#to be fair though I don't smoke weed so I don't know if it's typical to slice the flower

[badaxefamily]

Everyone's joking about the mint blunt but guys...you don't smoke the leaves of weed. It's the flowers that have the stuff in them. Leaves are almost totally devoid of all cannabinoids. Like you can eat them (some people do) but there's not even any CBD in them, much less the psychoactive cannabinoid THC. And the flowers look like this:

Sorry y'all, but it looks like Snoop just knows a good way to chiffonade mint.

[persephone-writes]

A Diviner's Guide to James Potter

Chapter One: The Omen

James Potter x Fem!Gryffindor!Reader

Chapter Two ☆ Series Masterlist

Series Description: Being friends with Lily Evans was difficult when you were head over heels for her ex-boyfriend James. Your problems are only made worse when you begin receiving ominous omens that point to a less than desirable future.

General Fic Warnings & Tags: Marauders era seventh year, female reader (she/her/miss/etc.), use of Y/N and L/N, readers appearance is not described other than her generally being able-bodied and larger than a house elf, at some point the reader smokes cigarettes/weed/drinks alcohol (don't smoke, kids), swearing typical of an 18 year old in the UK, canon-typical violence, dueling, and first wizarding war stuff, mentions of the readers mother and father, mentions of characters getting sick after drinking but no descriptions.

Notes: hey! so just a fair warning that this is a slow burn and the first couple of chapters in are particularly plot heavy. Also, this is cross posted on my ao3 if you want to give it a read there instead :)

Word Count: 4.3k

The near silence of the library was a welcomed escape from the busy corridors and lively Common Room, which was always packed just after classes ended. Tomorrow was Friday and Gryffindor was playing a quidditch match this weekend, meaning your chance to have any amount of free time in the coming days relied heavily on some Thursday night cramming. At the heavy wooden table tucked between tall rows of books, you and Remus worked quietly. It was one of the rare times you were alone together, and his aura of calm placidity was exactly what you needed at the moment. 

Despite your intentions of studying, the papers strewn out in front of you were beginning to give you a headache. If you were somewhere with a more lenient volume policy, you would’ve groaned rather dramatically in utter frustration or banged your head against the table top. It had been a long time since you’ve been this lost on an assignment, a Divination assignment, no less. Your eyes kept pulling away from the three different books laid before you, running instead along the dark shelves and bumpy leather spines. It was a treat when one of them flew from its place, skirting out of your nook and down the aisle in a blur of solid color. 

You both had gotten one and a half lovely, serene hours of uninterrupted study time before your mutual friend came around the corner, plopping down suddenly in the seat beside you. Your daydreams were interrupted, replaced by an even better distraction. James smiled brightly at you, curly brown hair in a heap on top of his head. You couldn’t help but grin back, his pleasantness infectious even when you were in a sour mood. 

“Hello,” you said, forgetting your work completely. 

He returned your greeting before frowning at Remus over his complete lack of acknowledgment upon his arrival. 

“What's got you so focused?” he whispered, glancing down at the parchment that Remus was writing on. 

“Transfiguration,” he answered, still engrossed and only half listening. James shot him a funny look which caused you to stifle a laugh, though Remus was unamused. 

“I can see you, you know,” he drawled. 

James snickered quietly, attempting to keep up a his newfound facade as a serious student, lest he ruin his impeccable reputation. 

“Why’re you slumming it here with us?” you asked James, your head coming to rest in your hand as you turned to face him. His wire-rimmed glasses began to fall, so he pushed them back up onto the bridge of his nose.

“He should be here to study,” Remus added, finally smirking to himself. James rolled his eyes, throwing his arms over the back of his chair. 

“Can’t even pay your friends a visit anymore, I see.” He tipped his chair back on two legs, dangerously close to falling. After a moment of careful balancing, he returned all four legs to the floor where they belonged, his head lulling onto his shoulder. “Sirius ditched me to run off with Seraphina, and Peter and Marlene are joining forces on Herbology.”

Seraphina was Sirius’s most recent belle, but no one thought it would last much longer. She didn’t like that he smoked and he detested her revulsion to it. Before his date with her last weekend, he had to wash his hair twice and use far too much cologne, which gave everyone around him an awful headache. This may be the couple's last hoorah, as you had been with Sirius not three hours ago, each of you puffing smoke out of the window of an empty classroom. 

“Why don’t you help?” you asked, referring to Peter and Marlene.

“Peter says I’m mean when I help,” answered James with a shrug. 

“How awful,” you teased, watching as a large green book shot out of the shelf over Remus’ head, whipping left down the aisle. It was true that sometimes James couldn’t understand that things didn’t come so easy to everyone. Once, you had stupidly asked him for his help in DADA. Never again. 

“That's all right,” James began again, “With those gits ditching me, you’re my new favorite. Not Remus, of course. He won’t give me enough attention.”

You hated when he did that: made you feel special. He couldn’t possibly be serious, as it was simply the perfect opportunity to take a dig at his friend. But Godric, did you want it to be true. Until now you had done a very good job at projecting a casual air about yourself, protecting your feelings behind a mask of mild indifference. You tried your best to regain what was left of your resolve, cracked by his stupid joke and the way he was looking so handsome today. It was criminal, really, an Azkaban level offense. You wanted to slap that lovely, teasing smile from his face and throw him under the invisibility cloak. Begrudgingly, you laughed, Remus snorting as he continued to scratch away with his quill. 

“Oh, and I wasn’t before?” you said, hopefully hiding your fancy. 

James rolled his eyes again, thankfully not having noticed anything out of the ordinary. You must’ve been an excellent actress, or James was an extraordinary friend, because he never seemed to catch on no matter how badly you slipped up. You weren’t sure if things were easier or harder when Lily was always hanging off his arm. Godric, had that been a tough eight months. 

James then changed the subject to something less threatening to your long-held secret, much to your relief, “I’ve been running over some new maneuvers with the team. It’s taking some of the younger ones a bit to get the hang of, but we’re looking good. I don’t think Hufflepuff has a chance on Saturday.” 

“That's great,” you whispered.

“Sirius came up with some of it, worked on it all day last Sunday with me. We’re calling it the Grumblesnad–” 

James went on to explain, or attempt to explain, the rather complicated plays he and Sirius had invented. Half of the technical jargon you did not understand, though you were able to catch the gist. He seemed so eager to tell you that you refrained from stopping him too often, wanting to watch his eyes light up and hands wave mindlessly. You enjoyed when he was like this, entranced by his own excitement, unburdened and utterly content. 

Soon after James had finished his animated explanation of the Grumblesnad, it was just about time for dinner. The sun had gone down around an hour ago, leaving the library to be lit only by the large lamps hanging upon the walls. Although the room was warm and glowing, begging you to stay just a while longer, your hunger was beginning to get to you. You and Remus packed up your things, throwing all three of your Divination books into your bag. Remus held a thick, wide tome, the cover decorated with tangled vines and pale purple flowers. 

“You guys go on without me,” he said, propping up the book in the crook of his elbow like the pose of a marble statue. “I’ve got to check this out.”

Remus walked past you and James to head down the labyrinthine aisles with another word, you and James following behind. You each left the library together, Remus promising again that he’d catch up. 

Your journey was in silence for a while, James’s shoes clicking against the stone floor like a metronome. There were many other students heading your same direction, a few first or second years whizzing past in a fit of laughter. You smiled at the memory of your first few years at Hogwarts, remembering for the first time in a while that you’d be leaving here for good in a matter of months. You had been so shy at first, clinging to Lily like she was a buoy out in the ocean. Severus had done the same, though as the years went on he seemed to shrivel a bit, slinking back into the shadows while Lily moved farther into the light. She had dragged you along with her, practically forcing you to be friends with those who had remained acquaintances for the better part of five years. For this, you would always be eternally grateful. 

You were pulled from your shameless reminiscing when James reached out for the strap of your bag, taking it from you before you could do anything about it. 

“What’re you doing?” you asked as he threw it over his shoulder, adjusting the strap a bit.  

“Godric, this thing is heavy,” he said, making a show if it dragging him down towards the floor. You laughed, soon beginning to play with your tie, not knowing what else to do with your hands. 

“You don’t have to carry it for me,” you said softly, feeling rather bad. Now, each of his shoulders was carrying its own load, yours unburdened.  

He shook his head immediately, curls flopping against his forehead. 

“I don’t mind,” he said, brushing it off as if it were nothing at all. “Besides, you’ll end up falling to the dungeons carrying this thing.”

You bit your tongue so that you wouldn’t tell him how kind he was, how much he made you into someone rather witless. You dropped your hands, swinging them a few times before they met behind your back. It was getting worse. You could tell by the way you had to keep on reminding yourself to act like a normal person, constantly having to make sure you weren't letting anything on. It was difficult to pinpoint when this change occurred, though knowing the exact date and time wouldn't really do you much good in the end. Something in you was breaking, and it scared you shitless. 

“But really," James said, holding onto the strap of your bag, "what do you have in this?”

You shrugged. “Just some books, a few boulders thrown in for good measure.”

He shoved you lightly on the shoulder, throwing you slightly off kilter. You giggled, cringing at yourself as you did. Soon you could see the large doors to the Great Hall up ahead, and you ran over to them. You then made a show of opening one for him, waiting patiently for him to catch up. He smiled, and you were glad to have put it there.

“Just trying to return the favor,” you said, laughing when he passed you, feigning displeasure. 

He handed you back your bag as you parted ways, you heading over to your side of the table near Lily, him with the other Marauders. Walking down the aisle, you let out a silent sigh of blissful relief, having mostly rid yourself of him for the time being. No matter how much you enjoyed his company, it was an awful amount of work acting nonchalant, particularly when he kept being so nice. It was always better when you were in a group and he was forced to split his attention between multiple parties. Currently, mealtimes were becoming your new favorite. 

As you sat down in your usual spot between Lily and Marlene, you plopped your bag down on floor behind you, which landed with a heavy thud. Lily glanced over her shoulder to look at it. 

“Godric, what’s in that thing?”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

The fire in the Common Room popped, sending a flurry of orange sparks into the alcove of the stone hearth. Most had settled in for the night, filling the room with a steady stream chatter and scratching quills. James and Sirius sat across from each other at one of the small tables in the back doing schoolwork, Lily and Peter beside them playing a game of wizards chess. You and Remus were reading in two of the large armchairs, you with a muggle novel borrowed from Lily. 

Sirius's elbows were resting on the table, his head in his hands and mouth slightly agape. He shook his head a bit, eyes wide as he started down at his papers. 

“Do you think Professor Vector dreams in Arithmancy, or it’s just a hobby?”

You looked up from your book, noticing Sirius’s paper covered with exed out numbers and messily written notes. He still wore his uniform, though his tie was undone and the top two buttons of his shirt, which was growing wrinkled, had been opened. Lily's head popped up from where it was turned down towards her game, which she was currently winning. She leaned over to peer at his paper the best she could.

“What’s the matter?” she asked kindly. Sirius only gave her a glance before looking at James, who was stifling a laugh. 

“It’s your fault,” said Sirius, scoffing at his friend’s continued chortling. “You forced me to take it third year. Should’ve been like Wormtail and gone the easy route.”

You all knew he was lying, for despite all his bitching and moaning, Sirius was just as bright as James. He’d complain endlessly about Arithmancy just as he had done last year when he convinced himself he’d flunk the O.W.L, in which he ultimately scored an O. Once and a while he might even brood over such fears, tucking himself away in a dark corner of the library to study, fighting off a great deal of unnecessary anxiety. 

“Hey!” Peter piped up at the mention of his name, especially due to its use in such an offending fashion. Lily made an excellent move, snagging one of his knights. Peter groaned in frustration, momentarily distracted. 

“Divination is a valuable subject, one that is often overlooked by certain individuals,” you defended, glaring at Sirius before offering Peter a much needed smile. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Sirius said, flicking his head to get the hair out of his eyes. You shrugged, turning back to your book. “You’re only saying that ‘cause you’re good at it,” he grumbled, looking back down at his papers to concentrate on the confusing array of seemingly nonsensical numbers. 

“Doesn’t take much,” said Remus from his armchair, legs curled up like a pretzel. Now you were grumbling, mumbling something about his “Stupid E in Ancient Runes.”

James began screwing the cap back on his inkwell, gathering his parchment into a neat pile before him. Lily and Peter had turned back to their game, Peter taking an awfully long while contemplating his next move. He finally made one, taking out one of her rooks. 

“How’d your fish thing go?” James asked, looking between you and Peter. Your most recent Divinations project, which you had been working on in the library, involved Ichthyomancy, or the helpful power of fish in the prediction of one's fortune. You were to carefully observe the fish of the Great Lake for a few hours during a “completely and utterly random time of day!” and attempt to read your fortune for the coming weeks. 

Peter sighed heavily at the mention of the project, sinking further into his chair. Lily was still glancing at the game board, twirling a lock of auburn hair between her fingers. 

“Well…” said Peter, somewhat sniveling. 

“Not having any luck?” you asked. “No pun intended.”

Peter sighed again, shaking his head. “Just when I think I’ve got something, they all seem to swim away. I think I’m repelling them or something.” 

“Not surprising,” said Sirius, still focused on his own work.

“You should be studying,” Remus reminded him, to which Sirius surprisingly obeyed. If anyone could get Sirius to do something, it was Remus. It was if he possessed an ancient form of magic no one else knew.

“How about you,” James asked. “You said you were coming along swimmingly the other day.” You could tell he was rather proud of himself for that one from the look on his face, eyes glancing between the others as if to see if anyone else noticed. Any other time you would have readily appeased him and laughed, but all your willingness to jest had drained from you the moment he asked the question. 

“Well…” you began, echoing Peter. You weren’t sure if you wanted to bring it up just yet, though you didn’t want to lie either. Your head fell back against the chair as you let out a small, crippled noise. “I thought I was, but then today in the library I was trying to cross reference the meaning, but I’m getting all these odd readings.”

“Like what?” Lily inquired, moving a piece on the board. Peter let out a breath of relief when all of his pieces remained safe. 

“The first thing I saw right when I got out there was a school of eight orange fish heading with the current, due north. So, that's obviously unbridled joy. ”

“ Obviously ,” mumbled Remus. 

You rolled your eyes and continued, “Then, there were twelve pink ones heading across, due west, not with or against the current. However, another joined in–”

“Oh,” said Lily, catching the meaning. Peter nodded in acknowledgment as well. 

“Yeah, so heartache. But, that's not even the worst of it. After a few hours with nothing much happening, I spotted a red and purple fish amongst a school of white,” you trailed off, watching Lily’s face contort in confusion, her hands coming up to the arms of her chair. 

“You’re kidding!” 

James perked up, glancing between each of you, who like Peter didn’t seem to have a clue what any of it meant. Remus and Sirius had now been fully roused, book and schoolwork forgotten. 

“What? What?” James asked, though neither you nor Lily replied soon enough for his liking. “Come on, what is it? What's so bad about a red and purple fish?” 

Lily swallowed, turning to James. “Red and purple is bad. ”

“Really bad,” you added. 

“Did you catch how many white ones were in the school?” Lily inquired. 

“No, I’d guess around ten, but I can’t be sure.” You shot her a pained, slightly terrified expression, knowing the less white fish the better. Ten or so was not a good sign. 

Lily sighed and all fell silent for a beat, the once easy atmosphere becoming tense and suffocating. You heard Peter picking at a loose thread on his seat. 

“What does it mean?” James asked.

Lily answered, speaking slowly and with great purpose, “Well, in isolation, it can predict a discovery of sorts, though accompanied by so many of the white-” she faltered, eyes dancing to yours. 

“It would seem to indicate a total loss of innocence,” you finished. Sirius perked, casting you an impish smirk.

“A loss of innocence?” he repeated, slow and so bloody irritating . “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Not that kind of innocence,” Lily corrected. 

“It’s more like a complete change in worldview, like witnessing the death of a loved one,” you explained. Again came silence, Peter pursing his lips and lowering his head like a vigil for your fate.

“But, uh–” James stammered, “you said you also got signs of ‘unbridled joy.’ How can you have that and the death of a loved one?”

“I said like the death of a loved one.”

“That doesn’t change anything.” The intensity of his worry was blinding. You figured he had a lot of practice between Remus and Sirius. 

“I don’t know how they’re supposed to connect. That’s why I’m so confused over it.” You turned to Lily. “Do you have any clue? Any at all?” 

Lily sat deep in thought, a hand coming to her face. She rubbed down her cheek, her foot beginning to tap on the carpet. “No,” she said sadly, “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

Before you had told anyone, you were easily able to brush it off as no big deal. Now, with your friend’s tensed jaws and pitying glances, your fears had been confirmed. You began to loathe yourself for drawing so much attention towards your problems, wishing that Lily would do something to hide her increasing concern. You didn't like seeing her like this, nor any of the others for that matter. Remus shifted around so he could sit properly in his chair, slipping a bookmark into the pages of his novel and tossing it aside.

“Does it have to be bad, per se?” he asked. 

From the corner of your eye, you saw James running a finger along the neck of his sweater. 

“I don’t think so," you said finally, "but I’m not sure what sort of prediction I could make based on what I’ve been able to gather. I have joy, heartache, and a loss of innocence. When I just had the joy and heartache, I thought that maybe something bad would happen that turned out to be good in the end, or that something good would turn out to be bad. There’s a million options for that, I could have easily come up with a reading to turn in for class. But that bloody red and purple fish had to come along and spoil the whole thing.” You let out an exasperated sigh, guilty once again for your rant, although no one seemed annoyed with you. On the contrary, all appeared genuinely saddened by your strange omen. 

“It can’t be that bad, whatever it is," said Lily. "You know how Divination can be sometimes. You get this awful omen and it turns out that you just break a quill or get the flu.” She leaned over towards you, face full of a profound compassion that she had worn for so many before. It reminded you of the way she used to look at Severus years ago before their falling out, when he appeared to her a small, shy kid in need of a friend. For a brief moment, your worries switched from the omen to the acute possibility you would one day be like him, mourning the loss of her friendship caused by your own betrayal towards her. 

"She's right," Peter offered, giving what he could. You smiled, trying to match his and Lily's enthusiasm. 

“I ought to owl my parents, make sure the house hasn’t collapsed,” you joked, though no one seemed to find it very funny. 

James said your name, downtrodden and caring. “It’ll be all right, I’m sure of it.” 

“You could always ask Professor Quattlebaum,” Peter suggested, voice lifting a bit.

After a moment you nodded slowly, taking a short breath through your nose. “I probably should, though it might take from my grade.”

“Or you could go fishing just kill the slimy thing,” Sirius said, making a much better attempt at brightening the mood than yours was. “That has to have some sort of effect.”

“Not really how it works, Sirius,” said Lily solemnly. 

“James is right,” you began, your tone as brave as you could bear, “it’ll be fine. It’s probably like you said, Lily. It’ll turn out to be so silly, then we’ll have a good laugh over worrying about it so much.”

After brushing off a few more comments of concern, you all went back to working quietly, Remus devouring his book once more. You tried to do the same, but your eyes seemed to gloss over the words without reading them. Eventually, Lily won the game with Peter, though didn’t gloat over her victory. As the evening lengthened, students meandered out of the Common Room and to their dormitories. Sirius was the only one left with schoolwork to do, excusing himself to his room so he could “focus on the dumbest subject in history…besides Divination.”  

“How studious!” James called out to him, watching as he ascended the staircase. Sirius threw up his middle finger, not looking back.

It wasn’t long after that you checked your wristwatch, noticing it getting late. You excused yourself to your room, the others likely heading to bed themselves sooner rather than later.

When you entered your dormitory, Marlene and Dorcas were laid out on their beds chatting. Dorcas had an impressive pile of candy in front of her: Chocolate Frogs, Dolly Beads, Caramel Cobwebs, Fizzing Whizbees, and various forms of glimmering marshmallows. Marlene reached across the space between their beds and grabbed a pink, rose shaped one, taking a large bite out of it. 

“Oi!” Dorcas protested, though Marlene only laughed maniacally, leaning back against her headboard. 

“Having yourselves a feast, I see,” you said to them, kicking off your shoes beside your bed. 

“ Dorcas is having a feast,” Marlene drawled, “and being rather stingy, too.” 

“You’re aware it’s a Thursday?” you said with a smile, glancing over your shoulder to see Dorcas open up a Chocolate Frog package. 

“I’m aware,” she said, grabbing the leaping frog in record time. It squirmed a bit in an attempt to hop away before growing still. Dorcas took a bite of it, pulling out the collectable card from the box. "Ugh, Artemisia Lufkin again?"

When you emerged from the lavatory ready for bed, Lily had just walked into the room, untying her shoes by the door. You climbed into your four-poster, getting ready to draw the curtains when she came up to you, mouth pulled to one side. 

“Are you sure you’re all right?” 

You had unwisely hoped that nothing more would be said about your omen, now wishing more than ever you hadn't even brought it up to begin with. You couldn't think of a way she could help you any more than she already had, hating that she was likely racking her brain for solutions. 

You nodded, smiling softly in an effort to ease her. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s like you said, it’ll turn out to be nothing.”

She nodded, her eyes drifting across your face before she gave you a small smile, turning to retrieve her own pajamas and leaving you to cocoon yourself in for the night. You pulled your curtains closed to the sound of Lily's footsteps creaking on an ancient floorboard.

End Notes: at any point in this series, if you notice something that should go under the warnings/tags, please let me know! The same goes for grammatical errors. this gal is dyslexic, so as Nick from New Girl so aptly put it, I'm not even sure if I know how to read, I've only just memorized a lot of words. Misspellings don't even look wrong to me lol

Chapter Two

[spamhappyface]

Aromatic Summer| H.P.

Pairings: Harry James Potter x Fem!Reader Word Count:2.1k

WARNINGS: SMUT, praise kink, oral (m receiving, slightly aggressive) deep throat, kinda sir kink! Sub!Harry (kinda) Dom!reader Characters are of age! Plotless…

It wasn't a surprise that Y/n's mother, Teresa, sometimes didn't treat her like a typical teenager. Teresa had decided to send Y/n to Privet Drive for the summer to take care of Harry after the recent incident. Y/n and Harry were more than just friends; they had lost their virginity to each other a couple of months ago. However, they had agreed to keep their relationship strictly platonic since then.

A lot had changed since Harry became the Hogwarts champion for the Triwizard Tournament. The death of Viktor Krum, Y/n's childhood best friend, had left her in shock. She had witnessed his lifeless body during their duel, and it had deeply affected her. Despite being only fifteen years old, Y/n's mother somehow expected her to play the role of Harry's therapist, even though it wasn't her responsibility.

Y/n believed her mother was joking when she approached Mr Dursley with a card from Dumbledore at King's Cross Station. The card stated that she would be spending two weeks with the Dursleys since Teresa was Harry's godmother. The Dursleys, filled with apprehension after reading the card, reluctantly agreed to accommodate Y/n.

Meanwhile, the last thing Y/n wanted was to spend her summer with abusive Muggles like the Dursleys, who seemed to be just as bad as her own mother, if not worse. The initial days with Harry were far from what she had anticipated. Y/n longed for solitude and craved being in the comfort of her own home, or at least with her parents and her little sister. Being at Privet Drive felt like a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.

Despite her disdain for the Dursleys, Y/n knew how to mask her true feelings and behave appropriately in front of ignorant Muggles. She had grown up in the North American Magical community and had attended Ilvermorny, giving her a unique perspective and a deeper understanding of Muggle’s life, including political views. She had engaged in many insightful debates with the Dursleys, or so she thought, until a particular conversation she had with Harry.

"To be fair, Y/n, you look alright, but..." Harry started, trying to convince her to wear something else.

"I know,” she said happily.

"Why don't you try my jacket?" he suggested casually, fetching it from his wardrobe.

"Are you joking?!" she exclaimed, giggling. "We're... how hot is it?"

"Dunno!" Harry raised his voice for a moment before calming down. "Look, it's just that I reckon you should wear something different. Dudley's mates are proper wankers. They're bound to say something, and you know we don't want to get into any bloody trouble—"

"Oh, come on, Harry. It's just a sundress. My mom bought it for me, she chose it, and I'm going to wear it. I look hot and—" Y/n said firmly to Harry, then caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and was surprised. "Oh, Merlin's beard! Why don't I have a boyfriend or something? I would totally date myself, damn..."

Harry seemed a bit bewildered by her comment but carried on expressing his concerns.

"Yeah, and you look lovely. Look, Y/n, you're stunning. You've got a beautiful smile, gorgeous eyes, stunning hair, and a brilliant personality. But I'm dead serious, please. I'm saying this 'cause I care about you, and those blokes are daft as a brush. They even smoke weed, and sometimes they— I don't wanna get in any trouble for defending you."

"Oh, Harry," Y/n said, her cheeks slightly reddening. "Thanks for the compliments, but I know how to handle myself. You don't have to worry about it. Come on, let's go swing!"

“But you’re wearing a dress–”

Unexpectedly, Y/n lifted her dress up to her belly, revealing a pair of black spandex shorts.

“It’s called shorts, you know?” she said a bit annoyed by his behaviour, putting it down again.

Y/n stormed out of Harry's room, filled with anger, and stomped her way downstairs with Harry trailing behind her. As they descended, Y/n couldn't help but notice the way Mr Dursley was staring at her, causing her to feel increasingly uncomfortable. Mrs Dursley, on the other hand, seemed to be giving her a deathly glare as they continued their stride.

"Where are you two off to, then?" Mr. Dursley inquired, his tone almost gleeful.

"The park," Harry responded icily, heading towards the door, while Y/n offered a forced smile, feeling awkward under the scrutiny.

"Are you really letting her go out like that? People will start asking questions!" Mrs. Dursley muttered with disapproval.

"Let them, dear. Let the lad have some normal company. The girl looks perfectly normal to me. Besides, now they'll think the boy's managed to find himself a girlfriend!" Mr. Dursley retorted.

"Then, aren't you going to say something to her?! That dress is simply..." Mrs Dursley began, her voice trailing off.

"I'm not her father, dear. She can wear whatever she pleases. And... it's not like I care enough to notice," he murmured the last part, barely audible.

Y/n quickly realized that her physical appearance was one of the main reasons why Mr. Dursley treated her with a bit more kindness. She overheard their conversation without much effort, as they weren't exactly discreet with their voices. However, she didn't care. She loved the blue floral sundress and how it made her feel. Yes, she attracted some unwanted attention from older men with their stares and whistles, but she refused to change herself for them. It wasn't the first time she had experienced such behaviour, and she wasn't about to let it dictate her choices.

Throughout their days together, Y/n and Harry found themselves engaged in similar activities—going to the park and returning home. It was only for two weeks, as Y/n's mom would soon come to pick her up, and she eagerly anticipated that moment. It wasn't that Y/n was being selfish regarding Harry's well-being; it was simply that she believed she needed to help herself before she could effectively assist him. However, after a few days, she pushed her own emotions aside to be there for Harry, to listen to his feelings, and yes, even their shared hormones often made it difficult to maintain control.

For Y/n, life was too short to wait around for Ron forever, pondering whether or not he liked her. So it was either him or his best friend.

"Can I?" Harry gasped, his chest heaving, their conversation interrupted by kisses.

Constant friction was made in her entry for her little shorts of spandex against Harry’s old jeans, the hot summer wasn’t helping these two teenagers without the supervision of serious adults who actually could take care of them. Y/n smirked at his comment while she kept making circles on his dressed cock, taking his wrists desperate to put them directly in her tits. Harry gasped one more time between the frantic kisses, he was in heaven.

“You like it?” she asked vigorously.

“Y- Yes… I like it” he said breathlessly “I love it”

Y/n smiled at his answer, moving his wrists to her hips. A more confident Harry moved his hands a bit more where her butt cheeks were squishing them, Y/n go faster at her pace and Harry got his hands under the fabric of her spandex shorts.

“You’re not wearing any underwear?” he asked briskly.

“Maybe, I don’t know. Is that a problem?” she asked teasingly.

“No, no. it’s better like that… Unless you don’t–”

“Are you asking me to have sex with you, Mr. Potter?” she asked naughtily.

Harry was speechless for the first time in a long time, of course, he wanted to, he would be mental if he didn’t want to. His jaw dropped for the small he felt for Y/n’s buoyancy and self-assure she had.

“Y- yes…” he tumbled.

“Oh, Mr. Potter you don’t have to be shy with me. I’ll do whatever you want, how can I help you?” she asked with her eyes fixed on him, now touching slowly above the fabric of his jeans in his cock, getting slowly under the cloth.

“Y/n, I don’t have any contraceptives…”

She knew it would be dumb if she said, «Don’t come inside me», there was still a small percentage of her getting pregnant for a normal teenager, but she wasn’t normal, first of all, she was a witch and the assistant of Madame Pomphrey in the hospital wing that had though her a lot of stuff.

“It’s ok, just don’t come inside of me, Harry. And we have to be quiet, right?”

Harry nodded hurriedly in understanding.

“Are you ok with not coming inside of me, Harry?” she smirked innocently.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s ok, Y/n,” he said panting. “Everything you do it’s ok”

“Really?” she asked, and he nodded in response. “So, it’s ok if I just…” she raised her eyebrows, going down on him.

Her soft hands travelled under his shirt gently caressing his naked abs, leaving him wanting more, with a high libido. Y/n left him a few small kisses in it and Harry looked at her to realize that she was doing a path in which he was desperately dying of pleasure for his panoramic view and his sensitive skin. Sitting on his lap while her curly hair fell over her face while wet kisses ran through his abs. Harry took her soft hair into a messy bun, letting her long eyelashes and soft kisses do the job, his chest grew rapidly, warming up from the girl’s kisses. And when she finished, Harry observed that she had traced a heart in his abs, it caused him so much pleasure to feel her on his lap that he made his head back, pushing his cock a little towards the entrance of the girl, who had liked the reaction while licking her lips, making more friction on her clitoris circling against Harry’s cock. He lifted her black orchid sundress to her belly, caressing it as she lowered the spaghetti straps of her shoulders.

“Can I, do it?” she asked beautifully.

“Please, Y/n,” he begged.

Passing the button on his jeans to the back, unbuttoning it, almost slow burning for Harry’s needs and desires; his heartbeat had increased almost dangerously, even though it wasn’t the first time he had done something intimate with Y/n – it would be his second time – he just felt the same excitement that the first time.

In the past, Harry had no idea what he was doing, he just lived in the moment, and every time he was with her, he felt out of the world. As of now, he was begging her to suck him and fuck him too.

“Are you sure, Harry? Do you want me to do it?” she asked, caressing with her hand the bulge of Harry’s pants, the cotton fabric was giving it a better sensation.

“Please Y/n, just do it, please”

“Hm…” she pretends to think about it for a second, her belly was asking her for something else just than fingers, desperately for something thicker, Harry’s cock.

“Please, I need you, I want you!”

She smiled at him, satisfied “Well, there’s a lot of people who need me…”

“Please, Y/n, I want you!”

She smirked mischievously rolling her eyes, noticing that the sunset was happening, and the beautiful sun was hiding behind the horizon.

“Ok, I’m gonna help you, Harry. Do you want that?”

“Yes, that’s what I want, please! It hurts!”

Y/n shook her head smiling, with the help of Harry hip trusting to take down his jeans and then his pants, showing the now awake cock of harry, it had a little curve that make it go up to his abs, and a bit of white precum was on the tip of it a little bushy but Y/n didn’t care at that moment, his cock was hard and ready to be in action. She took it with one of her hands and the other massaging Harry’s thigh, spitting in his cock almost immediately, stroking it briefly.

“Oh my god… Y/n, just like that!” Harry gasped.

Stroking in it up and down with no mercy in the fast that Harry would come with the visual he had of her boobs falling in front of him, not letting her go making pressure with his legs.

“Just take it out all on me”

“Oh, darling…” Harry groaned. “You do it so good… you take me so well.”

And for some reason that motivated Y/n to put it in her mouth, suck it and taste it with her tongue ‘salty’ she thought. Going up and down as her eyes start to fill with tears, sometimes she never thought about, was Harry pushing her head down to his hard venous cock.

“Ah… keep going!” Harry bellowed, pushing her head harshly to his cock. “That’s it, there… there”

Y/n didn’t even complain about this, she was so turned on, that she was masturbating with Harry’s knee, going on infinite circles. But before Harry could come, he took off her mouth his cock, switch the position quickly with a close of eyes, and cum in Y/n’s belly. Groaning and gasping about how good it was, landing in front of her, kissing her lips

“You did it soo good, darling, so good. Good girl.”

And that turned something on inside of Y/n, maybe the way he quickly switched her to the bottom of the bed or the way he had talked to her.

“Did I, Mr. Potter?”

[hinatastinygiant]

Chapter One

Aster

Pairing: Atsumu Miya x Fem!Reader

next | black canary

As the new owner and supreme boss of a Yakuza syndicate in Japan, it's up to you to look after your members.

However, since you are new, you don't entirely know all of said members just yet. Sure, you've met and introduced yourself to all of them, but you have a hard time putting a name to each of their faces. To be fair, though, you do a really good job at trying. You were only induced about six months ago, but it still feels like yesterday when you and your boyfriend, Osamu, met. 

Your friends had convinced you that since you and he were only casual at the time, he probably had a girlfriend he was hiding from you. But that whole thing is a completely different story.

Now, you sit in the driver's seat of your deceased brother's car as you drive yourself to the laundromat that was previously owned by your brother's killer. Sure it's not in the best of neighborhoods, but you love it there. You even have the best manager who takes care of the place when you aren't around.

"Rhodes!" you call out to your 'I'm just here for a paycheck' manager as you step through the front door. He's quite an attractive man with long, pink hair tied in a ponytail about the same length as Asahi's hair. However, his freckles and light blue eyes make him more beautiful than handsome even despite the pout he's constantly wearing on his lips.

Rhodes steps out of the back office and groans when he sees you. "Why are you here?"

You know that look. Those red eyes give him away in an instant. Besides, he isn't typically this rude when you walk in. You shake your head as you step past him and walk into the office. It absolutely reeks of weed.

"Jesus Christ, Rhodes, you've got to get your shit together. You know you can't smoke in here! What if some cops come sniffing around? You do remember I'm part of the Yakuza, don't you?" 

"Yeah, so they're not gonna come after you. Besides, I can just say I confiscated it from some customer who was causing an issue out on the floor," he shrugs as he leans up against the door.

"And then they'll ask why you didn't call the cops," you sigh as you sit down in the chair across from the desk that's supposed to be yours. You are the owner after all.

"Because I handled it, duh. Seriously, Y/N, I've got it covered. You trust me, don't ya? So it'll be fine," he replies as he walks across the room and sits behind the desk.

"At least pass me the damn thing then," you give in as you sit up and hold out your hand to him. 

Rhodes rolls his eyes and passes you the blunt he was keeping right in the open. "When did you start smoking anyway?"

"I dunno, back in high school? I stopped though up until about six months ago," you admit as you take in a deep inhale from the weed.

"Since your brother..."

"Died and I took over as the supreme boss of a Yakuza syndicate completely out of the blue? Yeah, got a problem with that?" you smile sarcastically.

"No, no. You do you, Boss."

Again, you take a hit from the blunt. "Do me a favor and don't say anything to 'Samu, though. He'll probably kill me and you, too."

"Sure, whatever," he nods. "It's not like I care about the guy anyway. How is it going with him though? Still dating I assume."

"It's going really well," you finally smile genuinely as you let out a breath of smoke. "I love him so much. I don't know how I'd do any of this without him. He, Kita, and Atsumu help me out more than I can even say."

"Is Osamu your biggest support?" Rhodes then asks, showing interest in your life. It's quite a surprise but you don't let it show or else he might stop the conversation.

"Well, yes, but with work stuff, it's typically Kita. He's kind of like my second in command even though it isn't official," you tell him as you pass him back the weed.

"Why not?" he asks curiously as he accepts it from you.

"Why not what?" you ask, the weed already affecting your brain.

"Why don't you make him the second in command?" he repeats for you as he places the weed to his lips.

"It's complicated," you sigh. "At least, I think it is. I can't even process my position in the syndicate let alone know how to rework everyone else into new positions."

"You sound like a shitty boss," he says with a straight face.

"And you sound like a shitty employee. Didn't you lie on your resume?" you snap back.

"Touché."

"Anyway," you roll your eyes. "I love Osamu and I love being with him. I don't think I can even picture a life without him. The two of us have gotten so close over the months we've known each other. Maybe one day-"

"Stop," he interrupts. "Don't get your hopes up, girl. You are his boss, after all. Don't you think he might be hesitant because of that? I mean, I think it'd be pretty awkward for him to ask his boss's boss to marry him, don't you?"

You pause for a moment as you process his words in your fuzzy brain. "No... Osamu isn't like that. If he wants to marry me, he'd ask me."

"Whatever," he shrugs. "If you believe that, fine. You know him better than I do."

"Geez, Rhodes, why are you always like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like... like, I don't know. Forget it," you sigh.

"Y/N, I've known you for six long, grueling months, and I know you aren't very good at making decisions by yourself. You need to start being more decisive. You are a Yakuza boss, for God's sake. Probably the first female one, too, for all I know. And the boss of the best goddamn laundromat in the entire red-light district!"

"There are other laundromats in the-"

"Dammit, Y/N, I was trying to compliment you but now you're making me forget what I was saying... Look, if you love this guy like you say you do, make the move yourself. If you want Kita as your second in command, do it! You're the fucking boss. You get to do what you want, Y/N!"

Your smile probably looks so ridiculous through your red, glossy eyes. "I knew it was the right thing to hire you," you sigh dreamily.

Rhodes smiles back fakely. "I'm glad, too, because I was so over the whole sex-for-money scene. I mean, it paid better and I do the same amount of work here as I did under some desperate slob... but I like it here. It's quiet."

"Quiet?" you repeat. "What about the customers?"

Rhodes shrugs off your comment. "They mind their own business. Don't really like to talk. We are in the wrong side of town, after all, boss."

"Fine, fine. That does make sense I suppose. Anyway, I think I will go talk to Kita and think about what you said regarding Osamu," you nod as you stand up from your seat.

"You're welcome," he says as he tilts his head to the side and grins, closing his eyes. "But if you're really like to thank me you could show your appreciation by giving me a raise."

"Didn't you just say how little work you do around here?" you shake your head as you reach into your pocket and hand him a white envelope with his check inside. "Dream on."

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next | black canary

[bubonickitten]

Summary: After leaving the Web's domain, Martin and Jon both get a little lost in their own heads. Or: Time to put the apocalypse on hold again for another Web-related navel-gazing session.

This is part of a series, but can be read as a standalone. (Part 1: tumblr // AO3)

Full text & content warnings under the cut.

     CW: canon-typical spiders & arachnophobia; substance abuse (cigarette smoking & nicotine dependence); self-loathing re: addiction and obsessive-compulsive behavior; rejection sensitive dysphoria rearing its ugly head; internalized ableism & victim blaming; brief instance of (very passive) suicidal ideation; Web-typical paranoia; spoilers up to and including MAG 172.

     “Yeah, screw this place,” Martin says. “Never liked the theatre anyway.”

  And with that, he turns and makes a beeline for the nearest exit. Jon stands there for a moment, outstretched hand still lingering where he had offered it to Martin. A familiar gloom settles over him, stealing the air from his lungs – a sharp twinge in his chest, a cold weight dropping into his gut, a hard lump in his throat – all because of the merest hint of rejection.   

  Don’t take it personally, he scolds himself. Martin probably just… didn’t notice his hand. He was distracted. He's unsettled, he’s frightened, he needs to be away from here. It’s fine. Jon is just being self-centered. Again. 

  But as he trails Martin, several steps behind, he gets lost in his own head.         

  It's concerning, this pattern of Jon getting so absorbed in statements that Martin cannot reach him - and it isn't fair to Martin, left adrift and alienated in a nightmare realm that Jon brought into existence, all so Jon can take a moment to bask in the terror. Yes, Jon hates it. He hates how the fear and agony are filtered through him, even though he's become so accustomed to it - so much so that he fears eventually growing numb to it all, losing that last human spark he still curls himself around with possessive, protective fervor. Even more, though, he hates that alien thing in his head that likes it, that forces him to like it, that insists all of this is right and good and natural.  

  It's destroying him, it's destroying everyone around him, and he wants all of it to just stop. Except, there's a loud part of him that doesn't. He wants nothing more than to choke the life out of it.  

  He wishes he could go back to a time when he didn't want or need this, when he wasn't comforted by this thing hollowing him out like a tunneling worm. When did things go so wrong? Did it start when he was a child, when he found the book? Was the point of no return much later, when he became the Archivist? Or was he always doomed to be this, born with self-destruction and impulsivity encoded into his DNA, impossible to separate from himself and still remain himself? 

  Precisely how much of the statement did Martin overhear? Was it enough to draw the parallels that Jon himself is outlining now?

  Jon never has time to process a statement while he’s in the midst of recording it. The human part of him is shelved so the Archive can go about its impartial curation without the interference of Jon's feverish running commentary. Once the trance wears off, though, Jon has time to think. To ruminate, as Martin says. To record his supplemental and dutifully file it away in the Archive, because the knowledge is not complete without Jon's lived experience to bring it to life. 

                   FRANCIS: Please. Let me go. Just let me go.

           THE SPIDER: Oh, Francis. It’s such a shame that I couldn’t do such a thing even if I wanted to. The man in the audience saw to that. I am no more free than you are, little puppet.

  Not for the first time, Jon wonders about the significance of the statements he’s been channeling since the end of the world. How does the subject – victim, the still-human part of him admonishes – get selected? Does the Eye direct his focus, like choosing from a menu? Is it the choice of the Entity whose domain they're passing through? Or is it just chance – whatever instance of terror gets Beheld in that fraction of a second before the tape recorder clicks on to demand its offering?

  He can’t shake the feeling that the Web did have a hand in selecting the particular show he was set to narrate just now, if only because it felt so perfectly tailored and pointed.

           FRANCIS: Please. Please god, not again. I don’t want it to happen again.

           THE SPIDER: Then walk away, Francis, just turn and leave. All that is required is a little bit of willpower. You have a little bit of willpower, don’t you?

  Free will again, of course. Choice versus control. That thorny, sticky weed of a question that took up residence in his mind and spread its roots through every part of him, feeding and growing and seeding more iterations of itself with every passing moment of doubt. He's been over this, he's been over this; why can't he just let it go? 

           “Jon, we’ve been over this," Basira told him. "The key is to not force people to feed you their trauma. You know – just don’t do it?”

           “It’s not that simple.”

           “No, it is. Or I put you down.” 

  Jon remembers how, the first time he tried to quit smoking, it was framed in exactly that way: Just stop. At the time, it had seemed so simple that when he found he couldn’t manage it, he felt like an abject failure. Beyond that, though, it was like having a sinkhole open beneath his feet. Long-suppressed doubts about his own will and self-control were dredged up to the surface, where they've stayed front-and-center ever since. 

  He’s always had an obsessive streak, always had trouble letting go, always had difficulties with impulse control. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when just one cigarette ultimately led to an on-again, off-again addiction that he struggled with right up until the end of the world. Whether it’s nicotine or insatiable curiosity, he’s always been predisposed to fixation, hasn't he? And Beholding, well - it easily overshadowed the rest. It evolved so smoothly from routine to habit to dependence to basic sustenance, and now it’s such an intrinsic part of who he is that he doesn’t know who he would be without it.

  Why didn't he see the warning signs? Or did he see them and opt to ignore them, to barrel on ahead through every red flag and concerned intervention attempt in his haste to do, to see, to know, to experience? 

           THE SPIDER: I want what you want, deep, deep down in the hidden bit of you you’ve tried so hard to kill. You can’t wait for the dance to conclude.

           FRANCIS: I don’t want that anymore. It’s different now. I’m different now. I’ve worked so hard.

           THE SPIDER: I don’t care.

  Jon doesn’t want this. He doesn’t. But he does. But he doesn’t.

  It’s complicated.

  Jonathan Sims, human, feels nothing but despair and shame. The entire world has become a looping nightmare with no end in sight, and it’s his fault – all because, like a moth to a flame, he’s never known when to just stop. In the back of his mind burns that incessant what-if: Would it have been better had he never woken up from the coma? With his death, the others would have been free to quit; he never would have fed on his victims; he never would have opened the door. How much better would the world have been without him in it? 

  The Archivist, on the other hand, feels every stab of fear and pain as any human would, but along with that torment comes a perverse satisfaction in it all. Can he legitimately call himself a victim if he himself is complicit in his trauma? A steady diet of terror is what sustains him now, even as it eats away at him from the inside out. He is dependent on that which destroys him, and he hates it, and he likes it, and he needs it, and he dreads it, and he’s tired.  

  Meanwhile, the Archive feels only detached fascination and a deep conviction that everything is exactly as it should be. This is the role it was born to serve. This is the world in which it was so carefully engineered to thrive. This is the whole of its definition and the whole of its being and the whole of its nature, and it will record and catalog and curate and preserve every single moment for as long as it survives. Nothing lasts forever, but the Archive spares no thought for the inevitable end of its existence. There’s so much to See here, now.

  The fear consumes him. The fear feeds him. The fear just is, and the Archive is here to witness and preserve every motion and every perspective and every detail.

           “When has your guilt, or your sadness, or your hand-wringing ever actually stopped you from doing what it wants?” Helen said with a wicked grin.

           “ I have not been taking statements.”  

           "You’ve sworn off other people’s trauma for now, because you’re caught. Because continuing would endanger you. But other than that, when has your discomfort ever actually stopped you walking the path of the Beholding?”

           "I… I don’t know.”  

  Jonathan Sims can kick and scream all he wants, thrashing impotently in the corners of this shared mind. His cries will be drowned out by a cacophonous litany of horror and dread, and the Archive will pay him no mind. It has more interesting things to concern itself with than the useless self-loathing of the original owner of this vessel, still so stubbornly refusing to embrace the role for which he was so carefully groomed. 

  Jon has always made everything so difficult, hasn't he? Incapable of sitting still, of shutting up, of listening, of just slowing down and stopping for once. Always pushing, pushing, pushing, even when he knew the outcome would only hurt. Anything to keep moving, to secure that heady little rush that rewarded him whenever he happened upon something new and untapped. Voracious for anything to stave off the boredom and channel his restless energy. 

  He wants to stop. He can't stop. He did stop. He tried. He put so much distance between himself and that toxic thing to which he was beholden, and it found him again anyway. Jonah Magnus - 

  It does not matter. Jon's consent was never necessary. He will submit regardless. He always has. 

           FRANCIS only has a desire, an itch in their bones that flows into them, drip by oily drip, down the glistening strands that suspend them, guide them, hold them…. They don’t want to want it, but…

           Pause for laughter.

  He doesn’t want it. Except that he does.

  He doesn’t want to want it. But he does anyway.

  It’s horrible, but it feels right.

           “Can the Web control another avatar, one that serves another power?” Jon asked, desperate and ashamed.

           Pause for Helen’s laughter.

           “Make them do things they don’t want to, make them – feed –”

           Pause for Helen’s laughter.

           “Oh, perhaps,” Helen said, delighted to watch him squirm. “Perhaps not. Would that make life easier for you? Are you so sure you didn’t want to?”

           Pause for Helen’s laughter.

  He did want to. Jonathan Sims may not have wanted to, but the Archivist? The Archivist would have continued hunting and preying, and he would have cycled through as many rationalizations as needed to continue the routine. But the Archivist is Jon is the Archivist; there's no use in distancing himself from accountability. 

  How had Jon lost himself so quickly, so easily?

  When he woke up after the Unknowing, he was terrified. He didn’t know what he was becoming versus what he had already become, or the extent to which he was beyond the point of no return. Georgie had been right, when she told him that he needed people in his life to remind him of his humanity – and now he needed that more than ever.

  But none of them had wasted any time in labeling him a monster.

  Jon doesn’t blame them, of course. Tim was dead, Daisy was gone, Martin was Lonely, Melanie was being consumed by the Slaughter, and Basira had been left to pick up the pieces by herself. Everyone had changed; everyone had been through trauma; everyone was coping alone; everyone was afraid and angry in the face of being trapped and manipulated and exploited.

  And so, so much of it was Jon’s fault, all because he couldn't just stop. 

           “Jon, focus,” Basira said. “Are you getting any sense of anything? Can you See anything?”

           “No, I’m just seeing what you’re seeing. Still a bit weak from my trip up north, to be honest.”

           “Sorry we couldn’t stop for a snack,” Melanie snapped.

  Basira had laughed, then, and Jon had wanted to be angry, but all he felt was icy guilt wrapped in a layer of dull hunger.

  Basira valued practicality. She simply didn't have the luxury for anything else. Jon was dangerous, and maybe a day would come when he could no longer be suffered to live, but until then, he could also be an asset. Basira asked him to Know and See when it would help their goals; she prompted him to Ask questions when they needed to interrogate someone; she wanted him at full power whenever they were heading into danger. She, like Tim, thought they would all be better off if Jon acted more like Gertrude – until he did, and they both saw the all-too-human monstrosity inherent in Gertrude’s flavor of utilitarianism.

           “She got the job done,” Jon said, “and she didn’t care about the cost.”

           “But I thought you did.”

           He did, didn't he? When had that changed? 

           “I had to know, Basira.”

           It's a poor excuse.

           “It wasn’t right.”

           No, it wasn't. 

           “You could have stopped me. But you wanted to know as well, didn’t you?”

  She did want to know. Most people did. And that was what he was for, now, wasn’t it? The others could reap whatever benefits Jon could manage to wrest from his new inhuman existence, and all the while they could remain insulated, assured of their own moral high ground and their own humanity when compared to him.

  Except that's a cop-out, isn't it? He would have hunted for statements regardless of whether it had any strategic benefit, taken over by instinct and hunger and need. No one is responsible for his actions except for himself.  

  Jon couldn't blame the others for how they treated him back then. But sometimes, a distant part of his mind would rail against the unfairness of it all, the double standards, the unclear and inconsistent demands. He was expected to be the Archivist - to sacrifice his humanity - whenever it was convenient, and then shamed back into submission the moment that power was no longer of immediate use. Too human and he wasn’t useful enough; too monstrous and he was an unacceptable risk. He was carving off pieces of himself to fit a mold that changed by the hour, until eventually he couldn’t recognize himself anymore.

  And always there was that wrenching pang somewhere deep inside him whenever he failed to meet those expectations. It had been there since he was a child, and it had only gotten worse in recent years. He couldn’t justify his continued existence if he couldn’t prove himself useful, and now, being useful meant... well, drowning. 

  Excuses, excuses. He could have just stopped. He had choices, and at every watershed moment he chose to continue digging. If he had hit rock bottom, would he have stopped? Would he have even noticed?  

           “You knew, didn’t you? You knew the sorts of things she did, and you let her.”

           “No,” Basira said. “Not exactly. I thought… it’s not that simple.”

           "It never is. But that doesn’t make it okay.”       

           “None of us are who we were, Jon.”

  It was cruel of him to put her on the spot like that, he knows. Basira had a much deeper bond with Daisy; of course she would be more willing to see and acknowledge the complexities of Daisy’s struggle. It’s… normal, to see the people you love in a rosier light than the people you distrust. Likewise, Martin still holds a grudge against Daisy for how she treated him in her interrogation, for what she did to Jon. Sometimes Martin's fingers will brush against the scar on Jon's throat and just for a moment, Jon will see a quiet, protective fury in Martin's eyes. He cannot understand how almost overnight, Jon came to see Daisy as a friend. Martin wonders sometimes whether it was just another clever way Jon had found to hurt himself, to punish himself, to put himself in danger.

  But Martin didn’t get to spend much time with Daisy after the Buried. He didn’t get to see how hard she was trying to get better. Just like Basira didn't get to witness Jon’s efforts.

  In fact, come to think of it… back then, Jon and Daisy both hid their weakest moments from everyone except each other, didn’t they? God, he misses her. No one else really understood what it was like to spend every waking moment resisting the call of a thing that could never be vanquished, which is exactly why sometimes Jon felt his hackles raise when they were held to different standards – especially when Daisy herself hated it just as much as he did. 

  None of that mattered, though. Everyone already thought him a monster, and he agreed with them. What was the point in pretending otherwise? He may as well be the monster, so no one else had to do it. (Excuses, excuses, excuses.) And besides, he liked it, didn’t he? He hated that about himself, but that didn’t make it any less true. So, he would make himself useful. If he got too dangerous, he doubted any of the others would have any qualms about putting him down. It shouldn't have been a comforting thought, but it was. Somewhere along the line, wanting to live had started to feel selfish. When had that happened?  

  But then… Martin.

  Talk to him, said the note. An outstretched hand in the form of three simple words. A belief that he wasn’t too far gone. No, not just a belief. An expectation. He was more than what he was becoming. Or, he could be. 

  Martin always saw him, didn’t he? Even when Jon didn’t deserve it –

  He doesn’t notice Martin’s abrupt stop until he crashes headlong into him, bouncing off his sturdy frame and onto the dusty ground with a quiet oof.

  “Martin?” Jon scrambles upright.

  “Yeah, I’m – I’m okay, I’m –”

  Martin is standing rigidly, staring off to the side, but Jon can still see the wild, frantic look in his eyes, the slightest sheen of tears there, the way he’s gnawing on his bottom lip.

  “Martin?” Jon asks again, more intent this time. Pushing himself to his feet, he reaches out a hand – and then falters halfway, leaves it trembling in the air between them. Martin sways somewhat on his feet. “Martin.”

  “I – what?” Martin turns unfocused eyes on him. "Jon?"

  “Martin, what’s wrong?”  

  “Nothing, it’s – I’m just – it’s –”

  “You’re bleeding,” Jon murmurs, closing the gap between them and reaching up to brush his thumb over Martin’s lip. He half-expects Martin to pull away. When the rejection doesn’t come, Jon is nearly swept away by relief. 

  “Oh.” Martin looks down and his eyes widen, as though he’s just now seeing Jon.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind,” Jon says evenly, careful to keep the compulsion out of his voice. He moves his hand to cradle Martin’s face, and Martin leans into his touch on reflex.

  “It’s… I keep thinking.”

  “Yes?”

  “I… it felt so much like curiosity, Jon.”

  “Ah.” Jon thinks he senses where this is going.

  “I – I didn’t realize until just now how it – I’m – I’m so sorry.” Martin chokes on the last word and a tear slides down his cheek.

  “Come here,” Jon says, lowering himself to the ground again and pulling Martin down after him. Martin sags against him, his breath coming in quiet hiccups, and Jon curls an arm around his shoulders. “Breathe. What are you sorry for?”

  “I thought I understood. About the Web.” Martin’s breath hitches. “I used to think it was – maybe exaggerated, how you felt? Or, no, that’s not the right word – I mean –”

  “More like a phobia than a rational fear.”

  “It’s – not that it isn’t rational, it’s just –”

  “Martin, it’s fine,” Jon says, running his fingers through Martin’s hair. “I have a history of paranoia and phobias, and – and I know I obsess, I overthink things. If I was looking at me from the outside, I’d think I was overreacting, too. I probably am sometimes. Which is what the Web wants.”

  “I didn’t say you were overreacting, I just thought – I thought maybe the actual threat was…” Martin bites his lip again. “That maybe it wasn’t as imminent as you were afraid it was. Or not as – as pervasive? I figured, if at least some of it was in your own head, I could actually…”

  “Actually what?”

  “That I could make it better,” Martin says meekly, a fresh wave of tears rolling down his cheeks. “I thought I could do something to protect you for once.”

  “You already do that."

  "How do you mean?" Martin laughs bitterly. "The only reason I'm still alive is because of you."

  "I think I could say the same," Jon says quietly.

  "You'd survive just fine on your own."

  "I don't want to just survive." It comes out harsher than he intended, and Jon forces gentleness back into his tone. "You are my reason, remember? And... and besides. You do protect me." Martin rolls his eyes, and Jon rallies again. "Yes, fine, there isn't much that could physically harm me here."

  Martin nods sullenly, an unspoken I told you so. 

  "But, I - I'm prone to self-sabotage, if you haven't noticed." 

  "Yeah." Martin sniffles, averting his eyes. 

  "You make me want to be better. You... you believe that's possible for me, even when no one else does, even when I don't believe it myself. Even when I don't deserve it." Jon shakes his head, his quiet laugh full of wonder and disbelief. "You see me in a way that I quite honestly don't understand, but it... it makes me want to be that person for you."

  "You don't really need me, though." 

  "I do need you," Jon says fiercely. Then, softer: "And - and even if I didn't, I want you with me." Jon coaxes Martin's chin up to look him in the eye. "I'm quite fond of you, you know." 

  Martin chuckles half-heartedly and rubs at his eyes. 

  "There's something else bothering you, I think," Jon says hesitantly. "I - I didn't Know anything, I promise, I just... it seems like there's more?" 

  "It's fine." Martin clears his throat, and when he continues, it's with a tone that could almost be considered composed if it wasn't for the way he steadfastly avoids eye contact. "Just, you know. The Web."

  "I'd like to listen, if you're willing to talk."

  "You don't have to -"

  "Let me take care of you?" 

  They've talked about this before. Martin's always been a caretaker. He's compassionate, and Jon will always be in awe of how adept he is at showing he cares with the simplest of gestures. Martin finds it fulfilling, prides himself on putting comfort into the world when it seems like none can exist. But he habitually prioritizes others at the cost of his own well-being, routinely blurs the line between compassion and destructive self-sacrifice. He never learned that cliché tenet of putting on his own oxygen mask before helping others with theirs. He doesn't know how to let himself be cared for, rarely even takes the time for self-care, and usually doesn't believe he deserves it in the first place. He feels an acute need to justify his existence by being useful, and for most of his life, it was the only way he knew to measure his own worth. The same could be said for Jon, really; it just manifested somewhat differently in his case. 

  But they've discussed it. They've been working on it.   

  Martin opens his mouth, starts to mouth the reflexive phrase - I'm fine - but capitulates when Jon says again, resolute: "I'd like to take care of you. Please let me."

  "Um. I... okay. Okay. I just - give me a minute."

  "Take all the time you need," Jon says, and returns to playing with Martin's hair. They're exposed here, but Jon would have ample foreknowledge of any approaching danger. Besides, this is an in-between space between domains, and Jon Knows that few things will go out of their way to seek out a confrontation with the Archive, especially outside of their own turf. 

  A few minutes pass before Martin begins to speak, starting slow before unraveling into a frantic confession. 

  “I’ve – I’ve never felt in control of my life, not really, but I’ve also never felt like I was being puppeted. It was just – circumstances outside of my control, or my own shortcomings, not – not some literal other mind pulling the strings.” One of Martin’s hands comes to rest on Jon’s knee, and he grips tightly, as if to remind himself of Jon's physical presence. “And – and if that’s a thing that actually happens, if it might be happening to me, how am I supposed to trust anything I do or think or feel? How do I – how do I know I won’t lose you, or – or betray you, or –”

  “You don’t.” Jon gives him a very small smile, a cross between wry and rueful. He shifts his position until he can touch their foreheads together, moving one hand to cup the back of Martin's neck. “We can never know for sure whether we’re being controlled. We could sit here, I suppose – take no action at all, wrap ourselves in doubt and fear.” Jon nudges Martin's nose with his own, urging Martin to meet his eyes. “But then we’ll also have to wonder if that was the Web’s plan all along.”

  “Oh, god, I’m dragging you back down the rabbit hole –”

  “No, listen. It’s…” Jon gives a considering hum and leans away slightly. “Actually, there’s one part of Annabelle’s statement that sits with me in a good way.”

  “What?” Martin says incredulously.

  “Just listen. ‘We all have forces that drive us, circumstances that direct us,’” Jon recites from memory, “‘and even if we choose to ignore these and act against all logic, just to prove that we can – is that not simply allowing the existential terror of our own powerlessness to control us instead?’”

  “And – and what about that do you find comforting?”

  “It’s… hmm." Jon takes a beat as he hunts for a way to best convey his meaning. "Do you remember the story I told you, about Mr. Spider?”

  “Of course,” Martin says softly, rubbing his thumb back and forth on Jon’s knee in a soothing, repetitive motion. Jon grounds himself in the touch and takes a deep breath before he continues. 

  “So - to this day, I still have the sense memory of being a passenger in my body. Like my veins were puppet strings, filled with - with hundreds of thousands of tiny scuttling legs. Like being pulled forward by a thousand minds and none of them my own.” Jon closes his eyes and swallows hard. This next part, he's never spoken aloud. “Worse, though, was the aftermath. I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility that maybe they had never left. That maybe they had just let the strings go slack for the time being. I was always waiting for a moment when the threads would be pulled taut, and I would realize that the Spider never actually let go. Sometimes I - I still feel the crawling, the tugging. It's my imagination, I know - just a tactile hallucination - but still, it can be... rather convincing at times.” 

  “That’s… horrible," Martin says, and he means it, but there's a note of confusion there: he's not entirely sure where Jon is going with this. 

  “The Web managed to cover a lot of bases when it marked me. Fear of spiders and cobwebs, yes, but deeper than that. That split second before opening a door where my heart stops because I can never really be certain that I know what’s behind it.” Jon realizes suddenly that this is the first time he’s ever put words to that fear, let alone admitted it to another person. He shakes his head and forces himself to continue. “Being watched, being manipulated. Being controlled, or being unable to control myself, and being unable to tell the difference between the two. Infectious self-doubt, and the fear that I’ll never be free of it.”

  “What does that have to do with –”

  “‘Is that not simply allowing the existential terror of our own powerlessness to control us instead?’” Jon repeats, staring ahead into the barren wasteland. “It makes me think… maybe there’s some freedom to be found in giving up the illusion of control.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll always be afraid of the loss of control, whether it comes from the Web or from my own mind. And if I let that fear immobilize me, well… that’s also a loss of control. Same outcome.” He combs his fingers through the soft, curly hair at the base of Martin's skull. “What the Web feeds on is that fear of being manipulated. It doesn’t matter what you think is controlling you or how you react to it. It doesn’t matter whether you’re frozen in place like a fly caught in a web, or if you're unable to stop at all, stuck in a loop of - of obsession or addiction or panic. The Web can feast on all of it equally.”

  “You do realize that none of this is especially comforting, right?” Martin says with a nervous, breathless laugh. 

  “I’m getting there,” Jon promises. “The Web is an unknown variable. That's what makes it so terrifying. The only way I can think to fight back against that sort of power is to just… accept the idea that you’re not always in control, and that you’ll never know for sure the moments when you aren’t. To tolerate the ambiguity, and try to keep moving anyway. It dilutes the fear, somewhat. You aren’t as tasty a meal if you put a name to what scares you and shine a light on it.” Jon smirks. “If nothing else, it’s a ‘screw you’ to the Spider.”

  Martin closes his eyes for a long few minutes, and Jon sits with the silence. Finally, Martin looks up and meets Jon's eyes again and gives him a weak smile. 

  "I know it doesn't solve everything," Jon says. "I still have my regular Web-related, uh... thought spirals, for lack of a better term. But I think it helps, to talk about it. The Web thrives best when its victims isolate themselves, lose themselves in hypotheticals and paranoia until they're paralyzed with doubt. It's harder to manipulate someone when they have someone to untangle them when they get stuck." 

  "It did help," Martin says after a moment, and Jon is relieved to hear the sincerity underlying the words. "Thank you."

  “Well, the only reason I managed to come to any of this in the first place is because you gave me a stick and a dirt canvas and let me rant myself hoarse about it.”

  Martin laughs, still sounding just a little raw and tearful. “I guess the conspiracy corkboard idea worked?”

  “Yes, Martin.” Jon rolls his eyes, but his demeanor is thoroughly fond. “Though I think blindsiding me with the concept of 'love as a choice we make' is what got me over the line in the end. Very poetic.”

  “And here I thought you didn’t like poetry.”

  “Speaking of that…" Jon fixes Martin with a look of faux reproach. "Did you really imply that you hate the theatre back there? After giving me so much grief about disliking poetry?”  

  “I think I did more than imply it,” Martin says, and there’s a goading edge to his tone now.  

  “That’s…” Jon shakes his head. “Okay. Explain, please.”

  “I’ve just never been a fan.” Martin shrugs, but the nonchalance falls apart as Martin tries and fails not to grin at Jon's dismay. 

  “Theatre is - it's such a broad umbrella, there’s no way you don’t care for all of it –”

  “Poetry is a broad umbrella, too.”

  “Yes, fine,” Jon says grudgingly. “Shakespeare was a poet, surely you can appreciate some of his contributions to theatre.”

  “You’ve spent your whole life hating poetry, Jon. You don’t get to imply that I'm uncultured.”

  “I don’t hate all poetry. Just most of it.”

  “You still haven’t told me what changed your mind,” Martin says with a teasing smirk. “I wonder. Could it have been –”

  “Yes, Martin.” Jon heaves an exaggerated sigh, but doesn’t bother to hide the fondness in his tone. “It was you. Obviously.”  

  “Just wanted to hear you say it,” Martin replies, absolutely preening at the admission. “I –”

  Jon leans in and covers Martin’s lopsided smile with a kiss before he can get another blasphemous word in. The apocalypse can spare them a few more minutes. 

     End Notes:

Title is from Mitski's "Francis Forever".

Any of the indented bits involving Francis or the Spider are from MAG 172.

The others are from, in order: MAG 148; MAG 152; MAG 146; MAG 147; MAG 141; MAG 155.

And of course the quote from Annabelle's statement is from MAG 147 as well.