. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

He is always willing to push the boundaries, and try something new. Referring back to a previous letter are limits, everything must be thrilling, not reckless! 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

A better question is how much are you up for!~

T = Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) 

Lucifer is quite fond of using them on a partner. As for himself, he isn’t opposed to the idea and enjoys a toy or two!

 U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Too damn much but at least by the end, you’ll be left feeling satisfied as well eagerly thinking about what he will come up next. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He is not the quiet type! Sounds from moans to growls, anything your filthy mind can think of he mostly has made that sound a few times before. After all, he is prideful, not shy. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He is quite the romantic so he loves candles, fancy silks, and dramatic settings...  He adores creating the perfect atmosphere for you both to indulge in and have a good time in!

[gh0stly-pages]

Out of Our Minds (Part 5)

Ledger!Joker x Harley Quinn-esque f!reader (18+)

CW: violence by gunfire and gas, implied deaths/fatal injuries

Words: 5.8k

Chapter Summary: After a long night of plans, you're ready to break your patient out of Arkham Asylum

previous part: part 4

Notes: Welcome back! sorry for the long wait, life has been pretty busy but here's the next part! Things are really cooking up in this one. Just wanna preface that in this series you are NOT a good guy, you're turning into a villain like Joker, so there will be lots of violence and so if you're uncomfortable with that stuff I advise you not to keep reading! I won't be getting graphic though (and I really hope that I don't have to be the one to remind you that in real life, murder bad) Also this whole chapter includes a plot for breaking out of Arkham that is very farfetched but we're gonna pretend like it makes sense, okay? okay. Enjoy!

Arkham is cloaked in shadows.

The patients are forced into these shadows, pushed there by people desperate to remain in the light. They want to be the light. To show themselves as all things good and pure. They walk around with their chins held high and their shoulders back, clucking like birds. They are bright. Intelligent. Classy. Or so they want to be seen as. What lurks beneath is all darkness.

These people avoided the shadows, and thank goodness for that.

As you lurked in the shadows, preparing for the madness to come, you couldn’t help but smile.

_________________________________________

Your heart is pounding as you approach the two guards outside of Joker’s cell. You’ve managed to move his session to be the last one of the day, and the anticipation has been killing you.

You don’t know how you got here. You don’t mean literally, you know how you got there, walking with shaking legs through security, scared that somehow they would see it in your face. That you were hiding something. They didn’t even question you, waving you along while looking bored. After that, you realized they couldn’t read you at all. They simply didn’t care. So now, you hold yourself with confidence, hoping everything goes just the way you planned.

But getting here, being Joker’s accomplice, that you were still figuring out.

“Hello boys,” you say to the guards, even though they’ve seen you enough times to know the drill. They hand you the little remote, enter the code, and the door unlocks. Not a single word exchanged. You give them your best bitchy smile before walking through the doors. “Thanks.”

There Joker is, his face paint still intact, though smudged. You let out a deep sigh of relief, and while the door closes behind you, you take your seat, not exactly sure where to start. “Mr. J,” is all you can manage to get out.

Joker leans forward, dark eyes glinting. “Yes, sweets?”

You take a deep breath. “Are you ready to break out of Arkham?”

The smile on his face is like none other you’ve ever seen from him. It’s giddy, it’s dangerous, it’s thrilling. God, you love it. “Doll, that, ah, might just be one of the best things I’ve ever heard you say.”

It took you all night to think up a plan, with the little time you had. You knew you had to take advantage of just how little people cared for you, finally it was serving as a positive. You’d racked your brain, setting up a giant piece of paper on your wall and drawing out the layout of Arkham. You’d marked where the guards would be, how they’d move, the security cameras and alarms scattered around the building. It had all looked like a mess at first. A puzzle you wouldn’t be able to put together. Yet the more you thought about it, the more you realized you were thinking too much about how to perfectly escape and not how to rely on your own strengths. Not only could you fly under the radar, but you were light on your feet, had learned a few tips from Joker on weaponry, and the only people who (mostly) respected you in Arkham were your patients. 

You’d not gotten any sleep but it was worth it as you pieced everything together. The main part of your plan did not necessarily involve high level theatrics like J, but Arkham was in for one hell of a ride.

Reaching up into your hair, you pull out a hair pin, reaching over and grabbing Joker’s wrist. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” you say, starting on attempting to unlock the cuffs. Joker’s lesson was somehow still fresh in your mind but it wasn’t an easy task. “I’m going to press the button on my remote that will alert the two guards outside the door to come in. We’ll be standing on either side of the door, and we’ll need to take them both out.” To your surprise, the handcuffs unlock with a small click, and you beam as the cuffs fall away. 

Joker lifts his hand, moving his wrist, which is partially bruised from the cuffs. “And what about the other layers of security?”

“There’s two layers of security. That was the tricky part, but I’ve talked to a few of my patients and they’ve agreed to… start a ruckus as a distraction. As long as most guards are occupied with the patients, the ones out there won’t have backup. We can knock them out easily.”

He smacks his mouth. “It all sounds too easy.”

You move to his other wrist, pushing the hair pin into the cuff. “I know, but it’s not gonna be easy. Things are going to go wrong but we’ve gotta try.” Again, with a bit of a struggle, the cuffs pull open with a satisfying click. You look down at his ankles, grateful that it seems he hasn’t been cuffed there. “You’re free.”

He stands up, stretching himself out, and you watch with earnestness as he groans and cracks his knuckles. “Not just yet, dolly. Got that remote handy?”

You grab the remote from your purse before tossing the purse to the side. You won’t be needing that anymore. “Got it.” As you stare down at the remote, everything hits you way too fast, like a mallet to the chest. Your breathing falters, your heartbeat speeding up with a rapid bump bump bump-. It’s not that you’re scared, not necessarily, but you’re scared that you’ll fail both you and Joker. You’re not J. You don’t know how to do this shit. “I…”

Everything goes blurry and it takes you a second to realize Joker has moved in front of you. He places his hands on your shoulders, bending slightly to look you right in the eye. “You’ve got a sharp mind, dolly. I, ah, know you wouldn’t fail,” he says, an odd reassurance but it works, and you can feel your breathing go a bit steadier. Then you realize how close the Joker is. He’s touching you, no cuffs, no table between you, no barriers. He’s right in front of you, all of him. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Right,” you mumble, straightening yourself. Much to your disappointment, he drops his hands from you, moving towards the door. You suppose it’s now or never. With a shaky breath, you follow after him, moving to the opposite side of the door. Now, the both of you stand on either side, prepared for whatever comes your way. “Ready?” you ask him.

He nods. “Ready, Doc.”

You press the green button.

The both of you press your backs to the wall as you hear the door click open. It’s far too early into the session for you to be leaving, so the guards must know something is wrong. The first guard walks in, the door swinging open so that it blocks the view of J, while you hold your breath to keep quiet. The guard doesn’t notice you, and his mouth drops open as he sees the table empty. He draws his gun, holding it out. “What the fu-“

Springing into action, Joker grabs the guard from behind, picking him up and throwing him across the room. The guard screams, his gun flying away from him as he hits the floor. In one quick swoop, Joker grabs the gun off the floor and jams the butt of it into the guard’s head, just as the other guard runs inside the room, already firing shots. J made it look so easy, but this other guy is your problem. Filled with a sudden adrenaline, you come up behind him, kicking him forward. You’re not the strongest, so he only stumbles, immediately whipping around to try and shoot you. Combat certainly isn’t your strong suit, not yet, but you can move exceptionally well. You sidestep him as he tries to ram the gun into your stomach, and you opt to knee him in the groin. He groans and tries to shoot you again, and you squeal as the bullets pierce the walls. Thank god the room is soundproof otherwise the guards outside would have come running in. From the corner of your eye, you catch Joker watching you. He’s holding the gun. He could shoot the guy easily but he doesn’t. He wants you to take the guard down. 

“Bitch,” the guard mutters, opting to try and throw himself on top of you just for you to dodge him again, lifting your leg and giving him a good knock to the ribs. He cries out, and as he tilts to the side, you give him a good punch to the temple. With a sick pleasure, you watch as he collapses to the floor, eyes wide open, barely breathing. Quickly, you grab his gun, not wanting to take any chances. 

You look up at Joker, who’s smiling as he watches you catch your breath, gripping the gun in your hand. “Impressive, doll. Though, ah, you definitely need to work on your skills.”

“You’re the one who gave me a night to think of this,” you grumble, and he chuckles. “Wasn’t exactly able to take a defense class.”

“I’ll teach ya.”

Suddenly, the room begins to glow red, sirens blaring that make your bones vibrate. You look at him in panic, he looks at you with excitement. Clearly, you both have very different definitions of fun. The sirens aren’t for you though, the Arkham security team doesn’t like to cause commotion for just a single patient causing mayhem. The patients must have started a ruckus, whether it be a riot or starting a fight with one another, you hadn’t gone into the details. You just told them to be distracting. 

You tilt your head towards the door. “Coming?”

“You go first, doll.”

You move ahead, prying the door open. Two more guards stand in the room, talking in hushed whispers beneath the blare of the siren. They don’t even notice you as you hold out the gun, firing into one guard’s shoulder and immediately spinning and shooting the other one in the hand. The guard whose hand you shot drops to the floor, their gun hitting the ground alongside them, and you quickly move forward and kick it. But as you kick the gun, a bullet flies out in front of you, nearly grazing your nose, and you spin around, the guard who you shot on the shoulder aiming his gun right at you. Fuck. You tense as his finger moves to pull the trigger again but before he can move any farther a bullet digs into his side and then one into his chest and he goes limp. 

You turn to see Joker huffing with the gun in his hand still smoking. “Doll, you’ve got a lot to learn. You’re not even-“ He turns and shoots the other guard in the chest “-getting in good shots. You’re leaving yourself vulnerable. Gotta make sure you get em’ where they can’t shoot back.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, suddenly feeling embarrassed. You didn’t expect to be this unprepared.

Seeing your expression, Joker falters a bit. “No apologies. I’ve told you, it, uh, doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s just a word.” He comes up to you and nudges you with his shoulder. “C’mon. Last room of guards before we have to run, right?”

“Right.”

“Well then,” he says, pointing to the door with his gun. “You first.”

This time, you don’t want to screw things up. You put the gun behind your back, pulling the door open with your other hand and entering the final room. This room has a security camera in the corner, so you don’t want to go in all guns blazing. You have an idea, and with the gun, gesture for Joker to stay hidden. You hope that’s what your gun waving conveys anyways. Three guards turn to look at you, the ones that greeted you when you first came in, two men and a woman. They’re all masked but you can make out the slight outline of their face beneath the face shield.

The woman runs forward, no gun drawn, leaving it still hanging at her hip. “Miss l/n, what happened?” She tries to crane her neck to see behind you but you’ve inched the door closed enough so she can’t see too much on the other side. “What happened with the nutbag? Are the guards attending to him?” 

You nod rapidly, trying to look like you’re startled. Your acting skills might need some touching up, another thing to work on. “Yes, I- I just wasn’t feeling very comfortable… Felt like I needed to get out of there.”

The woman snorts. “Alright, ma’am. Well, is there anything you need from us? Some other whackos are causing a disturbance.”

“Yes, I, um-“ You pull out your gun. “I need you to step aside and let us through.” You slam the barrel into her stomach, sending her flying backwards, and in one fluid motion you shoot the security camera in the corner and then train your gun on one of the other guards. You can sense Joker step out from behind you, shooting the other guard before he can even lift his own gun. The guard you’ve trained your gun on aims his gun right back at you. “You’re gonna let us go, ain’tcha?” you say, trying to keep your voice from shaking. You have to remain confident. “Or else this bullet is going in your head, right, Mr. J?” you say, looking at Joker. If you’re gonna be a villain to these people, might as well play the part.

Joker nods, mimicking your stance and pointing his gun at the guard. “Whaddya say, doll, what should we do if he, uh, refuses to listen?”

You tighten your finger on the trigger. “I can think of a few things.”

The guard drops his gun, raising his hands in surrender. It sends warmth through your chest. Even if it's sickly satisfying. You feel proud. “Okay, okay,” he blubbers, looking between them both. “Please just don’t kill me, I’ll let you go, please.”

Joker giggles. “How generous, you know, normally I’d use you to get out of this place but I don’t think we need the extra weight.” Joker shoots the man in his left hand, bam, then once in the other, bam. “Looks like you won’t be able to do much! Buh-bye!” The man faints immediately.

Seeing Joker at work, this sinister side of him you’ve only seen on the screen, makes you shiver, and your grip on the gun only tightens, knuckles going white. “The uniform. Take his uniform.”

Joker pouts at you. “Aw, it ain’t even my color.”

“J,” you warn.

“Kiddingggg, doll. Why so serious?” Grabbing the man, Joker strips him of his uniform roughly, getting each piece off before stripping out of his own clothes. Your cheeks turn pink and it all happens so fast before you can even think to turn your head and give him privacy. He pulls his shirt up over his head, chest in full display. The first thing that catches your eyes are all the scars and bruises littering his stomach, pink and jagged, scars you want to trace beneath your fingertips. He’s surprisingly toned, just like his arms. Not muscular exactly, but strong looking. Before you can get a better look, he pulls on the guard’s black undershirt, then fastens on the bulletproof vest. When he catches you staring, he grins. “Enjoying the show?”

You turn your head as he kicks off his pants, though you can still see him in your peripheral, throwing on the black cargo pants the guard had donned. “No,” you lie.

“And, are you, uh, gonna be gracing us with a costume change as well?”

You bite back a smile. “No.”

“Pity.”

When he’s finally done, you turn around just as he puts on the helmet. You don’t like that it’s hiding his face from you but you can still see his scarred smile if you look hard enough. “Lookin’ good, soldier,” you tease, saluting him. 

His lips twist into a smirk. “Lucky I like givin’ orders. Let’s move.”

“Okay, J, for this part, you’ve gotta follow me. I’ll run up ahead and lead you down to where we need to go, you gotta take out anyone you can. Got it?”

“Let’s see if we die or not, shall we?”

“You could try and be positive .”

You open the door, poking your head out to look around, and shit, it’s chaos out there, guards running back and forth, clearly busy with whatever the patients started. You can hear screams, banging, and laughter beneath the sound of the still screeching sirens. The place still glows a flashing red. You point to the right, down a long hallway. “This way!” you shout, running towards a set of doors at the every end of the hall. Arkham is a bit of a labyrinth but you know it well. Down that hallway leads to another hall which leads to more doors which then, finally, leads to the staff wing of Arkham. It’s where the back exit/entrance is. And also where you’ve parked your getaway vehicle. 

You don’t wait for Joker, but you can hear his steps behind you, the combat boots he stole pounding on the floor. Nobody seems to notice either of you at first, or they’re too busy to even give it any mind. You know eventually someone will run past Joker’s conference room and realize he’s not inside. His room empty. All traces of him gone. But you hope you’ve bought at least a bit of time. 

As you run, more guards run past you, and you’re nearly knocked off course as one bumps your shoulder. You keep steady on your feet though. Thank goodness for all those gymnastics lessons. The only time you glance over your shoulder is to make sure Joker is behind you before you push through the doors. Once you see him in all his suited up glory, you carry on through the doors, Joker just a step behind. “To the right again,” you yell. There’s less guards down here, but that means even more likely you’ll be caught. Already, you can see them turn to you, wondering what the hell you’re doing running off with one of the guards close behind. As the two of you run, one of the guards turns their attention to you. “Hey! What are you two doing?” the guard barks, running up in front of you. “The lady has a gun!”

You could probably give them an excuse that you’re running away from the danger but you feel too angry. “Running to safety, dumbass!” you say, using the gun like a hammer and hitting them on the head like a game of whack-a-mole. That was a hell of a lot more fun than shooting a gun. As the guard crumples to the floor, at least five other guards take notice, and you have to quickly jump over the guard’s unmoving body to run as fast as you can through the doors. You can hear gunshots explode all around you, it’s like a miracle you’re not hit, and you can tell which gunshots come from the guards and which from J. But before you know it, every single one of them falls flat on the floor. “Nice one, J,” you say, and he cuts up ahead of you, opening the door for you.

“Ladies first,” he says.  

“So gentlemanly.” You shoot out ahead of him. Now you’re in the staff hallway, lined with doors which leads to locker rooms and places to conduct meetings. At the very end of the hall is the exit. You’d be jumping for joy if it wasn’t for the fact that any second more guards would be chasing after you.

You grab his arm, pulling him down the hall, running faster than you ever have in your entire life. “Exit this way!” you scream through the chaos, heading into the “staff only” area of the building. Looming ahead of you, just down the hall of rooms and lockers, is the staff exit, leading to the back end of Arkham. You look over to Joker. “You ready?”

Joker moves his arm away from you, instead grabbing onto your hand with his own free one. “As I’ll ever be.”

The two of you barrel down the hall, practically slamming into the exit doors, desperately tugging them open. There doesn’t seem to be many people around except for a few guards lining the outside, and Joker moves to take care of them as you yank him towards your car. Well, your stolen car. You weren’t gonna risk coming in your own vehicle. “Here,” you say, pointing to a black car in front of you. Letting go of J’s hand, you stuff yourself into the driver's seat, and Joker shoots at another guard before cramming himself into the passenger seat. “Drive,” he yells, and you grab the keys from your pocket, turn them in the key hole, and slam on the pedal. He throws off his mask, tossing it in the back seat. “Faster!”

As you get to driving, you remember the final bits of your plan. The part you’re most proud of. “Hey, J, wanna hear what other distraction I planned?” you yell over the roar of the engine, as you swerve around the parking lot.

“Whaddisit?”

“Gas! The same kind they might have used on you. Rigged it all up on my own. The patients should be all rounded up in their cells by now and the guards? They’re getting knocked out cold!”

You have to focus, but you turn towards Joker, your heart swelling in your chest when he looks impressed. His eyes are wide as he pulls down the window and looks back at Arkham as you pump it straight out of the parking lot, taking down the small security gate. In your rear view mirror, you can see green explosions of gas within the windows. If all worked well, only the guards should be getting knocked out about now, leaving no one to come after you. Police will be on their way, but that at least gives you a bit more time and them a distraction. Plus, they aren’t sure what they’re looking for, no clue what car or who helped Joker escape, not until they can wake the guards.

Now, you realize, you can’t just go back to your apartment. It’s too risky. You look at J as you slow the car, trying to blend in with the rest of Gotham traffic. You failed to plan this far. “J, I don’t know where to go now.”

“I do,” he says, leaning over, making sure not to put too much weight on you or crush you as he takes hold of the wheel. “Just pump the gas, doll, I’ll get us somewhere safe.”

It sounds like a horrible idea, but you nod. You’d make it work. “Okay,” you say, and as the light turns green, you hit the gas. It’s scary as hell just controlling the gas, letting Joker swerve you both around, but you trust him. Ha, funny. You trust the Joker. He drives you towards the outer parts of Gotham, and as you enter a rather dingy residential street, he moves the car off the road. “Park it here,” he says, and you obey, pressing the brake and shifting the car into park. 

“Why here?”

“I’ve got a spot around here.”

“You have an apartment?”

He snorts. “No, I’ve got a, uh, hideout spot in one of the abandoned warehouses at the outskirts of Gotham. And it wouldn’t be very wise to park right outside the entrance.” 

Smart, you hadn’t thought of that. Clearly you lack experience in this realm. You grab the keys and throw open the door, Joker doing the same, and the two of you begin walking on the sidewalk, Joker taking the lead. Darkness has already set over the city, and the two of you walk beneath the light of dim street lamps. It’s cold out, and your white coat isn’t exactly meant to keep you warm, so you hug yourself to try and keep away the chill. “Is it very far?” you ask, and you realize this is the first quiet time you both have had together since escaping. You’ve been too anxious over escaping to even think about everything that’s happened. To think of how the Joker is right next to you, taking you to one of his many hideaways. 

Joker shakes his head. “Not too far, doll.”

Silence settles upon you both, the two of you far too preoccupied with getting to the warehouse to say much of anything else.

As you walk, the blare of sirens starts up in the distance, and when you turn behind you, you can see police lights in the distance. You’re positive they’re not for you, not yet, but if they even caught a glimpse of the Joker, the two of you would be over. Joker knew this too, clearly, grabbing your arm and picking up his pace, practically dragging you as he began to run. Everything is a blur as the two of you fly through the streets. Even though you’re not bad at running, after a few twists and turns, your legs start to hurt, your chest feeling heavy. But Joker doesn’t stop, probably used to running from lord knows what. Before you can register anything, you’re climbing over gates and Joker pushes open the large doors of the abandoned warehouse, pulling you in and up a crumbling flight of stairs until you reach the second floor.

Finally, Joker and you stop moving, taking time to catch your breath. Fuck, everything hurts.

You gasp, throwing yourself against the concrete wall of the warehouse, sliding down until your butt hits the floor. Your chest moves rapidly up and down as you try to catch your breath. Joker crouches in front of you. “Breathe, just breathe, good girl.” He holds out his arms. “C’mere.”

Immediately, you lean forward and throw your arms around him, going limp. He stands up, taking you with him, your legs dragging lifelessly on the floor until only the tips of your toes touch the concrete. You bury your face into his shoulder, and for a second everything feels right. Finally, a quiet moment, and everything crashes down on you, every decision you’ve made. It takes a second for you to process that you’re hugging the Joker, and he’s letting you hug him back. This man, this villain you’d become infatuated with, was holding you close. You’ve imagined something like this before, even when you didn’t want to, but this is better than any of that. “We did it,” you mumble into his guard shirt, which smells like rust and gunsmoke. “We escaped.”

“You did it,” he says, and when you finally pull back to look at him, he’s smiling at you. He gently settles you back on to the floor. “They’re going to come looking for us though. We’ll need to lay low for the moment.”

“In here?” It’s strange to be so close, your arms still wrapped around his neck. “This where you usually stay?”

“I stay all over.”

“Very spacious,” you say, moving your head to look around. “Where do you sleep though? On the hard floor?”

“Chaos doesn’t sleep, darling.”

“No, but people sure do.” You tug gently on one of his locks of hair and he growls. “You need sleep.”

“Can’t sleep now. Not when we’re being pursued.” He wrinkles his nose. “This your first time being a wanted criminal?”

“Duh.”

“I really can’t believe you did it, doll. Made up a whole plan and everything and got me out of Arkham.” Much to your dismay, he moves away from you, walking to some other part of the building. You hesitantly follow after him. “We can camp out here for the night but then we’ll have to move.” In a secluded corner of the room, a moth-eaten curtain hangs from the ceiling, concealing that whole part of the room. Joker takes the curtain in his hand, then looks at you. “Course, we can’t exactly fend for ourselves without weapons, can we?”

Yanking back the curtain, on the other side is a wall full of all sorts of weapons. Guns, knives, even TNT. There’s crates full of clothes, Joker’s clothes, you assume. Some clown masks. All sorts of tools for mischief. You look at it all like a child in a candy store. “J, this is amazing. Isn’t it kind of risky keeping it locked up in here though?”

“I’ve got some goons guarding it. And nobody in Gotham comes in here anymore, I’ve made sure of it.” He shrugs. “If anyone were to find it, let em’ take it, I’d just get duplicates and use them all on the thief.”

You move forward to get a better look at everything as Joker drifts behind you. It should be scary just how much violence is here at his fingertips but know it just makes you swell inside.

“So, how about it, doll? Pick your poison,” Joker says, holding your shoulders from behind. You look over all your options. The guns weren’t exactly your style, you were better at hitting people with them than you were at shooting them. The blades looked nice, and you’d like to learn to use them, but they could only do so much. Something that did catch your eye, sticking out from the other weapons, was a mallet in the corner. It was a tad comically large, definitely not the regular kind you’d see on a construction site. You move forward, Joker moving with you, and grab the handle. 

“Whaddya have this one for?” you ask.

“Uhhhh, to kill people with?”

You glare at his snarky response, though you’re still smiling. “I figured that much. Where’d you get it from though?”

“Amusement Mile.” The old, abandoned theme park towards the other end of Gotham. It’s been shut down ever since you were a child, but you remember your parents driving past it. Seeing a place that must have been so exciting and colorful look so dark and decrepit was chilling. “Found it at one of those old high striker games. Adjusted it a bit.”

Lifting it, you test the weight. It’s definitely heavy, but the weight is distributed evenly, making it easy to maneuver. You give it a quick swing, the whoosh of the mallet like music to your ears. This was what you needed. Sturdy, not too hard to wield, and perfect to pair with your swiftness. “I want this one.”

“Gonna play a game of whack-a-bat with that one?” He maneuvers in front of you, grabbing the handle of the mallet before you could give it another swing. “You can take that one. But you need a gun too. The mallets they’re, uh, too big to get around places sometimes.”

You look back at the wall and point at a small silver gun. “I’ll take that one too.”

He grins. “Are you sure you’re, ah, ready to cause some damage?”

You drop the mallet. “I’ve been ready.” All your life you’ve been pushed to the side. No, pushed to the ground. You were ready to hurt some people back. To make skyscrapers crumble and leaders fall. This anger inside you boils, and you can feel your grip tighten on the handle, envisioning every person who has wronged you.

Joker’s laugh pulls you back to reality, stepping up closer in front of you. “Calm down there, lovely. They call me the Harlequin of Hate but I think that title better suits you,” he says, cupping your chin. “My little Harlequin, partner to the Clown Prince of Crime.”

————————-

That night, you’re stuck sleeping on a mattress on the floor. 

You flop down on your back, the mattress not the comfiest thing you’ve ever slept on but it works. There’s no blanket, so no way of keeping warm, and you try and shift around to find a comfortable position. Joker sits on the edge of the mattress, his knees tucked up to his chest, and it’s such an odd sight to see him so regular that you laugh. His head jerks to look at you. “Admirin’ the view?”

“Maybe,” you say, smiling as you lay on your side. “It’s just weird to see you here. Not in Arkham or fighting B-Man.”

He hums. “It ain’t everyday I bring people around ere’. At least, not like this.”

“Lucky me, huh?”

“You realize you’re in this forever now, right? There’s, uh, no goin’ back from here.”

The weight of it settles on you. “I know... I wouldn’t have gone along if I didn’t know that.”

“Well, if you wanted to go, you could go now. You could walk free, tell the cops I threatened you and made you do all this.” He looks down at his feet. “I, ah, won’t stop you.”

You’re surprised to find your eyes watering. Joker, this menace, a force to be reckoned with, was giving you the option to leave. He could be fooling you, of course, but you could tell from the way the words escaped him awkwardly, uncomfortably tender, that he meant every bit of it. He’d let you go, you could continue your regular life, maybe find a better job. But that wasn’t the point of why you freed him. You wanted to escape too, to show Gotham how corrupt it was, and you wouldn’t do that without J. “I’m not walking away,” you say back.

“You’re insane, ya know that?”

“I know.” You stare at one another in silence. Finally, you yawn. “Are you… are you gonna come to bed?” You’re not sure exactly what’s going on between you and Joker. You like him, you know that much, but how much exactly does he like you? Enough to keep you around, obviously. But to what extent did he want you around? Did he want not just your loyalty but also your affections? You were ready to give affection, but was he? 

Joker shakes his head, and you feel yourself grow disappointed. “You go on, doll. I, uh, gotta keep watch.”

“Mr. J-“

“I like it when you call me that.”

“-You’ve gotta get some sleep. You’re gonna pass out without it.”

“I’ll be fine,” he grumbles. “Don’t ya get your pretty little head worried over it.”

“You’re an ass.”

Your anger only makes him smile. “If you’re so, ah, worried, then just wake up early and I’ll drift off for a bit.”

“Then that’s exactly what I’ll do,” you say, flipping over, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you ticked off. You’re not actually upset, you just wished Joker prioritized himself a bit more. That was something to deal with another day. “Goodnight, J.”

“Night, darlin’.”

That night you dream of Gotham in flames. You dream of chaos. You dream of him.

Taglist:

Taglist: @lightsabergirl / @knoepfl / @jeffswh0re / @itsmrshamilton / @heath-ledger-jokers-wife / @lolwey / @ilovetoomanymen / @amazingzou/ @ronniesweetkisser / @emberhatesthemoon

lmk if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

[deanmarywinchester]

okay too-earnest longpost about erotica below the cut. everyone look away

this has definitely been said before i just needed to articulate my thoughts on it but. the operative fantasy of a huge percentage of explicit fic isn’t falling in love, or specific kinks, it’s “a novel sexual experience, that I don’t have to negotiate or ask for, that completely turns my brain off (and kinks on/undoes my deep-seated psychological issues) in a way I didn’t previously know I needed.” from my limited experience with romance novels there’s some overlap but some stuff here feels specific to fic. and obviously this is a huge generalization, caveat that it applies /in general/ to the more popular fics in the mostly-genre fiction fandoms ive been part of in the last ten years, etc etc. Okay.

there’s a lot I could raise as examples here but one is this specific ofmd fic (for all ofmd created one of the most embarrassing fandoms ever it also brought some of the most talented and deranged fic writers out of the woodwork). in it, Izzy Hands, mr. pain kink dogmotif himself, stops pining for his boss Ed to care about him long enough to have mindbogglingly unsafe sex with a certain pirate from a different tv show, which makes ed crazy enough to give izzy what he actually wanted. and I have no actionable desire to be kept at knifepoint and bitten bloody but this fic is still blisteringly hot because 1) it’s a fantasy of someone immediately and unspokenly clocking what gets you off (in a way nobody, maybe even you, has before) and 2) it gets at izzy’s issues re: nobody liking him enough to claim him and the fact that he desires pain as a proxy for that kind of claiming

and I feel like this is why the “it was nothing like kissing a woman—women were Soft and Feminine while kissing Guy McMan was like Sandpaper and Whiskey” thing that we all make fun of now was an extant trope — it’s the misogyny, yes, but it’s also the novelty, the “i never knew I wanted this before but knowing that I want it has fixed me.” as a supernatural fandom scholar I can use the fandom popularity of rhonda hurley’s, uh, contribution to dean winchester’s psyche as another example here. and as a throuple scholar this is also the power behind leverage’s Hardison/Parker/for-the-first-time Eliot fic, and challengers “any two of us are at each others’ throats but add the third and for the first time I feel completely understood” fic. novelty! someone knowing you in a way you don’t have to ask for or explain to them! with your dick out!

and the second part of the phrase, “a novel sexual experience that kinks on/undoes your psychological issues” is also a big part of the fantasy, like. this is why it’s fun for people to start a new piece of media and point a “praise kink” beam at the guy who’s never felt good enough, or hit characters who grew up under oppressive institutional authority with hammers the cat o’nine tails.

and marinating in this soup does funny things to your sexual development. as a longtime fic reader you might not end up with a forcefem kink but instead a “watching The Character realizing they have a forcefem kink” kink. I don’t have a thing for pain, I have a thing for “being in someone else’s brain as they experience pain as sexual for the first time and get an endorphin high.” much different disorders that can come from getting your sex ed from worse places than extremely online writers but disorders nonetheless

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Thirty

Couple of things - I've been going through it lately and just wanted to get this bit out. I do have more planned but I need a break after this. The Carpenters song referenced is 'all you get from love is a love song' and if you don't know it you can give it a listen and then you'll get the 'broken arm' joke.

They squish together into the phone booth, Steve hitting the numbers almost on reflex now, going through the motions of briefly speaking to Robin’s mom.

He angles the receiver so that Eddie can hear too, their cheeks practically touching, “Steve! Chrissy’s here-”

“Why?” Eddie cuts her off immediately, “not time to close the shop,” he almost sounds a little critical when he says it, making Steve smile.

“I know I know,” Chrissy says, “but he came back!”

“So we waited for him to leave, and we followed him,” Robin adds enthusiastically.

If Steve couldn’t hear for himself that they’re both at Robin’s place, and they’re both absolutely fine, he’d be panicking now, maybe he kind of is, because he’s sort of snippy when he says, “Robin what the fuck, it’s not safe, you two aren’t- you’re not Cagney and Lacy for fucks sake.”

“Steve it’s fine,” Chrissy tells him, “he went to Starcourt, so we went home and called Hopper right away.”

“Good,” Steve breathes a sigh of relief, “okay, so what now?”

“We don’t know,” Robin admits, “we’re just waiting to hear now. See what happens?”

“Okay we could...Eddie, you want to kill some time in town, and we can call again later?”

“Yeah” Eddie pulls back his sleeve to check his princess watch, “...lunch. And shopping?”

“Sure thing baby.”

Chrissy squeaks down the phone, “oh you’re both just too cute together.”

“Oh my god don’t encourage them.”

“Oh!” Chissy starts, “I met El and all the rest of the kids, isn’t she just, so cool? She made some pens float around!”

“El is the fewest bad kid. She’s quiet,” Eddie agrees, but Steve is absolutely certain Eddie’s warmed to the kids a lot over the last couple of months, so he knows Eddie doesn’t really mean it like that.

“Least,” Steve corrects softly, “she’s the least bad. Probably.”

“Best of a bad bunch?” Robin hazards.

“Maybe,” Eddie tells her, “we can come home soon?”

“Errrr…I mean, see what Hopper says, I guess? We might know later, but you guys shouldn’t come back today anyway, it’s a few hours drive, and you’ll need to pack up and everything, right?”

Steve frowns, as Eddie, very briefly, looks sad, “maybe tomorrow,” he says to Eddie more than the girls, “is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Eddie nods, “I...like the flower shop?”

“You miss it?”

“Yes, and Chrissy. Miss them. I know they’re not gone but...they’re not here.”

“Oh Eddie honey, I miss you too, okay? And when you get back you can come into work, there’s stuff to catch up on,” she whispers then, “Robin isn’t good with the flowers like you.”

“Hey! I’m trying my best here-” but she gives up, everyone else laughing over her.

The payphone starts to beep, “we’ll call later okay!”

Steve’s pretty sure Eddie’s jar will be empty again after today. He’s bought four more records, more Led Zeppelin, plus a Dio record because ‘Rainbow in the Dark’ was playing when they walked in and Eddie really liked it. Steve absolutely certain that the girl with a green Mohawk wearing a Dio shirt sealed the deal, but he's not going to tease Eddie about it.

Eddie comes out of the changing room of the second hand clothes store, showing Steve the jeans he’s trying on. He’s been making do all this time with Steve’s draw string sweats and jeans with a very cinched in belt, so it’s definitely time for Eddie to choose his own things but...Steve wasn’t expecting Eddie to choose anything quite so tight.

“Stevie? What do you think?”

Steve swallows thickly before he answers, he swears Eddie’s only getting away with wearing them because his dicks on the inside, the thing would get strangled otherwise, “you look really good Eds. You like those ones?”

“Yes. Black, like my tail. And look,” Eddie scratches at the ripped fabric, his knees on display, “see my knees. I like to see them, they’re new.”

Steve bites his lips briefly to suppress the chuckle, “you should definitely be proud of those knees, you did grow them yourself.”

Steve frowns at the sight of Eddie in a leather jacket; it’s so very far removed from everything he’s been wearing. It’s so different from all of Steve’s clothes, but Steve can’t deny he’s making it work. It definitely suits the look Eddie’s starting to cultivate. He’s very much leaning towards darker colors, and he was really pleased when he turned up a Led Zeppelin tee shirt out of a pile.

The difference between the Eddie that comes out of the dressing room and the Eddie that went in is startling, Steve’s pullovers and polos all tend to be lighter colors, so all the black is very different.

“You like it?”

“I mean, as long as you like it, sure, you’re the one who has to wear it. But yeah, yeah I do like it. You look good.”

Steve has to stand by while Eddie rummages across a tray of cheap jewellery, “they’ll turn your fingers green,” he warns vaguely. Eddie shrugs, probably not understanding what Steve means as he tries things on, he likes the shiny silver ones that definitely are not silver, “you’re such a magpie.”

Eddie chooses two chunky rings that are so cheap he will get change from his last five dollars, but he clearly likes how they look on his fingers; he doesn’t even take them off to pay for them. Steve knows he’s just here to hold the bags, but he doesn’t mind. Eddie’s worked hard for this money, he should spend it on the things he wants.

Steve meanders through the store, it’s mostly second hand furniture and ‘antiques’, but Steve figures that term is being used very, very loosely. As near as Steve can tell it mostly looks like house clearances and that sort of thing. He spends a little while at the glass cabinets, staring at all the little figurines. 'Dust gatherers,' his dad calls them. There’s some tiny little jade ones, big tall porcelain ones and everything in between.

He’s distracted away from them by the sound of twanging. Bad, uneven twanging on an acoustic guitar. Steve follows the sound, finding Eddie just fiddling with the strings, the guitar still lying on it’s back. It doesn’t have a case, and looks pretty beat to hell to Steve, covered in stickers and all scratched up, but Eddie is entertained by the noises, and he looks up, smiling, “you going to buy it?”

Eddie shakes his head, “not enough left.”

“How much are you short?”

Eddie checks his pocket, and then the little label hanging from the neck, “six dollars?” he hazards.

“Okay, well, I’ve got four left on me, so maybe you can haggle the guy down.”

“I’ll try,” Eddie grins big, taking the change from Steve.

They’ve dropped everything off at the car and, with nothing left to do to kill any more time, they head back to the phone and smush into the booth together.

“He wasn’t there when Hopper got there,” Robin tells them, and Steve sighs, disappointed, “but! El looked into my head real quick, and she says he’s called Doctor Owens. She knew who he was, and she says he’s...nice.”

“Nice,” Steve repeats, deadpan, “a man who facilitated experiments on little kids. Nice.”

“Well...I mean maybe as nice as he could be given the circumstances. I got the impression he never...he wasn’t cruel about it. If you know what I mean.”

“I guess,” Steve hazards, “Eddie?”

Next to him, Eddie’s kind of staring into space, frowning, “Owens. Yes. Remember that word, maybe?”

“Okay. Okay, so what are they doing now Robs?”

“Well, Hoppers keeping an eye out and he’s going to try the Motel right now, but if he’s not there he’s going to start doing drive bys of Starcourt and stuff, and hopefully he turns up,” Steve can hear in her voice that she's shrugging, “but Hopper says since no one else is asking any questions, he’s hopeful that it’s just this guy working alone, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah okay.”

Eddie listens to his new record while Steve makes dinner. He has his guitar over his lap, and occasionally plays a note or two. He understood the mechanics of it already, but Steve figures he must have seen someone with a guitar on TV at some point.

Steve’s absorbed in what he’s doing, and doesn’t notice at first that the twanging noises have stopped. The record ends, but it feels like it’s been a long time of quiet, and Steve looks over to find Eddie, expecting him to be flipping it.

He isn’t.

Steve turns off the stove, covering the two pots he’s been carefully nursing. Eddie isn’t in the cabin; Steve finds him on the dock. He’s just...standing there, in the near dark. Just...staring out across the lake.

“Eddie? You okay?”

Eddie looks around again, “heard something. Had to check it’s safe.”

“You could have said,” Steve comes up close, wrapping a hand around Eddie’s hip. Eddie turns in reflexively, looking for a quick, soft kiss, which Steve is happy to give.

“Think the trees look like The Upside Down.”

“Do you?” Steve looks around; all the trees have leaves on, they’re dense and alive and nothing like the dead twisted things that litter The Upside Down, “I don’t think they do.”

Wind moves through the trees, the susurration of leaves is kind of loud, “sounds like bats. Many many bats,” Eddie shifts closer, pressing himself against Steve.

“You okay?”

“I don’t...I think I don’t like it here.”

“Oh...well,” Steve makes a decision, “since they’re pretty sure it’s just the Owens guy, how about we go home tomorrow? I mean, you might not be able to go to work and stuff until they find him-”

“Yes. Home tomorrow.”

Steve looks around again, tries to see it through Eddie’s eyes. Tries to see what reminds him so much of The Upside Down. Maybe the panic attack in the shower knocked some stuff loose; Steve doesn’t know. Eddie’s been making do with strip washing from the bathroom sink the last couple of nights, and that’s been fine but not ideal. Eddie’s hair needs a wash.

“Okay, we’ll call when we go through town, okay, let them know?”

“Yes...take my book back.”

“You finished it?”

“Almost.”

“Lets go inside, I can finish dinner and you can tell me what it’s about?”

“So they’re...stealing treasure from a dragon?” Eddie nods, his mouth full of dinner. “Okay, fair enough.”

Eddie swallows, “I want to read The Lord of The Rings.”

“Okay, I’m sure we can get it at the library.”

“You promise dragons aren’t real?”

“Yup. Definitely not real, and there’s no hobbits or wizards or- or elves or any of that stuff. And magic isn’t real- well. That kind of magic isn’t real, at least,” Eddie frowns like the book committed a crime.

“But...dinosaurs. Dinosaurs were definitely real, you have those in your book?”

“Yes...dragons can fly though. And breathe fire.”

“Well...some dinosaurs could fly, and they were big like a dragon, some of them.”

“Really?” Eddie’s eyes go wide, “I thought from my book like...cow sized?”

“Hu uh,” Eddie excitement is actually palpable, “definitely a dinosaur book next, some of them were like...as tall as trees,” Steve doesn’t actually know, he was most definitely not a dinosaur kid, but he’s pretty sure at least some of them were tall like that.

“All the time, used to do this. When I had a tail,” Eddie’s voice is muffled where he’s bent over the kitchen sink.

“Yeah...I guess I did,” and it’s true, Steve was washing Eddie’s hair pretty much every other day when Eddie still had a tail. He feels the back of Eddie’s head almost reflexively at the memory, following the ghostly, barely there ridges with his fingers through the suds, “it’s getting so long again already.”

“Good. El said Max makes nice braids when it’s long enough.”

Steve snorts a laugh, “oh yeah? That’s going to look great, now eyes and mouth closed, I’m gonna’ rinse.”

Eddie has his head resting on Steve’s tummy while Steve plays with his hair, hand buried in his curls, massaging his scalp, “what you doing baby?”

“Hear.”

“Hear? Oh what, you’re listening?”

“Listening to Stevie’s inside.”

“Anything interesting?”

Eddie nods, his cheek dragging against Steve’s skin, “funny tummy noises. And bumping.”

“Bumping? Oh, beating, my heart right?”

“Yeah. Stevie, we can definitely go home tomorrow?”

“Sure thing babe, we can get packed up in the morning,” Steve yawns, “you want to go to sleep?”

“Maybe. There’s bad dreams here.”

Steve blinks his eyes open to look down, a weird shiver raising goosebumps on his arms, all the way down to where his hand is still buried in Eddie’s hair. Eddie didn’t have to put that quite so creepily. “I think it’s just...maybe it reminds you of things here, so your mind is kind playing tricks on you a little? There’s nothing bad here baby, I promise. What do you think?”

“The water reminds me of Barb.”

Steve frowns, “Barb? How do you know about Barb?” Under Steve’s hand, something crawls unpleasantly beneath Eddie’s skin.

Eddie shrugs, “Nancy told me you killed her.”

“Stevie!” Steve fights, briefly, confused. “Stevie love, it’s okay. Bad dream.”

Steve’s kind of sweaty and panting, but he quickly realizes that it’s Eddie whose holding him, so he quits moving, “Jesus Christ,” he breathes out slowly, trying to calm himself down, “I’m fine. Thanks. I’ll be okay in a minute.”

“You want to tell me? Here, water.” Steve takes the glass, sipping it carefully. He can feel the cool water go down, grounding him.

Steve has no desire whatsoever to talk about it, so he deflects, “what time is it?”

“Five?” Eddie leans over, checking his watch before putting it back, “half five.”

“I miss you saying five and a half, it was cute.”

“I can say five and a half,” Eddie takes the glass again before snuggling in.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. Already awake...bad dreams.”

“Fucking hell. We need to go home just so we can get a good nights sleep. What did you dream about?”

“You. Lost you, in the trees...we were here but...Upside Down trees? I tried and tried to find you. Could hear you, ‘help help,’ really scared.”

“Maybe it is this place,” Steve settles down again, pulling Eddie close, “weird that we’re both having bad dreams right?”

“I don’t like it.”

“No but...lets just rest a little, and then breakfast and we can get packed up, okay?”

“Okay, Stevie love.”

Eddie waits outside the phone booth, leaning against the car where it sits parked by the curb. Steve calls Family Video today, knowing that Robs should be at work, “hey Bird-”

“He got him! Hopper! He got the Owens guy!”

Steve feels himself relax, one less thing to worry about, “good. Good, we’re coming home.”

“Okay, Hopper does think it was just this guy. He was staying at the Motel, Hop had to wait around a bit, like proper stake out!! But he did get him. Said he couldn’t find any evidence of him like, working with other people, and El’s going to talk to him or something. Make sure. I’m not sure about that bit but-”

“Okay, okay, so where is he?”

“Hopper’s got him at the Motel. Probably like, tied up, do you think? Steve what if he’s like, working for the government though. Or or the Russians-”

Steve rubs his forehead, “Birdie, I know you do love some empty speculation-”

“I do!”

“But how about we wait until we actually like, know?”

“Spoil sport.”

They say goodbye and end the call, Steve offering the keys to Eddie, “want to do a little of the driving?”

Eddie grins big, clearly surprised and pleased by the offer, “yes I do!”

“Okay, careful though, you don’t know the roads like at home. And no getting distracted by the cows.”

Eddie ‘moos’ really loudly in response, once in the drivers seat, he pauses for a second, “should have bought tapes,” he laments.

“Well, unlucky, I’m thinking some Carpenters.”

“Nooooo,” Eddie laughs.

“Shut up, I know you love it. Now sing to me about how the best love songs are written with a broken arm.”

“I think that’s what she said! Broken heart makes no sense,” Eddie grumbles, Steve still laughing.

Eddie had caved after two hours of driving, but still, considering all Eddie had done before today is short journeys around Hawkins, Steve figures he did really well in an unfamiliar place, and he told Eddie so. Eddie has turned into a surprisingly careful driver, Steve doesn’t know if it’s his consideration for Steve’s beloved car, or if it’s Steve’s constant reminders that Eddie cannot afford to draw any attention to himself. Either way, Steve feels safe in the passenger seat.

“Okay, I think I should take you home to unpack, then I can figure out how to call Hop and see if I can go over.”

Steve’s not even surprised by Eddie’s response, “both go, you mean.”

“Eddie...I’m not sure it’s-”

“Stevie,” Eddie manages to make it a complete sentence.

“Look...I’m not going to take your choice away, okay, if you want to come, then that’s fine. But...you get I just want you to be safe, right? And I feel like the less this guy knows, the better?”

“I know...I know,” Eddie has his thinking face on, when he’s wrestling with how to say something. It’s been happening a lot less lately, but this concept must be more complicated. “The people had me in a tank. They...hurt me. I was scared. Now...Owens is in the tank? He has to...he has to say why. To me. And sorry.”

“I...is that what you want? For him to apologize? To...explain?”

“Apologize and explain. Yes. And...I will not hurt him. I’m Eddie. I’m not people.”

Steve shouldn’t be surprised, not really. He feels like he knows Eddie inside and out, but his natural compassion, his...kind of innate goodness still blind sides Steve sometimes. Steve had vaguely considered that a realistic outcome of this may be that he’s helping Hopper hide a body. Maybe. It was kind of an abstract thought he hadn’t wanted to poke too hard but, realistically, they’re talking about a man who experimented on children, on Eddie.

Steve is clearly no where near as forgiving.

Hopper meets them both outside the room. Steve has no idea what to expect, really. The rasp of Hopper stubble is loud when he scrubs at his face, “El thinks this Owens guy is legit. He already knows Eddie has,” Hopper gestures vaguely, “human parts.”

“How?”

“After Starcourt happened, he went back to poke about, and he saw you both. More importantly Eddie, driving a car,” Hopper’s words are full of accusation, like ‘see I knew him driving would be trouble.’

Eddie waves a hand dismissively, “I can go in?”

Hopper sighs, but Steve isn’t going to fight Eddie on this. He knows what he wants, and he’s so fucking smart. Steve’s sure Eddie doesn’t fully appreciate the risks, not since he doesn’t get fully grasp how stuff like actual governments work but...yeah. It’s Eddie’s life, but Steve still takes his hand. If they’re doing it, they’re doing it together.

Hopper just sighs and rolls his eyes.

Steve figured that, somehow, this guy would just...look evil. He doesn’t. He looks like a harmless old dude, sitting on the edge of a sagging motel mattress, looking over some papers. He cannot disguise his interest when Eddie walks in.

He’s not restrained or anything, he’s just...there. There are books and pens and folders and shit spread out on the opposite bed, like he’s been working.

“Owens?” Eddie checks.

“Yes. Yes hello it is...so wonderful to see you again. And to hear you speak! How good is your understanding-”

“I think we have questions, first,” Steve cuts him off sharply. He doesn’t seem threatening, just...genuinely pleased to see Eddie. The guy has to be up to something, Steve can’t shake the suspicious thought that the guy must be one hell of an actor.

“Yes. Of course. I have everything, all of my notes, from Starcourt, so any questions you have I will do my best to answer.”

“Okay, where the fuck do you get off experimenting on people?” Steve’s pretty sure his voice is reasonably calm. He’s vaguely aware of Hopper coming in behind them, pulling up a folding chair he must have gotten from his truck.

Owens closes his eyes briefly, before addressing Eddie,“yes. Of course. I am so so sorry for what you were put through but..the work we were doing. I was not fully aware of just how intelligent you were. Are. I didn’t at first fully comprehend that we were even dealing with a sentient specimen-”

“He’s not a specimen, he’s a person,” Steve snaps.

“I am very smart,” Eddie adds helpfully.

“Yes. Yes you are. And the transformation you have undergone is nothing short of miraculous, if I could take some bloods-”

“Absolutely the fuck not. What were you doing with the Russians?”

“Oh,” Owens seems genuinely confused by the question, like it hadn’t really occurred to him, “when the original labs were closed, the funding ended. Of course we were aware of the mirror dimension-”

Eddie looks at Steve, “he means The Upside Down.”

“-Oh, is that what you call it? Well, it was deemed for too dangerous, and not worth the expense, to continue, not after such a catastrophic failure. The Russians however didn’t seem to have any such issues and were interested in opening a gate; I had to go where I could to continue my work, you understand. And then they brought you back with them. What should I call you?”

“Eddie. I’m Eddie.”

“And you’re working? And you’ve learned to speak and drive a car...your ability to process new information is staggering. The physical changes, did they just happen? What was the-”

“Stop, just stop. What do you want with him? Why have you been asking around?”

“Stevie,” Eddie says quietly, pulling Steve back a little by his shirt. And yeah, okay, Steve may have taken a step forward.

“I just...want to continue my studies. Eddie’s change...the differences in his make up, his body’s ability to rewrite itself – it could lead to...well, significant discoveries. The data I could gather, imagine the effect on modern medicine, what we might achieve – the potential to help people could be immeasurable.”

“We could...help people?” Eddie echoes.

“Yes, well. We could try. Like I said I would have to do some tests to understand-”

“No,” Steve crosses his arms over his chest.

Next to him, Eddie asks quietly, “what tests?”

“Just...take some blood, for now. Just try to understand how this happened and...what the changes mean on a genetic level.”

“Look, Eddie, you do not have to do a single thing for this guy, okay? This could be dangerous, they could come and take you away again-”

“I would most certainly like to avoid just that,” Owens interjects.

“Oh yeah, right. Sell me on that then,” Steve snaps at him.

“Look,” Owens spreads his hands, he hasn’t moved from his seat on the bed, “I’m the only one who knows about this. The little contact I’ve had with my previous...employers implies that they’re done with the site, they’ve scrubbed the remains of Starcourt, it’s already being filled in. I only know you even exist because I just happened to see you. No one knows Eddie is alive right now, that he didn’t die in his tank, except for me. If I tell anyone they will take him, potentially back to Russia, and I’ll loose access to him. If I inform the American team, I’ll have to admit that I was working for the Russians, which would cause some obvious fall out for me. This way I can just…continue with my work.”

Steve rubs his eyes. It sounds...legit. He guesses. Logical. “Hopper?”

“El says he’s on the level.”

“Jesus fuck,” Steve huffs, walking in a circle.

“Stevie? I want to help people.”

“I know you do baby.”

“Oh, are you two in a relationship-”

Steve finds himself leaning over to point in Owens face, “do not.”

“Okay, okay,” Owens spreads his hands, “look, I think you need to see this from the other side too. What if Eddie gets sick? What are you going to do, take him to the doctor? And what about El, and her powers? What if something comes up with her? I’m more than happy to-”

“I’m sure you are,” Steve stops him, “and you agree with that Hop?”

“I mean, he’s got a point. Don’t think we could take Eddie to a regular doctor, and El was fine with letting him look her over. I mean I maybe don’t agree with the shit he’s been involved in but...I don’t currently have a lot of choice with getting my kids brain powers looked at.”

“I don’t like it.”

Hopper shrugs, “nope.”

“This is such a bad plan.”

“Not as bad as-”

“Don’t you dare-” Steve starts.

“Letting some fish guy-”

“Hopper!” Eddie adds, affronted.

“Bite your toes off.”

[complementaryhalves]

here, have about 1k of unedited random paulos stuff. might continue it, might not

set on media day in Austin, warning for implied future cheating/debatably open relationships (i haven't decided)

Over nearly ten years spent in Formula One, Carlos has learned that most paddock VIP guests fall into one of two categories: either they’re people he’s never heard of and cares very little about, or they’re celebrities he knows and admires. In the first case, he usually has to rely on the info given by his media officer to hold a few minutes of awkward small talk, take a few photographs for social media, and then forget their names as soon as they're gone. In the second case,  he’s normally more excited and happier to engage. He often asks questions about their field of work, and gladly answers any they might have about his. A few times, like with Will Smith in Baku, he got properly starstruck, leading his teammate to make fun of him for being too flustered.

The experience of meeting Paul Mescal falls somewhere in between those two extremes.

He knows who the guy is—caught a few moments of a show he’s in that Rebecca occasionally rewatches, just enough to see that he was handsome and quite talented, at least in Carlos’ uneducated opinion. When he saw that he would star in the new Gladiator, he wasn’t all that against it. Sure, he was no Russel Crowe, but he had the look, and surely he could be convincing.  

When Ferrari told them they would do a collaboration with the film, Carlos was elated. He may not care about fashion as much as Charles, but he did enjoy working with Rocco on their outfits for the London premiere, and the thought of walking the red carpet among movie stars was exciting, in its own strange way. He even had Rebecca give him some posing lessons, mostly for fun. He was sure that once there he would forget all of her advice, but it would be fine—or so Silvia swore.

She was the one who told them Paul would join them for media day in Austin to be photographed with them and film some content, and Carlos was happy enough. He would have preferred to meet Pedro Pascal, but he could settle for the less famous guy. It would be easier, he thought. When he told Rebecca, he joked that he was glad she couldn’t be there to meet him, feigning a jealousy he didn’t feel, and she laughed and informed him that he’s got a girlfriend anyway.

It was only when they actually met, Thursday morning in Austin, that he realised there was little to joke about.

Paul Mescal, Carlos discovers on that warm Texan morning, is an extremely pleasant person to be around. More handsome in person than he is on-screen, at least from what Carlos remembers of that show he did. Casual in a way that looks intentional, handsomely scruffy, with a hint of edginess in the simple silver earring that keeps catching the sunlight as they talk outside the garage. He’s also funny, well-spoken, polite, easy-going. Eager to know more about what it is to be an F1 driver, happy to answer all of Carlos’ questions about what it is to star in a production like the Gladiator, excited to take part in the silly games the media team has devised for them.

Another characteristic Carlos notices about Paul quite early on is that he’s quite the flirt. Carlos knows the type—he’s had that kind of banter with Daniel or Nico before, and he knows how to take it in stride without thinking much of it and to give back the same energy just for the fun of it, with no real intentions behind it.

When Paul asks him if he’d give him a hot lap in a Ferrari, Carlos shrugs a light-hearted “sure”, dares him to name a model he’d like to try, and laughs when Paul grins and says, “I don’t care as long as it’s red and it’s got you at the wheel.”

A bit later, after Carlos has asked his many questions about making films, Paul asks him whether he’s considering a career change. When Carlos snorts his dissent, saying he definitely doesn’t have that talent, Paul gives him a once-over and tells him he’s surely got the look, to which Carlos laughs an unserious thanks.

And then again, when they somehow end up talking about Gaelic football, Paul laughs at Carlos’ obvious confusion about the rules, and proposes instead he should just take him to see a game back in Ireland. Genuinely interested in the proposal, Carlos enthusiastically says he’d gladly accept the invitation, before adding that his girlfriend would surely also enjoy a trip to Ireland. If the conversation becomes a bit stilted after that, he thinks nothing of it, and shortly after the three of them are ushered inside so they can get ready to film the challenge.

Charles stops him by the door while Paul is taken away by his media rep for a last minute briefing and make up check, and after putting a hand on his shoulder, he gives him an amused look and says, “You really broke his heart right then.”

When Carlos gives him an inquisitive look, silently asking him to elaborate, Charles widens his eyes and laughs at him, openly mocking.

“Mate, you really didn’t notice? He’s been flirting with you since he got here.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Carlos responds, making a face. Charles always thinks people they meet are after them in that sense; Carlos never agrees. “He’s just friendly.”

Predictably, Charles rolls his eyes. “He wasn’t that friendly to me.”

Grinning, Carlos wiggles an eyebrow at him. “Maybe he doesn’t like you.”

“Fuck off,” Charles scoffs, pushing his shoulder. “Everyone likes me,” he says, and while Carlos makes a sarcastic ‘yeah, sure’ face, he adds, “He was just nicer to you so he can get in your pants.”

“Don’t be crass, Charles. It doesn’t suit you,” Carlos responds with a disgusted grimace before shrugging his hand away.

Charles raises his hands, signalling that he’s giving up on that conversation, and thankfully, Carlos can’t think too hard about what he said. Ollie just entered the room, and Silvia is coming over to explain to them what games they planned for the video.

[storiesfromafan]

My Girl - Benny Cross x Reader

A/N: I know this is a slow series, but hopefully it's not too bad 😅

(Also, posting this from my phone, might have to fix this up later 😅😅)

Previous: Part One, Part Two, Part Three

I’ve got sunshine, on a cloudy day

When it’s cold outside, I’ve got the month of May (ooh)

I guess you’d say

What can make me feel this way?

My girl, my girl, my girl

Talkin’ ‘bout my girl, my girl

- My Girl by The Temptations

It had been a week since Benny spoke to you. And it was all he could think about. Sure, he’d seen you around the town, mostly at the grocery shop or the diner, in passing. But it wasn’t enough. He’d gotten a taste of your sweet voice. Seeing you up close; the colour of your eyes, which had specs of (colour) to them. How your hair was (colour) but when the light hits it, it looked (colour). How your cheeks go a rosy colour when you were shy or embarrassed. Benny wanted to experience it all so much more.

Cal waved his hand in front of Benny's face, snapping the young Vandal from his thoughts of you. That’s right, he was currently playing a game of pool with the man laughing at him. While waiting for his shot, it looks like Benny had zoned out again. Holding the cue against his body, Benny shot Cal and those around him an embarrassed smile. Which only made them laugh.

“Sorry" he muttered, moving with his cue to the pool table and looking over his options. Before finally lining up his shot and taking it, sinking the four ball.

Johnny was sitting near by on a stool, nursing his beer. “Ya alright kid? Ain’t like ya to be off with the fairies".

Before Benny could say a word, Cal beat him to the punch. “Yeah, he’s alright. Just found himself a girl".

Johnny raised his eyebrows in surprise, this was the first time he’d heard about there being a girl. “Is that right, huh?”

Another man – one from the diner incidents – laughed before speaking up, “yeah! She’s a shy, little thing. Some of the guys were makin' fun of her, but Benny stepped in and told them to ‘knock it off’”.

Johnny nodded, listening to the man’s words. Benny stood back from the pool table – his turnover – as he listened to them, embarrassed by the retelling of the diner. But it was true. He stepped in and defended you. And he would do it again for you if needed him too.

Sliding off his stool, Johnny down the rest of his beer before walking past Benny. He chuckled, patting him on the back. “Well, ya'll have to bring her around sometime. Would be nice to meet the girl that’s got ya by the balls".

Johnny then walked off to speak with a few other guys. Cal and the guys around Benny laughed at their leaders' words. They even jostled Benny and shared their own comments, which he wasn’t too fond of. But Benny knew he’d have to bring you to the bar. It would be a shock for you, but he knew you could handle it. Plus he’d be there with you, making sure nothing happened to you.

“Alright, spill!” Fran demanded, as she and Sandra sat across from you in a booth at the diner where this all began.

“Yeah! I had to hear it from my neighbour, who heard from her hair dresser, who got the gossip from Mrs Martin about Benny coming into the grocery store! And talking to you!?” Added Sandra.

You sat on your side of the booth, wishing it would swallow you up from their intense gazes. Once more, they asked you about Benny. And to be honest, you didn’t know what it meant. He’d come in for gum, and you shared a small conversation.

Taking a sip from the milkshake before you, you sat back and cleared your throat. “Well...there’s not much to say-" you started before being interrupted.

“Oh bull!” Huffed Fran. “From what we’ve heard, it was pretty intense between you too!”

“Yeah, so don’t down play it!” Added Sandra.

You sighed. “Really! It wasn’t like that, it wasn’t that big a deal!” You took a moment to gather your thoughts. “It went like this; I was just working and stupidly singing when I was surprised to see Benny. And I was a complete bumbling idiot! He wanted to buy gum-"

“Gum?” Both women questioned.

You nodded. “Yes, gum. He then apologised for the Vandals comments" you recalled that moment a week ago. “Benny then asked for my name, which I gave him, and he said it was pretty, that it suits me...then Mrs Martin showed up, and yeah, she wasn’t pleasant to him at all".

Both women stared at you, as you went back to your milkshake. “Bull" Sandra said, leaning over the table. “That’s not the story, right?”

“Yeah, its too...clean?” Fran said confused.

You wanted to laugh at their faces, but held back. “It’s the truth".

Both women sat back against the booth, utterly confused. As they began to tell you, the way they heard it was some big drama. That Benny was harassing you when Mrs Martin stepped in. Not to mention one retelling told that you were shamelessly flirting with Benny, practically in his hands, one palm on each cheek, and not that of your face. You blushed at the notion.

“If this is what we've heard, just imagine what your parents might hear" Fran's words sobered you up.

You hadn’t even thought about your parents, and God only knows what they’ll say, or do, if they hear the gossip of Benny and you. But it being after a week and only now had your friends heard about it. So, there could be a small chance they might not hear it. So long as you stayed clear of any further gossip, you might be in the clear.

Unfortunately for you, the other half of the gossip mill didn’t know your plan. You heard the bell above the diner door jingle and heavy feet. You were talking to your friends, not even caring about your surroundings. It was only when you glanced up to look at Sandra and Fran, discussing a coming movie to your local theatre, were you confused to see their shocked faces. They looked stunned, mouths slightly agape and eyes wide. Before you could questioned them the silence at your table was disturbed by an all too familiar gruff voice.

“Hey (Y/N)”

You turned only to find Benny. Who looked just as good as the last time you’d seen him. Only this time he was wearing dirty white jeans, black t-shirt and his denim vest that sported the Vandal colours. The way he looked at you with those baby blues of his, warm and twinkling. The way his full lips turned up in a shy, slightly toothy smile.

You felt one of your friends kick your foot, snapping you from your observation of him. “H-hi Benny...”

Hearing his name from your lips, in that honeyed voice of yours, had Benny's heart skipping a beat. His smile brightened, and he slowly began to relax. Finally, he noticed your companions, which he smiled at – but not as brightly as he had you. Benny even shot them a hey. You’d have laughed at their reaction to being acknowledged by the gorgeous Vandal. But you were busy trying to wrap your head around him being here in the first place. And even then, that voice in the back of your head was telling you to be careful, you don’t need more gossip getting around town.

“Mind if I join ya?” Benny asked, looking at you, yet not even waiting for your reply before slipping in into the booth next to you, boxing you in without an escape.

All you could do was look at Benny, not doubt like a deer in headlights, while he just continued to look at you. That charming smile on his lips. Both Fran and Sandra shared a look before turning back to you and Benny. One of the women cleared their throat, which got your attention. Turning from Benny, breaking the connection between you both. From there, they made small talk, which was mostly directed at Benny. Who only gave vague or one word answers.

You found it amusing how he didn’t seem to care for their attention. Yet when you spoke, he listened attentively and spoke to you. Slowly, you relaxed and were able to drink the rest of your milkshake, all while those baby blues watched you. Fran and Sandra eventually left, as they weren’t getting any of Benny's attention. So they slinked away with their tails between their legs.

“Finally, just us" Benny sighed, placing his arm on the back of the booth. His fingers brushing your clothed back.

A small, pleasant shiver ran down your spine. Your breath catching for a moment. You imagined what it would be like if you had been wearing a sun dress. How warm he would be, how rough those pads would be against your skin.

“You alright, sweetheart?” Benny's rough voice said into your ear, his breath fanning over you from how close he was to you.

When you turned to look at him, you were surprised to see how close Benny was. Being so close, you could see how blue his eyes were, with small specs of a darker blue. They were beautiful and captivating. You could easily get lost in those blues.

“A-ah, yeah...I'm fine" you squeaked out, making Benny chuckle.

He moved back a little, a warm smile crossing his lips at your words. “Good. I wanna know, do you wanna come to a meetin’ when I get back in town?”

You blinked. “You’re leaving?”

“Just for a few days, sweetheart," he replied, drumming his hands on the booth.

“Oh...” you muttered.

Then you took a moment to think over his offer. You knew you should keep your distance, stop any chance of gossip coming back to bite you. And yet, this was the second time he’d sought you out. Coming to talk to you. You should be running away from Benny Cross, and yet you wanted to move closer to him. Maybe you could be a girl he could want.

‘You sure?’ That voice asked. Yet you did your best to ignore it.

Pushing away your thoughts and insecurities, forgetting the repercussions that could come from talking and being seen with Benny. You couldn’t deny how you liked having his attention. So, you made your bed and planned to lie in it.

“Sure Benny" you smiled.

[hlficlibrary]

Heyy, do you have any recs for canon fics where Louis is like “straight" but still secretly hooking up with Harry behind the boys' backs? Or maybe one where they’ve never dated but eventually have some kind of confrontation about their weird dynamic? Basically, a fic where Louis struggles with his own sexuality and the feelings he has for Harry 😬😬

Thanks!! 💞

Hi, anon! You're very welcome! Here are some fics that I think fit what you're looking for!

Nobody compares to you by fallenflowercrowns / @headband-husbands

Harry has a long-term crush on his bandmate and best friend Louis, who is straight, at least as far as he knows. He also starts falling in love with this guy he met on tumblr. Who also has a crush on his own best mate. Things are about to get complicated.

Or, the one where Harry falls in love twice, Louis is just incredibly sweet and supportive, and Al from tumblr is super nice but also really secretive about his identity - not that Harry can blame him, considering his own blog is run under false pretences, too.

Follow Your Heart by dimpled_halo / @comebackassholes

“What do you mean exactly?” Harry asks. Louis’ heart is threatening to beat out of his chest. His stomach is sinking, and he’s holding his breath waiting for the words he knows are coming.

“We think it would be best to market you guys as a couple,” Simon tells them. The tone in his voice makes Louis think there’s no wiggle room to even try to argue about it.

Louis’ heart stops and his breath hitches. This cannot be happening. This has to be some sort of dream. Actually this has to be some sort of prank, really. He absentmindedly looks around the room for any evidence of hidden cameras or microphones to no avail.

“You’re kidding,” Louis says flatly. Louis is pretty sure a lot of the music industry these days likes to hide the fact that an artist isn’t straight, afraid that it might affect record sales and now he’s sitting in the middle of an executive label meeting being told he had to be in a relationship with his best friend–who’s a boy he’s been secretly in love with for most of his adolescence–in order to sell records? What kind of alternate universe level bullshit is he living in?

Completely, and Absolutely by iwillpaintasongforlou / @canonlarry

Louis is so completely and absolutely NOT gay that the fact that anyone thinks Harry is his soulmate is just being ridiculous. Including himself. He just thinks they're mates that are two parts of the same soul, and that's not weird at all. Okay?

Or, the one in which Louis spends the entirety of X Factor so deep in denial that he doesn't realize he's gay until he's already 3000% gone for the dimpled mess in his arms.