#and his heart is in the right place he was just raised by a bigot and was the prince

[paperbackribs]

Demisexual Eddie who assumed he's straight by default so when Steve says his soulmate words he thinks it's a platonic match.

Steve Harrington looks a hair's breadth away from kissing him and Eddie doesn't know what to do about that.

He eyes him nervously as they linger inside Rick's boathouse; he can hear outside the faint sound of Robin telling Max that they'll drop her off with Dustin. The torch Steve carries shines a yellow light onto the pine floors, while the full moon illuminates enough of the room to see Steve's eyes intently trained on Eddie's face, flickering at moments to his lips.

Eddie clears his throat and shuffles his feet. The tension that had drained from him once he realised that Dustin and his friends were here to help rising again, reminding him of the jolt of shock when Steve had said his soulmate words by crying out for Eddie to wait wait wait as he rushed him with a broken bottle.

"So, uh, I think you should come home with me. My place is empty but for me and it'll be safer than hanging out here," Steve offers.

He glances at Eddie's hair, which must truly be bedraggled by this point after the amount of times he's clutched it in fear and anxiety. "You can clean up and get a meal too; you must be exhausted."

And it sounds like a really fantastic offer, but Eddie's worried about the slight sway in Steve's bearing, like he's close to swooping in to kiss Eddie when he's not even like that. It fuels the tension until Eddie blurts out, "I'm not gay."

"What?" Steve blinks, pulling back, but curiously Eddie doesn't feel any better for his withdrawal.

Nevertheless, he takes the moment to edge away, just slightly because he doesn't want the guy to think he's a bigot. It's just that he doesn't see Steve like that.

"Yeah, I mean, I said your words so I know we're soulmates..."

Steve looks down at his wrist, thoughtfully thumbing what are you doing here. "But you don't like guys?"

Eddie shakes his head gently, genuinely sorry in the face of Steve's confusion. "No, but that just means we're platonic, right?" A jitter of an old fear runs through him and he bites his lip against it, simply asking, "Is that okay?"

Steve's brow furrows and his eyes flicker to the car barely visible in the dark of the night outside. He exhales a long breath, "Sorry, I know I'm repeating myself here but it's a lot to take in. You're straight."

Eddie nods sympathetically. He knows what it's like to live on the fringes of what's considered normal, it must have been really hard for Steve to be gay in small town Hawkins. He wonders if all the rumours of him being a ladies man come from overcompensation or from the rumour mill running overtime.

Either way, it must have been hard for Steve to navigate when all he'd wanted to do is date boys. Probably find his gay soulmate too, Eddie thinks sadly.

"It's rare, but not impossible, right?" He frowns at his bicep where the words are hidden under his jacket, "Though I don't have two marks. Do you?"

Steve huffs a laugh as he rubs at his temple, looking like he doesn't know where to start. "Rare is right, but, yeah, two soulmates." He taps his chest, over the heart where the second mark must lay, and Eddie thinks that is only further proof. His romantic soulmate's words over his heart, what further evidence do they need.

He smiles, relieved for Steve even as he thinks that he'll need to unpack his own feelings over apparently not having a romantic soulmate. He's not sure it'll change much for him he mulls before he's distracted by the expression that crosses Steve's face, uncertainty falling to what looks like determination.

"Either way, it doesn't matter right now. What matters is getting you a safe place to hide. If we could find you through Family Video's records then the cops can't be far behind."

Dread is almost electric in his mouth at the thought, thinking of shouting voices and raised guns. Eddie nods jerkily, "Yeah, good point. Are you sure it's okay? Soulmates or not, you're taking a risk by harbouring the guy who looks like he killed the queen of Hawkins High."

The hardness in Steve's face breaks, softening like gentle rain. He touches the edge of Eddie's sleeve very carefully like he's trying to offer comfort without any skin contact, "You didn't do it and you deserve to not hide like a rat in the dark."

Steve looks around, noting the wet wood and the ever-present creaking of a structure over water. His nose scrunches, "Plus I don't know how you can take the algae smell, man. I'd be running towards my offer."

The tension inside Eddie falls, a gentle cascade like a piece of paper fluttering to the ground. "You're right, how could I live with myself," he says wryly, trying to hide how warmed he is by Steve's insistence.

"So you'll come?" Steve asks hopefully and Eddie nods, passing him to walk towards the car, "Let's get going, big boy."

more steddie fics here

#soulmates #steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson

[licorice-lips]

Okay, it really bothers me how many people, especially on TikTok, are willing to forget how bad Snow really is just because he's hot. I mean, I'm not one to be above Tom Blyth's "hotness", but guys, really? Have you learned nothing at all from what you just watched?! Are you that unable to understand the film's problematic?

I try not to judge because I know sometimes people just want to be silly and give themselves a break from the heaviness of it all, but ffs, stop romanticizing creepiness and abusive behavior. TBOSAS is NOT a dark romance, Snow is NOT hot, he's a fascist-minded, not-so-borderline misogynistic, completely narcissistic villain from the beginning. He may have loved Lucy Gray or not, but it doesn't really matter as much as how he did it, how he treated her - how he (maybe) killed her (y'all know that, if she died, it was a femicide, right? At the very least, it was an attempt).

And I hate when people say "It's not that deep, he's fictional, I'd never do that irl" because that may be true for you but pay attention to the content you're spreading, the message you're getting across to people more vulnerable than you, in a position of doubt about what's really acceptable or not. Children, teenagers who think they have enough judgment when they don't, women in abusive relationships trying to normalize what they're suffering, young people being brainwashed, or trained, or raised to be prejudiced, violent, and bigoted... they're all exposed to what you're posting and if collective well-being still doesn't sway you...

Noah Schnapp.

That's it. There's your real-world version of Coriolanus Snow age 17. A young man, who supports genocide, who supports a massacre of children because he thinks his people are the rightful owners of the place they are actually colonizing. Still think he's so hot?

He's not.

He's just another fascist.

And what breaks my heart the most is that there are so many characters in THG and even TBOSAS who are so pretty, even "hot" and are still kind and, at the very least, VICTIMS of that society. Case in point, obviously, Peeta, Finnick, and even Haymitch, if you prefer a dilf. But also, Treech and Reaper, both of them victims of the Capital, and kind in the case of Reaper, I'm not sure about Treech, but he's still just a scared boy trying to go back home. And they're both so beautiful (and hot, and both actors are of age, I checked lol) and should be a lot more crushed on instead of Snow. Hell, even Sejanus is hotter than Snow just because he's not a fascist.

That's how low you have to go to find Snow actually hot. And again, I get that Tom Blyth is hot, but learn to trace a limit. It's not cool, nor funny, to throw away every message and cautionary warning this story ever gives you just because the actor playing the villain is hot, it's actually you just proving the whole story's point: we can ignore anything for the show.

#sorry I'm just really upset #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #thg #coriolanus snow #lucy gray baird #connor jessup #free palestine #suzanne collins #anti facist #political discourse #finnick odair #peeta melark #haymitch abernathy #lucy gray

[duckprintspress]

6 Queer Books for Autism Acceptance Month!

April is Autism Acceptance Month, so the group of folks at Duck Prints Press who suggest titles for these rec lists dug into personal favorite queer reads to find these six titles that include queer characters who are explicitly or implied to be autistic. Our picks are:

The Luis Ortega Survival Club by Sonora Reyes

Ariana Ruiz wants to be noticed. But as an autistic girl who never talks, she goes largely ignored by her peers—despite her bold fashion choices. So when cute, popular Luis starts to pay attention to her, Ari finally feels seen.

Luis’s attention soon turns to something more, and they have sex at a party—while Ari didn’t say no, she definitely didn’t say yes. Before she has a chance to process what happened and decide if she even has the right to be mad at Luis, the rumor mill begins churning—thanks, she’s sure, to Luis’s ex-girlfriend, Shawni. Boys at school now see Ari as an easy target, someone who won’t say no.

Then Ari finds a mysterious note in her locker that eventually leads her to a group of students determined to expose Luis for the predator he is. To her surprise, she finds genuine friendship among the group, including her growing feelings for the very last girl she expected to fall for. But in order to take Luis down, she’ll have to come to terms with the truth of what he did to her that night—and risk everything to see justice done.

May the Best Man Win by Z. R. Ellor

Jeremy Harkiss, cheer captain and student body president, won’t let coming out as a transgender boy ruin his senior year. Instead of bowing to the bigots and outdate school administration, Jeremy decides to make some noise–and how better than by challenging his all-star ex-boyfriend, Lukas for the title of Homecoming King? 

Lukas Rivers, football star and head of the Homecoming Committee, is just trying to find order in his life after his older brother’s funeral and the loss long-term girlfriend–who turned out to be a boy. But when Jeremy threatens to break his heart and steal his crown, Lukas kick starts a plot to sabotage Jeremy’s campaign. 

When both boys take their rivalry too far, the dance is on the verge of being canceled. To save Homecoming, they’ll have to face the hurt they’re both hiding–and the lingering butterflies they can’t deny.

Hell Follows With Us by Andrew Joseph White

Sixteen-year-old trans boy Benji is on the run from the cult that raised him—the fundamentalist sect that unleashed Armageddon and decimated the world’s population. Desperately, he searches for a place where the cult can’t get their hands on him, or more importantly, on the bioweapon they infected him with.

But when cornered by monsters born from the destruction, Benji is rescued by a group of teens from the local Acheson LGBTQ+ Center, affectionately known as the ALC. The ALC’s leader, Nick, is gorgeous, autistic, and a deadly shot, and he knows Benji’s darkest secret: the cult’s bioweapon is mutating him into a monster deadly enough to wipe humanity from the earth once and for all.

Still, Nick offers Benji shelter among his ragtag group of queer teens, as long as Benji can control the monster and use its power to defend the ALC. Eager to belong, Benji accepts Nick’s terms…until he discovers the ALC’s mysterious leader has a hidden agenda, and more than a few secrets of his own.

The Many Half-Lived Lives of Sam Sylvester by Maya MacGregor

Sam Sylvester’s not overly optimistic about their recent move to the small town of Astoria, Oregon after a traumatic experience in their last home in the rural Midwest.

Yet Sam’s life seems to be on the upswing after meeting several new friends and a potential love interest in Shep, the pretty neighbor. However, Sam can’t seem to let go of what might have been, and is drawn to investigate the death of a teenage boy in 1980s Astoria. Sam’s convinced he was murdered–especially since Sam’s investigation seems to resurrect some ghosts in the town.

Threatening notes and figures hidden in shadows begin to disrupt Sam’s life. Yet Sam continues to search for the truth. When Sam discovers that they may be closer to a killer than previously known, Sam has a difficult decision to make. Would they risk their new life for a half-lived one?

Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation by Mo Xiang Tong Xiu

Wei Wuxian was once one of the most outstanding men of his generation, a talented and clever young cultivator who harnessed martial arts, knowledge, and spirituality into powerful abilities. But when the horrors of war led him to seek a new power through demonic cultivation, the world’s respect for his skills turned to fear, and his eventual death was celebrated throughout the land.

Years later, he awakens in the body of an aggrieved young man who sacrifices his soul so that Wei Wuxian can exact revenge on his behalf. Though granted a second life, Wei Wuxian is not free from his first, nor the mysteries that appear before him now. Yet this time, he’ll face it all with the righteous and esteemed Lan Wangji at his side, another powerful cultivator whose unwavering dedication and shared memories of their past will help shine a light on the dark truths that surround them.

An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon

Aster has little to offer folks in the way of rebuttal when they call her ogre and freak. She’s used to the names; she only wishes there was more truth to them. If she were truly a monster, she’d be powerful enough to tear down the walls around her until nothing remains of her world.

Aster lives in the lowdeck slums of the HSS Matilda, a space vessel organised much like the antebellum South. For generations, Matilda has ferried the last of humanity to a mythical Promised Land. On its way, the ship’s leaders have imposed harsh moral restrictions and deep indignities on dark-skinned sharecroppers like Aster. Embroiled in a grudge with a brutal overseer, Aster learns there may be a way to improve her lot – if she’s willing to sow the seeds of civil war.

What are your favorite queer books with Autistic rep? We’d love to hear about them!

You can access this list as a bookshelf on Goodreads!

Did you know? Duck Prints Press has an affiliate shop on Bookshop.org – and you can access all our rec lists (including this one!) there to facilitate purchasing the books. If you buy with us as your affiliate book store, authors get royalties, Bookshop.org gets a cut, and we get a small percent of the purchase price too – everyone wins!

#duck prints press #autism acceptance month #queer books #book recs #book recommendations #rec list

[ginger-snap-talkin-nonsense]

Why do the writers at King of the Hill expect us to see Cotton Hill as anything other than evil (and not in a "funny"/"love to hate him" way) when he sexually abuses Luanne and almost sexually abuses Bobby in the first episode that he's formally introduced? Shouldn't it reflect badly on Hank as a guardian that he allows Bobby to be alone with his abuser after that?

This can't even be blamed on the better writers leaving the show in the later seasons. This was in the first season, and Cotton never gets better considering that he tortures Bobby by putting him in solitary confinement for three days in season 7.

Okay, so just to clarify off the bat, the sexual abuse anon is referring to is in Cottons debut where he smacks Luanne's ass and then is immediately responded to with a threat if he tries it again, and a failed attempt at taking him to a place he remembers being a brothel, but I think this anon is getting at the heart of a bigger issue regarding how people think critically about character writing.

Cotton Hill is a bad person. Full stop. He was an abusive husband and father when Hank was a child and even in his shallowed love of his new wife and kid, he's still repugnant, misogynistic, bigoted, etc.

But that's a feature, not a bug because Cotton exists in relation to Hank.

You see, King of the Hill has a running theme (at least in the pre flash era) of change and how we confront trauma in the face of that change. Cotton as a character was abused himself-first by his military boarding school which the mere thought of puts him in the only tears we see him in in the series, then by enlisting in World War 2 at age 15 where he was physically disabled, watched his friends die, was ripped from the woman who he fell in love with, and then discharged and left broken and impoverished.

And Cotton does anything he can to run from accepting that he was traumatized by all of that. He treats it like it's made him strong and better, he wears his misery like a badge of honor and refuses kindness and sympathy as a result.

Thanks to this idea of what iteams to hurt, he turned those ideas onto Hank growing up. Cotton was a lot of things but he wasn't (as far as we know in the show) physically abusive, but he was mentally and emotionally abusive and that led to Hank believing a lot of negative things about sharing feelings or gender roles.

And then he meets Peggy who starts dismantling the stigmas about the gender binary and has Bobby who dismantles his feelings about feelings. A lot of Cotton episodes are in relation to how Hank is raising Bobby right by unpacking the unhealthy environment he grew up in with his wife and striving to be better. This happens with Peggy and her mother as well but to a far lesser extent.

Beyond that, Cotton represents how complicated emotions can be in regards to bad people you have sympathy for. Hank, despite learning to see the many flaws with his father, still wants a healthy and positive relationship with his dad. The show never knocks for wanting this or continuing to strive for it, rather it tells Hank that he can't force anyone else into his shit like his wife or son.

Meanwhile Peggy despises Cotton for all he's done to Hank and how he treats women, and the show never knocks her either. Peggy is entirely within her rights to hate him and the closest they ever get a mutual respect for how strong they've been while getting past their hardest moments.

Cotton may deserve sympathy for what he's been through, but does that mean you can forgive him for all the terrible things he did as a result of his unchecked trauma and the time he grew up in? The show doesn't have an answer, it's up to each individual person, and no answer is wrong.

That's why Cotton is a strong character. There's nuance to him and how he interacts with the other characters. He furthers the shows central theme and introduces his own.

A written bad person does not equate to bad character writing

[liminalpebble]

Blood in the Cut (Eddie Munson, One Shot)

MINORS DNI

A/N: Sorry y'all I've been going through some things so this is a big, fat, 4000 world, smutty cathartic scream of a one shot. Older Eddie Munson x POC she/her reader. Title is based on a song by K. Flay that's been bouncing around my head lately.

CW: Rough unprotected sex (consentual), violence (bar fight), racial slur towards reader from a bigot, allusions of past suicide attempt, mental illness, trauma, and wounds, blood play (sort of?)

Summary: For years now Eddie's put the traumatic year of 1986 behind him by living an uneventful life and running The Hideout. Now a gruff but good-hearted middle-aged Munson has hired you (a young lady with a sad past of your own) as a bartender. One night a brawl breaks out and you become collateral damage in the violence. Only then does the prickly Eddie open up all the way to comfort you.

Blood in the Cut

The place was a shithole, but goddamit, it had become your shithole. It was a godsend when you rolled into the little town of Hawkins. You felt crusty, cramped and drowsy from hours on the Greyhound, but you made it. 1000 miles from your hometown, from the overbearing family who branded you a failure early on for being born with the wrong genitalia but expected perfection nonetheless. 1000 miles from the psych ward you ended up in when the pressure became too much. You tried not to think about the past anymore. Scars are easy enough to cover with make up or long sleeves, and nobody cares about the career you broke yourself trying to get when you just wind up opening beer bottles and mopping floors for a living.

Well, Eddie cared, but he hid it well. If he didn't care, he wouldn't have given you a chance that day. You had walked right into his bar and gestured to the shabby “help wanted” sign, shyly offering him a dog-eared resume. He gave you a long, unnerving, inscrutable stare from those big dark eyes.

You fidgeted as he nonchalantly scanned the paper over the haze of his cigarette. As the silence became too awkward for you, you piped up. “Uh...sorry it's...um...crinkled. I didn't have anywhere to print new ones.”

His face cracked into an amused grin suddenly, and it shocked you how quickly the grizzled guy could go from intimidating to disarming once his dimples came out to play.

“You...um...you do realized that this isn't exactly a place requiring a resume, right?”, he said, a cocky, teasing tone to his lazy voice.

You finally let out an exhale, “Yeah...yeah. I mean. I figured. But I already had it with me so you know...It's a little quicker than chatting to tell you my credentials. And as you can probably already tell, small talk isn't something I'm great at.”

He raised his eyebrows and nodded thoughtfully, “ Well, bartenders do have to chit chat a little generally, but you're in luck, because not many customers come around here to talk.” He gestured a lanky tattooed arm to the tattered, dark, dive bar, the drunks having their liquid breakfast, and the ramshackle stage, as if to sarcastically say, behold, my kingdom.

“But anyway...impressive degree. Ivy League shit. Guess you're a long way from home. So, if you don't mind me asking, what is a young bright-eyed bushy-tailed little scholar like you doing in a shit town like this?” As he asked, his perceptive eyes darted down to your long sleeves; a bit unexpected in the warm spring air. He had an idea of what your answer would be, and it softened his heart more than usual.

You shrugged. Any attempt at pretense just dissolved in his presence. This man possessed a perfect radar for bullshit. You could tell. And besides, you'd relinquished any pride you had left at the hospital. There was no face left to save. “Well...Mr...”

“Munson...and just call me Eddie. Everyone does,” he clarified, grinding his spent filter in the ashtray.

“Eddie...Well, Eddie, I'm $70,000 deep in student loan debt from this impressive and apparently useless degree, and another $10,000 as the cherry on top for landing in the psych ward because of how I almost killed myself making sure I got it. Or rather, I tried to save my parents from their sunk investment in me, because the co-signer doesn't have to repay loans when the borrower kicks the bucket...or so I've been told. I'm 1000 miles away from it because I can't deal with my family reminding me that I'm an expensive disappointment every day of my life. But mom still calls me to shame me about how much it cost them to keep me alive...so there's that. And uh...these are more words than I've spoken in the last 5 months to anyone...so...sorry if I'm rusty at saying anything nicely.

Finally, you took a breath. Eddie just stared for a moment (that same inscrutable evaluation), nodded pensively then stood up from the bar stool. He simply reached out a calloused hand full of rings to shake yours. With a little grin he said, “Welcome to The Hideout.”

And that was that. You were here for 40 hours and 5 days a week. You tried to get overtime but Eddie always refused to let you, explaining, “you're a recovering workaholic and I don't want a relapse on my hands.” He always said it matter-of-factly with a flat expression until he turned his head just slightly from you to relieve himself of the smirk crawling across his plush lips.

Working side-by-side with him so much meant you got to observe him. You got the idea that in his youth he was probably rebellious, squirrely and bombastic, but he was taciturn and guarded now. Something had clearly pummeled that youthful anarchy out of him. The thought of it broke your heart a little. These days he kept his head down and hid under that mop of wild brown-sugar-colored curls. When he slid by you in the small space of the bar you noticed the little silver coils running through the strands, here and there. Your boss was still squirrely though; always tapping his fingers or feet in time with the soundtrack. He always seemed primed to run.

When you got a chance to look at him (really look at him) you couldn't help but wonder if Eddie knew he was a damn fine-looking man. He lived above the bar, but never once had you seen him take anyone home with him, or leave with anyone. Running this place seemed to be his life. What a waste, you thought, considering that nobody got to see that beautiful, tattooed, body without any clothes.

On slow days you'd usually hang out quietly behind the bar; both reading, and occasionally breaking the silence to talk about your books, or about the music Eddie had chosen, or about art or movies or languages or history or science. He was a bright guy and you treasured those chances to flex your academic muscles. In fact, you wondered if he hired you just to have someone to talk to like this. Hawkins wasn't exactly crawling with intellectuals and forward thinkers. Most of the local truckers, factory workers, farmers, and deputies who stopped by the Hideout would narrow their eyes in suspicion or confusion when they clocked your dark hair and tan skin. If they seemed about to say something stupid, Eddie would always nip it in the bud, giving them a warning glare that told them in no uncertain terms, not to fuck with you. Eddie felt a slowly building swell of protective impulse for you. You seemed so young and small and soft, even thought he knew you were tougher than you seemed...in some ways, tougher than him.

Once, only once, did some pea-brained idiot dare to snap at you and call you a “camel jockey”. That was the day Eddie broke a beer bottle on the counter, pointed it to the guy's beefy neck and hauled him outside, muttering quietly that if he ever showed his face here again he would end up in an ambulance. After that, word spread quickly that no one talked shit about Eddie's mysterious new bartender if they valued their lives. That was the day you began to realize you were becoming truly smitten with this man; his humble decency and thoughtful nature and even the pain behind those big brown eyes...but...he was your boss. So you weeded the idea out as soon as it began to sprout. You settled on simply saying, “Thank you,” and giving a relieved exhale.

He nodded and said, “Don't mention it. Fucking idiots. My friend Lucas and his family had the same problems. It wasn't easy for them, being the only black family in this hick town. Jesus Christ. I hoped it had gotten a lot better than this. That's a shame...they should be ashamed. Shit. I'm ashamed!” You chuckled and assured him he had nothing to be ashamed of, but he was embarrassed by proxy anyway. It was so scorching hot when he defended you like that, getting rough around the edges with righteous anger and a willingness to fight dirty. It didn't make the crush any easier to kill.

Much like dandelions, crushes have a way of popping back up, but you stayed removed and kept your interpersonal walls at a height matching his, though you would occasionally enjoy a chat from open windows in warm lamplight. You really treasured those chats and glimpses, when both of you reached out carefully from your barricades. You couldn't know that Eddie lived for those moments just as much. He'd been alone for so long, and now this fascinating young lady walked right through his door like a godsend. He was grateful for this friendship, and he would never dare to hope for it to become more. What use would an incredible young lady like you have for grumpy old Eddie Munson?, he thought.

-------

It was a Saturday night, rowdy as hell. Some shitty local band had just closed their set and packed their van, and the audience was worked up. You and Eddie and taken turns hauling keg after keg of cheap beer from the basement as they were swiftly emptied. It was an annoying crowd, but Eddie was proud of how well you kept up and you were happy for how well business was booming for him tonight.

You two were in the homestretch, but your nerves were fraying after a long night of drunken idiots. Eddie put a little ditty on the sound system called “The Closing Time Song” with the charming refrain of “get the fuck out” as he did every night to playfully alert the clients that it was time to leave. Everyone was gone aside from two knuckleheads who began screaming at each other for no apparent reason while you had begun sweeping.

You both knew the drill for this; get them outside to mitigate property damage and make their little scuffle the concern of Hawkins' finest rather than yours. Eddie was afraid to let you handle this at first, but after a few times he realized you're a lot stronger and tougher than you looked. At this point you manhandled jerks out the door with ease as often as he did. You huffed and set your broom aside. Eddie was in the back counting out the till, so you stepped up, walking swiftly towards them, grateful that it was still just verbal.

As you moved to shove the big galoots out the door, they suddenly began throwing punches, not seeing you underfoot, you got an elbow and a smack right in the face. You yelled every expletive in every language you knew as you kicked them out the door and slammed it shut, locking it behind behind them. As you turned around and strode back to the bar, you realized the noise had summoned Eddie from the back. He looked at you wide-eyed and concerned.

Through the buzz of adrenaline you didn't realize how badly you were hurt until you held your sleeve to your face and it came away soaked with blood. “Fuck,” you hissed, grabbing a bar rag and holding it to your face. Suddenly, you felt like crying. You hadn't been able to cry in months, even though you wished you could let it out. It was like the physical hit, the blood, the adrenaline, the anger, unraveled the dissociation choke-holding your emotions. You were horrified and decided Eddie would not see you cry. He'd mostly seen you being smart and tough and you'd be damned if you let him see you weep like a child.

You muttered, “I'll gonna go clean this up and grab another vodka for the speed rack. I'll be right back.” You heard him call your name after you as you flew down the hallway and down into the basement storage room. You closed the door behind you, found the janitor sink between the stock shelves. You bled and sobbed into the stained square basin, wondering what the fuck your life had come to. You prayed to a god you didn't believe in that Eddie would keep his distance. When the minutes passed without interruption, you heaved a sigh of relief, bending more deeply at the waist and resting your arms on the ledge.

You didn't hear him coming. All you saw was big hand holding out a clean bar towel neatly wrapped around ice cubes as he said in a quiet deadpan, “We don't need another vodka in the speed rack.”

“Thanks,” you huffed, wiping away the tears and blood with the old towel then pressing the ice pack to your face.

Deflect. You thought, picking up one of the bottles of Ketel One and grimacing to your boss. “Well, really, nobody need this shit, Eddie. Jesus, can't even spring for one that doesn't come in a plastic bottle?”

Eddie shrugged. He was standing with his arms crossed, leaning beside the sink. “We obviously don't have the most discerning clientele. Come here. You're doing that wrong,” he snipped, pulling out two folding chairs to face each other and ordering, “Sit. Lean forward, not back. And let me check it.”

You gingerly took the pack off of your face and he touched it, feather-lightly, to inspect it. “Huh, well, it doesn't seem broken. Just a hell of a nosebleed and probably a nasty bruise for a few days.”

You nodded, returning the pack to your aching skin. “Sounds like your know your way around getting hit in the face.”

“Oh yeah,” he said with a chuckle as he prepped another fresh towel for you. “I was bully target number 1 most of my youth. 'Hunt the freak,' they called it. My punishment for being a weird loud ugly little gremlin who played DnD.”

You shook your head, too rattled to watch your words “Idiots. Ugly little gremlin! What the fuck. Eddie, you're gorgeous. Don't pretend you don't know that.”

Eddie smiled wider than you'd ever seen him smile. His cheeks turned bright pink. His dark eyes sparkled. “What? Do you have a concussion or something?”

Oh god. I shouldn't have said that...uh deflect. “Well shit...I hope not. My insurance is shit.”

“Hey!” Eddie whined in mock-offense, “it's the same insurance I have.”

“Yeah, and I can't help but notice you never go to the doctor either.”

They both chuckled awkwardly, and an even more pregnant silence settled until Eddie said, “you know, you're lucky. When I would cry after being beat up, you could see it all over my face, my eyes would be red and puffy and my face and neck would be all red like I just ran a marathon. You don't even look like you've been crying.”

You shrugged, “One up-side of darker skin...I don't get red. Blushing, bruises, crying...scars...none of it shows up as much. I can hide my feelings pretty well.”

Eddie gazed at you, eyes full of bittersweet compassion. “I wish you wouldn't though.” He reached his hands out to yours.

You looked down and noticed your sleeves were pushed up from your attempt to clean up the blood. Now the ruddy splotches decorated your arms and cuffs, and beneath them, the scars on your wrist were clearly exposed in the florescent lights. You rushed to pull the sleeves over your scars, but Eddies calloused fingers stopped you, as he ran them gently up and down the slightly darker, rougher skin running up your forearms. “Please. Please don't hide it. Not with me at least. I know the story, after all, and I don't judge you.”

Deflect. God, his face is so close. His pretty pretty face. “Ah...well...you can judge me for being an idiot tonight.”

Eddie averted his eyes, sat back and then stood up. He was hoping for a more intimate moment, but you just made it clear that he shouldn't, so he played along. “Yeah....totally. What the fuck were you thinking, huh?...All 5'2 of you gonna take on a couple of meat slabs like that?”

“Hey I'm 5'4, and don't tease me about being short. The hobbits saved Middle Earth, remember?”

He turned so suddenly that you almost ran directly into his chest and you dropped the ice pack. He caught it between you. You, once again, found you were close...so very close.

You forced out a chuckle, “Nice reflexes.”

He shrugged and said absentmindedly, “well...you know...guitarist.” But he hardly knew what he was saying. He was staring at your lips.

“Yeah,” you sighed out then pointed to the ice pack. “ I don't think I need that now. The bleeding stopped.”

Eddie said quietly, “Okay, just let me check.” He gently held your face in his hands again, looking around it for any cuts or swelling. There were a few small splotches, but none serious. Before long he realized he was no longer noticing the wounds, too wrapped up in the feeling of his hands cradling your soft tawny skin as his fingertips fanned teasingly into your dark hair. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, as he tentatively stroked down the side of your face. “Does...does it hurt there?”

“No,” you said in a whisper.

“What about here?” he asked, quietly brushing hair from your temples.

“No,” you repeated.

His pointer finger ran lightly over the curve of your lips. The bottom one had a tiny cut where your teeth had grazed it. His eyes followed his finger as he asked even more quietly, “What about here?”. He took a step closer.

“No,” you repeated, mirroring his step in with your own.

“Good,” he said as he leaned in, closing the distance. Eddie kissed you with those plush delicious lips you wanted to taste for so long. He was shy at first, still cradling your face like you were made of fine china, but when you opened your mouth inviting him in, he pushed harder into you, smelling and tasting the coppery blood on your skin. Eddie's warm wet tongue met yours and explored, thirsty for you. When you pulled away you bit lightly on his lower lip before releasing him and he groaned in delight.

You looked up to meet his big sweet eyes with yours. With desperation in your voice, you confessed, “Eddie...I want you to touch me. I want it to hurt. I want to cry. I just want to feel something...let something, anything out.”

Eddie was breathing deeply. He was already growing hard and hot against you. Groaning, he said, “God, sweetheart, you don't know what you're asking for. Fuck...I want it. I want you.”

“Fight me,” you growled. And he grunted back as he lifted you onto a shelf, slotting his skinny hips between your plush thighs. He grabbed one of your wrists and licked up your inner forearm where your old scars and new blood mingled together under his hot, wet, tongue. You'd never let anyone touch you there before, and it was so intimate, so arousing, it made you limp in his arms. If this was a fight, he was already winning, and you couldn't have that.

You gripped your greedy hands into those gorgeous curls and tugged to see how he liked it. Judging by how loudly he groaned and the way his thick erection twitched against his jeans, he loved it.

You giggled. “Oh Eddie, you moan like a whore.”

He muttered, “Come on, you love it.” from where his mouth was now latched to your jugular vein, no doubt raising blossoms of blood under the tender skin. His harsh sucking and the light scratch of his teeth set off dynamite in your bloodstream

You whimpered and confessed, “Mmmm! I do. I fucking love it.”

He gripped your ass and growled into your ear, “Open wider for me, sweetheart...atta girl”. You obeyed. His arm snaked around you waist as he pulled you tight against his chest. He rubbed the cleft of your cunt over the seam of your jeans. You whimpered and melted, head lolling on his shoulder as you panted.

“These gotta go,” he said, hooking his fingers in your belt loops and grazing the button of your fly. “That okay, honey?”

You begged, “Yes...yes, Eddie. Jesus fucking Christ, yes. Do whatever you want with me.”

Eddie let out a surprised breathy chuckle and you felt it reverberate against you. “Fuck, baby, now who's moaning like a whore?” he teased, with a shit-eating grin.

You had no words, you were too rapt watching his clever hands easily undo your pants; hastily tearing away anything keeping his mouth from immediately tasting your pussy.

You shrieked at the sensation of his long tongue dancing around your wet velvety folds. After a few unhurried laps he came up for air with a gasp of awe. “God, you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, slowly teasing his fingertips along where your brown skin became a deeper, more saturated hue, like the center of a flower; rich and lovely and soft, like fine dark silk. Eddie slid a finger on either side of your clit, pinching and coaxing the little jewel to the surface. The rough callous against your most sensitive skin scratched a little, hurt a little, and the ache felt so good. He stared at where his fingers moved as if it were the eighth wonder of the world, then continued worshiping at it, like a shrine, saying his devoted prayers in mumbles as he consumed.

He sucked your clit, nestling it between his full lips, while two rough fingers moved in and out of you. You panted as he found a rhythm, demanding, “More....more please. Harder...”

Suddenly he withdrew his fingers and watched your confusion with amusement. He stared menacingly and stepped back, making a show of taking off his layers. His chains clattered against the concrete floor as he stripped for you until he was completely naked; unguarded. Despite the confident posture, his puppy eyes pleaded for approval in his vulnerability, and you were only too happy to give it to him.

You gasped out, “Jesus Eddie, you're incredible...you're so pretty. I've wanted you like this for so long.”

He came closer again and pressed an unexpectedly gentle kiss to your temple as his hands worked at your shirt and bra. He noticed your hands shaking; how nervous you were to be bare with him.

He kissed you under your ear then whispered into it. “I know you're scared, sweetheart, but you don't need to be. I want to see all of you. Let me see all of you, huh? You're so pretty.”

He stroked your now-bare shoulder. Eddie loved the hue of his pale skin against yours, the different flesh tones winding together, perfectly complimenting...meant to be.

You bit Eddie's earlobe and buried your greedy hand into his hair as you said, “I need it rough, Eddie, please. Don't be gentle.”

“Anything you want, baby. Anything,” he groaned out as he pushed into you, in one hard thrust.

Your breath caught for a moment as the ache volleyed through your body. You felt yourself crack open..shatter, finally shatter, finally release. You felt hot tears and hot arousal pulse through you in a cascade. Eddie met your eyes, concerned.

You nodded and smiled through the blood and tears “I'm fine. Eddie, I'm fine. I need this. I love this.”

Eddie loved it too. He felt a little guilty about how much he loved it, but that just made him even harder. He felt like a hungry animal gorging himself on your sweet broken body, licking at your tears and cuts as your tangled weight hit the shelf again and again. The clanging tempo built until you both came in a crescendo of shuttering, gripping, biting and grunting.

As you both caught your breath, slumped against each other, Eddie rubbed sweet little circles on your back and kissed your forehead. He pulled out gently and his eyes grew wide with shock and fear as he noticed blood mingled with his cum and your wetness.

He gasped in surprise and concern, “Oh, sweetheart...fuck...I...I didn't know or I would have been more careful with you....would...would have made it special. Shit..I...I'm so sorry.”

You grabbed his face, smiling broadly, drunk with afterglow and shaking your head, “Shhh shhh. No, no please don't apologize. I wanted it like this. Needed it like this. I had to let it all out. Thank you, Eddie....thank you.

You nuzzled into his chest and he held you tightly, kissing the top of your head protectively. He said quietly, “Okay, honey. But for now, we're gonna go upstairs and take a nice hot bath and curl up in bed together...that alright with you? I...I liked it like that too, but I want to take care of you after something like that. No hiding, got it?”

“Yeah...yeah I got it.”

“Good,” he said, smiling and kissing you. You noticed you'd left a little collection of bruises on Eddie, just as he left some wounds on you. Noticing your worried look, he held your face and met your eyes with a satisfied smile. “Hey...don't worry. I loved it. Now let's go play hospital.”

@hellfirenacht @fairyysoup @take-everything-you-can @sweetsigyn @elegantkoalapaper @veemoon @slutty-thevampireslayer @little-wormwood @leelei1980 @ladyofthestayingpower

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #Eddie Munson x POC reader #eddie munson #eddie munson hurt and comfort fic

[stranger-rants]

people think about racism in a... weird way, let me tell you that. it's either you are, or you aren't. that's a problem because of the way systemic and ingrained racism is built in the roots of our society. people have done racist things out of ignorance or any number of factors and people will continue to do so, even people we admire. people fall into pipelines as kids, people commit microaggressions that they genuinely do not understand, people share racist memes because they don't see the dogwhistles/ don't understand the severity and only think of it "as a joke", whatever.

thing is, billy could be completely innocent in his eyes. he could believe that he genuinely hurt lucas to protect max and nothing else. but his actions still contribute to racism. and it's fine to acknowledge that. whether he was raised to have racist biases, doesn't think of himself as racist but still carries these beliefs subconsciously, or he genuinely isn't, it doesn't really matter because his actions were harmful and they hurt lucas. and again, it's okay to acknowledge that.

i wish people wouldn't really swing the pendulum one way or the other, you know? there's a lot of complexity here. people either characterize him as a violent racist who chose to torment lucas incessantly, or an innocent boy who did nothing wrong. fellow people of colour can have their interpretations, but i like it when the complex nuances are actually acknowledged. billy, whatever he was thinking (even if he was justified or innocent in his eyes), still did something racist, and that's still something he can atone for by apologizing and working to amend his errors. it's not okay, but he can change for the better and do good.

i simply think characterizing him as a violent abusive racist is damaging overall. it paints a very specific picture of racism that renders every other form of harmful discrimination obsolete, especially subtler forms. people think racism can only exist in violent people with hate in their heart, and that's simply not true. anyone can say or do racist things. anyone can cause harm and further perpetuate hurt to the people around them. anyone can thus apologize for these things, grow, and change for the better. as people of colour, it shouldn't be our job to rehabilitate or soothe people who did racist things, but growth they choose is a net good. and acknowledging racism as something that exists outside of plain evil bigots works to tackle the very ingrained racism in our world. just think that's important to consider for everyone, and it makes me happier now that i've understood billy like this, because i don't like viewing the world in such a strict, rigid moral way.

I agree. There is a lot of nuance to the conversation that gets ignored one way or another. It’s easier for people to identify overt racism that manifests in physical violence, but not so much racism that manifests in institutional violence. While I am white and I don’t think it’s my place to tell fans of color how they should feel about Billy, I think a lot of white fans are unwilling to confront the ways in which they are racist and/or contribute to institutional racism. They think that as long as they like the right characters and perform allyship then they can absolve themselves of their own bigotry. Regardless of race, I think fans need to also confront how their own traumas impact their world view because a lot of people use trauma as an excuse to perpetuate institutional harm.

What Billy says and does can be triggering to people for different reasons, and I don’t fault people for that. However, we can’t just use our own traumas to ignore his or ignore the context of his words and actions. If you don’t take the time to contextualize his behavior then you will never understand how to address it. Yet, there are so many people who don’t want to contextualize his behavior because that would require uncovering really uncomfortable truths about society… and themselves. I think a lot of hateful reactions to Billy stem from people’s own guilt and shame and in performing such hate for this fictional person, they are “checking” themselves. Making themselves feel good. It’s much much harder to think, hey, I might have been a bigoted person in my youth and it takes hard work to unlearn it.

That’s why people are comfortable taking a pro-punishment, pro-carceral stance when it comes to “dealing with” Billy’s racism even when that very mindset stems from institutional racism. It doesn’t emphasize growth and change, which are entirely possible with a teenage boy who was surviving abuse at the time they said and did those hurtful things. It emphasizes violence as a solution, which is how institutions already respond to marginalized people who are perceived to have done something wrong - with violence. This isn’t to say people can’t or shouldn’t defend themselves from racists or racism. It’s specifically this idea that Billy needs to be eternally punished for his actions even when he hasn’t shown himself to be a bigot that doesn’t resolve racism but rather feeds into it.

These people don’t want to admit that they’re doing harm or perpetuating cycles of violence themselves, so they need to be right. They need to feel good about hating him, and they need to perpetuate this false idea that people are static individuals who cannot change. You either are a bigot or you’re not to them, and I think feeling the need to defend their investment in such a character many people who like him feel the need to call Billy’s actions something other than racism. It’s still racism. You can be racist without being a card carrying member of the KKK or a neo-nazi. It’s important to acknowledge that, but it also is important to acknowledge that you can learn from that and grow and change as a person. That is what ends the “cycle.” Not more institutional violence.

#asks #racism #billy hargrove

[in-the-undercroft]

Okay decided to just do a throwaway blog for HL so I don't hurt anyone. Cause I give up I need to talk about Sebastian and Ominis. No video game character have ever fucked my up like that pair.

I wanted to do a "good" Ravenclaw playthrough. And Poppy and Natty thinks I'm good. But god, does Sebastian has me going down paths my character was never meant to go. From that Undercroft scene she was hooked on whatever pull his magic had. She knows his heart was in the right place. But OOC I know he's wrong but I can't stop the plotline and I don't know how far to take my character. I feel like having her learn the unforgivables is safe-she has goblins and dark wizards after her after all. But not using. There's been times where the dialogues has stumped me character wise.

But yet, she agrees with Ominis. She knows that they shouldn't go down this route. She morally knows that. She knows from the fear in his voice, from the reason in her mind. She agrees with him-and then goes and follows Sebastian to the ends of the Earth. And then Ominis finds them and all she feels is guilt.

Sebastian is her heart, Ominis is her mind, and her soul is the two of them and neither of them can exist fully without the other two but they're careening to almost certain disaster and I can't control it enough to stop it. I don't want to stop it because it's so well written, the way Sebastian, Ominis, and the MC balances each other.

I LOVE what they did for a Gaunt. To be so staunchly against everything they stand for-Riddles and Gaunts and Slytherins. My heart breaks for him, and Poppy and Natty and Seb. And Sebastian. He's so loyal to Anne, so kind to a traumatized and kind to muggles Ominis. Like look at Sebastian and you can tell how bigoted Malfoy was raised. How all of them were. Sebastian is kind. Was kind. Good. Malfoy was raised by bigots and never had a chance to be good.

I love them-Sebastian and Ominis- so much and once I finish their storyline you can bet galleons I'm writing OT3 fics. Like MC being stressed over being in love with them both and Sirona being to amazing big sister she is and having hugs and assurances poly relationships are fine? Already being written in my mind.

#Sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #ot3 #my mc

[tiodolma]

Gaius and Merlin were the most powerful class traitors of magic who were complicit in the actions of their genocidal bigot bosses just because they believe in one big dumb prophecy.

Gaius taught Merlin to distrust other magic users, to not help them, to hide himself and just devote himself to the crown.

Tbf to merlin he was just 16-18 when all these just started. He was too young. He wasn’t ready. He was sent to the most dangerous place for people like him. He was impressionable. His heart was too good. He was too moldable.

He took “I will not fall into anger and rage like Morgana” too far to the point where he couldn’t even find his voice against Arthur who was still relentlessly chasing down and killing his people anymore. He put all his eggs into the biggest bigot in their universe because the magic world told him that the guy was the hottest sht. Merlin was so broken down, so brainwashed, so indoctrinated that he still continued to forgive even after years of getting dismissed, insulted, derided and abused and only shown rare bouts of kindness by his supposed best friend in the universe.

Arthur didn’t deserve any of that devotion. As king he still persecuted and treated magic folk like shit. He blamed them for their own oppression, never accepted his father’s actions as wrong, showed no remorse in arresting and killing their women and children (shut up he only made promises to a frkn ghost), refused to learn more about their ways despite having the biggest knowledge base in albion, continued to imprisoned them for existing, calling them the most disgusting slurs, using their magic techniques recklessly for himself and still called magic “evil” when they don’t work.....and then played victim when he got called out by the oppressed magic folk.

It’s such a shame that Merlin hoped and believed in his potential after everything. Merlin could never truly relate to magic folk after all. The only people left alive who truly loved him made sure of that. His mother raised him to fear and hide himself. His mentor taught him how to be the judge and be the arbiter of life and death not only over the kingdom but also the magic folk. He was overworked and pressured to the point that he had no free time for himself. He was supposed to be the strongest warlock but he only had enough time to receive education from the dude who hasnt practiced sorcery for 20 years when he should have beenseeking out other magic users and learning from them. His life was constantly dictated by the big magic institutions who never give him the tools to actually start their liberation, only empty promises.

Merlin’s sense of self died gradually throughout the span of the whole series every time he lost a loved one and every time Gaius/Kilgharrah/Hunith asked him to forget himself and serve the crown. The kid who wanted to be seen and recognized for his talent, kindness and potential turned into a biggest self-sacrificing royalist who truly believed that his life was valued lesser than a king.

It’s a monarchist story. It’s a divine right of kings story. It’s a fascist story. It’s an anti-radicalism story, it’s a defender-of-the-status-quo story.

It is NOT a story of acceptance, of positive change, of equality, of democracy.

I thought we learned from Diogenes for fuck’s sake.

#adventures of merlin #bbc merlin #bbc arthur #bbc gaius #anti arthur #bbc hunith #anti merthur #merlin crit #merlin critical #arthur crit #doomed hero merlin #there i said it #hot takes #thots #aom is democracy bait

[robthegoodfellow]

Directly follows this snippet. Takes place in Spin Me Right Round universe, where Billy’s path deviates before he assaults Lucas in canon timeline (hence the vibe between them here is less fraught than you’d expect). Despite that, Billy still has to confront the lingering effects of being raised by a bigot (by which I mean, his own racism), and this snippet reflects on that process. Trigger warning for mention of racist stereotypes and past encounters with derogatory terms related to Latino community.

He and McKinney fell into a pseudo routine, heading to the community courts when practice let out and staying until either it got too cold or too late, and then Billy would drive him home. They figured out that if McKinney was wearing orange sweatbands on his wrists, Billy could more accurately aim for his hands without turning his way, and McKinney had taken to calling a stream of “B—B—B!” whenever he was coming up behind for an open shot.

Sinclair joined them one afternoon when Billy wanted to try a drill that only worked with three players—turned out the kid was more athletic than he looked, and way more into basketball than Billy realized. Apparently he and Sinclair, Sr. followed the Indiana teams religiously, college and pro, but Junior had been so desperate to talk ball with someone nearer his own age that he didn’t shut up for like half an hour, going on and on about their draft prospects, singing the praises of Stipo and Special K, bemoaning the Pacers’ shitty season—1 and 8 since New Year’s, which… yikes.

McKinney had tolerated the high-pitched chatter with good grace, not that Sinclair needed more than the odd grunt for fuel, and gave him some pointers to improve his stance, his shot. When Billy had asked later, en route to Maple after offloading McKinney, why he’d never mentioned even the slightest interest in basketball before, Sinclair had replied, with more hilarious vitriol than should be possible from the mouth of a literal child: “You’re a Lakers fan.”

“We’re not even in the same conference!” Billy had countered, indignant despite the amusement. “Hate on the Celtics, for Christ’s sake.”

“I can hate on both,” he declared.

“Whatever, dude,” Billy said, dismissive, deliberately provoking. “You just wish you had some of that magic—I get it.”

Sinclair had boiled for the rest of the ride, to Billy’s glee.

And look—he’d started all this with the goal of improvement, but it was a narrow, maybe selfish, maybe dickish kind of improvement: upping his game to antagonize some douchebag. But the more they practiced, just them two and with the team, the more he just… liked it. He really, really liked playing point guard. It felt… good?... to set the guys up for success, to tip into motion the dominos that put points on the board. Even though he wasn’t scoring as much, himself—it was a different kind of satisfying, knowing he’d made the right call when someone else made a bucket.

Which was great—maybe his heart had grown a couple sizes or whatever—but… there was another unintended side-effect. One that he was simultaneously so reluctant to confront directly and yet so desperately glad for that… he could hardly have explained it if asked.

He recognized it now because it had happened to him before, back home. It was—it was like this: So, Neil was… fucking racist, right? Billy’s whole life, the bastard had spewed all kinds of vicious, vile shit, and more subtle, insidious shit. Like, it took Billy ages to figure out, when he was little, what his dad meant whenever he mockingly referred to Frito Banditos, even long after the chip company discontinued the mascot. Another one: in third grade, Billy learned the meaning of greenback a couple weeks before he heard Neil rant about a seemingly similar term, and it took a mortifying mix-up at school for him to realize his dad hadn’t meant skyrocketing rates of soggy dollar bills.

Even as a kid, a part of him knew Neil was off-base—knew he was wrong—but as the years wore on, and all that garbage piled up in his ears, it… it poisoned the well water. Billy didn’t mean to, but for a while, an invisible finger pressed Play on the tape recorder in his brain whenever he crossed paths with any Latino—and he’d tense, get all awkward, precisely because he’d be trying to act normal despite the foul phantom torrent reminding him on a loop that they were all gang bangers, drug dealers, lazy freeloaders, illegal aliens, on and on and on.

And Billy’d had this paranoia, that somehow… they knew? That one look in his eyes and his thoughts would be manifest, even though he didn’t believe those things, even though he would press Stop if he could, bash the tapes to smithereens if he knew how. He’d been polluted—felt it intensely—how Neil’s ugliness had become his ugliness.

It wasn’t until middle school, when he started surfing sometimes with this kid Joaquin, who’d then introduced him to Manny and Luis, that he realized he could filter out the mental contaminants through… well, meaningful interaction with people—with the targets of Neil’s bullish bigotry. He’d started recording new stuff, true stuff, over the old.

Like… how Joaquin’s family had been in California long before it was even a state, and still visited relatives just over the arbitrary line in Baja; how Luis was living proof that everything Neil had sneered about the Sanctuary movement was bullshit, because there was a genocide going on in Guatemala and the US was backing the slaughter—had a hand in all the bloodshed plaguing the region, in fact; how Manny’s uncle had been one of the artists who’d transformed the concrete pylons of Coronado Bridge into a towering medley of murals, remaking Chicano Park into something beautiful rather a bleak reminder of the wholesale destruction of a neighborhood in favor of a motorway.

How Joaquin could make him laugh harder than anyone else with his lightning-fast, brutal quips, but Luis showed him the value of just sitting on his board, legs dangling, and feel the rise and fall of the surge like a pair of lungs beneath him; how Mexican food was hands-down the best thing Billy had ever tasted—not that there’d been much competition, considering his Ma’s favorite dish involved pickled fish and Susan’s most adventurous seasoning was salt; how as soon as Billy mentioned wanting a tattoo, Manny had brought him badass sketches of skulls… and when Billy’s mom had passed, had dropped off this little painting of some lilies, which he’d only been able to look at once and then put it away in the shoebox—safekeeping, not safe for opening.

It wasn’t like they were constantly hanging out or baring their souls—and Billy bared almost nothing—but you spend enough time with people over the years and you can piece stuff together. He missed them—wished he’d let them in, let them see more of him than the laid-back, wise-cracking beach bum. Hadn’t seen them since last March, when he’d gone off the rails. Hadn’t even said goodbye before leaving town.

Anyway. Went without saying, but Neil’s myriad prejudices hadn’t been limited to Latinos, and so—yeah, sometimes with Sinclair, with Jeff, and McKinney and other guys on the team… same playback problem, different tape. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been when he was a kid, probably because of the groundwork he’d already done thanks to his surfer buddies, and because he wasn’t an idiot child anymore who only had his parents to go off of—he read shit, and he had eyes.

Yet he couldn’t ignore—and was secretly relieved—that another round of re-recording was afoot, because just knowing abstractly, academically, that Neil was full of shit and racism was, you know, bad… it couldn’t compare to actually getting to know a person. First, there’d been Sinclair, and Jeff, to a limited degree—and now…

He was pretty sure he and Patrick McKinney were… friends? Guys didn’t exchange bracelets, or whatever, so unless they were Labradors in human form like Eddie, it was sometimes hard to tell when you’d crossed from the neutral status of “teammates” to something chummier. On Billy’s end, nicknames meant you were in—and he didn’t seem to mind Billy trimming his first and last—but maybe for Pat, the “B” was just… expedient?

It was more than that, though, because… like, he knew that Patrick had two older brothers—one about to graduate from Purdue and one living in Chicago who worked in advertising and had been involved in the Coke Adds Life campaign his first year in the business. That his father had died of cancer five ago, so his uncle, his mom’s brother, had moved in to help keep the household afloat. That he didn’t like his uncle much, for reasons Billy could guess.

Pat was shy—he tended to clam up in group settings, preferred to quietly observe, only piping in when he felt strongly about something—but once you got him alone, he had a mega puckish streak. Laughed easily, ragged on Billy nonstop, always in good fun, and could take it as well as dish it. Which was fortunate, because: ABBA. And just in general, the dude’s musical tastes were weird as fuck. He showed up at the community courts with a boombox one afternoon and started blasting a disco mix, for crying out loud. Claimed he played better when he had some groovy tune stuck in his head.

So, yeah. Friends, or… getting there.

The results of all their extracurricular practice were—pretty immediate, and pretty obvious. Both of them got more minutes with every game, the team started winning more than losing. Billy pretended not to notice how Carver was increasingly ornery about it—real waspish, pun definitely intended. When Coach announced the starting line-up ahead of a Friday match toward the end of January with Hargrove and McKinney at one and two, Carver flushed to the roots of his lame accountant haircut, but waited until the team had been dismissed to the showers to unleash on a poor innocent locker—the clanging kick carried over the hiss of water and booming chatter, and even when most of the team had finished getting dressed, Carver’s every movement was imbued with a violent flourish.

It was honestly delicious to witness, though Billy made a point not to glance at him directly, monitoring instead with his—by now, very well-honed—peripheral vision. On the way out, trailed stoically by Baker and Copeland, the little pissant muttered, just loudly enough for everyone to hear, how the sport was clearly turning toward cheap tricks and theatrics, and wasn’t it a shame.

The door had barely swung closed when Billy keeled over, hands on knees, cackling like a fiend. Harrington, who’d been apprised of the plan since day one, playfully kneed him in the side and Billy flopped to the gross tile floor, still laughing, arms raised in a reclining Rocky victory pose. There was a smattering of chuckles around the room.

“Watch your back, B,” murmured Pat, leaning over him from his perch on the bench, his voice laden with amusement. “First it’s cheap tricks, then magic tricks, then…” He raised his brows.

“Turning tricks,” Billy finished, as though doomed to his fate, and Patrick snorted. “Don’t worry, man.” He accepted the offered hand and pulled himself upright. “No one’s gonna see me with the devil.”

They won that Friday at home against Jefferson High—a real nail-biter to the final minute, when Billy somehow managed a devious no-look bounce pass to Patrick in the paint for a jump shot so picture perfect that the bench rioted.

“That was some Showtime shit!” Pat hollered over the chaos of mobbing teammates at the final buzzer. He launched himself atop Billy in a semi-hug from behind, then bounded over to his mom in the stands, who was still in her scrubs under her winter coat.  

There was talk of a celebratory bonfire at the quarry, and as he and Harrington were leaving the locker room, intending to at least swing by, have a couple beers, Billy paused.

“Hey, Mickey!” he called. “You need a lift?”

Patrick scrunched his nose, caught up with them as they headed for the parking lot. “Ma’s gonna want me home.”

“We’re not planning to stay long,” Billy tried. “Could ya talk her into an hour?”

“You made the winning shot,” Harrington pointed out. “That’s gotta earn you something.”

Pat shook his head wryly. “No one talks her into anything, but I’ll ask. Wait up?”

They hung back while he jogged to his mother in the lobby, winced when his beseeching look was met with an unimpressed flat stare. When her gaze flicked their way, they both startled, then simultaneously raised an awkward hand. She bit her lips, repressing a smile—the same way Pat often did—turned back to her son, and let him plead his case a bit more. Uttered a few stern words that had Patrick alternately shaking and nodding his head, then shooed him away.

“Home by eleven thirty,” he said, and waved his arm in an after you toward the winter night.

#fic snippet #wherein billy grapples with his racist upbringing #and he and patrick dominate on the courts of basketball and friendship #and enrage jason carver in the process #harringrove #but just in the background #patrick mckinney #is still in the chat #may i introduce you to my patrick mckinney headcanons #billy hargrove #spin me right round #racism tw #stereotypes tw #derogatory terms tw #if you have fic recs that address this aspect of billy #let me know… #curious to see how it’s been handled in the past

[servingliesarchived]

i’m often hard on arthur but it’s really because i’m angry at the wasted potential. speaking strictly of the show, they laid so much room for improvement in the early seasons and then just never went anywhere with it, it actually pains me.

#𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 ; nerd central. #all of these characters deserved so much better #seriously tho it makes me sad #because when we meet arthur he's a bully and a dick but he also has so much on his plate #and his heart is in the right place he was just raised by a bigot and was the prince #i believe he could've been so much more and extremely progressive like he was supposed to be in the show #how big of a tragedy would it be if he was allowed to be that #and the rift with morgana and mordred still happened between them all #just idk let me rewrite this show

[persephone-plasmids]

Trying

A Danse and Nora fic

[Part 1]

[Read on AO3]

Danse woke up before the sun, his chest heavy with the memories of the night before. Nora had kissed him. But she’d also been drunk, so it hadn’t counted.

Of course, that didn’t stop him from reliving the moment in his mind over and over again. He’d hardly slept as he wondered what was worse: Nora remembering the kiss and regretting it, or forgetting about it and the two of them never addressing it again. He wasn’t sure what he could even hope for if she did remember. She’d never reciprocate his feelings. And he couldn’t fault her for that. He was a Synth. An abomination.

Danse scowled up at the ceiling before rolling out of bed, pulling his boots on, and leaving the partially destroyed house in Sanctuary where he now stayed. The settlement had turned into a place for all of Nora’s strays to reside; himself included.

Fog hung heavily in the early morning air as Danse began his normal jog around the perimeter of the settlement. He’d run up the rocky hills to make sure no Raiders had taken up residence overnight then splash through the river a few times to cool himself down before making the jog up the hill to the entrance of Vault 111.

Today, the sight of the large metal vault entrance only made his stomach turn. It reminded him of his interaction with Nora the day before. She’d been grieving the loss of her husband. She’d gotten drunk. And she’d kissed him.

Had he taken advantage of her compromised state? He tried to assure himself that he hadn’t. He’d pushed her away. He’d been the one to stop things before they went further. But he also couldn’t deny that he’d kissed her back. That he’d enjoyed kissing her back. And he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t spent the entire rest of the evening replaying the kiss in extreme detail, imagining what it could have been like if it had gone further.

Danse shook his head, ashamed at his own thoughts as he jogged back down the hill to Sanctuary.

The sun was beginning to melt away the heavy fog and by the time Danse had showered and donned his Brotherhood jumpsuit for the day, the haze was nothing but a distant memory.

There’s no avoiding it forever. I’ve got to go check on Nora, Danse thought to himself as he exited his home and stepped out into the streets of Sanctuary. Settlers were just starting to make their way to their assigned tasks for the day. Some held rifles to guard the perimeter while others grabbed gardening tools. Danse rolled his eyes as Hancock stumbled through the streets with a dazed smile on his face.

“Just getting in, Hancock?” Danse asked, the disapproval heavy in his voice.

“It’s my duty as mayor of Goodneighbor to check on my citizens every now and then,” Hancock replied, the lazy smile still on his scarred features.

“Funny how it’s only the patrons in The Third Rail you seem to check on,” Danse answered.

He hadn’t intended on harassing the Ghoul today. In all honesty, he was trying to be better. Mostly for Nora’s sake, but also because of his own revelation that he wasn’t as purely human as he’d always thought. Danse hated being a hypocrite. But purging his deeply ingrained prejudices from his mind was proving much more difficult than he wanted to admit.

“It’s not my fault I know how to have a good time, Danse,” Hancock said. “If you ever want to loosen the leash Maxson put on you, you’re welcome to join us.”

Danse shook his head at the Ghoul but didn’t respond. He knew he wouldn’t have anything kind to say. Instead, he made his way to Nora’s house, ignoring the stinging reminder from Hancock that he was no longer a member of the Brotherhood.

Standing in front of the door to Nora’s home, Danse squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked. His body told him he needed to leave immediately, because whether or not she remembered the kiss, this interaction would be painful. Seeing her would remind him just how incredible it felt to kiss her… and that he couldn’t do it again. But he didn’t run. He stayed right where he was.

His heart hammered in his chest as the door knob turned, but it wasn’t Nora who greeted him. Instead, Deacon stood in the doorway wearing Nora’s old flowery apron over his usual T-shirt and jeans, raising his ginger eyebrows behind his sunglasses.

“Morning sunshine,” the spy said with a grin.

“Deacon?” Danse asked, his confusion slowly turning to anger as it always seemed to. He needed to work on that. “What are you doing in Nora’s house this early?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, soldier?” Deacon asked. “But a gentleman never kisses and tells.”

Danse set his jaw firmly as he stared at the man in front of him. He was already calculating how much physical damage it would do if he punched Deacon right then and there. The spy would live. But Nora would never forgive Danse. So he refrained.

“Oh man, I can see all those little Brotherhood cogs turning in your brain. It would be adorable if it wasn’t so sad,” Deacon said with a laugh. “At ease, soldier. I was totally kidding. Just wanted to get a rise out of you. I didn’t realize it would be quite so effective.”

Danse could hear the laughter in Deacon’s voice, but it was muted by the sound of his own blood rushing through his body.

He definitely needed to work on his anger management skills.

“Where is Nora?” Danse asked simply, refusing to acknowledge just how close he’d been to getting into a physical altercation with Deacon.

Danse was usually close to getting into a fight with Deacon, but the idea that the spy had slept with Nora was definitely the thing that would have pushed him over the edge… had it been true.

“I feel like out of the two of us, you’re the one who should know she headed over to the Prydwyn before dawn,” Deacon answered, turning around and heading back into Nora’s kitchen without another look in Danse’s direction.

The Paladin followed the spy and perched on one of the barstools at the counter.

Deacon, still wearing the flowery apron, was stirring mirelurk eggs in a frying pan.

“Nora went to the Prydwyn?” Danse asked, his mind trying to play catch up. “Why?”

“Personally, I don’t think she needs to keep things friendly with the Brotherhood of Bigots anymore now that The Institute is destroyed, but she said something about an open line of communication between the factions and blah, blah, blah.” Deacon shook his head. “Maxson said he wanted to meet with her about something or other. Probably wants to start a fun petition forbidding Ghouls from speaking or something.”

“Maxson asked for her?” Danse repeated. This gave him pause.

There was a time when Danse had worshipped Maxson. He’d thought the man could do no wrong. That was, of course, until Maxson had wanted him killed for being a Synth. Danse could understand the difficult position Maxson had been placed in, but after their years of friendship, he still had a hard time with just how quickly the Elder had turned on him.

He also saw the way Maxson looked at Nora when Danse had still been allowed aboard the Prydwyn. The Elder was young and Nora was beautiful. It only made sense that he’d look at her the way he did. But Danse didn’t like it, even though he was fairly certain the only reason he was still alive was because Nora had been the one to convince Maxson to spare him. Danse wasn’t sure anyone else could have swayed the Elder the way she did.

“Do I sense a love triangle? Because you know I love some juicy gossip,” Deacon said, grinning over at the Paladin and plopping some eggs onto a plate for him.

“That’s inappropriate, civilian,” Danse said, staring at the eggs in front of him and wondering why on earth Deacon would ever make him food. They hated each other.

“Hate to break it to you, tin can, but you’re a civilian now too,” Deacon said, taking a seat beside Danse with his own plate of eggs.

“You and I are not the same,” Danse emphasized, taking a bite out of the eggs. They were surprisingly good.

“You’re completely right,” Deacon agreed, though Danse could tell from his tone that he wasn’t going to like what came next. “I’ve been able to let go of my bigoted ways, while you still look at Hancock and Valentine like they’re Mirelurk scat on your boot.”

“That’s…” Danse began, but he didn’t know what to really say. Deacon wasn’t wrong. Danse wasn’t doing a great job of changing his deeply ingrained beliefs.

“Admitting you have a problem is the first step, champ,” Deacon said, with a soft pat on Danse’s shoulder.

It would have been a kind gesture, if the spy hadn’t immediately snorted from trying to hold back his laughter.

“I’m… trying,” Danse managed to say, even if it felt like injecting a Stimpack directly into his temple to utter the words.

Deacon glanced over at Danse for a moment, but it was hard for the Paladin to read his expression behind the sunglasses. He had to remind himself that this was probably the reason the spy always wore them.

“A good first step would be to actually spend some time with the people you hate,” Deacon offered, being surprisingly helpful. “You might find that you actually have some fun with Hancock. Plus, you and Valentine are a bit more alike than you might think. He’s a giant stick in the mud too.”

Danse huffed under his breath and simply said, “Noted,” before taking another bite of eggs.

The two men chewed in silence for a moment before the front door opened and Nora strode in wearing the all-black Brotherhood of Steel jumpsuit reserved for high-ranking officials.

Danse’s eyes involuntarily roamed over just how perfectly the jumpsuit fit her curves, though he immediately hated himself for the very visceral reaction the image gave him.

“Deacon Marie Jones! What are you doing in my apron?” Nora asked dramatically, walking up behind the spy and wrapping her arms around him in a familiar embrace.

This did nothing to lessen Danse’s animosity towards the spy.

“Your middle name is Marie?” Danse asked.

“I just make up names for him,” Nora replied. “Since he won’t tell anyone his real name.”

Deacon leaned backward into Nora’s embrace as she held him tightly before finally releasing him. Danse hated how casual their physical contact was. She wasn’t like that with the Paladin.

“I thought we agreed the apron looks better on me,” Deacon said.

“Everything looks better on you, Deacon,” Nora agreed with a laugh, walking over to the frying pan and scooping a few eggs for herself. “I bet even this ridiculous black jumpsuit would look better on you.”

Danse refrained from pointing out how false that statement was.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen someone look so good in a jumpsuit before.

“Give yourself some credit, Charmer,” Deacon said, his voice as smooth as ever. “There are only so many people who can pull off a dog collar.”

“It’s not a dog collar,” Danse mumbled, finding himself irrationally annoyed by the comment.

Nora’s lips quirked up into a grin as she set her plate down and walked over to Danse. The Paladin swiveled in his barstool to face her but he didn’t anticipate just how close she’d get to him. Nora walked right up to Danse, positioning herself between his knees as she grinned down at him.

Danse swallowed hard as his dark eyes met hers. She took one finger and hooked it under the metal ring at the neck of Danse’s Brotherhood uniform and gave it a soft tug. She didn’t manage to pull him closer from his sitting position, but it did cause her to take another step closer to him, now standing squarely between his thighs.

“What exactly would you call it then, Paladin?” Nora asked, raising a challenging eyebrow at him.

Danse felt like his heart might actually beat out of his chest as he stared up at her. She still had a firm grasp on the clasp at his neck and he worried she’d be able to visibly see the nervous way he swallowed.

“It’s… It’s an attachment for the Power Armor,” he managed to choke out.

He hated that Deacon was here to witness just how easily Nora could set him off balance.

“I guess your big brown puppy dog eyes just make the term ‘dog collar’ feel more fitting,” Nora answered with a smirk.

He could feel the heat of her hips against his thighs but tried with every fiber of his being to ignore it. Their close proximity was only making it more difficult for him to focus.

Thankfully, Nora released her grasp on the metal ring and stepped back around the counter to retrieve her eggs. “Thanks for the breakfast, Deeks,” Nora said casually, as if she hadn’t just upended Danse’s entire world.

“Just paying off my debt to society,” Deacon said, finishing his own plate off and rinsing it in the sink. “I should have never suggested that game of strip poker.”

Danse’s eyes widened at this comment but Nora just shook her head with a laugh.

“He bet me that I couldn’t convince a Diamond City guard to give me their uniform.”

“I didn’t take into account that she wouldn’t use stealth to get what she wanted,” Deacon said with a scowl. “I still think it’s cheating if you use your feminine wiles.”

“You’re just mad that you have to make me breakfast every Tuesday for a month,” Nora said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Deacon shook his head and grinned. “Well I’m off to go start some rumors around Diamond City that Piper is actually a Ghoul. Wish me luck.”

“You’ll need it,” Nora replied before the spy disappeared, leaving her and Danse alone.

Danse took a deep breath, wondering if he wanted to come right out and ask Nora if she remembered what had happened the night before, or if it would be better to just ignore it.

He decided on the coward’s way out.

“What did Maxson want?” Danse asked, trying to sound uninterested.

“Ugh, that man,” Nora began, exasperation heavy in her voice. “He wanted to try to convince me to pledge my exclusive loyalty to the Brotherhood again. But I told him, for the millionth time, I’m not going to abandon The Railroad or The Minutemen. There’s no reason we can’t all play nice.”

“I’m sure he loved that,” Danse answered, a genuine smile now playing on his lips.

“He threw a bit of a tantrum,” Nora agreed. “Luckily no one was around to see it. He had me meet him in his private quarters this time.”

Danse raised an eyebrow, still trying to pretend like he wasn’t incredibly interested in this particular point. “Oh?”

“I think he thought it might intimidate me if we were alone,” Nora laughed. “He poured me a drink, stood in front of his Brotherhood of Steel flag, and tried to look super intimidating.”

“And?”

“And it didn’t work,” Nora said, giving Danse one of the smiles that made her eyes crinkle in the corners while his heart melted into a puddle inside of him. “My affection isn’t that easily swayed.”

“Of course,” Danse responded simply.

He could feel Nora’s eyes on him as he looked back down at his now empty plate. He was running out of reasons to be in her kitchen but he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

“How are you feeling?” Danse began cautiously. “Do you have a headache from that bourbon last night?”

That was casual, right? That was something a totally normal friend would say whether or not they’d kissed the night before… wasn’t it?

“I had a bit of a headache this morning,” Nora began. She was pushing the eggs around on her plate with her fork but not taking a bite. Her eyes were no longer on Danse; now she seemed laser focused on the food in front of her. “I told you I wasn’t that drunk.”

Danse’s cheeks instantly flushed at her words.

She remembered.

She remembered and she really was lucid enough to know that she was kissing him.

What did that mean? Did he ask her about it? Did he ask if she regretted it or did he even dare to hope that she actually somehow felt something for him other than friendship or fondness?

“You can hold your liquor well,” was all the Paladin said, also staring intently at his own plate.

If anyone had walked by the scene in the kitchen, they’d think the two were Synths whose recall codes had been read to them.

The silence between them pressed on for a few moments before Nora softly cleared her throat.

“Listen, Danse… I’m sorry about what happened. You were totally right that I wasn’t thinking straight and… I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

Danse felt his entire chest tighten at her words.

She regretted it. She wished it hadn’t happened. He’d made her uncomfortable.

And now that he knew she remembered everything, he felt even worse for kissing her back. What could she possibly think of him now? That he was just like the rest of the Wastelanders; ready to take advantage of an inebriated woman at the drop of a hat?

What did he say to make this better?

“I’m… I shouldn’t have… engaged,” he said quietly. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but Danse had never been good with things like emotions. Synth or not, talking about his feelings wasn’t something he ever thought he’d be comfortable with.

Danse dared a glance up at Nora who was still looking down at her plate. She was frowning with something like disappointment in her eyes.

“I should probably get changed out of this jumpsuit,” she said after another moment of awkward silence. “Preston has a place nearby that he wants me to check out to set up a possible settlement.”

“Of course,” Danse responded, a bit too quickly. “I’ve got some work to do on my power armor.”

Nora nodded as Danse stood up and made his way towards the door.

Before he touched the handle, he heard Nora’s voice, soft and hesitant.

“Would you… want to come with me?”

#fo4 #fallout #fallout 4 #danse #paladin danse #nora #sole survivor #fanfic #fallout fanfic #fallout fic #fallout 4 fanfic #fallout companions #danse x sole #danse x nora #danse x sole survivor

[idreamtofmanderleyagain]

Hot takes about Severus Snape are a wierdly decent glimpse into how a person with progressive values analyses things. Literally every time someone talks about Snape, it’s like this tiny window into how one-dimentionally people actually think.

Recently saw a twitter post that was a fantastic example. Here’s how it goes (paraphrasing):

Person A:“Snape is POC and Queer coded, that’s why you guy’s hate him uwu lol.”

Person B: “Actually I hate him because he was mean and abusive to children under his care uwu but go off I guess lol”

Both of these takes are designed to be dramatic and/or reactionary. They each use partial truths to paint very broad strokes. These are get-em-in-one-hit quips. This is virtue signalling, if you’ll excuse that loaded phrase. Nobody had a substantial conversation, but now everyone who sees their statement knows the high ground they took.

At least a hundred other people chimed in to add their own little quippy hot takes into play, none of which add anything significant, but clearly made everyone feel very highly of themselves.

So many layers of nuance and complex analysis is completely lost in this kind of discussion. On tumblr, you get more of this kind of bullshit, but you don’t have a word count limit, so you guys just spew endless mountains of weak overblown evidence backing up your bullshit arguments, none of which was really about engaging in a real conversation anyway.

Here’s the thing about Snape.

He is a childhood domestic abuse victim. His abuser is a muggle.

He becomes a student at a magical school that takes him away from his abuser and immediately instills in him the idea that being a part of this magical world is a badge of self-worth, empowerment, and provides safety and security - provided that he keeps in line.

There is a war is being waged in that world over his right to exist (he is a half blood).

He is a marginalized person within the context of the narrative, forced to constantly be in the same living space as the children of his own oppressors who are being groomed and recruited into a hate group militia (the pureblood slytherins). They are in turn trying to do the same to him.

He is marginalized person bullied by children who are also part of his oppressor group, but who have “more liberal” leanings and aren’t direct about why he’s being targeted (the mauraders are all purebloods, Sirius, who was the worst offender, was raised in a bigoted household, the same one that produced Bellatrix.).

He had a crush on a girl who is a muggleborn, and therefore she is considered even lesser than him and carries a stigma to those who associate with her. That girl was his only real friend. In his entire life.

For both Snape and Lily, allying themselves to a pureblood clique within their own houses would be a great way of shielding themselves from a measure of the bigotry they were probably facing. There would have been obvious pressure from those cliques to disconnect with one and other.

Every other person who associates with Snape in his adulthood carries some sort of sociopolitical or workplace (or hate cult) baggage with their association. Some of them will physically harm and/or kill him if he steps out of line. He hasn’t at any point had the right environment to heal and adjust from these childhood experiences. Even his relationship with Dumbledore is charged with constant baggage, including the purebloods who almost killed him during their bullying getting a slap on the wrist, the werewolf that almost killed him as a child being placed in an authority position over new children, etc. Dumbledore is canonically manipulative no matter his good qualities, and he has literally been manipulating Snape for years in order to cultivate a necessary asset in the war.

He is a person who is not in the stable mental state necessary to be teaching children, whom has been forced to teach children. While also playing the role of double agent against the hate group militia, the one that will literally torture you for mistakes or backtalk or just for fun. The one that will torture and kill him if he makes one wrong move.

Is the math clicking yet? From all of this, it’s not difficult to see how everything shitty about Snape was cultivated for him by his environment. Snape was not given great options. Snape made amazingly awful choices, and also some amazingly difficult, courageous ones. Snape was ultimately a human who had an extremely bad life, in which his options were incredibly grim and limited.

In fact, pretty much every point people make about how shitty Snape is as a person makes 100% logical sense as something that would emerge from how he was treated. Some if it he’s kind of right about, some of it is the inevitable reality of suffering, and some of it is part of the cycle of abuse and harm.

Even Snape’s emotional obsession with Lily makes logical sense when you have the perspective that he literally has no substantial positive experiences with other human beings that we know of, and he has an extreme, soul destroying guilt complex over her death. Calling him an Incel mysoginist nice guy projects a real-world political ideology and behavior that does not really apply to the context of what happened to him and her.

Even Snape’s specific little acts of cruelty to certain students is a reflection of his own life experiences. He identifies with Neville; more specifically, he identifies his own percieved emotional weaknesses in his childhood in Neville. There’s a very sad reason there why he feels the urge to be so harsh.

Snape very clearly hates himself, in a world where everyone else hates him, too. Imagine that, for a second. Imagine total internal and external hatred, an yearning for just a little bit of true connection. For years. Imagine then also trying to save that world, even if it’s motivated by guilt. Even if nobody ever knows you did it and you expect to die a miserable death alone.

There are more elements here to consider, including the way Rowling described his looks (there may be something in there re: ugliness and swarthy stereotyping). These are just the things that stand out the most prominently to me.

J.K. Rowling is clearly also not reliable as an imparter of moral or sociopolitical philosophies. I don’t feel that her grasp of minority experiences is a solid one, considering how she picks and chooses who is acceptable and who is a threat.

All of that said, this is a logically consistent character arc. Within the context of his narrative, Snape is a marginalized person with severe PTSD and emotional instability issues who has absolutely no room available to him for self-improvement or healing, and never really has. And yes, he’s also mean, and caustic, and verbally abusive to the students. He’s also a completey miserable, lonely person.

There are elements in his character arc that mirror real world experiences quite well. If nothing else, Rowling is enough of an emotional adult to recognise these kinds of things and portray something that feels authentic.

In my opinion, it’s not appropriate to whittle all this down by comparing him directly to the real world experiences of marginalized groups - at least if you are not a part of the group you are comparing him to. There have been many individuals who have compared his arc to their own personal experiences of marginalization, and that is valid. But generally speaking, comparing a white straight dude to people who are not that can often be pretty offensive. This is not a valuable way to discuss either subject.

Also, I believe that while it’s perfectly okay to not like Snape as a character, many of the people who act like Person B are carrying Harry’s childhood POV about Snape in their hearts well into their own adulthood. And if nothing else, Rowling was attempting to say something here about how our perspectives (should) grow and change as we emotionally mature.  She doesn’t have to be a good person herself to have expressed something true about the world in this instance, and since this story is a part of our popular culture, people have a right to feel whatever way they do about this story and it’s characters.

The complexity of this particular snapshot of fictionalized marginalization, and what it reveals about the human experience, cannot be reduced down to “he’s an abuser so he’s not worth anyone’s time/you are bad for liking him.”

And to be honest, I think that it reveals a lot about many of us in progressive spaces, particularly those of us who less marginalized but very loud about our values, that we refuse to engage with these complexities in leu of totally condemning him. Particularly because a lot of the elements I listed above are indeed reflected in real world examples of people who have experienced marginalization and thus had to deal with the resulting emotional damage, an mental illness, and behavior troubles, and bad decisions. Our inability to address the full scope of this may be a good reflection of how we are handling the complexity of real world examples.

Real people are not perfect angels in their victimhood. They are just humans who are victims, and we all have the capacity to be cruel and abusive in a world where we have been given cruelty and abuse. This is just a part of existing. If you cannot sympathise with that, or at least grasp it and aknowledge it and respect the people who are emotionally drawn to a character who refects that, then you may be telling on yourself to be honest.

To be honest, this is especially true if you hate Snape but just really, really love the Mauraduers. You have a right to those feelings, but if you are moralizing this and judging others for liking Snape, you’ve confessed to something about how you’ve mentally constructed your personal values in a way I don’t think you’ve fully grasped yet.

I have a hard time imagining a mindset where a story like Snape’s does not move one to empathy and vicarious grief, if I’m honest. I feel like some people really just cannot be bothered to imagine themselves in other people’s shoes, feeling what they feel and living like they live. I struggle to trust the social politics of people who show these kinds of colors, tbh.

But maybe that’s just me.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 42: Sensitive

“I’m tired of hiding,” Draco whispered into Harry’s skin, the other man still smelled of sweat, and heat, and them.

Harry trailed his fingers along Draco's spine, "Let's not decide tonight," he said reasonably, they'd been through this before. Sometimes, especially after sex, Draco decided that he wanted to tell everyone about the two of them. Harry was always willing, and had told Hermione and Ron, in fact, because Draco had said he was telling his parents. But that was months ago and Draco's parents still didn't know.

And it was fine, truly. Harry didn't care about the rest of the world. He didn't mind pretending they were just friends as long as he got to come home to Draco each night.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, his face crumpling, "Merlin, Harry." He sat up out of Harry's embrace and rubbed his hands over his face. "I've made a mess."

"You haven't," Harry said, sitting up with him. "Sweetheart," he pressed a kiss to his temple, "Don't do this to yourself."

"I've done this too many times," he said, "You don't even believe that I want to come out anymore."

"I don't think that," Harry said, pulling the sheets up higher around his waist and wandlessly summoning his glasses. "There are a lot of reasons to keep this a secret. Your parents-"

"Are bigots," Draco finished.

Harry cupped his face in his palm, "They're still your parents."

"And I am their son," he replied. "I'm telling them tomorrow. At brunch."

Harry shook his head, "I'm not asking you to do that. This is fine," he said, gesturing to the two of them. "So much better than fine, it's good, Draco. I love you."

"I love you, too, Harry," he said, "And that's the point. You are amazing and I am proud to call you mine. I'm telling them," he said decisively.

"Okay," Harry breathed, pressing a kiss to his temple. "But I won't be upset if you change your mind."

"I won't."

(Read more below the cut)

Draco left for brunch at his parents' at 10:30 so Harry assumed he wouldn't be back for at least a couple of hours. He had a routine on the days Draco went to brunch; he made coffee; wrote notes to Molly, Minerva, Luna, and Hagrid; and then curled up in the chair by the fire to read a book.

He was entirely unprepared for the floo to sound in the middle of his letter to Molly, a mere twenty minutes after Draco had left. "Babe?" he called, standing and heading toward their living room, "What did you forge-" he started but broke off when he saw Draco standing in the middle of the living room, looking stunned and lost, with tears sliding down his cheeks.

"Hey," Harry murmured, hastening forward to pull Draco into his arms. "Are you alright?"

Draco's fingers clenched in Harry's shoulders. "They disowned me," he whispered.

"What?" Harry asked, his stomach dropping, this had been exactly what he was afraid of. He could never expect that Draco would choose him when the cost was so high. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice clenching tight around the words. "Fuck," he breathed, it felt like his chest was being torn in two. "I'll go, love," he said.

"What?"

"I'll go," he repeated, pressing a kiss to Draco's forehead, "You can tell them I was a lapse in judgement," he said, he couldn't ask this much of him.

"Harry, stop," Draco said, pulling back to look at him, "I told them they could go to hell."

"What?"

He nodded, "They told me I was being ridiculous, that I was turning twenty-five in a few months and they'd already found a wife for me."

"They found a wife for you?" Harry repeated incredulously.

"Yes. I told them I'd never marry her," he shook his head, "and my father told me that no son of his," he paused and let out a shaky exhale, before visibly steeling himself to continue, "No son of his would be a bloody poof."

Harry stared at him, aghast, what could he even say?

"He told me to stop being so sensitive and to grow up." Draco shook his head, "As though I haven't been grown up since the summer I turned sixteen."

"What did you say?"

"That if no son of his was a poof, then I was no son of his." Draco looked down and Harry watched a tear roll down his cheek, "He burned my picture on the tapestry."

He held the other man tighter, "I don't know what to say, Draco. I'm so sorry."

Draco shook his head and pulled back, wiping the tears from his face, "It's fine. It doesn't matter because we're free," he said, looking up at Harry with hopeful eyes, "We don't have to hide anymore."

"Come to family dinner at the Weasley's with me tonight," Harry entreated. "Let's tell them together, they'll be thrilled and they'll finally stop trying to set me up with Charlie."

"Are you sure?" Draco asked.

Harry nodded, "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

The Weasleys were good at adopting people into their family, Draco was no exception. They'd opened champagne in their honor, had officially added a chair to the Sunday dinner seating chart, and by the time Draco and Harry were getting ready to floo back to their home Molly had a pale blue jumper ready for Draco to take with him.

--------------

Two months passed, they came out to everyone they knew and people were overwhelmingly supportive. The press had a field day, but that was mostly about who they were, "childhood rivals," "the savior and the death eater," etc, and not so much about the fact that they were both men.

Everything seemed to be turning out fine, better than fine even, but Harry knew that what had happened with his parents still weighed on the other man. There was nothing Harry could do and any time he'd catch Draco thinking about it, Draco would just give him that sad little smile and shake it off.

One afternoon, when Draco was at work, there was a sharp knock at the door. Harry frowned, he hadn't been expecting anyone. He opened the door to see Narcissa Malfoy standing on their front stoop, looking elegant and regal, her chin held high as she looked Harry up and down.

"Draco's at work," Harry blurted because he wasn't sure what to say.

"I'm aware," she replied coolly. "Do you think you might invite me in?"

He took a hasty step back, "Yes, of course. Tea?" he offered.

"Thank you."

"Right," he said, starting off, "The kitchen's this way." He made his way into the kitchen and put on the kettle before taking out a box of biscuits and offering one to Mrs. Malfoy.

"So he lives here with you?" she asked, looking around the room.

"Yeah," Harry replied as he fetched down two mugs. "Yeah, we bought the place about eighteen months ago at this point."

"It's charming," she replied.

Harry fetched the whistling kettle and made their tea. "Why are you here?"

"Is he happy?" she asked in lieu of answering Harry's question.

"As he can be when two of the most important people in his life abandoned him because he had the audacity to love someone," he replied.

Her face hardened, "You have no idea what it's like to live in the world we live in."

"I don't care," he spat. "I don't care about any of that. I know what it's like to live in the world that Draco lives in now. He keeps pictures of you and his father by the bed. He tells me stories about the two of you all the time. He just starts crying sometimes, because he misses you and he's fallen asleep crying more times that I've been able to keep track of. You've broken his heart.

"And," Harry continued, "If you are just here to hurt him again and to tell him that he's not enough as he is, that he was never enough, you can turn around and walk out the door."

"I came to see you, Mr. Potter," she said before taking a long sip of tea. "What could I give you to convince you not to see my son anymore?"

"Nothing," Harry said. "And if that's all you came for, you can see yourself out."

"Do you love him?"

"Immeasurably."

She stared at him for a long moment, "Will it be enough?"

"For?"

She raised the teacup to her lips before answering, "That's the question, isn't it?" Mrs. Malfoy set the cup down once more, "Did you know that Lucius and I were not intended for one another?" she asked. "Our parents made different matches for both of us but we fell in love and fortunately our blood lines were compatible."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"We've often questioned the decision we made," she said, like it wasn't difficult to admit something of this magnitude at all. "I think that Lucius doesn't want Draco to repeat our mistakes."

"This isn't a mistake," he protested. "I love him and I would do anything for him."

"Anything?" she asked. "Would you give him up? Give him a better life?"

"If I believed it was possible for someone to give him a better life than me I would in a heartbeat," he replied evenly. "But we are happy together, we've built a whole life together, one that he was too afraid to even tell you about because he cares so much about it."

The floo sounded and Draco tumbled through, "You'll never guess what flavor ice cream Fortiscues ha-" he broke off, freezing in place, "Mother," he managed and Harry could see the way be ached to touch her.

"Draco," she whispered and she rose and flew across the room, pulling him into her arms, "I've missed you my darling."

"I've missed you, too," Draco replied, voice thick with unshed tears. After a moment he pulled back, "But I haven't changed my mind," he said, reaching for Harry's hand and Harry moved around the table to stand next to him, slotting their fingers together.

"Yes," she said, a smile tugging the corner of her lips and making her look so like Draco. "He's made that much clear," she said, nodding to Harry.

"I don't understand."

She sighed, "I won't make the mistakes my parents made with Andromeda. If you love him, you have my blessing," she said. "I will continue to work on bringing your father round."

"Really?" Draco whispered and Harry squeezed his hand.

"Yes," she said, glancing over at Harry, "I can scarcely imagine someone who could love you more than he seems to." She brushed her thumb over his cheek, "You are my darling boy and I want you to have the world," she said. "And it seems that Mr. Potter will stop at nothing to give it to you."

-------------

Day 41: Embrace | Day 43: Truth or Dare

Sorry, friends, this one is messy. I'm just too tired to clean it up any more tonight. I'll take a look and fix it up tomorrow. <3

#drarry #drarry drabbles #drarry ficlets #coming out #100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #day 42 #sensitive

[yoonpobs]

difficult | myg

pairing: min yoongi x oc

genre: fluff, mini angst, super cute, mutual pining

words: 3, 812

summary: you're difficult and yoongi just wants you

“I can’t believe it,” Jimin whistles. Taehyung mirrors his sentiment but with a look of disbelief.

“Me neither. But here we are.” Taehyung states matter-of-factly.

You were silent, not because you had nothing to say—but because you couldn’t believe it either. How did you allow yourself to fall into this trap? A trap you’ve spent your entire life training to avoid. And you would consider yourself someone that was dedicated to their craft and you truly were. But you were still susceptible to guilty pleasures and you just found your match.

“Why is no one stopping me? Why isn’t anyone telling me to get a grip of myself?” You cry.

Jimin looks at you sympathetically even if he knows that you hated being pitied. Taehyung at least avoids your gaze but the tell-tale signs of a frown appear on his face when you see the furrow of his brows.

“You know … you’re allowed to feel this way, right?” Jimin says carefully and you were more annoyed with the fact that he was walking on eggshells with you when you’ve long passed that stage of prudent navigation around each other. And you knew exactly why he sounded the way he did.

“I’m not. I’m supposed to be an impenetrable fortress that cannot be shaken by anything let alone anyone. I am an unyielding, resolute woman that refuses to be tied down by society’s narratives.” You say all at once.

Jimin and Taehyung blink at you. They expected this—but it still surprised them that you vocalised their thoughts.

Jimin clears his throat.

“Let me rephrase that,” He says sternly, “You’re allowed to feel, period.”

You shake your head because you’ve fallen too far—too hard. And you needed to get a grip of yourself because you didn’t work hard perfecting the flawless expression of bitchiness and temptation to be taken seriously amongst a Board of Directors filled with men. People like you couldn’t afford to feel.

Especially when the world never feels for you. For women.

“Do you hear yourself Jimin?” You exasperate as you throw your hands in the air in frustration.

“____—” Taehyung attempts to reason with you, but as always, you never let him get a word in. He knows you don’t mean any malice because you’ve built your walls so high that you think everyone is out to get you—but he just cares about you. He wishes you’d let him.

“No. You don’t understand guys. People like me? We—I—can’t afford to slack off. Not now and not anytime soon. I hear you guys and I wish I could understand where you’re coming from but frankly, I won’t ever be able to. You have the liberty of picking your battles because this world is yours. I had to fight my battles on my own to claim this world as my own and I’m nowhere near deserving of that role yet. I can’t feel.”

Their eyes soften at you and you avoid their gazes. You didn’t want their pity, and you didn’t want to sit in a tight office with their stares so heavy on your own.

“You deserve to be happy,” Taehyung says sadly.

You don’t respond, but you hear the chairs in front of your desk move against the hardwood floor. Then, you hear the opening and closing of your doors and you’re finally alone. Like how you do best.

You don’t allow another thought as insignificant as the one that threatens to overtake you to pass through your mind as you quickly tend to your pending projects.

The name of a certain man lingers very vaguely, though.

It annoys yet terrifies you how much you needed to consciously play your cards just right when you step into another board meeting. You thrived when you spoke at the podium, and no man—even the most bigoted—could deny that you were a born leader. But that didn’t mean that they liked that fact. In fact, most of them despised the idea that a woman as young as you was even allowed in the same room as they were. You wished you could yell at them, cry and shout until they understood that you were deserving.

You couldn’t, for very obvious reasons. But until you could—you needed to be smart.

“Mr Lee, with all due respect—liquifying the compartment company will not bring us the projected profit that you’ve pitched in the previous meeting.”

You’re level-headed and cool when you attempt to reason with the older and very stubborn man. He was old, and stubborn, which was never good news for you.

Mr Lee, the Chairman’s younger brother, simply scoffs at you, and you try your best not to let your eye twitch.

“What? Do you have a bachelor’s degree in business?” He sneers.

You blink.

“I have a double Masters in Business Administration and Finance.”

Mr Lee stiffens, and you briefly see Seokjin, the fellow nephew of Mr Kim, holding back his snorts at your declaration.

“I am qualified to be making this statement, and if you don’t believe in just words—which you really shouldn’t—here are the documents and projections from my end.” You distribute the analysis you took upon yourself to complete over the weekend and worked overtime to finish it as you handed it around the table.

Mr Kim, the Chairman, who was a far better man than everyone else in the Board of Directors, offers you an impressed smile as he flips through your booklet while you stand straight with your shoulders rolled back. A stance you often took to show that you knew your shit.

“This is very … meticulous. Great work as always, ___.” Mr Kim compliments you.

You don’t let it show on your face but you’re pleased with the way Mr Lee grumbles under his breath like a petulant child.

“Very well. We’ll keep the compartment company as it is,” Mr Kim declares and everyone else in the room shuffles to collect their belongings as the meeting comes to an end, “Meeting adjourned.”

+

“You’re absolutely badass,” Jin whistles at you as you walk side-by-side, your folders snug against your chest.

You hide your smile but acknowledge it regardless.

“And you were … there. As usual.”

He snorts and you know he gets where you’re coming from. Jin was simply present at the meeting but he wasn’t actually present. His heart had no place in the business world but instead in a world filled with fine dining and diverse cuisines as he worked up a storm in the kitchen. But as every father—who is the Chairman of a country’s largest exporter—he had pushed that dream onto Jin from a young age.

But Jin was Jin, and you knew Mr Kim simply kept him here for the sake of it; fully aware of his son’s aspirations and determination of becoming a chef.

“You should just take my position. You’re so good at business talk—I didn’t understand half the shit you were saying the entire time.” He says.

You shrug.

“I mean, that’s the goal. But let’s just see for now,” You hum as you reach your office, and you still when you see the person waiting for you inside.

Jin takes a peek over your shoulder and spots the same person who has you looking so tense. He whistles at you as he stuffs his right hand in his pocket while offering you a consoling pat on your shoulder with his left before he stalks off.

“Good luck!” He calls out, and you internally groan at the oncoming interaction.

You brace yourself and put on a brave face as you step into your office, doors clicking, signalling your guest to turn around at the insinuation of your presence.

“Mr Min, what can I help you with?” You don’t look at him when you place your belongings on your table and you nearly miss his scoff with the way you attempt to busy yourself with any mindless activity that you can find on your desk.

“Mr Min? Not Yoongi anymore?”

You ignore his bitter tone and look at him with a reserved stare, raising an eyebrow as if to question his statement.

“Are we not co-workers?” You reply coolly and he scoffs much louder for you to hear.

“Co-workers … yeah,” He shrugs, leaning forward, “Do you usually kiss your co-workers?”

You are still at the sudden declaration and nearly drop the pen that was in your grip. He’s suddenly inches closer to you despite the relative distance of your desk between the both of you. You try to ignore the heat of his body, but it’s entirely too suffocating for you to pretend like he isn’t there.

“Don’t give me that nonsense,” You wave him off and you steady your voice because you weren’t ready for him to see you break. You allowed yourself too much space to be vulnerable and you needed to stop.

He sits back into the chair and folds his arms across his chest with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, this is not what we’re going to do.” He says, suddenly much firmer than he was a moment ago.

“I’m sorry?” You ask, clearly confused.

“None of this detached, emotionless attitude with me. I see through this facade and it’s not cute. You’re going to speak to me like an adult and address the very obvious feelings you have for me, and likewise. You’re not allowed to deflect like you always do because I expect you to be honest with me because you’re clearly not being honest to yourself.”

You blink up at him and your heart starts beating more rapidly within your chest as it betrays your stoic appearance.

Maybe that was why you fell for Yoongi in the first place. He didn’t tolerate you. Specifically, the shit that you pull on him. You were well aware you were a stubborn, hard-headed bitch that could be emotionally reserved 99% of the time when you interacted with others. And sometimes your bitchiness was uncalled for, but most people were too terrified to say anything about it to your face.

Yoongi?

He had no problems letting you know what he expected from you and how he thought of you from the beginning. It should’ve irked you. Based on your strict line of principles that you upheld—a man projecting his own thoughts of you that he had in his head, directly to you, should’ve been dehumanising, disrespectful even. But you never got that from Yoongi. He was brutally honest. And you appreciate honesty.

But sometimes it made you squirm.

“I … sorry, what? Are you insane? I don’t have feelings for you.” You narrow your eyes at him and hope you sound convincing enough.

But you knew Yoongi well enough to know that he saw through your blatant lie.

“I said: don’t deflect. You’re deflecting.” He scolds.

“You’re being unnecessarily distasteful right now,” You roll your eyes.

“Am I? Or am I just telling you the truth that you’ve been trying to deny for the past week that you’ve been cowardly avoiding me?” He’s calm when he makes the accusation. And it wasn’t even an accusation because it was the plain truth.

You burn, both in anger and in humiliation.

“What do you know about me Yoongi? Aren’t I just the company’s hot-headed bitch?” You snap, remembering the first words you heard from Yoongi.

“You are a hot-headed bitch, and I know you’re scared of admitting that you have feelings for me because you think feeling makes you weak.”

You ignore the fact that he admitted that you were a bitch, but Yoongi wasn’t the type to lie, nor was he the type to kiss ass. And you hated that he was still brutally honest, even when speaking about a topic so … intimate.

“Look, I don’t know where you’re getting this information from but you need to leave.” You stand up to walk towards the door so you could open it for him but he grabs your wrist before you make it there.

He turns you around to look at him. Properly look at him, that is. You’ve been avoiding direct eye contact with him because as good of a front you’ve worked on to put in front of him, you were human. And as a human, you were bound to have a weakness.

“You don’t get to walk away from me—this conversation—because you hate confrontation,” He frowns at you and you turn away to avoid his heavy gaze.

“Yoongi, can we not do this?” You sigh.

He chuckles dryly, using his right hand to nudge your face to look at him. It should’ve been demeaning, but you felt nothing like you were disrespected. You hated to admit it but you liked it. You liked it a lot more than you’d admit to anyone.

“No. We’re doing this. You’re going to address your feelings for me and actually work for what you want—and that’s clearly this,” He gestures between the two of you and you glare up at him.

“I told you! I don’t have any feelings for you.” You snarl at him, teeth bared like an animal but he just laughs at you like you were pathetic. You hated how small you felt in his presence but yet you were still whole.

“You don’t kiss a person you don’t have feelings for—you don’t hold someone you don’t have feelings for like they’re your safe space. You don’t have feelings for me? That’s funny because you did all of those things and you’ve never once complained when I reciprocated.”

You fumble with your words as the tip of your ears burn a bright red, which Yoongi easily catches.

“You don’t turn into a tomato if I was lying to you. You’re not like that, right? You’re self-assured. Ms-I’m-An-Impenetrable-Fortress,” He mocks.

“S-Stop acting as if you know me, Yoongi. You don’t and you never will.” You struggle against his grip on your wrist but he simply tugs you closer until your faces are inches apart.

“I don’t?” He scoffs, “Then tell me, why do I know that you confide Jimin and Taehyung for advice but never take it anyway because you’re too damn stubborn?”

You were about to retort but he’s quicker with his response.

“Then tell me, why do I know that you walk with your head held high into meetings but exit with your tail tucked between your legs because you’re afraid of sounding too dumb, too incompetent?”

You freeze.

“Then tell me, why do I know that you pull away from people not because you’re repulsed by them but because you’re afraid of forming actual bonds in the fear of being abandoned?”

You internally curse when you fear your eyes burning, and the lump in your throat becoming too much to bear.

“Then tell me, ___, why do I know you feel the same way about me but you’re too scared of looking dependent to do anything about it?” He whispers the last part when he pulls you tight against his chest.

You don’t fight him anymore, and you relax into the firm expanse of his chest and it terrifies you that it feels so much like home. A warm space you find comfort in.

You don’t even realise the first tear escapes your eyes until you feel Yoongi’s dress shirt turn slightly damp under the skin of your cheek. You’re mortified when you realise you’re crying and you attempt to pull away but his hands find their way around your waist to hold you tight.

“Don’t,” He whispers, “Don’t pull away from me.”

“Yoongi … I-I can’t,” You stutter, voice shaky.

He wipes a thumb on your cheek to wipe away the continuous stream of tears that you don’t bother hiding from him anymore.

“I worked my ass off to be taken seriously here and—and … if I get a boyfriend they’re going to think that I’m reliant, I’m weak, dependent on a man.” You ramble, but he just listens to your nonsensical statement as he rubs soothing circles on your head.

“I want you to rely on me, to depend on me. Stop thinking that you need to fight your battles alone. I’m here—I’ll be here. I’ve always been here but you need to let me be there for you.” He says softly.

You peer up at him with swollen eyes and he thinks you look beautiful. You always were beautiful. When you were commanding a meeting; when you were focused when you were angry; when you were laughing, and when you were sad. He was in for all of it.

“But ... the Board of Directors—”

He shushes you with a light kiss to the corner of your lip and you feel your stale heart flutter.

“I’m not here to be your saviour. I’m here to be your equal. I want to help you as much as you’ll help me. And believe me when I say you’ve helped me. The Board of Directors? Relationship or no relationship, they’ll be the same bigots that unfortunately dictate the policies in this company. The only person that has the ability to change anything in this situation is you ___.”

You feel your resolve breaking but you should’ve known that you’ve never had any resolve when it came to Yoongi. You were always weak around him. And maybe you needed to start accepting the fact that you were allowed to feel weak, to feel dependent on someone.

“What if you leave me.” You whine.

He snorts before rubbing a thumb between your furrowed brows.

“Then I leave. But we don’t know what’s going to happen if we don’t try,” He says and you realise how close he’s gotten to you to the point you feel his breath on your lips.

“That’s not comforting to hear the slightest,” You complain.

“And nothing about a relationship is easy. But I’m willing to be with you. I’ve always been ready—it’s you that needs to make the decision, ___.”

You finally lock eyes with him and you see nothing but sincerity. Yoongi could be crass, and often mistaken as a dick. But he was just honourable. He wouldn’t lie to anyone or sugarcoat the difficult truth. In fact, he never made you feel inferior to him even when he was straightforward. He never treated you differently because you were terrifying—but he treated you how he would with anyone else. And that was comforting. While everyone else walked on eggshells with you, he was fearless with his declarations.

Even now.

“I like you. I have no qualms in admitting it. And I’ll say it over and over again until you believe me,”

You don’t reply but kiss him. And there are no explosive fireworks, and time still flows—but it feels familiar. It feels like a territory that you’ve known all along, a little rough around the edges with the time spent away, but a place you can allude to comfort.

He responds by licking into the seam of your mouth as you allow his tongue to lick behind your teeth, a small whine caught in the back of your throat as you card your fingers through his hair. The hands-on your waist presses you tighter, flush against his body.

He pulls away first, resting his forehead on your own.

“I need to hear you say it. None of this tip-toeing anymore.”

You offer him a small smile.

“I-I …”

He watches you stutter with a hooded gaze but nothing about his stare makes you feel pressured. It was more comforting than anything, and the way he still held onto you like you mattered—but weren’t fragile—allowed you some semblance of peace in retaining your identity. This arbitrary idea of what you thought you were and how people perceived you. It was difficult to unlearn an idea that felt very personal to you after years of mastering its art.

You’re still unsure of how to react but you’re so sure of how you feel.

“I like you. I-I want to try.” You wail.

He’s alarmed by the sudden change in tone from your end and at the way you tug at the collars of his shirt. Not aggressively, but a little desperate. Not in the way that’d make him scrunch his nose in distaste but in a way that told him that this was you being vulnerable. Being open.

He wipes at your cheeks with dried tears and looks at you so honestly that it scares you. But in a way, you were fearless because you were terrified of everything. Mostly of disappointing others who held you to such a high standard, but it was a valid fear regardless.

“I’m not some fragile woman that you need to fix and I want you to understand that,” You pull yourself together and tell him sternly. He listens because Yoongi has never been presumptuous.

“I’m my own person and I won’t change the way I act to be with you—and if you’re looking for a cute … dainty, soft girlfriend then…” You whisper, “That’s not me. I’m tough. I’m a bitch and I’m stubborn. Our arguments are going to suck because I have a response for literally everything so—!”

He shushes your rambling with a finger to your lips and a raised eyebrow. You pout at him under his finger and he finds you adorable. He decides to not say anything to preserve his head—but soon. He’ll tell you soon.

“Are you done?”

You huff under his finger but he looks at you fondly.

“I’m not one for normality. I don’t care about what you think I’m into because I know that I’m into you. I’m in this, ___. Stop thinking that I deserve some idealistic image of a woman that you have in your head. I want you, and I thought me coming here to speak to you about your feelings was a clear testament to that.”

You try to hide your blush but you fail.

“And stop being so conscious of how you act around me. Be tough. Be independent. But don’t be afraid to be cute and vulnerable too, okay? I like you in all ways that you decide to present yourself in. Just … trust me. Trust this.”

“Okay.” You nod.

He grins at you.

“Does that mean I can hold your hand on the way to work?” He teases.

You avoid his eyes and look to the side, but the slight curve of your lip gives your answer to that question away.

“I guess …” You mutter.

He hugs you closer and squeezes you until your feet leave the ground. He tackles you with kisses all over your face and you can’t help but giggle. You feel happy. You feel secure.

“Cutie.”

You deliver a smack to his chest but he just laughs.

#bts fic #bts imagine #bts fics #bts imagines #bts #bts yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi #yoongi imagine #min yoongi imagine #min yoongi fic #min yoongi fluff #min yoongi x reader

[ghostdrew22]

Angel || Draco Malfoy

Requested: No. Pairing: post-war Draco Malfoy x fem!reader Warnings: Lots of angst in the beginning, mentions of self-harm/self-destructive behavior, mentions of blood, quite a few mentions of the devil, ptsd, just a lot of dark themes ig (let me know if i need to add another warning) Summary: You’ve always been an angel in Draco’s eyes and now, years after the war, he’s reminded why once again.

WORDS: 3440

I’ve been wanting to write about the ‘devil on the shoulder’ trope for a while and I felt like @anchoeritic‘s 3K WRITING CHALLENGE was the perfect opportunity though i think i lost the plot a bit at some point and this probably isn’t what you had in mind.

i had to do so much research for this, probably the most research i’ve ever done for a fic. It’s a lot heavier than I’d intended for it to be (i almost cried at certain points) but I still really love it.

anyway this fic is inspired by ‘Angel’ by FINNEAS (which is a great song that I recommend listening to) and i hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

~~~

Anger.

So much anger that he doesn’t know what to do with it. Red, hot, fury just begging to be unleashed.

He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. When he opens them again his fist collides with the wall. “Fuck!”

The miniature Mephistopheles that’s made home on his shoulder tells him to keep going, that this is the only rational response. Draco heeds the advice until his knuckles are bleeding and there’s a dent in the wall.

He lets out a frustrated sigh as he thinks about you returning in a few hours, then he punches the spot one last time out of frustration. Draco’s own love for destruction lies parallel to the myths surrounding Beelzebub, his own virtues bringing him to peril instead of an unseen force of evil. But it’s much easier to believe that the voice always telling him to do wrong, is not his own.

Maybe this is who he is, a fucked up kid with anger issues. Maybe this is all he’ll ever be, knuckles spotted in crimson and harmful thoughts being shoved down as to not raise alarm.

He feels violated by the mark on his arm. Sobs stacking up in his lungs at the very thought, but all he can express is anger- all he can understand is the resent that crawls beneath his skin and settles into his bones like calcium.

Was it his choice? No. Did it matter? No. Choice means nothing in a world run by circumstance. Intention holds no value when there’s no action to follow through. In another world, a better world perhaps, he would’ve had the right to choose and he hopes that he would’ve chosen the right side- the good side.

Forgiveness, they say, is often practiced by the strong willed. He’d tried to forgive, he really had, but Iblis had told him that it didn’t matter who he forgave because they’d still done this to him anyway- they’d still sold his soul to the Devil.

“Draco, when will you forgive me?” She pleads and he shrugs with a thin smile.

“I don’t know mother. I don’t know.”

“It’s been years.” He turns a steal glaze toward her.

“And yet I still can’t get the mark off.”

“What am I meant to do?”

“There’s nothing you can do. It’s too late to do the right thing.”

“What would the right thing have been back then? Huh?”

“The right thing to do would’ve been to protect me.”

“I did protect you. I took the Vow for you!” She yells as she stands out of her chair and points an accusatory finger toward him. He’s seen this scene so many times before that it’s permanently imprinted in his mind, but this time he’s not a scared teenager being scolded by his mother.

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” He stands as well, “I just asked you to save me. Why didn’t you save me?”

“What?” She’s taken aback,

“Summer before fifth. You told me that you’d had enough of him, you told me that we were going to leave and run away so that you could save me from him, from all of them.”

“So now you hate me because I couldn’t leave your bigoted father?”

“No, mother. I hate myself because you couldn’t leave my bigoted father.” He tucks his chair back into the table and pulls out his wand, “Thank you for dinner mother, it was lovely.”

Then he’s gone, and he doesn’t come back.

Draco had shut himself out from the world, hoping that his loathing would dissipate with time but it hadn’t. He still wakes up every morning with that tiny voice reminding him that he’s worthless, and he still believes it.

Why had he done it? Why had he allowed them to put the mark on his arm in the first place? Why had he put his own morals, his own principles, on the line to save a family who might not have done the same for him? Why had he allowed himself to succumb to the many ministrations of Diabolous, which dragged him further and further down the dark side?

Weakness. That’s the only answer he can conceive. Or maybe that’s the sound of Lucifer on his shoulder, consistently reminding him that he’s no match for the evil that resides deep within his soul. He can’t fight it, it’s who he is. He’s weak and he’s unholy. Bathed so often in sin that it’s sunk into his DNA. Does that even make sense?

Draco shakes his head and runs his hands down his face in an attempt to ground himself. But it doesn’t work, all he can see is red and all he can hear is his own conscience belittling him for continuously making the wrong choices. Why does he always make the wrong choices?

His throat so dry it feels as though he’s swallowed sand. His palms sweaty like he’s dipped them in oil. He paces around the room in a desperate effort to remember where you’d placed the box last time this happened. He can feel himself disconnecting from the world, feel himself sinking further and further into the dredges of his mind that torment him most.

That part of his brain that holds the memories, the shame, the anguish, is his biggest obstacle in recovery. It’s always on good days, days when… He blinks when he realizes that no fond memories come to mind. Does he even have good days? Or does this always happen, is this what’s become normal for him?

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and steps back in shock, completely forgetting about his mission to find the box. The man in front of him looks clean, taken care of. When had he become this man and stopped being the terrified teenager that never ate and wore bags beneath his eyelids like name tags.

There is muscle on his arms, taut beneath the dress shirt that he must’ve put on that morning before going to classes… or work? When had he earned the right to stop looking the way he felt? Which of his actions had merited his beauty returning, when the dark mark still lays clear beneath the dress shirt that he’s got on? There are hickeys along his chest- one, two, three, littered around his torso like a map to his heart- and he can only assume that they’d been left in the wake of your last meeting, because he can’t seem to piece together the memory of them being made.

You. Where are you? Why can’t he remember where you are or what you look like? Did you finally leave? Did you finally realise that he wasn’t worth any of the pain and anguish that he’d put you through? Had you ultimately decided that Draco and the dark mark could not be separated, both physically and mentally? Maybe he never managed to redeem himself in your eyes, and it hurt so much to lose you that he made himself forget.

Redemption, he’d searched far and wide for it. He’d spent the months after the war trying to find some spiritual cleanse for the ailment in his essence, had dabbled in every muggle religion he came across in hopes of finding something that would provide him freedom from guilt. The Bible, the Qur’an, the Gita, the Torah, the Guru Granth Sahib, the Tripitaka- none of the holy books he’d read had promised him enough solace to feel deserving of love from a higher entity. They had all just reminded him of the purity and innocence that muggles embodied, the same qualities he came so close to erasing.

Redemption wasn’t in the cards for him. If it had been a game of Poker, Draco would’ve been the first fold with the knowledge that he didn’t stand a chance against the better players at the table. Who were the better players? He didn’t really know, he just knew that he wasn’t one of them.

His eyes drift toward his reflection once more and he feels disgust crawl through his anatomy. Nausea, a familiar friend in times like these, making itself comfortable in the barrel of his gut. Why had he even eaten today anyway? Sustenance won’t fill the emptiness that’s making domicile in his chest, it won’t make him less of a habitat to repulsive regret and desolation.

He walks toward the dresser and picks up a pocket knife that’s sitting in-between some make up and a music box. Then like deja vu he can already feel the weapon pinching, digging beneath his skin as if it’s trying to excavate bone. He recalls blood pouring out, drowning his pale skin in spills of vermillion and carmine, and dropping to the floor. The floor, chalky tile with tiny chards of black glass engrained in it, something that he hadn’t come up with himself but liked anyway. Who had come up with that again?

Screams, familiar but unrecognizable, had filled his ears soon after. He remembers his arm being wrapped in a bandage, him being carried off the bathroom floor and taken to the Hogwarts infirmary, no, it was actually St Mungo’s. He remembers being treated and loud cries settling down into comforting whispers beside him. He remembers feather light touches being placed on his face and kisses settling onto the skin of his palm.

He remembers something good, but he doesn’t know what.

He remembers the injury, and knows that it didn’t work.

Draco takes a deep breath and puts the knife back down. Staring at his reflection once more he sees that the man standing before him is not the same child that had stepped into battle way back when. When was that? Months? Years? He can’t tell.

The box. The box will tell him. But he doesn’t know where it is, he doesn’t even know where he is anymore. This room is definitely not his Hogwarts dorm room, it’s not in Hogwarts at all, and it’s not his room in the Manor either. Where is he?

His eyes shoot up when he hears a door shutting, and soon after voices follow suit. The voices are coming toward him, in this strange room that he’s in, and Draco struggles to identify them. His dorm mates potentially? No, this clearly isn’t Hogwarts. Friends? His mother? You?

Then there’s a laugh, from a child, from two children, and suddenly none of it makes sense any more. He knows those voices, he knows those laughs, so well that they might as well be his own, but he can’t seem to attach faces or names to them.

A few of the voices drift off, further down the hall, and one gets louder as the door to the bedroom opens. Draco holds his breath as the person walks in, not knowing what to expect, and feels a confused sense of relief wash over him when he sees you standing there.

You laugh as you enter the room, “If you can get an outstanding in Transfiguration then we’ll get you whatever your heart desires.” You respond to your daughter as you recall how both you and Draco had struggled with the subject during your Hogwarts years.

You furrow your eyebrows at the state of your bedroom- documents scattered across the bed, clothes in tiny piles all over the floor, and a tiny dent in the wall beside the bathroom door. A sigh escapes your lips as you process the mess and prepare yourself for what’s about to come. You turn and your eyes land on your husband, and your heart breaks at the sight of him. He’d promised this morning that he’d be fine, it was the only reason that you’d left him alone, but clearly he wasn’t.

“Love? Are you okay?” You ask softly as you take the shoes off of your feet and close your bedroom door behind you. He tilts his head to the side momentarily in confusion, but then realisation flashes across his eyes and he takes quick strides toward you.

“Oof.” You breathe out when he pulls you into his chest and rests his forehead on your shoulder.

“Y/N.” He muffles into your shoulder and you feel your heart swell with love for him- this man who recognizes you instantly, even when the entire world is nothing more than a distant memory.

“Miss me?” You ask with a small laugh as you bring your hands up to wrap around him tightly. He mumbles an agreement and you smile, “I missed you too.”

“Bad day.” He whispers and you nod, rubbing his back in an effort to soothe him.

“I know baby, wanna talk about it?”

“No. Can’t remember.”

“Okay, that’s fine.” You pull him away from you and kiss his forehead with a warm smile, “We can just lie down for a while.”

He obliges as you pull him toward the bed and shuffle the papers off of it, climbing on after you and setting his head in your chest. You run your fingers through his hair and hum, trying to your best to make him feel calm and prevent another breakdown.

But your efforts are futile, within the hours that Draco had been alone he’d thought every terrible thought that he possibly could, Al-Shaitan had already tormented your husband through a series of painful misconceptions. Draco had never really subscribed to religion or faith but after the war he’d identified quite quickly with the concept of the Devil- confessing that he believed he had an evil conspirator sitting on his shoulder- and felt that his own soul deserved to be damned. You’d tried to rid him of that notion, many times, but it never worked, he was in too deep.

You tense up when you feel a cry escape his lips and his fingers tighten into the space of your torso. “I’m sorry.”

He feels terrible, terrible for ruining all of your hard work. All the effort you’d put into rebuilding him now disintegrating in the blink of an eye. But you’re here now, you’re going to fix him again, he knows it.

You try to level your breathing so that you don’t cry too, so that you don’t fall into this pit of despair with him, because Merlin knows that any pain Draco feels takes as rough a toll on you. You pull him off of you and sit up, bringing him to sit as well, so that you can look him in the eyes.

“Sorry for what Bub?”

“For being broken. I-“ He feels another sob rock through him and you pull him into your chest. “Please fix me Y/N.” He pleads, a whimper following suit.

His fingers are digging into you again, he’s clinging so tightly to you like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t stay close enough, and it hurts you to know that even after all these years he’s scared that you’ll leave.

“You’re not broken Draco, there’s nothing to fix.”

“But I’m- I’m-“  Cries start to escape rapidly and interrupt him. He can’t see clearly anymore as tears form in his waterline and obstruct his view of you. It hurts, everything just hurts.

“You’re not broken, my love.” You whisper as you cup his face, “You’re not evil, you’re not bad. You’re good. You’re my husband, I love you. Did you open the box?”

He shakes his head, “Couldn’t find it.”

“Okay, let me get i-“ You’re cut off by your bedroom door opening and your children marching in.

“Dad, you’ll never guess what happened at school today- Oh, is this a bad time?” Ariel, your daughter, stops in her tracks as she raises her eyebrows at you.

You shake your head and gesture for them to come in. “I think it just got a little much for him this year. Please get me the box, love.”

Ariel goes to the headboard and pulls out the aforementioned box from the first drawer, before her and Cael, your son, get comfortable on the bed beside you and Draco. But Draco doesn’t need it anymore, he can already sense himself coming back down to earth. He knows where he is- with you, in your house, with your children, in your bed. He’s home, he’s safe.

He takes the box anyway and begins to unload its contents in silence, the three of you observing him with admiration. It’s a small circular box that your children made a few years back after witnessing one of his episodes for the first time, containing momentos from the last 18 years of you and Draco’s lives together. Pictures, notes, a few school projects.

“Tell him about what happened at school today, it’ll probably make him laugh.” Cael encourages his older sister Ariel, and she does as told.

Draco pays a significant amount of attention to the story, piecing together facts that he’s slowly starting to understand and recognize as a part of his normal life. He intertwines his fingers with Cael’s as Ariel continues telling the story from her spot on your lap.

Love.

So much love that he doesn’t know what to do with it. Bursts of it just choking him out.

Draco remembers everything now. He remembers this house of yours, the one he’d bought straight out of Hogwarts and begged you to live in with him because “It’s nothing without you in it”. These children that you’d had 14 years ago, that’d he’d been so scared to raise because he thought they’d resent him, and that made everything in the world just seem brighter. This life that he modeled with you on the embers of his haunting past, this life that reminds him he’s good.

Before you, he would’ve been terrified to show any one his vulnerable side, especially his children, but you’d taught him that loving someone means loving all the good bits and the bad bits, all the happy moments and the sad moments. Now he knows that when days like this happen, when he gets so lost inside the mental maze of his own construction, the three of you will always be waiting to help him out.

Ariel finishes her story and Draco bellows out a laugh, feeling thankful to have you three around in his moments of weakness.

His three guardian angels- the only people who can always lead him away from the shadow in his mind and toward the luminescence that he carries within him. “All the good within us is split in the middle, half from you and half from mum, just as it should be. I hope you remember that we wouldn’t be who we are without you both.” Cael suddenly speaks up and you smile pridefully at him.

“They wouldn’t.” You add once he’s done and smile, “I couldn’t have done such a bad job without you.”

“Hey!” Ariel accuses and you all laugh.

“She’s right though, I am the one who taught you hexes at age 7.” Draco grins bashfully and you roll your eyes.

“And look at us now, acing Charms!”

“See love,” Draco turns to you, “There is a method to my madness.”

“Mhmm.” You hum with a small smile. “Go do your homework, dinner soon.”

“Yes, I’m making pizza tonight.” Draco adds as he kisses both of your children on their foreheads.

They excitedly hop off the bed and run out of the room. “I can’t belie-“

“Harry called.” Draco interrupts you and your eyes go wide at his statement but you nod for him to continue, “He wanted to know how I was doing, you know with it having been 18 years since the war and all. Offered to come spend the day with me and make sure I’d be alright while you were gone.”

“And you said no?” You raise your eyebrows and he shakes his head.

“No, I told him that I’d come by his office instead. Then when I was getting ready… I just started having flashbacks again, and my mark hurt. I felt horrible all of a sudden, like there was huge weight on my chest and this fog obscuring my vision.”

There are few things that Draco has faith in, but you, you he never runs short on trust for. You’re a constant in his life, a shoulder that he can always rely on when he needs it, and as he sits here and tells you about his day, he feels love for you hit him tenfold.

You, this beautiful, kind, ethereal being that has no place on earth. You, the one who’s managed to convince him that saints are real. You, who has given him your entire life, along with all the love that you have to offer. You, Y/N, the love of his life.

You.

An angel.

~~~

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[slytherinnbitch]

Day 7: Proposal

Since this marks one week, this is going to be extra long!

"Goodbye love," Draco says as he leaves Grimmauld Place a little late.

Harry was dressing when he left him in the room, he casts a tempus charm just outside the door. It's almost noon, Salazar knew why Harry didn't even bat an eyelid at his late morning.

He apparates to the Maya Magal in London, it's apparantly the best place to get engagement rings and both Pansy and Hermione vouch for it.

A handsomely dressed woman, probably Draco's age, greets him at the door and takes him inside.

"What would you be looking for today, sir?" she asks politely.

"Engagement rings, thank you."

"Do you have any choice or maybe a reference picture?"

"No, just something light and simple would do. He doesn't like heavy jewels or jewels for that matter." Draco says, belatedly realising that he used the masculine pronoun instead of the neutral one, Hermione had told him that Muggles didn't always see eye to eye with same gender relationships like Wizards and Witched did.

But the lady doesn't even hesitate before giving him a smile and leading him towards the middle of the store. She starts showing him a myriad of rings- all of them elegant and classy with intricate designs but nothing that would suit Harry.

After almost four hours of looking at almost each and every ring in the shop, he picks a simple band which a mixture of platinum and gold with tiny diamonds adorning it's edges. He immediately knows that this is it.

The lady smiles at him again, not a single sign in her face saying that she is frustrated or annoyed that Draco took such a long time.

"Would you like to engrave something on the inside?"

"Yes sure." Draco replies, he instantly knows what he wants. In the end, the lady- Lara tells him to come back in two hours for the ring to be ready and he thanks her and gets going.

A tempus charm shows him that he has about three hours to get home before Harry starts to suspect anything and that's plenty of time. He apparates to the cementry in Godric's hollow.

"Hello," he greets James and Lily as he sits down beside their grave on the ground, "So I wanted to ask you for Harry's hand. I know it's an ancient practice and well, you are dead but I want to do this right. I was raised this way and I'm rambling."

He takes a moment conjure some flowers before he starts talking again, "So I want to marry your son. Why should he marry me? I don't know that. Merlin, I don't even know why he loves me. Me, who is an angry arsehole to everyone and who never smiles. Weasley's definition not mine, just so you know. I can tell you why I love him though? Maybe that will be enough to convince you both. Harry, he has always been my guiding star. I don't know how but even in school when we were at each other's throats, he had been someone constant, someone always there. No matter in what way, just there. And afterwards, the war where well you know things happened and I was so bloody naive but he was there as well. He had been my only hope back then, that Harry might be able to save all of his from the doom which was Vol-voldemort. And he did, he even initiated the house unity in Eighth year and then we got seperated because of our careers and look at us now. Both working at the Ministry and even our departments are connected, somewhat. I'm an Unspeakable, you see. You would know that Harry is Head Auror but not about me. I don't know when that star, that hope became my everything. Slowly, but consistently. We grew closer and I can't imagine a day without him anymore. At the end of the day, I need to be around him else I can't fall asleep.

It's been almost twelve years since the war but some scars remain. I'm really hoping that you would look past those and forgive me and accept me as your son's husband-if he says yes that is. Maybe this is all in vain, Harry might just say no and that will be that. But I'm trying not to focus on the negatives right now. Thank you for your sacrifices and thank you so much for giving this world such a kind hearted, selfless person. Thank you for my Harry." He finishes at last, his eyes are slightly tinging but that's alright. No one's here to see him like this anyways.

He talks to them somemore, about everything about him and Harry and how much he loves him and how he would never let Harry feel like he did throughout his childhood and how he plans on proposing Harry on the anniversary of their tenth year together.

Its about 6pm when he leaves the graveyard and goes to pick up the ring.

.........

As soon as Harry hears Draco call out his goodbye, he takes out his notepad from under the socks in the drawer and checks everything he needs to do in order for everything to be perfect tomorrow.

Pick up ring

Ask the parents

Check in with Hermione and Pansy

Order the flowers

He makes goes to the Wizarding Jewelry Place first and asks for the ring.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. The ring is ready and just how you asked it to be. I'll bring it right out," the old man says, who Harry got to know was the owner of the shop from Pansy.

He comes out after several moments and in his hands is a small jewelry box, with intricate golden work over the black satin. The man opens the box and shows Harry the ring, it's perfect with its platinum and gold band and a heavy diamond in the middle of it, he checks the inside and yes, the inscription is just how he had wanted it to be.

He thanks the man and hurries to Wiltshire after making his payment.

He apparates just outside of the Manor gates, after all these years it's fairly easy to enter. The Manor has transformed drastically, and Narcissa and surprisingly, Lucius's warm welcome behaviour had helped immensely.

He had been shocked when he met Lucius as Draco's boyfriend for the first time since the war, it had been after two years of dating Draco and he had been invited over. Gone was the bigoted, slimy bastard he knew, this Lucius was still as much of an arsehole but not the same one. They were not friendly exactly, but he liked to think that he and Lucius got along nowadays. Well it's almost been eight years so he guessed with time anything was possible.

The gates opens to him without any sort of hindrance. Just as he was going to knock on the door, Mipsy opens it and pokes her head out.

"Mipsy is here to greet Harry Potter. Who does Harry Potter like to meet? Master Draco isn't here today."

"Yes, Mipsy I'm aware that Draco isn't here. I'm here to meet Lucius and Narcissa actually." He explains, Mipsy nods her head and vanishes with a small pop, only to return twenty seconds later, and asking Harry to follow her to the parlor.

"Harry, dear. What do we owe this pleasure to?" Narcissa asks as he enters the room.

"Sure you haven't lost your way here? Draco doesn't live here any longer." Lucius says at the same time.

"Yes, Lucius I haven't lost my way and I know Draco doesn't live here any longer, since you know, he lives with me now," he retorts back- Merlin it's weird enough calling Lucius by his name in his head, it's weirder when he says it out loud. "I actually wanted to ask for something."

"See Cissa, I told you he had ulterior motives after all," Lucius says as he looks over Harry suspiciously.

"Oh Lucius, why don't we hear out the young man before you start with all your nonsense." Narcissa says and she waves her hand towards Harry in a way to tell him to continue.

"I want to ask for Draco's hand in marriage." Harry blurts out, the silence that follows is deafening. He looks from Malfoy to the other, both of them seem to be in an intense conversation which is being spoken through their eyes.

It's Lucius who breaks the silence at last, "Why do you want to marry our son? Why should we allow you?"

"Because I love him, I know it can't be as simple as that but that's the gist of it. I love your son with my whole being. I can't imagine a day where I can't see his face or without his insults which have somehow become a constant as well. I tried to find the many reasons for which I should deserve to marry him, I can't find one. But I want to, I want to be deserved enough to marry Draco Malfoy. I want to make him happy for the rest of his life and I want to do this right for once, that's why here I'm asking permission for his hand because even though it doesn't matter nowadays. Draco loves tradition and for him, this is of great significance and I want everything to be right this time." Harry finishes and when he looks over at them, because he had said most of that looking at the carpet, Narcissa's eyes a bit glassy and Lucius who never shows emotion, is actually beaming at him.

"Very well then, Harry. You have both our permission to marry our son and we both would be honoured to welcome you into the Malfoy family. I...I might have been wrong about you afterall." Lucius says and coming from him it's high praise. He is glad both of them and he tells them so and both of them smile fondly at him. They make him stay for tea and afterwards wishes him luck as he floos to Diagon Alley to meet Hermione and Pansy at the new cafe.

"So you got the parents blessings then?" Pansy asks as she takes a sip of her firewhiskey mixed coffee.

"Yup"

"And you have the ring?" Hermione questions as she sets down her wine glass. Seriously is this a cafe or a pub?

"Right here!" He shows them the ring and they coo over it for a minute. "Is this place even a cafe or is that just for the name?"

"It's a cafe and bar, of sorts. They provide a mixture of normal drinks but add alcohol to it. You should try the vodka and peach drink. It's absolutely perfect." Pansy answers as she calls over a waiter.

"No thank you, Pans. I have to go back to my boyfriend who shouldn't even suspect that I have been anywhere but work today. Do you have anything non-alcoholic?" He directs the last question to the waiter who has come.

"Yes, right about everything can be non-alcoholic or purely alcoholic as well. The mixtures are just out speciality."

"Oh then....you know what give me a vodka and peach drink. I deserve it after spending an entire afternoon with two Malfoys." Harry says. The waiter suppresses his amusement and goes to get his order.

Pansy and Hermione snicker at him, "Oh shut it. As if you both wouldn't do the exact same."

They are still chuckling as he discusses the details of the date he had set up for tomorrow. Nowhere public because neither of them liked that, so instead he had picked up a picnic spot for tomorrow night. It would be great fun to propose in the middle of night with only the moons and stars providing them light.

Pansy and Hermione were incharge of setting everything up and they would also be telling Draco that it was a joint anniversary gift to them and they had informed Harry as well. It was the perfect ploy and no one would suspect a thing.

"Alright, the two of you. Enjoy your night, go home safely. I need to get going if I want to make it home before him." Harry says as he gets up and kisses both their cheeks one by one.

"Ron and Blaise will be here shortly so you need not worry about it, darling. We'll be alright on our own till then." Hermione says back and Pansy adds,"Draco never comes home early so you needn't worry about it."

Seriously these two are in so much sync that it terrifies him at times.

He steps out of the cafe and on a impromptu decision apparates to Godric's hollow instead.

...

Draco apparates directly inside the Manor Gates after picking up the ring.

Tabota greets him and tells him that his parents are in the third floor parlor. He makes his way quickly-he doesn't have much time left, he needs to be quick now.

"Hello, love. What a pleasant surprise!" Mother says as he enters.

"Hello Mother," he says and then nods towards his father, "Father,"

"Actually I'm in a bit of a hurry right now. I wanted the Malfoy signet ring." Draco says, getting to the point quickly.

"But I can see you wearing yours, son." Father says.

"Yes I know. I'm- I'm proposing Harry tomorrow." He announces and he is confused by their identical expressions of surprise and then repressed mirth. He didn't except that.

"Is that so?" Father says as he tilts his head, "Very well then, I'll go get it." He leaves the room and Draco is left with his Mother.

"I'm so happy for you, my darling." She says as she comes closer and hugs him.

"Well, I hope he says yes, else..." Draco replies as he hugs her back.

"Oh I'm sure he won't." Father replies as he enters the room. That was surprisingly quick.

"Here you go, son. I'm sure Harry would be quite delighted." He hands Draco the ring and engulfs him in a rare hug as well. Draco can't believe it, his parents approve. Not that he didn't know that, but it's different to know that so explicitly.

"Thank you. I need to get going now. Goodbye." Draco says, his parents murmur their byes and he apparates directly to Grimmauld Place.

Harry's yet to be home, so he decides to hide his ring and take a long bath.

Tomorrow is going to be perfect!

@cupofsquirrelfan hope you like this!

Day 6: Braid || Day 8: Tattoo

Part 2 and Part 3 of Proposal

Requests open || Let me know if you want a part 2 of this

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