#and it’s magical and clever and brilliant

[tobiasdrake]

Fun Fact: Goku fights smarter. Vegeta fights harder.

As a martial artist, Goku's developed and cultivated his skills over the course of his life, mastering a variety of creative techniques and, more importantly, honing his mind. A quick-thinking and analytical counter-fighter, Goku prides himself on a creative and clever dismantling of his adversary's capabilities.

This is where Goku excels as a fighter. He's a formidable martial artist in his own right but when pressured, he falls back on a generally high understanding of violence and a creative mind for opening solutions. He reads his opponent's style and abilities, finds its weaknesses, and exploits them.

This, incidentally, is part of what what made Majin Buu such an insurmountable hurdle for him.

Majin Buu is a taffy monster made of magic who defies even this universe's conventional physics. He has no fighting style; He just does things, and his infinitely regenerative body and supreme liquid flexibility leaves no weaknesses to exploit.

He cannot be fought the way Goku fights.

For his own style, Goku has one particular signature technique and a couple other moves he's picked up from others. His mainstay is the Kamehameha. But he's innovated a wide variety of ways in which the Kamehameha can be used, based on the needs of his situation.

Goku's used the technique in a variety of ways, such as using it for propulsion instead of as an attack.

Bending it around the opponent's defense for a surprise attack.

Making stationary torpedos that he can fire at will to startle and disorient his adversary.

The coolest attack in Dragon Ball history YES I SAID IT. Learning to teleport? Cool. Kamehameha? Cool. Teleporting in while charging the Kamehameha in order to throw it directly under your opponent's guard before he even has an instant to react? Top-tier.

Point is, this is who Goku is as a fighter. Brilliant and innovative, bringing a great deal of cleverness and creativity to his fights. He breaks down his opponent's technique and adapts himself to the needs of the situation at hand.

Vegeta is also highly observant and analytical. Do not mistake me for calling him stupid. He makes plans of his own, and his greatest asset is his ability to follow everything happening on the field at once. It is next to impossible to get the drop on this man.

Vegeta pays attention.

Vegeta is always paying attention. He splits his focus incredibly well and quickly interprets what he's seeing and hearing with a critical eye. He misses nothing.

He is. Always. Paying attention. The one time someone actually managed to get the drop on him - and I cannot stress this enough - it was a person Vegeta did not know existed because he had not been a part of this battle up to this point.

Am I saying that Yajirobe's cowardice saved the world by not revealing his presence to Vegeta until this fateful moment? Yes. Yes, I am saying that. We literally have a counter-example from someone Vegeta did know and account for to contrast it with.

Vegeta is always paying attention. Unless he doesn't know you exist.

So. Yeah. Vegeta is incredibly brilliant and observant. But what he's not is a martial artist. Vegeta, instead, is a soldier. He's comfortable in the realm that overwhelming power creates.

Vegeta hits hard.

He hits very hard.

He hits very, very, VERY hard.

In fact, Vegeta hits harder than Goku does. That's not to say that Vegeta is stronger than Goku; Vegeta and Goku go back and forth on who's stronger in the given moment over the course of the series. But Vegeta's attacks are stronger than Goku's.

To understand what that means, you need to understand that certain kinds of ki attacks have a multiplying effects on their user's strength. Attacks such as the Kamehameha or the Makankosappo, which concentrate ki before firing it, produce a much greater level of ki than their user's standard power output.

When charging a Kamehameha, Goku's battle power reading on the Scouter rises dramatically. This is the secret of techniques like the Kamehameha: they concentrate ki into a point before releasing it all at once, like pulling the pin on a grenade.

As concentration moves go, the Kamehameha isn't actually that great. The versatility and creativity that Goku brings to it is what makes it so formidable. Pound for pound, it kinda sucks. Piccolo's Makankosappo here makes the Kamehameha look like noob shit.

This kind of ability is non-standard among ki attacks, which are typically like throwing long-range punches. In fact, it's super-rare among the Planet Trade to be able to do this. Raditz had never even heard of a move like this.

Vegeta had. He knew of exactly one.

I am so sorry to do this to you but we're going to have to talk about battle power numbers here for a moment. Vegeta's clocked at 18,000 BP as of his battle with Goku on Earth; it's brought up a few times in the Namek arc.

Goku, iconically, is OVER 9000 8000!!!

At the moment Vegeta and Goku's attacks meet, Goku is channeling the Kaio-ken x3 which is exactly what it sounds like. He's inflated the ki inside his body to 300% capacity. The drawback is that his body is now an overinflated balloon ready to pop at any moment from all this swelled and bloated ki inside of him. But the gain is that he's outputting 300% power.

At this point in time, Vegeta has a battle power of 18,000. Goku, formerly >8,000 is now >>>24,000. Goku, further, is using the Super Kamehameha rather than the regular one he used against Raditz, which brings with it a higher level of power multiplication.

Nonetheless, the Galick Gun is winning against the Super Kamehameha. Goku is forced to resort to a x4 Kaio-ken - which does leave his body utterly destroyed and incapable of continuing the fight - in order to have enough power to overcome a superior magnification from a weaker opponent.

We see another direct comparison between the two in the Cell arc. That killer Warp Kamehameha fired point-blank into Cell when he least suspects it, which hits him dead-on and unloads its absolute maximum power into him? It does this.

Brutal. If Cell didn't have both Frieza's ability to survive ludicrous levels of harm and Piccolo's regeneration, it would have been over right here. Meanwhile, a glancing blow from Vegeta's Final Flash left him looking like this.

Despite Vegeta being far less powerful than Goku was when he fired that move, the effect is about the same - With implication that if Vegeta hadn't pulled the Final Flash back at the last second to avoid destroying the Earth, he would have erased Cell completely.

Goku's shot hit Cell point-blank and full-on to do about as much damage, albeit with deadlier aim in terms of killing a humanoid being.

This is the distinction between Goku and Vegeta as fighters. Vegeta is very smart, and Goku is very strong. Neither of them is lacking in intelligence or power. But they are philosophically very different fighters.

Pound for pound, Vegeta's moves hit harder than Goku's. He is the unparalleled master in taking the power he has and channeling it into as much destructive force as humanly possible.

On the flipside of that coin, when backed into a corner, Vegeta falls back on outputting as much direct force as he can. Goku gets to thinking his way around the problem at hand and devising a creative answer.

Goku is a surgical scalpel. Vegeta is a warhammer.

#dragon ball #dragon ball z #son goku #vegeta

[mistressaccost]

Donna Tartt “The Spirit and Writing in a Secular World” in The Novel, Spirituality and Modern Culture

#was just really struck by this as someone who was raised without any kind of religion #i think i’ve longed for this worldview without ever really knowing it #for a little while with the right book i can live in a predestined world #and it’s magical and clever and brilliant #maybe my existence doesn’t make sense to me but these characters’ do #donna tartt #the secret history #the goldfinch

[vvrgo]

Tagged by @deadshoppingmalls for my top 9 films?! Bad idea! My brain doesn’t work at the best of times okay uhhh this took me 20 minutes.

Tag urselves and experience the pain of trying to find NINE movies you love.

#so I’m gonna walk through my reasoning in the tags because some of these choices are….weird #Treasure Planet defined my early years so much I wanted to BE jim I wanted to catch solar waves and that feeling never left me #Stardust makes me feel ill cosy and blown away every time I love romance and I love a good fairytale #Princess Bride romantic as hell and what a fairytale! It’s also incredibly clever and brilliant #Shaun of the Dead has one of the greatest platonic relationships ever and the movie is hilarious (1st cornetto movie I saw) #She’s The Man well I’m trans what more do u want from me #Holy Grail is special to me because my grandpa loved it and well he’s gone #About Time came out around the time I started to get really mentally unwell and it comforted me in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time then #Mother! Fucked! Me! Up! #so okay we caught the last late night showing of mother #we were all knackered from uni and left the cinema at around 1am #to a creepily empty city centre #we all felt physically unwell #idk what else to say except mother has immense staying power #I’ve not seen it since it’s release #and I doubt I’ll ever watch it again #but it sticks with me #HTTYD was pure magic on first viewing and pure magic every viewing since #it’s a beautiful story and a perfect score #PHEW! #im DONE

[aroacehanzawa]

Kaleidoscope of Death would be so good if it was good

#i'm 3/4 of the way through and it's just so painfully subpar despite the brilliant premise #at this point i'm just reading for the romance. which is tragic considering the romance is written like #'and then they got together. anyway next chapter' #my main problem is with the doors because their concepts are so cool and yet #despite being deathly escape room type situations our characters just magically find the solutions #without any apparent connections between the clues #it's just like oh because of this [unrelated detail] it must be like this [conclusion pulled out of their asses] #and the way they find the clues is sooo deux ex machina completely dependent on coincidences it's not even exciting #and the plot armor is so strong there are no stakes and the angst that is meant to be there isn't even angsty #like. i've read infinite flow novels with actual ultra smart protagonists who find solutions in clever but unlikely ways #(see: orv and global examination and mist) but girl this is not it #reading this is just a big :/ moment #it's not bad enough for me to drop it because it's entertaining and i want to know how it ends but #:///

[hisui-dreamer]

he lives in you

Characters: Leona, Floyd, Jamil, Lilia

Synopsis: You shared a night of passion with your lover before you left for the other side of the mirror, but fate's cruel hands strike once again as you realise you have to raise his child alone in your original world. Thankfully, your child is incredibly drawn to magic, and they opened a portal...?

Tags: slight angst, fluffy end because im a sap, fem reader, reader gives birth to a child, reunions, bot proofread

Word count: 2.4k+

Notes: uh i was practicing Japanese and researching Japanese names before writing this, so all my name ideas ended up in japanese? if it makes you uncomfortable, you can imagine that reader is japanese hehe

right in time for mother's day, so here's to a celebration of the motherly figures in our lives, blood related or not, for being there for us<3

Part 2✧Part 3✧Part 4✧Masterlist

A few months passed as you settled back into your routine at home. Eventually, with the noticeable changes in your body, it dawned on you that you were with child—his child, your lover from the other side of the mirror whom you could no longer reach.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turn into months. You had adapted to the trials and tribulations of parenthood. Juggling the responsibilities of work, childcare, and household chores was no easy feat, but you found solace in the small moments of your child's growth and development.

Your child was a true joy to behold, a mirror image of their father in many ways, and you often see the ghost of your past lover in them. Having inherited his magic, your child experimented with their powers, leaving you to support them with what limited knowledge of magic that remained from your NRC days.

On one such experiment, your environment started to shift as a wave of magical energy engulfed you. When you opened your eyes again, he was there, right in front of you—

Hina (日来) with 日 meaning "sun, day" and 来 meaning "coming, future"

Leona reminded you of a shining sun that radiated warmth and light in your life, of how the it would surely shine again no matter how dark the night seemed, and so you named your daughter after that image

your daughter has the clearest emerald eyes and flowing dark brown locks that you often braided in a similar style to her father's

she's very energetic, always curious and asking questions, eager to learn more about the world around her

she's an obedient child, although she's eager to seek your affection and may whine a bit when things don't go her way

if there was one thing that was similar to the Leona you knew, it's that she's extremely clingy and constantly seeks physical affection, hugging your legs and asking for you to carry them any chance she has

and also the fact that she enjoyed her naps a bit too much

her lion ears are a bit of an issue in our world, but you often hide them with hoods, clever hair styling, or simply saying it's a costume

when you told her about the brilliant man her father is, she grew really excited about the possibility of meeting him, and started playing around with magic more to be like the intelligent mage he is

and then it happened, just an ordinary afternoon practicing magic had the two of you transported back to twisted wonderland, face to face to Leona

somehow, he had grown even more handsome in the years you hadn't seen him, but instead of his lazy smile, he looked confident and powerful, like the leader he was always meant to be

A sudden gust of magic swept through the air behind him as he raised his staff in response, only to immediately drop it in shock as your figure came into sight, and beside you, a small child that he had never seen before.

"Herbivore..." he whispered.

Without a second thought, Leona rushed towards you, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He felt a lump forming in his throat as he reached out to embrace you tightly.

"This better not be a dream," he murmured into the crook of your neck as he inhaled your scent. "It's really you."

after a tearful reunion and introduction, Leona quickly excuses himself from his duties with a quick meeting with Falena, and helps you and Hina settle into the palace

since you left, Leona's been working hard to do what he can do as per your promise with him

he's now in charge of foreign affairs and on better terms with his brother after much needed communication

he showers you in affection, he's even clingier than before that it almost starts a rivalry with your daughter

he puts in a lot of effort to spend time with Hina, learning her likes and dislikes and bonding over magic

uncle jack and ruggie are always fun to be around and play with her

though it wasn't his fault, leona feels guilty you had to bare the responsibility on your own for so long, and he puts in a lot of effort to make amends for any mistakes work to build a strong relationship with you two

he has a family now, and you're damn sure he'll protect it with his life

Leona looked down at Hina, feeling a sense of pride and wonder at the little girl standing before him. "Hey there," he said, his voice gentle. "Nice to meet ya, kiddo."

Hina stared at him, her eyes searching his face. "Are you my dad?" she asked, her voice small and uncertain.

Leona's heart ached at the question, knowing that he had missed so much of her life. "Yeah, I'm your dad," he said, reaching out to take her hand.

Hina looked at him for a moment before a smile spread across her face. "Can you show me magic?" she asked, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

Leona felt a sense of joy at her words, feeling a connection with her that he had never felt before. "Of course I can," he said, standing up and taking her hand. "What do you wanna see?"

Sakura (桜) meaning "cherry blossoms"

your daughter has sleek teal hair that reminds you of the sea, a single strand of dark hair, and mismatched eyes in the same manner as Floyd

Floyd had lovingly given you the nickname "Shrimpy", and it only felt right for your daughter to be named Sakura, after the tiny sakura-shrimp

she's incredibly mischievous and there's not a moment of silence with her, she's spontaneous and playful and you've got your hands full

though she is very considerate of you and will listen to your words, she's uncontrollable when she's bored and in need of a spark of interest

she's also a squeezer, much like her father, and hugs you every time she sees you or anyone she likes, and you're thankful her strength hasn't developed too much yet

she enjoys biting you, albeit gently, and you find your arms littered with bite marks, but it's her unique way of showing affection

her eel form won't show unless she's been in the water for too long (thankfully), and she enjoys squeezing you in her eel form even more

ever so curious, she's asked about her father many times, and you've told her how carefree and easygoing her father is, and that he'd love her the moment she saw her

which leads you to her magic actually teleporting you to him, her spontaneous idea having manifested itself, and you found in a dimly lit room similar to the Mostro Lounge

Floyd looked matured, his hair sleeked back and his features sharpened, though his wry smile that you loved had stayed the same

Floyd's eyes widened with shock and disbelief, and his steps quickened as he rushes towards you, his long arms outstretched in a gesture of longing. As he got closer, he noticed the beautiful and curious-looking child standing close to you.

"Shrimpy?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "No way... It's really you!"

Floyd pulled you close, holding you tightly as if he never wanted to let go. "I missed ya so much, I wish I hadn't let ya go," he said, his voice choked with emotion as tears threatened to spill. "You're not allowed to leave again, okay?"

Floyd is so ecstatic he can't stand still, once he's calmed down a bit, be immediately carries Sakura and drags you to Jade and Azul

Azul and Jade are pleasantly surprised at your return, and it's a warm welcome back

the two of them are glad Floyd won't be moping any time soon

the trio have now expanded into a franchise and divulged into many businesses, though Floyd largely acts as Azul's right-hand man

Now that you're back, he refuses to be apart from you, always holding onto you tightly and afraid you might disappear just like how suddenly you appeared

he does get mood swings where he's upset or angry, not at you though, just at how unfair things were and how he couldn't be there for you

he's a good eel who does everything to make sure you and Sakura are happy and comfortable, often cooking meals for you two

he's so curious about Sakura and enjoys playing with her and lifting her high up in the air

don't worry, he's extremely careful, this precious gem is why you got back to him!

Jade is the best uncle and Sakura wants to marry him??? (honestly same)

poor Azul is getting pranked by the daughter- father duo, though Sakura does comfort him afterwards with squeezes and kissss

Floyd looked down at Sakura, and he saw her staring back at him with wide, curious eyes in the opposite colours of his eyes. Though she resembled him physically, there was an air about her that was so distinctly his Shrimpy.

"Heya," Floyd said, trying to sound friendly. "I'm your dad."

Sakura giggled and reached out to him, her tiny hands grasping at his hands. Floyd froze, not sure what to do, letting her yand his hand forward. But then, she opened her mouth and bit down on finger.

"Hey!" Floyd cried, pulling back in surprise.

Sakura just laughed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Floyd couldn't help but laugh too, despite the pain in his finger.

"Yer a feisty one, aren't ya, Sakura-shrimpy?" he teased, grinning down at her as he ruffled her hair. "You know," he whispered, "you can't just go around biting people like that. But I like your style."

Isami (功己) 功 meaning "achievement, credit, honour, merits" and 己 meaning "self, serpent, snake."

your son has smooth ebony locks and sharp grey eyes that make him look slightly intimidating

Jamil had shown you how much he valued his achievements over his social status, so you chose a name the could embody him

he's a quiet child who's always attentive and careful

he's rather shy in front of other people, but when it's you he'll soak up all of your affection and stare at you with longing eyes seeking praise

he's a cute helper at home too! he always volunteers to help you with chores and cook in the kitchen, though you're careful he's not close to anything sharp or dangerous

he does have an inherent fear of bugs, something he's inherited from Jamil, but thankfully you've taught him to be less destructive than his father

do expect screams and for him to be crying as a little fly chases him around though

he's incredibly smart and talented at magic, easily grasping the concepts of magic you can only teach him theoretically

when you told him about his father, you've told him about the diligent man that his father is, and how would let his guard down around those he treasured

he had listened quietly without much of a change in his expression, but you could tell there was a bubbling excitement building up in his eyes

and no long after that, he managed to teleport the two of you to a warm, airy room of marble walls

Jamil's features had sharpened, he seemed more openly confident and comfortable with himself

Jamil's heart skipped a beat as he saw you. It had been five years since he bid your farewell at the mirror chamber and lost you forever. And yet here you were standing here in front of him with a child in tow, a child who resembled him so much.

"It can't be..." he murmurs.

Without hesitation, Jamil dropped all the papers and rushed towards you, his heart pounding furiously. His eyes locked with yours, and in that moment, time seemed to stand still. He could see the love and longing still shining in your eyes, and he knew deep down that he had never stopped loving you.

Jamil couldn't stop the tears that began streaming down his face. "I've missed you so much," he said, his voice raspy. "Letting you go is the worst decision I've ever made." He reached out and pulling you into a tight embrace, his arms shaking with emotions.

he's a bit overwhelmed but still so thankful you're back in his life

Kalim barges in at this time and exclaims in surprise at your return and ??? OMG JAMIL YOU HAVE A SON?!!

Jamil has half a mind to dissuade him from holding a banquet immediately to welcome you back, and instead take things slow to not overwhelm you or Isami

asks Kalim for some privacy and the second he's away, he melts into your embrace

he hasn't felt so at ease in so long

if he wakes up in the morning and you're not right there beside him, he's panicking and searching all over the place for some confirmation you're still here

he's very curious about Isami and asks him all sorts of questions to piece together his development and personality

they definitely have a rivalry over who's braver over bugs but it just ends up with the two hugging you for safety

he's a bit awkward with how careful he is with his emotions, so it takes Isami some time to fully trust him

but trust me, Jamil will go above and beyond for his family and there's no way Isami will have to endure what Jamil did in his childhood

Jamil's eyes widened in surprise and wonder. He couldn't believe that they had created a life together. He knelt down to the Isami' eye level and looked into his eyes. "Hello there," he said, his voice gentle and warm. "What's your name?"

Isami starred back at him, his eyes wide with distrust and caution before he buried his face in your legs. Jamil chuckled softly. "It's okay," he comforted. "You don't have to be shy around me. I'm your dad."

Isami looked up at him again, this time with a mix of curiosity and wonder. "Daddy?" they said, testing the word out.

Jamil smiled warmly as nodded, his heart swelling with love and joy. "Yes, daddy," he parroted. "And I promise I'm never going to leave you or your mommy again."

Yuri (百合) meaning "lily"

Lilia's name always reminded you for lily flowers, and what better name for your daughter to embody him?

your daughter has straight raven hair with some of the hair flipping upwards resembling two horns, angular fae ears, and bright crimson eyes

she's always up for pranks and mischief, it's rare to see her without a smile

she loves exploring places, if you keep your eyes off her for one second, she's letting her curiosity take her to whatever she wants

if you're serious and stern though, she will listen to you, she wouldn't dare make her mother upset!

she's friendly with everyone and isn't shy to say hi to neighbors or absolute strangers

she's not overly affectionate, but she definitely enjoys hugs and kisses from you

she has an odd habit of taking stray animals back home in an attempt to adopt them, so you have little adventures with her trying to find an owner

do not let her in the kitchen

she has surely inherited her father's cooking abilities, somehow, she can render even a piece of toast beyond human consumption

magic comes as second nature to her, and she's always standing on ceilings

gosh her eyes absolutely sparkled when you told her about the teasing and mischievous fae that is her father

and soon, the portal opened and you found yourself in a gothic castle lit up by green candles

He's a lot taller, his hair longer and reaching his waist, and more enchanting than ever

Lilia stood in shock as your family figure come into sight. In all his years of living, he had never been so utterly stunned. After all these years, you had finally returned to him.

"Beastie..." Lilia gasped, his voice catching in his throat.

With a surge of energy, Lilia broke free from the trance-like state and hurried towards you, his hair streaming behind him like a dark flag as he enveloped you tightly in his embrace. "After all these years, you've truly come back to me?"

Carefully, Lilia held you at arm's length, studying your matured features, etching them into his memory like a cherished work of art. His eyes traced the lines and contours of your face, memorizing every detail that time had etched upon you.

"My, how you've grown," Lilia murmured, a mix of pride and wistfulness coloring his words. "The years have shaped you into a remarkable individual."

it's family reunion time!!!

he immediately drags you to the throne room where malleus, silver and sebek are

malleus is now king with two incredibly reliable bodyguards, and Lilia's his most trusted advisor

malleus is so glad his dear human friend is back, silver is satisfied that his father will have someone to be with, and sebek is screaming about Yuri, though she enjoys his loudness

for a while, Lilia is extremely affectionate, trying to make up for all the years that had gone by

when you're sleeping together at night, he hugs you tightly and it's difficult to leave his embrace

he definitely tries to cook for you two, going on and on about how the two of you need to stay healthy and need lots of nutrients

you always volunteer your portion for Yuri, and she'll gladly eat whatever her father has cooked for her

silver is an older brother often on babysitting duty, and Yuri loves watching him spar with sebek and also wants to learn

Sebek is quite fond of Yuri, and he sees his half-fae self in her

Lilia is always trying to fun with Yuri, bouncing her high up in the air and teaching her to hang upside down and swing around

plans so many family vacations, he can't wait to be exploring places with his two darlings

"Is she... ours?" Lilia asked. At your nod, he reached out to caress Yuri's cheek, his touch gentle as if he were touching fragile porcelain.

"Well, I'll be damned," Lilia chuckled, his voice cracking with emotion. "I never thought I'd be a father again. But I'm glad to meet you, little one. What's your name?"

Yuri giggled and and beamed at his touch. "My name's Yuri," she said, her voice sweet as honey.

"Yuri," Lilia repeated, his heart swelling with emotion. "What a beautiful name for my beautiful girl," he reached up to fondle her hair. "You know, Yuri," Lilia said, his voice growing serious. "I may not have been there for you when you were born, but I promise I'll always be here for you from now on. No matter what happens, I'm your father, and I'll always love you darling."

Part 2✧Part 3✧Part 4✧Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

#twstnexus #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland leona #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingsholar #twisted wonderland floyd #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech #twisted wonderland jamil #jamil viper #jamil viper x reader #twisted wonderland lilia #lilia vanrouge #lilia vanrouge x reader

[kimbapisnotsushi]

also i'm VERY impressed with how much suzume adapted modern technology to move the story along. everyone's synchronized earthquake alerts. the maps app to show just how far suzume went (and hence how far she was willing to go to follow her heart). following daijin through people's social media posts. suzume's one resource that allowed her to safely run away being her smartphone. it was all so clever and brilliant and it's the proof everyone needs that you CAN properly integrate modern tech with fantasy and magic so if i ever hear shit about it again i WILL be fighting people thank you that is all!!

#every time the alerts went off my heart stopped #that was so GOOD #suzume #suzume spoilers #sou says stuff

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Harry Potter is Actually Really Clever

So often, I feel like Harry is underrated in his own series and I want to talk about how much I love Harry James Potter. Harry is my favorite character in the books and I want to showcase some moments of Harry proving the Sorting Hat knew what it was talking about when it comes to Harry possibly doing well in Slytherin and even Ravenclaw.

(I have more moments listed in my notes, and I'm in book 6 in my current reread, so I definitely am not covering everything)

Let's start then with the words of the Sorting Hat itself:

“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There’s talent, A my goodness, yes — and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting….So where shall I put you?” Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, Not Slytherin, not Slytherin. “Not Slytherin, eh?” said the small voice. “Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that

(Philosopher's Stone, page 88)

The Hat says Harry is brave enough for Gryffindor, clever enough and talented enough for Ravenclaw and has the ambition and thirst to prove himself for Slytherin. And the hat isn't wrong about it's assessment of Harry. Harry is clever and talented and I so often find it underplayed in fics, or ones that do include it, acting like it's fanon characterization when it's really isn't.

Harry Potter is canonically a BAMF.

So, here I'm going to talk about his cleverness and give some moments of Harry being clever from the books.

(I'll have a different post for his magical prowess.)

Harry Has Brilliant Memory

So, Harry James Potter practically has close to an eidetic memory, and no one really seems to mention it.

An eidetic memory is described as an almost perfect recollection of images or events. And Harry actually shows himself as being very capable of it:

Angelina: “…Harry, didn’t you do something to your glasses to stop the rain fogging them up when we played Hufflepuff in that storm?” “Hermione did it,” said Harry. He pulled out his wand, tapped his glasses and said, “Impervius!”

(Order of the Phoenix, page 379)

In thus scene its raining during a Quidditch match and Angelina asks Harry about a spell he used a year before. Harry remembered that moment, remembered Hermione was actually the one who cast the spell, a spell he himself never cast before this moment, and he then casts it perfectly from memory.

Harry remembers the incantation and wand movement perfectly enough to succeed on his first try.

Actually, almost every time we see him cast spells he gets the wand movement and incantation right on the first try (even his first attempt at a patronus worked, the happy memory just wasn't strong enough)

In general, they moments we see Harry fail at casting spells on the first try is when he overthinks it and fails himself like that.

Harry stared at the letters in brackets. Nvbl . . . that had to mean “nonverbal.” Harry rather doubted he would be able to bring off this particular spell; he was still having difficulty with nonverbal spells, something Snape had been quick to comment on in every D.A.D.A. class. On the other hand, the Prince had proved a much more effective teacher than Snape so far. Pointing his wand at nothing in particular, he gave it an upward flick and said Levicorpus! inside his head. “Aaaaaaaargh!”

(Half-Blood Prince, page 239)

Harry tends to fail potions, and nonverbal spells when Snape is breathing down on him expecting him to fail, though, in this example, the moment Harry feels he can succeed the spell and isn't overthinking it, he casts it perfectly and nonverbally on the first attempt.

He is the same with potions:

Snape, meanwhile, seemed to have decided to act as though Harry were invisible. Harry was, of course, well used to this tactic, as it was one of Uncle Vernon’s favorites, and on the whole was grateful he had to suffer nothing worse. In fact, compared to what he usually had to endure from Snape in the way of taunts and snide remarks, he found the new approach something of an improvement and was pleased to find that when left well alone, he was able to concoct an Invigoration Draught quite easily. At the end of the lesson he scooped some of the potion into a flask, corked it, and took it up to Snape’s desk for marking, feeling that he might at last have scraped an E.

(Order of the Phoenix, page 660)

When Snape wasn't breathing down his neck and stressing him, even without the Half-Blood Prince's superior instructions, Harry is good at potions. He accomplishes the potion to a level of Exceeding Expectations easily. The problem is never his skill, memory, or talent; usually, it's stress, being stuck in his own head, or carelessness (did anyone diagnose him with ADHD?)

Another example of his eidetic memory in OOP:

“Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical wounds,” said Hermione fairly. “I suppose something in that snake’s venom dissolves them or something. . . . I wonder where the tearoom is?” “Fifth floor,” said Harry, remembering the sign over the Welcome Witch’s desk.

(Order of the Phoenix, page 508)

When Harry describes St. Mongos for the first time (about a week before the above scene) he reads a sign that describes what is located in each floor of the hospital.

A week later, without reading that sign again, Harry can recall where the tea room is since he has that sign he read once a week ago, memorized.

Harry is Sneaky

Harry is a proper sneaky slythein and actually has more cunning moments than some slytherins in the books. Here are a few examples I have from my notes:

“Should call Filch, I should, if something’s a-creeping around unseen.” Harry had a sudden idea. “Peeves,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “the Bloody Baron has his own reasons for being invisible.” Peeves almost fell out of the air in shock.

(Philosopher's Stone, page 197)

Harry is a good liar and scared of Peeves like this in his first year.

“…He likes to keep in touch with me, though . . . keep up with my news . . . check if I’m happy. . . .” And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit, Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked like a much better summer than the last.

(Prisoner of Azkaban, page 435)

But their attitude had changed since they had found out that Harry had a dangerous murderer for a godfather — for Harry had conveniently forgotten to tell them that Sirius was innocent.

(Goblet of Fire, page 24)

Again, Harry lying and tricking the Dursleys so they won't hurt him. Leveling Sirius as a threat against them.

“Not unless you can answer my riddle. Answer on your first guess — I let you pass. Answer wrongly — I attack. Remain silent — I will let you walk away from me unscathed.”

[the riddle and Harry thinking through it]

“Spy . . . er . . . spy . . . er . . .” said Harry, pacing up and down. “A creature I wouldn’t want to kiss . . . a spider!” The sphinx smiled more broadly. She got up, stretched her front legs, and then moved aside for him to pass. “Thanks!” said Harry, and, amazed at his own brilliance, he dashed forward.

(Goblet of Fire, page 629)

I skipped the sphinx's riddle, now the riddle isn't a hard one, but still, Harry isn't stupid. But he thinks he is. He even tells himself during that scene:

Harry’s stomach slipped several notches. It was Hermione who was good at this sort of thing, not him. He weighed his chances. If the riddle was too hard, he could keep silent, get away from the sphinx unharmed, and try and find an alternative route to the center.

(Goblet of Fire, 629)

But it's just Harry and his low self-esteem. He solves the riddle quickly thinking aloud near the Sphinx and he does solve it, and is amazed by it because he doesn't think of himself as smart, even though he is.

Most of the riddles to the Ravenclaw common room are probably along this line of difficulty too. It just goes to show he isn't stupid.

“There,” she said, handing it to him. “Drink it before it gets cold, won’t you? Well, now, Mr. Potter . . . I thought we ought to have a little chat, after the distressing events of last night.” He said nothing. She settled herself back into her seat and waited. When several long moments had passed in silence, she said gaily, “You’re not drinking up!” He raised the cup to his lips and then, just as suddenly, lowered it. One of the horrible painted kittens behind Umbridge had great round blue eyes just like Mad-Eye Moody’s magical one, and it had just occurred to Harry what Mad-Eye would say if he ever heard that Harry had drunk anything offered by a known enemy. “What’s the matter?” said Umbridge, who was still watching him. “Do you want sugar?” “No,” said Harry. He raised the cup to his lips again and pretended to take a sip, though keeping his mouth tightly closed. Umbridge’s smile widened. “Good,” she whispered. “Very good. Now then . . .” She leaned forward a little. “Where is Albus Dumbledore?” “No idea,” said Harry promptly.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 630)

Harry is clever enough to recognize drinking anything Umbridge gives him is a bad idea, so he doesn't. And he does so without her realizing.

“even if you do cause a diversion, how is Harry supposed to talk to him?” “Umbridge’s office,” said Harry quietly. He had been thinking about it for a fortnight and could think of no alternative; Umbridge herself had told him that the only fire that was not being watched was her own. “Are — you — insane?” said Hermione in a hushed voice. Ron had lowered his leaflet on jobs in the cultivated fungus trade and was watching the conversation warily. “I don’t think so,” said Harry, shrugging. “And how are you going to get in there in the first place?” Harry was ready for this question. “Sirius’s knife,” he said. “Excuse me?” “Christmas before last Sirius gave me a knife that’ll open any lock,” said Harry. “So even if she’s bewitched the door so Alohomora won’t work, which I bet she has —”

(Order of the Phoenix, page 658)

Harry can and does strategies. He planned how to get into Umbeidge's office. He employed his friends and actually led them. Being a leader and a strategist — rules we see him grow more into later.

Harry’s mind was racing. The Death Eaters wanted this dusty spun-glass sphere. He had no interest in it. He just wanted to get them all out of this alive, make sure that none of his friends paid a terrible price for his stupidity . . . The woman stepped forward, away from her fellows, and pulled off her hood. Azkaban had hollowed Bellatrix Lestrange’s face, making it gaunt and skull-like, but it was alive with a feverish, fanatical glow. “You need more persuasion?” she said, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Very well — take the smallest one,” she ordered the Death Eaters beside her. “Let him watch while we torture the little girl. I’ll do it.” Harry felt the others close in around Ginny. He stepped sideways so that he was right in front of her, the prophecy held up to his chest. “You’ll have to smash this if you want to attack any of us,” he told Bellatrix. “I don’t think your boss will be too pleased if you come back without it, will he?” She did not move; she merely stared at him, the tip of her tongue moistening her thin mouth. “So,” said Harry, “what kind of prophecy are we talking about anyway?” He could not think what to do but to keep talking. Neville’s arm was pressed against his, and he could feel him shaking. He could feel one of the other’s quickened breath on the back of his head. He was hoping they were all thinking hard about ways to get out of this, because his mind was blank.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 783)

This is a bit of a long quote, but I really like it. Harry gets the Death Eaters at an impasse because they can't destroy the prophecy. Then, when they threatened Ginny, he changed tactics and got them talking to buy time.

And even when he says his mind is blank:

“What?” whispered Hermione more urgently behind him. “Can this be?” said Malfoy, sounding maliciously delighted; some of the Death Eaters were laughing again, and under cover of their laughter, Harry hissed to Hermione, moving his lips as little as possible, “Smash shelves —”

...

“NOW!” yelled Harry. Five different voices behind him bellowed “REDUCTO!” Five curses flew in five different directions and the shelves opposite them exploded as they hit. The towering structure swayed as a hundred glass spheres burst apart

(Order of the Phoenix, pages 785-786 and 787)

He's still the one coming up with plans and pulling them out of there.

And if we look at his grades:

(Half-Blood Prince, page 102)

He is very far from failing academically. Actually considering how little studying Harry actually does, he receives very high grades, even for Hogwarts' abysmal education standards. Harry is naturally smart enough and talented enough that with the bare minimum of effort, he can get almost exclusively Es (his failing being in History, an exam he didn't finish, and Divination, which Harry has only been thought bullshit in).

Makes me wish we saw him put in an active effort. I bet it all would've been Os with his memory.

Even Potions, which Harry is supposedly bad at, he got an E...

I just... Harry is just really smart and it kind of frustrates me how I don't see enough fics that treat Harry being clever and with a cunning streak as if it's canon, even though it very much is.

I don't know, maybe I'm just reading the wrong fics...

#harry potter #harry potter theory #harry potter thoughts #hollowedtheory #hp theory #overthinking #wizarding world #harry potter analysis #harry james potter

[rwrbficrecs]

i’d take the bomb in your head and disarm it by @henrysfox (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Alex and Henry are students at NYU who randomly become dorm roommates. After a few short weeks of mutual dislike their friendship starts to grow - and could it actually be more ...?! At the end of the story, I was baffled that the two of them could be so completely clueless the whole time?! Then again, who am I to judge when someone settles for half-baked assumptions instead of just mustering up the courage and trying to have an honest conversation?! 😇 The story is so gentle, so angsty and Alex is just so vulnerable and soft - just beautiful and moving!

you are my mountain (you are my sea) by @alasse9 (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Five moments between Alex and Henry, starting with the visit to Alex's childhood home in Texas after Ellen's election victory, a vulnerable moment in the Brownstone, a vacation in Mexico City... This story isn't even close to 10,000 words, but it's so unbelievably powerful - I am still blown away! The author manages to hit on so many interpersonal aspects and delicate vibrations, to formulate soft, tender feelings and thoughts and describes Alex and Henry both so damn considerate and soulful - the author nailed it (imho), it's almost impossible to grasp!

Shatter Me by @historicallysam (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Henry and Alex are still Prince and First Son, some is canon, a lot slightly modified, but: Alex is out, Henry is not. He isn't even sure if he's gay or if he ever wants to acknowledge it - until he meets Alex and falls head over heels. The catch, on top of the homophobic Queen: Henry is engaged, his fiancée lovely, amazing even, and the wedding date is about to be set. How the author weaves together the familiar events and plotlines and their own ideas is brilliant! Not gonna lie: It was (to me) oppressive at times, really angsty - but also highly gripping!

The Consequences (of our Actions) (series) by @anchoredarchangel (book-verse)

@celeritas2997: Alex is just a Regular Guy who just happened to put Prince Henry on his 'No Consequences Sex List' and proceeds to tell him about this when they meet. Lots of sex (like, ridiculously hot sex) and feelings (SO MANY FEELINGS) ensue. I am convinced that Anchor is magic and will continue shouting about this series from the rooftops until the end of days; it is clever, sexy, funny, beautifully written and so, so, so heartfelt. ❤️

@heybuddy-drabbles: I started this when it first started and thought it was just some fun little pwp canon divergence. When I picked it up again, it was a hell of a series. I loved every last bit of it. It goes way into the whole "If cake gate didn't happen, Alex would have made himself a problem for Henry anyway" and he does in the most glorious way. I can't talk enough about HENRY in this though. It's mostly on Alex POV except the extra chapter but I'm OBSESSED WITH HENRY. How he's older. How he does things for himself like running the shelters with Pez even before he meets Alex. Anyway I could talk about Henry in this series for days but that's not why we are here for. Just, do yourself a favor and just read this.

5 Times Henry Hated New Year's + 1 Time He Didn't by @hgejfmw-hgejhsf (book-verse)

@suseagull04: This fic is such an emotional rollercoaster, but it's worth every gut-wrenching twist! It delves into each of the six parts so well that you feel like you're experiencing each of Henry's life experiences with him.

I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you by @gayrootvegetable (book-verse)

@suseagull04: This is the cutest combination of a high school AU and soulmate AU! This fic is short but so very sweet!

if you have a garden and a library... by @glasshouses-and-stones (book-verse)

@suseagull04: This fic is so cute! It's not technically a Cinderella AU, but it has those vibes, and the author does a great job with the setting. Another fic that's short but so sweet!

It takes a lot to know a man by dazedandconfused (book/movie-verse)

@inexplicablymine: when I tell you to mind the trigger warnings that is true, but I can also say my GOD is this fic fantastic the writing is superb and the pacing is right on and the plot is so intricately woven I am elated to recommend it everywhere I can. Talk about an in depth suspense thriller mixed with that sex club dom/sub trope mixed with a law case ~ truly there are no words to describe how much this work gripped me as I read through it

@dot524: The subject matter is heavy at times and so are the smut scenes, but also I was fascinated with the story. I didn’t expect it to end up in the intense culminating scene that it did.

Something borrowed, Something blue by @anincompletelist (book-verse)

@heybuddy-drabbles: Yes, I know I recommended this during our Wip Wednesdays but now I'm going to recommend it here for the peeps who only read complete works. Read this. I beg of you. It's so excellent. Henry's relationship with June is something so special to me in this. June and her little family, her daughter means the world to me as well. Alex and his complicated feelings for Henry, their "enemies" to lovers road is just. God I loved it so much. Henry. HENRY IN THIS. Just. Please read this.

hold on (get ready for the ride) by wilmonflicker (book-verse)

@wilmonsfolklore: a professional soccer/football AU that I binged and completely fell in love with. Alex transfers to the team where Henry is the star player, and they get together. it's beautifully written, smutty at times and perfect for sport lovers and non-sport lovers alike

check out our past Monthly Faves here ❤️

#monthly faves #rwrb fic recs #firstprince #firstprince fic recs

[hogwartsfirebolt]

yes, and

It was a no for so long. A rejected handshake, long years of tipping different sides of a scale. No, Harry wouldn’t talk to him. No, Harry wouldn’t look at him even though Draco sought his gaze with a mindless desperation only possible because they were so young. No, Harry wouldn’t try to save him, even though he saved everyone else. No, no, no.

Yet fate’s puppeteering hands acted in mysterious ways, beyond anything he’d ever been able to comprehend. No, he wasn’t saved, but he was … pardoned. No, he couldn’t take back everything he’d already messed up by then, but he could atone. Community service, two years of it in the kitchens of the Ministry, with the long tables and magic dictating every move, every stir of a spoon. He did his time at first grudgingly, sick on the scent of spices that clung to his apron and the way the still air would make the back of his hair stand on end, but as months passed and he became familiar with the intricate, purposeful magic he needed to master to cook, and the people working beside him, he came to love it. The twin chefs who were his bosses, Poppy and Aspen, were outrageously funny in a foul-mouthed way, and halfway through the year they were already inviting Draco and the other sous-chefs to their flats to have game nights and sparkly drinks. No, his friends from school wouldn’t even hear from him, his letters would return unopened and no, his parents weren’t home, but abroad, exiled, forbidden from making contact. No, he had no family left. But the mismatched group of five who spent their mornings charming potatoes out of their peels with him began to tug at his heart.

No, they didn’t have much in common, but they got him, he got them. This was a connection that was unblemished, for the first time in his life, untainted by his background. It was brilliant, sun-water bliss, and in it, he had the chance to nurture parts of himself he’d only peripherally known about and let them bloom. What he found was that, stripped of the need to be cleverer than everyone else, his opinion was seen as smart, valued, and taken seriously. What he found was that, stripped of ill intent, his jokes and drama were actually quite well received, with loud laughs and occasionally clutched stomachs, tear-streaked cheeks. They loved his theatrics, would go hysterical over his imitation of the stand-offish inflection of the Unspeakables when they came to get their lunch, the brutish tone of the Cursebreakers, the loud laugh of the Auror force.

And well, no, it wasn’t all sunshine and flowers; no, they didn’t entirely get him sometimes, wouldn’t understand why he didn’t want to serve the Aurors their meal, ever. They could understand that he hated serving in general, why he much preferred staying safely inside the kitchen over spooning food onto trays and handing it to Ministry employees who all looked at him like he was a joke at best, or pretended he was entirely invisible at worst; but they couldn't comprehend why he’d serve the haughty Unspeakables and daft Cursebreakers with mild irritation, but went pale when faced with the generally well-liked Aurors. No, they definitely didn’t get it, so no, he couldn’t always avoid it, had to bribe Cooper to trade his serving day for her butter-churning day, had to beg Luisa out of her dish-washing week so she’d mind the counter, had to promise Pip a bottle of wine whenever he took over his serving duties, but there were times when no, nobody wanted to trade, and no, he couldn’t do anything but suck up and do it.

One such day, queuing in between a group of arrogant Unspeakables and a pair of thick-headed Cursebreakers, came Harry Potter. No, it wasn’t the first time Draco had been forced to serve him but no, it never got any easier. Draco tended to avoid his gaze, to pretend the bowl of pasta he was holding was far more interesting than the wild man standing in front of him in blood-crimson robes for a few short minutes each day, hoping he’d just go away as swiftly as possible. But no, Harry had never let things be simple between them. Because no, Harry wasn’t like the others, but not only for the obvious reasons. Despite their — frankly titanic — history, the truth was that no, Harry didn’t look at him like he was a joke, wouldn’t pretend Draco was invisible, and honestly wouldn’t even look at him with derision anymore. He just … looked. No, he didn’t stay quiet, not content with pretending Draco didn’t exist. Instead, he asked questions. He’d say “hey, how are you doing?”, he’d say, “hey, bit cold today, right?”, he’d say, “hey, do you think we could talk, maybe?”

And no. Draco most definitely did not think they could talk. He opened his mouth to say as much, because no, what did they even have to talk to each other about? But Harry must have sensed it, because he added, “Please?” Open and earnest, one word dripping with the easy confidence he’d carried for a lifetime, the unassuming kind.

It had been a no for so long, for so many good reasons. But not all of those reasons remained true, not even most of them — they’d been swept away by the stream of time, by life allowing the pieces that had held each of them slot into their fated place, no longer on opposing sides of a scale. Draco heard the sound of his own voice say, “yes.” He said, “yes, alright.”

And suddenly, a lot of things shifted, things that had been a firm, unmovable no.

And then they were yes.

Yes, he went to get drinks with Harry and they talked. Yes, he promised he’d hear Harry out without fighting. Yes, he was sorry too. Yes, he wanted a fresh start.

Yes, he was free next week at the same time.

Then, as a knit jumper catches on a nail and unspools, a friendship with Harry was pulled out of him, accidentally, irrevocably.

Harry kept asking, and Draco kept answering, yes. Yes, Draco was free that night, yes, Draco liked Japanese food and would love to get some, yes, Draco would hear the speech Harry had written for the function and tell him very, very honestly if he thought it was shit (it wasn’t). Yes, he’d be at the function himself. Yes, fine, they could match their neckties.

Their back and forth became an exercise of yes, and. They’d always connected in a way that went beyond logic, only now that they were using it to work alongside each other instead of against each other, they were unstoppable and unbearable and so much fun that Draco’s ribs hurt from how hard he laughed most days. He’d imitate the cretin Unspeakables and Harry would say, “yes, and how about this caviar?” while poking the Ministry’s rice and beans. Then Draco would say something purposefully daft and Harry would whack him over the head and ask him if he was a pea-brained Cursebreaker.

Harry would have Draco over at his flat and show him the thread-board of his latest case and work through what he knew out loud in case Draco could spot something he hadn’t, and most of the time Draco didn’t even have to say anything, would only open his mouth to say, “Have you thought that maybe —?” And Harry would exclaim, “You’re so right, I should interrogate the reporter.” And when he solved that case with absolutely no real input from Draco whatsoever, he had him over at his flat again and clinked their wine glasses together with a huge smile and said, “Couldn’t have done this without you, really.”

Yes, Draco’s help had been non-existent, but oh yes, he adored the appreciation. And yes, those glasses of wine flowed incredibly quickly and yes, Draco had tried mezcal once and he was very open to trying it again and yes, he was one hundred percent sure he could knock back that shot quicker than Harry and yes — they were spectacularly drunk a short two hours after getting to Harry’s flat.

Yes, it was insane that this should be happening, but it … also wasn’t. They were friends. They were good friends. No, he hadn’t wanted to show the rougher sides of his personality at first, even if Harry had at one point known them better than most people. Draco was hesitant, their budding friendship felt delicate, and he knew he was a bit much, much too coarse, much too rude most times, that anyone would think so, that they’d be right if they did. But there was something in Harry that made his resolve to hide crack open like an egg and he found himself just being. It was something in the way Harry knew who he was, knew exactly why he was there, yet he seemed to want him, continuously. Want his opinion, his support, his ideas and conversation, his jokes, mean as they occasionally were.

Most of their free time was spent seeking one another or trading barbs and anecdotes through quick-floo notes. Cooper and Luisa had a field day with it, made fun of Draco relentlessly when Harry came in for lunch and they’d snatch the three seconds he spent queuing to chat, would call Harry his man, his boyfriend. Chefs Poppy and Aspen would draw chia seed hearts on Harry’s toast and wink, acted as though they were doing him a favor. And yes, Harry found it hysterical. He’d blow Draco kisses over his toast, call him sweetie pie and bonbon where the others could hear and yes, Draco pinked and raged and returned it by bringing Harry’s tray to his table the next day, where he sat with his loud Auror bunch, and saying, “For you, pumpkin.” Yes, he savored Harry’s spluttering thanks, walked back into the kitchen with a grin.

But yes, that night at Harry’s flat, when Draco settled in on the big green sofa and Harry handed him a cup of homemade sangria saying, “here, love,” it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

It was a no for so long, but Harry’s wine-stained lips grazing his felt not like a first time, but a hundredth, a thousandth, a lifetime of a connection that had shapeshifted but always existed, and probably always would. So maybe, going back around to it, giving it some thought, peeling back the layers … it had truly always been a yes, deep down. A yes, and.

Read on ao3

#drarry #drarry fic #drarry fanfic #Harry Potter #Draco Malfoy #mywriting

[slytherizz]

Sebastian Sallow with a Muggle Significant Other Headcanons

Co-authored by @diligentcranberry

Sheepish as he is to admit it, until he met them, Sebastian always felt rather bad for muggles and their lack of magic.

Being rather shocked initially when he realised that this captivating person who has caught his attention is, in fact, not a wizard/witch at all yet they're so bright and clever he is fascinated by them.

Scheming of ways to get around the statute of secrecy when they're first together because being limited from magic in front of them at first feels like torture.

And he wants to impress them and open them up to all these amazing things he knows.

But the more time he spends with them discussing mythology, history, art, and all manner of things challenging his mind in new ways, that need for magic lessens.

Seb, who realises it may not be the magic he craves but the intellectual stimulation from learning and debating.

Initially baffled by their muggle habits and how long everything takes.

Seb who realises how when his partner does something as simple as brewing a cup of tea for him it takes so much more effort, but he swears it makes it taste better.

Sebastian, whose love language is acts of service and wants to take care of the people he loves.

Starts doing things for them the muggle way and expressing that love in the labour of it a flick of a wand can't replicate.

Relishes how heavy their bags are when he insists on carrying them. How their skin puckers when they wash dishes together. How long the journey is when travelling by train and not by floo and all this time they get just to talk and be with eachother.

Experiencing life in a completely different rhythm, he always thought he'd find tedious, but doing it together makes even the mundane seem spectacular.

Sebastian who loves magic and continues to pour over spell books, but his partner opens his eyes to this whole vast world of topics he never knew anything about, and his mind is blown.

He's inhaling anything he can get his hands on science, technology, engineering, and muggles are achieving these incredible things without magic he's not even seen wizards accomplish.

21 year old Seb in 1896 reading a muggle newspaper his partner passes him one morning and finding out about X-rays and radium and he's nothing short of giddy.

Kissing his bemused partner spinning them around wildly because muggles are bloody brilliant and they are the most spectacular of the bunch.

Sebastian who starts using magic less and less at home because his partner makes it seem frivolous.

This has come from mine and Cran's very niche Henry Winters (the secret history) x Sebastian Sallow (Hogwarts Legacy) AU but I think a lot of the headcannons we've been gushing over work for Seb x Muggle!SO regardless.

I'd literally love to hear any other headcannons on this because we have been consumed and loving talking about these.

#Henry x Seb brainrot hitting hard #this niche fucking au owns me mind body and soul #if anyone has read the secret history please come hit up me and cran #i love my big bi murderous boys #also seb in the 80s is just a vibe #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy headcanons #sebastian sallow headcanons #sebastian sallow x muggle

[morgana-ren]

I wanted the full analysis!!! 🙏 Also I can't become a goddess </3 sadness

You wouldn't want to, babe. Sounds like fun, but Godhood is-- well, it's not great in DnD. It attracts exactly who you think it would: The naive, or the power-hungry and unworthy.

Well, let's look at Gale and his ultimate motivations:

When you meet him, he's straight-forward although fully polite, charismatic, and very much a 'wizard' archetype, as in noticeably and actively intelligent but in a strangely awkward way. Charming, talkative, but earnest. As you get to know him, you learn more about his plight and his struggles, his prodigal upbringing, his dalliances with Mystra, his fall from grace, and his inevitable charge with 'ending' this little uprising by the upstart Dead Three-- and ending his own life in the process.

Most people, you would think, would have an ounce of self-preservation upon being told "Hey, you need to kill yourself to end this." Even the rest of the group, up against ridiculous odds, are holding on to the glimmer of hope that they can survive.

Not Gale. Gale just basically goes "Okay. So be it." While he does mourn in a way, he mourns more over his initial mistake than he does the loss of his own life. He thinks of all he did wrong, all the 'pain' he caused. the loss he caused himself, and his rejection at Mystra's hands for which he entirely blames himself.

Gale is a victim of grooming. It is framed in a strange way, since the one doing the grooming is a Goddess, but he is absolutely a victim. He tells you that Mystra has been with him since he was a boy, which yes, you can frame as he is a wizard and she is essentially magic incarnate, but it doesn't stop there. She doesn't encourage him as a pupil-- she takes him as a lover. As a conduit of her own power. Carnally.

She takes him into her bed, and as a lover.

Had Mystra been just an elderly powerful witch, this would have been way more fucking obvious to people. But because she is a God and her whims are unknowable, it's essentially shrugged off-- which I feel like is part of his arc.

Gale did what he did because he was on completely fucking uneven tier with his own lover. The power dynamic was abusive. He could not be on her level and she expected him to be fine with that. She demanded excellence but when he delivered, she spurned him. He was expected to be brilliant and perfect-- but not too much. And when he was perfect? He still could never be enough. She is a goddess and he is expected to bow and scrape. She groomed him to admire and revere and worship her, and then told him to sit down and be happy with what little he was given.

He needed to prove himself her equal. He needed her approval. He needed it because it was a relationship to him, and one he physically could not win at.

Gale is a human. He needs love and connection and fairness. Mystra, by her own nature, cannot give this-- and she doesn't want to.

Gale knows well the callousness of the Gods. Not just with Mystra, but from his tower, he can see injustice and pain and misery. He is extremely empathetic and cares so deeply. His eldest companion, the Tressym Tara, was an accidental summon that stayed with him for life and became intrinsically involved with his family. He knows love. He knows pain. He is a good man.

Gale seeks knowledge, though he does not seek it for power. He seeks it out of genuine and earnest desire to help. To make people's lives better. Yes, he seeks to be seen as intelligent and brilliant because he is, but he is not a selfish being.

For 'good' players, he is one of the easiest approvals to get, because he very much approves of just being a good person. Helping. Being kind and lending a hand. Saving lives. Using your strength and power for good.

But again, Gale is human. And the folly of the clever man is to believe everyone around him is a fool. He, in all his brilliance, found a way he thought he could help. A path that has been tread time and time again with naught but the misery and bewailings of those who came before to show for it as a warning. But he thought he was different. He thought he could pull it off.

He could become a God.

Secretly, he found a way to put himself on even tier with Mystra-- and do what she did not have the compassion, kindness, or even desire to do. To use Godhood for good. To use all that magnificent power to achieve goodness rather than greatness. To be an active God in the lives of mortal men. To make the world better.

He thought that he could maintain his connection with humanity through his apotheosis and ultimately exist with one foot in each world; To straddle mortality and immortality and put reins on them both.

You are warned repeatedly throughout the game that this is bad. That many have tried and all have failed. Humans are not meant to be gods, and you cannot exist as a hybrid. If you are a God, you are a god. If you are a man, you are mortal. The mortal mind cannot tether Godhood. It is not possible. Best case scenario, you lose yourself. Worst case? You are punished eternally for your hubris.

To be a God is to be unknowable. To see the threads of time and the futility of it all. You are ripped from your conscious mind as a man and you can no longer relate. Lives and suffering, they are all fleeting, miniscule things from your mountain on high. All men must die; why is tonight different from any other night? Why is your suffering so great that a god should take interest? What are you to me, little mortal? Your kingdoms shall fall and burn and crumble and be rebuilt and crumble again but my temple shall remain, and when you are but dust in the fickle wind, you too shall know my eternal glory.

The way Mystra looked at Gale.

An instrument. A tool. A temporary amusement and benefactor. He is a mere man and she is a Goddess and when his bones bleach in Selune's unforgiving sun, she shall choose a new apprentice to take unto her bed. And so the wheel of time spins endlessly on.

A large theme of the game is the malevolence of some Gods and the utter indifference of others.

Selune's perceived abandonment of Ketheric that led to his downfall and madness. He lost his wife and daughter after an entire life of servitude, and he did not even receive comfort in return. She is considered a good natured Goddess, and even she is cruel in her neglect and indifference when it does not suit her.

Shar and her utter disregard and even active disdain for her most devout-- and everything else. Viconia, who committed her life to Shar, cast aside for a Selunite orphan on a whim. Her hatred of living creatures and her manipulations. Her outright malevolence and reverence for their suffering. You see her cruelty both from an outside and inside perspective, and her circular doctrine that makes no sense, her faith that demands all and gives nothing in return.

The Gods that are active are only so malevolently. Bane devouring Gortash after his defeat despite how far he'd gotten in his name. Myrkul abandoning Ketheric as well in the end. Bhaal discarding his own children when the do not suit his whims.

"We are but bronze pieces in their pocket to be traded on a whim. You may have beaten me, but the truth is, the Gods beat me first."

It is literally a thematic constant.

Sure, they can do good. They have devout worshipers and can be seen doing some level of good-- Isabelle and her protection of the Last Light, for example. But it's never quite them, is it? It is the humans that utilize their power. The humans who care. Selune did not protect them of her own volition. Her magic was invoked.

Gale's goal was to become both. To have the power and will of a God but the consciousness and mind of a man.

Mark my words, you would go mad.

Gods see eons. The endless tide of eternity drifting endlessly on. Imagine the incessant screams. The pleading. The misery. The death. The horror at the hands of man and your fellow Gods. Even all of your power, all of your prestige could not save them all.

And even if you could-- even if you could-- Ao demands a level of indifference. It is one of the fundamental rules.

Gale must accept this, or he will become that which he sought to rectify. He must learn that to love and care so deeply is to be mortal. That to retain all that made him beautiful and wonderful, he must be humbled and rather do as he can rather than all he feels capable of. He must seek Mystra's forgiveness (disgusting) on a symbolic level and accept that he is a mortal and his hubris would be his downfall. Gods and mortals should not mix.

But if he does not? If he utilizes the Crown of Karsis?

He becomes a god. He gets his wish. And in true Faustian fashion, the price he pays makes the prize worthless.

He becomes an arrogant, disconnected, detached, miserable pile of sectorless divinity.

He becomes callous. Cruel. When asked about all those people he longed to save, he shrugs. He no longer speaks of the mortal realm, he speaks of the beauty and frivolity of Elysium. Of the wonders of Godhood and all he understands-- or has forgotten. He has completely detatched from mortality and only deigns to come down from his fucking halcyon world to bless you-- his former friends-- with his magnanimous presence. To let you know how lucky you are. How blessed.

All that power he has? Useless. Used to prop himself on a pedestal same as every other filthy fucking God.

His deepest, most treasured friend will tell him this, and how does he respond? By basically telling her 'You don't know shit.' He ignores her. Threatens you if you try. A man who was willing to give his life selflessly to save the world will now threaten divine wrath if you even so much as irritate him. He will swing that hammer of power down just to prove a fucking point.

If you loved him and refuse him? Utterly disconnected. No genuine feeling. Just looking down on you like the silly little human you are. When you refuse him, he is disconnected from who he was and what he ever felt for you. Gale, a man who was groomed and just wanted love on an equal playing field; a man desperately lonely in his brilliance; a man so distraught by what he felt that he sought to break the barrier and become a god, not for power, but for benevolence-- he becomes Mystra.

He is no longer Gale. He is the God of Ambition. Another useless god in a pantheon of useless ideas. What good is ambition if it does not serve a purpose? To make him the god of ambition is to spit in his face, because what was his ambition? Where is it now, Gale? What are you?

What is your ambition and where the fuck is it now?

Gale is a kind, caring, compassionate man who went through a horrible, traumatic event that changed who he was fundamentally. Dumped and abandoned by his Goddess, it burned him. It hurt him in such a way that he made it his goal to change this dynamic and to become what she could not.

He was still in love with her. Of course he was. How it must be to love something that you know can never love you back. That you are one of many, and your time is over. You have served your purpose. And if you die, you die. If the realm dies, so be it.

Gale's is a story of hubris born of love. A man gifted with intelligence and power that he only wanted to utilize for the best; to do what he thought was right. He wasn't clawing after the crown for raw power's sake. He wanted to help. That's all he ever wanted.

The bookworm that will talk your ear off about his cat and his studies and his love of books. A man so brilliant that it's painful at times. A man who loved his mother and his cat. A man who loved a goddess and, in a story that could have no happy ending, decided to give everything to make it so. If it meant dying, then so be it. He wasn't clawing for the crown to save his own life. He was doing it to save everyone else's.

He fundamentally misunderstood the nature of the Gods. He touched divinity and it looked at him with a human countenance and so he believed he could grasp it.

The Gods are powerful, and yes, they are unknowable and, in a way, infinite-- but they are callous and cruel and indifferent. They are power with no outlet. Useless. They gaze upon humanity like rats in a cage, uncaring and unfeeling. Separated entirely. Sometimes they deign to make their presence known. But mostly? They sit on their heavenly thrones and revel in their own brand of bullshit.

This is what Gale will become. It is an insult to an incredible man to take away all that made him incredible and make him another b-lister jumpstart God up his own ass. Caring and love are work. They are pain. It is suffering and agony. But that is what separates us from them. We do not, and in some cases, cannot separate. It is our world, and we live in it. We must breathe in the poisons. Smell the blood that soils the earth. It is our world and we cannot separate. We love and we help and we learn--

Gale wanted to help. So he became a God.

But what do Gods do?

They watch. Through the gray window of indifference, they watch. They watch us tear each other open. They watch other Gods tear us open. They watch the wounds. They watch the graves. They watch the fires rage.

They watch and they listen to the screams. And when they are bored of them? They shut them out.

Gale became a god.

And so too shall he watch, removed from it all.

Not an ounce of humanity left in a man that ached so for humanity itself that it damn near drove him mad.

#morgana and friends #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #I have an interesting relationship with the gods #I prefer the evil ones because at least they do not PRETEND #Bane does not PRETEND to give a damn

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

Summer Sun, Something's Begun

Part of my Birthday Bash!

Request: "You're so cool, it makes me hate you so much." with Roy :)

I'm Bright Baby Blue, Falling Into You

Roy Kent x Reader

2.1k words

Warnings: Language, Chelsea!Roy, lots of fluff and flirting

Author's Note: This takes place during Roy's time in Chelsea, so he's in his mid-20s. The reader is his manger's very off-limits daughter, early 20s. I loved writing this so much, I'm going to add more to it later- so keep an eye out! 👀

Summers were for Chelsea.

For as long as you could remember, as soon as the school year ended, your mind focused on nothing but football. Throughout your childhood, you’d join your father at the facilities, watching the team prepare for the new season. Everything about it felt magical: the green of the pitch, the bright blue skies above, the shouts and excitement from the team. You looked forward to the first day of term, when everyone spoke about their summer holidays, the places they’d visited and the friends they got together with, when you would gush about the players you watched train and the matches you attended.

Now, you packed your bags at the end of each term and came home from uni, still feeling that same flutter of joy as you thought about training. A young adult yourself now, your dad still let you loiter around the team. Pretty much since you were old enough to drive, he treated you more like an assistant, asking you to grab lunches or help answer emails. As far as summer jobs went, this one felt like a great deal to you; hang out with your dad and the squad all day and get paid in match tickets whenever you and your mates wanted.

Of course, your role at the club wasn’t the only thing that changed. As a child, the players doted on you, asking about your dog or kicking around the ball with you before hitting the showers. You were Chelsea’s little princess, running around in jean shorts and too-big t-shirts. But now? Now you were the same age as many of the players, a young woman. Sure, the older players who’d known you for years, the ones who had watched you grow up, still joked around with you and treated you like family. But the younger players, the ones who were closer to your age than your father’s, definitely saw you differently. You caught the lingering stares, the cocky grins shot in your direction when they did something impressive on the pitch, the nudges when you strolled by the weight room when you brought the coaches their lunches.

Not that a single one of them would ever do anything about it. They were young, but they weren’t stupid. You were the manager’s daughter; you were the very definition of off-limits.

Which was totally fine with you, by the way. You didn’t care much for the attention of the young footballers, no matter how fit or wealthy they were. Not when you only had eyes for one midfielder in particular.

Roy Kent. Roy freaking Kent. With those brown eyes and those little smirks and that growling voice, not to mention that gorgeous chest hair you thought about way to often to be healthy, you were positively, absolutely smitten. He was brilliant to watch on the pitch, and he was pretty clever and funny when he cared to be. While his reputation centered around his scowls and brooding air, you often found yourself falling into step with him in the halls, offering teasing remarks back and forth and eliciting light chuckles from the mouth you thought about all year long back at school.

Ever since you started university, your dad had joked about not dating footballers. And normally, you were a good kid and listened to your parents. But the sound of Roy Kent’s laughter and the sight of his bare chest in the changing room always had you wanting to ignore your dad’s advice.

Because ever since he arrived at Chelsea, summers were for Roy Kent.

This summer was no different.

After a full week of Roy catching you staring at him on the pitch and making jokes that you laughed a smidge too hard at, you discovered him on the pitch long after practice had ended for the day and most players had begun to go home. Well, maybe ‘discovered’ was the wrong word. That made it sound like a coincidence, like you hadn’t quietly slipped away from your father’s office and followed the midfielder out of the building. Like you hadn’t perched yourself in the stands, not in an obvious spot, but definitely not hiding either as you watched him absently dribble around the grass while the sun began to set. Like you hadn’t been doing this for three days in a row now.

After maybe five minutes of watching him, he finally turned his head in your direction. “Oi!” he called out. “You just going to sit there and watch?” Even from a distance you could see the smile on his face, the one he usually saved for you.

You shrugged and stood, smoothing down the dress you may or may not have chosen while thinking about what Roy would think of it. It took every ounce of self-control not to skip down the stands, across the grass, and fling yourself into his arms, the way you wished you could after Chelsea victories. Instead, you strolled casually towards him, hands innocently behind your back, until you were gazing up at those pretty brown eyes, the ones that always seemed to sparkle when he looked at you.

“Enjoy the show?” Roy razzed, quirking one of those thick eyebrows at you.

“I always enjoy watching football,” you countered. You bent down to pick up the ball and began rolling it between your hands. “Especially when I get to watch talented people play.”

Behind the teasing look on his face, you could see in his eyes that he was pleased by your indirect compliment. “You think I’m talented then?” he hummed, doing his best to maintain his indifferent manner.

You wrinkled your nose at him and tossed the ball at his chest, which he caught with a soft grunt. “Who said I was talking about you, Kent? I was just stating the fact that I like watching football.”

His face lit up at your banter, eyebrows raised and mouth agape. You never saw him make that face at work except when you joked around with each other; you wondered if he ever made that face away from the pitch, if he ever made that face at anyone else, at any other girls. “Fuck me then,” Roy laughed, holding the ball close to his chest. He dropped it to the ground with a thud and nudged it towards you with his foot. “Come on, then. Let me prove myself.”

“Me, who hasn’t played football since I was eight, versus you, a Premier League star.” You rolled your eyes and bumped the ball back to him. “Yeah, sounds real fair to me, Kent.”

This time, the surprise he wore was genuine. “You haven’t played since you were eight?” He shook his head at you. “Your dad coaches fucking Chelsea. How the fuck did you manage to not play?”

“I prefer spectating and being a fan,” you stated simply. You wrinkled your nose. “Plus, I wasn’t very good,” you admitted. “I think Dad found it all a little embarrassing. He didn’t make much of a fuss when I quit.”

Roy shook his head and took a step back, dragging the ball with him. “Well, your dad’s not here now,” he pointed out, something close to flirtation in his voice. “And I’ll try to go easy on you, princess.”

Your heart fluttered at the teasing nickname. A few of the players called you that, always playful and joking, but when Roy said it, it made you wonder how other pet names would sound coming out of that beautiful mouth of his. “Fine,” you conceded with a huff, as though you weren’t thrilled at the opportunity to be close to Roy. “But go easy on me.”

Playing football in flats and a dress was not the easiest thing in the world, you discovered. Especially not when your opponent was Chelsea’s skilled and beautiful superstar. Still, you had to admit to yourself that it was fun. It was obvious that Roy did his best to go easy on you, but it wasn’t natural for the midfielder to give anything less than one hundred percent, so even his “easy” was a challenge. But he chuckled as you ran around each other, and a couple times he even laid a hand on your waist; you wondered if he knew the effect it had on you because each time he did, you froze and he was able to steal the ball with ease.

Eventually, you managed to break away from him with the ball at your feet and happiness in your lungs. You really thought you had a chance at scoring a goal when that firm hand landed on your hips. As you tried to wriggle free, your feet tangled with his, and the two of you fell to the ground, a jumble of laughter and bodies and a football. You managed to roll onto your back, grinning at Roy as he sat up and gazed down at you.

“You do suck,” he announced with a smirk. “Better study hard at uni, princess, because even with your daddy in charge, you are never getting signed to Chelsea.”

“I think I’ll live,” you huffed back as he laid beside you. You felt keenly aware of his body next to yours, of his breathing, of how close his hand was to your own. You wondered if he could feel your heart pounding through the ground; part of you worried it would cause the earth to quake, it was beating so hard.

Roy’s voice cut through your thoughts. “Glad to be home for the summer?” he hummed, his casual tone a sharp contrast to your nerves.

You cleared your throat. “I am. It’s always nice to be back with my family. And not worry about schoolwork. Plus, I love being here.” You gestured broadly around the pitch.

“Hmm.” Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Roy squinting at the oranging sky. “Any big summer plans?” His voice was heavy with interest, something rare for Roy Kent. He always seemed so aloof.

“Working here,” you said with a huff. “Same as every summer.” After a moment, you realized he was waiting for you to continue talking. “What about you? Training, training, and more training?” you teased.

He sighed, a low growling sound that had the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. “’ve got a fucking photoshoot tomorrow,” he grumbled. “For fucking Nike. Some international ad campaign or some shit, I don’t fucking know.”

You were instantly reminded that Roy Kent was a professional footballer, a celebrity, a legend in the making, who already had a track record for bedding models and actresses. He was on magazine covers and advertisements. And you were… you. He wasn’t like the boys in your uni classes or the fellas in your neighborhood, earnest young men who nervously asked girls out at pubs and prayed for a ‘yes’. He was a star.

In an attempt to ease your sudden angst, you let out a light chuckle. “Nike photoshoot, huh? Wow, Kent. You’re so cool.” You turned your face towards him and stuck your tongue out playfully. “It makes me hate you so much.”

Roy shifted his head so he was looking at you. “Me? Cool?” He rolled his eyes. “I never feel fucking cool. Especially not around you.” He gazed back up at the sky. “Always feel like a clumsy little kid around you.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. His voice was so sincere, not an ounce of the joking and teasing usually aimed at in your direction. And you swore his cheeks were tinted pink- and you didn’t think it was from all the running around. Although your mind was racing to a million different places at once, the only thing you could manage to murmur was, “Well, I think you’re pretty fucking cool, Kent.”

He faced you again, squinting at the setting sun that was hitting him just right. “Thanks.” After a moment, you felt his finger brush tentatively against your knuckles. “D’you think I could call you sometime? While you’re home for the summer?” He shrugged, clearly trying to appear more casual than he felt. “We could… hang out or something.”

If you thought your heart was racing before, it was nothing compared to now. You searched his eyes, looking for some sign that he was goofing around, just fucking with you, but all you could find was sunshine and anticipation. Swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat, you nodded, turning your palm upwards so Roy could rest his hand on yours, intertwining your fingers.

“Yeah, Kent,” you finally whispered as a smile crept across your face. “You could call me sometime.”

#tally's birthday bash #request ❤️ #Chelsea!Roy #he's here he's there he's every fucking where #roy kent #roy kent x reader #roy kent fanfic #roy kent fic #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent imagine #ted lasso #ted lasso fic #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction

[childotkw]

can we please get a snippet of the Grindelwald!Harry AU?? Maybe Gellert tracks Harry down and like wants to apologize for being absent but Harry’s like you’re not my dad!! And Gellerts like o.O my son hates me so much that he won’t even acknowledge me.

orrr something about exactly WHY everyone thinks Harry’s Gellert son

Or literally anything. I’m obsessed

This is the first thing that popped into my mind 😂

——————————

“I’m sorry - what?”

Albus took a calming sip of his tea, humming in appreciation at the pleasant taste, before placing it back on the saucer and looking at the young man across from him. There was nothing of Gellert in him, not in looks or personality or even in the flavour of magic that emanated from him; and it only solidified the suspicion in his mind that this was not the long-lost son of his old friend.

Certainly, Gellert never would have allowed such a…gobsmacked look to cross his face.

Amusement bubbled merrily in his gut at the expression on Harry, though. This was a man that had never learned or never cared to mask his emotions before, and it was refreshing to witness someone so unashamed or concerned over how he was perceived.

Albus had been spending far too much time around politicians lately.

“I said that for someone rumoured to be Gellert Grindelwald’s son, you were remarkably easy to find.”

Harry’s eyes - a brilliant, lovely green - suddenly narrowed and sharpened. He still did not resemble Gellert, but the abrupt shrewdness of his gaze was as dangerous as it was compelling. Albus hid his smile behind the rim of his cup.

“Grindelwald.” It wasn’t even a question, just a flat repetition.

“Oh yes,” Albus said, more jovial than the situation perhaps warranted. “The wizarding world is positively abuzz with news of your existence. It’s quite a scandal.”

“But I’m not Grindelwald’s kid,” Harry replied, with such aggressive honesty that it made a well of fondness appear in Albus’ chest. Truly, it seemed he had stumbled across a wonderful gem of a human being. Even just this brief conversation told him all he needed to know about young Harry’s character.

He took another sip, waiting deliberately to see where this would go.

Harry inhaled, his lips already opening to say more - when he just stopped and huffed. His eyes pierced Albus, and some weary amusement snuck on the other’s face. “And you know that,” Harry said, rolling his eyes and sighing. “You just wanted to see how I’d react.”

Marvellous! Not only a sincere man, but one with a clever mind. There was a temper there, Albus had been able to tell that after Harry’s initial response to his arrival - the bright burst of anger in his eyes when he first saw Albus, the way the green darkened, his jaw clenched and his fingers twitched - but it was tempered by such an overwhelming blanket of kindness and good humour.

He should get out of the office more often.

#anonymous #HP #harry potter #albus dumbledore

[astroboots]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 8

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: You and Steven talk and you make a decision. Or alternatively: You spill the beans and things get messy.

Content: 'tis be an angsty one! anxiety, panic attacks, tears, hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 6,400

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

The door to Steven’s flat has never looked as intimidating as it does right now. The frame is taller than you remembered, and the ornate black panelling seems to have an almost gothic undertone. You can’t help but feel like a supplicant come to receive judgement. 

Trying to calm your racing heart, you smooth a hand over Marc’s jacket where it’s carefully folded and draped over your arm, all the identifying bits of collar and zipper and pockets turned inward. You’re not sure if Steven would even recognize the tan canvas jacket—you’ve never seen him wear it—but it still feels like you’re carrying a red flashing neon sign announcing your deception to everyone who sees it.

One last check to make sure you’re presentable, one last deep breath, then you raise a hand to knock on the door. The sound echoes loudly in the quiet of the hallway. You hear the thump and creak of feet approaching the door and then the metallic sound of locks being undone before the door is jerked open. Steven appears in the opening, staring at you with wild eyes and even wilder hair. 

“You’re here,” he says, and his eyes soften, relief bleeding into his features. “Thanks. Sorry. Sorry, I–” A renegade curl falls into his eyes, and his hand reaches up to smooth it back against his forehead before he gestures you inside. “Come in, please. I need you to– I have to ask you something.”

Your stomach lurches, certain that you’ve been found out, even if you don’t know what for yet.  

You follow him in, hyper-aware of Marc’s jacket. It seems to burn into the skin of your forearm, even through the sleeve of your jumper. You can’t even bring yourself to look at the fish tank, eyes skirting around it even as you search for a place you can divest yourself of the jacket, somewhere where Steven won’t immediately notice. 

But it’s too late, Steven’s already guiding you to his bed, so you go, taking a seat and setting the jacket down carefully behind you while he’s facing the other way. Maybe you can contrive to push it off the head of the bed somehow? Surely Steven won’t notice in all the mess.

“So Gus’ fin grew back,” Steven says, and your heart stops, all thoughts skittering away from your brain as your eyes fly up in panic to meet Steven’s. He hesitates, turning to look at the fish tank where the imposter fish is swimming in all his incriminating two-finned glory and then back at you, “and I feel like that’s not quite… normal, yeah?”

And there it is.

Your heart, previously lodged in your throat, sinks to the pit of your stomach.  

Your ploy with Marc was always inevitably going to come back and haunt you, wasn’t it? Steven isn't stupid. As frazzled as he often seems, perpetually sleep deprived and forgetful, he's clever. One of the most intelligent people you've ever met. Of course this man—this brilliant, observant man—was going to notice that his goldfish had magically regrown a fin overnight. 

“I– I don’t–” The words freeze in your throat as Steven turns to stare at you, brows furrowed, gaze piercing in a way that’s so very unlike him, (but very like someone else you know), and your chest clenches.

“It's not just me, right? Gus has– had only one fin. He had one fin yesterday, but today he has two.” 

Oh god. You don’t know what to say. 

Do you pretend you don’t know what he’s talking about? Agree that it must have grown back? Make up some excuse about how you never paid much attention to Gus’ fins anyway? 

You’re so bloody tired of making excuses.

“You think I'm mad don't you? That I've lost it completely?” Steven says it quietly, a small sad smile on his face, and your heart aches.

You still don’t have an answer for him

Why couldn't Marc have cut one fin off like you told him to? Why couldn't he have just left Gus’ corpse where he found it? Easier to explain a dead fish than a live one that’s suddenly regrown a limb!

In front of you, Steven’s shoulders sag, and you can feel your loyalties wavering. The deep-rooted love you have for this man warring with your promises to the man who came to your door because you’re the only one he had, the only person he could trust.

Steven doesn't say another word, and you bite your lip as you watch him trudge over to a chair and slump down into it. Back curling, he bends over until his elbows are on his knees and stares blindly at the fish tank.

“Maybe you're right, maybe I have gone mad. Fish don't magically regrow fins overnight, do they? No. No, they definitely do not. Oh god.” His fingers dig into his hair, gripping it hard. It hurts just to look at him, and you worry that if he doesn't ease up he's going to end up ripping it out by the roots. 

It physically pains you to see him like this, doubting his own sense of reality. The guilt is screaming inside you until you feel it burrowing into the marrow of your bones. You have done this to him. 

You're gaslighting the man you love, and for what? 

This is such a mess, of first Marc’s and now your making. You had somehow convinced yourself that you were staying mum to protect Steven, but keeping things secret has only made everything worse.

You desperately want to tell Steven the truth. But if you tell him about the truth about Gus, you’ll have to tell him the truth about Marc. You’ll have to tell him that all this time—months and months—you've kept that secret from him. Lied to him.

He's going to hate you. 

For just a moment, you get a flash of memory. Of those beautiful brown eyes pinning you down as you stood inside the lift, fleeing from this very flat the first night you spent together. Of the look in them that said you meant nothing to him. 

You don't know if you can survive seeing that look in Steven’s eyes when he’s only ever looked at you with love. You feel like you might vomit at the very thought of losing him, but… it’s not for you to decide is it? 

The words you once threw at Marc during one of your very first conversations echo back to you: He deserves to know.

You’ve got to tell Steven the truth. All of it. Even if it earns you his anger or his hatred. And if he breaks up with you over it, well… that’s his decision, isn’t it? 

Steven deserves to know the truth. Even if it means you lose him forever. 

Misery, resolve and resignation solidify into a lead weight in your chest, and you rise to your feet, ignoring how wobbly they feel. It’s as if you're walking on sinking sand instead of the firm wooden floorboards as you make your way over to him, standing close enough that your knees touch.

Raising your hand to his shoulder, you rub the tense muscle to comfort him. It doesn't help, he's still rigid and unresponsive. 

“Steven,” you call out softly, and you can feel his body respond to your voice, the tension softening underneath your fingers.  “You've not gone mad. You’re right. Gus only had one fin, this fish has two. You're not imagining things, I promise.”

He's still quiet, and you lean down cupping your hands on each side of his cheeks to tilt his face up. He meets your gaze, wide-eyed and trusting, and you pause for just a moment, fixing this instant in your memory because you don’t know if he’ll ever look at you like this again. 

Then you take a deep breath and do what must be done.

“You're not mad,” you repeat, then quickly before you can change your mind or Marc can interrupt, you blurt out, “you have D.I.D.”

“D-I– …D?” Steven repeats slowly, “I– I don’t understand?” 

“Dissociative Identity Disorder,” you clarify. 

He just stares at you blankly, so you continue, despite your trembling nerves and the near certainty that you are doing and saying this entirely wrong.

“I don’t think it’s a sleeping disorder that’s causing your problems, Steven. I think you have Dissociative Identity Disorder. I’m– I’m pretty sure.”

There’s a moment of absolute silence. So quiet you can hear the fish tank filter buzzing away, and you force yourself to meet Steven’s gaze as he gapes at you in disbelief.

“You think I have–” Steven trails off, then forces an incredulous laugh, “What, like in Split or Psycho!?”

“Oh god no! Those are awful representation of– No. Look, it's nothing like that.” 

“Why would you–” His brows draw together in a frown, and his eyes narrow, then widen, then narrow again before they focus in on you. “Why do you think I have D.I.D?”

“Well, I’ve… um…,” It’s been ages since you’ve thought about how this conversation might go, and you feel vastly underprepared, cringing at the clumsiness of your words even as you say them, “I’ve sort of… seen it?”

“What do you mean you’ve seen–? Oh. Oh God,” his pupils blow wide, and you can almost see the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place for him, the paradigm shift as Steven’s perception of reality crumbles before your eyes. “You’ve met one of them then. Haven’t you?”

“I–” You don’t even get the word out before he’s barrelling on.

“You must’ve. That’s what happened that first night at my flat, isn’t it?” His voice is loud and sharp, almost accusatory, and your stomach twists and knots into itself as he turns away from you and shoves one hand into his hair, yanking at it. “That’s why you were so upset. Why you left. Why you didn’t want to talk about it or spend the night with me.”

“Oh god,” He whirls back to you suddenly, eyes wide with fear, “What happened that night? What did I– Are you all right!?”

“Nothing. Nothing bad happened, Steven, I promise. I’m all right. Everything’s all right.” Another lie on your tally. You’re not sure things are ever going to be all right between the two of you again after this.

“Oh god. You really are sure, aren't you? I can’t–” he turns away again to pace the length of the floor in front of the fish tank, and your heart breaks at how upset he sounds.

“All this time,” he mutters in agitation, “All the times I’ve blacked out. Lost track of time. Woken up somewhere odd. It’s all been that, hasn’t it? Them. Another person inside of me.” He pauses then, “All the mornings you were gone when I woke up…”

It hurts you to hear him like this. You let things go on too long. You should’ve told him earlier.

Without forewarning, he stops, shoulders drawn back into a painfully straight line. You hold your breath for several heart-stopping moments, and then he turns slowly, rounding on you.  

“If you knew…” he begins quietly, eyes meeting yours again, but where there was fear before, they are now sharp and guarded, fear replaced with caution.  “Why didn't you tell me?”

You take a deep breath. The moment drags out, and you wish you could hold your breath for an eternity so you’d never have to answer, never have to risk losing Steven, but reality doesn’t work that way. You owe him this. The whole truth, even if it breaks things between you.  

“He asked me not to.”

His eyes narrow, nose flaring. For the first time since you’ve met him, you watch Steven’s soft brown eyes turn hard and steely, and you have to fight back the tears that prickle at your own.  Even though you knew full well that your confession might earn you his anger, it still hurts to see him look at you this way.

“He… asked you?” His voice is so much lower than what you are used to, murky and dark, dripping with tar, and it makes your heart race several notches faster in alarm to hear it. 

“You spoke to him?” he presses, “What did you two–” The accusation is raw in his voice, and your neck prickles with anxiety. He pauses. “Did he– Did he threaten you?”

“What? No, Steven, I don’t–?” You’re bewildered by the sudden change of direction.

“Did he hurt you?” he interrupts you to demand again, “Did he harm or threaten you in any way?” His eyes are desperate, wild. And you suddenly understand that he’s not angry at you. He’s angry at Marc. 

God, you’re really buggering this up right properly, aren’t you? Now you’ve managed to ruin Steven’s relationship with Marc before it’s even had a chance to start.

“No. No, Steven,” you hurry to reassure him, trying to undo as much of the damage that you've already done. Trying desperately to explain. “He didn't hurt me. He would never.”

“If he had– If... I had hurt you–” Steven’s anger breaks, along with his voice as he continues, “God, I could have hurt you, and I wouldn’t even have known. I-I-I need help. Need to be locked away to keep people around me safe.  I can't–”  

He backs away from you as he speaks as if he fears just being near you might somehow cause you physical harm. You had thought his anger was the worst thing you might have to face. But this—watching his raw pain and fear at the thought that he might have hurt you, might be dangerous—is an incomparable hell that you could never have imagined. 

“No, Steven. No! You’d never hurt anyone–”

Shaking his head at you, he continues to retreat, backing up until his back hits the bookshelf with a solid thud, and he winces at the impact. 

You reach out for him, wanting to soothe his pain and distress and make sure he’s not harmed.

“Don’t!” he shouts, and you flinch, immediately yanking your hand back as his words sear your fingertips. 

“I can't–” He turns sharply away from you to resume pacing. 

You watch him pace, swallowing down the stab of pain of his rejection because it’s only what you deserve, isn’t it? You should have told him sooner. Should never have lied to him in the first place.

“Something’s wrong,” Steven pants out, “This doesn’t– This doesn’t feel right.” His physical agitation is visible. He's breathing heavily, all hunched in on himself, and stops to brace himself against the side of the fishtank. “Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.”

You raise a hand, but you don’t quite dare reach out again; open your mouth to speak, but you don’t know what to say. Your eyes sting with tears, and you feel helpless. Hopeless. You don’t know what to do to help him.

“I think– Think I’m having a p-panic attack. I think–” he stutters out, those soft hands clutching at his chest like it hurts him, “Oh god. I can't– Can’t breathe. I can’t–” 

You’re just beginning to realise what’s happening, when Steven slumps over, dropping to his knees on the floor, body going stiff and rigid.

“Steven!” You scramble forward to grab his shoulders, crouching down to brace yourself in case you need to catch him.

His eyes roll back, and for a horrifying moment, all you can see is the whites of them under his fluttering eyelids. 

Oh God, is he having a seizure?! Fuck, no no no no!

Suddenly his whole body stills. Those brown eyes open slowly in a suddenly calm face, and he raises one eyebrow, regarding you sardonically. 

This isn’t Steven anymore. 

“You just had to tell him, didn’t you?” are the first words out of Marc’s mouth. 

Your face burns. Your throat closes up. Any ounce of composure left in you has been worn paper thin, tearing at the seams. 

You can't take any more of this. After everything that's happened in the clusterfuck that is the last 24 hours of your life—your blunder of an almost kiss, the sleepless night, your mortifying sex-dream in the Uber, your confrontation with Steven, seeing him so upset—this is the last straw. It’s all just too much. 

Something gives way inside of you, and you fall to your knees. The tiny pain from your kneecaps impacting the hardwood is lost in the hurricane of emotions building in your chest. Misery, humiliation, shame, fear, regret—all the feelings you’ve pushed down for god knows how long are roiling together, cracking against your ribs and climbing your throat like bile, no longer willing to be contained or ignored. Tears sting your eyes. You try to fight them back, but it’s no use. You’re crying, and it feels like just one more miserable indignancy. 

God, you’re pathetic.

Across from you, Marc’s stern expression shifts. Steel-cut eyes, fading into something softer, sadder, even as the line of his mouth tightens.

He doesn’t say anything, just raises a tentative hand to your shoulder. When you don’t flinch or pull away, it presses there more firmly before sliding down across your shoulder blade to the small of your back.

The comforting gesture overwhelms your last desperate hold on your composure, and you collapse forward against him, burying your face in his chest. He still smells faintly of clean linens blended with the soap you’re used to on Steven, just like he did when you were pressed against him on the DLR. That was only twenty four hours ago, and yet it feels like a different lifetime entirely.

His arms come up to surround you in a gentle hug, and you’re struck all over again by how warm and solid he is. The thought barely has time to sink in before the guilt and shame floods you all anew. 

This is not the time. This is not the right person. You shouldn’t be feeling anything for Marc right now, and you can’t help but descend into full ugly sobbing.

Marc’s arms squeeze tight where they’re wrapped around you, then gravity shifts as he sits back, dragging you down into his lap. He settles you there against him, one large hand running slowly up and down your spine, and holds you while you cry.

It’s embarrassing and pathetic and exactly what you need right now, and you sob your heart out there against his chest, trying not to get too much snot all over his shirt.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you eventually manage to choke out through your tears,  “I-I shouldn't have told him like that. Should have done it better. Sooner.”  Every word comes out stuttering, garbled with thick mucus and gasping sobs. 

Marc merely hums and continues to stroke your back. You wonder if he can understand a word you’re saying, or if he’s being polite so you won’t descend deeper into hysteria.

After a long moment, the force of the sobs pushing against your diaphragm start to fade a little, settling into more sedate tears and the occasional hiccup, and Marc pulls back slightly, shifting you to one side. You watch, puzzled, as he uses one hand to tug the end of his sleeve down over the other. 

Understanding dawns when he lifts it to your face, using the softworn cotton fabric to wipe your soggy, tear-soaked cheeks. You’re stunned by the gentle gesture. Your skin burns where he touches you, but you’re not sure if it's the scrape of the damp material over irritated flesh or the physical proximity of the man in front of you. 

“Why does he never get clothes that fit?” Marc mutters, grouching like an old man at Steven’s sartorial choices. 

That forces a choked laugh out of you, disrupting the pressure in your chest and throat long enough that you can finally catch a full breath. 

When you look back at Marc, there's the faint hint of a pleased smile there at the curve of his lips. It might be the softest expression you’ve ever seen him wear. It reminds you of Steven, and your heart breaks all over again, more tears pushing up behind your eyelids.

“I should never have lied,” you choke out on a strained, ugly sob, “I should have told him from the start, should never have allowed it to go on for as long as it did. And oh God, he was so upset there at the end. Scared and angry and– And it’s all my fault. I did that. I broke him.”

“You didn't break anything. He’s not broken. Maybe we need some help, yeah. But nothing’s broken.”

You nod and sniffle, trying to take some comfort from his words. To your surprise, Marc continues to speak.

“Steven will get through this. You too. You'll be fine.”

And that's.... that’s good, isn’t it? That’s what you want, but…. 

But there's some small horrible part of you that's selfishly worried about if you and Steven will be able to get through this together. If there will even be a ‘you and Steven’ anymore, once you see him again. 

“He'll never be able to forgive me,” you whisper, giving voice to your worst fear. The words are hoarse as you continue, spewing out the worry and self-contempt you’re drowning in, “And he shouldn't! He should hate me.”

“He’s not gonna hate you.” Marc's voice is gruff and impatient, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to comfort you or scold you. 

“But I lied to him—for months! What kind of partner does that? I’m despicable. Steven must think that I'm a monster.”

“He doesn’t think that. Trust me, Steven doesn’t hate you.”

“You don't know that.”

“I know,” he counters, implacable. “How can you possibly know!?” you demand in despair, your throat is scratched raw and clogged with tears. 

“We share a body. Steven may not know what happens when he’s not in the driver’s seat, but I do. Words. Feelings. It's all there. Just distorted.”

That gives you pause.

“‘Distorted’ how?” 

You’d never considered that Marc might remember when Steven didn’t. But he does—of course he does. How else would he have known about you in the first place?

“Like– Like being a fly on the wall. I don’t have control, but I see what’s happening. I feel what he’s feeling.”

“Wait…” You tense in his arms as a horrifying thought occurs to you, a montage of every intimate moment you and Steven have shared playing out in mortifying technicolour behind your eyes. “You've been in there watching this whole time!?”

Marc must sense what you're thinking because he shakes his head, looking away briefly. “Not the whole time. Sometimes. Enough. Enough to know how Steven feels about you.”

Despite his reassurance, you’re not convinced, and Marc must see it. His hand comes up, running haphazardly over his hair before he looks up at the ceiling, the hand smoothing across his mouth in a gesture of frustration as he tries to find his words. 

“Steven... likes you. Likes you so much that it feels like his heartbeat is about to burst out of his chest when you’re around. He likes being with you. Sitting with you. Spending time with you. It doesn't matter what you do. You don’t even have to be talking. If you’re there, he’s happy. You make him happy.”

“Steven makes me happy too," you whisper. 

An image of Steven sitting at a restaurant table with flowers and chocolate, his whole face lit up with excitement at your arrival forms in your mind's eye, and you find yourself smiling through your tears.

“He’s so thoughtful. And smart. And… and… awkward sometimes,” you continue with a small wet laugh, wiping your damp cheeks with the back of your hand, “but only because he cares so much. He just has this way about him, you know? Where he always gives one hundred per cent of himself to… well… everything, really.” 

Marc nods sympathetically. You know you’re rambling, but you don’t seem to be able to stop. Marc shows no signs of stopping you either, so you keep nattering on, pouring out the things you love about Steven. The things you wish you’d said to him when you had the chance.

“If he’s happy or enthusiastic about something, there’s no hiding it, is there? Not when his smile lights up the whole bloody room.” Your chest squeezes tightly into itself until it’s hard to speak, “I just…”

“I just love him.” The words are squeaky and ragged from being choked out past the rising lump in your throat, and you can feel tears beginning to well up anew. “And it hurts so much to see him struggling with something he can’t understand. He doesn’t deserve that. I just… I just wanted him to be able to have a happy, normal life. For us to have a happy, normal life together.

“You’re not wrong to want that,” Marc says quietly. He sounds distant, almost introspective. “You deserve it. So does he.”

“But now I’ve gone and buggered it all up, haven’t I? We’ll never get to have that now.”

For the first time tonight, there’s no answer, no response from Marc, and when you look up at him, you find him staring off over your shoulder, eyes dull, mouth set in a grim line.

“Marc…?” “Yeah.” His voice is faint, hoarse as his gaze turns towards you slowly, blinking like he’s coming out of a trance. It grows stronger, more determined once he meets your eyes, “Yeah, no. You’re gonna get to have that. You and Steven are gonna get to have a normal, happy life together. The one you deserve.” “I don’t– I don’t know if Steven will forgive me for lying to him, Marc.” Your throat tightens, bile burning the lining of your stomach as you try to make peace with that truth, “That will have to be his choice.”

“He’ll forgive you. I’m gonna take care of it. I’ll fix everything. You don’t have to worry about anything anymore.”

You desperately want to believe him. And looking at the determination in Marc’s eyes, the resolved set to his jaw, you almost do. This is a man who would move heaven and earth to keep his promises. But as much as you trust him, some things are out of his hands. There’s only so much Marc can “fix.” He can’t control Steven’s feelings or undo your decision to lie to him in the first place.

Still, the fact that Marc is trying so hard to comfort you warms you. You observe the stubborn set of his jaw with fondness, and you can feel yourself relaxing, just the tiniest bit.

“Marc, I–” you pause, struggling with what to say before settling on, “Thank you. For… for taking care of me.” You barely get the last word out before being overtaken by a jaw-cracking yawn, the tiredness you’ve been keeping at bay all evening rising up to overwhelm you.

“You should go home,” Marc says, not unkindly, “Get some sleep. It’s late.”

Dragging your eyes to the clock on the wall, you realise that it’s nearly half-eleven. After barely catching any sleep last night (and what you did catch was hardly restful), it’s no wonder your nerves are shot. 

You’re physically exhausted, head aching from all the crying, and when you think of the commute home, you want to weep all over again. You’re just so tired. You can’t imagine how you’re going to drag yourself up off the floor, much less down to the tube, but you’re bloody well not getting into another taxi or Uber right now.

“Can I… um… Would it be all right if I stayed and slept here?” 

“Yeah. That’s fine. C’mon.” He helps you to your feet and gently guides you to your side of the bed. 

You climb in, dragging the covers haphazardly up over your legs as you lay back against the blissfully welcoming pillows. 

Seemingly unsatisfied, Marc takes over. Reaching down and grabbing the edge of the quilt, he pulls it the rest of the way up and over you until he can tuck it in snugly around your shoulders. The floorboards creak as he rises to stand, and you’re seized by a sudden fear that if he leaves now it might be the last you see of him or Steven.

“Wait!”

Marc pauses, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

“Could you...”  You look down, embarrassed by what you want to ask, but really, after every other mortifying thing you’ve done in front of him recently, what’s one more? “Could you stay with me?” 

You drag your eyes back up to his face just in time to see that inquiring eyebrow hitch higher still, so you rush on, “Just until I fall asleep. Please? I’d rather not be by myself right now.” 

Marc hesitates, shoulders tensing up, and you're gearing yourself up for his refusal when he sighs and acquiesces with a nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'll stay.”

You’re so grateful you feel like you could cry all over again, but you’ve put Marc through quite enough of that already tonight. Instead, you give him a small tired smile and scoot over to make room, rolling onto your side to face him as he sits down on the edge of the bed. 

He sits turned slightly towards you and watches you tuck your hands under your chin, trying to get comfortable. 

After you settle, he lifts one hand towards your face, and for a moment you almost expect him to cup your cheek like Steven would, but then his hand hesitates, stilling briefly in mid-air before coming to rest onto your shoulder.  Right, of course, how silly of you. Of course Marc isn’t going to touch your face. 

You gaze up at him, taking in the easy way he watches you, his expression open, shoulders more relaxed than you’ve ever seen them. You do your best to take in every detail and micro expression, wanting to etch every inch of that handsome face into your permanent memory just in case it all goes to shit after this. It’s Marc’s face, but also Steven’s, and even if there are distinct differences between the two of them, it is undeniably the very same face of the man you love.  

Marc’s gaze doesn’t waver from you, and his attention is comforting. The heavy weight of his hand on your shoulder makes you feel safe, and your eyelids feel equally heavy. You can barely keep them open. 

His dark eyes are the last thing you see before sleep claims you.

You wake to an empty bed. 

Steven’s side of the mattress is cold, and for once there's no gentle symphony of cooking noises from the kitchen in place of his weight next to you. 

Opening your eyes, all you see is the white sheets, the wrinkled pillow and… your handbag? There’s no pile of folded clothes next to you, and it's not until you sit up, clutching the quilt to your already-clothed chest out of habit, that you remember why things are different.

You look out over the empty space and realise that you’re alone. It's eerily quiet in the flat. London should not be this quiet. It feels wrong to be here without Steven or Marc, like you’re an intruder, trespassing where you don’t belong.

The flat looks different without them as well. The clutter of books, scribbled notebooks and knick-knacks usually make the vast space feel homely and lived in. But now, without Steven sitting at his desk pouring over books or Marc standing by the kitchen counter cleaning up crumbs, the mess just makes the space look derelict and unattended. It feels so empty that it might as well be abandoned. 

Reaching for your handbag, you realise belatedly that Marc’s jacket is missing. It’s not there where you left it on the bed or lost somewhere under the covers, and when you scramble up to peer over the edge of the mattress, it’s not on the floor either. Marc must have taken it with him. 

It feels stupid to miss something you’ve barely been able to look at the last few days, but there it is. Not knowing what else to do, you fish your phone out of your bag. When the screen lights up, you find a text from Marc, sent hours ago, waiting for you in your notifications. 

Marc I have to leave again. You won't be able to reach me. Steven will be back. Don't worry. 

You settle into a seated position, still groggy from sleep, and start typing out a response. 

You Thank you for letting me know.  Please be careful and come back safe.  Both of you.

Marc leaves you on read. 

It's been a long time since that's happened, and it leaves you feeling odd. The whole situation feels odd, and it leaves an unsettling bitter clump in your throat, even as you try to tell yourself there's nothing to worry about. 

Days go by without communication from Marc or Steven, and an uncanny sense of deja vu starts to creep up on you. It's like you're transported back to the early days right after Marc “officially” introduced himself. When he'd taken Steven and disappeared on you, leaving only a string of numbers written in pen on the palm of your hand. 

The difference between then and now is that you know Marc now. You trust him.  

There's no mad panic this time. No fear that Steven's disappeared on you forever and you’ll never see him again. No mountain of crumpled up paper and sticky notes on your desk, no crazy conspiracy theories or attempts to crack some secret code. Marc said he'd bring Steven back safe, and so he will. It's as simple as that. 

Life just… goes on. You go to work and come home. You eat dinner, watch the telly for a bit and then go to bed. In the morning, you rinse and repeat. 

It’s a bit like having a phone call put on hold—Marc’s text filling the role of that polite automated voice on the other end telling you that you’re a valued customer and they’ll take your call as soon as they can, no indication of how long you might be left to wait.

That’s not to say that you don’t worry. You may not be worried about Steven not coming back, but you are worried about what will happen once he does. 

Marc said he'd “fix everything,” but some things aren't fixable. He can't turn back time or change what's already been done. You behaved badly, lied to Steven for months, and even if your decision to do so came from a place of love and worry for him, that doesn't mean Steven will be okay with it. 

You just wish you had some indication of how he felt about everything.

You do your best to not wallow in that uncertainty. But in the quiet evenings, even the loud noise of the telly isn't enough to drown out your thoughts, it always comes back to you. 

In those hours, against your own better judgement, you always end up painting elaborate scenarios of the moment Steven returns to you.  It's that itch you should leave alone, swelling only getting worse every time you scratch until it becomes an infected wound, and still, you can't stop yourself. 

In one version he's angry, disappointed in another, and in the worst one: hurt. He's always asking you the very question that you've repeatedly asked yourself. ‘How could you?’

In every scenario, you're unable to give any explanation that could possibly vindicate you. All you can think to say is: “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” You hope it’ll be enough.

Some things aren't fixable. You can only pray your relationship with Steven isn't one of them.

It's another Saturday night, and you're on the sofa, eating Chinese take-out straight from the box. The telly is blasting out an old rerun of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, the swear-filled hollering of the chef almost comforting in how loud it is. It's drowning out both your own thoughts and all other background noise with bleeped-out expletives on maximum volume. 

You're picking escaped bits of noodle out of the sofa cushions, when you think you hear three gentle taps on your door.

It's so quiet that you think at first it's just your imagination playing tricks on you. Or perhaps your neighbours banging around. Something pinches at your chest, and you look up at the clock on your wall. Almost midnight. No one would knock on your door at this hour, least of all– 

But... what if it is him? 

Reaching forward, you grab the remote and turn off the telly. You hold your breath, you strain your ears, listening for any break in the sudden silence. 

The knocking repeats. It's a quiet noise, almost patient and polite, but this time you can tell it's definitely coming from your door. There's only one person in the world who knocks on your door instead of using the bell because he knows it always startles you. 

Anticipation hums in your chest, and you throw yourself off the sofa so fast you go lightheaded from getting up so suddenly. You dash towards the door, narrowly missing your ottoman—honestly you have no idea why you keep the bloody thing—and hurry down the short hall. A sudden attack of nerves makes your fingers clumsy, and you fumble with the lock, your thumb slipping against the latch. 

What if it's not him?  

What if it's just some inappropriate door salesman? Or what if it is him, and he's really angry with you? What if– You finally get the bloody thing undone and throw the door open with enough force to rip it off its hinges. 

He stands there at the threshold of your door, one hand still lifted as if to knock again. 

You stop dead, your heart pounding like it’s trying to beat its way out of your chest. The two of you stare at each other, and it feels as if the whole world is holding its breath.  Finally, you manage to kick your frozen body back into working order long enough to breathe out a single word—

“Steven.”

~ CONTINUE ~

Author's note: Phew! When I said this chapter gave us trouble, you guys don't even know the half of it. My poor (encouraging and supportive) writer friends has heard me screech and moan and cry about this one so much that they get PTSD flashbacks when they hear the term "Red Flags" now.

Dedication

There isn't enough credit and dedication and kudos that exists in the world to do @thirstworldproblemss justice or adequately describe how she spearheaded this chapter. She picked this story up when I was unable to take it further and polished it and shined it and fixed it and turned it into the absolute diamond that it is. I cannot tell you the number of times we've hit a snaffu in writing this series, where I felt that I couldn't see left from right in the fog as thick as Silent Hill 2, where I felt the quality was just not there. And she comes with her keyboard and magic wand and like a fairy godmother make it all pretty and right and perfect and good.

But more importantly than that, TWP you held my hand when I was being an insufferable Titanic ship of a wreck of a human being after I hit the iceberg of exhaustion. This story would not exist without you. I would not be on tumblr still without you. You mean the whole friggin' world to me. I adore you xx

#oscar isaac #moon knight #marvel #mcu #moon knight fanfiction #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockley #steven grant x you #moon knight fic #marc spector x you #jake lockley x you #moon knight tv #moon knight x you #moon knight x reader #moon knight fanfic #cici writes

[raayllum]

1x02 / 5x09

It's clever, it's practical, it's brilliant. / No more dark magic. Never again!

#tdp viren #viren #varrow #theme: exchange #tdp's perpetual trolley problem #1x02 #s1 #tdp #the dragon prince #parallels #long post #mine #5x09 #s5 #personal fave #the path parallel too like mm

[hollowed-theory-hall]

do you like the movies at all? do you think they have any merit as works of their own in terms of world building?

Honestly, I haven't watched the movies in years, so I don't remember them all that well. From what I do remember, they mischaracterized basically everyone and had holes in the plot that only made sense if you read the books. The biggest travesty for me was Harry himself. I love him so much in the books, and the movies made him into wet cardboard. The Golden Trio of the movies was just, way less engaging and felt less like actual friends to me. Harry's personality was non-existent, Hermione was too perfect, and Ron lost all his cleverness and skills.

The sad thing is, I liked a lot of the cast, for some of the characters they literally couldn't find better actors. With a different director, they could've been so good, which is the biggest tragedy. I actually love the feel of the Wizarding World in the movies. Especially the first two.

The aesthetic, the design of Hogwarts, the fashion, and the character design for some (Hagrid and Snape for example) were brilliant. When they changed directors for the third movie, they just lost the whimsical magic the Wizarding World had in the first two.

And that's like my biggest issue with the movies. There were a lot of good things in them, like the costumes (first two movies mostly), the castle, the feeling of magic, the soundtrack, and the casting, but then the writing and directing didn't make use of all the great stuff there.

#harry potter #hp #harry potter thoughts #hp thoughts #hp movies #asks #anon asks #anonymous