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orbitariums · 7 months ago

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warmth | patrick zweig, art donaldson + black fem reader (pt. 1)

you guys really liked the snippet i posted so it's finally here! this will probably have a second part <3 (let me know if you'd like to be tagged for that!)

content: smut (oral f. receiving, fingering, handjob), childhood best friends trope, patrick and art are acting like high schoolers again, reader is rich bougie conniving hippie writer hybrid ...

reader, patrick and art are childhood best friends who conveniently were all in love with each other, or at least had enough sexual tension to make it feel that way. fast forward almost a decade later, and reader has made it onto the red carpet with her fantastic pen, and patrick and art have gone pro. when she invites them to her house for a star-studded friendsgiving, tensions rise and old doors open, springing forth new possibilities. this is only the beginning.

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warmth

“We should just turn around now, save ourselves the embarrassment.”

Patrick paid Art no mind, rolling down the window and leaning out of it, pressing the buzzer as you had dutifully instructed them in your email invite.

“Too late now. Already threw away about a gallon of gas just coming up the hill to this place,” he replied, the sense of ease in his voice only egging Art on even more.

“Exactly why we should leave. I mean, fuck. Does she have to live on a hill?”

“Residence of [last name], to whom am I speaking?” a male voice rings on the other end.

“Uh…” Patrick starts, Art reaching up over him,

“Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?”

A silence filled the air. Patrick swatted at Art, forcing him back in his seat.

“Why’d you say it like a question, dumbass?”

Art stammered, already starting to get red in the face,

“I was --”

The gate swung open and both the boys let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you!” Patrick chimed, smirking over at Art, who seemed to be sinking in his seat.

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Meanwhile, you were inside the mansion that you call home, flowing around the kitchen like there weren’t about fifty people milling about and mingling amongst one another. It smelled like something out of Hansel and Gretel -- from the fragrant brown roasted turkey sitting in the oven, to the gourmand scent of perfectly caramelized candied yams, to the vanilla musk perfume you dotted on your wrists. A black mini Schnauzer nipped excitedly at your feet as you added half a cherry tomato to the giant bowl of salad you’ve been prepping for the last twenty minutes. You look like a pro, like a party of this magnitude is no big deal to you.

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“Do we ring the doorbell? Or maybe… should we knock?” Art questioned, hands tied behind his back as he glanced up at Patrick for answers.

“It’s open,” Patrick retorted, but he too stood stupefied at the door like a weary traveler wavering in horrific awe before the mouth of some epic beast.

“On three?” Art suggested, and when he didn’t hear a response, he started to count, “one… two…”

Patrick stepped in before Art could get to three. Art scoffed, but followed behind him anyway.

The both of them stood there silently, taking the grandiosity of it all in — the sky high dome ceiling, two grand wooden staircases directly opposite one another, the shiny verdant porcelain flooring, the Basquiat painting hanging above the wide bookcase directly in front of them. Mouths open, they looked like they were ready to catch flies.

“Fuuuck me,” Patrick breathed out heavily. Art’s head was stuck staring up at the ceiling, so high he thought it’d never end.

“You made it.”

Both Art and Patrick seemed to stand straight at the sound of your voice, like soldiers at attention. You almost laughed, but instead, you stood there coolly, smiling at them both with your lips and your eyes— in them, a look that was almost knowing, wise beyond your years. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them would speak. They spent half of that lifetime practically gawking at you, drinking you in. And how could they not, when you were practically draped in that baby blue silk dress, the flowy bottom dancing above your ankles. You looked more beautiful than they remembered you, calmer, secure — of course, they hadn’t seen you since they were teenagers. Now there was this air of timelessness about you that was only just poking at the surface when you were in high school, now it surrounded you. Something mystic encompassed your entire spirit, dripping from your head to your feet. They’d spent years seeing you from behind a screen, being interviewed on live TV, attending red carpets for award shows, blending in with the Hollywood mecca — another beautiful twentysomething industry talent. But the glow of the television that seemed to give everyone a perfectly filtered sheen was nothing compared to your beauty here.

“It’s so good to see you,” Patrick broke the silence first, practically lurching forward with open arms to embrace you. His beard scratched against your cheek. You could smell the cologne that was beginning to wear off, mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. His arms nearly sucked you in.

When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he smiled at you so fervently.

“Good to see you too, Patrick…” you glanced over at the mousy boy who didn’t seem to have changed much since high school. “C’mere, Artie.”

Art chuckled: a nervous huff of relief, inching forward into your open arms and nuzzling his chin into your shoulder, closing his arms around your midwaist. You could smell the aftershave that clung to his jaw, and the detergent still fresh on his clothes.

You pulled away, but took one of each of their hands, squeezing.

“My two boys. Man, how long has it been?”

“Oh, just a while—”

“Seven years,” Art interjected.

“Who’s counting, right?” Patrick grinned, making all of you laugh.

You looked at them almost expectantly, eyes wide like a doe, the slightest smile playing at your lips. They looked back with bated breaths. Always, you were in charge, always. It had been like this since the scabby-kneed days of childhood. If you wanted to play on the swings, they were there on either side of you. You were the queen of the sandbox. In middle school, they snuck extra cookies for you from the lunchroom, and they fought over who got to surprise you with the treat every day. Senior year of high school, in the hotel room in London, when you had them perched on either side of you like baby birds waiting for mother’s return— when you had both your hands on each of their thighs inching further and further up, their lips ghosting against your soft skin, had them panting like puppy dogs, only to leave the minute you heard “lights out.”

It had been seven years since then and still, it was the same. Only this time, you were stupidly rich, thanks to the soaring success of your two psychological thriller books turned TV series. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten about them, or didn’t care about them now that you were rich and famous. You’d gotten accepted to study creative writing at Brown, Art went to play at Stanford, and Patrick went on his path to go pro. It was just the process of growing up. You were delighted to see that they were only a click away thanks to the internet, just one click away from reintegrating into your life. Your childhood best friends.

“C’mon, lunch is almost ready.”

Friendsgiving. Who didn’t love the concept? It was a readily welcomed, wholesome idea — friends of all ages and backgrounds coming together to rehash their Thanksgiving with leftovers, stories from the year, and maybe a game of cards. Except your friendsgiving was attended by A-list actresses, Cannes festival attending screenwriters, and the odd Grammy nominated artist. And your friendsgiving was not at all an intimate affair — it may as well have been a club party. Most people were outside, dancing, shrieking with laughter, drinking, and skipping their way to their seats. Your backyard was vast and verdant green, with a pool in the center, the perimeter lined with lemon and peach trees, and miles to explore.

“This is fucking insane, is that Dakota Johnson?” Patrick scoffed. He and Patrick had been left to their own devices yet again, while you flitted around being the hostess with the mostest, easing and gliding about. A laugh here, a clink of glasses there, and a coolness to you that stood in striking comparison with the warmth that stirred deep down inside you. A warmth that could be served with a ladle into goblets, like some elixir with magical properties only you possessed.

“No, you idiot, that’s— oh shit. That might be Dakota Johnson.”

Clink clink clink.

“Everybody, hi, hi! Thank you for coming, please, sit down,” you called out, clinking your glass to get the attention of your guests. Patrick and Art scrambled to find seats, ending up at a table with people who might have been minor celebrities or art critiques or designers -- at least one of those options.

“I wanna thank you all so much for coming, this really means a lot to me. I know these sorts of things can be really hectic, but you guys make this house feel like a home. I’m glad that some of you will be staying with me for the next few days, there’s always room for more,” you glanced over at Art and Patrick. “Some of you are new friends, some of you I’ve known for far too long. But I think it’s incredibly fucking cool that we’re all here together now in this moment, just enjoying each other’s presence. I do this every year, and every year I meet even more amazing, talented, fascinating people and you all are so dear to my heart. And now, what we’re all waiting for… lunch is served!”

A cacophony of cheers rang out as staff rushed about to place plates in front of everyone. You stood giggling, basking in all of it.

The rest of the afternoon Patrick and Art spent attempting to blend in as best they could. They were pro tennis players, but this was another level of stardom that they couldn’t quite fathom yet. They watched you ruthlessly the entire night, unable to squash those rising feelings of attraction and yearning for you that had never quite simmered to begin with. You’d always been cooler than them, but watching you now there was a certain air to you that belonged to a grown woman, someone comfortable and confident and in their element. You were positively swimming in the sunlight the entire afternoon. It was like you had this sort of magnetic pull to all things good, rich, and warm. People wanted to be around you. And god, did this prove that.

By night time, people were finally starting to leave. The sun hung low in the darkening sky, making the fairy lights glow stronger now. The few people that were staying with you for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend had disappeared to their rooms. Besides the waitstaff still milling about, it was just you, Patrick, and Art. The two of them hadn’t meant to stay so long, really. It wasn’t like they were forcing themselves to stick around and be acknowledged by you in a way that felt meaningful. Sure, you’d had your small talk and cracked a few inside jokes, but as much as neither of them wanted to admit it, they needed more. If it was hard to get your attention before, it was nearly impossible now. They were surrounded by so many people who all wanted to network and talk and introduce themselves, they found themselves mingling with your friends, some of them people who they’d seen on screen in the past year, more than you. They’d been dragged onto the dance floor multiple times by multiple acquaintances, only to gawk at you swaying your hips rather than actually dance themselves. It became overwhelmingly clear, in the midst of their increasingly present desperation, that they should’ve accepted your offer to stay in this castle of a house for the weekend. Neither of them had packed a bag.

“This is awkward, we’re the only ones left,” Art sighed, still sitting at their table.

“Let’s just… wait, okay? She might come back out."

"And give us a little speech?"

"Yeah, asshole, maybe she will."

At that very moment, you appeared again, this time clad in a two piece linen pajama set. You didn’t miss the way both their eyes trailed up your legs as you stood in front of them, arms crossed, smiling expectantly.

“I was hoping you two would still be here,” you said. You glanced between the two of them, that awkward silence filling the air once again. “C’mon. Let’s talk.”

You turned and walked back inside, the two of them trailing behind you.

"Your house is fucking sick by the way. I mean holy shit," Art blurted once you got to the main entrance hall.

"Feel like I just walked into a page of Architectural Digest," Patrick added on.

You led them up the stairs. Both their eyes dropped to your ass, which poked out just a bit from under the pair of shorts you wore. Silently watching the way your body curved as you walked.

"Ha, thanks. I think I did pretty okay for myself," you replied.

You led them to the den on the second floor and sat criss cross apple sauce on the lush green couch. Art sat on your left, Patrick on your right. Patrick spread his legs and Art had one foot up on the couch, bouncing against his knee.

“Sorry we didn’t get to talk much. I was so busy being the host of the year that I didn’t pay enough attention to you two. My favorites.”

Art chuckled,

“Favorites? You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious! D’you know how much I missed you guys?”

Patrick scoffed playfully,

“All those TV interviews I watched of you? I wouldn’t even be thinking about us.”

You couldn’t help but grin, that warmth coming through once again. It nearly made the two men melt.

“Well I was. I always think about you guys.”

Now came Patrick’s voice again, a heaviness to it that almost made you jump,

“Do you think about anything specific?”

Although it had been nearly a decade since you’d last seen each other, you didn’t miss a single thing about either of them. Patrick didn’t mince words, and he never shied away from not just hinting at, but blaring his salacious intentions every time he spoke. You tilted your head towards him, a cool smile tugging at your lips.

“Just what good times we had.”

A silence, accented with a flood of nostalgia and a pointed reference to those “good times” permeated the air. You took a moment to gaze at the two of them ever so softly — enough for them to feel it, but not enough to make them squirm (though, they were easy to make squirm)— before you decimated the silence by slapping your hands down on either of their thighs and squeezing endearingly.

“So tell me, where’ve you two been? I’m not the only one on TV these days.”

“Ahh, you don’t wanna hear about boring tennis,” Art waved a hand of dismissal.

You chortled, a trademark of yours that Art and Patrick had always poked fun at in school,

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“You still laugh the same,” Patrick said, grinning like he was trying not to but was unable.

You chuckled, this time low in your throat, and turned your head to face him again. You and Patrick were similar in the sense that you were always pushing the boundaries, tiptoeing closer and closer to the line — but the three of you had never quite established where that was. At some point, you were all just too close to even think about “the line” or “boundaries” — all of you appeared clueless to societal expectations of friendship, spurting a sort of cultlike relationship where everyone else was an outsider.

“Do I?” smiling at him like you were warning him not to tease.

“Yeah, that little snort you do,” Patrick replied, unshaken.

“You do do a little snort,” Art chimed in, always chirping like he spoke from a less nefarious place.

“And if I get started on you guys’ little tennis grunts?” you grinned fully now, showing teeth, looking between the two of them and leaning back a bit.

They followed, leaning back against the couch and keeping their heads in line with yours so you were never too far away from them, each of them turning their heads to look at you.

“No way you actually watch us,” Art replied.

“I do!” you insisted. “Seriously, if you’d asked anybody here you would know.”

“Sure, let me just strike up conversation with George Clooney,” Art shot back.

“Ha-ha,” you bleated sarcastically. “I don’t even know him… but I have walked past him once on the carpet.”

“Look at you,” Patrick smirked. “Little Miss Superstar.”

He punctuated his sentence with a hand on your knee. Your eyes flickered over to him and you caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed, felt the way he gazed up at you. You didn’t miss the desire twinkling in his eyes.

Then Art, always second but not necessarily last,

“She’s our little superstar, you know that, right?”

His hand just gently grazing your shoulder.

You let them revel in the moment for as long as you felt appropriate, then huffed.

“You know you guys can stay for the weekend, right? I mean, you should.”

“Oh… no, we wouldn’t wanna impose,” Patrick said, his hand slinking away from your knee.

Another chortle from you,

“You wouldn’t be. This is a five-bedroom house. It’s fine. Besides, don’t you guys wanna actually catch up? I’ll let you torture me with tennis talk.”

Art started to stammer,

“I-I mean… we didn’t bring anything.”

“Just our idiot selves,” Patrick added.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get Charles to get you guys all set up.”

“Charles?”

“Oh, he’s my assistant,” you said nonchalantly as if it were nothing. “You’re not fighting me on this. I want to spend some quality time with my boys. Don’t make me have to beg for it.”

“We could never make you beg for anything,” Art replied, just a little too quickly.

“I know, Art, that’s why I love you,” you grinned over at him. “So, are we all in agreement? Stay with me. Just this weekend.”

“Yes,” they both replied a little too quickly this time.

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile.

“You know… I really, really missed you guys. And those good times we had.”

You let the memory of that night of almosts in London resurge, let their minds run amuck with whatever teenage fantasy was still left over from that night. A moment so brief it could almost be forgotten, could even be flagged as incidental, accidental. Still, the three of you knew, even as grown adults (especially as grown adults), that it would always stick and remain unresolved, unless someone ran to the rescue with some sort of solution. Once again they held their breaths. You stood up, glanced between the two of them like you were sizing them up, and then smiled as if nothing had happened at all — you let them breath.

“Your bedroom’s the second on the right when you leave here. Charles will help you get set up— I’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast.”

And just like that, you were gone. The air in the room seemed to clear. Your presence was like a thousand tons of pressure weighing on their bodies and their minds. Finally, they could breathe.

They glanced at each other with the same longing, almost nervous expression — they were just two pubescent boys all over again.

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“I think we should just go for it.”

Patrick lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling with his hand on his stomach, speaking aloud as if into the clouds. Art, who had been gazing into the distance, sitting up against the wall on his side of the room, shook his head at Patrick’s words.

“What are you talking about Patrick?”

The two of them sat in the room that you had put together. They had showered and dressed in the pajamas that were waiting for them, just as you said they would be. The house was practically silent, it was the dead of night. Though you’d left hours ago, that same heaviness in the air seemed to remain in their chests.

“You know… I mean, she invited us here for a reason, don’t you think?”

Art glared over at Patrick, his brows furrowed and his mouth twisted in a frown,

“Don’t be a creep. We’re her friends.”

“Who want to fuck her, and she knows it. Pretty sure she wants to, too.”

“That was high school, Pat. Get over yourself.”

“Like you weren’t getting your dick wet just from looking at her. C’mon.”

Art throws a pillow at Patrick. It lands square at his feet.

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“I’m just saying, she’s not innocent. She knows what she’s doing. She’s just as perverted as the both of us.”

“Yeah? So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Fucking — I don’t know, something. We should just both go over there and knock on her door.”

Art couldn’t help but sigh heavily — Patrick was always creating some elaborate plot or scheme, but rarely did he ever actually go through with something unless Art was onboard.

“Patrick, she’s not trying to have a threesome with us. I’m not interested in your porn addict fantasies. Plus it’s the middle of the night, she’s probably asleep. Think she’s gonna wanna sleep with two idiots who fucked up her nighttime routine?”

“So then why are you still here?” Patrick retorted.

“What? What do you mean?” Art tried to sound normal, but his defenses were up, and they both knew exactly why.

Patrick turned so he was on his side, facing Art, making sure his words hit just right.

“You know what I mean. You could’ve just gone home. Could’ve told her that we’ll catch her some other time. But look at you, sitting here, feigning innocence. She’ll think we’re cowards, you know. Seven years later and we still can’t come out and say what is that we want.”

Art swallowed, staring blankly into the distance like Patrick’s words didn’t sting his side. He was right. He almost always was, even if his wording wasn’t the most politically correct or precise. It was just how they were — one too careful, the other one so not. Most of the time, they came together to balance each other out: like fire and ice. But sometimes, like this time, they just threw each other out of whack – an oil spill in a pristine lake.

“I want a friendship. If you want a fuck, go and tell her that. Goodnight, Patrick,” Art spat, rolling onto his side and turning his light off.

Patrick sighed heavily like a petulant little boy who’d just been denied a cookie. Maybe in college or high school, Art would have been all ears, and they would have risen from their beds like triumphant kings, and gone on the hunt for their king. But maybe he was right — that was high school. They were too old now, and it was embarrassing. At least if Art had agreed, even if he didn’t fully believe in Patrick, they would’ve gone in together. And so, swallowing his disappointment, Patrick stared up at the ceiling, ruminated for just a bit, and then turned off his light, forcing his eyes shut so he’d fall asleep faster.

1:10 AM.

That was the time on the clock when Art opened his eyes next. He woke with a start, like there was something he was meaning to do. Then immediately, he was a bit disoriented. This room was far too big. It wasn’t his. He remembered where he was, and just what he had to do. He rose like an automaton and found his feet swinging to the floor. He threw on the Calvin Klein shorts and shirt your assistant had given him (his pair was white, Patrick’s was black), and slid easily into his slippers.

Only once he stood did he really catch his breath, and seemingly also his determination. It was like he knew what he was doing, and he was completely okay with it. He even peered over just slightly, to see if Patrick was still asleep. And by the slow rise and fall of his body on his side, he could tell that he was. He was stuck in this dream state between idiocy and confidence, making for mindless determination as he sauntered out of the room and down the hall. He had intent, his head was screwed on straight. He knew where your room was, and he practically marched down the end of the hall.

As soon as he reached your door, he realized what he was doing, truly realized. He stood there stock still, like a rabbit that had just gotten caught eating a carrot from someone’s garden. He was suddenly confronted by the fact that he was completely alone; your room was at the very end of the hall and completely cut off from the other rooms. Now the heartbeat in his chest was loud and clear, and the slight shifting sound of the fabric of his shorts rubbing against his inner thigh sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Nervous tics settled in, and he felt a rattle go down his spine at the recognition of what he was doing— the sheer arrogance, the assumption he was making. He thought of Patrick, and the betrayal this would be, considering he had just shut him down so profusely earlier. He thought of the fact that it was so easy for him to be so double-sided, to just get up and attempt it on his own, even making sure that Patrick couldn’t possibly be involved. How easy it was for him to be so unfair. He thought of himself, standing there with suddenly sweaty palms and a dry throat. Like a high school boy with blue balls.

What are you doing?

He thought to himself. He almost turned around, but he heard humming from the other side of the door. No doubt your voice, and no doubt you were very much awake. He could hear music, albeit muffled. He swallowed, closing his eyes like he was bracing for impact, and sighed. If he could remember the words to recite Hail Mary, he would have. Eyes still closed, he knocked. He heard the slight pause on the other side and imagined you perking up slightly and looking around the room to make sure you weren’t just hearing things. Despite his embarrassment, the knock was firm. It was clear it was someone else on the other side of the door. And so, a few seconds later, you swung the door open.

“Art,” you said, a hint of both surprise and relief in your voice.

“YN,” he replied, saying your name like it was a period to a sentence.

You were clad in a cream-colored silk slip with a lace trim. A dainty gold necklace adorned your neck, flush against your collarbone. You’d changed again since the last time he saw you, and this outfit did not make it any easier for him to tear his eyes off of you, starting from the necklace, to your breasts, to your legs. The slip was short and nearly see through, revealing your thighs which looked so soft and plush. The pucker of your nipples sheened underneath the thin fabric. The way it clung to your body was almost maddening. You looked fresh as a daisy — like you’d spent hours in the bath, rubbing countless creams and gels against your skin. Art felt suddenly embarrassed like he had interrupted your girl time with his boyish, base desires. You pulled him out of it though, with a slight smile and kind eyes looking up at him.

“You doing okay?” you asked almost playfully, still grinning slightly.

“Yeah, I just uh… wanted to… talk to you,” Art said, not even making eye contact with you and instead very obviously peering inside of your room. You looked over your shoulder like you were trying to see what Art was looking at, then looked back at him. Finally, he was making eye contact with you. He felt like you were scrutinizing him, searching for something to validate this interaction, to validate him. Your warm smile didn’t look all that different from a smirk anymore.

“Well. I am the host. Who’d I be if I didn’t indulge a late night chat?”

You stepped aside, pushing the door wide open with your back. You nodded at him like a coach, beckoning him,

“Come in.”

And so he stepped inside, and you closed the door behind you. Your room was how he’d expected it to be — reflective of your personality as long as he’d known you, but a hint more sophisticated. Everything rested on a plush chenille carpet. Your mattress, adorned with plush, deep red and green linens, sat on a large wooden bedframe, above which posters of your favorite bands and writers hung — Audre Lorde, Led Zeppelin, James Baldwin, Khruangbin. Across from your bed, there was an almost bulky yet fitting antique dresser. On top of it sat a 1935 Remington typewriter. In the corner, a leather armchair sitting beneath a scallop shade floor lamp, accented by a magnificent bookshelf behind it that was positively full. A desk, scattered with papers and pens and a pair of glasses, yet still tidy. And a vanity, where Art imagined you’d been just a moment before he came in. And dim, yet comforting lighting.

“Wow,” Art couldn’t help himself — he truly was an admirer of the details, the little things. And clearly, so were you. It had gotten you this far. He sauntered over to the typewriter on your desk, fiddling with the keys just a bit and tapping the top. You giggled at his nerdy lopsided smile. “This is sick.”

You smiled, placing two hands on your hips, beaming like a proud parent,

“She doesn’t work, but she’s beautiful. That’s honestly my most prized possession.”

Art grinned, truly touched. He turned to face you straight on, feet away from where you stood at the bed.

“I’m so proud of you, you know.”

The veritas in his voice rendered you bashful for just a moment, looking down and huffing an almost dismissive laugh,

“C’mon, Art, don’t go all soft on me now.”

Art rose to his own defense,

“I’m serious, YN! Look what you’ve done for yourself… I mean, I couldn’t expect any less, though.”

You waved your hand with a cheeky eye roll, and he started walking towards you, his footsteps causing the floor beneath to creak slightly. It was almost suspenseful, but you weren’t intimidated or in danger, just deeply intrigued and honestly, excited. You watched him, positively ensnared, as he closed the distance between the two of you.

He took two of your hands in his own like he was putting his life into your hands. That charming smile of his reared its head, accompanied by his blue-brown eyes, sparkling and wet and smiling too,

“We both are, you know. Proud of you.”

You smiled, genuinely at first. Then, it flickered. By the way he faltered momentarily, losing grip of the power trip that he dove into headfirst, you could tell he noticed. Your genuine smile turned slightly smug.

“Both of you? Why is Patrick not here, then, telling me how proud he is?”

Art did his best to keep smiling smoothly, cocking his head to the side slightly as if to say what can you do?

“He’s asleep.”

“Right… it is like, one AM. I’m surprised you’re even up, or that you assumed I would be," you kept on prodding.

“Hmm,” he smirked. He shrugged all too casually, so much so that it was cocky. “Guess I’m not that tired.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, nodding sympathetically.

The both of you relished in this little game you were playing, a game of so few words but oh so much meaning. You held his gaze for just a moment longer, watching as his flickered from your eyes to your lips and back up. Then you sat down wordlessly onto your bed, never tearing your eyes away from his. You patted the spot next to you, and he followed, taking a deep breath that never seemed to exhale. You were sealing his fate in this one moment.

“I spend a lot of my time holed up in here. That’s why I make it as peaceful as I possibly can. Beautiful too, but not too beautiful. Otherwise, I’d just be distracted and a bit disgusted,” you chuckled at the end.

“Beautiful. Right,” Art replied, his gaze burning a hole into you.

A beat.

“So what’d you wanna talk about, Art?”

He knew he couldn’t be imagining the dulcet innocence in your voice that suggested anything but innocence all the same, nor the flicker of desire in your inquiring, wide eyes. All of it, combined with the slight pout on your lips, seemed to come together to create a face that was almost begging. His entire body softened. His eyes went heavy with the confession that was his utter, depraved need to have you. He slowly pulled his bottom lip into his mouth with his tongue and blinked slowly, seemingly unaware of the fact that he was leaning in more and more with every passing millisecond. You stayed put where you were, wanting him to chase you through and through. You kept that poker face, like you didn’t feel your heart racing too. As his face inched closer to yours, his hands started to roam as well, and you stifled a whimpery breath at the touch of those hands against your bare skin. For some reason, you’d always thought he’d have such baby-soft hands, but they were rough and calloused from the weight of the tennis racket that was forever stationed between them. It only made the touch that much better, made you realize how long you’d been waiting for this, his rough hands seeping into your skin like a scar of age.

“I don’t wanna talk,” he finally said, his voice lilted with need, and his lips nearly flush against yours.

Finally, he closed the gap between your lips. The kiss was slow and languid, but not for lack of passion. Years of distance would do that, would amplify the mutual pining. You thought, in this interaction that you knew would happen with one or the two of them, that you might be more calm and collected, still wearing that disguise of cool nonchalance, but you were on fire. Your hands were quick to wander as well, up to his face, gripping his jaw, one traveling up to his hair and finding itself tucked beneath the tufts of slight curls. And then his hands were traveling up from your knees to your thighs, to your waist, practically glued to the expensive fabric. The room was silent bar for the sound of the two of you panting like crazed virgins, and the wet sounds of your kissing.

You needed to gain control back, and quickly. So you pulled away, putting on your best smirk. Deep down, you felt like Art knew it was an act, like he was looking right through you. But at the same time, you knew he was far too ecstatic and anticipatory to call it out or really even notice it in full. And besides, you didn’t care. It was you who held all the glory, both back then and especially now.

“You two place a bet or something? That was quick.”

Art was still breathing heavily, gazing at you like you were the solution to all his problems. His hands were still roaming widely, like your body was an expanse of wild land, his hands gripping your shoulders and caressing your arms up and down. The confidence boost in him was visible and almost amusing.

“No bets… but Patrick was saying…”

“What was he saying, hmm?” you placed a hand on his chest and caressed the warmth there. “Why’d you come here, Art? Thought you should close the gap, huh? Answer the age-old question? Wanting to prove yourself?”

You slipped your hand between his legs, grasping the meat of his inner thigh and glaring into his eyes. You felt how he stilled, how his confidence stuttered. Both because he’d been called out, and because if he wasn’t hard before, he was raging now.

“No…” you squeezed his thigh, your hand ghosting over the erection that sat directly above it, forcing the truth out of him with your touch. He shuddered. “Maybe. Yeah, fuck. Yes. I-I wanted to prove myself.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, slinking towards him like a black cat. You placed one leg over his lap, straddling him. Positioning yourself so your clothed cunt was directly over his erection, which dared to rip through both his boxers and his shorts. You rolled your hips over his cock gently, just once. “This helping you prove yourself?”

You pushed him back, back, back, until his head rested firm on the pillow and you were directly above him, the shape of your entire body clear to him as you straddled him on your bed. He couldn’t speak, only stare up at you in awe, his heavy breaths loud and desperate. You only stayed like this on top of him for a minute before you shimmied down until you were at face level with his crotch. You let your hands explore the expanse of his chest and stomach over his white t-shirt, and then took the bottom of it in your mouth, pulling it up with your teeth in a motion so effortless and tigress-like that Art nearly came on the spot.

“Hmm?” you probed him to answer the question with a demanding hum, the soft fabric of his t-shirt still in between your teeth, gazing up at him from beneath wispy lashes. You let go once he was decently exposed, his tight stomach rising and falling frantically.

“Fuck, yes,” he rattled, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

You pushed his hips back down immediately and like a reflex, he started to apologize,

“Sorry, I’m sorry.”

You ignored him and instead, you practically ripped the shorts off of him and started to palm him through his boxers, admiring the way his cock twitched and jumped beneath the small of your hand. You were attentive, watching as precum started to leak from his tip onto his boxers. You tsked.

“We’ll have to get someone to wash those.”

He squirmed and swallowed a wild grunt in his throat. His head was fully thrown back like he was in the most immense pleasure of his life, and you hadn’t even really started yet. You ground the part of your hand just above your wrist over his erection before peeling his boxers off. You watched as his cock sprung up in the air, thick and red and leaking. A tuft of strawberry blonde hair sat at his mound, but he was still put together. You sat up just a bit so you could place your hand on his cheek lovingly.

“Look at me, Artie.”

Your voice was so enchanting and soft that he almost forgot you were fucking his entire mind up, and he opened his eyes and looked down at you with the shaft of his cock enclosed in your hand.

“Fuck,” he huffed, resisting the urge to throw his head back again.

You maintained eye contact with him as you circled your finger over his wet, pleading tip, spreading the leaking precum around the head of his dick. He glanced away from you and looked at what you were doing, causing his eyes to roll back in his head. It was taking everything in him not to give in completely, and not to cum.

“No- no - I… I wanna make you feel good first. Please.”

Something in Art’s voice nearly made your heart drop — the wholehearted desperation and earnestness in it. It also made your pussy throb around nothing. The whole night Patrick and Art had been desperate, but now it was like you were finally seeing the extent of it. It was somehow endearing, a reminder of the love between all three of you. Art had always been a giver, and he sought out praise any place he could get it. It came as no surprise to you that he was the same now, but still, it made you indescribably horny.

You hardly realized you hadn’t responded. That wasn’t supposed to be part of your act, but Art was still pleading all the same,

“Can I? Can I just… taste you or — f-feel you, I-”

You kept your wrist moving in slow and controlled motions up and down his shaft, studying his face as you did: the way his eyes fluttered open and closed with a pleasured squeeze, his mouth perpetually open in gratification.

“It’s so fun watching you fall apart, though,” you replied, but you found yourself working your way up anyway, sneaking your legs up his body like a snake, one on either side of him.

He grasped onto your hips immediately, groaning at just the sight of you. The moonlight shone through the windows and brightened up the darkness of your room, illuminating your features and painting you under something like a spotlight.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, looking at you with hooded eyes. You steadied yourself, your hand reaching out to grab the bedframe and one of his hands gripped the fleshy underside of your thigh to help you. The more you inched up, the more he could see up the slip, catching a glimpse of your cotton panties, cream-colored with a tiny black bow in the middle. The print of your cunt through them was like an outline, a map to promised land. He sucked in a breath, almost like he was in pain. Your necklace dangled just inches away from your neck, like it was teasing him too.

“Wanna taste me?” you asked teasingly, lifting your hips above his face and hovering there, forcing him to tilt his head back and look up directly at your cunt, still hidden beneath your panties. You rolled your hips, letting your clit brush against the tip of his nose. He was enamored by the scent, had to physically stop himself from taking a deep sniff. “Hmm?”

“Yes, please, fuck,” he groaned, slightly arching his back up off the mattress just to get closer to you. “Please.”

He pressed a closed-mouth kiss to your clothed cunt, his eyes closed. It was such a gentle, delicate touch that you almost wouldn’t have believed how desperate he was if it weren’t for the longwinded moan that involuntarily escaped his lips when he made contact with your core. You bit down on your lip, breathing out from your nose, and started to grind your hips against his face. He kept kissing at your cunt over and over until it was almost indiscernible what was fabric and what was flesh— your panties had gotten so wet from his mouth and your slick. The wet trace made the friction unbearable, and your pussy throbbed through the fabric onto his face.

Through a mouthful, Art mewled,

“You taste so good. Please let me eat this pussy.”

This time, his lips peppered kisses around your inner thighs, soft but quick touches, taking in your musk. You decided to stop torturing him, that enough was enough. You lifted yourself up just a bit, and pushed up your slip. You were about to reach your hand down when you stopped and cocked your head with a smirk.

“Go on, then,” you said. Softly, like it was a suggestion more than it was a command. And Art took it in perfect stride.

He practically ripped your underwear off, pushing them to the side with a brute swipe of his hand that contrasted wildly with the gentle kisses he had given you before. Literally pushing your panties to the side. He looked for a second, eyes glazed over at the sight in front of him, taking in the sight of your dripping pussy. It looked so warm and wet and inviting, if he weren’t a better man he would’ve had to force himself not to bury his dick inside of you. When he felt he’d gotten a good look of it, savored the moment just enough, he wrapped his arms around your waist, smashing your cunt against his face. His mouth connected with your folds and you felt him sucking vehemently, before slipping his tongue in between your slit, pressing the tip of it against you. You cried out as he collected all the slick from your weeping center, keeping a hand on your stomach to stabilize himself, the other against your asscheek, squeezing every now and then.

“Oh,” you moaned, immediately starting to grind your pussy against his tongue, your clit once again nudging his nose each time you moved up. Art kept up, positioning the tip of his tongue just right so you rode it each time you wound up, applying just the right amount of pressure. “Yes, Art, just like that.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed, the vibrations causing you to clench over his face and around the tip of his tongue. Then he flattened his tongue so he could capture the entire surface of your cunt. This time the grip on your ass grew stronger, and soon enough both his hands were squeezing your ass, supplementing your movements. You kept the time you wanted, Art just assisted you in rolling up. You honestly needed it, the way your thighs were starting to shake.

Art hummed satisfactorily again, enclosing his lips around your clit and suctioning, keeping his tongue out just enough so you could feel both sensations. You nearly squealed, your hand flinging down to push your panties out the way even more. Your back arched in pleasure, creating a whole new angle for Art to lick at and please. His fingers pressed deep into the flesh of your ass, like he was leaving some imprint. Now it was you writhing and moaning, but Art never forgot who was in control. That is, until he took firm grasp of your hips and used that to flip you over so that you were on your back. It was like he never lost contact with your pussy, diving right back down before you could even register what had happened. He yanked your panties all the way down and threw them over his shoulder.

“Take your shirt off, baby,” you panted.

He obliged, throwing his shirt off too, and then leaning back in so he could get to work. His arms wrapped around the inside part of your thighs, spreading you apart for him. Before you even felt his mouth, you moaned at the sight of his back and shoulder muscles flexing as he worked. He placed sloppy kisses against your inner thighs and kissed closer and closer to your mound until finally, he was wrapping his lips around your clit once again, using what he could of his tongue to lap up your juices at the same time. You were nearly trembling in pleasure, your hand flying to the back of his head to keep him secure where he belonged. He moaned in response, and you squeezed tufts of his strawberry-blond hair.

“That’s it, I want you to feel good. Make yourself feel good for me,” he murmured, his nose buried in your cunt, eyes closed in satisfaction and concentration. You glanced down to see that he was grinding his hips ever so subtly into the bed — getting off by getting you off, and you threw your head back.

“Mhmm. So good, Art, you’re so good.”

This seemed to set him off into a frenzy as he placed open-mouth kisses against your pussy, kissing it like it was a mouth. His tongue lapped you up and sucked you in, making precise, timed movements with the close of his lips around your clitoris. He used his hands to gently push your legs back so they were angled slightly in the air, the new angle causing you to whine. He angled his neck ever so slightly so he was licking the lips, a slender finger prodding at your wet, tight entrance.

“This okay?” he asked, just dipping the pad of his finger in and opening his eyes to look up at you, as if you weren’t lost in your own world of pleasure, eyes shut tight. You opened them momentarily, looking down at what he was doing, the sight of his face engulfed in your pussy and his finger slipping up and down your slit now. You could only manage a moan along with a strangled nod, and he obliged, sliding a slender finger inside of you. Your pussy stretched and then collapsed around his finger, suctioning in like a glove, and now he used his tongue and lips to go from your lips to your clit, all spit and drool and your arousal as he worked his finger inside of you.

“Fuck,” a strangled grunt left your throat, your pussy tightening around his finger, which made him moan in response. “Art, fuck. I’m getting close.”

“Yeah?” he replied, muffled as it was. He slipped another finger inside of you with ease, wishing he could watch as he felt your pussy sucking him in greedily. Now the slow thrusts of his fingers became more forceful, pushing deep inside of your walls. You nearly screamed at the addition of his finger and the way he curled them inside each time they came to a stop inside of you.

“Y-yes, fuck, just like that, Art, don’t stop.”

He moaned something incomprehensible, or maybe it was a groan mixed with a sigh, as he continued the expert deft movement of his fingers inside of you and mouth against you, bringing you to rock your hips against his face. You were muttering to yourself now: “so close”, “gonna come” until his fingers finally hit that sacred spot, his lips closed just right around your clit, spit drooling from his mouth, and you fell apart. That devastating feeling peaked in your stomach as Art brought you to your high and you gushed around his fingers and into his mouth. Your moans were girlish and deliciously sweet, momentarily wiping away that facade you’d been playing so good at all night.

“Fuck, I’m coming!” it was like you were announcing it to yourself, squeezing your legs around his head and practically clamping down on his hair with your hand as you released. He helped you ride out that high, not stopping, but slowing his fingers and easing his lips against your pussy to keep you grounded.

When you’d finally caught your breath, Art pulled back, his chin and cheeks absolutely soaked.

“You taste so fucking good, YN,” he said it like it was a fact of life, as simple as “the sky is blue,” trying to ignore the fact that his load was prone to explode any second now.

“C’mere, I wanna taste,” you implored. Shakily, he pulled himself up and above you, letting you cradle him in your arms, one around his back and the other cupping the nape of his neck, as you captured him in an open-mouthed, sloppy, slow kiss. You could feel his cock sticking out of his boxers and poking your leg and in one swift movement you slipped your hand between the two of you and pulled him out, your hand wrapping around him. He couldn’t help but take notice of how your hand fit him perfectly, like a glove.

His hips started to stutter, quite literally, he nearly fell on top of you, gasping desperately.

“Fuck,” he drawled slowly, lips still brushed against yours, pinching his eyes closed. “T-this is s-so—”

He spoke between full-body twitches and spasms of his cock. You pouted slightly, running your fingers through his hair,

“Use your words, Artie. Whatsa matter?”

He chuckled, hanging his head low and shaking it slowly,

“It’s just I’m so — fuck,” his words morphed into a whine when you used your finger to circle around his tip, which was positively leaking with precum. “I… I’m so sensitive right now. I’ve been trying not to come for like thirty minutes.”

You both laughed, genuinely amused.

“You wanna come?” you entreated, gazing at him with a look that almost resembled concern.

His smile dropped as his face morphed into that of desperation, that of need, and he nodded earnestly,

“Yes, please. Please make me come, YN. Make me come h-however you want me to.”

“Yeah?” you implored, the palm of your hand closing over his tip to gather slick and then spreading it all down his shaft. “Want you to look at me while you come. Can you do that for me?”

Art felt pressure building in his chest as his breaths grew more and more erratic and he forced himself to look you in the eyes, responding with an affirmative albeit strangled whimper that was supposed to resemble the word “yes.” You rewarded him by stroking him faster now, your hand a tight grip around his shaft, the sound of his wet skin and your open hand slapping against his balls overwhelmingly lewd. His eyes fluttered closed for just a minute, and his head cocked to the right, his mouth opening while no sound came out. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his hips started to buck up into your hand, supplementing your strokes.

“F-fuck, YN, that’s– fucking incredible, Jesus Christ. Please, I’m gonna–” he stammered, looking up at you like he was pleading with you. You simply returned his gaze and smiled, that warm, all-knowing smile of yours, and he fell apart. His entire body, hot to the touch, seemed to shake uncontrollably as he burst, thick ropes of cum spilling out of him and splashing onto your hands and your thighs.

“Fuck!” he whined almost pathetically, his hips faltering to an unsteady stop as he released.

You kept your hand there, slowing to languid, gentle strokes as he rode out his high until you were sure he’d emptied the last of his cum in the crease between your thigh and hip. He tried his best not to collapse on top of you, but you knew he was weak.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him, and he fell on top of you with a limp thud, groaning as he buried his face in your chest.

The two of you lay there catching your breaths, sweaty and hot to the touch. When Art finally got up, he laid next to you on his side. His face was red, and not just because of the exertion.

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, I-I don’t know what came over me, probably crushed you,” he laughed apologetically.

You replied by using two fingers to gather what you could of his cum, smiling writhely as you licked them clean. He watched intently, absolutely enraptured. You did it again, reaching down to your thigh and gathering up his cum. This time, your fingers prodded at his lips. He nearly rattled with arousal. Easily, he obliged, opening ever so slightly, and wrapping his lips around your fingers, sucking the taste of himself clean off. You smiled at him admiringly. He couldn't help but laugh around your fingers,

"Fuck, that's so hot. I'm so sorry."

“Don’t apologize. You did so well.”

Suddenly, Art sat up.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

You giggled, your eyes twinkling as you looked up at him, amused by this sudden display of responsibility.

“Do I seem that fragile?” you teased.

“Oh, on the contrary. I just, I don’t know. Aftercare is important.”

So you spend the next half hour being doted on by Art as he soaped down your body in the tub. It’s the most intimate you had been the entire night, and he realized now that this was the most detailed he’d seen your body. He wanted you like this forever, being carefully pampered under his adoration, gazed upon by his eyes only. For a moment, you worried that this was somehow crossing a line, but you swallowed those thoughts just as quickly as they surfaced. The line had already been crossed when you reached out to them. Sure, you wanted to see how your two favorite white boys were doing, and you were excited to rekindle the friendship that had molded your life for so long.

But like Art walking to your door, you knew what it was that you wanted, and you knew that you were opening up a can of worms. Besides, you really did love Art, and you loved Patrick too. It was the sort of platonic love that could only be understood by people who had been friends as long as the three of you had. The kind of love that was still there for the taking years later. It didn’t need constant stoking to keep the flame. So, neither of you made this routine— this gentle touch in the water, loofah running across your back and Art’s fingers digging into your shoulders to loosen you up — a big deal.

By the time the water drained, you were absolutely zonked. You didn’t realize how late it was and just how much energy the whole ordeal had taken out of you. Your orgasm was so strong you were surpised you didn’t fall asleep then and there. Art used a towel to dry you off and had to practically carry you to your bed. He was lucky you didn’t see the shit eating, self-satisfied grin on his face — he liked being a caregiver, and throughout all the years that you had been friends, it was rare that you ever let him take care of you like this.

You threw the sheets over yourself, lashes batting as you looked over at Art, who was kneeling on the floor next to you, at face level with you. He was smiling so wholesomely that you couldn’t help but reach your hand out and stroke his face, your thumb resting on his sharp jaw.

“You’re good to me, Art. You both are. I really did miss you two. I keep saying it but I want you to know it’s true. Didn’t just invite you guys here to live out some old fantasy.”

“I missed you so much,” Art could melt from the touch of your hand on his cheek. He tilted his head slightly to kiss your fingers gently, cupping your hand over his. “I know you, YN. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

You yawned,

“I’ve been a rotten friend, though. Don’t know what took me so long to invite you guys to one of these. I thought about it every year, but decided against it every ime.”

Art waved his hand, shaking his head in dismissal of your comments,

“You’re a perfect friend. We’re the rotten ones.”

“See? You’re just the sweetest,” you grinned, your eyes sparkling. “I’d let you sleep with me, but—”

“Patrick,” he concluded.

“Don’t want him to be mad you didn’t tuck him in,” you giggled.

In the back of Art’s mind, he wondered if it would’ve gone the same way if Patrick had been the one to knock on your door. He knew it would, but it was nice to pretend that it was something he had to think about. He wondered what you would’ve done if they’d both shown up. Almost laughed to himself at how little self-control he had, while you were like a rock.

“He’s asleep anyway, but I should be there in the morning so things aren’t weird… things won’t be weird, will they?”

You shook your head, though some part of you knew that Patrick would even out the scorecard soon enough. He always did, competitor that he was. He was so hard to resist, and it’s not like you were resisting him very much in the first place — you’d invited the both of them, it was just a quirk that Art had been the one to do it first. You’d half expected Patrick to show up by himself, if it wasn’t the two of them. But one thing about Art was that he wasn’t some stick in the mud — he could be a wild card, and if he was anything like that ball of energy he was back in high school, you knew he could get shit done.

“It could never be weird. It’s us,” you replied with certainty.

Art leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a soft kiss.

“Go back to bed, Artie. I’ll see you at breakfast,” you grinned.

“Goodnight,” he crooned.

“Goodnight,” you replied.

He stood up and walked out the room, though part of him was longing to stay there for just a bit longer, if not the whole night. But he knew this was just a one-time thing, just a way to let out that pent-up tension. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t already thinking about showing up to your door tonight, and the next night, spending each warm summer night here buried inside of you, pulling his name from your mouth in pleasured sobs, making you come undone with his fingers once again. But, dutiful as he was, he walked back to their room, careful not to make a sound as he pulled off his shirt and stepped back into bed— staring up at the ceiling while he replayed moments over again in his mind. Like high school all over again.

#challengers #challengers smut #challengers fanfic #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #art donaldson #art donaldson x black reader #patrick zweig x black reader #x black reader #x reader #patrick zweig smut #art donaldson x patrick zweig #art donaldson x black! reader #patrixk zweig x black! reader

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butterflywithsass · 1 year ago

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This post articulates so many of my unresolved thoughts about Dumbledore and the HP fandom. I always used to have to defend why I didn’t dislike Dumbledore and I’d always say it was because disliking him, “made me feel bad.” But this explains so much. Thank you to thatthoughtatthebackofyourmind.

Also a reason why I liked the fantastic beasts movies (yes, all of them) because I felt like they were giving dumbledore a fresh start with fans.

Newt Scamander says it beautifully in the Secrets of Dumbledore, but unfortunately I don’t remember what it was.

In Defence of Albus Dumbledore:

Look. I know this is an unpopular opinion, so I’m going to write this here because putting it anywhere else (like at the bottom of the fics which have inspired this frustration) would seem mean, and it would probably end up coming off as unintentional flaming, which I would never do to anyone ever. Also, as I’m less frustrated with individual works than I am with an entire situation, it wouldn’t really be fair to direct it at one specific person.

Get ready. This is going to be very ranty and long and I can't promise not to get off topic and onto a tangent a few times.

I understand that we all have grown up a lot since first reading Harry Potter. I get that once we realized how grey a few of Dumbledore’s decisions actually and the ways in which they affected the characters we love we all felt rightfully upset.

But can we please stop being so narrowminded about it?

There are plenty of redemption fics out there. A lot of them are works that redeem characters like Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy, Draco’s parents, various Dursleys and loads of other people. I’ve seen fics that have Sirius confronting the realities of his juvenal behaviours and having to atone for past wrongs. I’ve even seen (but admittedly never read) fics that redeem Voldemort himself.

But the least popular person for a redemption story in fanfiction by far seems to be Albus Dumbledore.

I get it.

He was supposed to be an infallible genius who did no wrong and he let us down. But please.

Can we all please just admit that we’re using Dumbledore as a stand in?

The hatred we as a fan community levy at Dumbledore is influenced by so much more than his actions in cannon.

It’s the dissolution we feel at growing up. The need as young people to bite back at overbearing authority. It’s the conviction that leaders should never be allowed to fail if failure means the death of innocent people. Even though we can all recognize on a personal level that our failures are typically unintentional and are definitely what make us human.

Of late, it’s very clear that Dumbledore is a stand in for the betrayal we feel at JK Rowling’s anti-trans standing.

We all loved her so much.

She gave us this world.

She promised it to everyone.

And then she said that it was all a lie, and that it was never meant for some of us anyway.

The parallels are clear.

While we were first reading, we loved who Harry loved. Simply because he loved them, and we loved him.

When we grew up, we started acknowledging the ways in which the characters mirrored people in real life, and we chose the people we found the most familiar to love instead. Personally, I understand the reason I read Severitus so often is because I had a largely absent father who I idolized as a child, and that father was a bit of a rockstar like person. Dark, intelligent, and cruel when he wanted to be. Artistic, genius, condescending, and amazing.

As an adult, I still long for his love and approval. Learning that Severus was capable of so much good at the very end of his story, that he was in fact good all along, even when he looked exactly the opposite, gave me hope that my father was too. Even though I now understand that redemption for my father is just a fairy tale it’s still a story I hold close to my heart. A story I long for. It’s a possible happy ending for both a lonely child and a jaded grouchy adult.

Albus Dumbledore was different.

This was a man that we trusted to have everyone’s best intentions at heart. We were told he was safe. We were told he was the smartest man in any room. And then he failed us. And we looked back at all he had done, and rather than seeing the good he had tried to achieve, all we could see were the mistakes he had made.

I firmly believe that the reason that so many people hate him so strongly now is because we all loved him so much first. Like Harry, we all believe that he was incapable of mistakes. His mistakes in cannon aren’t any more morally condemning than anyone else on the light side.

Keep in mind that I said, “in cannon.” I feel like I need to distinguish that. In cannon, though Harry asked if he could stay at Hogwarts during the summer, he never told Dumbledore about living in a cupboard under the stairs. His letter was addressed to there, but we have no way of knowing whether it was physically or magically written on the envelope. And besides, that letter was signed by Professor McGonagall, not Dumbledore. Harry also never mentioned to him the Dursleys withholding food. Or locking up his trunk so that he couldn’t do his homework. He made it clear that they disliked him, that they thought him a burden, but think. Really think. Dumbledore is the head of a school full of children. How many children misunderstand and exaggerate even in their own minds how much their families dislike them.

Let me be clear; when I say kids exaggerate I don’t mean in terms of abuse. I only mean typical things such as, “My mom’s always grouchy when she gets home from work and she never notices that I’ve tried really hard by cleaning the bathroom if she told me to clean the kitchen before she got home and I decided to do the bathroom because I wanted to clean it instead of doing the dishes and now she’s yelling at me that she just needs me to help her sometimes, and I don’t feel like that’s fair because really I do. Look, I cleaned the whole bathroom by myself! And I straitened up the living room too! The only thing I ‘forgot’ was the kitchen and now she’s acting like I do nothing. This means she hates me and appreciates nothing I do. I am clearly a burden to her, and I should go live under a rock so that she doesn’t have to deal with me anymore.” Really, your mom probably isn’t saying you’re a burden. Your mom is more than likely overworked, over-tired, and almost certainly depressed in a society that doesn’t cater to mental health awareness, and on top of all that she was raised by a generation that was allergic to admitting and self-regulating their true feelings so she can’t articulate that and she’s instead taking her frustrations out on you.

This is wrong, and she shouldn’t do it. But consider. Why didn’t you want to clean the kitchen? Was it because you had a long hard day at school and you’re overworked, over-tired, and definitely depressed in a world that doesn’t cater to mental health awareness, and all you really wanted was a break from the hardest job and you just wanted to compromise by doing the ones you felt emotionally and physically able to do? Because I promise, that’s probably exactly how your mom feels about the damn dirty dishes that she’s going to have to deal with before she can make dinner after being cussed out and yelled at by customers and or bosses all day in between doing her actual work and that’s the real reason she’s yelling.

Because, though a lot of teens believe otherwise, parents are still just people and the feelings that overwhelm kids still overwhelm adults just as badly. And they’re even less likely to know how to help themselves because they didn’t grow up with the internet where everyone shares their feeling and gets back validation and advice, so they mostly just believed those feelings were personal failings that indicated something broken specifically only in them and that they should learn to live with it and never tell anyone ever because complaining is for babies and liberals. Okay, maybe that last bit is a little too specific to my own mother, but you get the idea.

It’s a cycle that’s been going on for years. Hopefully, we can eventually all learn how to communicate peacefully and compromise on chores sometimes so we can end it someday. Or everyone can just switch to paper plates, and then we’ll worry about how we’re killing the planet later and no one will have to do the dishes ever again.

The point is, while that isn’t the best parenting style, and it can cause issue’s with your familial relationship as you age, it isn’t technically abuse. And it especially wouldn’t be considered abuse in the 90’s while Harry Potter was taking place or the early 00’s when it was being published.

Harry was not bruised when he arrived at Hogwarts. He didn’t show obvious outward signs of abuse. He never told any adults what his life was like at the Dursleys at all. He really didn’t even say much about it to Ron or Hermione either. Mrs. Weasley sent him treats for his birthday, which was a sweet motherly gesture. Hermione and Hagrid did as well but think about it. Do you believe for a second that if Molly have-another-serving, can-I-get-you-some-more-bread, try-the-potatoes Weasley honestly thought the Dursley’s were starving Harry that she would first wait until the end of July to send Harry anything, and then only send him sweets? She would scale the Dursleys’ house and stuff a full six course meal through the bars multiple times a day before she let that boy live off stale birthday cake. When she asked if the Dursley had fed him enough she meant it in the same way she always meant it, in the if ‘I can feed the world I can love the world’ way.

Hagrid sent him rock cakes, but again, think about it. Hagrid had shown up with a cake for Harry’s birthday the day he first delivered the letter when he couldn’t have yet known of the way Harry was treated. He just wanted to show Harry he was loved and missed.

Of the people who sent him food, only Hermione really knew Harry didn’t get to eat his fill at the Dursley’s and she still only sent cake because all she knew was that he was being forced to diet with Dudley. Which is why she sent him the kind of food one would eat if they weren’t on a diet instead of true sustenance. A fourth of a grapefruit as a meal is not a diet, no matter what Petunia called it. And if he had told Hermione specifics, she likely would have told Harry that, but again, he didn’t tell anyone specifics.

Everyone knew that Harry was unfavoured by the Dursley’s and that they wouldn’t be celebrating his birthday, and he wouldn’t receive cake or presents, but they really didn’t know much else. Ron and Hermione only understood he was being starved in the way most naive well-fed kids from happy families can understand. It sounded cruel, and they did try to tell people, but because they didn’t understand the full gravity of the situation, they couldn’t properly communicate to trusted adults that Harry was actually experiencing abuse. Plus, Harry tended to downplay it even to them.

When Dumbledore speaks about knowing Harry would come from a less than happy home, you can tell he is picturing a world where Harry is liked second best to his cousin. Where he never feels fully at home. Like an overextended visitor in a relative’s house. He thinks they’ll treat him like the weird cousin who came to stay and never left rather than an immediate family member.

He isn’t picturing Petunia Dursley slinging a frying pan at Harry’s head. Or refusing to let him drink his fill of water on a hot summer’s day spent weeding her ridiculous flower garden. Or an overly restrictive diet enforced on an already undernourished body simply to make Harry’s morbidly obese cousin feel better about his doctor changing his eating habits.

I think we’ll all agree that feeling less than welcome by stuck up relatives sucks, but it’s better than whatever Voldemort’s loyal leftover followers will do to him if they manage to track down the person responsible for their dark lord’s downfall.

I understand why a lot of people feel like Dumbledore should have just put Harry under the Fidelius Charm and hid him rather than sending him to the Dursley’s but consider: If Dumbledore trusted Sirius the way he must have done to not betray James and his family, then it makes sense that he felt Fidelius was no longer an option. He fully believed Sirius was the secret keeper. Sirius, the Potters, and Pettigrew were the only ones to know of the change. It’s likely that after learning that the Death Eaters had convinced Sirius to betray the Potters he was jaded enough to take it as a sign that no one could be a trusted Secret Keeper. No matter how much they loved the person under protection.

He also likely would have insisted on a trial for Sirius had Sirius himself not told everyone that he was the one who killed James and Lily while descending into hysterical laughter. We know what Sirius meant, (he felt responsible for them dying because switching to Peter at the last minute had been his idea) because we read the third Harry Potter book, but Dumbledore didn’t have that same advantage. All he had was the word of an apparently mad man. A man who had just tracked down another dear friend and apparently killed him and 12 innocent bystanders in a fit of insanity.

Why, when last he had heard Sirius was the Secret Keeper, would he doubt a verbal confession from a man who did nothing to try and save himself from Azkaban? The Marauders never told anyone of their animagus abilities. No one but Sirius could have understood what Peter had done. Why do we expect Dumbledore to have known better?

So, instead of Fidelius and hiding Harry away for his entire childhood, he gave him the best protection he could think of under the circumstances he had been given. He sought to give Harry a normal life and to keep him safe from the remaining Death Eaters.

Dumbledore understood that fame was power, and that power could corrupt even the best of people with the strongest of minds, so he kept Harry away from the limelight. He also understood how fickle people where about fame. This was the right decision even if the Dursley were a bad choice in guardians. We saw proof of this numerous times while Harry was at school. His fame only ever seemed to bring him more hardships. In book two they said Harry was a dark wizard because he was a Parselmouth and that that’s how he overpowered Voldemort. In book four even some of Harry’s friends refused to believe he wasn’t just a glory hound and that it hadn’t been him who entered his name in the tournament, but rather someone trying to kill him. In book five, almost everyone refused to believe Harry was telling the truth about Voldemort’s return. Every single time Harry’s name entered the limelight, it was in a way that harmed him. Imagine how much earlier it would have started had he grown up in the wizarding world. They would have been debating his kindergarten finger paintings if they could have.

Why does the entire fandom also assume that Dumbledore thought of himself as the wisest most all-knowing man in any room? The only people who canonically acted like they believed that about him were the Golden Trio, and they were enlightened otherwise multiple times throughout the books as they grew up. Just as everyone learns new truths about trusted adults they thought of as perfect as they grow.

The fact is, Albus Dumbledore has always been just a man.

He was a great and powerful but flawed man who wanted more than anything to make sure that evil could not prevail. He obviously still holds plenty of shame and guilt over his dealings with Gellert Grindelwald in his misspent youth. We have surmised that when he looked in the Mirror of Erised he likely saw his sister Ariana, or something as equally heart-breaking which he recognized as his own fault. He fully understood that he was just a man. He encouraged everyone to understand that fact about Voldemort as well.

He was not a god, and he didn’t pretend to be.

Not in cannon anyway.

Fanon Dumbledore, on the other hand, tends to be anything from a meddling idiot to a full on manipulative dark lord complete with moustache twirling and nefarious intent. Which, I believe, further influences and enforces the fandom’s collective bad opinion of him. Most of us haven’t reread the real books in years. It gets hard to remember at some points what was something he did in canon vs. what was something he did in fanfiction.

Every other character seems welcomed to grow in the world of fandom.

Severus was canonically a willing Death Eater in his youth, a bully to children in his care in his adulthood, and a petty grudge-holder who couldn’t let go of the past. We accept that we can’t fully know how much of his behaviour towards the students was an act to fool the Death Eater’s children, but we can assume it definitely wasn’t all of it. Still, he gets plenty of redemption fics. He had literal access to Harry’s traumatic childhood memories but still saw no signs of abuse because he was too busy trying to keep a 15-year-old child from gaining any ammunition about his own past.

Looking back, it seems obvious that as very few of Harry’s childhood memories were shown in the Occlumency scenes, he likely wasn’t as bad at clearing his mind as either he or Snape assumed, but it was also possible that Severus didn’t see those memories because that wasn’t what he was looking for. The memory of Harry getting chased up a tree by Marge’s dog as the rest of his family watched and laughed should have triggered at least a couple of red flags, but Severus was typically determined to only see the bad in Harry, so he overlooked it.

James Potter who is often thought of as the better choice for Lily was also a bully. And he spent years relentlessly pursuing a relationship with someone who had never given him any indication that his advances were welcome and had in fact outright told him the exact opposite of that many times until he finally wore her down and convinced her to give him a shot. That’s gross, unacceptable behaviour but I guess it is technically better than dating a budding racist that sees you as the exception to his views on your people, so James is rebranded as a lovable hero who changed after having a slightly misspent youth rather than a mean spirited bully who likely grew bored with his main target once he no longer saw him as competition (there would have been no reason to bully Snape if Lily wasn’t friends with him anymore after 5th year which was conveniently around the time he began to “grow up”) as well as a pushy loser who wouldn’t take no for an answer even though Lily said it multiple times. (There’s also the point that once Snape knew about Lupin being a werewolf, James likely wouldn’t have bullied him anymore so as not to provoke Snape to reveal the secret and get Lupin thrown out of school and possibly killed.)

Ron told Molly outright that the Dursley’s were starving Harry and had fixed bars on his windows to trap him after weeks of being concerned when he didn’t reply to Ron’s letters, and she still ignored it, assuming instead that Ron was exaggerating and never even tried to check with Harry to learn that he wasn’t.

Remus spent a year teaching Harry individualized lessons to repel Dementors and never once asked him why he was so sad that they affected him in ways that none of the other students experienced. I mean really, he couldn’t have been the only orphan attending that school so Remus couldn’t have thought it was just that. And Neville’s backstory was nearly just as sad (and just as well known to Remus) and even he didn’t faint like Harry. Yet, he didn’t question Harry once.

Sirius (who is also a bully and a petty grudge-holder) never wondered why a child would want to move in with an escaped prisoner who he had never met before that had just mangled his best friend’s leg and tried to commit murder in front of him instead of the relatives he had been with his entire life. Even when until that very night he had believed that prisoner wanted to kill him?

Arthur actually met the Dursley’s and saw Vernon’s rage at magic when he came to collect Harry for the Quidditch World Cup and he still questioned nothing.

Half the Order found Harry locked inside his bedroom with locks affixed to the outside of the door, and all they did was give vague unfulfilled threats to Vernon and send Harry back. You could blame that on Dumbledore, but I think that’s ridiculous. They were not under Imperious. They made their own decisions. Every adult there had a responsibility to that child, and they all failed him individually.

Yet time and time again I see Dumbledore condemned so overwhelmingly in the very fics that redeem and or absolve these other characters of those very actions.

Even McGonagall, who knew from the start that the Dursleys were awful people, never pulled Harry aside as his head of house and asked him anything about his home life. And, as I stated earlier, her name was the one on the letter addressed to the cupboard under the stairs. She also made it very clear that she wasn’t someone for Harry to confide in by constantly dismissing any concerns he presented her. The way she reacted about the Stone was ridiculous. And her non-concern over the amount of detentions Harry received from Umbridge followed by the ‘have a biscuit’ scene rubbed me the wrong way. And yet, of late she seems to be revered in the fandom community as some kind of badass grandmotherly character. All because she protested one time about leaving Harry with the Dursleys and then never brought it up again.

It’s getting a bit ridiculous. I’m exhausted by the way the fan community continues to rewrite cannon to fit their dissatisfaction with our once trusted role-model JK Rowling through Harry Potter’s once trusted mentor Albus Dumbledore.

Just once I would like to read a Harry Potter fic without having to think about the various ways in which JK Rowling let us all down. And with everyone rewriting Dumbledore as the ‘real villain all along’ I can’t help but be taken out of the fic and forced to relate it to reality.

#anti dumbledore bashing #albus dumbledore #fantastic beasts #pro albus dumbledore #harry potter #newt scamander #secrets of dumbledore

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diejager · 10 months ago

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Hello! I've been wanting to make a request like this for a while now as I've fallen back down the rabbit hole that is Bloodborne + the MonsterAU, and your writing is amazing! I have fallen in love with it! You are free to ignore this crazy request XD

What if during an incident at the base (could be Hunter bullied by recruits simply because Hunter sides more with monsters than with humans) and Hunter looses control, they all discover that Hunter is actually a monster too, though not exactly a natural monster or hybrid like the rest of the guys?

At first the monsters and hybrids of 141, Laswell, Los Vaqueros and KorTac believe Hunter is a werewolf but all of them are somewhat concerned and puzzled as to why they could never tell Hunter was a monster, plus the bestial form Hunter possesses is grotesque in appearance compared to the fantastical appearance of Soap's wolf. While Hunter is flattered to be considered a monster like them, she later explains that she is not a monster as such, but a Scourge Beast: a person infected with a plague that turns her into a beast. Hunter also explains that is never in control while in beast form and advises that if were to ever go in a killing spree, requests to be burned alive 👀.

Here are some references to what Hunter would look like lol:

Again feel free to ignore! XD

Plague Cw: blood and gore, bullying, anger issues, cannibalism, mutation, hate, tell me if I missed any.

Soap hadn’t expected you to growl, something so low and guttural —dangerous. The hair on the back of his neck rose high, his body tense as it reacted to your animalistic sound when some men approached you both with smug grins and cockily raised brows to raise hell between him and their pro-human thoughts. And it seemed that those men hadn’t expected you to act so aggressively, so beastly, after seeing you ignore their jeers and degrading words. They flinched back, fearful eyes fleeting from him to you, Soap’s eyes trailed down your shaking figure, hands clenching and unclenching with black claws, they were so sharp that it threatened to cut your hardened palms.

“Fuck off,” you flashed sharp teeth, molars and incisors turned into an amalgamation of werewolf teeth, crooked and much sharper.

Perhaps you weren’t truly a human, at least not fully with how vicious your expression looked like, a wretched image of your softer figure shaking and shuddering, trying to contain a beast that would ravage the frightened men before you. They scurried off when you curtly nodded to your left, shoving past some people that stood and stared at you and back into the base. He followed you closely, ears twitching at your growls and rumbling, teeth grinding together in an ear-piercing screech and heavy puffs of hot air from your nose.

“What was that, Bonnie” Soap coaxed you into your room, frantic and concerned at your sudden shift of demeanour, “Ye okay?”

“Nothing. Nothing, Johnny,” you sighed, shoulders slumping when you sat on your bed, letting out shuddering breaths.

He sat beside you, giving you enough space but keeping a hand on your shoulder, circling your tense muscle.

“ ‘m fine, Johnny, I swear,” you promised, blinking slowly at your retreating claws, “I’ll tell you later, hmm?”

Soap had warned them about your shift, the nagging curiosity that filled all their minds the day they heard from him that you weren’t human, neither monster nor hybrid, but the result of a plague —a sickness. He’d been with you during your shift, letting the others know before he turned too, his body burning away his amassed energy into steam and smoke. His change was strainous and energy-dependent, but yours was downright bloody and gory, your skin bubbling as dark fur grew from your raised spine, blood popping and spewing from every part of your body, staining the ground with dark and sickly and viscous blood.

You were a crooked beast, limbs too bony and spine too sharp, your maw too elongated and teeth too misshaped. You were a feral mixture of beast and werewolf, horrible yet intimidating, something that rang hundreds of bells in his mind. You looked like a starved dog, abdomen caved in and hair course and dry, a terrible creature that ate through the enemy, sinking your teeth into their muscles and fat and devouring everything down in wet gulps and guttural rumbles.

You made quick work of the enemy despite being their medic, striding back with him side to side (you towered over him in your beast form, a shock if he was honest). He wasn’t sure if their silence was from the sheer size of you, looming over everyone with white, beady eyes blinking owlishly at them or from your bloody and matted fur, guts and hair sticking between your teeth. He knew you were monstrous, but it sent a thrill up his spine.

“Was hungry,” he was sure he jolted when you spoke, a deep, deep growl from the back of your bony throat, it was gravelly and raspy, more so than Ghost or Prices, “Clean up when- back.”

He learned that you were a Scourge Beast, sometimes a permanent change and other times a temporary one that left you somewhat conscious. You might’ve been there, but never in complete control of your body, lingering at the back of your mind, a passenger of your hungry and rage-prone body. You warned them that you might go into a famished frenzy, ripping into anything and everything you could get your hands on, and if it were to every happen, they would need to contain you. Be it knocking you out or killing you, you made them swear, but Soap doubted he could do it, he couldn’t and wouldn’t do it despite how much you stress how dangerous you were.

They could be able to stop you without harming you, they’re conscious of both their weakness and strengths, but they knew, if it ever came to it, they will stop and contain you until you’re back to your sense.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

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thedoewitch · 2 years ago

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THE TRUTH ABOUT HARRY POTTER CHARACTERS

In the last few weeks, I've seen many arguments between the stans of different characters in the HP Fandom. And this, this exact post is about my opinion, mixed with canon (books) and how they normally should have been perceived.

This is part one of the series explaining the characters in the Harry Potter Universe. It will be long, seeing as many are hateful towards characters who did nothing wrong, or love them for all the wrong reasons.

Two big arguments will be explained in this post. Two biggest arguments about Anti-Character vs Pro-Character.

Anti-Dumbledore vs Pro-Dumbledore;

Now, there are many people who are on the anti-Dumbledore side of the fandom, and I can understand why. It is not a surprise, considering what has been done by Dumbledore in the series.

However, Albus is one of the many-layered characters. He was a Blood Supremacist throughout his life, even as an adult, until his sister Ariana Dumbledore died.

He is, like many others, a flawed character, just like us real humans are. He was in love with Gellert Grindelwald (Which he has no fault in, you cannıot control who you fall in love with), and was willing to take the world under their control just because Gellert wanted to.

In the Marauders and Lightening Era timeline, he did many horrible things. He went as far as using Fudge to gain things to his favor, he used Severus and Harry, and even Remus and Sirius and Rubeus (Hagrid) as the events unfolded, and he even neglected other students while trying to control everything that he can, even though he is a HEADMASTER, a person who s supposed to keep the school's students safe. And the fact that he left Harry in the Dursleys' footsteps and not checking on him properly was disturbing, no matter if Arabella Figgs was there. He didn't care to check up properly.

He did all of that, yes. There is no arguing about it, it is in The Fantastic Beast, in the Harry Potter books, in the Secrets of Dumbledore, in the Crimes of Grindelwald. He did all of those things that nowadays seem impossible to do.

But- He also did good things. He accepted Remus into the school, albeit it was stupid of him to do so with only a place he can transform that he can break free easily if not strictly controlled. He accepted him because he wanted people like him to have a chance.

We even see another werewolf student in the game called Hogwarts Mystery, which I liked and enjoyed. He is not prejudiced against them, and it makes their life easier.

He gave Harry and other students support throughout their life at Hogwarts. It excluded Slytherins, sadly, but he did try to be a good role model and also tried to relieve the students from stress by doing things like canceling the exams and even saying seemingly ridiculous words during the meals. He was truly afraid that Ginny was taken into the chamber, it is obvious in the CoS book when Lucius paid a visit to Albus.

He supported the adults like Alastor and Kingsley and Tonks, warned Sirius and the like against doing things that could be dangerous for their lives. He did care about them. Even, I'm sure, Marlene and Dorcas had a place in his heart because he does everything to help them win the war and live in peace.

Anti-Snape vs Pro Snape;

Severus Snape, like Albus, is a many-layered character. He is defensive and strict and is a bully throughout his adulthood. He is brave and courageous, stubborn and selfless.

Snape is not dark or light. He is not black or white. He is a Morally-Grey character through and through. There is no arguing against that.

Severus as a kid has done nothing wrong. The argument of him being obsessed with Lily when he was NINE is a very wrong thing to say. He was, as explained in the Pottermore likely abused by his father who was a drunkard, and from the writing in the books, his mother was likely neglectful as well. A kid who has gone through that will not have good social skills, or know how to talk to anyone politely. The fact that he is living in a dark neighborhood is probably an aspect of this as well.

He used accidental magic on Petunia, and he had no fault in it just like Harry had no fault when he deflated his aunt. Petunia insulted his mother, just like Marge insulted Lily. He had no control over his emotions, and thus, the accidental magic is not him being a hater.

During the train ride, all he said was he wanted to be in Slytherin. Why? Who knows, maybe his mother was sorted there and he wanted to feel closer to her. James and Sirius immediately attacked him with their words after that. Again, he is a kid. An 11 years old kid. He did not have a fault in that.

During his years at Hogwarts, he faced many more of the Marauder's bullying. And, yes, it was bullying, J.K Rowling said it, in the books even Harry thinks it is bullying, and Sirius accepts that fairly easily.

In his fifth year at Hogwarts, he is a fifteen-year-old and Sirius is 16 years old, Sirius sent him down the Willow Tree in the full moon. Why? Of that, I have a few theories but we don't know if any of them are true. He sent him down there on a FULL MOON, where Remus transformed, wanting to get a laugh of it.

He was almost killed, but saved by his enemy James Potter at the last second. He was forced to keep shut about this, which definitely added to his many traumas throughout his life. He was punished while he was the definite victim in this situation, along with Remus who was used by his best friend.

After this werewolf prank, it is obvious that the bullying got worse. It is probably because the Marauders had to do something to not let their friendship crumble, and blaming the whole situation on the victim, who is someone they hate or at the very least dislike seemed a good idea in their eyes. And thus, Snape's Worst Memory happened.

Lily and Severus' relationship was already falling apart by the fifth year. After the prank, they confronted each other and talked about the things they witnessed.

It is very disturbing how Severus did not care that Mulciber and Avery used dark magic on an innocent Gryffindor called Mary MacDonald. However, he also points out that the Marauders used a hex to grow Bertham Abrey's, a Slytherin's head grow his head twice its size. It is not Dark Magic, but clearly illegal. This hows that Marauders bullied everyone they could from Slytherin, and Sirius even admitted that himself.

Both of them are set in their ways. Lily doesn't acknowledge that Severus has to spend time with the Slytherins as he is a Slytherin himself. And Severus doesn't acknowledge that using Dark Magic to harm others is disturbing when others use Light Spells to hurt others instead, not realizing that both of them are wrong.

In SWM Lily definitely doesn't do everything she can do, along with Remus. They both are prefects but Remus stood back, and Lily only confronted the Marauders, not bothering to inform a professor at the very least.

Severus was very wrong in saying Mudblood to Lily. Sure, he was under a lot of stress, and he is a Half-Blood so the term also applies to him, but it was the last damage to crumble the wall of friendship the two had between them. But he did not deserve to get his trousers to get taken down and get threatened to be stripped completely. That was sexual assault, and no one deserves that.

After all of that, he apologized and left Lily alone. He was not obsessed with her. I'm sorry, but no one is saying that you cannot love a person who is in another relationship. It is not a crime, and he didn't even tell Lily about his feelings. (And I do not believe that 'feelings' were romantic. It was most definitely platonic, It is written like one, and the strong lesson the HP Series has is the power of Love.)

He went Dark after graduating, but when he discovered that he was going to be the cause of his ex-best friend's death he deflected quickly. I do not understand how people find this creepy. Regulus 'deflected' (not fully) for Kreacher, Narcissa, and Lucius for Draco and Albus for Ariana.

He agreed to be a spy for Albus and took a Vow to completely submit himself to a cause he had not yet believed completely in. After Lily's death, his life was devoted to protecting Harry.

He was a bully during his adult years. Now, it is mostly because traumatized people act mature, but their mentality goes backward, and the proper age of becoming fully mature comes later on. With his state, it would be at the very earliest when he was 53 that he would be fully mature, but it is also because he cannot let go of the past and heal from it.

He treated Harry and Neville horribly when not in class. And in class, he was strict with everyone. Even the others were the victim of his bad attitude.

However, no matter how mean he wanted his students to be safe. He protected Harry because of the Vow, that is true, however, he also protected and attempted to protect every other student, like the time he was worried for Ginny when he was taken into the Chamber.

He was a shitty person with a shitty backstory. He had no control over his emotions when he was with Harry, and bullied him because of his looks leaning towards James. It was not acceptable, and he was most definitely a bully, but he was not an abuser.

He despised physical punishments and refrained from physically attacking others, and the only exception was when Harry invaded his privacy when he looked into the pensieve.

He truly believed in the reasoning of the Light after all those years under the Vow. When it was clear that Harry was going to die no matter what he did, he did not go off to Voldemort to give him the secrets Dumbledore told him, no, he tried to protect his students and aided Harry secretly to destroy the Hocruxes.

He died a hero. Without him, the first Wizarding War would be won by Voldemort and everyone would be at Riddle's service to torture or kill or use. If he was loyal to Voldemort, the Battle of Hogwarts would end up with Voldemort truly killing Harry, and the whole fate was on his shoulders.

He is the bravest man throughout the series. He is a Hero, He is an Anti-Hero, he is an awesome spy, he is a bully, he is bitter, he is selfless, he is stubborn, he is loyal, and he is many more combined together.

He is not a villain, and he is not an evil reincarnate of a Nazi. He is a good person with bad doings. He is not innocent but he definitely deserved to be both praised and put down for all of the things he did.

#hp fandom #marauders #lightening era #marauders era #golden trio era #albus dumbledore #severus snape #snape fandom #the marauders #pro snape #young severus #snape community #snape #snape defense #snapedom #dumbledore #albus percival wulfric brian dumbledore #young dumbledore

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pro-dumbledores-office · 4 months ago

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How do you think Professor Dumbledore's bedroom is decorated? Is it similar to his office?

I adore Dumbledore's office in the film, I think they gave the room an impressive and distinctive architectural design and they nailed Dumbledore's quirky but dignified decor quite well. I do have minor quibbles though - it's not quite comfortable enough and the windows would be bigger I think.

For Dumbledore's bedroom located somewhere in the same tower, I imagine a room that is slightly similar to his office - you can tell it is occupied by the same person - but is infinitely cozier and not nearly as grand. Dumbledore, like most stylish people, probably has a very deep sense of place and occasion. An office is a formal room and must inspire a certain amount of awe when you are the headmaster of a prestigious school. However, I imagine his bedroom has a big thick navy blue rug across the floor, a large but comfortable four poster bed, and is filled with overstuffed chintz armchairs and sofas. A large old fashioned etching of Godric's Hallow hangs above the fire as the only obvious reference to his family. Big dark purple curtains frame windows with a stunning view of the lake and grounds and a small writing desk sits in the corner looking out the window with books heaped around it.

Dumbledore's bedroom is his private domain. I imagine almost no one else has ever even entered other than the house elves. Yet it would be beautiful, comfortable, and entirely him.

#harry potter #wizarding world #dumbledore #albus dumbledore #pro dumbledore #secrets of dumbledore #fantastic beasts #my post #dumbledore's office #harry potter interior decorating

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wrestlingisfake · 2 months ago

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My favorite thing in pro wrestling right now is that "The Beast Mortos is a fantastical man-bull creature who speaks only in grunts and groans and has chains hanging out of his face" makes sense to everybody, but "Matt Taven is a weirdo who invented his own headcanon that The Beast Mortos is actually a criminal defense attorney named Frank Mortos that once bailed him out of a Mexican jail" is too nonsensical and confusing.

#aew #the beast mortos #matt taven

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armyangxls · 6 months ago

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About me: My name is Lexi, I’m 20, Queer, Christian writer, editor, neurodivergent, chronically ill, and my pronouns are she/they

About my stories: Most of my stories are written as chronically ill gender neutral readers! And all are autistic queer plus size readers!

What I post: fandom stuff, fanfics, stories, icons, gifs, fancasts, stimboards, etc

My f/os: Tex Sawyer, Bo Sinclair, Richie Kirsch, Evan Buckley, Ticci Toby, Ryan Hudson, Corey Cunningham, Henry Creel, Mike Munroe, Chris Halliwell, Gilbert Blythe, Johnny Sawyer, Cooper Adams, Herr König, Adam Maitland, Wadsworth (Clue), etc

Random favorite things: Scooby Doo, non sketchy storms, St. Augustine FL, cozy days, horror media, video games, board games, cartoons, road trips, cozy spooky media, ghosts, period media, dusk, Ghibli movies, foggy days, witchy stuff, mysteries, celestial stuff, decorations, paranormal!

Favorite aesthetics: whimsigoth, fairy Grunge, tropical girl, spooky coastal town, anything cozy or spooky!

Favorite music: Chase Atlantic, Chappell Roan, Brye, Isabel LaRosa, She Wants Revenge, BTS, TV girl, Taylor Swift, Conan Gray, Fleetwood Mac, Olivia Rodrigo, The Neighborhood, Lovelytheband, Mazzy Star, Melanie Martinez, Halsey!

Favorite YouTubers: Jake Webber, Johnnie Gilbert, Sam and Colby, Loey Lane, Trek Trendy, Jessii Vee!

Fandoms: BTS, The Vampire Diaries, Encanto, Stranger Things, DC Stargirl, Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, Fear Street, Scream, The Lost Boys, Outer Banks, 9-1-1, 9-1-1 Lone Star, The Crow, Halloween, Nancy Drew, Lisa Frankenstein, House Of Wax, Pretty Little Liars, Elvis (2022), Bridgerton, Are You Afraid of The Dark?, Fate The Winx Saga, Anne of Green Gables (1985-), Riverdale, The Maze Runner, Creepypasta, Marble Hornets, American Horror Story & Stories, Harry Potter (anti JKR), Fantastic Beasts, Scream TV Series, Charmed, Dead By Daylight, My Babysitter’s A Vampire, Sense and Sensibility, I Am Not Okay With This, Love Victor, It (2017), Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, The Strangers Prey at Night, Rizzoli And Isles, Texas Chainsaw Massacre game, Five Nights At Freddy's, Abigail, Trap, Beetlejuice, etc

Social Medias: @btsarmygirl417 Edit Instagram TikTok @starry-ghost-tour my reblog account @whimsyspookyloves my f/o account

Playlist: Character playlists Part Two Monthly Playlist

DNI: Racists, Homophobos, Transphobos, pro-eds, fatphobos, ableists, Trump Supporters, Nazis, Proshipers, anti self-diagnose, conservatives, etc

Taglists: Stranger Things Taglist Scream Taglist Stargirl taglist Fear Street taglist

Masterlists: Writing Masterlist Gif Masterlist Test Posts Masterlist Fancasts Masterlist Icons Masterlist

🔮🕯️🎃🍁🍂👽🎃🔮👻🍁🍂🎃🕯️🔮

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whimsyspookyloves · 5 months ago

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🌝👻🔮🥰 @armyangxls 's f/o account 🥰🛸🤠🌞

About me: My name is Lexi, I’m 20, Queer, Christian writer, editor, neurodivergent, chronically ill, and my pronouns are she/they

Queen of loving characters from media I haven't watched yet{?}!! Especially media I've always hated!

My f/os: Tex Sawyer, Bo Sinclair, Richie Kirsch, Evan Buckley, Ticci Toby, Ryan Hudson, Corey Cunningham, Henry Creel, Mike Munroe, Chris Halliwell, Gilbert Blythe, etc

Favorite aesthetics: whimsigoth, fairy Grunge, tropical girl, spooky coastal town, anything cozy or spooky!

Favorite YouTubers: Jake Webber, Johnnie Gilbert, Sam and Colby, Loey Lane, Trek Trendy, Jessii Vee!

Fandoms: BTS, The Vampire Diaries, Encanto, Stranger Things, DC Stargirl, Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, Fear Street, Scream, The Lost Boys, Outer Banks, 9-1-1, 9-1-1 Lone Star, The Crow, Halloween, Nancy Drew, Lisa Frankenstein, House Of Wax, Pretty Little Liars, Elvis (2022), Bridgerton, Are You Afraid of The Dark?, Fate The Winx Saga, Anne of Green Gables (1985-), Riverdale, The Maze Runner, Creepypasta, Marble Hornets, American Horror Story & Stories, Harry Potter, Fantastic Beasts, Scream TV Series, Charmed, Dead By Daylight, My Babysitter’s A Vampire, Sense and Sensibility, I Am Not Okay With This, Love Victor, It (2017), Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, The Strangers Prey at Night, Rizzoli And Isles, Texas Chainsaw Massacre game, etc

Social Medias: @btsarmygirl417 @starry-ghost-tour Edit Instagram TikTok

DNI: Proshipers, Racists, Homophobos, Transphobos, pro-eds, fatphobos, ableists, Trump Supporters, Nazis, anti self-diagnose, conservatives, etc

Lexi's cozy safe place(s) !!! :))))

🔮🕯️🎃🍁🍂👽🎃🔮👻🍁🍂🎃🕯️🔮

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starry-ghost-tour · 7 months ago

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Main account: @armyangxls !!

A account I can reblog aesthetics, prompts, stimboards, etc! :))

*credit to gif makers I need to find who made them*

About me: My name is Lexi, I'm 20, Queer, Christian, chronically ill, neurodivergent, and my pronouns are she/they

Favorite aesthetics: whimsigoth, fairy Grunge, tropical girl, spooky coastal town, anything cozy or spooky!

Favorite YouTubers: Jake Webber, Johnnie Gilbert, Sam and Colby, Loey Lane, Trek Trendy, Jessii Vee!

Fandoms: BTS, The Vampire Diaries, Stranger Things, DC Stargirl, Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, Fear Street, Scream, Pretty Little Liars Original Sin, Outer Banks, The Crow, Encanto, 9-1-1, 9-1-1 Lone Star, Lisa Frankenstein, House Of Wax, Nancy Drew, Pretty Little Liars, Elvis (2022), Halloween, Bridgerton, Are You Afraid of The Dark?, The Lost Boys, Anne of Green Gables (1985-), American Horror Story & Stories, Fate The Winx Saga, The Maze Runner, Creepypasta, Marble Hornets, Harry Potter, Fantastic Beasts, Scream TV Series, Charmed, Dead By Daylight, My Babysitter’s A Vampire, Riverdale, Sense and Sensibility, I Am Not Okay With This, Love Victor, It (2017), Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, The Strangers Prey at Night, Etc

DNI: racists, homophobos, transphobos, pro-eds, fatphobos, ableists, trump supporters, nazis, proshipers, anti self-diagnose, etc

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orbitariums · 7 months ago

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warmth | art donaldson + patrick zweig + black fem reader (a snippet)

full length part 1 here!

i miss posting on here real bad and i keep teasing things (christopher moltisanti, richie jerimovich) and not actually writing/releasing them SO i'm putting this snippet of this oneshot i'm writing to encourage myself to actually put this out.

i think this will probably have multiple parts because the tension needs to builddd. and please, let me know y'alls thoughts!!! what do you think, what do you predict is gonna happen, r u thirsting adequately, etc. i love hearing your little comments <333

& let me know if you’d wanna be tagged when this comes out

essentially: reader, patrick and art were childhood best friends who conveniently were all in love with each other, or at least had enough sexual tension to make it feel that way. fast forward almost a decade later, and reader has made it onto the red carpet with her fantastic pen, and patrick and art have gone pro. when she invites them to her house for a star-studded friendsgiving, tensions rise and old doors open, springing forth new possibilities. this is only the beginning.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

warmth

“We should just turn around now, save ourselves the embarrassment.”

Patrick paid Art no mind, rolling down the window and leaning out of it, pressing the buzzer as you had dutifully instructed them in your email invite.

“Too late now. Already threw away about a gallon of gas just coming up the hill to this place,” he replied, the sense of ease in his voice only egging Art on even more.

“Exactly why we should leave. I mean, fuck. Does she have to live on a hill?”

“Residence of [last name], to whom am I speaking?” a male voice rings on the other end.

“Uh…” Patrick starts, Art reaching up over him,

“Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?”

A silence filled the air. Patrick swatted at Art, forcing him back in his seat.

“Why’d you say it like a question, dumbass?”

Art stammered, already starting to get red in the face,

“I was --”

The gate swung open and both the boys let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you!” Patrick chimed, smirking at Art, who seemed to be sinking in his seat.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“Do we ring the doorbell? Or maybe… should we knock?” Art questioned, hands tied behind his back as he glanced up at Patrick for answers.

“It’s open,” Patrick retorted, but he too stood stupefied at the door, like a weary traveler wavering in horrific awe before the mouth of some epic beast.

“On three?” Art suggested, and when he didn’t hear a response, he started to count, “one… two…”

Patrick stepped in before Art could get to three. Art scoffed, but followed behind him anyway.

The two of them stood there silently, taking the grandiosity of it all in — the sky-high dome ceiling, two grand wooden staircases directly opposite one another, the shiny verdant porcelain flooring, the Basquiat painting hanging above the wide bookcase directly in front of them. Mouths open, they looked like they were ready to catch flies.

“Fuuuck me,” Patrick breathed out heavily. Art’s head was stuck staring up at the ceiling, so high he thought it’d never end.

“You made it.”

Both Art and Patrick seemed to stand straight at the sound of your voice, like soldiers at attention. You almost laughed, but instead you stood there coolly, smiling at them both with your lips and your eyes— in them, a look that was almost knowing, wise beyond your years. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them would speak. They spent half that lifetime practically gawking at you, drinking you in. And how could they not, when you were draped in that cream-colored silk dress, the flowy bottom dancing above your ankles. You looked more beautiful than they remembered you, calmer, secure — of course, they hadn’t seen you since they were teenagers. Now there was this air of timelessness about you that was only just poking at the surface when you were in high school. Now it surrounded you. Something mystic encompassed your entire spirit, dripping from your head to your feet. They’d spent years seeing you from behind a screen, being interviewed on live TV, attending red carpets for award shows, blending in with the Hollywood mecca — another beautiful twenty-something industry talent. But the glow of the television that seemed to give everyone a perfectly filtered sheen was nothing compared to your beauty here.

When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he smiled at you so fervently.

“Good to see you too, Patrick…” you glanced over at the mousy boy who didn’t seem to have changed much since high school. “C’mere, Artie.”

Art chuckled: a nervous huff of relief, inching forward into your open arms and nuzzling his chin into your shoulder, closing his arms around your midwaist. You could smell the aftershave that still clung to his face, and the detergent still fresh from his clothes.

You pulled away, but took one of each of their hands, squeezing.

“My two boys. Man, how long has it been?”

“Oh, just a while—”

“Seven years,” Art interjected.

“Who’s counting, right?” Patrick grinned, making all of you laugh.

You looked at them almost expectantly, eyes wide like a doe, the slightest smile playing at your lips. They looked back with bated breaths. Always, you were in charge, always. It had been like this since the scabby-kneed days of childhood. If you wanted to play on the swings, they were there on either side of you. You were the queen of the sandbox. In middle school, they snuck extra cookies for you from the lunchroom and fought over who got to surprise you with the treat every day. Senior year of high school, in the hotel room in London, when you had them perched on either side of you like baby birds waiting for mother’s return— when you had both your hands on each of their thighs, had them panting like puppy dogs, inching your hands further and further only to leave the minute you heard “lights out.”

It had been seven years since then and still, it was the same. Only this time, you were stupidly rich, thanks to the soaring success of your two psychological thriller books turned TV series. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten about them, or didn’t care about them now that you were rich and famous. You’d gotten accepted to study creative writing at Brown, Art went to play at Stanford, and Patrick went on his path to go pro. You were delighted to see that they were only a click away thanks to the internet, just one click away from being reintegrated into your life. Your childhood best friends.

“C’mon, lunch is almost ready.”

Friendsgiving. Who didn’t love the concept? It was a readily welcomed, wholesome idea — friends of all ages and backgrounds coming together to rehash their Thanksgiving with leftovers, stories from the year, and maybe a game of cards. Except your friendsgiving was attended by A-list actresses, Cannes festival attending screenwriters, and the odd Grammy-nominated artist. And your friendsgiving was not at all an intimate affair — it may as well have been a club party. Most people were outside, dancing, shrieking with laughter, drinking, and skipping their way to their seats. Your backyard was vast and verdant green, with a pool in the center, the perimeter lined with lemon and peach trees, and miles to explore.

“No, you idiot, that’s— oh shit. That might be Dakota Johnson.”

Clink clink clink.

A cacophony of cheers rang out as staff rushed about to place plates in front of everyone. You stood giggling, basking in all of it. Patrick and Art couldn't help but watch on with deeply impressed smiles — you were meant to bask: in glory, in pleasure, in everything. You looked just right standing where you were.

By night time, people were finally starting to leave. The sun hung low in the darkening sky, making the fairy lights glow stronger now. The few people that were staying with you for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend had disappeared to their rooms. Besides the waitstaff still milling about, clearing the tables, it was just you, Patrick, and Art. The two of them hadn’t meant to stay so long, really. It wasn’t like they were forcing themselves to stick around and be acknowledged by you in a way that felt meaningful. Sure, you’d had your small talk and cracked a few inside jokes, but as much as neither wanted to admit it, they needed more. If it was hard to get your attention before, it was nearly impossible now. They were surrounded by so many people who all wanted to network and talk and introduce themselves, they found themselves mingling with your friends, some of them people who they’d seen on screen in the past year, more than you. They’d been dragged onto the dance floor multiple times by multiple acquaintances, only to gawk at you swaying your hips rather than actually dance themselves. It became overwhelmingly clear, in their increasingly present desperation, that they should’ve accepted your offer to stay in this castle of a house for the weekend. Neither of them had packed a bag.

“This is awkward, we’re the only ones left,” Art sighed, still sitting at their table.

“Let’s just… wait, okay? She might come back out."

"And give us a little speech?"

"Yeah, asshole, maybe she will."

“I was hoping you two would still be here,” you said. You glanced between the two of them, that awkward silence filling the air once again. “C’mon. Let’s talk.”

You turned and walked back inside, the two of them trailing behind you.

"Your house is fucking sick by the way. I mean holy shit," Art blurted once you got to the main entrance hall.

"Feel like I just walked into a page of Architectural Digest," Patrick added on.

You led them up the stairs. Both their eyes dropped to your ass, which poked out just a bit from under the pair of shorts you wore. Silently watching the way your body curved as you walked.

"Ha, thanks. I think I did pretty okay for myself," you replied.

“Sorry we didn’t get to talk much. I was so busy being the host of the year that I didn’t pay enough attention to you two. My favorites.”

Art chuckled,

“Favorites? You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious! D’you know how much I missed you guys?”

Patrick scoffed playfully,

“All those TV interviews I watched of you? I wouldn’t even be thinking about us.”

You couldn’t help but grin, that warmth coming through once again. It nearly made the two men melt.

“Well I was. I always think about you guys.”

Now came Patrick’s voice again, a heaviness to it that almost made you jump,

“Do you think about anything specific?”

“Just what good times we had.”

A silence, accented with a flood of nostalgia and a pointed reference to those “good times” permeated the air. You took a moment to gaze at the two of them ever so softly — enough for them to feel it, but not enough to make them squirm (though, they were easy to make squirm) — before you decimated the silence by slapping your hands down on either of their thighs and squeezing endearingly.

“So tell me, where’ve you two been? I’m not the only one on TV these days.”

“Ahh, you don’t wanna hear about boring tennis,” Art waved a hand of dismissal.

You chortled, a trademark of yours that Art and Patrick had always poked fun at in school,

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“You still laugh the same,” Patrick said, grinning like he was trying not to but was unable.

“Do I?” smiling at him like you were warning him not to tease.

“Yeah, that little snort you do,” Patrick replied, unshaken.

“You do do a little snort,” Art chimed in, always chirping like he spoke from a less nefarious place.

“And if I get started on you guys’ little tennis grunts?” you grinned fully now, showing teeth, looking between the two of them and leaning back a bit.

They followed, leaning back against the couch and keeping their heads in line with yours so you were never too far away from them, each of them turning their heads to look at you.

“No way you actually watch us,” Art replied.

“I do!” you insisted. “Seriously, if you’d asked anybody here you would know.”

“Sure, let me just strike up conversation with George Clooney,” Art shot back.

“Ha-ha,” you bleated sarcastically. “I don’t even know him… but I have walked past him once on the carpet.”

“Look at you,” Patrick smirked. “Little Miss Superstar.”

Then Art, always second but not necessarily last,

“She’s our little superstar, you know that, right?”

His hand just gently grazing your shoulder.

You let them revel in the moment for as long as you felt appropriate, then huffed.

“You know you guys can stay for the weekend, right? I mean, you should.”

“Oh… no, we wouldn’t wanna impose,” Patrick said, his hand slinking away from your knee.

Another chortle from you, this time the kind that said everything about how you lived in comparison to them,

“You wouldn’t be. This is a five bedroom house. It’s fine. Besides, don’t you guys wanna actually catch up? I’ll let you torture me with tennis talk.”

Art started to stammer,

“I-I mean… we didn’t bring anything.”

“Just our idiot selves,” Patrick added.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get Charles to get you guys all set up.”

“Charles?”

“Oh, he’s my assistant,” you said nonchalantly, as if it were nothing. “You’re not fighting me on this. I want to spend some quality time with my boys. Don’t make me have to beg for it.”

“We could never make you beg for anything,” Art replied, just a little too quickly.

“I know, Art, that’s why I love you,” you grinned over at him. “So, are we all in agreement? Stay with me. Just this weekend.”

“Yes,” they both replied a little too quickly this time.

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile.

“You know… I really, really missed you guys. And those good times we had.”

You let the memory of that night of almosts in London resurge, let their minds run amuck with whatever teenage fantasy was still left over from that night. A moment so brief it could almost be forgotten, could even be flagged as incidental, accidental, but the three of you knew, even as grown adults (especially as grown adults), that it would always stick and remain unresolved, unless someone ran to the rescue with some sort of solution. Once again they held their breaths. You stood up, glanced between the two of them like you were sizing them up, and then smiled as if nothing had happened at all — you let them breath.

“Your bedroom’s the second on the right when you leave here. Charles will help you get set up— I’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast.”

And just like that, you were gone. The air in the room seemed to clear. Your presence was like a thousand tons of pressure weighing on their bodies and their minds. Finally, they could breathe.

They glanced at each other with the same longing, almost nervous expression — high school all over again.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

eek let me know what y'all thought. i wanna finish it by this week <3

#challengers #challengers smut #challengers fic #patrick zweig smut #patrick zweig #art donaldson #art donaldson smut #art donaldson imagine #patrick zweig imagine #x reader #x black reader #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x black reader #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x black! reader

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