#or who ignore that distinction to justify disliking writing that makes them uncomfortable

[thatweirdguyinthebushes]

sometimes when people say "they're a pro shipper" they don't mean that someone glorifies pedophilic or non consensual relationships and they actually mean "this person writes a canonically abusive dynamic as abusive, but they do it in a way that makes me feel gross" and I feel like that's a very important distinction

[fanfictionaries]

Oh So Many Years: Ch. 16 - Flame Twin

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fred Weasley

Summary:

What happens when two Weasleys get too involved?

Absolute chaos. 

Warnings: Swearing, Death, Smut/18+ NSFW

Author’s Note:

OKAY! After 14 hours of traveling back home yesterday I fell asleep editing this chapter! So...I mean I do and I don't have any excuse for that. Thank you for your patience!

I am back to updating every week before midnight on Sundays (US MST)!

I hope you have as much fun reading this chapter as I did writing it! And as always, please, please, please feel free to like, comment, and reblog. I LOVE interacting with you all!! 

Masterlist

<<<Chapter 15

   You are the hider

I am the seeker

My twin, I’m in flames

I’m rolling about

  I have a name

You call me by none

My twin, I’m on fire

Come put me out

  George Weasley loved his siblings very much. His eldest brother, Bill, was easily the coolest bloke he knew – somehow being a prefect, Head Boy, and working for Gringotts, without being dull as dishwater. His second eldest brother, Charlie, always knew what to say in a pinch; certainly, the most level-headed person in England, but then he’d have to be to work with dragons for a living. Percy, for all his downfalls, worked harder than anyone he’d ever known and sometimes George secretly wished he had an ounce of his ambition. Ron was always down for a laugh which George liked very much, but he also wasn’t afraid to challenge George more than any of his other siblings. Ginny, his little sister, was unapologetically herself and took zero shite from anyone. She also had a fondness for trouble, in her own special kind of way. But out of all of them, Fred had to be his favourite sibling by far. Sure, he was a bit biased considering Fred was his twin and all, but George reckoned he’d have no trouble disliking Fred if he were any different. While he and Fred were similar in many ways, they were also very distinct. Fred was more outgoing, daring, and had a penchant to take things a bit too far where he was more laid back, erratic, and carefree. George supposed that was because Fred cared more about things than he did. Most people assumed, if they even bothered to assume anything about him and his twin brother’s differences that is, that Fred was the more callous of the two. But where others saw reckless cruelty, George knew it was really the opposite.  

  Fred cared – a lot. Too much, in George’s opinion. He let his emotions get in the way of his thoughts and it often resulted in him taking things too far. He pushed people past their limits when he thought he knew what was best for them. He punished people too harshly when he felt they deserved it. For example, Fred was the first to suggest they find Percy and beat him to a bloody pulp when he’d made their mother cry. Fred didn’t care what the consequences were. No one made their mother cry.

But he also let the poor actions of those he cared about slide too much. Like with Angelina at the moment – there was no way George would ever put up with his girlfriend ignoring him without any proper excuse. But Fred wasn’t George. So, he sat in silent misery, justifying, and making excuses for why his girlfriend wasn’t in the wrong.

  Fred also forgave too easily where it wasn’t deserved. That’s why George knew without a doubt that Fred would be the first to forgive Percy if and when he inevitably apologized, and when Angelina eventually broke his heart, he would probably find some way to make it not her fault.

  All these things George loved about his brother. But it was also all these things that led to the one thing George did not love about Fred. He always had to be a bloody martyr.

  George knew Fred liked Hermione. He had had a subtle inclination that Hermione liked him back. And after yesterday morning’s little show in their bedroom, there was no question the two had chemistry. The way the electricity sparked between them…George was almost convinced they’d have started ripping each other’s clothes off if he hadn’t reminded them he was there. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say they’d already hooked up before, or something like it. But if that had happened Fred surely would have told him.

  In George’s opinion it would be the easiest thing in the world for them to just fess up to each other and finally snog it out. Damn Angelina and damn Ron alike. But that was too easy – no, Fred had to take everyone else’s feelings into account. He couldn’t possibly take what he wanted if it chanced hurting Angelina’s or Ron’s feelings and somehow those factors had made him blind to the way Hermione looked at him. Which only made it worse of course, because he was annoyingly convinced Hermione would never be interested in him. George didn’t know why – he was a handsome chap. But then again, he was a bit biased.

  It didn’t surprise him when Fred wasn’t in their room when he’d finally turned in for the night. He was probably somewhere in the house, sulking like the right stubborn prat he was. It was surprising, however, when he’d woken the next morning and found that Fred had never returned to their room. Where could he possibly be? wondered George, stepping out into the hall. He started with the kitchen. Fred was known to wake up early and enjoy a nice cuppa while he waited for the rest of the house to wake up. But the kitchen was empty – no signs of Fred or morning tea anywhere to be found. Peaking into the nearby dining room, he also saw no Fred in sight. Perhaps the parlour, thought George and he walked up to the second floor. Again, no Fred. He was irritated now. Was this tosser really going to make him search the whole bloody house for him?

  Stomping across the hall, he thrust the door to the library open and paused. He could just make out the top of Fred’s head, his red hair peaking out at the end of the sofa in front of the fire. George crept quietly across the room, expecting to give his brother a bit of a scare. He supposed the only benefit of having to go searching for his brother would be to get a good laugh out of it. But when he got close enough to peer over the top of the sofa, he didn’t find just Fred. No, instead he found Hermione Granger wrapped around his brother like a Grindylow attacking its prey. Even more curious, Fred was very much awake looking down at Hermione like she was a goddess divine sent from the heavens to please him.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” asked George, crossing his arms and grinning widely.  

  Fred’s gaze snapped from the girl sleeping on top of him to George. He looked guilty, splendidly so.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” whispered Fred, giving Hermione a tense glance when she stirred slightly. Fred only relaxed when he was sure Hermione was still asleep. She nuzzled her face further into his chest and her breathing deepened once again.

  George took a step closer, leaning against the back of the sofa and staring down at his brother who was looking especially uncomfortable. “Really? Because it looks like you’re cozied up on the sofa with Hermione,” George whispered back, fighting everything within him that wanted to jump and scream ‘GOTCHA!’.

  “We were only talking. She was knackered. She fell asleep.”

  “And you just decided to be a gentleman and be her mattress for the night?”

  Fred sighed quietly. “I fell asleep too.”

  “Mmm, I’m sure.”

  “Look, there’s no ulterior motive here. I’m going with Angelina.”

  “Sure didn’t look that way when I walked in. Now, correct me if I’m wrong since I’ve never had a girlfriend or anything, but are you allowed to lovingly stroke other girl’s hair when you’re in a relationship?” George tapped a finger to the end of his chin in mock contemplation.

  Fred let out a small groan of frustration, trying his best not to wake Hermione in the current situation. “Alright, fine. You’ve had your fun. You’ve taken the mickey out of me. Happy?”

  “Not necessarily, no,” answered George, not at all amused by Fred’s lack of fight.

  “What do you want from me, mate?” Fred asked in exasperation. He was bordering hysterics and George could almost see a bead of sweat forming at his brow. Good.

  “You know what I want.” George fixed him with a pointed stare. He raised his eyebrows expectantly. Now’s the time Freddie boy, thought George.

  Fred opened his mouth as if to say something in response, but no sound came out and he quickly closed it, scrunching his brow. This process repeated a few times, making Fred look very much like a fish in George’s opinion. It took a while, but George was willing to wait as long as it took for Fred to give him what he wanted. That’s it, that’s a good boy, you can do it, George thought encouragingly in his mind, hoping that Fred could hear his thoughts.

  Finally he answered in a harsh whisper, “Fine! I like her! I’m raving mad about her! I fancy her more than I’ve ever fancied anyone in my life. Are you happy now?”

  “Extremely—” George pushed off the back of the sofa and headed towards the library doors “—see you at breakfast.”

  An hour later George was seated at the kitchen table, sipping on a cup of earl grey, and flipping through the Daily Prophet. Goblin stock options – boring. New cauldron regulations – boring. Which witch and wizard’s fashion were in and out – double boring. A feel-good piece on the Minister – nauseating. He threw the paper down and folded it roughly with a sigh before pulling out his wand and charming the pages to fold themselves into individual little chickens. He didn’t know why he bothered with the paper anymore. It was just like his father said these days, all a load of rubbish.

  The house was mostly awake at this point. George could hear the hustle and bustle of his family combined with the odd Order member. They were always popping in. Sometimes they brought news, sometimes they were simply asking on the whereabouts of other members, and sometimes they simply needed a place to sleep. Despite housing a majority of the Weasley family, Sirius Black, and a full-grown Hippogriff, Grimmauld Place had more than enough room to spare. The kitchen was oddly empty that morning though, not even his mum had come down yet to start on breakfast. George heard the distant shuffle of shoes on hardwood as someone descended the staircase. He sat up a bit straighter hoping it was Fred. They needed to continue their conversation. The fact that Fred had admitted his feelings to George was a good first start; now he just needed to admit those feelings to Hermione.

  However, it wasn’t Fred who rounded the corner and entered the kitchen. Instead it was his little sister Ginny, looking incredibly rumpled and cranky.

  “Orite, Gin?” George asked, eyeing her misbuttoned blouse and wrinkled shorts. Contrary to the last few days, the morning was uncharacteristically warm and when George had looked out the window earlier he saw nothing but bright sunny skies. Perhaps summer had finally come at last.

  “No. It’s going to be such a nice day out and mum’s got us cooped up in this ghastly place! I asked her if we could take the day off and go home to play some quidditch, but she said she found another Doxy nest in one of the fourth floor bedrooms,” whined Ginny, grabbing a loaf of bread from the breadbox on the counter and slicing into it with a sharp knife. “Toast?”

  George nodded, watching the paper chickens on the table chase each other down it’s length.

  “It’s just mental! We’ve always had chores and I’ve never complained…much, but we’ve also always had time for fun things too. But here it’s like every waking moment is devoted to cleaning this trash heap of a house and for what? Sirius doesn’t care, obviously and if Kreacher cared, well there wouldn’t be this mess in the first place!” She held a piece of bread over the flame of the stove, browning the side before turning it over carefully in her hand and toasting the other side.

  “Fuck!” Ginny exclaimed, dropping the toast onto the flame, and sucking on her singed pointer finger. She kept the digit between her lips for a moment before pulling it out of her mouth and inspecting the damage. “You know, this process would go a lot smoother if I had magic.” She shot George a pointed look.

  George rolled his eyes good-humouredly. With a flew flicks of his wand the bread began to balance itself over the stove flame, toasting to a golden brown before depositing itself onto a plate. While the bread toasted Ginny grabbed butter and jam from the fridge and placed it on the table before George.

  “Why don’t you just try out for the quidditch team Gin? You’re well enough at it,” said George, not really wanting to get into the endless number of chores they did daily. While he agreed, he’d also been listening to Ron and Ginny complain for a month now and he was growing tired of it. At a certain point whinging got you nowhere and it was better to shut up and put up.

  “Well enough? I kick yours and Fred’s butt more often then not. I’m bloody fantastic.” Ginny grinned widely, grabbing the now full plate of toast, and walking to the table with it. George grabbed a piece and began to butter it before globbing on an ample amount of raspberry jam. One of the paper chickens pecked at his hand and George broke a piece of his toast off, tossing it to them. The chickens pecked enthusiastically at it and George took a large bite off of the remaining slice. As he chewed, he looked across the table at his sister. She had four slices on her own plate, piled high with butter and jam. The amount was no surprise. Ginny always ate to excess. It was impressive more than anything. He honestly didn’t know where she put it all.

  “I think I’d want to try out for chaser this year. Are there any open chaser positions?” asked Ginny, taking a large bite.

  Fred shook his head. All the chaser positions were full. Ginny frowned.

  “But we need a new keeper. Still haven’t filled the position since Wood left,” George offered kindly.

  Ginny made a face that George didn’t quite understand. There was nothing wrong with keeper. It certainly wasn’t as cool as beater, but it was a respectable position. Perhaps it wasn’t exciting enough for his dear sister. She always did enjoy a bit of thrill, just like him and Fred. Speaking of Fred. His twin entered the kitchen looking wary as he sat down at the table and poured himself a cup of tea. Shortly after Ron and Hermione joined them. The atmosphere around the table was tense. Or at least George thought so. Everyone was too quiet. They chewed too slowly, as if the lot of them had stayed up late the night before drinking deeply from a bottle of Firewhisky.

  “Everyone excited for a day of Doxy wrangling?” George asked cheerily, trying to lift the mood at the table.

  His three companions groaned, their shoulders sagging. Ron, who’d snagged a piece of toast from the pile, dropped his slice onto the table and laid his head in his hands. Honestly, what was everyone’s problem these days? People needed to learn to lighten up, live a little.

  George did not try to lift the mood again. Sometimes it just wasn’t worth trying, especially when Fred wasn’t in the spirit to help him. The largest of the paper chickens hopped across the table and pecked at Ginny’s hand. She gave a little giggle. George smiled. At least his little sister could still be agreeable when she was cranky. Looking to the others at the table, George caught Fred and Hermione sharing a look. To anyone else it might seem innocent enough, but George assessed the situation like a trained auror looking for clues. It was much easier to spot things when you were looking for them. Their smiles were a bit too warm, their glances furtive, and whenever they came close to touching they both stuttered away from each other. The idiots clearly liked each other but didn’t want the other to know. Ridiculous.

  “Could you pass the sugar please, Fred?” Hermione asked politely, pouring herself a cup of tea from the pot in the middle.

  “I’ve got it, ‘Mione!” said Ron enthusiastically. He grabbed the sugar before Fred could reach it and placed it in front of Hermione.

  Fred gawped, looking slightly put out, and sat back heavily in his seat. He crossed his arms, decidedly mopey once again. Great.

  “…thank you Ron.” Hermione swallowed thickly and began to pile sugar into her cup.

  The table fell back into a thick silence. Thankfully, it only lasted for a few moments more as the distant sound of his mother calling them from the parlour on the second floor broke the tension. Ron, Hermione, and Fred seemed to jump from their seats, rocketing towards the door of the kitchen like they’d been waiting at the starting line and his mother’s voice was the signal to run. George and Ginny hung behind, cleaning up the last bits of breakfast before they went to their mother.

  “Merlin and Morgana…could you believe the tension between them? Could cut it with a bloody knife,” said Ginny, leaning against the kitchen counter.

  George paused, the plates in his hand hovering in the air as he went to place them in the sink. “How did you…?”

  “Oh come on George. I mean, it’s pretty obvious they fancy each other. Hermione doesn’t think he does of course. Just wish that brother of ours would finally fess up and tell her. That way we’d finally stop having to watch them make sad puppy eyes at one another.” Ginny laughed, pushing off the counter and heading towards the door out of the kitchen.

  George stared at his little sister in disbelief. He clearly hadn’t been giving the girl enough credit. That or Fred and Hermione’s actions were more obvious than he previously thought. Either way, it was nice to know he wasn’t the only one in the house suffering because of them. He just wished there were a way to force them to—

  “Ginny! Wait!” George reached out and grabbed his sister’s arm. Ginny spun around, giving him a confused looked. A large smile spread across George’s face and he knew he must look like an absolute maniac in that moment, but he’d just come up with a brilliant idea. An absolutely brilliant, devious idea.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Ginny reproachfully.

  “Gin…how would you like to help me with something today?”

  “What? Like one of your pranks?”

  “No, not a prank. More like a…mission. A mission of love you might call it.”

  Ginny’s eyes widened in understanding and her mouth stretched into an equally evil smile.

  “Oh George, I thought you’d never ask.”

    Fred groaned. Just when he thought the day couldn’t get any worse, life found a way to torture him further. It was a hot day. England had finally found its summer heat and soon the temperature rose so high even the strongest cooling charm couldn’t cut the stifling warmth. As a result the lot of them had divested themselves of their layers until they were as stripped as was proper. Fred, George, and Ron were shirtless as they cleaned out the Doxy nests in the upstairs bedroom. Getting rid of the Doxies had been fairly simple, but the compact, intricate nests they’d made in the wardrobes and drapes was another story. It would have taken less time with wands, but Fred and George had made the mistake of launching one too many Doxies at Ron, and their mother had taken their wands as punishment. Ginny, Ron, and Hermione had glared daggers at them as it really was a punishment for all of them. Now they’d all be forced to remove the nests by hand. Sweat rolled down Fred’s chest as he pulled out an old box from the top of the wardrobe to reveal another clump of nests. Damn Doxies.

  Across the room, balancing on a ladder, Hermione prodded at the drapes. Staring at the girl, he thought this must be what they meant when they talked about forbidden fruit. She’d pulled her hair up, twisting it into a knot at the back of her head, but after several hours of work, tendrils had fallen loose, sticking to her damp neck. Her vest top had risen at some point, revealing the creamy skin of her midsection just above a pair of shorts that had to be the tightest things in existence, Fred thought. She hadn’t been wearing them earlier in the day, but after lunch when they’d returned to their work, she’d entered the bedroom and Fred had nearly swallowed his tongue. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she’d done it on purpose. To torture him. But that wasn’t right. It was foolishly arrogant to assume Hermione wore anything for anyone, especially himself.

  In addition to the true agony that Hermione was causing him physically, George was causing him equal turmoil mentally. No, he hadn’t done or said anything, but that was entirely the point. After catching him and Hermione together that morning and finally getting Fred to admit his feelings for the girl, he expected a bit more from his brother. He was sure his twin would pull him aside to continue their conversation, or at the very least make pointed jokes. But there’d been nothing. In fact, it seemed George was hellbent on acting as if that morning never happened.

  Fred’s thoughts drifted back to earlier in the library. Once George left, he took a few more minutes to bask in the glory of having Hermione in his arms before he woke her. She had been mildly embarrassed when she roused to find herself wrapped so tightly around him. But Fred played it off like it was no big deal. But despite the moment of embarrassment something definitely felt like it had shifted between the two of them. Fred felt a little less on edge around her and she seemed to be more relaxed around him as well. Perhaps realizing that she could be physically close to him without him making a move had her less concerned about being around him again.

  Although Fred figured if Hermione could hear his thoughts at that moment she’d feel anything but an ease. He had to physically bite his tongue when she’d hopped off the ladder and bent over to pick up the duster she’d been using. A tightness formed in the front of his trousers and Fred turned his gaze away, banging his head on one of the open wardrobe doors to. Squeezing his eyes shut tight he thought about boring things like owl post, third year herbology, and potions essays. When that didn’t work he thought of disgusting things like Blast-Ended Skrewts and Hippogriff dung.

  “Hermione, could you give me a hand with this please?” asked Ginny, motioning to the second pair of heavy drapes as she attempted to get behind the tangled mess of them.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  Fred watched as Ginny piled the ends of the drapes into Hermione’s arms. “There’s a nest back here. I think if you lift the drapes high enough, I’ll be able to reach it,” said Ginny, instructing Hermione to lift the drapes higher in her arms.

  There really shouldn’t be anything sexy about cleaning out Doxy nests, thought Fred. But as Hermione raised her arms higher and higher, she revealed more of her sweat-slicked body. The wild-haired girl struggled under the weight of the drapes, now hold them high above her head. Fred supposed if he hadn’t been checking out Hermione in that moment, he wouldn’t have seen the way her arms buckled, dropping some of the drapes and tangling them in her legs. Sprinting across the room, he caught her just as she lost her footing, trying to untangle her legs from the heavy material.

  “Whoa!” Hermione exclaimed, landing hard in Fred’s arms, as the drapes fell back onto Ginny.

  “Hey! Hermione, what gives—oh…you okay?” Ginny had scrambled out of the drapes to see Hermione in Fred’s embrace, looking up at him in surprise. Fred’s mouth went dry as he looked down at the witch in his arms. Her face was delightfully flushed, and he could feel bare skin under his hands. He felt the tightening in his pants return and practically threw Hermione from his hold, stepping away from her.

  “Thanks,” Hermione muttered, looking pointedly down at the ground.

  “Yeah,” coughed Fred.

  He was just about to try and come up with an excuse to flee from the room when his mother entered, looking around the space appraisingly. “I think that’s enough for the day dears. It’s quite hot, why don’t you wrap up and we’ll finish this room tomorrow?”

  “Alright, thanks mum,” said George, wiping his grubby hands on his jeans and walking over to swing an arm around Ginny’s shoulders.

  “Uck! You’re all sweaty George!” cried Ginny, shrugging off George’s arm in disgust.

  George took a moment to assess himself, looking down at his sweaty form. “You’re right Gin. I think I could use a shower actually. What about you lot?”

  A chorus of agreement rang through the room from them all and they exited it, heading down to their rooms and more importantly, the bathrooms.

    Ginny was only slightly disappointed in herself. Her first “mission” with her older brother George and already she was failing at it. She’d never tell him, but she considered his invitation to be quite the honour. Sure, she’d helped Fred and George with some of their little schemes over the years, but never had one of them asked her specifically to help without the other. At first she wondered why Fred wasn’t involved in their plan, but they she realized it might be because Fred didn’t know Ron was desperately in love with Hermione and vice-versa. Perhaps Ron had only told George in confidence and didn’t want Fred knowing too – Fred was the type to tease Ron more than George would about something like that. Finding out that Ginny was clued in was probably a huge relief to George.

  “I’m not really sure how doing this will make them confess their feelings though,” said Ginny, knitting her brow and looking sceptically at her older brother.

  “Trust me, it’ll work. All we need is a bit of sexual tension to break them. Get them hot and bothered enough and they’ll be attacking each other before you know it!”

  She still wasn’t sure if she was 100% sold on the plan, but George knew about these things more than her. It had been her idea to spill pumpkin juice all over Hermione’s clothes after lunch, forcing her to change. She’d subtly offered Hermione a pair of her shorts, her smallest and tightest ones and a when the older girl had asked whether or not she should just wear her vest, Ginny encouraged it. A small part of her felt like it was a bit demeaning to resort to primping Hermione up like a prize fair farm animal for Ron to ogle, but at this point she was desperate to get the two of them to admit their feelings. Her wants in the world were simple. She wanted her siblings to be happy and she wanted her friends to be happy. If she could accomplish those things in one fell swoop then even better.

  When she’d piled the drapes in Hermione’s arms, she fully expected Ron to be the one to catch her. Bloody Fred and his chivalry. He already had a girlfriend, she thought bitterly, why couldn’t he just step aside and let Ron save the day?

  Either way, they were on to part two of their plan and Ginny would not let George down. Her job was to direct Hermione to the right place at the right time. Third floor bathroom at the end of the hall. George would take care of the rest. Easy.

  However, to her dismay, when she’d reached the third floor she saw Ron entering the first bathroom on the right and close the door. Damn him! Where was George? Wasn’t Ron his responsibility? Putting her ear to the bathroom Ron was currently in, she heard the rings of the shower curtain slide against the metal pole and the water turn on. Fine, she could improvise. This was fine. Ginny spun around at the sound of a door opening and closing and saw Hermione exit their bedroom with her towel in hand.

  “Ginny are any of the bathrooms on this floor open?” she asked, wiping a hand across her brow.

  “This one is—” Ginny stepped aside the door “—I started the shower, but mum called me and needs my help. You can take it!”

  “Thanks Ginny!”

  “No problem ‘Mione. What are friends for?”

    Hermione was grateful for Ginny giving up the bathroom. She was in desperate need of a nice long shower. For more than one reason. There was a moment in the fourth-floor bedroom that she thought she was surely going to combust. In what fair and just world should she be forced to stare at a shirtless Frederick Weasley for an extended period of time? It was painful how good he looked. Hermione cursed her inappropriate thoughts. He was a taken man. But then there was the way he’d held her in her sleep – the way he’d gently woken her in the library. She’d been embarrassed at first, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, he almost seemed sad to part, but that was ridiculous. Again, he was a taken man.

  Entering the small bathroom, Hermione scowled slightly at the running water. Really, Ginny should wait until she entered the shower to turn on the water. It was such a waste to keep it running. She placed her towel on one of the hooks on the wall and grabbed the hem of her vest top, sliding it up her torso. The fabric stuck to her skin, damp from the sweat of a hot day and good, hard work. If she’d known she’d be spending a majority of her summer doing exhausting chores, perhaps she would have thought twice about abandoning her parents. But then Hermione’s mind drifted to the thought of her grandparents’ cat-fur covered sofa and dry Madeira cake and suddenly she was sure of her decision once again. She was just bringing the vest top over her head when something very odd happened. The sound of water stopped. Hermione froze, arms raised over her head and top covering her eyes. Turning towards the shower, she pulled her top completely off, freeing her sight just as the shower curtain pulled back revealing a very wet and very naked Ron.

  While in reality it was probably only a few seconds, for Hermione it felt like an eternity that she stood still as stone staring at Ron absolutely starkers. Ron stared back, eyes wide and mouth hung open. How? Why? What? Hermione had so many questions and yet, nothing came out of her mouth. In fact the only thing her mouth could do was open and close like an idiot before she finally let out a high-pitched scream.

  Ron screamed as well, bringing his hands down to cover his more…vulnerable bits. It was a bit late for that thought Hermione but closed her eyes tightly all the same.

  “What are you doing in here?!” she screamed, blindly feeling for the door.

  “What am I doing in here?! What are you doing in here?!” screamed Ron back, the tile squeaking under his wet feet as he exited the tub.

  “Oh my god—” Hermione desperately felt for the door handle, letting out another scream when she felt wet skin “—OH MY GOD!”

  “Bloody hell, Hermione! Get out!” Ron yelled.

  “I’m trying!”

  Finally Hermione’s fingers found the doorknob and she flung herself from the bathroom, running as fast as she could down the hallway.

  “What is it?! What’s going on?! I heard scream—oof!”

  Hermione collided into someone, her frantic fleeing impairing her ability to watch where she was going. Whoever it was, she hit them hard. Hard enough to knock her backwards. Desperately, she reached out to catch herself on instinct, but the only thing her hand found purchase on was the soft fuzzy fabric of a towel that gave easily as she fell backwards. Hermione landed hard on her backside, feeling slightly dazed. Looking down at the towel in her hand, she looked up in mortification. There standing before her, at eye level she might add, was Frederick Weasley’s entirely naked body. She screamed again, covering her eyes quickly this time, a little more prepared and a little more experienced at accidentally seeing naked boys now.

  “Merlin!” Fred cried, yanking the towel from her hands, and most likely covering himself. Hermione didn’t know for certain though as her hands were still tightly glued to her face. She wasn’t risking it anymore. If another Weasley boy were to show up in the hallway naked, she was prepared.

  “Oh my god. I’m so, so sorry!” Hermione cried, attempting to stand without her arms or her sight. She wobbled and bumped a bit, but eventually found her feet.

  “What the hell is going on?!” asked Fred.

  “Hermione I—” she heard Ron’s voice start and then stop suddenly before he let out a confused exclamation. “What’s going on here?!”

  “What’s going on here? What was going on in there?!” Fred asked back, sounding quite angry.

  “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god,” Hermione chanted in humiliation as she was now blindly trying to find her bedroom door. She needed to get out of there desperately.

  “Bloody hell Hermione. You can open your eyes now,” groaned Ron.

  Hermione shook her head frantically. “Nope! Sorry. I’m not chancing it.”

  “What was she doing in there with you?” Fred questioned indignantly.

  “What was she doing out here with you?” huffed Ron.

  “I heard screaming!”

  “So you decided to come and investigate naked?!”

  “I wasn’t naked! I had a towel, but she pulled it off!”

  “Why would you run out in just a towel?!”

  “Sorry, next time I think there’s an emergency, let me just take my sweet time getting dressed before I come and help,” Fred bit back sarcastically.

  “Boys—” Hermione felt completely lost at this point, walking into a wall, and hitting her head “—ow! Please. Now is really not the time to fight. Can someone please just direct me to my room so I can kill myself?”

  “Stop being so dramatic Hermione,” Ron sighed. She could almost feel his eyes rolling in his head.

  “Yeah, it’s just a bit of skin ‘Mione. No need to be so affected,” said Fred.

  Hermione let out a high-pitched sound of disbelief. “Are you two seriously turning on me now?”

  “Well, you were the one who walked in on my shower,” Ron said sounded very irritated.

  “Yeah, and you pulled down my towel,” added Fred.

  “How in the world is this my fault now?!” cried Hermione, no longer attempting to find her room. Instead, she stood in the hallway, eyes still covered but entirely invested in the argument that was now happening between the three of them.

  It was that moment that they heard the loud and raucous laughter of two people from down the hall. Hermione knew at once who it was. Of course.

  “Ginevra Weasley, I swear to Merlin I will kill you slowly in your sleep for this!” Hermione threatened. “George, I know you were involved in this too! Don’t think for a second you’re in the clear!”

  Ginny and George’s laughter continued, both of them in hysterics at this point.

  “You two?!” cried Ron. “Why?!” He sounded deeply betrayed, as if he expected a lot from the two, but never something as horrible as this.

  “Merlin, this is…this is better than I ever could have hoped,” said George in between laughs.

  “Really George? Really?” asked Fred pointedly.

  “You know George, I was a bit disappointed you failed on your end of the plan, but I think this laugh was worth failing,” Ginny commented, finding her voice through deep breaths.

  “What do you mean?” asked George. “It was you that got it all mixed up!”

  “Me?! What do you—”

  “I can’t believe you two! Actually, George I could expect this from you but Ginny?” Hermione scolded.

  “Oh lighten up Hermione, it was just a bit of fun!” scoffed Ginny.

  “I mean, what was the point of this? Really?” asked Fred, continuing his rant.

  “I’ve been so nice to you lately George. I even did you chores the other day!” said Ron dejectedly.

  “Indecent George and Ginny! Absolutely indecent behaviour!” yelled Hermione.

  “That’s rich coming from someone only in their bra and trousers,” said George.

  Hermione gasped, pulled her hands from her eyes now and covering her upper half. In all the chaos and confusion she’d completely forgotten she was half naked herself.

  All five of them were now talking over each other, everyone yelling at someone different as they argued in the heat of the moment. The noise was beginning the rise in magnitude until the only thing that could be heard was the overwhelming sound of screaming voices.

  “SCUM! MUDBLOODS! BLOOD TRAITORS! IN MY HOUSE?! OUT! OUT! DISGRACESFUL! DIRTY! DIRTY!”

  Their arguing was suddenly drowned out by the horrid sound of Walburga Black’s portrait two floors down. Everyone stopped. Now they’d done it.

  Mrs. Weasley’s shrill and angry voice drifted up the flights of stairs and mixed horribly with the shouting portrait. They heard stomping feat on the wooden stairs and looked at each other in fear.

  “Don’t just stand here like idiots—” said George quickly.

  “—Scatter!” finished Fred.

Chapter 17>>> 

Taglist:

@theworldisugly-22

@aoonai

@sjh-07-10

@is-it-madness

@i-d-e-g-a-f

[pechebeche]

Sorry, I should be clearer. You don't have to post this. I did see the 'callout' but I didn't know them. I thought the Ace Discourse takes were non-issues but then I saw the part about antiblackness and thought, "OK, I see where they got that from". And at the time it looked like someone had informed you but you were ignoring it. If they didn't, and you weren't, that's a different story. I'm sorry you were harassed, I don't agree with that. But you did seem unaware of why it came across so bad.

alright. i am going to outline the two major accusations i think you're talking about - one of which was completely off the wall, and one of which actually was a good critique of my actions, which was then mixed in with all the other accusations.

the first was that i defended a slavery au. that's fucking insane. i never did that. what i DID was not block a user who had created one and later apologized, because the only person who talked with me about it was anonymous. i was not quite as suspicious of anons then as i am now, but friends of mine had been the victim of abusers twisting genuine mistakes and co-opting activist language to isolate and turn people against their victims, so i had a policy of not doing anything based on an anon's word alone, since i couldn't check their credibility. i instead said that i would follow the lead of poc in the community, which i later did by blocking the artist.

in retrospect, it was my whiteness that allowed me to give them the benefit of the doubt that their initial au was a mistake and that they might deserve a second chance. that was not my call to make. it is also, in large part, because i gave literally everyone the benefit of the doubt. i gave genuine responses to an anon who said i was 'playing the sexual trauma card' three times before i realized they wouldn't listen. that doesn't justify it, though, and was a character flaw as a pushover just as much as it was racist. i was wrong for that.

(as a side note, the anon later cited this discussion on twitter as proof i had 'talked over and refused to listen to' a person of color, as if....i just. had some sort of Spidey Sense that tingled when an anon was white. i still pretty firmly believe that a lot of that discussion came from a basic, widespread misunderstanding of what anonymity fully entails, but that's a conversation for another time.)

the other major accusation is one i will freely admit, as i always have, was a fully warranted and credible one in its original form. i had been commissioned to write a kingston/kugrash fic, and there had recently been a rash of discussion that i had never seen beforehand about the ship being disliked. i was uncertain whether it was inherently racist, and thus if i would need to back out of the project and refund the commissioner, or if this was just a personal issue that people had.

without knowing more about what the problem was, it was hard for me to google 'problematic rat curse shipping' with hope of any actual answers, so i asked an open question about what the specific problem was on twitter (which i did, to my little credit, clarify several times throughout the conversation that no one was obligated to respond to or engage with, and that i was certain the fault was mine for ignorance). another user very kindly and patiently explained to me the importance of canon interracial ships that don't involve white people. i asked what i, at the time, thought was a clarification question about the lack of non-het characters of color to ship in interracial relationships, but what in retrospect was very much a defensive attempt to push through the issue with as little change to my actions as possible. they rightfully called me out on being performative; i apologized and promised to look back on the conversation later and reflect on it.

i learned after the fact that the other person involved was a minor, and upon learning it, immediately deleted all of my part in the conversation. i don't regret that. my memory of that time is too fuzzy to know whether what i said would have damned or aided me, but ultimately, that doesn't matter at all in comparison to making sure that user wouldn't face any of the harassment that i later did. they're one of the other people who i really, truly believe was well intentioned, and whose advice i still take very seriously when reflecting on my actions.

the call out post was made the next day. it was possible to frame it as my 'being informed but ignoring it' by utterly distorting the context of the first accusation, and thus being able to use the second, much more credible accusation to prop it up as more legitimate. i am not going to pretend i didn't make mistakes, because i did, and i will continue to. but i wanted to, and was willing, to learn. i think the fact that i still tried to parse genuine criticisms from harassment even as i actively regressed to my lowest points, and am still trying to more than a year later, is evidence of that.

in the end, though, the veracity of the racism accusations wasn't actually the root of the poster's hatred of me. (i actually recall making a post at the time stating that when i talked about people harassing me, i specifically was not talking abt critiques of my racism, and that i was grateful that people were calling me out and forcing me to adjust my perspective. there was a very clear distinction between people trying to educate me and people trying to hurt me.) what they hated about me was that i wrote nsfw fanfic about aged up characters, and that, when told that this made people uncomfortable, promised to make it easily blockable for them, but did not outright remove them, because i felt that as i was writing about adults in a consenting relationship and the pieces were largely a proxy for delayed-by-trauma exploration of my own sexuality, i didn't feel there was anything inherently immoral about them. thats what they hated me for. that's why i was called a pedophile and a bitch and had my chosen name mocked widely. the poster stated outright thats why they hated me. the accusations of racism were, i believe, largely to pad the post out for people who wouldn't hate me for that alone.

[robininthelabyrinth]

You write an amazing smut! Hashirama is such a sneaky bastard. He knows exactly how to manipulate Madara. Madara will never leave him. Not now when he knows how Tobi is manipulate and hurt. Uchiha couldn't leave Tobirama alone at Hashirama's mercy.I don't know if you plan to continue the series, but if so, I have some suggestions. I would like to read the promised double penetration or scene where Tobirama was rude and must be punished.

Hahaha, thank you!!! I’m having a ridiculous amount of fun writing it, and I’m definitely happy to take suggestions - I only have one part planned after this, so more prompts are welcome!

Accordingly, per your prompt (and, as usual, for @blackberreh-art!), here’s part four of the I-really-should-name-this-something series

Tobirama stumbles a little when he leaves his labs, but that’s probably just because he ran out of food at some point and didn’t bother to stop what he was doing to get more. It’s fine, though. Totally worthwhile. He’s come up with something really great, tested it and recorded it, and once his chakra reserves are back the way they ought to be, he’ll show it to Hashirama and -Hashirama’s here.Why is Hashirama here at home in the middle of the day? Tobirama squints at his brother, who has his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl. “Don’t you have work you’re supposed to be doing?”“I declared a holiday.”That gets Tobirama’s attention. “Anija, no!” he exclaims. “Do you know what an administrative nightmare a new holiday would -”“He’s joking,” Madara interjects, because he appears to have also skived off work for the day. Is Tobirama the only person with a work ethic around here? “We finished today’s meetings early and took the rest of our work home. We’ve been worried about you.”Tobirama blinks owlishly at them. “Worried…?”“You’ve been in there for six days,” Madara continues, scowling. “And from the look of you…have you slept at all?”That depends; do catnaps count as sleep?…maybe he shouldn’t answer that question. Not that it matters; he’s sure the bags under his eyes tell the truth for him.“You’ve been very naughty, making us worry like that,” Hashirama says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “That’s not very nice of you, you know. I think you need to be punished.”Tobirama is going to protest, because whatever Hashirama might think he is not a child anymore, except suddenly Hashirama is shining very bright, chakra overwhelming, and it’s going straight to his head and -Tobirama wakes up feeling considerably more refreshed.Also, in a more concerning development, unable to move.At all.There are roots and vines twined everywhere around him, immobilizing each limb, crossing over his chest and hips, even climbing up to hold his head and neck steady. His chakra is being suppressed – with an Uzumaki seal, no less, so breaking it will cost more than it’s probably worth.He’s stuck.But not unsafe.“Oh, good,” his anija sings out from somewhere he can’t see. Not that it matters; his comforting chakra is everywhere around, meaning that Tobirama hasn’t tensed up or started to panic. “You’re awake!”The roots ripple around him - a surprisingly pleasant feeling - and next thing Tobirama knows he’s suspended upright, hanging from the wall and still unable to move.“Why?” he asks, meaning his current situation, since asking to be let go would clearly be futile. Hashirama cups his face in both hands, pressing a kiss to Tobirama’s forehead. “You worked yourself into near chakra exhaustion. Again. What if you’d collapsed in your labs?”Then he would lie there until time had healed him, like he’d done before. Obviously.Equally obviously, telling Hashirama that was not going to be conductive to getting out of this.“You shouldn’t worry your big brother like that,” Hashirama continues sternly. “If you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, I’m just going to have to do it for you.”Tobirama sighs. He knows where this is going. "You’re just going to be punishing yourself, too, you know, keeping me tied up like this,“ he tries. "If you don’t let me down, you’ll have to do my paperwork.”Hashirama’s grin tells him his gambit isn’t going to work this time.Whatever. It’s fine! While admittedly this level of total immobilization is moderately new, Hashirama has locked him away before, tied him up like this before, it’s something he does when he wants to reestablish control; Tobirama can handle it. Sure, he’s helpless, but it’s just Hashirama. Hashirama would never truly hurt him…unless he thought it was for Tobirama’s own good, anyway.Still. He’s mostly safe.“What. What are you doing?”…right. Madara lives here now, too. Tobirama feels the back of his neck go hot with embarrassment. Madara’s presence is…new. He’d tried to go home after their little week together - and seriously who was Hashirama kidding with his concerns about chakra exhaustion, he’d nearly killed them all with sexual exhaustion - only for Hashirama to announce that it was rather inconvenient for members of the Hokage’s office to live far away from the administrative center and that Madara, as the only one distant, should move in with them.

Madara asked, very politely, if he was insane.

Hashirama responded by suggesting, very kindly, that if Madara preferred to limp on home, stinking of sex and newly applied ink, to explain himself (and the brand-new tattoo on the sole of his foot) to his brother and the rest of his clan, he was welcome to do so.

Madara agreed to move in with somewhat alarming alacrity.

Tobirama hadn’t quite understood what was wrong with explaining (he himself would never, of course, but then he’s a very private person, while Madara had always struck him as rather extroverted in comparison, particularly with his close family), but he’d been cheered, briefly, by the thought that maybe, just maybe, he could finally escape being used as Hashirama’s favorite cuddling pillow every night.

No such luck.

It turns out that Madara is also a rather aggressive cuddler, and somehow Tobirama seems to always end up lying right in the middle. It’s a good thing he enjoys being warm at night or else he would be forced to murder them both as they tug him back and forth between them in their sleep.

Really, is it any wonder he retreated to his labs at first instance?

Though maybe – and he’d never admit this out loud – he may have gotten a little bit carried away, if it was enough to make Hashirama break out…this.

“I’m punishing him!” Hashirama chirps, entirely unphased by Madara’s twitching. “So that he learns it’s not good to worry us like that.”

Notably, Hashirama doesn’t suggest that he thinks this will be effective at deterring Tobirama from doing it again in the future should Tobirama think the cause justified. He’s at least figured out that much.

Madara’s mouth opens and closes mutely for a moment. “So you tie him up on your wall? Naked?” he finally says.

“He clearly can’t be trusted to take care of himself,” Hashirama sniffs. “So I’m going to have to do it for him.”

Tobirama really isn’t looking forward to being spoon-fed again. It’s humiliating, even if Hashirama takes such glee in doing so.

It’s not that Tobirama minds being hand-fed in the normal course of events – he’s certain that Hashirama’s been sticking food in his mouth with a “Try this, Tobirama!” since he was a baby, so at this point he’s resigned himself – but he has a distinctive distaste for being fed because he can’t use his arms.

Worst punishment ever.

“…he seems uncomfortable,” Madara finally says, after apparently dismissing at least five other objections that seemed to come to mind.

“It’s a punishment,” Hashirama points out. “He hates keeping still –”

“He sits still all the time.”

“No, he fidgets. Haven’t you seen him playing with that spinning figurine the Nara gave us, the one on his desk?”

“I thought he did that just to irritate me.”

No, that was just a fringe benefit.

“I’m fairly sure that’s just extra fun,” Hashirama, who knows him too well, says with a shrug. “He used to fidget with his arms but he – doesn’t anymore. Anyway, he hates being kept still, which makes it a perfect punishment. I usually keep him like this for a few days.”

There’s an entire history in that brief pause, of Tobirama’s one point of contention with their father and tears shed on Hashirama’s shoulder and the way their father sometimes coughed up flower petals in the weeks before he died while Hashirama smiled, but that wasn’t history Madara needed to know.

Not when Madara’s already done so much for Tobirama already, the hot press of his lips on Tobirama’s chest and the wash of forgiveness turning a mark of shame into nothing but old scar tissue. There was no need to burden him with more.

“A few days seems a bit much,” Madara says, crossing his arms. “Especially since the village will probably fall apart without him.”

“See, anija?” Tobirama can’t help but say. “I told you.”

“We manage fine when he goes out on mission,” Hashirama says, ignoring him entirely.

(That was the other part of this punishment that Tobirama disliked: Hashirama would dote on him or ignore him, but Tobirama never has any say in the matter when he was bound like this.)

Madara’s still frowning, though, so Hashirama finally heaves a great big sigh and says, “Well, if you like, I could do something faster if you promise to help.”

Madara squints at him suspiciously. “Promises to you are dangerous, as I’ve recently learned,” he says.

Tobirama can’t help but snort at that. “Recently? You’re the one who promised to build a village with him; now look where we are.”

Madara doesn’t look at him, keeping his eyes focused on Hashirama, but he hasn’t mastered Hashirama’s ability to compartmentalize anything he doesn’t immediately care to think about so Tobirama still sees it when his lips twitch upwards suspiciously.

Hashirama shrugs grandly. “It’s not like I’m going to force you –”

“Since when?” Madara and Tobirama ask in unison.

Definitely a twitch of Madraa’s lips then.

Hashirama pouts at them both.

It’s an absurd expression on someone so powerful.

“Tobirama, what do you think?” Madara asks, surprising Tobirama. “It’s your – er – punishment.”

“I feel like asking that defeats the purpose of this exercise,” Hashirama grumbles.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make me suffer either way, anija,” Tobirama says, automatically reaching for a way to comfort and support his brother. It’s a terrible instinct, especially under circumstances like this.

Hashirama brightens, though, and that’s worth anything.

…he thinks.

“Fast and with audience participation it is,” Hashirama declares, because of course he thinks that any decision left to Tobirama is his to decide, and unfortunately he’s not wrong about that.

Tobirama still takes the time to nod at Madara, who in a rather confusing turn of events seems to care much more about whether Tobirama agrees to things and who prefers confirmation that Tobirama doesn’t mind. Which he doesn’t! He’s already resigned himself to whatever Hashirama has in mind – especially since Hashirama will be absolutely insufferable if he doesn’t get a chance to try whatever he’s thought up – but also he really would rather be able to move sooner rather than later.

So it’s basically the same as him agreeing.

Then Hashirama whispers in Madara’s ear, which is mildly worrying, and Madara smirks, which is more worrying, and next thing Tobirama knows he’s got Madara’s mouth on his cock, which is very worrying but also mind-blowing enough that it distracts him from worrying.

“You realize, anija,” he chokes out, trying desperately to thrust into Madara’s hot mouth even though he knows logically that it’s a terrible idea and he’s only setting himself up for future misery, and anyway that it’s pointless because his hips are being forced into stillness right now, “that sexual deprivation isn’t going to work every time.”

“I don’t know,” Hashirama says, sprawling out in a chair that curls its way out of the floor. He’s never bothered to go get an existing chair in his life, even if there is one two feet away as there is now, and this is why Tobirama’s always giving people sets of slightly mismatched chairs as housewarming presents. Eventually someone’s going to figure out his motives. “I think I have a good window of time before it stops being effective. That’s good enough for now, Madara, come back here.”

Tobirama whines when Madara retreats, which he knows is essentially conceding Hashirama’s point, but still.

Madara’s chakra crackles, making him whine again as the nerves down his spine light up, and it’s really entirely unfair how quickly Madara learned to do that.

It’s also unfair how much Hashirama has warmed to the idea of providing visual stimulation (if by stimulation Tobirama means additional torture, which he does), because he’s pulled Madara into his lap and watching Madara sprawl out like that, all boneless and moaning and head lolled back onto Hashirama’s shoulder as Hashirama’s clever fingers work him over –

Unfair.

Tobirama struggles to move, even knowing that he can’t, and he feels that burn of humiliation that he always gets when he fails to escape except now it’s mixing in with lust in a way that speaks worryingly of Hashirama’s future plans and how he’s playing right into them but he really can’t bring himself to care right now because he just wants – something.

“You’re doing so well for me, Madara,” Hashirama purrs into Madara’s ear. “Helping me like this, worrying about Tobirama – you’re the best friend a man could have.”

“I – I feel like we’ve gone – ah – somewhat beyond – yes, that, more of that– beyond friendship at this point,” Madara pants.

“Nonsense. Whatever else we are, we’re still friends,” Hashirama says. “You’re my dearest friend, my precious person, and I’ll love you forever and always, no matter what.”

And he means it, too, shining and sincere, charismatic enough to make anyone believe in him even if he were lying but it’s all the more potent because he’s not.

Tobirama feels what is almost a prickle of jealousy, but he learned that he must share his brother’s love with Madara years ago by a riverbank and had that lessons seared into his mind again during that previous week, so instead of jealousy he just feels envy that Hashirama is praising Madara and not him.

If that’s the punishment, it’s a very good one, but somehow Tobirama suspects there’s more to it.

“In fact, you’ve been so good, I should reward you,” Hashirama continues. “Would you like a reward, Madara? Say please.”

Madara grunts.

Hashirama leans down and bites Madara’s shoulder, sharp and sudden, and Madara’s whole body spasms in a way that suggests he enjoyed it tremendously.

“Use your words, Madara,” Hashirama scolds, if anything said in that low growl, menacing and overwhelmingly sexual, could be properly classified as scolding. “Come on, pet, you can do it for me.”

It takes another minute of torment, but eventually Madara forces out a desperate-sounding “please” between his lips, biting them with his teeth until they’re red and plump and Tobirama wants to kiss him more than anything.

Well, maybe not more than he wants to come, watching them like that, or more than he wants to join them, but – more than anything else.

Hashirama’s not done, though.

“Please what?” he asks, eyes round with innocence.

“Please – reward me,” Madara chokes out between groans. “Please!”

“Well, all right. Since you asked so nicely. How about a nice show?”

Show? What type of –

Tobirama feels one of the vines curled around his legs unwind just a little, making its slow, creeping way up his inner thigh.

Oh.

That type of show.

No, wait – Hashirama can’t mean – not with his Mokuton, not with vines and roots instead of hands and fingers and –

“Anija!” he shouts, feeling the vine slide up higher and start to prod in a purposeful sort of way. Hashirama’s used the Mokuton on him before, of course, and even during that week he used it liberally enough to hold him down or move him in place but he’s never – not inside –

“Shh,” Hashirama says. “You’re being punished; this is Madara’s reward. You should be quiet and let him enjoy it.”

Tobirama opens his mouth to say – something, he’s not sure what, but he’s certain he would have come up with something adequately snarky and cutting, except before he can get a word out there’s a thick wooden branch sliding between his lips, fat and heavy on his tongue, and he can’t do more than make incoherent noises around it as it forces his jaw open wide.

“Oh,” Madara says, a half-choked off sound full of something like wonder, and Tobirama feels his face burning again. It hadn’t occurred to him how it would look, his lips wrapped around the branch as if he were sucking it, but now that it has he can’t stop thinking about it. 

It’s only made worse when Hashirama’s murmur – “Look what a pretty picture he makes” – drifts over to him.

The roots binding his body start shifting then, too.  They don’t give him any leeway to move, but crawl all over his body, alternatively tight and confining or soft and stroking, and Tobirama finds himself whimpering as they curl up on his chest, flicking at his nipples until he’s sure they’re bright red against his pale skin, as red as his cock is, hard and straining and wrapped around with one of Hashirama’s vines that start moving back and forth in a pale imitation of what Hashirama’s hand is doing to Madara.

It’s such a conflicting burst of sensations – the tightness around his cock, the branch in his mouth, the feelers on his chest, the feeling of two chakras pouring over him, the sight of Madara falling to pieces before him – that Tobirama, unforgivably, forgets for a moment about the vine between his legs.

Naturally, that’s the moment that it pushes into him, slick and wet with its own sap, and the surprise makes him shout, muffled by the branch in his mouth as it is.

“What are you doing to him?” he hears Madara ask, but he’s distracted by the strange way it feels – the vine is cool, not warmed with blood the way fingers or a cock would be, and it twists around inside of him in an altogether unfamiliar way.

“Let me show you,” Hashirama says, and suddenly Tobirama is moving – not of his own volition, but being moved, the roots rearranging his body as if he were a doll to be posed at Hashirama’s pleasure – for Madara’s pleasure.

The posing comparison is particularly apt, he finds, as the roots put him on display. He feels himself burn up again, that overwhelming humiliation-tempered-by-lust sweeping through him again, as his legs are spread open and raised up so that Madara can see him, pinned and immobile, getting fucked not by a person, no, but by the manifestation of Hashirama’s will, watch him reduced to writhing and grunting and moaning by nothing more than a vine –

A second vine slides up his legs, a smaller one, twining around the one already there, and Tobirama has less than a moment to realize what it’s going to do before it does it and suddenly there are two vines moving in and out of him, one dedicated to hitting that spot within him that makes him see stars and the other to opening him further, pushing in deeper and harder, and he moans.

“Fuck,” he hears Madara say. “Oh, fuck, look at him – just look –”

“I bet I can fit another in his mouth, too,” Hashirama says conversationally, and Tobirama doesn’t think he’s right because his jaw is already aching but apparently he’s wrong, he can fit in two, and now he’s got them thrusting in there as well – less a gag now than a substitute for a cock, and he can feel himself drooling all over them, leaking from the corners of his mouth, messy and filthy; he must look disgusting –

“Beautiful,” Madara says. “So beautiful.”

And now Tobirama’s burning again, embarrassed beyond belief that Madara is seeing him like this, skewered open like this.

Even his hands are being used now, thick vines slipping in through his fingers and with the barest encouragement from Hashirama he finds himself working his hands up and down them as if they were real.

“Beautiful,” Madara says again, and that’s enough, that’s reason enough even if he knows he’ll wake up in the middle of the night for weeks thinking of this moment, blushing furiously at the sight he must be making, the display he’s putting on, whorish, so greedy that not even the half-dozen thick vines Hashirama is forcing on him is enough.

And he hears Hashirama saying as much, too, laughing at him, teasing him, “Look at him,” he says, “all that and he still wants more, don’t you think? Look at my stern, serious little brother, always proper, knowing every rule of etiquette; look at him now, what do you think of him now?”

“I think he’s perfect,” Madara says, his voice low.

“Oh, he is,” and Hashirama’s voice is fond as ever, fond and loving, and that’s why Tobirama lets him do things like this, obscene things he’s never even imagined, all because he loves him so. “He’s always perfect, my Tobirama – perfect fighter, perfect scholar, perfect administrator, perfect little slut.”

Humiliation should make him thrash with fury, embarrassment should make him turn away in shame, but instead his cock is leaking and tears stream down his face as he tries so hard to thrust his hips only to be stopped by the vines. As an object lesson, it’s a very good one: he’s not in control here, not at all, not even over instinctual responses that his body is begging him for.

Everything about him belongs to Hashirama, now just as always, and by hurting himself he’s hurt something of his brother’s and that is not allowed.

“What do you think, Madara? Look at him – perfect, just like you said. Putting on a display like that, the perfect wanton little whore. The best brothel in Konoha couldn’t put up someone better than him, taking all of that at once like that and enjoying it too. Doesn’t seem like much of a punishment, though, does it, with him enjoying it so much – I bet he’d do it for real if we asked nicely enough, don’t you?”

Tobirama writhes, red in his cheeks and his ears and blush going down his chest because he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, surely, he has too much pride than that, too much dignity –

But if his brother asked…

“Think about it,” Hashirama laughs in Madara’s ear, Madara’s eyes spinning red as he brands the image Tobirama is making into his brain forever. “The village’d never lack for money if we rented him out. People would line up for the privilege, and no one would care how many he’s had before as long as he takes them, too. Or maybe we could offer him to visiting diplomats as a perk – see how well they negotiate in the morning when they’ve had him on his knees the night before, sucking them all off, letting them come on his face, on his hands, on his body until he’s sopping wet –”

“No,” Madara growls, and his gaze is so intense that Tobirama imagines he can feel it on his skin, burning and hot and dark the way his chakra is, bubbling oil scorching him from the inside. “No one else. He’s ours.”

Tobirama wants to say something, do something – wants to kiss Madara, take him into his arms, thank him somehow – but he can’t do anything, anything at all; he’s entirely at their mercy.

Hashirama laughs again.

“All ours, yes,” he says, smug and satisfied. “All mine, both of you. I could have you like this any time I want, Tobirama, you know that, right? Doesn’t matter where or when: all the houses are made of wood.  Just think about that for a moment. You could be in my office, sitting at your desk; you could be kneeling at the dinner table at home; you could be snug asleep in your bed, and none of it would matter. You’d never have the slightest warning until my roots are wrapped around you.”

Tobirama’s thinking about it, oh, he’s thinking about it. Thinks about waking up in the middle of the night already split open, legs pushed apart before he was ever aware; thinks about his office chair suddenly reaching up for him when his mind is preoccupied with paperwork; thinks about the flimsy door to the Hokage office and the window where shinobi come through on a regular basis without warning – where they could see –

Yes, he’s thinking.

He really wishes sometimes that he could stop thinking.

He wishes he could beg Hashirama for forgiveness, for mercy, for relief, but gagged as he is he can’t do more than plead with his eyes.

“Should we have pity?” Hashirama asks Madara. “I don’t know. I’m not sure he’s adequately made it up to us, all that worrying he’s put us through. I think we need a little more.”

Tobirama’s not sure what more he can possibly give.

But Hashirama’s voice is dropping too low to be overheard and he’s whispering instructions in Madara’s ear, Madara nodding obediently – because everyone obeys Hashirama eventually – and the next thing Tobirama knows Madara’s not in Hashirama’s lap anymore, he’s pressed up hot and heavy against Tobirama, and the vines between Tobirama’s legs are pulling out, leaving him empty, but Madara’s there for him, pushing in instead.

It’s so much better, hot flesh giving easily the way the wood and plant matter didn’t, and Tobirama moans, helplessly approving.

The branches slip out of his mouth, too, and Madara kisses him, whispering, “Beautiful” at him even though Tobirama knows his face is wet with tears and drool. He’s not beautiful, he knows he’s not, and especially not now, but sometimes when Madara says it he could almost believe it.

But then Hashirama’s there, too, pressed up behind him, pressing up inside him, first fingers and then cock, sliding in easily where the vines have already stretched Tobirama open, and – oh –

“Anija,” he whimpers. “Anija – you’re – you’re inside – you’ve never –”

It’s not really the first time he’s had his brother’s cock, not really; during their week together he’d learned to suck him, had him in his mouth while Madara rutted inside him, and certainly he’s had Hashirama’s fingers in him from well before then (that horrible talk about the importance of masturbation in maintaining one’s health, fuck, the demonstration portion of that went on for hours and hours and he’s still mildly shell-shocked to this day about it) and Hashirama certainly talked about doing this, but somehow, somehow, the reality is still different.

“Fuck,” Madara says, and buries his face, red and hot, in Tobirama’s neck. “Oh, fuck, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, fuck, why does that do it for me –”

“You’re so cute,” Hashirama coos, even as he wraps his long arms around them both. He really is far too tall; he can make even Tobirama feel small. “Both of you, my precious people, so cute. Tobirama, make that cute little face again and say ‘please fuck me, anija’.”

Tobirama has no idea what face Hashirama’s referring to, but he needs to show that he can be good, too, the way Madara was being good earlier, so that Hashirama will be pleased with him, will praise him, too, so he obediently says, “Please fuck me, anija.”

Madara groans and stops holding still, starting to move, and Hashirama’s moving, too, and somehow this is nothing at all like the two vines from earlier, it’s less coordinated, less timed, and it’s so much better. Tobirama’s being tugged between them, as helpless as he was beneath the roots, being used by them, feeling their cocks rub up against each other inside of him, hearing Madara curse and Hashirama laugh and it’s so good, he loves it, he’s so happy that he can do this for them when even a few weeks ago it would have seemed impossible.

“So good,” Hashirama says. “You’re so good, Tobirama, taking us both like this. Don’t you like it when we share?”

“Yes,” he gasps, and his voice is slurring as if he’s drunk, drunk on pleasure instead of sake. “Yes, yes, please, please share me, share me whenever you want, have me, use me –”

“How are you this perfect,” Madara says, and his hands are tight on Tobirama’s hips and his chakra is metal-bright and warm on Tobirama’s tongue and he’s not even asking a question, not really, he really thinks that, he thinks Tobirama is perfect, no one thinks that, no one but Hashirama.

And Madara, now.

“Anija, please,” he begs, because he can do that now, he’d forgotten somehow. “Please, I’ll be good for you, I won’t make you worry, please, just let me come, please –”

“Us first,” Hashirama says, not without sympathy. “This is a punishment, after all.”

“Please, anija, I’ve learned better, I know better, I won’t, I’ll be good, just please –”

“No, Tobirama. Us first.”

“Don’t worry,” Madara grunts. “I’m not going to take long.”

He doesn’t, thankfully, and Hashirama loves seeing them after they’ve come, all fucked out and mindless and split open right down to the core, so he’s coming not much longer after that.

Tobirama can feel them, both of them; feels them both pull out, their come dripping down his thighs and mingling together until it’s impossible to tell whose it is, and he’s sore and he’s hard and he whines, long and high, and finally, finally, Hashirama has mercy on him, releasing him from the vines – all of them, even the ones that were stimulating him, and reaching down with an amused expression to push his fingers inside once again, coating them with his come, with Madara’s, and just thinking of that has Tobirama coming at last without any more help than that.

He’d be ashamed of himself, of how easy he is to please, except that he doesn’t have any space to feel anything other than pleasure and relief so sharp it almost hurts.

“Shh, shh,” Madara is saying, his hands running across Tobirama’s overheated body gently. “Come down, nice and slow, we’ve got you.”

Tobirama comes back down to earth, finding himself on the floor with Hashirama on one side and Madara on the other, and he doesn’t want to move a single muscle ever again.

“I think that was a good punishment,” Hashirama says, satisfied.

“Stop gloating and go to sleep,” Madara says, his eyes already heavily lidded. “Though I guess someone should probably go get some water to clean us up.”

Tobirama considers the possibility of someone leaving right now, even for so short a time, and finds it unacceptable, so he lazily makes the signs one-handed and douses them all with warm water pulled from the humid air right outside their window.

“That,” Madara, now awake again and glaring, says, “was not what I meant.”

Hashirama starts laughing.

Tobirama decides he doesn’t care – Madara still hasn’t left, after all, and the water was hot so really he has no basis to complain even if his hair will probably get a little tangled from it – and so he closes his eyes and goes to sleep, his brother’s laughter and his lover’s grumbling still ringing in his ears as he does.

[threewaysdivided]

Quality Should Not Be Binary

In my wanders through life in general - and the internet in particular - I’ve noticed a strange mindset regarding the quality of media and the people who produce it.  It’s this weird idea that something is either 100% perfect, flawless and ‘how dare you claim to be a real fan while suggesting there’s anything wrong’, or that it’s completely awful, valueless and ‘you’re a terrible person for enjoying that or thinking it has anything to offer’ - sometimes flipping from one to the other as soon as a ‘flaw’ is revealed, or a ‘bad’ work does something suitably impressive.

This mindset has never really made sense to me.  Maybe I’m a just habitual over-thinker who spends unhealthy amounts of time analysing things, but I can’t see how this sort of absolutist approach would do anything other than shut down discourse, limit the value to be had from a piece and maybe make people angry.

So in honour of that please enjoy some indulgently long navel-gazing about critical analysis and media quality.

Disclaimer: This post is going to summarise my personal philosophy. Everyone approaches life - and especially art - in their own way and far be it for me to say you’re wrong if you prefer a different approach.  You do you.

Blindness Hurts Both Ways

To an extent I get the simple yes/no mindset.  Analysis takes time and it would be exhausting to give an extensive, nuanced breakdown on your view at the start of every discussion.  Plus the whole ‘dissecting the frog’ thing can definitely apply to enjoyment of media.

However, taking it to the point where you’re denying the positive side of things you dislike or refusing to acknowledge faults in works/people you enjoy has the potential to swing around and bite you in the butt.

Why deny yourself a useful experience? I think there’s an important distinction to make between being good and being useful. Subjective, technical or, ethical ‘badness’ is not the same as having no value. Similarly, being touching, entertaining or otherwise enjoyable doesn’t preclude something from having genuine problems.

Personally, I can find it difficult to work out exactly what’s going right in a generally positive piece.  After all, ‘good’ doesn’t hinge on a single point - it’s usually the product of a lot of things working well together, and it can be hard to figure out cause and effect in a system like that. It’s much easier to look at a failed attempt and identify the specific elements that caused problems, where it had the potential to recover, and places where it might be succeeding in spite of those issues. Similarly, some works can be very strong except when it comes to ‘that one thing’, which in itself is a useful reference.  Negative examples can be just as beneficial as positive ones, and turning a blind eye to a piece’s weaker aspects just denies you that tool.

On the other hand, sometimes a piece and/or creator can be ethically awful while being technically strong or succeeding at its intended purpose. In this case, while they’re not positive it can certainly be valuable to analyse the techniques they use, and even apply those tools when selecting and creating things for yourself.

It’s important to remember that acknowledging where something is strong isn’t the same as endorsing or supporting it, and that there’s a huge difference between pointing out a genuine weakness or failing and maliciously hating on a work or creator.

Why give something that much power? Starting with the gentler side, I think it’s important to remember that a work being ‘good’ on the whole shouldn’t be an excuse to gloss over possibly troubling elements or to give creators a free pass on their actions.  Sure, even the best-intentioned artists make bad PR and creative decisions sometimes but it’s also valid to acknowledge and call out possible misbehaviour when it crops up, rather than blindly playing defence until it reaches critical mass and undermines the good of their work (or worse, actually hurts someone).

There can also be a danger to simply writing off and ignoring ‘bad works’, especially if you dislike them based on ethical grounds.  If something ‘bad’ is becoming popular it’s usually a sign that it’s getting at least one thing right - whether that be plugging into an oft-ignored hot-button issue, or simple shock-value and shameless marketing.  Attributing the success of such pieces to blind luck and ignoring any potential merits that got them there opens up the potential for other, similarly objectionable works to replicate that outcome.

Not to mention the issues that can come from letting these things spread unchecked.  Think about how many crackpot theories and extreme notions have managed to gained traction, in part due to a lack of resistance from more moderate or neutral parties who at the time dismissed them as ‘too stupid’ or ‘too crazy to be real’.  Unpleasant as it may be, I think there’s some value in dipping into the discourse around generally negative media.  If nothing else, shining a spotlight on the misinformation or insidious subtext that a work might be propagating can help genuine supporters notice, sidestep or otherwise avoid the potential harms even as they keep enjoying it.

Why lock yourself into a stance like that? Maybe it’s just my desire to keep options open, but it seems like avoiding absolutist stances gives you a lot more room to move.  Publicly championing or decrying a work and flatly rejecting any counterpoints runs the risk of trapping yourself in a corner that might be hard to escape from if your stance happens to change later.  If nothing else, a bit of flexibility can help you back down without too much egg on your face, not to mention shrinking the target area for fans or dissenters who you might have clashed with in the past.

A little give and take can also help build stronger cases when you do want to speak out.  Sometimes it’s better to just acknowledge the counterpoints you agree with and move on to the meat of the debate rather than wasting time tearing down their good points for the sake of ‘winning’.  The ability to concede an argument is a powerful tool - you’d be surprised how agreeable people become when they feel like they’re being listened to.  

Finally, from an enjoyment perspective, is it really worth avoiding or boycotting what could otherwise be a fun or thought-provoking experience just because you don’t 100% agree with it or have criticised it in the past? Sure, there are absolutely times when a boycott is justified but why deny yourself a good time just because it involves an element that’s been arbitrarily labelled ruinous.  ‘With Caveats’ is a perfectly acceptable way to approach things.

Existence vs Presentation of Concepts

A rarer argument that occasionally pops up is the idea that certain works are inherently ‘inappropriate’, ‘distasteful’, or should otherwise be avoided purely based on their subject matter.  Usually this revolves around the presence of a so-called ‘controversial’ topic; things like war, abuse or abusive relationships, sexual content, bigotry and minorities (LBGT+ relationships being a big one right now).

Personally I think this is a reductive and pretty silly way to choose your content.  No topic should be off-limits for any kind of media. (With the possible exception of holding off until the target audience has enough life experience and critical thinking skills to handle it.  There is some value in TV rating systems.)  Yes, some concepts will be uncomfortable to confront, but they are part of life and trying to keep them out of mainstream art simply stifles the valuable real-world discussions and conversations they might spark.

What we should be looking for is how a work handles the concepts it chooses to use.  There’s a world of difference between presenting or commenting on a controversial topic as part of a work, and misrepresenting or tacitly condoning inappropriate behaviour through sloppy (or worse, intentional) presentation choices.  The accuracy of research and portrayals, use of sensitivity and tact, consideration for the audience and overall tone with which a topic is framed are much more worthy of consideration than simply being offended that the idea exists in media at all.

‘Bad’ Art, ‘Good’ People and Vice Versa

I think it’s important to remember that our content creators are, well, people.  They’re going to have their own weird taste preferences, personal biases and odd worldviews that will sometimes show through in their output. They’re also going make mistakes - after all, to err is human.  Unfortunately, in the creative pool you can also find some genuine bigots, egotists, agenda-pushers, abusers and exploitative profiteers who don’t care about the damage their work might be doing.

It can be discomfiting to notice potentially negative subtext in the work or actions of a creator you like, and upsetting to realise that a work you love is the product of a person who you can’t in good conscience support.  Which of course leads to the discussion of art, artists, whether they can be separated and what to do when things go wrong.

Obviously I’m going to be talking primarily about the ethical/moral side of things, as I think most of us are willing to forgive the occasional technical flub, production nightmare or drop in outward quality from creators we otherwise enjoy.

It can also be a touchy subject so I’d like to reiterate that this is just an explanation of my personal philosophy.  My approach isn’t the only way and I won’t say you’re wrong for taking a different stance or choosing to stay out of it entirely.  

‘Bad’ art from an apparently ‘Good’ person In general, when it comes to apparent bad behaviour or negative subtext from otherwise decent creators, I favour the application of Hanlon’s Razor.

Hanlon’s Razor Never attribute to malice that which can be adequately explained by incompetence - at least not the first time.

Art is a subjective medium, with multiple readings and interpretations being possible from the same piece.  It’s definitely possible for an author to lack the  awareness or experience needed to notice when unintended implications or alternate readings have crept into their work.  Sensitive topics are tricky to handle at the best of times and seemingly harmless edits or innocuous creative choices can stack into subtly nastier tonal shifts. Similarly, being a good creator doesn’t automatically make them good at PR or talking to fans - it’s easy to get put on the spot or to not realise the connotations of their phrasing and how it may have come across.   Of course this still means someone messed up, and it’s totally reasonable to call them out for ineptness, but I’d take an unfortunate accident over malicious intent any day.

Then there are times when the negative subtext is a lot less unintentional.  In that case I think it’s important to make the distinction between creator sentiment and the sentiment of the work, character or their production team (if collaborating) before making a judgement on them as an individual.  For example, the presence of casual bigotry might be justified in historical piece that’s attempting to accurately portray the culture of the time, and a creator/actor might write/portray a protagonist with biases and proclivities that they personally disagree with for the sake of a more compelling story.  The presence of a worldview within a work doesn’t automatically translate to the opinion of it’s creator.

Similarly, when considering a problematic production or team it’s worth acknowledging which positions hold creative power, if every member is complicit and why a dissenting individual might stay silent; whether out of contractual obligation, a desire not to throw colleagues under the bus or just because they don’t have the financial security to risk rocking the boat or walking away from the role.   It’s important to figure out who the buck stops with before we start pointing fingers.

Overall, I don’t think there’s much value in passing judgement on an artist for the troublesome content in a single work.  You’ll get more mileage and a fairer assessment from looking holistically across their collection and personal/private channels for telling patterns of subtexts and behaviours.  For the most part I prefer to offer the benefit of the doubt until there’s enough supporting evidence or they do something to definitively out themselves.  Speculation fuelled witch-hunts are no fun for anybody.

‘Good’ art from ‘Bad’ people Exactly what defines a ‘bad’ creator will vary (there’s a reason I’ve been putting the terms in inverted commas).  Whether it’s a disagreement with a key opinion/ creative philosophy/ method, that they’ve done something actually heinous/ illegal, or anywhere in between, enjoying a work while being in conflict with the creator can be a difficult situation to reconcile.  Personally I think there's power to the Death of the Author argument in these cases:

Death of the Author An author's intentions and biographical facts (political views, religion, race etc.) should hold no special weight in determining an interpretation of their writing.

If you’ve found value or enjoyment in a work then you’re well within your rights to enjoy the work on those grounds, even if the message you’ve personally taken from it runs counter to the original author’s opinions or intentions.  

It’s also important to remember that a creator’s personal and/or moral failings don’t retroactively invalidate their skill and achievements in their field.   It’s possible for a person to continue offering valuable insights, observations and lessons on their chosen speciality in spite of their other behaviour or stances.  Their work can have value in isolation, although it may be worth taking the information with a grain of salt when it comes to possible biases.

This becomes a little harder when the disagreeable sentiments bleed directly into their creations but, again, there’s no reason why you can’t decide that the strengths of a work are worth looking at even if they take some squinting past uncomfortable elements to appreciate.

The question should never be ‘can I still enjoy the art?’ because that answer is always yes - if you liked it before learning about the artist then you’re allowed to keep doing so afterwards.  The new context may add caveats to the discussion but it doesn’t demerit the existing positive aspects.

However, Death of the Author runs into problems when the creator is still alive.  If the artist is out of the picture then you can engage freely without any financial support or publicity going back to them.  When they’re still around the question becomes ‘do I still feel comfortable supporting them?’ This is particularly relevant when it comes to online creators, as just interacting with their content can generate passive ad revenue, increase view counts and contribute to algorithm boosts.

I honestly don’t think there’s any one answer to this particular question.  It all comes down to a personal case-by-case judgement; weighing the severity of the conflict against how much you value their work and, in the case of creative teams, whether you think their colleagues are worth supporting despite them.  Even if you decide to pull back there are soft options before going for a full boycott; using ad-block to limit passive financial contributions, buying physical media second-hand or lending/borrowing hard copies to avoid generating any new purchases.

There are creators that I disagree with politically but continue to enjoy because their stance isn’t especially harmful or is relatively minor compared to the value of their work.  There are creators who I no longer want to support but whose pieces I like enough that I don’t regret having purchased from them in the past.  On the other hand, there’s a creative team whose content I adore in isolation but who I’ve had to drop entirely after their leader was outed as an emotionally manipulative office bully.  Where someone else would draw that line comes down to their own personal standards, and it wouldn’t surprise me if another person took a completely different approach.

Don’t be a Jerk

I feel like this should go without saying.  Rational discussion is great.  Being able to have a critical discourse - even one that’s focused on the more negative sides of a work - is wonderful.  Opinions are fun.

However, the thing with opinions is that a lot of them differ.  We aren’t always going to sync up and there are times when you shouldn’t, and won’t be able to, force someone to agree.  In that case, please don’t attack them over it.  You don’t have to like or respect their views but some basic civility would be appreciated.  You’re trying to have a conversation, not win a catfight.  Condescension, derision, high-horsing, ad hominem and otherwise getting personal doesn’t tend to win many friends or endear them to your perspective.   And to the rare few who go so far as to threaten or harass fans, creators and their families; that’s an awful, completely unnecessary, out of line thing to do. (Seriously, never do this, it won’t help and just makes you look crazy.  Also, it can be considered criminal behaviour.)

It’s also important to know when to let things go.  You’re not always going to be able to turn the tide and constantly chasing the argument, stirring the pot and fighting waves of push-back eventually reaches a point of diminishing returns.  No matter how important the issue is there’ll be times when you’re just screaming into the void.  The best you can do is make your peace, say your piece and take your leave.  After all it’s not the school playground.  And unlike the playground, we’re not obliged to stick around.

Value Judgements: It’s Good to Examine Your Tastes

At the end of the day I think you get more mileage from reaching an opinion based on a value judgement of a work’s positive and negative sides than you do from just bandwagoning into blind adoration or hate.  ‘Perfect’ and ‘Unsanctionable’ aren’t binary boxes - they’re points on a scale, and figuring out where you stand on a piece can be a useful mental exercise.  Even if your opinion ends up matching the general consensus, at least you know how you got there and can defend yourself if challenged.  

If nothing else this kind of thing can help you figure out what elements you like, dislike and prioritise in media, and where your personal boundaries lie in regard to different issues.

Still, even after all this there are plenty more factors that determine whether or not you’ll enjoy something.  I’ve dropped way more pieces for not being to my subjective liking than I have due to technical or ethical flaws.  Your tastes are your own, and if needed you can stop the conversation at ‘it’s just not my thing’.

In the end there’s no ‘correct’ way to be a fan of something.  We’re all just here to have fun.  So try not to be an ass when you run across someone who does things differently.