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soldiersgirl · 4 months ago

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TIDE AND TRIGGER.ᐟ

summary ⭑ a century long bet and a determined winchester; you want to be up where the people are and he only wants to be drowning in you. cw ⭑ mermaid!reader x season one dean winchester. 18+ smut (mdni). mentions of death. mentions of john winchester. mentions of kidnapping. fighting. swearing. inaccurate and accurate mermaid lore. light manipulation. kissing. fingering. oral (f receiving). begging. unprotected p in v (wrap it up). missionary, riding. kind of subby dean. slight dirty talk. sweet nicknames (baby, sweetheart, angel). word count ⭑ 5,617 words

"4 men found dead – washed ashore at beach" read the front page of the newspaper that rested on diner table as the brother's finally settled down and ate their first, proper meal in two days after relentless driving, phone calls and gas station hot dog's that didn't sit right with either of them. dean's meticulous eyes skimmed over the page, scouring it for details, anything that could hint at what they were dealing with as the younger winchester added his salad dressing, eyes darting around the unfamiliar diner that looked like every other diner they'd ever stepped foot into it. they all meld and mould together at some point; the cutlery stained, the lukewarm coffee and the somewhat-edible fried food. the brothers had been after each other, small digs and hidden insults between each hunt and stolen naps in the leather passenger seat of the impala. but this was finally different, finally they had found themselves in a warmer state; a sunny town filled with life rather than the usual desolate and gloom-filled states. a welcomed difference. but a warning of what was to come.

"any ideas?" sam hums as he digs his fork into his salad, pushing around the dressing to hide the disappointing mix of greens underneath.

"could be another drowner spirit, like that kid in wisconsin." dean hums in response as he bites into his burger with a sigh. the meat somehow soggy and dry at the same time. "could be a kelpie. siren?" he throws down his burger and raises his shoulders in defeat. "must be something in dad's journal." sam shakes his head.

"nothing that hints at what this could be." sam sighs as dean lifts the newspaper once again as his eyes scan the article, just one more time. signs of choking, blunt force trauma. followed by reports of singing heard late at night by the beach, some men wandering lost, schools of fish left half-eaten and discarded. dean curses as it all clicks. "what?" sam's head shoots up as he eyes the newspaper from across the table as dean pinches the bridge of his nose.

"i think i know. but if if i'm right, and that's a big if, then dad owes me five bucks... when we find him." he mumbles the last part before reaching for a limp fry and wiggling it about in front of sam, who shoves his hand down with an unimpressed grin.

"what could you possibly be betting with dad about?" sam grunts, pushing his bangs aside to reveal his puppy-dog eyes silently admiring his older brother, as he looked proud of himself.

"mermaids." dean leans back with a shit-eating smile and sending a wink towards his younger. sam lets out a laugh of disbelief.

"you and dad were betting on.. mermaids? i was at college and this is how you spent your time."

"no, no, lil' bro. you got it all wrong." dean leans back forward and hunches over his half-eaten burger, setting the scene. "it was just after the little mermaid came out, right? and i asked dad why we had never found one, why it was only those crazy-ass sirens. the old man said they were extinct. gone." dean jabs his finger down onto the front page of the crumpled paper. "until now. the singing, the choking? classic mermaid lore, sammy. it's what the pirates wrote home about."

"i just thought being out on the ocean made them crazy. didn't they confuse sea-cows for women?"

"desperate times call for desperate measures, but whatever. sammy. this is the real deal and we're gonna catch her and prove it. no sense killing her, we're gonna be revered! finding an extinct species." dean runs his worn hands over his face before slamming down an assortment of dollars on the diner table and grabbing his trusty leather jacket.

"wha-?" sam immediately gets cut off by dean grabbing him by the hood of his hoodie and dragging his lanky brother out behind him as he heads for the impala and sets course for their motel. it was time for prince dean to find his very own little mermaid.

for the next 3 nights, sam and dean would lounge around the beach during the evenings watching as families grilled, teenagers played volleyball and couples walked along the shore, giggling into one another's shoulders and holding hands. as the numbers dwindled and people made their way home to rest was when the real work began for the two brothers. as the moon hung low, the tide came in and the stars played in the vast, navy sky, the brothers sat and intently listened. each splash of water examined, each washed ashore fish bagged for evidence, with a grimace, whilst trying to keep each other awake with ridiculous games and keeping unsuspecting young men off the beach, for their own safety.

"i swear to god, dean, if you chose 'c' again for i spy, you're getting drowned." sam would complain as dean only sniggered and gave the same reply.

"get it? c, sea?" he would point out, lie back in the warm sand and laugh out loud before sam reminded him to be quiet, reprimanding dean for maybe scaring away the mermaid.

on the fourth night, they were getting desperate. dean's freckles had sprouted and multiplied across his rosy cheeks as sam's hair had gone a tone or two lighter while basking in the sun, enjoying the mundanity of the moment. an earned vacation among the chaos. dean fiddles with his necklace as he gazes out, thinking this was something he could get used to, the serenity of the night enveloping him and brushing away all his worries, like the sand that flies across his outstretched legs.

SPLASH!

dean whips his head, his trained eyes scanning the surface for a hint of something, anything. he goes to turn to sammy and sees his younger brother passed out on his worn-out brown hoodie. his bangs swept across his forehead, his hands resting on his chest and his mouth in a slight pout as light snores rumble in his chest.

SPLASH!

another. dean tears his eyes away and stares out again. it was coming closer, almost beckoning him. this felt different. the air grew colder and everything grew quieter as dean's senses heightened as small splashes rang out across the shore line. dean was too slow to catch the culprit each time and his anxiety grew with each. he decides against his better judgement and leaves sammy as he shoots up, grabs his leather jacket that he was sitting on and his hunter's bag before trudging across the beach. until he hears it. the indisputable sound of a woman's voice singing. her soft tones and gentle notes are carried in by the waves as they lap against dean's feet, like wanting fingers trailing against her lover's skin. dean's instinct cloud over for a second, he should walk into the ocean. he should get deeper. find her.

"no.. no!" he whispers to himself before digging around in his jeans pocket and pulling out his earplugs and shoving them into his ears. just like he suspected, her voice calls men to the ocean, like a moth to light and they have no choice but to follow. but dean was smarter and prepared. as he travels along the beach, he spots a cove in the distance and a smile spreads across his tanned face. "i got ya now.." he mutters as he hikes up his bag and heads straight for, what he suspected, was the mermaid's lair.

each droplet echoed throughout the desolate cove. the walls damp and the floor covered in trodden barnacles and washed-up seaweed. each of dean's steps had to be calculated as any could lead to a fatal mistake and he wasn't about to let anything get in his way. your humming and soft tones bounced off the walls, flowing over dean and greeting him like a long-lost over as he pants and gasps, desperate to prove himself right and his father wrong. he had lost all sense of direction and time as he continues climbing further and further into your grasp, your voice becoming his only compass.

dean falters, dropping his bag and leather jacket from his grasp, as he finally reaches an opening, wherein a glittering, untouched inlet lapped at the edges. dean scrambles forward, his jeans scraping against the rock floor as he dives his hand into the cold tide pool and moans with relief as the cold water touches his lips. he rests his heated cheeks against the edge before splashing some water on his face and securing his ear plugs further. disorientation was your play; it was how you got even the strongest of men at their weakest, scared, desperate.

"you're not like the others." dean's emerald eyes fly open and he throws himself back away from the edge, away from you. you treaded the water gracefully as you intently watched him, the tide caressing your soft skin. your hair was slicked back revealing each intricate detail of your face in the dimly-lit cove. beads of ocean running down your cheeks bones and gliding over the soft pillows of your lips. how could something so beautiful, be so deadly? dean shook his head as he laid frozen, his breathing quick and shallow.

"the others?" his deep voice a contrast to the delicate setting.

"you know which ones." you say nonchalantly with a small shrug of your shoulders, as if you hadn't killed them. you swim forward and fold your arms over one another as you rest your chin on top, a small smile playing on your lips. "pathetic and entitled. stupid." you laugh, running your tongue over your sharp canines. teeth made to tear men to shreds. dean finally sits himself up and tries to shake his fears of him. he came here for a reason and he wasn't going to leave empty-handed.

"entitled?" dean asks, eager to learn from their mistakes.

"they thought they deserved me, as if i was something to own. so i showed them the truth." you cock your head as if the answer is obvious but dean only lifts his brows in confusion which got a sigh from you. "the ocean can't be owned or tamed, neither can a woman."

"you're not a woman." dean says pointedly, receiving a sneer from you. "you're a mermaid. you're meant to be extinct, haven't been found in hundreds of years." dean regurgitates what his father told him all those years ago.

"that's what we wanted you to think."

"who?"

"men, hunters, sailers. anyone who wanted to harm us. we dove to uncharted depths, but after a while, you get that craving. that yearning." you sigh as you trace your finger over the shell-speckled edge. "are you here to hurt me?" your eyes meet his, challenging him.

"no." truth.

"are here to capture me?"

"no." lie.

"then why are you here? you seem to know a lot about mermaids." you furrow your brows in suspicion as you lift and point your finger to his ear. "i can spot the plugs from here. smart." you pull yourself more out of the pool and lean yourself over more across the cold, cove bed. seaweed tangled around your chest and stretched out over your shoulders, as opposed to the sea-shells that dean was expecting, whilst your kept your shimmering tail submerged still, playing with the waves.

"my dad... was a hunter. told me all about you. said i'd never see one like you, that i was stupid to think i would." dean admits, his heart clenching at the thought of his dad's harsh words. he was only a child.

"you smell like a hunter." you state, propping your chin on your palm. "is that why you've been sitting on the beach all those nights, just... waiting for me?" you tug your soaked hair behind your ear with a small giggle. one fact that john had also mentioned was that mermaid's were gullible, too gullible for their own good.

"yes, yes. of course! anything to see you." he eagerly nodded, playing to your weaknesses. "i just had to see you."

"wow..." you feel your cheeks heat up as you throw yourself backwards into the water, did a small back flip under water and spraying water all over a surprised dean. with you distracted, he took the opportunity to grab his bag closer to him, getting a grip on the fisherman's net he had stashed in it as you return to your original position with a wide smile plastered across your face. "you're the sweetest man i've ever met. and i've been around for a long time." you reach out your webbed hands to dean as he notices the small, iridescent scales running down your arms to your fingertips. he reaches out with a sweet smile and when you expect to feel the shake of his hand, you feel a harsh tug as you're pulled out of the water and enveloped in a tangled mess. you thrash your tail, try to scratch with your clawed nails and let out a shrill call, but to no avail. as you struggle against the net, a tear rolling down your cheek in disbelief, dean watches. frozen. he had done the impossible.

"let me go!" you call out, grabbing onto the net to shake it but yelping out in pain as the net burns your hands. you hiss and pull them back, eyes darting between the on-edge dean and the knotty tangle of rope.

"don't move too much." his voice stern, but he catches himself and softens his tone. "silver has been woven into the threads, it'll hurt if you move too much." dean whispers, your short sobs echoing off the salt-kissed stone. you pull your tail up to your chest and curl it around yourself like the comforting hold of a mother as you shiver, from the cold and fear.

"p-please. don't kill me. i'll go. i'll go anywhere else, i'll go back to the depths. whatever you want." you beg, your brows upturned. dean can't even look at you, knowing one look in your hopeful eyes would mean letting you go.

"i'm not going to kill you, i swear." he rustles around in his bag and pulls out the familiar leather bound journal of john winchester, flicks through a few pages and clicks the pen that came along with it. "we want to study you, show other hunters that you're back from extinction." dean hums as his eyes dart over your body, noting down the details he had noticed and the information that needed to be updated.

"if– if i help you, will you let me go? go back to my sisters?" you wipe your nose. "they'll get worried if i'm gone for too long, come searching for me."

"yes." dean lies, against his better judgement. he'd rather keep you calm and talkative, than panicked and silent. as expected, you fall for it, his tone assuring and confident and you nod as your breathing slows. dean had to wait for you to fall asleep to be able to get you out of the cove with the help of his brother, but for now, you both sat in a tense silence that was interrupted by dean's occasional questions. all the way throughout, you were honest but your eyes never left his face. you enjoyed his human tendencies. the scrunching of his small nose as he wrote, nibbling on his bottom lip and end of the pen as he continued to avoid your gaze.

as the last sea-water droplets roll of your skin and your hair slowly dries, you feel a shiver run deep, down your spin as you start to gasp for air. your webbed hands fly up to your throat as your scratch at your chest, panicked. dean throws john's journal to the side, leaping forward, holding his hands out in confusion.

"wh–what do i do? what's...?" is all dean can mutter as he watches the scene unfold it front of him. your tail unfurls and falls in front of you, the seaweed that clung to your chest falls into your lap, your scales shivering and peeling off. you watch in horror as your majestic, opalescent tail transform into water and revealing legs underneath as it cascades down and into the cove pool. as the ordeal washes over, you sigh and silently curse yourself, bringing your new-found knees to your chest and covering yourself from dean's look of disbelief and shock. "what?!" he half-yells, not understanding your calm demeanour.

"i forgot this happened, honestly." you stare in awe at your human form, wiggling your toes and fingers in sync and enjoying the feeling of your rounded teeth against your tongue. "i... i haven't been out of the water in a few centuries. yeah, when the sea-water dries, we return to our original form. how we looked before we drowned by angry sailors and were saved by sea foam. for men, the sea is terrifying and unruly. but for us, scorned women, it's a sanctuary."

"that's how mermaids are created?" dean has forgotten all about the damn journal and let's himself be taken your words.

"that's how some are created. not everyone has the same story. all we know is that the ocean, she saved us. made us." you nod with a small smile. "i... i have to be back in the water within the hour or i turn to sea-foam... just so you know." it was dean's turn to nod with a smile of defeat. there goes his plan. a silence covers you both like a blanket but a small cough from you pulls dean out of his thoughts as he tries to come up with a new plan, but fails to do so. "can i at least take the net off? i'll... i'll answer more of your questions, i won't try to leave. i swear."

"oh, yeah. let me just..." dean shuffles forward as you lift up your arms, freeing you from the net but catching a glimpse of your chest in the process. he holds his breath as he keeps his gaze skyward, blindly grabbing at twisted threads and throwing them to the side. he reaches behind him and pulls forward his oversized leather jacket to you. you giggle as you reach forward, your fingers gliding over his before pulling it on and wrapping it around you. dean gazes at you out of the corner of his eye and sighs with relief at your covered form as he stretches and rubs the back of his neck. he pulls out his earplugs, fearing you less now that you had become human right in front of him.

"you're quite the gentleman, aren't you? looks like your father taught you well." you comment, your eyes filled with admiration. despite your human form, your mermaid traits still shone through.

"my father taught me no such thing." dean bites, his head whipping to the journal and tucking it back into his bag. you rest your chin on your knee and immediately realise that you hit a nerve.

"but he did give you a name. you still haven't told me yours." you point out, as you fiddle with your fingers.

"dean." he coughs, turning back around and facing you again. his shoulders relaxing and his gaze softening. "dean winchester." you hum and smile at him, sharing your name in return.

"dean. well, dean. if you're not going to ask me any more questions, how will we fill the time?" a suggestive smile plays on your soft lips. "i can't remember the last time i felt the loving touch of a man." you cock your head as dean's mouth gapes, taken aback by your honesty. you lean forward on all fours with dean's jacket hanging off your naked body and crawl forward. you mirror his position and kneel in front of him, your knees touching, the jacket sliding off your shoulder and your chest barely concealed. you reach out, grab dean's hand and lift it up until it rests against your breast, his hand instinctively cupping it in his large palm. eyes locked on one another's like the tension might snap if either of you blinked. his thumb runs over your nipple and a gasp escapes you as he slowly circles it and rubs it between his two digits. "dean, please." you mutter breathlessly as you lean in and brush your nose against his, your lips hovering over and grazing his. a small tug on your nipple and a unison of hisses before he carefully presses his lips to yours. you tentatively kiss, tongues slowly gliding against each others as his other hand reaches up and palms your other breast with the same level of care as before.

"can i...?" dean whispers against your lips, his hands reaching up and grabbing the edges of his jacket and as you nod, he slowly slides it off your shoulders and it falls with a heavy thud. you reach out and tug on his t-shirt with a smirk and dean quickly gets the hint by yanking it over his head and chucking it to the side. you both raise up onto your knees and let your hands and his explore each others bodies. groping, gliding, grabbing accompanied by soft kisses and high-pitched whines. your arms settle around his neck as he holds you by your waist, pulling you as close to him as possible. chest to chest. heart to heart. his fingers digging into your supple skin as your nails drag across his scalp, tugging on his short locks and nipping at his lips as he hisses. your lips travel down his neck, licking and leaving open-mouthed kisses against his pulse-point. "oh fuck..." his groans echo throughout the cove as you melted into his touch as he holds you tight against him, like two lovers reunited. nails scratching against his back and teeth grazing the tender skin of his neck as he mewls under you. the sweetest sounds you've ever heard.

"please, touch me. i need it so bad." you mutter against his shoulder before lightly biting down, just enough to leave indents speckled across his broad muscles. you drag your lips across his skin and back up to his lips which eagerly meet yours in a frenzied kiss. "please, dean." you whisper into the kiss and dean only replies with a short laugh before letting his grip fall from your waist and find his way between your legs. his fingers caress your inner thighs as you flinch and twitch. the light brush of his fingers a welcomed change from the harsh pulls and tugs of the ocean, restlessly beating against your skin. they continue to run and brush over where you need him most, where your wetness is pooling and slowly dripping down onto dean's soft fingertips. he smiles into the kiss and lets out a satisfied moan as he meets your juices and finally lets his fingers dive into you. they slip between your folds and move up to meet your clit, where he rubs your arousal all over it. your legs falter and your breath stutters at the foreign sensation as your moans rumble in your chest.

"like that, sweetheart?" he mumbles and all you can do is nod as he increases the pressure, circling your engorged bud before going back into your folds and teasing your opening. you latch onto him for support and throw your head back as your hip stutters before slowly rocking in sync with his rough fingers playing with your clit. "god, you're soaked, angel." he sighs as he admires you, the way your body reacts to him. he quickly pulls away and you groan in defiance before you hear him shuffling around before slowly guiding you to lay down. instead of the damp, cold stone against your bare back, you're met with the soft satin of the inside of dean's leather jacket. dean goes on all fours in between your thighs and continues torturing and teasing you with fleeting touches and featherlight kisses starting from your knee, past your thigh and up to your abdomen.

"deeeaan..." you whine as you writhe and grab onto the jacket, your desperation for dean becoming overwhelming. just as you open your mouth to complain, dean complies with a wicked smile and watches your face in awe as his fingers finally indulge you and pushes past your folds. his middle finger, with an aching slowness, drags itself in and out of your entrance, taking his time with you before adding another. his thick fingers gradually work you open and you groan as you stretch around his digits. a harsh suck and a kitten lick to your clit forces you to lift your head and meet a smirking dean. you settle back, leaning on your elbows as dean puts on a show for you. moaning and humming with content as he buries his tongue into your folds and bumps your clit with his shaped nose as his fingers continue their torture on your spongy walls. pleasure that you had sought out for years was finally years and you couldn't help but roll your eyes into the back of your head and let him feast on you like a starved man.

"mmmhm, nghhhn– mmm..." dean's moans were obscene and only added to your pleasure. you feel him stop and you lift your head to protest, but his glistening chin and slick lips stop you in your tracks. you hadn't seen something as breath-taking as him in aeons with his messy hair, hooded emerald eyes and a knowing smile. he leans back down and trails kisses from the top of your mound to the valley of your tits, before capturing your neglected nipples in between his glossy lips. your legs spread further apart as his pace quickens, his fingers massaging your g-spot with precision. you gaze down at him and the desperation on your face is clear as you slowly rock your body and meet his fingers in a frantic rhythm. "gonna cum, baby?" he hums, his lips still latched around your nipple, before switching to the other. a whimpered "mhm" slips past your lips as the pleasure builds, like a firework rearing to explode. a mess of garbled moans and whimpers escape you as you cum all over dean's fingers, unashamedly groaning dean's name as he admired the sight of you falling apart in his hands. he pulls out his two fingers and pulls back to marvel at them, your arousal covering and dripping down his hand. your chest heaves and heart almost stops as with a wide smirk and eyes centered on you, he presses them to his flattened tongue and sucks them dry with a barely-controlled moan. "delicious." he mutters and before he can say another word, you lean forward and try to undo his trousers with shaking hands.

"i want to touch you, feel you. please." you whine, but dean only pats your flushed cheeks and carefully tucks your hair behind your ear.

"every second i am not inside you, is a second wasted." you're pushed back down and in a matter of seconds, dean is stripped naked and in between the comfort of your thighs, hoisting your legs up to rest comfortably around his waist as he pumps himself once, then twice. he drags his cock through your folds a few times, stopping at your pulsing entrance before teasing again. he pauses and holds your gaze before pushing himself into you and the newfound sensation has you gasping underneath him. "so fucking tight, my god." he falls forward, encircling you tightly in his arms and nestling his head into the crook of your neck as he slowly rocks his hips. your nails rake down his back and your pleas for "faster, harder" are obeyed by him. he drives himself into you, pushing your thighs further apart to go deeper, to fully bury himself. your limbs clung around him like seaweed tangled in the current.

"oh my god, dean...!" you harshly whisper into his ear before tugging on his lobe with your teeth, pulling a hiss from him as his momentum wavered before pulling himself back, lifting your right leg as the other stay curled around his waist and hammering into you. all you could think about was dean. dean, dean, dean. his quiet gasps becoming raw, echoing groans as your pussy clenches around his length, nearing another climax. the pleasure trickled down your spine like an escaped bead of water before pooling in your core and you let yourself be drowned in the pleasure. as the pleasure crescendoes and peaks, dean grabs onto your hips whilst tipping back and making you straddle him. you immediately take over and ride dean's thick cock whilst his hands on your body like an octopus; everywhere, all at once, impossibly urgent. one rests on your hip and the other finds it's way to your clit, rubbing messy circles against it. you bounce, thrust, grind as your hands rest on his solid chest. he thrusted his hips up to meet yours, his balls slapping up against the base of your ass.

"gonna c-cum, baby." he gasps and your pussy involuntarily flutters around his cock as both hands are now guiding your hips. "gonna cum so fucking hard." he pants, struggling to keep his breath under control. you clench your jaw and bite down on your lip as your hips grow tired, your pace hitting its final peak as dean finally releases himself inside of you. with his final finishing thrusts, you gush around him for the third time and then collapse onto his chest in exhaustion. you lay together in silence for a minute or two, before peeling yourself off of him and wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of your hand. you climb off him and settle back with your knees to your chest and pulling the leather jacket over you as dean slowly gets dressed, eyes drifting over to you and quickly darting away again.

"will i ever see you again?" you ask with hesitation, already knowing the answer. dean lets out a short laugh before kneeling down in front of you and placing a soft kiss against your dry lips.

"i hope so. i want to." foreheads resting against each others. "but i'm not sure how we can." a low sigh and saddened eyes.

"me neither." your heart clenches. "but i won't ever forget you, dean." your hand finds his and gives it a soft squeeze.

"yeah?" he raises a brow and you assure him with a nod. "i want to make sure of that." he leans away for a second, pulls off his amulet and places it down around your head. a smile that reached his eyes grew as he peered down at the small golden trinket. "but i'm gonna be needing this back." he peels the jacket off you, hooks his finger into it and places one last kiss against your forehead as he rests on it his shoulder.

"be careful, my trigger man." you whisper as he grabs the forgotten journal and stuffs it into his bag. a breathy laugh followed by a longing gaze.

"i'll see you around. don't go causing more trouble." he warns with a wink as he watches you wave and slowly immerse yourself back into the cove pool. with the blow of a kiss to dean, you fully submerge yourself and feel yourself return to your former self. the cove grew silent once again, except for the drip of droplets and a heavy sigh from the older winchester.

"where the hell have you been? i've been looking for you for like," sam peers down at his watch." half an hour!" sam complains as dean comes sauntering back with his bag slung over his shoulder and jacket dragging in the sand.

"don't get your panties inna twist. can't a guy just go for a walk? admire the sunrise?" dean points out at the ocean and the orange glow that was cascading down onto the beach, bathing the brother's in a growing heat. sam scratches his head.

"since when have you ever watched a sunrise?" he sneers, before sighing as dean sits down next to him and pushing sand onto him.

"often. mind your business." dean retorts before fixing his gaze over the horizon.

"hmph." sam furrows his brows at dean before joining him at gazing out over the tide that slowly rolled in. "did i miss anything?"

"no." dean answers almost too quickly. "it's been silent all night." sam groans and runs his hands through his shaggy hair.

"that means one more night sitting on this fucking beach."

"no, i... i think it was just accidents, sammy. dad was right, mermaids are extinct, don't exist." dean pulls out his mobile and waves it in sam's face. "plus, bobby texted me with a new case. something we can actually hunt." dean's tone convincing, convicted. sam almost didn't dare question it, so he just nodded and started to gather his things. as the brother's walked away, sam peered down at his shorter brother and cocked his head.

"where'd your amulet go?"

"must've lost it when i went swimming." dean's lack of panic and cool composure shocked sam more than anything had in a while; that amulet meant everything to dean. sam just nodded and continued to march on towards the impala. dean hung back a little, gazing one last time over the ocean and seeing the tip of a familiar tail travelling to the unexplored depths alongside the torn pages from his dad's journal. you were his secret to keep.

a/n: my dean debut!! ahhh!! i had so much fun writing this and really let my imagination flow. fun fact: when i was a child, i always wanted to be a mermaid so this was fulfilling for me, hehe LIKES, FEEDBACK & REBLOGS are appreciated, support your creators. ⭑ millie's masterlist ⭑ -`♡´- tag list: @0ccvltism @adoredawn @angelically-yours @barnes70stark @bittersweetfig @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @briiverse @cowboysandcigarettes @daylighted @deansbeer @deanspookiebear @diawinchester217 @emeraldcrs @faiszt @frank3nfag @h8aaz @honeyyxxbee @insensiblelimerence @jasvtsc @k-slla @kamisobsessed @lanasgirlfr @legalmente-loca @littlesoulshine @lunaleah @mads-ackles @maneaterarabella @marvelgeeka @missus-ackles @mostlymarvelgirl @nperoconelcositoarriba @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @samslovebug @sl33pylilbunny @soldierboysdoll @sugardean @sunnyteume @sunsettsam @supernaturaldoll @tinas111 @titsout4jackles @vmiina (comment or inbox me to be added/taken off)

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catsoupki · 27 days ago

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LOVER ON A LEASH (8.2K) AO3

pairing - katsuki bakugou x reader

synopsis - You feel hot, stuffy. He’s whispering words into your ears that are too filthy to repeat. Closing your eyes, you pull at his shirt, he takes the hint and sheds it. One last time, you think, and never again. (Or, when Bakugou grapples with his blood-stained past, you’re there to help.)

cw - sexual content, fwb dynamic (but not rlly), porn with feelings, insomnia, mentions of dealing with trauma, implied mental illness, codependency, minor manga (post-war) spoilers, angst, hurt/a lil comfort, afab!reader, pro hero katsuki, “are they lovers?” “no, worse.”

a/n - insomniac bakugou inspired by @solarstranger ‘s ward off (this loneliness) ; dynamic heavily influenced by @bkgexe ‘s organic chemistry ; i hope bakugou isn’t ooc in here… im trying to depict his struggles and personality as a grown-up as accurate as possible? i’m making a lot of assumptions here.. i think this might be the start to a multipart series (that can still be read as standalones) because i dont have the patience to write the entire thing in one-go

taglist - @azzo0 @kiwibao @gguksgem @dienamights @xoyuji @lillyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @katsuisbaby @lipstainedgemini @hatsukeii @staraxiaa

The agency is empty save for the occasional janitor and night-shifters. Most of his sidekicks have already gone home to get a good night’s rest and to return to their families.

Katsuki’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he nods past a tired Kirishima, no doubt coming back from a long patrol. He keeps his head down when he mumbles goodbye in hopes that Eijirou won’t notice the bags that drape below his eyes. So he looks at the floor, he thinks about the winks of sleep that have somehow, in the dead of night, leaked from the cracks in between his fingers like sand, he finds that he’s losing himself, a little more than yesterday, every single night.

As if he’s slipping away, as if the colour drains from his hair and from his eyes until pools of ash and red submerge him, until his feet are soaked. When Katsuki lies awake on his cold mattress, oftentimes alone, when sleep eludes him, he’s forced to reconcile with the past. The field that he laid on when he was seventeen (when he wasn’t enough, when he lost) now houses a dozen residential buildings. The blood-tainted dust is buried, but it continues banging on the chambers of his heart to be let out. Much like how he deals with the civilians that need saving, like how he rescues a stray cat that comes baring teeth, he tilts his face away systematically, instinctively, and he deals with his expired trauma the only way he knows how: not at all.

In the wee hours of morning, while his room is sterile like the hospital, white as the moon, the feelings he turns away come back biting like a dog. Sometimes, he admits defeat. He surrenders to the fangs that sink deep into his skin, drawing blood till he’s left empty. Then, the guilt that has tied his career down will be overthrown by muscle memory: his hand will reach for his phone, he’ll squint when the blue light from his screen hits him all at once. It will uproot his ribs and reveal the throbbing ache that was left behind them all those years ago.

And he will call you to soothe it.

“Sir?” His assistant knocks tentatively on the door, briefcase already in clutch, Katsuki then remembers he’s working, he remembers the numbness, his exhaustion. “I saw that on the team calendar—I mean, are you sure you want to pull another shift this Saturday?”

He feels the syllables before he sounds them, “yes, I’m sure.” he says, but the words on his tongue are bitter like poison, a lie, “book me in for next Sunday as well.”

When the justification of his insomnia comes crumbling down, Katsuki tells himself that being a hero means sacrificing yourself for the greater good. He fights like the world expects him to stand back up and to return as the hero that they know, the hero who killed All For One.

Being a hero was never about the awards, it didn’t matter how many plaques or trophies adorned the shelves in his house, much less the weekly rankings published on the HPSC’s website. It had always been about redemption. He fights like his life is on the line each and every single day, as if to say to Edgeshot, to prove to him: my heart was worth it, wasn’t it?

So every time he steps into a fight as Dynamight, it’s done so with violence, he takes punches and throws them back, he spits out blood and grits his teeth and wins. As an act of penance, of atonement, for when he wasn’t enough, for when he lost.

But his lies are picked apart by the voice in the back of his own head, quiet like tonight, small, it screams into the void.

When his assistant pushes on the door, he sees the plate that’s hung on his door, spelling out his pseudonym—but it symbolises less a responsibility as a civil servant and more of a duty to the man who gave up his life for him. For him. That name weighs heavy on his chest because for every step forward, it is pulled back by guilt and obligation with the cold reminder that he wasn’t good enough.

Katsuki sighs.

“Anything else?”

He chooses to resume working, the paperwork he completed earlier today is closed, then reopened again on his computer so he can pretend that he doesn’t see the concern that seeps from his assistant’s eyes.

“No sir, not at all.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It was Tuesday when you first met him. You were seventeen, in a hospital after breaking a leg from falling down a flight of stairs. It’s trivial, and you get a few good laughs out of it. Your friends at school enjoy drawing on the cast around your foot and the time you spend in this building is just a minor inconvenience that will go away with time.

You remember seeing his ash blond hair, matted with blood, on the news when he was laying down his life for the world. It’s weird, you’ve seen the most vulnerable moments of his life broadcasted on live television while you’re just a passerby that he doesn’t really register walking past every Tuesday.

Your usual icebreaker dies on your tongue.

You think his eyes have glazed over your features before. Unremarkable, in the hallways of the hospital. Maybe his hand has brushed against yours when you both reach for the last remaining drink in the fridge. Though, you also think, he won’t remember.

But you are your mother’s daughter and you persist. When you’re sitting in your father’s car, your sister is holding your hand on the way home, you think about that boy. You have a week’s time to think about him, to come up with something to say. What can you tell a boy whose name you don’t know?

He is world famous at seventeen. He is your age but he has seen more death than you could possibly imagine, he’s carried more weight on his shoulders than you ever can, and he is known for the sacrifice he made as Dynamight, society knows him by the hair you see on television because he is significant and his life is right in front of him.

You think about the things you could say. You practice in the bathroom mirror, but the insecurities leak too easily from the gaps of your teeth and you fail. You try to run the syllables through your tongue but they become too rehearsed, mediocre. You try your damndest to create brief windows of time that allow you to speak. While he is waiting at the pharmacy, while he’s watching the news, and as he is queueing behind you at the cafeteria.

But when you’re really next to him, in crutches, the wounds that mar his skin can’t be soothed by the words you speak.

You look into the mirror, everyday you smile and you rinse and repeat till your countenance sits right with you, you rehearse till the rehearsed words sound correctly, but you are in your father’s car, your sister is holding your hand and your heart is in one piece. What can you say to a boy who belongs, already, to the world at seventeen?

“What the hell is your problem!” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can look up. You berate whoever it is that knocked his entire cup of hot chocolate into the back of your shirt until you’re burned and drenched.

This is the first time you regret speaking. The hours you spent standing in front of the mirror, learning to shape your mouth and lips into something palatable, relatable to a god, is reduced into nothing when you look up and see him.

“I...” The boy’s voice is weak. Too weak. It’s quiet and if not for the fact that he is right behind you, maybe you wouldn’t have registered it at all. “I’m sorry.”

He’s so awkward when he says it that you can tell “sorry” isn’t a word that usually exists in his vocabulary. He doesn’t look at you, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and he is anything but the hero that you’ve seen on screen.

You look at his hands, covered in smoking hot chocolate that’s still dripping onto the floor. Now, you think you briefly remember the nurses around you scrambling for the janitor, for the mops. But, then, all that you remember is feeling sadness creep into your bones. This boy who you have spent days thinking about like some hero is weak and twitching in front of you because of a cup he can no longer hold. You look at his hands, the stump that twitches, and his other hand that moves to grab it, to grab the air a few inches above because the spasm of what used to be his right hand is a vulnerability that Dynamight cannot show.

You looked at him like how a man looks at a stray dog—with pity. And he hates that, so he looks down. You realised, then and there, that he was just a boy. He was a boy unaccustomed to the damage that the world chose to give him. He wasn’t a god, he was just thrusted into the middle of it all, forced to see the death that he wasn’t supposed to see, and forced to carry the weight that was unfitted for his shoulders.

You thought he was going to pull away, but you are your mother’s daughter, you persist, and your hand is hooked around his remaining wrist—boney, rough with scars. This is the first of many times in which you say to him, “It’s okay. Things happen.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Katsuki thinks of you when he’s discharged. When he sits in the car with Masaru driving, Mitsuki is next to him and he thinks of the piece of paper that has your number scribbled over it with broken crayons. It sits in his pocket, warm, it tingles his skin.

He forgot what you said, and what you did, but he can’t forget how you made him feel. It’s stupid—he tries to convince himself. It’s stupid to remember a girl he’s talked to a few times here and there at the hospital. He should be focusing on school, on recovery, but he thinks of what you mean, what you can mean. He remembers your grin when you smuggled that piece of crumpled tissue into his pants like an inside joke, he tries to decipher the words you blur between the lines. What audacity, he thinks, and he can’t help but love that.

He sees you again when he’s at a party he’s been dragged to. He’s freshly eighteen, bravery is plastered onto his face but it is embarrassment that nips at his heart when he makes eye contact with you. He never called you, never texted, but the piece of paper lays amidst his books, unforgettable, undeniable.

He was never good at deciphering your words, or your gaze for that matter. He can’t tell whether you remember him just by looking at you. Your eyes pause a little too long on the scar that slashes his cheek for someone who has seen it before, but what does he know? Everyone looks at him like meat. Your eyes hold a certain judgement he’s scared of. Quiet, accepting, but judgement nonetheless.

He debates whether he should come over and strike up a conversation. If he were to talk to you like nothing happened, what would you do?

When he meets your eye again, sweat is condensing in his enclosed palms with the callouses pressing into his flesh like fingertips, it is now that he realises he should’ve called you, texted you, it is now that he comes over.

“Sorry for never reaching out, just—haven’t had the time.” He lies through his teeth like it is second nature.

This is the first time that he tests you.

“No worries. Things happen.” You say, with a tone that makes Katsuki’s jaw tick. He hates how easiness rolls off of you, like waves, because it isn’t fair that he’s spent the past few months remembering your hand around his wrist, your words in his ear, when you haven’t been suffering at all.

The night is young, but even when it goes on, you never ask him why, but it feels like you’re toeing a line that was just established, like you’re rubbing a fresh wound. So you let him have his boundaries even when it involves you. He’ll ghost you, he’ll lash out at you for something that is not your fault, he will treat you like you’re disposable and like you’re garbage. And maybe you already knew that when you snuck your hand into the pockets of his pants with your lover’s grin. Maybe you already knew what you were signing up for.

You let him come back into your life when he’s ready because you feel like you’re doing something good, like you’re doing charity. You don’t ask questions, you never do, because when you look into the mirror, you’re your mother’s daughter, and what you see between the gaps of your teeth isn’t enough to be begging a god for his time.

When he disappears, he usually comes back in a week or two. He will coat his apology and his excuses in sweet words that you’re not sure what the real meaning is—I’ve been busy; you’re still my favourite, he’d say, and you can’t help but laugh when he lies with unblinking eyes.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He was nineteen when he lost his first kiss. Drunken, he was blushing all the way down to his neck when he shoved against the lips of another girl, albeit a bit off-centred. He doesn’t dare admit to her that it’s his first time, but he thinks she already knows. It’s embarrassing—because the lack of experience is a vulnerability that Dynamight cannot show. So he’s stuck kissing a girl whose name he does not know in the corner of somebody’s house. He’s violent and awkward when he pushes her up against the wall. It’s messy—her spit tastes like a substance that he should not touch, and all that he feels is a burn that numbs his lips.

He forgot how he got here. The faces in the crowd blur together, unremarkable, and Katsuki fails to recognise even a single person in this room.

It’s less magical than what his friends described it to be. Denki framed it as the best moment of his life when he pressed lips with Jirou, and Eijirou claimed that kissing Mina was what made him a man. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in his system, it makes his head warm, fuzzy, and his blood rush, but this girl feels like nothing in his palms. The way she puts her fingers on his cheek, where people look at for a bit too long, is uncomfortable, it makes his face itch. Her lips are cold, he’s already forgotten what she mumbled before he kissed her, let alone what she did, he only remembers the agony. He feels less like a hero and more like a cheap prostitute that got taken advantage of.

(Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in his system. Maybe it’s the fact that this girl isn’t you.)

He thinks, beneath the flashing lights and loud music, a snarl is present on this girl’s face. Her lips are pulled taut by her cheeks but his vision is falling and he can’t tell what she’s saying. What a prude, probably.

He leaves the party right after. He was somehow able to sober up before pushing the girl away. He doesn’t glance at her, because he knows he’ll be looked at with judgement, or worse, with pity. He sneaks past the crowd and out the backdoor all without replying to a single person that screams at him. His hand is in his pocket, the one that tingles his skin, and he’s already fishing out his phone. The blue light from the screen hits him all at once when he dials the number he’s memorised by heart.

You were asleep, but the guilt that steeps in his heart from waking you up was quickly drowned out by your voice. The grumbles that resonate in his ear, somehow, for the love of god, cools his head and puts out the fire that is his lips. You tell him to come over, and he isn’t sure what the implications behind those words are, but he shows up anyway, you kiss him and take the pain away.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It was a Sunday when you two first had sex. The last time he’s talked to you was a month ago. That night, right before the words die on his tongue, he calls you. “I’m lonely.” He says. His voice is grainy over the phone, it’s pressed up against your ear and you can almost feel the hot breath against your skin. He says it like he knows you understand him—and you do. He doesn’t need to spell it out and maybe that’s why he keeps you around. He gets a woman for sex and he gets to keep his pride intact all at once. Your lips will sweep his problems under the rug, you’ll ignore the dark circles under his eyes and you’ll just pretend that he loves you.

He wonders about how long this will go on, how long it can go on. He thinks about your dignity and how he’s held it hostage in a jar. He thinks about your hands, the pity in your eyes, and he doesn’t care.

(He remembers your grin when you smuggled that piece of crumpled tissue into his pants like an inside joke, he tries to decipher the words you blur between the lines.)

For nights like this, his loneliness becomes the excuse that allows him to call you. In the dead of night, when he mumbles words amalgamated with want and sadness, lust is a disguise that reveals itself a little too easily from the gaps of his teeth, but you show up at his door anyway.

You feel his eyes rake over you, he meanders, he takes his time, like it isn’t cold out, like you owe him to be standing here like this. You shudder, half-mooned lids glide over your skin, like honey. You eat with your eyes first—so you show up in your tight skirts, crop tops and eyeliner—a costume, an armour. But you are your mother’s daughter, you persist, and you feel like a prize to be won.

Katsuki doesn’t say much, he never does. He only hooks his hand around your wrist and pulls, until you topple into his house, until you are wrangled in between his sheets and his limbs before you have the chance to ask “why me?”.

It’s almost like he’s doing this intentionally. He shocks you into submission like a fisherman to his prey because he wants you when you’re soft and docile. But you are capable of reading between the lines—you hear the pleas that hide behind lust and gluttony: take the pain away.

So you do.

Even before the words tumble out of your lips, the vowels and fricatives already feel foreign and slimy on your tongue. It's why you don your costume, your armour: of tight skirts, tight tops, and tight eyeliner. They squeeze the fat of your thighs, the meat on your shoulder, and at your tear glands. But you walk in anyway, you let your legs rest on the linen of his bed, your elbows against the pillows. Your costume clings to your skin, your armour cups itself around your dignity. Mold. Mockery.

You don’t ask because you already know the answer. Because you are your mother’s daughter and you persist: because you are here.

You let him mar you with his teeth. Despite the bites that will show up purple the next morning, you lift your head even more. He is ravenous—holding you down to the bed like a ragdoll, you figured that he doesn’t care about what you think nor how you feel. He doesn’t really register what’s beneath his palms, even when he’s cupping your heart in one and choking you with the other, his prosthetic is cold around your neck, it numbs the bruises he’s sucked into your skin, you can’t help but like that.

“Fuck,” he moans, with his chapped lips tickling the hairs on your neck. “Kiss me.” he says, like you are lovers and these rendezvous are anything close to romantic.

He slides into you easily, like it’s meant to be. He does it so painfully slow that you dig your heels into the muscles on his back: hurry up and fuck me—he understands the words you don’t say.

He’s looking down at you, and you like him like this: when he’s above you with his eyebrows slightly furrowed, vermillion eyes piercing, looking at you. His gaze will move from your eyes to your lips, they’re staring at him, he thinks. He’ll lean down and suck on them. He kisses with his teeth, unkind, aggressive—you like it like that, he knows, when he’s in your arms.

“You’re so pretty when you cum.” You blush. Yeah.

He’s breathing hard, his lips break into a smile—a genuine one. He loves it when you pull your kiss-bruised lips between your teeth, when your nails scrape down his back until long red marks appear. He moans even harder, louder.

Against your better judgement, you let this go on. You let him bury himself in you, deep, painful, so he forgets the agony that tortures him everyday. You feel like a martyr—a sacrificial lamb for the pillars of society. You let yourself feel good—charitable—in his arms and in your heart (with his cupping hands), beneath him, you allow yourself the belief that you’re doing something good (your armour, costume). You look at the empty jars in his cabinets and think about your dignity (mold, mockery). You let him hold you by the throat and shudder into your nape (because you are your mother’s daughter and you persist, but no one is there to hold your hand and your heart will be in pieces).

Somehow, you find yourself listening to his snores at dusk. You think he’s gotten better at lying. You’ll smile in his ear and realise a bit too late that you’ve been caught like a deer in headlights.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You’re sitting in front of the television, your head on his shoulder, and Katsuki has his arm wrapped around you. It’s a little cold, but the both of you are too lazy to find a blanket. A show that neither of you care about is playing on screen, it acts as the source of light, and as something to fill up the silences.

You two should both be asleep. He has an early patrol and you have a presentation tomorrow. The show isn’t particularly interesting, but you just can’t find it in you to go home and get onto your bed.

You don’t live here, but you know where things are. You don’t have the access card to his apartment building but somehow the security guard recognises you. There’s a second toothbrush in the sink, your clothes are mixed with his in the laundry basket but your name isn’t put down on paper. It lures—begs—you to have the “what are we?” conversation with him. A part of you wants to know, that part is irrational and wants to be his. That part of you sits down in the shower and imagines what it would be like to hold his hand outside of bed and sex. The rational part of you, though, knows the question will break whatever it is that you have with him. Because you know Katsuki. You know the guilt that pulls on his heart, you’re familiar with the pride that nestles itself into his skull, and you know he won’t let himself have this. And you’d rather have him like this than to not have him at all.

He lets you stay the night.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It’s winter. The colleagues you entertain get braver and they’ll somehow get you to go out with them. Bar-hopping like you’re in college, sure, you’ll continue entertaining them. You’ll be in your short skirts, tight tops, with your eyeliner smudged. You down the drinks like water while your colleagues holler, you’ll pretend that you don’t notice your supervisor’s gaze on your chest. You’re having fun, you really are.

It’s the group’s third stop of the night, sweat has accumulated on your back with how crowded this bar is. It seems that everyone is here—out on the dance floor while the swaying bodies spill the drinks that leave a sticky residue on your skin.

The group of seven you arrived in have already split into groups of two or three. Your coworkers are nowhere to be seen, maybe they’re throwing up in the bathroom, maybe they’ve ended up on someone’s bed. You don’t really care.

Everyone’s dancing, and this guy nudges your arm with his, you flinch. “You here alone?”

“No.” You say, regret is already pooling in your stomach. Why did you ever agree to come? You know you don’t like going out.

“You should join us for a few, we promise you a fun time,” he winks, and you think you throw up a little in your mouth. You feel the shape of rejection before you sound it, but the words die on your tongue.

“Sure.”

You don’t drink anything more. There’s enough alcohol in your body for you to continue lying to yourself. His arm that started behind your seat slowly inches down, closer, they’re testing you. You entertain him, you let him ghost his sweaty palms over your exposed back, then your thighs.

He drags you to the dance floor, then off, all before the song ends. You know where this is going. He’s pulling you to the walls, he continues looking at your body, he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s here for anything else, and you think this feels worse than your supervisor’s eyes on your chest.

When he kisses you, his breath is an unfortunate mix of alcohols that don’t work well. You wonder how many drinks he’s had when his teeth knock against yours.

He tried to be smooth, you can tell. He’s selfish but he pretends he’s not, and it reflects in how he kisses you. He’ll push you to the edge of the bathroom, his hands will be on your waist, then your thighs again, and you’ll pretend you don’t know where this is going. He’s not as clingy as what you’re used to, he doesn’t grip the back of your neck like you’re going to run away like he does.

The man whose name you do not know is slipping his tongue into your mouth when he’s suddenly pulled away. “What the fuck is your issue?”

Your vision may be swirling, your face feels hot and you’re slightly out of breath. But there’s no confusing ash blond hair and the vermillion eyes that you’ve seen a thousand times when they’ve been on you, above you, crying.

“Fuck off.” Katsuki says with no room for argument. He takes your hand and pulls you behind him. It’s winter, and you can’t help but lean into his warmth.

“Ohhh, I see how it is! Nasty ex?” Laughing, his speech is slurred. Before Katsuki can say anything, though, you speak first. “He’s not my ex.”

He doesn’t seem to register any of that. The statement was useless, but Katsuki grips your hand tighter. Then, for a reason you can’t understand, the man tries to pull you back into his arms.

You feel it before you see it, Katsuki’s eyes flare up with anger, it’s dangerous. It flows and seeps and you already know this isn’t ending well.

There’s a nasty crack—you think the man’s nose is broken. Maybe it’s the trashy bar, because the music just gets louder and people shift away and pretend they see nothing. You’re the one who pulls a heaving Katsuki off the floor. You don’t look at the man who’s still left twitching on the floor, you don’t wish to see the bruises and blood that no doubt line his face. You pay attention to ash blond hair and vermillion eyes instead.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You raise your voice so he hears you over the music. He’s silent, he’s still seething, you think. You wait, because that’s all that you do.

He clicks his tongue and you see the conflict through his eyes. You know his pride is weighing heavy on his shoulders when the anger in his eyes melt into something more vulnerable. It’s something Dynamight can’t possibly show. His eyebrows are downturned, he’s completely sober, you realise. You let yourself imagine what he could’ve said, if things were different. If he was something more than the boy you recognised on television, maybe you wouldn’t have needed to sneak a piece of crumpled tissue into his pants like an inside joke. Maybe, you would’ve been able to walk into this room with his hand around your waist instead.

The smell of smoke and sugar is inundating you when you see the sweat that forms a light sheen on his forehead. Then, you’re pulling him by the hem of his shirt and kissing him.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You wish you never said anything.

“That can’t be healthy..” Mina is holding your hand like she’s preparing you for the blow. She looks at you like how people look at stray dogs, with pity in her eyes. She’s understanding, she’s nice, it’s why you’re friends with her. But she’s too kind, she’s a hero—and she’s meddling in your business.

You wish you never told her anything.

“It’s, like, a friends with benefits situation?” Your justification is crumbling right beneath your feet. You can’t meet her eyes when these words escape your lips, bitter, like poison.

“He’s using you—!”

“I know.”

Maybe it’s because she can sense the tension, but she leaves soon after that. The wine she brought lays unopened on the table, you try to numb the guilt with shows, music. You can’t, because the truth leaves a gaping hole in your heart.

Some time after Mina left, maybe it’s been a few hours, you’re sitting alone when he phones you. “Hey,” he says, like foreplay, like the both of you don’t know why he’s calling. “Hi.”

“How are you?” he then asks, voice quiet. You’re sitting next to the window, the glass cold against your arm. You want to scream at him, you want to admit that you’re not doing well, but that’s not what Dynamight wants. You look out the window, onto the street, the world that owns him. He says your name, and it makes your breath stutter. You sigh, “I’ll be there.”

He must be feeling particularly lonely tonight, because when you knock on his door, he opens it immediately, like he was standing beside it waiting for you. “Eager?” You whisper. He smiles.

Tugging you by your sleeve, you two fall into his bed, his linen sheets. You feel at home, maybe you’ve spent more nights here than your own bed.

His mouth is over yours already.

You feel hot, stuffy. He’s whispering words into your ears that are too filthy to repeat. Closing your eyes, you pull at his shirt, he takes the hint and sheds it. One last time, you think, and never again.

He kisses you on your lips, he tugs on them before moving downwards. You’re unravelled like a present, clothes fall off your shoulders till he’s down between your thighs. He wraps them around his head, “I love it when you moan my name.” So you do. “Katsuki,” you say, like a prayer, when he licks your clit, fingers scissoring deep, pressing on your g-spot. “Fuck,” you’re pulling his hair, it makes him moan into your cunt. “Make me cum.”

You look down when you finally orgasm, it wracks through your body, until you’re left twitching. He’s pulling his fingers out of you when he puts down your legs, and while holding direct eye contact with you, he puts them into his mouth, as if there’s something more than just lust and gluttony in his eyes, as if to say: I love you.

Then he’s slipping into you again, slowly. The fingers on his prosthetic hand wrap around your throat, it makes your head dizzy. You taste yourself on his lips when he finally begins moving. Kissing, pumping, deep and agonising. He doesn’t last long. His moans get louder in your ear, his hands become desperate, pressing into your thighs until bruises are left behind. “Baby, please. Kiss me.” He comes with a shudder.

It’s quiet, the silence feels fragile.

You’re sweaty when you lay next to him. His movement is languid when he pulls you closer, you let him. His hand is around your waist, yours on his chest. Mina’s right. Your heart is in your throat when you say, “I can’t do this anymore.” A few syllables muttered is enough to make him cold, completely frozen in your grasp. “What?” He furrows his brows, disbelief evident in the way he frowns.

The look you give him makes him want to cry. Sadness pools in your eyes, so he holds you tighter. He cradles your head, but it’s too late. Your mind is set, both of you know that.

It is now that he realises he is holding a person with a soul. When he calls you up, while you’re something less than a bad habit, you’re something more than a porcelain doll in the palm of calloused hands—you are the prettiest girl he’s ever seen since the age of seventeen. You’re the air that he breathes, and it is now that he realises he has ruined you with his maw.

Mina visits you the next day. She comes in with the extra key you gave her with food in her hands, as if she knew before you told her that this has destroyed you.

I broke it off.

Your apartment is a mess. Takeout bags are everywhere and your living room looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in a few weeks. Mina smiles with something you don’t want to know about, pity maybe, sympathy maybe. You’re too tired to feel guilty when she begins cleaning. Packing away metal cans and dirtied plastic boxes, she helps you take out the trash, vacuum, while you stay glued next to the window. Maybe you should’ve never said anything, maybe life would be better if things just continued the way they were.

“You did the right thing.”

She comes again the next day. Then again. She comes over for at least an hour everyday for a week straight. You begin feeling bad for how much of her time you’re taking up, but she insists. She visits just to spend time with you. She makes sure you eat, she makes sure your apartment isn’t a complete mess.

She starts talking about it when two weeks have passed. Gentle prompts that give you the reins to open up however much you wish, and you realise it now just why she has so many friends. But she still looks at you with the same smile, pity and sympathy.

“I think I was okay with letting him use me because I guess I just always felt like—well—like I deserved it. What he gave me actually felt like something more than what I deserve. I’m just normal, you know? And—he’s a god.” She’d hum and let you continue. The silences aren’t awkward like you had feared, but she turns on the television to fill them in anyway.

It takes roughly one more week for her to start giving her opinion.

“You’re not any inferior, okay? He’s just a hero. Just a hero.”

No one really notices, maybe your parents ask once more about “the boy you always mention”, Mina asks whether you want to talk a few more times, you nod sometimes, and shake your head other times. You don't really notice how it gets better, it just does. You smile more at work, your apartment gets tidier and you can look at things without immediately thinking of him.

You’re not over it, you’re nowhere close to that. And when you’re alone in bed, maybe during the nights you can’t sleep, you ask yourself what even is there to get over. You two were never a thing, you existed between boundaries, your lives don’t really cross paths. The only reason you’re friends with Mina was by pure coincidence. He never invited you to hangouts, to events, and your coworkers don’t know about him. He called you when he needed you, and you gave him what he wanted. Only one of your colleagues figured there was something off, but even then, it’s easier to say “oh it’s nothing” than to explain the limbo that you were in. Life continues as if nothing is out of place. You get a promotion at work, you install a dating app then delete it a few weeks later. You go drinking and have sex.

You find out he has a girlfriend three months later. It was involuntary. You find out at work, from people who know nothing about your life gossiping about heroes because they’re far away, because they’re not real people with real souls.

“Dynamight got a girlfriend, you know.” Your coworker says it casually, like it’s the weather, and maybe to her it is.

You should’ve been able to hum and nod like a normal person, but instead you clench up and act like you’ve been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to.

“Oh.” is what you manage, but you straighten up and try your best to act normal. “Really. Who is it?”

“I think it’s Illus-o-Camie, like, the Glamour hero.”

You remember seeing her name on his phone once. You were laying next to him after sex when a notification pops up on screen, she was thanking him for something. You don’t try to hide your gaze back then, Katsuki just rolled over and swiped it away. “Work stuff.” He said.

“That’s nice.” You say, the words bitter on your tongue—a lie. “They look cute together.”

“I know right!”

You text Mina that night, it’s a Friday so you ask her to come over. When she walks in, you get deja vu from how she looks—the pity-sympathy smile—it’s almost like she already knew, and just didn’t tell you. Against your better judgement, you ask, “How long have they been together?”

“A month.”

You feel your heart break. But you’re your mother’s daughter, you persist. You nod and you hum.

“I’ll be okay.”

“You’ll be okay.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He wasn’t supposed to be here. It’s Thursday, it’s cold, but he couldn’t really say no when his friends asked him to go out. The atmosphere isn’t bad, everything’s buzzing and kinda fun. He isn’t drinking because he has something to do early in the morning, he’s also the designated driver. He thinks it’s going to take one or two more hours before everyone heads home, he sighs. Mina is slung over Eijirou’s arm, Denki is in a bathroom stall with Sero, vomiting up the alcohol he’s ingested in the past hour. So now he’s alone. This bar is pretty shit from what he’s seen, but it’s exactly how heroes like them can drop in and not have anyone notice.

He’s waiting outside of the bathroom when he thinks he’s hallucinating.

You don’t like going out. You always tell him that. You dislike the feeling that alcohol gives you and you hate crowds, so he didn’t believe it when he saw you, just—there. On the dancefloor, with a man he couldn’t recognise.

He thinks about what you mean to him. You’re not his girlfriend, maybe not even a friend. So he weighs his options, it seems that no one realises his true identity. Kirishima is too busy with his girlfriend and the other two are nowhere to be seen. No one’s gonna stop him, no one can.

He looks at you, your skin is smooth even under the strobe lights, with a light sheen, probably of sweat. He wonders whether you’re having fun, if the frown on your lips are anything to come by, you aren’t. Your body is still against his, though, a little too close for his liking. How the man touches you leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he isn’t someone to you. He has no right to do anything, really. He isn’t important enough to go over there and rip him away from you.

He briefly remembers jealousy gripping at his nerves, his entire body is hot and—and then that douche is kissing you, so all that he just thought about goes flying out the window. He’s too much like a tunnel-visioned racehorse when he all but rips the man away from you by his hair. He’s sober, he’s a hero and he’s a god, yet, he’s standing in some trashy bar with words in his heart that can’t be admitted, punching a man’s face in all because of a girl.

He has no idea how you managed to pull him off of the poor excuse of a man that’s laying on the floor, bleeding and twitching. Your lips are moving, they’re still slightly wet from what’s presumably that guy’s spit. They’re bruised, swollen, and he wants to kiss them better. He can’t decipher what you’re saying, but you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting.

He’s frustrated. How dare you. You mean nothing to him. You can’t. You shouldn’t.

But then you pull him by the hem of his shirt, and the rest is history.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

When Camie first brushed his face, he wanted to grimace and cry. He made sure that never showed on his face, because his manager insisted that this was a necessary publicity stunt for his plummeting popularity. It’s partly your fault, for calling your whatever off right before the HPSC check-in.

(He lies, he revels in his delusions, each and every day, each and every passing second, to convince himself that you wouldn’t have stayed.)

There’s nothing wrong with Camie. She’s hot. She’s pretty. She’s got a model body and face, her acrylic nails that are always done tingle the botched bit of skin on his face, while she looks at him with makeup that’s never smudged.

(He schools his face into a non-grimace.)

People like to ship them together. He has a verified fan account that’s dedicated to this very duo. But Camie has always been just a friend, an acquaintance, if anything.

Bakugou isn’t sure why he didn’t push her away. Or make a slightly unpleasant face when they weren’t under the scrutiny of the public. Camie’s smart, she’s good with people. There’s no doubt she’d pick up on his hesitance—unwillingness.

Camie is an accessory on his arm at the annual hero awards. He questions the meaning of this. What does this matter, in the grand scheme of things? Will his image of being a good boyfriend to a fellow hero save more lives? Will it deter any villains from attacking the city? What does his personal life have to do with anything?

(He feels less like a hero and more like a cheap prostitute that got taken advantage of.)

Everything, someone would say. His manager, Camie, you. His mental well-being affects his performance and subsequently the people he saves, the buildings he destroys. But he’s fared alright—well, even—in the worst times. Right after the Great War, after you whispered those bone-chilling words in his ears.

He realises that, somehow, when he tries his best to fulfil a duty he promised a dead man, he loses the very essence that made him a hero, a god. He strips himself of meaning, of purpose, to slowly let himself go. He sheds them off Dynamight like clothes for the public to see, so he is palatable, so he is malleable. He does something that his younger self would have insulted and dismantled with ease—he lets society swallow him with the definition they’ve assigned to the word heroics, and the indignity that is dredged with it.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Camie is not your friend. She’s a fake bitch who just got caught in the crossfire.

Serves her right, you think. She deserves it for the times she’s brought Katsuki to crowded bars, the times she’s forced him to wear matching necklaces that erode with sweat. It isn’t fair. She was labelled with a title you’ve fought tooth and nail for. By the press, by Katsuki. You can’t possibly fathom what she could have done that gave her the right. It feels stolen, as if she came as a thief, and for all the sleep and dignity and face that were confiscated from you, you laid barren on his linen sheets while the identity girlfriend was nicked, like an heirloom, right in the dead of night from your fingertips.

When you see her face, perched against his, it’s like you’ve got vomit on your tongue that water can’t wash off. So you stop flipping through magazines, you don’t use the television and social media has been wiped completely from your phone. You cut yourself off from the world of heroics and all that’s in it. Uprooted and replanted so you can focus on your boring job and boring friends. Work, drink, have sex, cry, and rinse and repeat. This routine is rehearsed until it becomes ingrained into your habits, into every twitch of a finger. You stop seeing Mina, and all of her hero friends too. You dye your hair, pierce your ears and sign up for a gym membership. You become another person.

In a year, you’ve gone from the sheep that lays bleeding in a wolf’s maw to the butcher himself.

(But sometimes, when the skin of hatred slips off, at dawn, with the windowsill cold against your arm, the teeth marks reopen. And despite the desperation with which you pull on the costume of a hunter, your armour, it collapses until you drown in spools of ash and red all over again.)

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

“What are you doing here?”

“Camie and I broke up.”

You look at him—really look at him. He’s meeting your eye with not a hint of waver, he isn’t frowning, but not exactly smiling either. Guilt is the guise that’s on his face but you know Katsuki.

“Let me rephrase the question: what do you want me to do?”

“To take the pain away.”

While you stand at the doorway, he’s the one that’s banished to your windy corridor. He stands there because he knows he owes you something. He lets you weigh your options, but he wants you to open your arms and welcome him home. It’d be so easy to just close your eyes and let him ravage you. But—

“You never liked Camie, not like that.” You remember her acrylic nails, her flawless makeup. Some armour, some costume.

“Shit, was I that obvious?”

You think about what you could say.

Camie didn’t—doesn’t deserve that. No one should be used and disposed of, not even by a god.

“No, I just know you well enough.”

He really doesn’t look guilty, not at all.

“I missed you.” He says.

So you think of his empty words, the promises that were not made to last. You think of the nights he calls you, the times he left you alone.

(“He’s using you—!” “I know.”)

You didn’t deserve that.

“Do you? Or do you just miss what I gave you?”

“That’s not—fuck. I’m sorry.” His voice is quiet. The word “sorry” still isn’t something that comes by his vocabulary regularly. “I don’t know.”

You sigh. It’s Sunday. You have work early in the morning. You’re cold. You haven’t showered.

“What do you want from me?”

“Just—let me try again. I missed you. I really did.” He gulps. “I do. I’ll treat you right.”

When he looks at you with glassy eyes tonight, he’s just a boy you met at the hospital. When you were seventeen, when you wanted to be wanted. He was a god then, and he is a god now.

Will you be able to notice his crocodile tears when all that you see in the reflection of his eyes is mud tangled with your bloodied roots?

You don’t know what to say to him.

When a plant is uprooted, the old pot is left behind to rot. The soil will be depleted of its nutrients, it decays because the plant is nowhere to be found.

“I don’t think you can.”

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sunnami · 1 year ago

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❝watch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.❞

[title is from ive's accendio. gif not mine.] summary. you are the fop of the wizarding society, known for your shallowness and careless display of wealth, but as hogwarts faces another threat, the marauders and lily, find themselves drawn to you and the secrets hidden under your facade. (harry just wants to know what is going on.)

pairing/s. marauders x reader. (james potter/lily evans/remus lupin/sirius black/reader.)

wc. 24.1k.

tags. enemies to lovers, angst, hurt but the comfort is later, fluff(ish), i try slow burn for the first time (it hurts.), this is highly self-indulgent idgaf, set during goblet of fire but i decide what goes, voldemort isn't the only character who can revive from the dead, BITCH. OH, LMAO I FORGOT, THIS IS FOR THE DILF AND MILF LOVERS SDKJFHSF they're married, but remus and sirius keep their name for legal and plot reasons. adult marauders and adult reader! and i was careful this time to not use any specific pronouns or gendered terms so everyone can enjoy the pain!! every1 is hurting 2nite. proofread kind of, so we die like. . . harry potter?

cws. here we go... canon-typical violence, vivid description of injuries, pain, and blood, emotional abuse, trauma, self-destructive tendencies, minor character death (non-canon), pureblood society practices, voldemort is his own warning, brief mention of war, brief scene with abducted children, panic attacks, depictions of mental illness, suic!dal thoughts, bellatrix lestrange is also her own warning, morally-grey reader.

a/n: this is inspired by my most favorite finnick odair fic EVER! obviously, i won't ever reach that level of greatness, but i've had this idea in my head ever since i read that story. sometimes, i just want to cry at night to feel something, LMFAO. halfway through writing this story, i got insecure, so thank you to this eye-opening comment on reddit that i found that will forever change how i look at reader inserts: “for me, a reader should be faceless, but not soulless.”

to my dearest friends and readers, i hope you enjoy this world that i've written for you ueueue. (the next and final part is fluffier, i promise.) will upload to ao3 soon!

act i. dear god, please save the little man.

“RITA, DARLING, do get your wretched little quill for this one. I heard from a wee birdie that Vittoria Zabini was spotted in Rome, and not just wearing last season’s designer collection, but on her honeymoon, of all things! Can you believe it, dearest? If I remember correctly, this must be husband number five now.”

Like a wingless canary in a gilded cage, you are forced once again to sing for red-lipped witches and their grating laughter, and for wizards with their fat bellies, graying hair, and leering eyes. How kind of Narcissa Malfoy to host these decrepit creatures in her manor garden—and thrust the role of main attraction onto you. There you are, lonesome badger, dressed in the finest tulle for everyone to ogle at. A ballerina in a music box, turning, and turning, and turning.

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

Isadora Bulstrode cackles. “Gold-digging wench must be at it again.”

As predicted, Rita Skeeter greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every word—and you’re more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. “Riveting.” She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. “We may have tomorrow’s front page in our hands.”

Lavinia Nott brings the teacup to her mouth, her gaze slicing towards you. “Do tell us more. Where ever do you get your information from?”

You hide a coy smile behind the fine porcelain. “Why, Lavinia dearest, if I reveal my secret now, I might have to kill you!” The drove of ladies giggle amongst themselves as Lavinia sips her tea impassively. You play these people like a fiddle, and they’re none the wiser. But even vile women have to play their parts in the cruel world forged by mad men. Yours happens to be the most ill-fated of them all.

“A shame you decided not to pursue the same path as your mother, but that is alright—not every one is fit to work.” The Selwyn matron raises her brow, offering you a tight-lipped smirk.

“Oh, Elinor, my love, I’m surprised you’d even suggest such a horrible thing!” Your grin grows wicked and wider. You know perfectly what the wizarding society thinks of you: the orphaned heir, the shallow socialite who only cares for gallivanting about in pureblooded extravaganzas. A status you’ve so carefully fashioned; utterly beloved and adored by these people, flowers falling at your feet with so much as a whisper from your lips.

Your gaze drifts to a familiar crowd of people to the side. It’s the pack of lions and The-Boy-Who-Lived. There they are, the marauding bunch and their displays of loyalty and whatnot; hideously coordinated outfits, but capturing the world’s attention constantly and effortlessly.

How repulsive.

In spite of that, you are intrigued. They are the section that plays out of tune in the orchestra you have been conducting for years.

And so you bid your goodbyes to the witches; they fawn and beg for you to stay for an hour more. You pout your lips and say with faux sympathy, hand flying to your chest. “Oh, don’t worry, my dears! I’ll be back soon enough after greeting some of the other guests. You lovely ladies might tire of me if I stay for too long.”

Melina Traverse brushes you off. “We could never! You know you’re like family to us, pet!”

With a delighted gasp, you say, “Don’t tell Narcissa, but you’ve always been my favorite Slytherin.” The venom flows endlessly from your lips. You owe your life to only a handful of people. Narcissa Malfoy, who raised you when your mother no longer could, is one of them. Finally, you’re able to sneak away from their freshly manicured talons as they tittle-tattle amongst themselves.

Once your back is turned to the rest of them, you roll your eyes until your head begins hurting.

What a bunch of insufferable fools.

Still, the show curtains are wide open and the sun is yet to set. You have another audience that is awaiting your next number.

“Oh, my, my, my! Is it truly the Chosen One in our midst?” You approach the horrid family of Gryffindors—nearly doubling over in laughter at the speed with which their faces fall at the sight of you. How refreshing, you think to yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve seen people who wore their hearts on their sleeves. “Cissa and I didn’t think you’d even respond to our invitation—but this is just brilliant! Lily, darling! How long has it been? That dress looks utterly divine! Is that Charmeuse silk? The purple simply brings out the color in your eyes! And your skin, my love! Just glowing! Tell me—have you been trying those snail facials? I hear they’re all the rage nowadays.”

Sirius grimaces, cheeks turning ashen. “Bloody hell, I’m going to need a drink for this. A strong one, too.”

“You’re at a garden party, Sirius darling,” you remind in jest, flamboyantly motioning to the grazing table. “The elves are serving Darjeeling, jasmine, chamomile, berry blends, spiced orange, silver needle, and my personal favorite, chocolate mint!” There are strings of lights wrapped around the tree branches; floating lanterns and the hydrangeas creeping on the stone walls. You put a hand over your heart, smiling knavishly. “From the Malfoy family, to yours, we sincerely hope you enjoy your brunch.”

Lily deeply inhales as she intertwines her fingers with James’s, a polite smile on her face—an odd pang in your heart at the show of solidarity. (She questions how sincere can a Malfoy really be.) “Y-Yes, well, it’s so good to see you, too. We’re grateful for the invitation, especially since it’s for a rather honorable cause.”

Ah, pure-hearted creatures really do get on your nerves. Lion hearts; words dripping in honey, limitless bravado. You’ve changed your mind, you’re sick of it all. A flash of vindictive glee crosses your face as you abruptly grab her hand, wrenching it away from her husband’s. “We just knew you’d see it that way! You probably see yourself in those Muggle children, eh?”

Lily recoils, as if struck by hot iron, shoulders tensing; slowly, she peels away her hand from yours, long lashes blinking away her shock. “You and Narcissa must be raising a lot of money, then.” She eyes the marble fountain adorned in white roses, the harmonizing gnomes nearby, self-playing harps, and the scrutinizing stares from afar. “I never knew you cared so much about Muggle children.”

“Well, I suppose it must be done for all the pudgy-cheeked brats in the world,” You callously wave away her words with a sigh. Unbeknownst to most, all the charity proceeds come from your own Gringotts account. That is the one real thing left in your miserable life. “As staff at Hogwarts, the children must come first, wouldn’t you agree, Lily flower?”

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

James enters the fray, hand snaking around Lily’s waist; jaw taut, seeming to regret ever entering the snake den. “Have you met our son, Harry, already?” He turns to the fourteen-year-old at his left side, gently patting Harry’s back with a crooked smile. “Haz, this is an old classmate of ours.” James gestures to you, and you offer the Potter spawn an amused smile as he blinks owlishly at you. The poor thing has gone frigid from the wintry cold, despite the summer sun overhead and blooming coneflowers; and you wonder if he must have run into Draco and Lucius before coming to the garden.

So this is the child the Dark Lord failed to kill, you muse. You only wish that you could have seen that monster fall to the ground lifelessly, defeated by an infant and his courageous parents. How fitting for men like Lucius Malfoy to follow in his footsteps; the blind leading the blind. Your grin stretches from ear to ear as you take his hand in yours. Clearly, he’s never held a girl’s hand before, as he limply shakes your hand, awkwardly spluttering his greetings. “What an honor it is to finally meet the savior of the wizarding world.”

“Why, you look just like James when he was younger, always strutting around the corridors.” Your eyes drift to the lightning scar on his forehead, a testament to his and Lily’s survival against the killing curse. “And such clear-cut emerald eyes; truly your mother’s son. Tell me, Harry dearest, you must be quite the heartbreaker at Hogwarts.”

His doe-eyes harden, and your brow quirks in curiosity. (So the littlest lion can growl, after all.) “Oh. . . not really.” His hand hangs back at his side, fists coiling. The robins chirp merrily as they fly by, his parents carefully watching the scene unfold; water endlessly splashing in the fountain. Harry’s voice deepens as he continues, “I couldn’t be. My friends and I barely have time for anything else. There always seems to be something going on at the castle, apparently.”

“How interesting—Elsie!” You bark at the quivering house elf as Harry stumbles on his words. “Get Mister Potter and his company a plate of macarons—serve them our finest tea, as well.”

Harry winces as the elf apparates at once. “There’s r-really no need for—”

Your gaze, sharp as a knife, slices to him, as the corners of your painted lips bend contemptuously. “Have you heard the news, dearheart?”

Harry looks to his father before shrugging. “I don’t think so.”

“If Mister Lupin here has so graciously informed you,” you begin tantalizingly, eyes cutting to the rugged werewolf at Lily’s side; his back stiffening at the mention of his name, “Otherwise, keep this between you and me, Harry darling. Hogwarts will be hosting a rather important event this year—and I do love a good party—so you must have noticed the rise in appearances from the Ministry.” You gesture to the top Aurors at the DMLE towering over Harry, Sirius and James. “More than that,” you continue with a sly cant to your voice. “There will be a few new additions to Hogwarts’ staff. Among them, of course—is yours truly!”

“And to do what, exactly?” Sirius blurts out incredulously.

“Be a teacher, of course!” you feign ignorance, bashfully furrowing your brows. “Why else?”

“Brilliant!” Sirius chuckles scornfully. “So, the children will be learning about French designers and frilly dresses then, I presume?

“Is that truly all you think of me?” you ask, gasping melodramatically as you circle the rim of your empty teacup.

“You want to know what I think? Or what everyone thought behind your back at Hogwarts?” Sirius scoffs with a cock of his head. “You’ve always been the belle of the ball, no bloody doubt about that. But I’ve always wondered if there was anything more to your head than just air.”

He runs a hand through his dark curls, lips twisting into a sneer. “But I reckon nothing has changed since then. You’re just the same insufferable, vapid wench as you’ve always been.”

“Sirius. . .” Remus quietly calls. “That’s enough.”

Your expression falters—but your mask cannot afford even a moment of rest. A jarring note in the lullaby plays as the ceramic ballerina stops turning. You let the minutes pass by fleetingly; it seems the self-playing chordophones have changed their tune, as well. You watch as the canary diamonds in your bracelet glint against the sunlight. (You are growing tired of the blinding show lights, unrelenting crowd, and never-ending play. Where is the reprieve, you wonder, for the tormented primadonna and her aching soul?)

The strings are now dipped in blood as your tears polish the stage. Your joints have twisted, bent, and danced. You wonder, how long must it be until you are rid of the starring role?

You muster a coy smile, fluttering your lashes at the heir of the most noble and ancient House. “Such crude language, Mister Black,” you say, albeit your voice has gone mellow; nails drumming against the table surface as the guests mingle with one another. The unbearably dull conversations buzz in your ear. You notice Draco and Astoria Greengrass heading for the glasshouse. You consider stealing her lace parasol and whacking Sirius with it, and the thought fills you with immense joy.

Unfortunately, they are your guests, and you are nothing if not the most polite host. “Perhaps, I am not the only one who hasn’t grown out of their immature habits,” you say, eyeing his shoulder-length hair, spiky ear piercings, and leather jacket. That damned leather jacket of his. It irks you that he and his kind can show insolence freely without bearing any repercussions. (But you’d die before you ever feel envy for a man like Sirius Black.) The sun fades behind the clouds, and your mask slips perfectly into place once more.

“What is it that happened again? Between you and Severus Snape in sixth-year?” You tap your chin pensively, taking cruel satisfaction in the stutter in Sirius’s breath and Remus’s parted lips, ever stupefied. You gaze fiendishly at Remus. “Oh, silly me, I’ve gone off topic. Well, anyhow, I just wanted to say, I believe the students are in rather good hands this year. I just hope Dumbledore doesn’t accidentally let an infected beast roam the halls of Hogwarts.”

Your eyes flash impishly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Lupin?”

Lily curls her lip viciously. “Just what exactly—?”

“Elsie has returned, master.” The house elf bows her head just as the antique bistro table is circled with macarons, cucumber sandwiches, miniature cocktail buns, and slices of pound cake. Lily retracts her hand, grinding her jaw as she swallows the words in her throat.

“You may go, Elsie, thank you.” With a guileful smirk, you levitate the teapot towards James and Harry, dutifully filling their cups; steam soon arising from the Chinese porcelain. You nod at the group. “It’s jasmine pearl,” you explain haughtily. “Carefully handcrafted tea from harvested leaves and flowers. Such exquisiteness that you won’t be able to find anywhere else.”

“Do enjoy your tea; Cissa and I made sure to spare no expense for our guests.” The teapot carefully lands back on the table. The sinfonietta ends, and so does your time with this particular audience. What misfortune, that you won’t receive your flowers for today’s performance. You pivot on your heels, flinging them a lukewarm goodbye. “Do excuse me, for I must tend to the new arrivals. I believe I see Missus Parkinson over there by the koi pond. Cissa might have my head if I neglect my responsibilities.”

You turn your head, tossing a wink at Lily. “Today, after all, is for the children.”

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards.

You briefly exchange tepid pleasantries with Lavinia Greengrass before walking past the koi pond to the edges of the garden, far beyond prying eyes and ears. There, like a brooding Dementor drifting through a frozen lake, waits your true target. Sadly, it is only a dour-faced professor, a long time confrère of yours, to be precise. There are only a handful of people to whom you are indebted. Severus Tobias Snape is one of those few.

With a flick of your wand, you covertly cast the silencing charm upon the elusive spot Severus had chosen. There is no need for these edacious vultures to prey on your conversation. They are better off with their tête-à-têtes and syrupy pikelets. You drown out the chamber orchestra’s symphony, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling leaves and ringing wind chimes. “Severus darling,” you say liltingly, feet shuffling to his side as you playfully ghost your palm against his nape. He barely spares you a glance as a breeze courses through the rippling lake water. “You’re missing out on the festivities, you know.”

“Have you finally finished tormenting Narcissa’s visitors?” he drawls, at long last acknowledging your presence and sharply raising a brow at your saccharine-sweet smile.

“Why, I’d never dare to do such a thing,” you reply with a theatrical sway of your head. “I simply conversed with the ladies and had a delightful run-in with your old flame, Lily. Do you remember her, my sweet? Ghastly red hair, pale skin, and, oh, those green eyes. It must be infuriating to look like that,” you rattle away to the only entity willing to listen to you in his company: the wind.

“Spare me,” he drones, lips curved impatiently.

You moue. “Ever the bore, you are, Severus. Shall I fetch you a platter of brandy snaps?”

“Shall I sit around while I wait?” Snape’s lips contort into a sour grimace, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “The Dark Lord himself might even find time to rise from his grave.”

“Severus dear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to tell me something.” You eye him slyly, mouth tipping into a smirk as a dragonfly hovers by the waterline, avidly stalked by the dwarf frog on a lily pad. “So,” you pry, “did you have something important to tell me? I promised Mister Goyle I’d have a drink with him.”

The frog splashes into the lake, and the dragonfly flutters away without a care. Severus clandestinely slips a piece of paper into your palm as he swivels around, dark cloak billowing. “Ensure that nothing traces back to you,” he snarls. “Clearly I do know better, Severus.” You toy with the paper between your fingers, a sense of exhilaration running up your spine. “Not to worry,” you say with a clipped smile, a serpentine glare in your eyes, “I always do as I am told.”

(Severus, not for the first time in his life, wonders if the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it sorted you into Hufflepuff.)

act ii. tonight, let’s start the masquerade.

THE NIGHT GROWS weary, and so do the alleys of Knockturn; neglected as your hooded figure navigates through the brick road, only the caged owls and flickering stars to notice your presence. You fainly traipse amongst the shadows, a moment of surrender from the spotlight and malignant eyes; a brief interlude in the performance. Past the hanging doll heads in the windows of Borgin & Burkes, you find a lonely shop. Inside the locket of your ring, lies a slip of paper that had been given to you earlier this afternoon. Well, Severus, you think to yourself, idly twisting the ring on your finger, let’s see where you sent me to this time.

And so, the stage actor calls for a costume change. “Alohomora.”

With one last glance at the dimly-lit passage, you enter the boutique. The brass shop bell accompanies your entrance, but no owner appears to greet you—and if there was, well, you have quite a unique way of saying hello. Your fingers feather across the dusty bookshelves, eyes raking through the broken staircase, the faint scent of ginger, rosemary, and mugwort pervades the room; a shattered crystal ball sits in the center of the shop desk, ripped paintings on the wall. A grimace pulls at your lips as you come across a familiar ivory mask. A Death Eater mask—it’s warm to touch; recently worn, perchance. You bury the strong urge to set it on fire.

There’s a shift in the air, a creak in the floorboards—in an instant, you whip your wand out from its leather holster.

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

To the naked eye, there is only one intruder in the dingy parlor. To you, however, there is an obscure silhouette of a stranger covered by a glimmering veil. You hold onto your wand resolutely. If it was an enemy, you’d be blown into the walls by now. “This isn’t an ensemble stage, you know,” you chuff impatiently, “I’m not fond of sharing the spotlight with lineless extras.”

The disillusionment charm slowly unveils, and you wait unblinking, until you see a familiar face standing before you. Mid-length curly hair that falls over gray, dagger-like eyes, the irksome scent of tobacco, and a frightening similarity to his elder brother.

There are exactly five people you’d risk your life for, and right now, you’re digging the tip of your wand into their neck.

“Mister Regulus Black,” you greet with a playful edge to your voice, eyes narrowing. “Severus didn’t mention we’d be running into each other tonight.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell Sev I’d be here,” says Regulus, dimples poking out as he swats your wand away from his throat. “I might go mad if I have to stay inside for another bloody week, there’s only so many times I can re-read Good Omens—and by the way, did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you are? Lineless extras, really?”

You hide a fond smile with a roll of your eyes, whirling around to browse the glass cabinets and leather journals on the table, returning to the task at hand. “And so you thought going outside and risking someone seeing you in the open was a good idea? Reggie darling, I often think about the possibility of Walburga dropping you on the head as an infant.”

Regulus shoves his hands inside his trouser pockets as he hovers over your shoulders like a lost, overgrown duckling. “Wasn’t it Cissa’s soirée today? Did you jinx the statues like I told you to?”

“Who do you think I am?” you say haughtily, pausing in your search to half-heartedly glare at him. And after a moment’s pause, you jerk your shoulder and coyly respond with a side-smirk, “Of course I did. The young Mister Flint nearly screamed his head off.” You hum reminiscently, “truthfully, it’s been quite a while since I heard Draco laugh like that these days. For breakfast, I hear about the Granger girl, and then for lunch, I hear about the Weasley children, and for dinner, it’s an hour-long spiel on the famed Harry Potter.”

Regulus chortles in amusement as he hops onto the shop counter, kicking back his chunky boots. “And, then? Did you see my brother?”

“Oh, darling, I did more than that,” you mutter offhandedly, leafing through the paraphernalias and foul-smelling potion flasks.

“How was he? Is he doing well? Merlin, I think it’s been so long since I saw his face.” There’s a lapse of silence between you and Regulus. A lizard scurries across the room, chasing after a line of ants. The younger wizard taints the quietude with a long, frustrated sigh. “Sorry, I just. . .” He slumps his shoulders in resignation. “I wouldn’t have to ask so many questions if. . . if I could just. . .”

“I don’t understand why I have to hide from my own family.” With a jagged whisper, he says, “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I can’t believe that I’m really here, I don’t even know if I exist sometimes.”

You grimace as you turn to look at him, hand flinching as if wanting to reach out to him. Instead, you avert your gaze and continue scouring the room. “It’s for—”

“My own good, I know,” Regulus blows a strand of hair away from his forehead. He jumps off the counter with a hardened stare. You glance at his back as he bends to pick at the marks on the floor. At times like this, you remember how small and young Regulus had been when you found him moribund from lake inferis. What a cruel price to pay in exchange for his survival, you think.

For Regulus Black has to remain dead to the wizarding world, stuck in an interminable masquerade, waiting until the hour is up for his performance.

All the world’s a stage, and for the best of the actors and actresses, it seems the production never ends.

“How long do you think it’s going to stay like this? For you, me, Sev? For Cissa?” As he stands on his toes to inspect the top of a dusty cupboard, Regulus veers his head to peek at your expression, frowning when he finds none. (You’ve no answers for him, after all; the entirety of your life was spent wondering that exact same question. All you know is that the show must go on until the audience tires of the starving artist.) “Never mind, let’s just focus on finding whatever you were trying to find here.” He walks past his reflection in the vintage carved mirror. “What are we looking for, anyway?”

You wish to offer solace to a cherished friend, but duties are meant to be fulfilled. For now, to do what is right must come first. Your fingers slither up the side of a bookcase, a wooden ladder resting against the shelves. The mahogany is freshly varnished, the stench of glue is prominent, and deep scratches indent the floor. It’s an empty treasure cove, barely anything displayed on the racks. You grit your teeth as you realize it’s been well-maintained compared to the obsolete state of the room. “Here,” you rasp, abruptly snapping your head to look back at him.

He furrows his brow. “What?”

You beckon him to the corner of the room from where you stand, wooden planks creaking as you push at the bookcase. “Help me with this, Regulus. There could be something behind it.” You clench your jaw as you lean your weight onto the cabinet frame.

“Why don’t we just, I don’t know,” Regulus cocks his head as he waves his wand in the air. “Use magic?” he offers discreetly, as though divulging a century-old secret. “I suggest Bombarda for maximum efficiency.”

You stare at him vacantly. “Regulus dearheart, I hold a stupendous amount of tolerance for you, but there is absolutely no way we are drawing attention to ourselves via explosion spells in the dead of the night.”

He grins boyishly before ushering you away. “Alright, alright, I was only taking the mickey out of you.” Soon after, Regulus deftly mutters a levitation charm, his wand steadfast as the bookcase slowly detaches from the floor. You take a couple of steps backward, lips pursed as you observe Regulus concentrate on his work.

You note to yourself to have a conversation about Regulus’s restlessness with Severus. It could pose a liability and pull the curtains on the entire pasquinade. “Careful,” you keep a tight watch on Regulus’s pinched brows, his hovering wand, and the steadily moving bookshelf.

“Like taking jelly slugs from a first-year,” he says flippantly, beaming at you as his dark curls sweep over his eyes.

You give him an exasperated scowl before side-stepping his quip as you descry a faint outline of a door in the plastered wall. You feel a rumble in the ground, muffled noises behind the shrouded entrance. “Ready your wand, Regulus,” you say grimly, hand reaching for the doorknob, looking back in time to catch his smirk fade into a distant expression, “I believe what awaits won’t be as simple as that.”

A grave tenor disquiets the room, your free hand already grasping for your wand. Regulus stands at your side, nodding as you take a sharp breath. He offers his back to you, in spite of the looming danger. (A sadistic part of you finds comfort in his presence tonight, but neither of you can truly share the burdens of your harrowing façades. Tomorrow, you play the lone star once more; and he, the dead brother and son. But today, you must simply share the stage.)

You twist the knob until a click pierces the heavy silence.

You wait with a bated breath, expecting creatures and spells to come hurling in your direction. The room ahead is enshrouded with darkness. You share a terse nod with Regulus as a ball of light appears at the tip of your wands. Regulus moves to take a step forward, but you block him with your arm. “I’ll go first,” you say breathily, curtly glancing at the Death Eater Mask. “It could be cursed the moment we step inside.” Regulus presses his lips into a white line, clearly unhappy with your decision, but relents nonetheless.

Rough, travertine flooring begins where the woodwork ends; a gust of wind howls into the dark chamber. Wordlessly, you call for your patronus to investigate inside; thin, silvery wisps floating in the air, its light hauntingly beautiful against the unilluminated dungeon. You hear heavy chains dragging across the ground and the harmony of timid footfalls. A drop of water falls onto the cracked stone. Regulus grinds down on his jaw as he readies his wand.

After an eternity of waiting, you snap your wand to set the torches alight.

A pronounced chill runs up your spine; a stutter in your breath. You nearly stagger at the sight unveiled before you. If you had been a weaker wizard, you’d have dropped your wand already. “This. . .” you say hoarsely, eyes wide, blood simmering in your veins.

Children.

Little ones as young as ten-years-old, barely coming up to your stomach, staring up at you with bloodshot eyes. Their skinny arms are covered in grime and wear pathetic rags for clothes. Moss grows in every corner of the room. Emaciated mattresses on metal beds. “Bloody hell,” Regulus growls, chest heaving. “What the fuck?”

“It’s a prison,” you whisper, horrified. There must be more than twelve children standing before you. Bile rises to your throat. You worry about your wand breaking in half, but the overwhelming sense of dread traps you in position.

“Are. . . are you with the bad men?” A brave, young girl with owlish eyes protectively steps forward in front of her companions. “No,” you answer gently, bending down on one knee to meet her eyes. You were neither good, or bad, but there is no magic on earth that would make you harm these children.

Regulus calls your name. “They’re Muggles,” he hisses angrily. “I don’t sense any magic from any of them.” He exhales in frustration. “What the hell are they doing with Muggle children?”

You grind down on your teeth, nearly dizzy with anger. You forgo a response to Regulus in favor of clasping your cloak around the trembling child. Soon after, you blanket the room in a warming charm. “Tend to their wounds,” you say sharply. “I’ll see what I can do about the chains.” And you will do something about those shackles, if it’s the last thing you do. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise,” you tell the girl, stolid as you pat her head.

Except, the brass bell rings once more and everyone stiffens in alert. The children begin whimpering amongst themselves. Slow, deliberate footsteps reverberate from the shop into the icy-cold room. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Move out of the way!” you yell, veins straining against your neck, just as you’re blown into the stone walls.

Regulus screams out your name, but you barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears; through blurring vision, you see the children and Regulus unharmed. Relief floods through you as you sluggishly rise from the floor. There’s a large crater in the wall from the impact; luckily, the tethers to the chains were demolished, as well. “Get them to the safehouse,” you order, blood trickling from your lips. You hardly feel your arms and legs; there’s an ache in the back of your head, your spine feels as though it’s been snapped in half. You’re definitely going to feel this tomorrow. Regulus hesitates to leave, hands laid on the shoulders of the children as he glowers at the newcomer. “Now!” you bellow gutturally.

A muscle ticks in Regulus’s jaw, but as he finally apparates with as many children as he can, you finally stop holding your breath. “It’s okay,” you reassure the wee boys clinging onto each other for comfort, limping to their side. “I’m rather strong, you know. Stronger than any of the bad men.”

In every duel, you allow yourself to be hit only once—driven by your inhuman desire to feel something other than the emptiness of your unbroken charade.

(And for years, you have waited for anyone to say these two specific words: Avada Kedavra.)

“Go,” you instruct gently, brushing away the tendrils of hair from the little boy’s forehead. “Hide and wait until my companion comes for you.”

“And as for the ill-mannered invader,” you crane your head towards the entrance of the chamber, eyes raking over the tall figure’s bloodthirsty stance and flittering cloak. There’s a lack of silver mask, but you know well the stench of foreboding decay and malignity. At the speed of light, you aim your wand, “Confringo!”

You watch with a spiteful grin as the stranger is blasted across the room. The walls and ceilings threaten to crumble, and you can only hope that Severus won’t be too cross with you in the morning. You point your wand at the uninvited guest’s heart. Nothing will trace back to you, that much you are certain of.

After all, no one would suspect a vapid, insufferable boulevardier to be the greatest spy of the wizarding world.

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

act iii. where’s your soul? where’s your dream? do you think you’re alive?

“APPEARANCES ARE OF utmost importance.” You stand in the front of the Great Hall, sun rays streaming through the large, stained windows, wooden tables pushed to the walls; accoutered in a black velvet capelet with gold trimmings and vintage dragonhide boots. The sleeves of your blouse are lined with handwoven, gothic lace; trousers made of the finest yellow satin. It is a testament to your House—the cete of badgers. (You seize everyone’s attention—whether the two Aurors in the corner like it or not.)

After a descanting introduction, you are given center stage before the students of Gryffindor and Slytherin. With a swing in your step and a wrest in your voice, you continue, “That is why the Headmaster, Dumbledore himself, invited me to personally facilitate this year’s Tri-Wizard Tournament. As hosts of the event, excellence is expected of us. Professor McGonagall has graciously allowed me to take charge of your lessons, particularly in the art of dancing.” Your eyes gleam as you offer the young fourth-years a graceful reverence. “And our first lesson begins straight away.”

The crowd of students transfigure into a sea of curious eyes and flabbergasted whispers. You derisively watch the chaos unfold with an amused grin. Yet, you’re not the least bit worried. You’ve charmed even a flock of Dementors before, the creatures having been drawn to your voice, ostentatious stature, and the dark depths of your soul; like a bee to a field of flowers. A class full of awkward teenagers should be more than easy for you.

“Now, now, children,” you clap your hands as you make your way to the heart of the room, leaving a trail of softening murmurs. “The Yule Ball is a revered tradition, an exhibit of togetherness that has lasted for hundreds years.” You lift your nose up in the air as the girls look at one another, barely able to hide their giddy smiles and discreet glances across the hall. “As such, it is my venerable duty to oversee your etiquette in and out of the ballroom.”

(Sirius rolls his eyes from where he sits besides James.)

“Mister Filch, if you please.” With a flutter of your lashes and a poised smile, you beckon for the school caretaker who flounders to the gramophone. You wink at the young miss Pansy Parkinson who stares up at you in awe. Soon thereafter, you hear the soft melody of Léo Delibes’s Valse. Coppélia, you simper to yourself—a story close to your heart. (You’ve always found a winsome irony in a marionette like you dancing to the enamel-eyed girl’s song.)

“A dance, while enjoyable by one’s lonesome, is best savored with a partner,” you begin vivaciously, eyeing the gentlemen in particular. “Your date for the night must be aware that you’ve chosen them out of your own volition and undue necessity.” Your stare drifts to the coterie of young Gryffindors, tittering mischievously. “Shall we have a demonstration from the House of courage and splendor?”

“No one?” You raise a brow curiously when you’re met with silence and averted gazes. You then utter the scariest phrase a professor could say to their students: “I’ll choose the lucky student myself.”

You survey the pack of lion cubs, drifting through the tuffs of flashing red hair; gangly boys raucously kicking and pushing at each other to volunteer for your teach-in on ballroom dancing. You flash the students a vexatious grin. “Mister Harry Potter?” you call out to the ashen-faced boy with your hand outstretched. “Why don’t we let the Chosen One set an example to his peers?”

Hollers and cheers break out across the hall; not withholding the mirthful giggles of the doves on the other side of the room, wonderstruck by his green eyes and lightning scar. You motion for Harry to join you on the pseudo dance floor. The Weasley twins take delight in clapping and wisecracking into his ears until Harry reluctantly rises to his feet, a blooming shade of red on his neck and cheeks.

“As you approach your partner with the grace of a majestic stag,” you acclaim to the class whilst Harry approaches you with a wry grin and hands shoved inside his robe pockets, “And not a newborn foal.” You place your hand in his, “You may now invite your lady to dance.”

“Or your beau,” you add spiritedly, eyes gleaming as Harry chokes on his saliva.

You pat his back as the music comes to a sweet-sounding crescendo. “Dancing is about connection,” you turn to the students with a stern gaze. “If your posture crumbles, there goes your confidence, as well. At all times, you must maintain eye contact,” you say sharply as you tilt Harry’s chin and correct the arch of his arms. “Remember, it’s not ballroom if there’s no trust. Lean onto one another, and then. . .” You lay your palm onto his shoulder. “The feet should follow the music.”

Unfortunately, Harry runs on two left feet and both persistently evade the music. On the umpteenth time he stumbles on your shoes, he’s appraised by snickers and low whistles from either side of the hall. The Weasley twins in particular seem thrilled by Harry’s flailing arms and bewildered expression. Along with the two Aurors who’ve skipped their aurorly duties to patrol the castle in favor of heckling their ward. “You’re doing it wrong, James!” shouts Sirius through cupped hands, shoulders shaking in laughter.

“Why don’t you try it, Padfoot?” Harry retorts back to him; thick hair flopping over his eyes as he grates his teeth. You’re given no warning as Harry extracts himself from your grip and stalks over to where Sirius and James sit comfortably.

You blink, dumbfounded. “Harry dearest, I don’t believe that is necessary—!”

“Go on then,” says Harry, jerking his head. “Show us all how to do it.”

To the side, Ron guffaws into his fist, brought nearly to tears. (Earlier he was apprehensive about the class. “We’ve got a whole new professor just for twirling around and all that girlish stuff?” he had asked in disbelief before entering the Great Hall.

“Shut your mouth, Weasley,” growls Draco Malfoy as he shoves past Harry and Hermione to head inside the hall.)

Sirius grins roguishly, having the gall to bat his eyes in confusion. “Who? Me?” He chuckles before forcibly slapping James’s back with the flat of his palm. “No, no. The honor should go to the debonair of his time.” Trenchant eyes flicker with mischief. “Have at it, James. How will the children ever learn without a proper demonstration?”

“Go on, Sir Prongs!” exclaims one of the red-headed twins. “Show us how it’s done!”

Alarmingly, the bespectacled man resigns to his fate, a deafening ovation as he shrugs his robes off, generously revealing his broad shoulders in a tight, black turtleneck; a leather wand holster across his chest; long legs framed by pleated trousers. You bite down on your tongue as James draws closer to you, a hint of a smirk on his lips. With an unerring arch of his back, he holds out his hand for you to take, “May I have this dance?”

Your breath stutters—if only for a moment. One cannot deny that James Potter is deviously more appealing to the eye than the dance partners you’ve had during Narcissa’s galas. Perfectly-carved cheekbones and golden hoops dangling from his ears; bright, hazel eyes girdled by rectangular glasses. “Well,” you say, pursing your lips as you slip your palm into his. “If you must.”

In contrast to his son, James needs little-to-no guidance from you. You’d have assumed that much, considering that both James and Sirius grew up in pure-blood customs. The warmth of his hand on your back is scalding. He spins you along to the song’s aria; the two of you gliding effortlessly through the soapstone floors. Any more closer to him and you’d be able to hear his heartbeat. “There will be lifts, turns, and dips during a waltz,” you inform the class as you demonstrate a twirl vine. “You will rise and you will fall together with your partner. Understand?”

James chuckles at the wistful sighs and horrified groans that erupt through the Great Hall. “You’re good with the children, you know,” he remarks cheekily as he gently lowers you to the ground, hand steadfast on your waist. You hear his unsaid words clearly: Sirius thought you’d be downright rubbish at it.

“Well, Mister Potter,” you say breathlessly, clasping your arms around his neck once more. “To some of the students here, frilly dresses and French designers are their entire world.” Your chin all but perched atop James’s shoulders; the scent of his famed Sleekeazy potion and vetiver—dew on fresh grass on a warm sunny day—fills your senses. You cast a sniffy glare in Sirius’s way, to which he responds with a raised brow.

“Bit shallow, isn’t it?” he murmurs, chest rumbling and his breath hot on your ear.

You scoff. “One could argue the same for a young Seeker who’s been given their first ever broom.”

James Potter has the nerve to smile at you. And as you move to extricate yourself from his hold, James mindlessly lets his hand fall from your waist to your hip—incidentally, where you’ve been nursing a heavy fracture. Sore bruises from chasing vampires the night prior as you were out hunting allies of the Dark Lord from the first wizarding war. Although you had drowned yourself in pain relief elixirs, it seems you’re more sensitive and hurt than you thought.

Even statues of white gold chip and fade over time—you’re reminded of this fact quite painfully. You roughly push James away from you, hissing in pain as you cradle the left side of your hip. Memories of crimson-stained teeth and rotten, pale skin flash before your eyes. You remember the stench of blood, and the feel of their nails slashing into your thighs. But most of all, you remember their ear-piercing shrieks just before you drive the stake into their chests, one by one, until you have left a graveyard of vampires in the outskirts of an abandoned mansion.

James furrows his brow immediately as you cave in on yourself. (Even Sirius surges to his feet.) “What’s wrong?”

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately!

With a sharp inhale, you close off your emotions for anyone else to see. “It is nothing of your concern, Mister Potter,” you respond blankly, as though your soul is locked far away. “I do believe we’re done here.” You step further away from him. Your attention shifts to the students as you fold your hands behind your back, lips curling into a virulent smile. The weight of your mask is comforting; you’ve forgotten how to breathe without it. “Now, let’s have the students pair up and practice what they’ve learned so far. I’ll have no patience for dilly-dallying and nescience on my watch. You’ll dance until I tell you to stop. You’ll practice until the soles of your feet are sore and raw.”

That, after all, is how you learned.

The class goes by accordingly; you maintain a distance from Sirius and James, turning a blind eye to their burdensome sympathy. (Gryffindors and their bleeding hearts—it always unnerves you how easily the avowed Marauders get deep under your skin.) You nip at the students’ heels, righting their poor footwork; looping the music until you are certain they’d hear it in their nightmares. To your surprise, the round-cheeked Neville Longbottom takes all your instructions in stride. From the moment that you allow Filch to lift the tonearm, the students practically fall to the floor, heaving; some forsaking their long robes and tying their hair in flimsy ponytails.

As the students retreat from the Great Hall, you slink away into the crowd of Slytherins, desperate to avoid a particular duo of Aurors—no doubt ready to probe you with questions. A numbing panic claws at your chest; black spots swallowing your vision. Emotions—how putrid. The students’ discordant chatter overwhelms your hearing, more than the ringing in your ears. The unyielding, outré stone walls feel like they’re closing in on you. Still, you keep your head above the water, enduring every staggered breath. You must.

What’s wrong?

The question echoes in your head.

Ha!

You scream inwardly, if they only knew!

While you had been expecting either James or Sirius to ambush you, you do not expect to see Draco Malfoy shouting your name as you flee down an empty corridor.

The miniature Lucius Malfoy stands before you, grimacing as he clenches his fists tightly. “Are. . .” Draco’s expression contorts morosely. “Are you alright? Theo and I were worried that the blood traitor upset you.” he spits his concern as if it were acid. Little snakes and their keen eyes.

“Mind your language, Draco,” you reply cuttingly, eyes flashing as you lift your chin. And for his question, one that you’ve been asked numerous times over the years, you have only ever had one answer. Despite the scars on your back, the tremors in your hands, the aching of your heart, and the endless bruises on your limbs, you tell him: “And do not ask what is not needed to be.”

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” he presses further, mouth pinched. “Don’t treat me like a dim-witted child because I’m not!”

A hand lays on his shoulder, and to your chagrin, Severus makes his appearance, lips downturned and his gaze filled with subdued apathy. Your day is about to get worse. “Perhaps, it is best if you leave this discussion to the adults, Draco.” Snape drones, leaving no room for debate. He tightens his grip on the younger wizard. “I will not be inconvenienced to explain to Minerva as to why you were dawdling in the corridors.”

In true Malfoy fashion, Draco sneers in disdain. He rips himself out of Snape’s grasp with a scoff. As he storms past you, you sigh and pat his side.

When Draco disappears into the corner, you release a deep breath as you prepare for the onslaught to come. “Just get it over with, Severus,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, the pounding in your head growing more unbearable by the second.

You see his nostrils flare as Severus turns to glare at you. “I wonder,” he says through gritted teeth. “If you are actually capable of following direct orders—of using that near-empty brain of yours!” His upper lip curls back into a snarl, as he scours the empty hallway for any prowling ears. “Your stunt made it to the Daily Prophet. You were asked to proceed tactfully, were you not?”

You lean against the wall, rubbing at the temples of your head. “And I’ve done my part. Every last one of them—dead by my hands. A problem you failed to deal with for the last two months. That I settled last night. Remind me why you’re still chittering into my ear, Severus darling?”

“Do not play coy with me,” he replies brusquely. “I’ve heard the students tattling about it as though it were the most interesting event in their pathetic, insolent lives. The Embris Mansion burnt down to the ground. There are talks of a vigilante, a good-for-nothing do-gooder. You got sloppy!”

“And if I did—so what?” You retaliate, chest heaving as you step into his face. Truthfully, this isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation with him. Over the years you have left some sort of mark on your work. Not a phoenix, but a firecrest. Wings outstretched in flames. All eyes are on the ungovernable hero, the Firebird—and never on you, the foppy socialite. “Would it be so perverse to want even a slither of recognition, Severus?”

“Do not forget your duty,” he taunts venomously, the cords in his neck going rigid. “To the greater good you so earnestly fight for. Your duty to your mother.”

“Do not talk about her!” you all but shout, magic sizzling in the air around you.

“Then see to it that there are no more mistakes going forward!” Severus juts his chin, baring his teeth in contempt.

After a few long moments, he continues with a resigned exhale, dragging his palm down his face—as though you are the perplexing one. “This. . . Moody has developed a habit of emptying my cupboards.”

“And why, pray tell,” you retort gruffly, “should I care for this oh-so special cupboard of yours?”

“It contains ingredients for Polyjuice potions!” he proclaims angrily. “Get to the bottom of this. I’ll not have a blithering fool like Pettigrew get to the students again. Do what you must, I have no interest in understanding the workings of your mind—as long as you do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.”

The sound of footfalls break you apart as Severus nimbly lifts the Notice-Me-Not charm he had cast earlier. Within seconds, you find Remus Lupin rounding the corner. He’s dressed in his usual baggy, gray jumper; jaw clean-shaved, and pinkish scars against his skin. A well-loved quilted coat over his shoulders—handmade by Lily, you presume. You notice the mismatched otter socks peeking from his loafers. Remus saunters down the hallway with tired eyes and a feeble smile as he stops right in front of you and Severus. He has a rather tall frame, slender even, despite his hunched shoulders.

“Snape,” Remus nods to him, gaze flickering back and forth as he attempts to discern what had transpired—well, you’re certainly in no rush to tattle and cry into his arms.

“Professor,” he says to you, an ever curious smile on his face. “You’re looking quite peaky. Is something the matter?”

“I am most certainly sound and fine, Mister Lupin,” you respond, irritated, as you wobble on your feet. You are at your wit’s end—how bothersome of it all. “Should you not be on your way to your next class, Professor?” you bite tiredly.

Remus shrugs, hazel-eyes crinkling in amusement. “Mad-Eye is taking over my next class. I thought it would be good for the students to learn from a veteran Auror. I’m sure he has much more experience to offer than me.”

You scowl, his humility smothering you painfully. “Well, I’ve no interest in dragging my feet around. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a prior engagement with my cat and I’m afraid I’ve left her alone for too long.”

And as fate would have it, when you make haste for your quarters, you falter in your steps; lurching as your vision goes blurry. Your breath snags in your throat as Remus catches you by the waist. “Perhaps, we should get you to Lily,” offers Remus as he sets you upright, brows pinched worriedly, ignoring Snape’s eye roll in the background.

“I said I was fine!” You blurt out, cradling the front of your head as you sway backwards; now seeing two Lupins and two Snapes. “Merlin, are all Gryffindors this bloody meddlesome? Must I repeat myself? I am fine—!”

Turns out, you are not fine.

The last thing you see before losing consciousness is a pair of brown eyes with flecks of gold, more beautiful than any full moon you’ve ever seen.

—

You wake up to a dry, sore throat; the bitter scent of infirmary disinfectant—a Muggle’s touch, no doubt—and concoctions of various healing potions. Your head is still pounding, but somewhat bearable. The room is small, privy to only teachers, you conclude—although, it is the very first time you have ended up in the infirmary. Remus Lupin would feel your wrath, you’d make sure of it. Your back stings as though it were doused in Dittany recently. As you nearly break the flower vase in an attempt to reach for the empty glass, the door creaks open—and in comes Lily Potter with her husbands.

“Am I in hell?” you eye them bitterly.

“No,” says the youngest matron, dressed in her own version of the nurse’s uniform. Red vest over her white blouse, and a long, plaid skirt with pockets. Soft red hair tied back with a pink ribbon. Albeit, her expression is anything but sweet and delicate. “But you’re in my office, which means you are now under my care—therefore I’d like you to explain why you have vampire toxins in your blood.”

“And I would like to return to my quarters now, please,” you respond haughtily, referring to the private bedroom professors were offered in the castle. “I’ve nothing to explain to someone who administers the diagnostic charm on my person without explicit permission to do so!” you exclaim, releasing a shuddery breath as your head throbs agonizingly.

“You will listen to me—seven hours ago you were this close to paralysis!” Lily shouts right back, eyes glaring defiantly—she may have adhered to you in Malfoy’s territory, but no power holds more authority than an acclaimed healer over a patient. “If you had been a Muggle, you’d be dead ten times over.”

“Well, now that we’ve established that I’m alive and well, I suppose we have no more pleasantries to exchange, Lily darling.” You tear the flimsy blanket from your legs, grimacing at the bandages covering your skin.

“Not before you tell us where those bruises came from,” Sirius demands, voice low and knife-like eyes on you.

“Must have been the Nargles,” you reply sarcastically. No one would care for a bonny doll ripping apart at the seams and gathering dust on a child’s shelf. “They’re quite frisky this time of the year, didn’t you know? My good friend Xenophilius wrote about those creatures a long time ago. Good read, I’d say.”

“Are you capable of taking anything seriously?” cuts Sirius with a snarl, tendrils of hair curling around his face; hints of tattoos peeking out from his leather jacket. Vermillion satin shirt clashing against his pale skin. The lingering smell of lit cigars only reminds you of Regulus, and so you tear your gaze away from Sirius.

“Sirius, let’s not scare her off now, love,” Remus admonishes, softly resting his palm at the back of Sirius’s neck, before he stares at you with honey-dripping eyes. You have a desperate need to run away. They’re an uncharted danger that you aren’t familiar with navigating—and you figure young Harry wouldn’t appreciate you treating his parents like a rabid vampire. “We just want to know what happened, you looked worse for wear when we brought you to Lily and Madam Pomfrey,” Remus placates, treating you like a crow with its wing snapped in half.

You sneer. “If I am not dead, then these wounds hardly matter to me.”

Lily gasps, a sound so soft only the wind could have possibly heard it. “How could you say that?” she asks, hand flying to her lips. “Of course it matters, you had lost so much blood while we tried to get the toxins flushed from your system.” She stares at the puncture mark on your arm, before peering over at Sirius. “We nearly couldn’t find a match to your blood type. Sirius. . . Well, he’s a universal donor and he didn’t even hesitate in giving you his—”

“Giving me what?” you echo lowly. “What did Sirius give me, Lily?”

“Blood,” Lily says firmly. “He gave you his blood so you could live.”

“How dare you?” you seethe, chest rapidly rising; digging your nails firmly into your palms as you stare furiously at Lily. “You had no right!” You scream until your throat is sore; your magic overflowing until it shatters the nearby vase of butterfly weeds.

Rage tunnels your vision; heart hammering against your ribcage as you move to carelessly rip at the bandages over your wounds. “You had no right! You had no fucking right! I would have never done the same for you! Get out! Get out!”

“Get out!” You hurl the glass at the wall across from you, narrowly avoiding Sirius’s head; anguish tears itself from your voice and you barely notice James flinch from the intensely flickering lights.

“You think I’d be grateful?” you scoff, a burning heat spreading across your chest. “You think I’d be indebted to any of you after this? Is that what you wanted? What a fucking joke!” You laugh irately as you gasp for air. “I’d rather die!”

When you run out of items to throw at them—pillows, shards of glass, and crumpled flower stems—you sit on the bed, shoulders violently shaking as you cough yourself sick.

“I. . .” Lily begins, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. “I understand. . . But I am the castle’s nurse, as long as you are under Hogwarts’ protection, I am keeping you alive no matter what.”

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

Her eyes flash to James. “We’ll leave you to rest, then.”

You stay silent, vacantly staring at the reddened welts on your hands. It’s not until you feel James’s arms around you and his chin hovering above your head that you realize you’ve stopped shivering. “I’m sorry,” is all that James whispers into your ear as he lays you to sleep with an inaudible charm. The chill of his magic is the last thing you feel before your eyes flutter to a close.

—

You wake up in the infirmary once more. This time, you lay stiff on the mattress, absentmindedly gazing at the plain ceiling; your chest falling and rising ever-so slowly. The stink of a Calming Draught is painstakingly familiar. A low humming sound tells you that you aren’t alone—but you barely flinch from their presence, too tired to do anything but close your eyes. “Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me. . . . something. . . they’re okay,” murmurs one Sirius Black, tapping on his thigh as he rests his back on the rustic chair.

If Sirius wants an encore, he’d have to drag the fight out of you. You’re utterly drained from your emotional palaver earlier. “Didn’t know you were into Muggle songs, Black,” you chortle bemusedly.

Sirius halts in his singing as a forceful silence falls over the room—you distinctly hear the moment Sirius’s hand drops to his thigh, most likely taken aback by the sound of your hoarse voice. You feel the weight of his eyes on your bandaged arms and legs. A few seconds pass before he responds, his words but a faint breath. “After today, I believe that there is much to be uncovered for the both of us.”

You don’t bother replying—you’d have Obliviated them instantly if it wasn’t illegal to use on Aurors.

“We know it was you,” says Sirius out of the blue—your blood turns icy-cold on command, wondering if he’s figured out about the wizard behind the Firebird. “On the first day of term, someone had left a basket of freshly-brewed Wolfsbane potions enough to last him for the entire year,” he explains further, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stares at you unwaveringly. “I almost didn’t believe it, but a Marauder has his ways.”

(His son with an invisibility cloak and a handy, enchanted parchment.)

“Thank you,” he says, guttural with emotions. “It means more to Remus than you think.”

“Your gratitude is misplaced, unfortunately,” you rasp, coiling your fists tightly, stubbornly intent on avoiding his eyes—not wanting to get caught in the storm within. You exhale with a ragged sigh. Severus was right, you had been sloppy. And this is what carelessness leads to. “Don’t delude yourself, Mister Black, I couldn’t care less what happens to you or your family.”

Sirius chuckles, like he’d expected such a response from you. “Well, do what you’d like with my gratitude, I don’t care, just know that you have it,” he says, rising from his seat. “It’s past midnight, by the way. Lily’s left you some dinner in case you woke up hungry.”

Your eyes drift to the nightstand. There’s a steaming bowl of spinach rice with mushrooms, and a plate of honey cinnamon bars. But your gaze lingers on the bouquet of snapdragons and orchids placed in a ceramic vase.

“She believes home-cooked meals help the patients heal faster,” Sirius tells you, carefully observing your reaction—but there’s none to be found. He purses his lips into a thin, white line.

As he makes his way to leave, Sirius pauses, hand resting on the doorframe. “You know,” he begins quietly. “The thing about magic—it can fool the best of us into thinking we’re indestructible. But, you’re not as inhumane as you’d like us to think.” Sirius veers his head to look back at you. “Take that mask of yours off sometimes, yeah? You’d see the rest of the world clearly if you did.”

That is all you hear from him before the door clicks shut, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him.

You push the flower vase closer to the edge of the bedside table, indignantly eyeing the watercolor art. The room reeks of Lily’s kindness. Lions and their constant need to see the goodness in everyone. Take off your mask? You’d give your entire Gringotts account to wear the kind of rose-colored lenses they have—they’re more pestilent than you realized. No matter, it’s high-time you reintroduced yourself to the Marauders, anyway.

If you take off your mask, they would find nothing but a barren soul.

—

It seems your newfound parasites have forgotten who you truly are—but you have no qualms in reminding them why exactly you’re called the pureblood society’s darling.

For the week or so, the Daily Prophet features you out in luxurious restaurants, a new partner each night hanging off your arm. International Quidditch players, foreign models, esteemed opera singers, and even Muggle celebrities. Men and women are captured in moving photographs, avidly fawning over you.

You’ve missed three classes in favor of shopping in France; Flooing back to Hogwarts, stinking of bordeaux and rosa centifolia. Painite gems nestled around your neck, glittery sapphires lining your wrists. On more than one occasion, you’ve seen McGonagall lift her chin in distaste at your behavior.

“Well, that’s certainly a speedy recovery,” says Lily one afternoon as the owls take the Great Hall by storm. Rita Skeeter’s new article about you is plastered on the front page, apparently you’ve gotten into a catfight with an Italian seamstress. She risks a glimpse of you from the other side of the long table, laughing away with Professor Sinistra. The sound is scraping against her ears, yet Lily can’t help but feel disappointed.

Your desk is littered with mails from admirers, invitations to galas and fundraisers. The students can’t help but notice this fact as they’re brought to the dance floor each morning. (Each day, you rewind Coppélia’s song—her wishes, and her pain—but you plan to ignore the ballad until blood trickles from your ears.)

“Mumma’s just about ready to send her a Howler,” you hear Ginevra Weasley saying in passing after class. The young red-haired girl nearly bumps into Hermione’s shoulder as Ginny dips her head low, prattling excitedly, “Called the Professor a tart, even.”

Hermione stops walking, scrunching her nose. “Really?”

“Yes, yes,” Ginny nods. “But enough about all that—have you seen the news this morning?”

Hermione looks up, lips wrinkled in thought. “The one about the Professor being seen in Muggle London? I thought that was rather stale for a headline.”

“Not that one,” Ginny says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. “The article about the Firebird. Remember what happened during the World Cup? When You-Know-Who’s followers came and raided the entire campsite?”

“That would be pretty hard to forget, Gin,” Hermione replies softly.

“Well, the Firebird’s gone and hunted a few of them,” Ginny tells her, eyes brimming with awe. “Found their hideout and left them half-dead for the Ministry to find. No Malfoy, though, which is a bloody shame.”

At your desk, you sip your jasmine pearl tea with a knowing smirk.

On the first of October, your previous Head of House invites you to the greenhouse for an overdue get-together. Naturally, you greet Pomona Sprout with gift baskets overflowing with glacé treats, packets of tea, scented candles, and dried berries. She huffs in fond exasperation before instructing you to grab a pair of cotton earmuffs and gardening gloves. And, well, you don’t mind playing the part of a slap happy third-year under her gentle care. It’s a role you enjoy more so than others.

“You’ve been worrying me these days, dear,” Professor Sprout tells you earnestly as she wrestles with the Flitterblooms. Hoo-hoo chicks flutter around in their cage while the uprooted baby Mandragoras screech nearby. You feel the weight of her gaze, much like a knitted blanket draped over your shoulders on a cold, autumn noon. “The other staff have been expressing their. . . concern, as well.”

You busy yourself with planting the Wiggentree in its pot, allowing only a moment to raise your walls of Occlumency. You know that she couldn’t possibly be a threat, but you would not allow someone else to expose you bare for others to see. (You loathe the thought of Sirius’s blood flowing through your veins.)

You know that concern is shallow at best, forged from fear of the students being influenced by your frivolous escapades.

At your silence, Sprout continues on, “We always tell the children that their Houses will be like their second family during their time at Hogwarts.” You hear her draw in a long breath, gingerly placing the flitter tentacles on the ground. “I hope you understand that the same is true for the professors. We take care of each other, substitute teacher or not.” Pomona’s hand is leaden on your shoulder. “After all, you were our student before anything else. The Sorting Hat gave you to me, and what a darling blessing you have been, even until today. When I look at you now, I see the same young first-year student who was afraid of everything and afraid to come out of their shell—but do not forget, I will always be on my children’s side no matter what.”

How poignant that the first person who truly welcomed you to Hogwarts, is one of the only people who can see through you despite your protective barriers.

And so, the puppet show begins—like a lifeless ragdoll, you peel the deer-leather gloves off your hands, blinking away any hints of emotion. You stand tall before Pomona, dusting flecks of soil off your dovetail skirt. “No one has been on my side. Not then, not now,” you say as you snobbishly arrange the brim of your sunhat. “But do not be mistaken, Pomona. I have been fine on my own and a change still remains to be seen.”

In another life, you would have happily embraced her comfort and affection—but the fate of a lonely starlet is cruel. You’ve made your bed of thorns and wilted roses, and there you shall lay when there is no one left but yourself.

“Today was lovely, Pomona, thank you.” It is one truth you’ve permitted yourself to offer—a shred of humanity in exchange for her kindness. The dirt beneath your nail beds is real; so is the ache in your back and the sweat dripping from the side of your head to your chin. But you cannot feel any more than that—you forbid yourself. The Mandrakes fall silent, and you bid your goodbyes to the professor.

The sunlight on your skin is real as you step outside, and so is the sound of clamoring students heading for the greenhouse. Sixth-year students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw hurry down the hill. Their unrestrained laughter and carefree smiles are real. And so is the unwashed blood on your hands; the killing curses that have fallen so easily from your lips, and the ghosts that haunt you as the moon arises. Perhaps, you could withstand it all if it means the children would live through a real future without the sins of people like you.

(But why is it that every time you distance yourself. . . there always seems to be someone calling out to you?)

Cedric Diggory, your godson, yells for you with a grin that stretches from ear-to-ear. You watch as his yellow scarf swings with each hasty step he takes. Cedric crosses the gap between you in under a minute, strands of wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glimmering eyes. It’s an unsolved mystery as to how you and him were sorted in the same House.

“Your shirt is wrinkled, Cedric,” you tut, straightening his tie. “Do you go riding Hippogriffs in your spare time?”

Cedric chuckles wholeheartedly. “Father told me to tell you that you’ve been invited this weekend for a dinner at Hogsmeade,” he says, cocking his head as a cheeky simper erupts across his face. “That is, if you aren’t busy.”

You raise a brow—sly little badger, he was. Harrumphing uppishly, you swivel to turn your back to him and say, “Tell your father that I’m choosing the venue, lest he chooses some primitive pub in the village.” You draw out the distance between you and Cedric, tossing your parting words into the chilly breeze, “Tell him I’m paying for everything, too.”

His hearty laughter cuts through the hillside as you make your way back to the castle. Thinking you have the last word, you don’t expect him to yell once more:

“I’m going to enter the tournament this year!”

You’re certainly taken by surprise, but you don’t slow your pace. An imperious smirk tugs at your lips—well, at least you know where you’re placing your bets.

A day before the esteemed guests are set to arrive, you run into Sirius and James—much to your annoyance. It’s just your luck that the evening prior you were hunting down a known member of Greyback’s pack. You played a little cat-and-wolf deep in the depths of a forest, hungrily isolating him from the rest of its family. Though this lycan was unturned, you walk away with claw marks on your back. Still, you hope that Greyback licks his wounds and feels the burden of this particular loss. However, you feel that dealing with James and Sirius will be much more difficult than bringing a werewolf to its knees.

After all, this is the first time you come face-to-face with them, nearly a month after your incident in the infirmary.

“Auror Black, Auror Potter,” you say liltingly, the rhinestone tassel clinking in your hair as you swirl to face them with a devious leer. “What can I do for you today?”

Sirius scoffs in disbelief. “So it’s like that, then? Like nothing ever happened?”

“Partying around, missing your bloody classes, parading all over the castle like you’re better than everyone else. We thought you changed. You know, I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that,” he punctuates his words with a harsh laugh, sneering at your blinding jewelry. “Guess we were the fools, eh?”

James stares at Sirius, a grim expression flashing across his face, before he shakes his head. “It just doesn’t make sense. What we saw at the infirmary—that’s not something anyone forgets.” He gazes at you with grief in his eyes. “It’s like you’re two different people.”

“It’s disappointing, really,” Sirius bites, his lips curling into a snarl.

They’ve made it all too easy for you.

“What are you so frustrated for, darlings?” you say in faux sympathy, stalking towards them as you tap at your chin; a sickly-sweet pout on your lips. “What were you hoping for? For all of us to become friends? We’re not children anymore, my loves!” you exclaim histrionically. “Did you actually fall for my little trick at the infirmary? The care parcel I left your husband? Didn’t you know my mother drafted the anti-werewolf bill?”

Sirius staggers.

“The real me?” you giggle incredulously. “What you see is what you get, dearest—don’t go searching for what doesn’t exist. It’s not my fault you fall so easily for a pretty face.” You tilt your head, fluttering your eyes as you drag your nail up James’s chin. “Not every damsel is in distress, you know.”

Your eyes slice towards Sirius with a coy smile. “Maybe if you had followed your head more often than your naive, little lion hearts—you wouldn’t have driven Regulus to his death.”

James recoils away from your touch just as Sirius flinches, eyes flashing with anger—Sirius digs his nails into his palms, chest heaving as he stares at you in disgust. You expect another stab in the chest from him, and so you lift your head up high, daring him to say another word. (You hope they stopped trying after this—that they would leave you alone to rot in your stage of lies and dutiful sacrifice.) But you don’t plan for James to step forward, shielding Sirius away from your gaze.

“You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen,” says James, words dripping in sincere revulsion. “Can’t believe I thought anything less than that.”

You smile widely, despite the tightening sensation in your chest. “Are we done here now, gentlemen?”

They would learn—this is who you are beneath your masks and pretenses.

The thirtieth of October brings about a cold you’ve never felt before. As you await the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, the outside corridors are teeming with students, eyes hungry with anticipation. You lean against the wall, exhausted physically and mentally, hugging your worn-out shawl closer to your shoulders.

The skies are exceptionally gray today—you’ve had to drag yourself out of bed earlier this morning, limbs heavy as lead. The teacup in your grasp is scalding to the touch—you find that nothing hurts more than the ache in your heart. The children are particularly rowdy at the moment—each time you close your eyes, you see the hatred in James and Sirius’s eyes.

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before?

When winged horses make their way from the heavens, the clamoring grows louder—yet all you hear are their words.

‘You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.’

‘I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that.’

You would not weep—not for yourself, and not certainly for them.

Sometimes, you wondered if you were hurting too much to even be considered alive. Did your marked flesh even count as skin anymore? Worthy to be cherished with gentle touches and tender lips? How much more did you have to do until the guillotine finally fell?

When does duty end? And when does life begin?

Madame Maxine and her drove of Veelas descend from their carriage; awestruck gasps and intrigued murmurs echoing along the corridor. When the Beauxbatons Headmaster comes to stand before you, you instinctively sink into the role of a diplomatic host—that is, after all, why Dumbledore hired you. With a nod of your head and a pleasing smile, you greet the first of your guests to arrive.

“What a relief that you made it safely to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime,” you tell her in a saccharine-sweet tone. “If you please, Mister Filch here will guide you to the dormitories where you’ll be staying while Hagrid will take care of your horses.”

You want to go to sleep already.

Finally, as a large ship emerges from the Great Lake—a sense of relief floods through you. Only one more person to greet and you’ll finally be able to return to your quarters, welcoming feast be damned—you’ve done your part for today. Igor Karkaroff and his students make their presence known; imposing statures and foreboding glares. The castle nearly crumbles from Viktor Krum’s entrance, Hogwarts’ Quidditch players eager to catch a glimpse of the prodigal Seeker—well, you could care less about such a barbaric sport.

Karkaroff presents you a slimy leer as he presses a kiss to the back of your palm—the dig of his long nails into your skin is a pleasant feeling, to your surprise. “Dumbledore did not inform me we would be greeted by such beauty. We would have arrived earlier, otherwise.”

You miss your cat.

(Sirius’s eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when you giggle and melt in Karkaroff’s wretched compliments.)

You want to die.

—

Chaos erupts the next day. The Goblet of Fire has chosen a fourth champion—Harry Potter himself. No one is more enraged than his mother, Lily. The Aurors on duty, James and Sirius, struggle to contain the students’ horror and verbal lashings. Some have taken to accusing James himself of putting Harry’s name in the goblet in the name of family prestige—predictably, it’s Draco and Pansy who lead that revolt. But you don’t expect for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be swayed by the baseless gossip. So there’s a crack in the pride’s loyalty to one another, you surmise to yourself.

Like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, you follow the Headmasters and professors into a room, away from all the ruckus.

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” the wise Professor Dumbledore asks calmly.

The atmosphere is beyond wintry—you note the biting criticisms in their eyes, particular between Fleur and Madame Maxime. Lily hides Harry from their scrutiny, proud and unyielding despite being shorter than the Beauxbaton champion. Across the room, you find Severus and Remus engaged in a muted, albeit wound up argument.

Everyone looks to the morose Bartemius Crouch Sr., awaiting his decision with a bated breath. You sympathize with the man—for a fleeting moment—for if looks could kill, Sirius’s tempestuous glare would have dragged him six feet under.

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

Your blood runs cold.

Ludo Bagman appears to be pleased with his colleague’s decision—you see no reason why he shouldn’t be, he’s only ever put his odds in the thrill of the game. “Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front!”

Dimwitted fool.

You scoff. “In a room full of Headmasters and Ministry leaders, surely one of you can find a way to unbind young Potter’s name from the tournament.”

“Err. . .” Ludo’s gaze flickers from Dumbledore to Crouch Sr. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff nod emphatically in agreement, forcing him into a corner with a ragged chuckle. “There’s nothing to be done, the Goblet of Fire has gone out.”

“Do you or do you not have a wand, Mister Bagman?” you reply, piqued; crossing your arms over your chest. “If the rules were written by a wizard, surely it can be unwritten by a wizard. Teaching an Unforgivable to a first-year would be more difficult than that.” “It is not as simple as that, Professor!” Bagman cries. “But you are welcome to try a hand at it.”

“So we just let a child run to his death, then?” you seethe, nostrils flaring. “I never knew the Ministry was teeming with incompetent men. Shall I steal your job from under your nose, Ludo dear?”

(Harry’s brows pinch in confusion. He does not expect for you to care so much.)

“He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” says Alastor Moody as he limps across the room, flask in his hand. You fall silent, an unnerving chill slithering down your spine. Something about this man did not sit right with you. You pull the sleeves of your blouse further down your arms.

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Moody growls in response to Fleur. “Over my dead body!” James snarls, veins rigid against the column of his throat, eyes simmering in anger.

“Yes, yes, Potter, we all know you’d die for your son,” Moody remarks offhandedly, taking a large gulp of the liquor in his flask.

“It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it,” Dumbledore counters in an attempt to placate the tense atmosphere. Lily’s sharp sob engulfs the outraged clamors of the two other Headmasters. “Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . .”

The glass sculpture of a long-haired mermaid shatters into fragmented pieces as you bump into the table; just about ready to flee before you do anything rash like point your wand at Crouch Sr. himself. Before you exit the room, you catch sight of Cedric’s eyes—worry and uncertainty pooling within his gaze. You slam the door hard enough until the wood splinters.

Harry Potter is imprisoned by his fate as the Chosen One—and it seems time has imprisoned everyone at Hogwarts, yourself included.

The first task for the tournament arrives defiantly, without care for Harry and his loved ones. You have only been to the Quidditch field twice—today happens to be the second time. Everyone is bundled in their wooliest sweaters and warmest jackets; although, Hermione did have her portable bluebell flames. You stare at it with envy.

“Oi! Professor, over here!” One freckled Weasley twin—Fred, you guess—beckons for you to sit by their swarm of red and gold. He pushes Ron away to make room for you beside Minerva.

“Thank you, Mister Weasley,” you say quietly, sniffles falling from your frost-bitten nose.

It’s quite odd—you’d have expected to be sitting with Professor Sprout and Amos, amongst your sett of badgers. But it’s not half-bad. You don’t erupt in flames when Minerva holds onto you, shrieking, as Fleur narrowly avoids her dragon, awoken from its trance. You don’t particularly mind either, when the Weasley twins bump their chests and holler into Ginerva’s ear when it’s time for Viktor Krum to face the Chinese Fireball.

“We got a traitor here!” George snickers when you flinch and yelp for Cedric as he fights shy of the Short Snout’s fire, and cheering breathlessly when he eventually captures the golden egg. You glare at George mirthfully, wondering where your fight and heat has gone.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say, rising to your feet as the judges mull over their scores for Cedric. “Minerva,” you nod to her, and she offers you a hint of a wrinkly smile. (McGonagall thinks that if anyone can talk back in the face of a Ministry chairman in defense of her students, then perhaps she’s misjudged a professor or two.)

Your cheeks grow numb from the cold as you cross the swarm of Beauxbatons students, past the flock of Ravenclaws. Harry’s match is underscored by the deafening cheers; the stands rumbling from the yells for his name. You’re nearing the territory of yellow banners and black insignias, trumpets blowing into your ears, when the clamor and hurrahs turn into terrified gasps; students rushing back from the edge. You don’t understand the fuss until you look back at the arena.

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains.

You join Professor Sprout and Severus in herding the students away from danger—spotting James and Sirius across the arena, hastily reinforcing the protective barriers around the stands, uttermost precision in their wandwork. While Harry dances a life-threatening waltz, you hurriedly clear out the space closest to the banisters. Your breath hitches as the Hungarian Horntail wreaks havoc below, inducing quakes and showers of fire.

But more frightening than any dragon, you hear the bloodcurdling scream of a student.

“Daphne!”

The Greengrass heiress, Astoria, cries vehemently as Draco holds her back from rushing to the front of the stands.

You scour the area frantically—there, only a few feet away from you, lies a fear-stricken Daphne Greengrass, staring right into the eyes of the Horntail. Its teeth bare, growls like thunderstorms, and the rising scent of embers and ashes.

“Daphne, get away from there!”

You hardly hesitate—you run to her, desperation pushing at your legs, terror holding your heart captive. As the dragon screeches in preparation to breathe fire, the nearest Aurors miles away—each gasp for air is torn from your throat. In a blink of an eye, you grab Daphne into your arms and shield her from the Horntail. The crowd bellows in fright—you close your eyes, preparing for even the most excruciating of pain.

But there is nothing.

Just you, Daphne, the Hungarian—and Remus who’s pointed his wand at the onslaught of flames, redirecting it up into the sky as Harry grabs the Horntail’s attention, now zipping freely on his broom.

Remus looks back at the both of you in relief, drawing his wand back in his pocket. “Are you alright?” he asks you first, a weary tenderness in his eyes.

You tear your gaze away from him, checking on Daphne instead; cupping her pale cheeks and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Are you alright, Daphne? What do you feel? Come, darling, let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey—can you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulder.”

“T–Thank you, Professor,” stammers Daphne as Astoria rushes to her, the pair of sisters blubbering and crying. The blonde-haired girl nods to you and Remus, “Both of you. I–I don’t know how I’ll repay such kindness.”

“Don’t worry, Daphne,” says Remus, smiling as he offers her a lemon-flavored treat.

He steps back to make way for Lily to fuss over Daphne, his eyes straying to you, oozing with sincerity as he rubs his handkerchief to your cheek. He grins at you and your heart skips a beat. “My kindness is freely given.”

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

act iv. you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me.

“THE CHILDREN ARE terrified, Missus Fawley. Just last week, we had another incident. All the windows in the kitchen—shattered! The little ones couldn’t sleep for days.”

You hear the orphanage matron’s voice behind the bedroom door. You’re allowed but a moment of playing with your ragged, plush animals, before the matron comes barging inside. (How rude, you think to yourself. Hasn’t she ever heard of knocking before?) Although, unlike all the other times, she has a lady right on her tail. This woman is much taller than Sister Thompson, certainly more beautiful-looking, too. Not that you have anything against Sister Thompson’s wrinkly face and foul smile.

No, this woman walks with her head held up high, dressed in a burgundy leather coat that clearly costs more than the thin rag you call a shirt. This must be Mrs. Fawley, then. Her black heels click against the rusty, wooden floor; you watch impassively as she bends down to your eye level. She takes you by surprise when she grabs ahold of your chin, slowly turning your head from side to side.

“So this is the child,” Mrs. Fawley muses, red lips quirked. Haunting blue eyes stare back at you; hair dark as ebony falling to her waist. “You may leave, Sister Thompson. I would like to get to know my future ward.”

The matron widens her eyes. “Missus Fawley, I strongly advise against—!”

“You misunderstand me, Sister Thompson,” says Fawley, a sharp edge to her voice. “That was not a request.”

A strange sense of victory fills you when Sister Thompson bows her head in response, tossing you just one sour glare before exiting the room. The rickety door clicks shut and Mrs. Fawley returns her attention to you with a low hum, eyes raking over your form once more. You wonder what she’s thinking about; wondering if it’s the vast difference between her neatly-pressed clothing and your rumpled dress shirt. Many have visited the orphanage before, but none have spared you a second glance, not with Sister Thompson scaring them all away. (You suppose there is no appeal in adopting a child with temperamental issues who can make other girls’ noses bleed.)

“Show me,” Fawley commands, breaking the quietude; her voice stern, yet hypnotic. Much like the first notes of a pied piper’s song. For a few moments, you don’t understand what she’s asking for, until realization dawns upon you. You drop the plush toy’s limbs—seconds later, the teddy bear waves its hand as though it’s gained a soul. If this had been a wooden doll with a long nose, it would be saying: ‘I’m a real boy!’

Fawley chuckles, leaning back with a pleased look. Your head falls to the side in confusion—when you had shown this little trick to Daisy Anne and Annaliese, they’d begun to throw stones at you, screaming and saying that you were a witch. You don’t try to play with the other children anymore after that. Rather than being afraid, Missus Fawley seems to be happy with you. “My name is Agatha Fawley, special adviser to the Wizengamot, daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” she tells you, and you don’t have a lick of comprehension. “What do you know about witches and wizards, darling?” “I don’t know, maybe. . .” You scrunch your nose, making the stuffed elephant twirl the bear with just a glance—Fawley tilts your chin upwards, demanding your utmost attention. “That they aren’t real? Or if they are, they should be burnt at the stake?”

Agatha Fawley hisses, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ve angered her. The toys fall back to the floor lifelessly. “Damned Muggles—! Is that what they teach these days?” She shakes her head. “No, never mind. What matters is what happens from now on.” “Are you going to adopt me?” you dare to ask, gaze falling to the floor, heart hammering against its confinements.

“I will,” she affirms and your eyes grow wide, breath stuttering in your throat. “But if we are to become family—there is one thing you must do for me.”

“Anything!” You all but scream in her ear, a plea for her to take you away from the orphanage; far, far away from hurtful words and a room that echoes your loneliness back to you.

“Never lower your eyes.” She smiles, teeth bared into a snarl, reminiscent of a prowling fox. “You are magic, my darling. And I will be your mother. No one on this earth can make you kneel in surrender.”

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

But, you would learn that even monsters can call themselves ‘mother’ and embrace you with open arms.

The Fawley Manor is large—larger than the orphanage, and that was a place you couldn’t fully explore due to its largeness. There must be a thousand rooms, as far as the eyes can see. It’s like a princess castle coming to life—akin to the ones you’ve read about in storybooks. Missus Fawley’s home nearly touches the sky. There are tall trees, wide grassfields, and glimmering lakes. You gasp and cover your eyes with your hands as the chauffeur drives past the marble sculpture of naked ladies. (“Think of them as Goddesses bare to the mortal eye, dearest,” says Fawley when you yelp and sink into the leather seats.) Then, the family butler, maids, and chef come to greet you, all smiling at the new addition to the manor.

You meet Elsie, the house elf—your first real encounter with magic. Well, besides Missus Fawley turning paper into crystalline butterflies in the car. Elsie is a tiny, wrinkly creature who wears five different-colored knitted hats atop her head. She can’t seem to stop shuddering while speaking, too, as if drenched in cold, invisible water. But you look into her big eyes and you decide to be her friend forever.

“Get settled into your room, and then we’ll have you acquainted with the rest of the staff,” Fawley says after she ushers you into a room—a bedroom just for you, where you won’t have to listen to anyone else’s snoring or fight to the death for a blanket on a cold winter storm. The bed is bouncy and soft, not unlike the cardboard they’d given you at the orphanage. Your shelves are stocked with toys and books.

Then, you remember that in exchange for all this, you must do your best in school. That is one thing you aren’t looking forward to.

But, how bad could a school be if it’s filled with magic?

You happily imagine smelly trolls, dashing unicorns, talking ghosts, and floating crayons.

For your first week in the manor, you enjoy glazed desserts, fluffy pillows, and silken clothing—and on your second week, you are reminded of your duty to the family you’ve been brought into. Something bigger than studying in a faraway magic castle. Missus Fawley introduces you to her long line of ancestors. You stumble on your footing as the portraits shuffle around and gaze upon you with curiosity, some with a more heated glare than others. They call you a funny term as you walk past. Mudblood. But, Fawley tells you not to worry. You are now her child before anything else.

The family crest is chiseled with gold; you squint your eyes to make sense of the inscription: Virtus in Arduis.

“Virtue in hardships,” Agatha explains in her dulcet tone. As you featherly trace the emblem with your fingers, Fawley leans down to your height, clearing her throat; her expression impossible for you to read. “I brought you to this family because I saw potential in you. I sensed great magic from your person. But we all have our duties. Magic gives, and magic will take.”

“The wizarding world is in grave danger,” she tells you firmly, gripping the curve of your jaw with an intensity that frightens you. “Will you help me fight for the greater good?”

You blink.

You just got here and now you have to fight for a world that you never even knew that existed?

“Greater good?” you echo in disbelief. “F-Fight? Fight who? I’ve never even fought in my life! Making Daisy Anne’s nose bleed w-was just an accident!”

“I will be with you every step of the way,” she vows fiercely, the tips of her nails digging into your cheeks. “Tell me, do you understand? You will do what is right without any recognition at all. Think of it as a performance, my love. And I’m preparing you for your role in this world starting now.”

The ingénue in this act you have to play involves studying endlessly, practicing your wand work until Fawley is satisfied, and familiarizing yourself with every shelf in the library from dawn until dusk. You don’t understand why you must memorize every charm and every incantation—but Missus Fawley reminds you that you are bound to her and your responsibilities. You don’t want to go back to the orphanage, cold and alone—so, you acquaint yourself with parchments and quills, swallowing the discomfort when the nib harshly rubs your skin raw.

On your tenth birthday, Missus Fawley gifts you with a closet overflowing with chiffon, taffeta, and organza. Lace parasols, pretty shoes, and wide-brimmed sun hats. The chef surprises you with a three-layered cake, the constellation icing charmed to flicker like real stars in the night. It’s the best birthday you’ve ever had. For the first time, you feel like your life is actually celebrated.

The next day, your adoptive mother says with utmost exigency, “This time next year, you shall be off to Hogwarts, but that means your debut in society is drawing near. The wizarding world will officially acknowledge you as my child.”

“When that happens, vultures will flock to you as though you were a corpse.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “And you will become one, unless you learn how to fend for yourself. The most ruthless of us all can be adorned in pearls and dressed in ball gowns. Appearance is everything in this world—do not let them see that you are afraid.”

And so, you don’t tell her that she’s petrified you to the bone.

“As the sole heir to my fortune and properties, you must understand how to navigate, not only the wizarding world, but this treacherous domain, as well.” Missus Fawley straightens your back, harshly tapping you once more to spread your legs at a more acceptable distance. “To be envied by all—the perfect host must always be ready to receive their guests with attention and politeness.”

When you wince, or move to massage your sore muscles, she barks at you, “You must always be composed, even in near-death. If you crumble—if you let even a single person know what you’re truly feeling, all this will be for naught.”

The burden of her words is heavier than the textbooks she shoves in your hold.

“Control them before they can control you,” Fawley explains as the seamstress measures your waist and arms. “Exert your influence in a conversation. Not only in words, but your stature. Present yourself accordingly. Jewelry and clothing can be your armor when you cannot draw your wand.”

You grumble under your breath when the seamstress accidentally pokes you with a needle for the nth time.

“Smile when flattered, giggle when offered a dance, and curtsy when greeted.” Fawley glares daggers at you when you hiss in pain. “But most of all, do not let any of those cretins know that you are fully aware of the power you wield over them. Anyone can be a puppeteer if they want to be. You’ll just be the greatest of them all.”

(But even a master of puppets has someone pulling their strings from behind the curtains.)

Elsie stays up with you each night, carefully pouring ice-cold water over your head, and playing with the floating bubbles to distract you from the ache in your legs and arms. “Elsie will give Master her hat!” the young elf says one evening, pulling the topmost beanie from her head and laying it on yours. She tells you a bedtime story before tucking you beneath the covers of your queen-sized bed. You fall asleep to the sound of grasshoppers chirping and portraits murmuring to one another.

Then, you get your first taste of a pureblood skirmish. Missus Fawley had taken you to Diagon Alley, months away from the first of September—a letter in your hand with all the materials a first-year would need for their classes. Safe to say, you’re more than excited. (“Oh, mother, look!” you exclaim, pointing to the various shops—and also remembering the rule of calling Agatha mother out in public. “A sweet shop! Fortescue’s ice cream parlor! Mother, can we go there? Please, please, please!”) Fawley smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, your hand in hers—today is a special one, she decides. You’re allowed a bit of fun. Especially since you’ve shown unfathomable progress in your studies.

You get your very first wand at Ollivanders—and now this world of grumpy goblins and jumping chocolate frogs becomes even more real. You hardly let go of your wand, a tingle of exhilaration running through you each time you brush your fingers against the finely-carved wood. Even Missus Fawley is pleased with the wand that chooses you. Later, you’ll be given three hours to practice your charms again, but you find that you don’t mind—not when you’ve learned that you can now read books under the covers when Elsie turns the lights off.

As you exit the shop, breathless and flushed with a hunger to explore more of this world you’ve been given access to, you and Fawley run into one of her friends. This must be one of the scary people she’s warned you about. Sharp cheekbones, unfriendly gray eyes, and a stern demeanor. You immediately suck in a breath and school your face just as Agatha has taught you.

“Walburga!” Fawley greets with a lovely smile, but you notice that it doesn’t reach her eyes, not like when she smiles at you for growing another inch taller. She brings her hand onto your shoulder. “What a pleasant surprise, my dear.” She peers at the two young boys hiding behind her, much like you were doing now. “Oh, my! Is it that time already? I’d forgotten young Sirius was set to go to Hogwarts this year. You must be overjoyed.”

Walburga is a tall lady, taller than Agatha, even. She hums, lips quirked, chin held up high. “Fawley,” Walburga responds, rather displeased. “Talking my ear off, as usual.” Her trenchant eyes land on you and her smile curves into a sneer. “And who might this little one be?”

You risk a glance at Missus Fawley before offering the other woman a sweet, half-curtsy. “Madam Black, how do you do?” you smile at her, gaily revealing your name and the gap in your front teeth—the two boys snicker and your eyes instantly narrow into a glare.

Walburga stares you down harshly. “How adorable.” Her eyes slice to the two boys behind her. “Sirius, Regulus, introduce yourselves.”

Missus Fawley laughs, a grating sound—much like warning bells—as her eyes flash dangerously at her, hand tightening on your collarbone. “What a relief to know that Sirius will at least have one friend already before they arrive at the castle.”

“But—oh, dear, look at the time.” Agatha quickly casts the Tempus charm before looking at you aghast, eyes wide as saucers, mouth parted dramatically. “I promised the Daily Prophet a photoshoot today! It is my thirty-first birthday soon, after all. I’d give you tips on how to capture this look, but, Walburga, it seems you’re embodying the housewife fashion perfectly.”

“Ta-ta!” She plants two, airy kisses on Walburga’s cheeks before waving the three goodbye.

“That,” Fawley whispers into your ear as she snuggles the side of your face. “—is exactly how to do it.”

You collapse in your bed that night, wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into and what kind of world you’re about to live in.

How confusing.

All this time, you thought that Missus Fawley had been preparing you for an intense entrance exam. Why else would she make you study twenty-five hours a day and eight days a week? But as it turns out, all you had to do was sit on a chair and have Professor McGonagall put a talking hat on your head.

“Hufflepuff!” the Sorting Hat proclaims, and the table of yellow and black welcomes you with open arms. You sit next to a boy named Amos Diggory. Later in the night, you’ll share a dormitory with a kind girl named Amelia Bones.

(Hogwarts is the best!)

The holidays arrive in the blink of an eye and you find yourself standing at the steps of the manor once more. Agatha Fawley waits for you by the door, engulfing you instantly in a hug that shields you from the falling snowflakes and biting winds. Hot cocoa with marshmallows and gingerbread cookies await you in the grand dining room; you even get a crotchety greeting from Isolde Fawley the Third’s portrait. Elsie crumples to the floor and sobs at your arrival.

“So you were sorted there,” Fawley mutters to herself, a worried expression contorting her face. The fireplace crackles as a winter storm rages outside the manor. You lay on her lap as she absentmindedly pats your head. Stories of your first few months at Hogwarts fall from your lips without pause. “This would go smoother if you had been sorted in Slytherin, however; but no matter—it’s not what I expected, but we can make do. The Diggorys and Bones’ are purebloods, so maybe not all hope is lost. But you need to get more acquainted with the Greengrasses and the Malfoys, Druella Black’s daughters as well.”

You hide your frown against her legs. You really liked Amos and Susan, Bellatrix was just downright mean to everyone, even calling this one girl, Lily, a Mudblood, too. But if mother wanted you to try, you might, but only once. If Bellatrix didn’t want to be your friend, then there’s no helping that unhinged witch. (At least the Prewett twins’ pranks were funny. Bellatrix once snuck inside the Ravenclaw tower to leave a dead pig’s head in the girls’ dormitory just because.)

On the twenty-fifth of December, Agatha Fawley throws a gala just for you—masqued as a fundraiser for Muggle children in need. (None of the families cared about them, you would realize later on.) The ground nearly rumbles from the number of guests she’s invited. From your bedroom window, you spot a few familiar faces. Sirius Black, who stands out from the crowd like a pale bean sprout; his cousin, Bellatrix, who’s already taken to yelling at the staff; Lucius Malfoy, the Flints, and the Parkinsons. Your head goes dizzy.

As long as you don’t trip during your entrance, everything should be fine, right? Right?

(You one-hundred percent trip in front of everyone as you descend the stairs. The sound of James Potter and Sirius Black’s laughter haunts you.)

But other than that, the Yule event goes by smoothly. You don’t fall flat on your face when greeting Cygnus Black and Druella Black née Rosier, and mother is thoroughly satisfied when you smile in the face of Walburga Black and Abraxas Malfoy. You stay in the corner after welcoming your guests, sitting in your chair like an abstract painting forbidden to touch; whilst the Prewett twins and James teased Elsie until she cried from anxiety. Sirius also goes out of his way to congratulate you for growing all your teeth in.

You don’t understand why Mother is so scared of these people.

But you’ll understand virtue in hardships soon enough when you receive your first tutoring in ballroom dancing. Instead of sapphire earrings or a trip to France, Missus Fawley has a different gift in mind for your fifteenth birthday. She surprises you with a tutor—you’re bewildered at first, arguing that you’ve consistently been at the top of your class. (“Madam Hawthorne is not here for your academics, my darling,” Fawley explains with her red-lips stretched in a foreboding smile. “Dance is a beneficial skill for any host to have. You’ll practice until your footwork is perfect. You will dance until I say you can stop. And when your feet are aching and bleeding, you will keep dancing.”)

Each night for your summer holiday, you go to bed, sobbing into your pillows, body trembling from Madam Hawthorne’s cane.

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

Like all the years before, Missus Fawley invites the entirety of the pureblood society to the manor.

You stay with Narcissa and Andromeda, gently placating their concerns when they ask about your unnatural quietness—truthfully, you could no longer breathe in the flounced dress you’ve been forced to wear; the sides of your feet raw from constantly practicing with Madam Hawthorne, head aching from the lights and obnoxious perfumes; stomach gurgling. Bags under your eyes from revising endlessly for your N.E.W.T.S.

Eyes drooping and neck craning from exhaustion, you don’t at all expect for James Potter to emerge from the crowd; wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glasses, wine-colored suit melting into his dark skin. He holds out his hand to you with a boyish grin. “May I have this dance?”

You blink, frozen solid for a few moments until Narcissa softly nudges your side. “Y-Yes, if you must,” you splutter, placing your palm in his.

He leads you to the dance floor as the orchestra plays a song perfect for a waltz along a flower field; your eyes glued to his back. The chandelier hangs overhead as James settles your arms around his neck in one swift motion. You almost step on his feet, spluttering your gratitude when he steadies you by the waist, the heat of his hands permeating your layers of clothing.

“Isn’t it odd that the birthday celebrant wasn’t dancing all this time?” he says, pulling you in for a twirl.

“I assume the others were all too afraid to deal with my mother,” you reply timidly. “She’s quite overprotective, you see.”

“Who? That tall lady over there by Missus Black who’s currently glaring at me?” James chuckles into your ear as you step closer to hear his heartbeat. “She couldn’t possibly terrify me.”

“Lily says thank you, by the way.”

“Oh? For what?”

“Letting her copy off your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay—she’s downright shite at the subject. Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

You laugh along with him, and you find that you could rest in his arms forever.

But, as your dance with him comes to an end, so does your wistful reverie.

When most of the guests have left the scene, and when the lights have dimmed, Mother presents to you her real gift—your debut in the wizarding society. She leads you to a room, one where you’ve never ventured before. It’s deep past the cellars, where cobwebs and dust bunnies grow. (Before you enter, Narcissa grips your hand firmly, a look of dread and urgency in her eyes. “Be brave,” is all that she says, encasing you in her arms.)

In this dark room, you see Abraxas and his wife, Walburga, Cygnus, the Notts, the Goyles, and more people you recognize, all dressed in their finest black cloaks—as though it were a funeral instead of a birthday. In the center of it all, is your mother, Agatha, with a man kneeling in front of her.

“What is this?” you ask in alarm, frantically searching for answers. The man struggles against his rope, binds, screams and pleas muffled by the cloth shoved in his mouth. The sight of his bruises makes you all but retch. “Mother, what is going on?”

Walburga is the first to step forward, her lips painted blood-red against her ashen skin, curving into an edacious smile. She cradles the back of your head to her chest. “My lovely dear, it has been the utmost privilege watching you grow. Your mother is certainly proud of you, we all are. Tonight, just as our sons and daughters before you, we offer you our blessing on this very special day.”

“You know of the Unforgivables, right, my child?” Her voice is a sweet, ruthless cadence in your ear; her touch, like worms crawling on your skin as she places your wand in your hand. You bite down on your tongue, swallowing each breath as the walls threaten to cave in on you. Your fingers forcibly shake in terror and you worry that you might snap your wand in half if you aren’t careful. “The Cruciatus, the Imperius, and—?”

“The killing curse,” you breathe out, ever-so stiff in her hold. You watch as Abraxas kicks the man to the ground; you dig your nails deep into your palm to keep from flinching.

“That’s right, little one,” says Walburga, tracing your jaw with a morbid sense of satisfaction. She holds your chin in place as Abraxas tears the cloth from the man’s mouth. It’s worse now. You hear his desperate begging and his guttural cries for help. “Muggles,” she spits the word out like venom. “Look at them. They’re filthy. Infecting our blood with theirs.”

“Kill him,” Walburga says, a delicate whisper, as though she had asked for a cup of tea. “Kill him and you’ll have proved your worth to us.”

“No! No, please!” The man struggles against Abraxas’s arms. “Please! I have a family! A c-child!”

You stagger backwards, nearly losing your grip on your wand. You look to your mother for help. “I—!”

“Kill him, pet!” Bellatrix cackles from across the room, teeth bared viciously, eagerly beckoning for you to come forward. “Make sure you mean it! Otherwise it won’t hurt!”

“You know the words,” says Walburga, lifting your pliable arm—a puppeteer controlling its ragdoll. “Say it.”

The man before you is real. He’s a real person with a real family anxiously waiting for him to come home. His children worried sick for their father. How can they just stand there and expect you to kill him? “Mother, please—I can’t. I w-wont.” Your breathing grows labored, hot tears pricking your eyes; the man screams and yells, and the sound echoes ceaselessly in your ears. “I don’t. . . I don’t understand.”

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly.

Each sob wrecks your body and the tears endlessly flow from your ears, you hiccup and shiver; blood pooling from the bite in your tongue. “I can’t do this—please!”

“You will.”

You close your eyes just as a flash of unforgiving green shoots from your wand. “Avada Kedavra!”

The man falls limp to the floor, and so does your wand. Walburga coos and drowns you in a sea of shallow praises, the men offer their congratulations, but all you hear is the sound of a lifeless body dropping to the ground.

A man who you just killed by your wand, in your home.

That night, the four walls of your bedroom bear witness to your anguish—you cry until you throw up on the floor, body lurching and quivering on the freezing red oak.

“Do you get it now?” says Agatha as she enters your room, the faintest of sunlight streaming through the windows. She bends down and cups your face in her palms. “This is your world from now on.”

You rip her hands away from you, gritting your teeth. “I don’t want to live in your world—not anymore! I don’t care about all this! Magic, wealth, and all these things mean nothing if I have to kill innocent people! You’re a monster!”

“Good.” Fawley’s voice is cold as she stands up, lifting her chin as her eyes glaze impassively. “That means you’re ready for your next lesson.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I was done!” you retort, sore from crying.

“Don’t you see?” says Fawley, pausing underneath the door frame, gaze ruthlessly slicing towards you. “We will destroy them from the inside out. Walburga, Abraxas, Tom Riddle. All of them, one by one. That is our true duty.”

As she turns to leave, she adds coldly, “Ready yourself. I’ll be teaching you Occlumency during your summer break.” Then she slams the door shut, leaving you all alone in your room.

When you return to school after the winter holidays, you’re forced to pretend that you hadn’t taken the life of an innocent Muggle.

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’

“Unfortunately, flaming red hair and hand-me-down robes will not complement my dress—it’s crimson taffeta, you see, handcrafted only by the finest tailors in Italy,” you say dismissively to the ragtag of Gryffindors before you, Vittoria Zabini and Isadora Bulstrode giggling at your side. The Prewett boy visibly wilts and you almost give in—almost. But everyone must play their part in this world. You know that if you show a sliver of weakness, Vittoria and Isadora will be happy enough to report to their mothers—vying for the pedestal you’ve been put on by their parents.

For the final blow, you scrunch your nose in disgust, slamming your Divination textbook close. “Can you even afford anywhere in Hogsmeade for a date, Prewett?”

(Walburga would Avada you herself if she caught you in such a place with such a wizard. You’re more terrified of what she might ask you to do to Gideon—someone she deems as a blood traitor. You refuse to utter another Unforgivable. You just won’t.)

“Oh, you cruel wench!” Marlene McKinnon steps forward and before anyone could take another breath, she slaps you in the face. And, finally, you feel something other than the guilt of taking someone’s life.

Your cheek stings from the impact, your ears ringing with the sound of your friends asking if you’re alright and Dorcas Meadowes roaring about how you deserved it—well, you’re not about to disagree. You move your jaw about, cradling the side of your face as you sigh impassively—oh, it’s nothing compared to the etiquette lessons of Agatha Fawley. “My mother will certainly hear about this, McKinnon.”

“You and your mother can kiss my arse!” she shrieks, eyes ablaze.

“Gideon didn’t deserve that, and you know it,” Lily argues fervidly, eyes sickle-shaped as she looks back at the Prewett twin’s dejected expression. “How could you even say that?”

“How could I not, Lily darling?” you reply off-handedly with a roll of your eyes.

Lily flinches. In her gaze, all you see looking back at you is the Muggle father who had cried out relentlessly for one last glimpse of his children. She stares at the badger emblem on your cloak with disdain, and you with a great deal of pity. “You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.”

She has the softest voice you’ve ever heard, but it hurts you all the same.

You’ve scrubbed your skin raw in the bath, hoping that you’d wash the feel of your sins off your hands—it’s all for naught. Agatha might be a monster in your eyes, but you’re the fool that played right into her act.

You get to your feet, meeting her eye-to-eye. In a low whisper, lips close to her ear, you say, “There are far worse creatures out there, Evans. You’re lucky you’ve been born only a Muggleborn.”

Fortunate that she won’t ever have to play the role that you’ve been forced to. You feel an overwhelming envy towards her—effortless beauty, pure and untainted hands, a kind heart that draws in every one and every person. Compared to her, you must be a dirtied, black swan in a lake that’s only meant for white swans like Lily Evans.

And she will have more charming princes and truehearted fairies on her side than you could ever hope to gain.

“Say another word and I will tear your hair from that pretty head of yours,” Marlene snarls, pushing Lily behind her.

Oh, how easy they make it for you.

You smile in delight. “So you think I’m pretty?”

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

Every night of your summer holiday, you spend it writhing on the floor, Agatha’s lessons on Occlumency taking its toll. She grows harsher, stricter, and more apathetic than the sun beating down on the manor windows. (“Again!” Fawley demands as you collapse to the ground, drenched in sweat and your head numb from her probing. “Do you think the Dark Lord will be lenient with you? Get up! We’re going again! If you want this to end, you will endure this without error!”)

While your peers are out swimming in lakes and racing around in Quidditch brooms, you’re stuck within the confinements of your home. But you are not that naive, you’ve seen the headlines of the Daily Prophet. A coalition known as Death Eaters have begun making their mark on the wizarding society. There are rumors of a great, sinister power rising. People go missing everyday, and you worry that this might be the world that your mother has been preparing you for all this time.

But why you? Why must you carry this burden all alone? Who will pick up the pieces of your battered soul when the weight of your burden crushes you entirely?

There are times when you wish you never left the orphanage at all.

A week into your summer break, you find out that your mother is dying. Violent coughing, dizzy spells, jaundiced skin, her eyes bloodshot, and the healer frequenting her bedroom quarters. You’re not allowed inside, of course, but you can hear her feeble voice and the doctor’s stern orders.

You also learn that she’s absolutely insane—but that is a fact you’ve come to terms with years ago. One night, during dinner, you’d let it slip that you have your suspicions of a classmate being inflicted with a lycan’s curse. Agatha Fawley reacts just about as one would expect her to.

“A werewolf? In Hogwarts?” Fawley staggers to her office, the tower of neatly-piled documents and research reports from the Ministry now fluttering to the floor. “No, no, no. . .” she utters to herself, panic seeping within her skin. It’s the most frazzled you have ever seen the great Agatha Fawley. You stare at her unraveling from the threshold of the room, unsure of what to do. “Dumbledore has gone mad! That old loon! What was he thinking? Sheltering a beast within the castle!”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” says Agatha as she reaches for you, a ghastly smile on her face and a near-empty look in her eyes. Your brows pinch together in confusion—you hadn’t been worried about that student at all. “I’ll have that monster out of the castle in no time. The Ministry will have no choice but to listen to me.”

“That’s it,” she mutters, haphazardly grabbing for her feather quill and blank parchment. “Perhaps a law to forbid werewolves from ever integrating into society. School, house properties—can you imagine if they manage to infiltrate the Ministry? Everything I’ve worked so hard for!”

“Mother?” you call out hesitantly, crossing the distance, hand outstretched as Fawley slips on her footing, a muttered profanity under her breath. The woman before you is unrecognizable, a sallow casing of a moribund soul. “Mother, please, Remus is no threat to the castle,” you plead, ripping her hand away from the quill. “You can’t do this!”

“Do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” Agatha seethes through her teeth, chest heaving as she glowers at you. “Everything I have done, I have done for you! Yet, you still continue to fight me? I should have left you in that orphanage to rot while I had the chance!”

“Well then, why didn’t you?” you scream, pushing her away as the words force themselves out of your throat. “Maybe that Muggle father would have still been alive if you did! Maybe I wouldn’t have to suffer so much! To hell with you and your duty!”

Fawley laughs to herself, a weak and feeble sound. At first, you think it’s in response to you, but then you watch her drag her palm down her face, unblinking when her fingers appear to be drenched in blood. You take a step forward and there’s crimson trickling down her nose, a pallid contrast against her skin. “Ha,” she chuckles once more, keeling over to the ground as she stares up at the ceiling, blood on her flesh. “Merlin, what have I done? I–I’ve gone too far—even the Gods cannot save me.”

The despair in her voice is confounding. “Come here, my love,” she croaks from the floor, reaching out to you with bloodstained hands. Reluctantly, you sink to her side, gnawing on your lower lip as she cups your face in her palms—how many times have you been in this position before? “I’m sorry,” she sobs, shoulders trembling. “Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. I’m afraid I’ve doomed the both of us.” She traces the frame of your jaw and cheekbones. “My child, my beautiful child. What have I done? Will you forgive me?”

You realize that this must be the consequence of living in a constant lie. To be an imitation of a human person, with no room for grief, rage, fear, hope or even a semblance of love. You stay silent, drowning in the arms of your adoptive mother. “I am to die soon,” says Agatha with utmost finality, eyes boring into yours. “But you are better than me. Braver. Far stronger than I have ever been. I know this must be the heaviest burden a child can carry, but you must understand that the fate of this world is at stake. I am so sorry, my love, but I must leave this duty to you.”

She lets her head hang limply. “I-I am tired, as well. I’ve pushed away everyone and anyone for this. To do what is right, to endure what is hard—that is what I’ve lived by all these years.”

“And so must you.” Agatha has been mourning all this time, but not for her life.

You hate her.

You hate her with all your heart.

But even monsters need a heart to breathe.

A month passes by in a blur, and you are now set to meet the ill-famed Tom Riddle. You know that he was a student of Professor Dumbledore; that Narcissa is extremely terrified of him, and that Lucius Malfoy idolizes him to a fault. (“This is the moment I have been preparing you for all these years,” your mother tells you, shields of Occlumency glimmering in her deep blue eyes. “Do not let him in no matter what.”) Soon thereafter, Missus Fawley apparates the both of you to the Malfoy manor.

The dining room is bleak, befitting of a Malfoy; curtains drawn, fireplace idly crackling, and hushed murmurs upon your arrival. All eyes are on you, and you’re lucky to have dressed in your Sunday best. At the head of the table, you see Tom Riddle, with Abraxas and Cyprian Nott sitting on each side. You hear something large slithering across the polished floors—your breath hitches at the sight of a monstrous serpent curling around Tom Riddle’s chair. The glass chandelier chimes overhead and you wish it would fall from where he sits on his shrewd throne.

(You find Regulus Black sitting beside Narcissa, cheeks flushed, body quivering as his skin pales to a deathly color; holding onto his left arm for dear life. And, your heart just physically breaks. You don’t understand why this is the world you must live in.)

“Come here, my dear,” Tom Riddle hisses, urging you forward with a serpentine leer in his eyes. You feel like a circus lion forced to perform its tricks.

Tom Riddle is handsome—you notice begrudgingly. A menacing kind of beauty that entices the weak and preys on the vulnerable. (You would not be one of his victims, you vow, raising your own walls against him.) His gaze drills into your own—instantly, you feel his magic snaking around in your head, searching for hidden truths. The sensation is staggering, dizzying, and you’re nearly brought to your knees. You clench your jaw at his Legilimency—obstinate bastard.

“This one is lasting longer than your son, Abraxas.” Riddle chuckles, his finger tracing the curve of your jaw, as Abraxas forces a smile. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leaves your mind. You release the breath you’ve been holding for the last thirty seconds. He finds none of your secrets, and you suppress a vindictive grin. Riddle glances at your mother. “How fascinating.”

You wonder if his intrigue will keep you alive for another day or bring you closer to your death.

“My Lord,” you greet windedly as you press a kiss to the cold signet of his ring. “What an honor to stand before you today. Although, I could have done with a more polite greeting from you.”

Bellatrix snarls at you in warning. “Do not speak to the Dark Lord that way, you insolent brat!”

“Enough, Bella,” Tom rasps, flicking her concern away, barely so much as sparing her a glance. “I’ve no need for a little girl to come to my defense.” She visibly wilts at his dismissive words and you almost feel pity for her—almost. Then, you remember this is the man who treats the Cruciatus curse like a treat to give away freely to children—now, you pity Bellatrix fully. The curly-haired girl twitches at the sight of him toying with his wand, Nagini’s forked tongue flicking in anticipation.

“Tell me, my dear,” says Riddle, trailing his gaze down to your arm. “Has your mother arranged a marriage for you yet? Much like our dear Cissa here.”

You grow frigid in his hold. “Not at all, my Lord. Mother thought it best if I focused on my studies before anything else.”

Tom hums in thought, eventually releasing you from his clutches. “I see. . . Then, have you considered other ways of pledging your allegiance to our cause?”

Instinctively, you hide your left arm from his sight. “My Lord,” you begin, wondering how much longer you can address him as such without throwing up in his lap. “The only reason there isn’t much backlash to your. . . merciful endeavors is because Mother and I have ensured that the Daily Prophet’s eyes are elsewhere. The Ministry is blindsided, and no one expects a mondaine darling to be under your influence,” you say, desperation pouring from each word.

You don’t want to carry his Mark. Not ever. You can endure it—you can endure it all so long as you aren’t eternally condemned to his name.

“Take that away, and you’ll face significant repercussions,” you threaten boldly. “I promise you that. They look away because of me.”

For every village and family terrorized, you had shifted the public’s attention to your facetious behavior. Throwing galas left and right, appearing out in public with various partners—you had done it all to bury the looming war. Rita Skeeter is at your beck and call. For every attack, your face is plastered on the front page. For every cry for help, the Ministry is busy dealing with trivial matters that your mother has proposed—such as anti-werewolf bills.

And Voldemort would never notice that you’ve been thieving covert information from right under his nose and delivering it anonymously to a rising organization known as the Order of the Phoenix.

(You’re also not pleased that they share similarities to your non de plume, the Firebird, but you suppose that is the least of your worries.)

If Molly Weasley comes across a sealed letter on the steps of Grimmauld Place, with complete details and addresses of Death Eater hiding places, it is no one’s business but the Order’s—and yours.

For every life taken, you remember that Muggle father in your mother’s cellar. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow—but you’ll dismantle the pureblood society yourself. All of them, one by one.

Tom Riddle smiles, and you realize that no one threatens him and gets away with it unscathed.

A day before you’re set to return to Hogwarts for your seventh-year, the Malfoy Manor is pervaded by your gut-wrenching screams.

There you are, little Firebird with your wings clipped, writhing on the floor of Lucius Malfoy’s guest room—the Cruciatus curse surging through your veins like molten lava threatening to burn you from the inside out. You hear Narcissa and Missus Fawley’s voices blend into a cacophony of panic. They’re shouting for various things: warm towels, bandages, essence of Dittany, and water. Regulus’s hold on you is tight, near-suffocating, even.

But you don’t feel anything other than the mutilated flesh of your arm.

You scream, cry, and scream again—you feel his magic over and over again. Branding you. The ink blends into your skin—but it’s not your skin anymore. A part of you now will always belong to him.

Bile rises to your throat.

Tears fall from your eyes.

(How cold is the floor? You don’t even care anymore.)

And, the worst part is that no one can see it. Riddle charmed it perfectly to coalesce against your skin tone. But you see it. You see the skull and the stupid, wriggling snake. You see Tom Riddle’s monstrous glee as he drives his wand into your arm—Abraxas and Lucius holding you down as you thrash and flail. Your only reprieve was your mother was there, cradling your head to her chest, blocking out their malignant laughter. (You can’t believe you never noticed, but your mother had been branded, too.)

“I’ll. . . kill him,” you say to yourself, blood and saliva trickling from your lips. If it is the last thing you’ll ever do, you will have Voldemort’s head on a silver platter.

“Don’t be foolish,” Narcissa scolds, tipping your mouth upwards to swallow the drops of Dittany. “None of us have the power to do that. We just have to make do with the life that we’re given.”

“I promise. . . you,” you gurgle through the searing pain, gasping for air, clawing at her arms. “I’ll destroy them all.”

You pass out in her arms.

When you awake, you’re on a train to Hogwarts, left arm bandaged and hidden under the sleeve of your school robes.

You don’t bother attending your classes—seeing no more purpose in Transfiguration and Herbology when you’re just a pawn in someone’s, everyone’s plans, apparently. The professors express their concern when you no longer turn in your homework or assigned projects. Once again, you barely see the need to. Your meals during breakfast, lunch, and dinner go untouched. You stay away from Narcissa, Vittoria, Isadora, Lucius, and Regulus. Your only friends, Amos and Amelia, stay away from you, too, having seen news of your promiscuity in the Daily Prophet. You scoff internally—you’ve never even had your first kiss yet. But even that seems like a distant dream.

You are tired.

How much longer do you have to play this part? How much more of yourself do you have to give?

You’re only seventeen—how can you even hope to defeat Voldemort like this?

The castle walls have dulled, and you drift through the corridors like a wearisome ghost. The once colorful world that you have been brought into now pales in the face of curses, spilt blood, and the Mark on your arm. You wonder what would happen—if you just run away now.

Why should you be the one to bear the burdens of this duty thrust upon you? Why do people like James Potter and Sirius Black find loyalty and a real family within Hogwarts, and there is no one willing to fight for you?

Perhaps, you have no one else to blame but yourself.

Rita Skeeter publishes her article on the growing rift between you and Vittoria Zabini—claiming that you had stolen her beau from her.

You toss the newspaper into the fire.

Some nights, you don’t bother returning to the Hufflepuff dormitories anymore. You know what they think. You know what they say behind your back.

For the third time this week, you find yourself at the top of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling from the edge of the window, eyes blankly staring at the horizon—if you run towards there, you wonder how long it will take before they find you. The cold nips at your cheeks, but you barely feel anything other than a gnawing emptiness.

Your gaze falls to the ground below, thirty, fifty meters from where you sit.

Maybe. . .

If you move a few inches forward. . .

If you just fly.

You’d be free.

“Oh, I didn’t know this window was occupied.” You loosely turn your head to find Remus Lupin standing before you with a crooked grin, hands shoved in his pockets as he awkwardly shuffles one foot over the other. He raises his arms up in surrender. “I guess I’ll. . . find somewhere else to brood.”

I don’t care.

Go away.

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone?

You rest your head back on the windowsill, hugging your legs to your chest.

Starlings chirp and fly past you—how liberating it must be, to soar in the skies. But all you can do is watch enviously. Powerless, little songbird with no more lullabies to sing and no more wings to fly with.

You let your weight shift over the window.

Maybe if you fall, you could see what it’s like to fly.

“H-Hey! Don’t—!” Remus quickly snatches your hand and pulls you into his embrace—the both of you tumbling to the floor. You feel his chest heaving, arms trembling around you, and the sound of his rapid heartbeat. His eyes are wide as he looks over your face for any injuries. “Why would you do that? Are you mad?”

You sigh.

Maybe tomorrow, then.

“Oi!” Remus pokes your shoulder. “Don’t just ignore me! You scared the piss out of me, you know? Bloody hell.” His shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another peek at you—just to make sure you’re still in front of him. “A-Are you okay?” he asks softly, afraid to spook you further away. “Do you want to talk about it or anything?”

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

His gaze flickers from you to the window ledge. “I think that’s a big something to talk about, honestly. B-But I get it. Really. No judgment.”

An unwilling chortle escapes past your lips. Remus Lupin and his marauding bunch of lions would never understand the burden you have to carry each day for the rest of your life.

Remus scratches the back of his head with a wolfish grin. “Hey. . . listen. We don’t know each other all that well—so this is going to sound terribly weird. But would you like a hug?”

He opens his arms wide enough for you to fit—and you stare at him in horror. “C’mon, then. It really seems like you need it. And honestly, I kind of need it, too, especially after a scare like that.”

You stay silent.

He shakes his hands, beckoning you forward, golden hair flopping over his eyes. “I don’t bite. Promise. One hug and we’ll go on pretending like we don’t know each other tomorrow. Marauder’s honor.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your kindness,” you say with a prominent sneer—certainly not kindness from him. It must be another prank of theirs. You wait for Peter Pettigrew and Sirius to jump out and spray you with garlic juice.

Remus smiles. “I think you’ll find that my kindness is freely given.”

You nibble on your bruised lip.

Could you really?

Maybe just this once.

You’re only human, magic as you are.

You take one step forward.

Then another.

Another.

Until you fall right into his arms, and you inhale the scent of honey, milk raspberry chocolate, and cedarwood. The warmth of his arms around you is real. His voice is real. He whispers cruel words into your ear, “You’re alright, love. Let it out. I’m here.” You burrow your head deep in the crook of his neck. The sound of his heartbeat is real. He tightens his hold around you, and the ground underneath feels real. For a few moments, you don’t feel like you’re floating away into oblivion.

Maybe you’d stay alive—for a few more days.

To do what is right.

To endure.

Perhaps, tomorrow will be easier—if such kindness is real, maybe you’re allowed to seek it for yourself every now and then.

But your nightmare doesn’t end when you’re awake—it takes you by the throat when you find yourself summoned to the Malfoy Manor on Hallow’s Eve.

You’re not the only one caught by surprise. One by one, Tom Riddle’s followers apparate into the dining room, stumbling inside with a bewildered expression. Their Dark Lord has called for them in the dead of night—it must be for something important. You stiffen, sinking into Lucius’s shadow. You search for your mother but she doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the room. Someone brushes their hands against yours—Narcissa. She stands by your side, face impassive, her pupils frantically trying to make sense of the situation.

Then, Tom Riddle finally apparates into the room, startling you for a fraction of a second. Not far behind is Abraxas, Cyprian, the Lestranges, Bellatrix, and finally—

Your mother.

Fawley looks worse for wear, her skin sinking into her bones, clothes tattered, and her face littered with bruises. Bellatrix drags her across the floor, hair wrapped around her hands.

You move to stop Bellatrix, anger blinding your vision—Narcissa tightens her grip on your wrist, subtly shaking her head. You rip your hand away from her.

“We have found a traitor in our midst!” Bellatrix cackles, throwing your mother to the ground—your fists clench, swallowing each lump in your throat with rage blinding your vision. “I caught the bitch helping the McKinnons escape!”

“No,” you whisper, dread knocking you backwards—it just isn’t possible. The two of you had always been careful. Bellatrix hits her again, and you have to restrain yourself from marching forward and cursing her from where she stands.

One moment of weakness, that is all Tom Riddle needs. He finds you in the crowd with ease. The crowd of Death Eaters part like the red sea, and you steel yourself with Occlumency before you are sharply pulled forward, the mark on your left arm blistering as though a hundred needles are driving into your skin repeatedly.

“If the mother is a blood traitor, the child is sure to follow!” Bellatrix hisses, spit flying into the floor, her eyes gleaming with maniacal glee.

Voldemort cruelly holds your jaw in his hand, nails digging into your flesh, threatening to break through your bones. “Is this true?” he asks, drawing blood from your skin. “Tell me!”

“No!” you cry out, kicking and punching to get away from his hold. “It’s not—let me go! That is my mother! You’re hurting her! She’s sick!”

“That,” Riddle’s eyes flash with hostility, breath hot on your skin, “is a betrayer to our cause.”

“She’s not!” you scream.

“How did she find out, then?” Voldemort flings you to the ground—immediately, you rush to your mother, gathering her in your arms. Tom Riddle cocks his head and you’re blasted into the walls—you feel his Legilimency trying to force its way in, exploiting your pain and shock. But you won’t let him in. He’ll have to pry your memories from your cold, dead body.

The pain is searing—you’re being torn apart from limb to limb. Your mark is burning, head throbbing from a concussion, and still fighting against Riddle’s magic. Through your blurry haze, you see Lucius holding Narcissa back from running to you. “We’re not traitors!” you cry out desperately, crawling pathetically to your mother’s listless body. “I swear!”

Voldemort sneers just before he points his wand at your mother. “Crucio!”

“No! No! Stop it! Please! Please, stop it!” you beg on the ground as your mother helplessly writhes on the floor, the Cruciatus curse reducing the once austere Agatha Fawley to a whimpering mess. “You’re killing her!”

Tom snarls, “Good.”

Bellatrix digs her claws into your neck, her laughter resounding throughout the manor—you swallow the sobs down your throat as she drives her wand into your flesh. “Your mummy over there is done for. But you—our precious jewel, you can still prove your loyalty to our Dark Lord.”

She puts your wand and closes your fist over the wood—your eyes grow wide as you thrash in her hold, screaming as she forces you to look at Fawley. “Kill her. And you may live.”

“Just say it,” Bellatrix whispers in your ear. “Two little words. You’ve already done this before, pet—the second time should be easy enough!”

“No!” you knock your head back into her nose, slipping away as her hold loosens and she screams profanities at you—but to your misfortune, Voldemort captures you, like a defenseless bunny running into a starving snake.

“Mum, wake up, please!”

You cry out helplessly, sobbing as Voldemort forces you to watch the life gradually fade away from her blue eyes. Her magic envelops you—and you remember warm holidays spent by the fire, Muggle storybooks before bed, surprising you with breakfast in bed for your birthdays. It’s a warm feeling, a stark contrast to Tom Riddle’s invasive magic. Her voice echoes in your head one last time.

“Thank you for showing me what love feels like, if not for a moment. I am sorry I could not show it as a proper mother would.”

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear.

You watch as Fawley’s eyes drift to a close, an act of resignation. “It’s okay, my darling,” she whispers tiredly. “I. . . can rest now.”

For the second time in your life, you point your wand at someone’s heart—this time, it’s your mother’s.

“What are you waiting for?” Bellatrix asks, twitching menacingly. “Kill her! Before I do it myself!”

There’s a faint smile on her face.

“I’m. . . sorry.”

Those are Agatha Fawley’s last words before you take away her life.

The incantation falls so delicately from your lips, an act of mercy for the woman you once called your mother and your greatest tormentor.

But your eyes are on one person and one person only.

Tom Riddle.

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

But you’ll destroy them all, one by one.

a/n: THERE IS KISSING IN THE NEXT SCENE I PROMISE.... AND TRUST MY LILY LOVERS WE WILL GET OUR REDEMPTION ARC SKDJHFGKJH and sirius lovers too,, but yall are well-fed every day so.. next part has the yule ball, likee,, there's no way THAT becomes angsty.. if you saw a plot-hole, no you didn't just CRY and enjoy sdhgsdf... come tell me what you thought!! (if you have any constructive criticisms, just come to my dms BUT PLS BE VERY GENTLE.... oh and don't hesitate to tell me if i accidentally wrote anything super specific like height, skin color, etc.!!) i promise to better in the final part!!!! (there's only two parts to this fic.) I LOVE YEW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS STORY AAAAAAAAAAAA

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crescenthistory · 3 months ago

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okkkkk could you argue list C 68 with regulus x legilimence reader (aka mind reading reader) and what regulus would do if he found out his gf could always tell when he's lying. Please? and congrats! amazing job!!

thank you for the request lovely! with how i see reg's characterisation, i cannot picture him taking that kind of information in lightly, so this is perhaps a bit angstier than you were aiming for ahaha. i am also evidently insane, so this is an in-depth character study:,) enjoy!

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i will ARGUE for prompt 68 "this is news to me" with regulus black

carina's 2k celebration

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synopsis: regulus visits your pseudo-family, the mckinnons, with you for the first time, expecting only to struggle with the unfamiliar family dynamics. instead, a part of you previously unknown to him is revealed in passing, and his mind shuts down, memories and fears from his childhood taking over. the conversation that follows is one of the hardest and most significant he would have in his life.

wc: 6.2k

cw: fem!reader, references to walburga and orion's a++ parenting skills, aka mentions of abuse, neglect and childhood trauma, angst, momentary belief of betrayal, fresh relationship, hurt/comfort, references to black brothers angst, regulus pov (including his mental health struggles), you are basically an honorary mckinnon, references to your bad relationship to your bio family (neglect), crying, near-break up, declarations of love, happy ending, the entire fucking mckinnon family tree as supportive characters

Regulus had been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He had since the beginning of his relationship with you, when he realised the enormity of his feelings and was simultaneously frightened, disgusted and relieved, struggling to balance healing from his childhood and falling in love with his future all at the same time.

A part of him wished to warn you, to urge you away, to shield you from the darkness within him through rejection – but, he was selfish. At least, that is the conclusion he reached for why he couldn’t turn away from you and leave you be, why he invited you in, despite knowing in his chest that the other shoe would drop. Regulus had grown up in the constructed shadow of Sirius, and though he now realises that was not his brother’s inherent fault, he still couldn’t rid himself of the clawing feeling in his chest that he would always have nothing. Always be second, always be the spare, even when Walburga was forced to declare him the heir after Sirius turned his back. He would always be left with portraits instead of bodies.

If you, with all your fascinating and lovely self, opened your arms to him, Regulus could not bring himself to ask you to close them. He would fall into them, all while keeping a cage around his heart and both his shoes on the ground, by the door.

He had expected it to be his fault though. It would be a matter of him not being enough, yet again.

No part of him expected it to be you; for you to be different in a way that he couldn’t stomach.

Regulus sat stiffly but not necessarily uncomfortably in the worn out chair in the McKinnon living room, quietly observing the bustling homely life around him. It was the first time he came along when you visited, wanting to meet the people you spoke so kindly of and see more of the connection that originally brought the two of you together – he still had to thank Dorcas for falling in love with your best friend.

There were more kids than he could count – metaphorically speaking, that is, because Regulus had of course studied up on exactly how many kids would be there and what their names were before arriving – running around his ankles. You were over in the adjunct kitchen, helping Mrs. McKinnon with finalising dinner, while Marlene was outside hounding in the remaining children and cousins. It was loud in a way that kept Regulus’ spine straight and muscles tense, but he could feel his mouth dreaming of curling up into a smile. It wasn’t as awful as he had feared.

He saw your form through the door-less opening, your clothes and hair moving in an elegant flow, a practised choreography. That sight, more than anything else, was what kept him grounded.

Regulus had, of course, asked to help, but Mrs. McKinnon – “It’s Magda, dear, please scrap the formalities” – had ushered him out. “You’re still a guest in this household! This one on the other hand… she’s got to be put to work.” A motherly wink and a bump of her hip into yours as you stuck your tongue out. Natural. Nurturing.

He felt in no position to argue, so he settled down with the children.

“Pst!” He turned to look down at the littlest of Marlene’s nieces, a sweet girl named Mabel with her blonde unruly curls tucked up into two uneven buns on each side of her head. She smiled with an unmistakable air of mischief, lifting her tiny brows at him. “You’re Uncle Reg, right?”

Regulus’ breath caught in his throat as a nervous laugh built in his chest. He wasn’t offended that the little thing didn’t catch his introduction a full 45 minutes ago when he went around shaking hands and waving, but he was confused by his title.

“Uh, my name is Regulus, yes. And you’re Mabel?” He tried to make his voice kind, but was unsure if it was working.

She nodded with beaming pride and happiness, glad to be known. “You’re Auntie’s husband.” She didn’t ask, which bamboozled Regulus further – she looked very pleased to have made the connection.

Regulus leaned forward onto his knees to be closer to her height as he chuckled, still with an air of nerves. “Not quite, no, but I am here with your Auntie, yes.”

Mabel furrowed her brows, contentment slipping away in favour of confusion. “No. Uncle Reggie is my Auntie’s husband. Marly said so.”

Ah. His nerves were being schooled away in favour of internally rolling his eyes at his new-found friend. “Well, Marlene probably just tried to convey that your Auntie and I are very very close, which we are. That’s why I want to be here and meet you all.”

“Uh-huh. When will you marry her then?”

Regulus could feel his heart jump out of his chest – as did Mabel’s when their heads both jumped up at the sound from the kitchen. “Oi, Belly! C’mere sweetheart!”

He looked over Mabel’s already giggling and retreating form as she ran towards you in true toddler-fashion, and saw you winking and grinning at him. He let out a sigh of relief at the same time as you picked Mabel up and spun her around.

“Don’t you be bothering Reggie now, or he won’t come back!” He heard you whisper-yelling conspiratorially to the little girl as you tickled her, high-pitched giggles bubbling up from her lungs along with faux-shrieks of denial.

His muscles remained tense, but Regulus looked down in his lap with a grin before pushing up from his seat to walk over to the kitchen, where Mabel was released and running away all giddily. You looked at him with a smirk over your shoulder, looking gorgeous with your hair slightly messed up from the heat of the kitchen. “The children scaring you away?”

Regulus leaned against the opening with his arms crossed, still keeping everything in the kitchen in eye-sight, lest there be anything he could help with after all. The smile he spared you was hopefully as warm as the oven you had slaved over. “It would take more than little Mabel to scare me away.”

“Here you go, Maggie,” you said over your shoulder as you handed her a knife where she was about to start cutting the final herbs on the opposite side of the kitchen, before turning back to Regulus. “Well, I’m glad to hear that, because we’re all about to sit down for dinner.”

“You are such an effortless team,” Regulus admired your wordless communication, putting on his practised visiting-the-in-laws smile towards Magda. “Please do let me know if there is anything I can help with, Mrs– uh, Magda.”

Magda sighed happily, looking over at you, gesturing with the knife perhaps a bit too absentmindedly. “You picked such a polite one, dear. It hurts my heart! Reg, please, all you need to do is keep us company.”

His gaze diverted down to his feet as a slight flush crept up his cheeks, a smile blooming between them. “Thank you, Magda.”

You looked over your shoulder at her with a loud laugh. “No, keep that to yourself Maggie, you’ll just embarrass him more.”

Regulus furrowed his brows in confusion, the comment seemingly out of place, but Magda laughed so heartily he didn’t have it in him to ask. He didn’t want to bring more attention than necessary to how different his socialisation had been from yours.

Despite her best efforts, Magda could not stop Regulus from helping deck the table as the two of you began magically sending everything out – though, he realised quickly that his definition of decking the table was clearly quite contrasting from yours. The McKinnons did it the simple way, and while unsettled, he wholly appreciated it.

Marlene had since come in with her youngest brother on her shoulders, tugging at her hair. “Snake-boy, you haven’t been eaten by these little lions yet?” She greeted with a grin, dropping her brother off in his seat and whistling to alert the rest of the family that dinner was ready.

“I’ve come to learn I quite like lions,” Regulus replied, his usual snark more readily available with her. “Though I wouldn’t have minded my fellow snakes here.”

Marlene snorted. “Yeah, well, Cassie and Barty had work, so.” She shrugged, pinching his upper arm as she walked past him to herd in the rest. “You’re stuck with us.”

“I think I’ll manage,” Regulus murmured and found that he meant it.

As the entire family settled down at the table, Regulus felt a bit less steady in his ability to remember everyone’s names, but he hoped muscle memory would kick in. When Magda heard you would be stopping by with Regulus, she ensured that all six of the McKinnon siblings, along with their respective partners and children, would show up. Regulus was in no way unfamiliar with large family gatherings, but the volume of their voices and smiles took some getting used to.

It didn’t hurt that he sat beside you – and that your hand came to squeeze his knee as everyone settled in and began chattering away.

There was no introduction, no speech, just immediate good natured conversations and catching up, including from one end of the table to another.

“Pass me the potatoes?” Martin – Regulus remembered; Marlene’s other younger brother, aged 7 – asked, his eyes set on Regulus.

“Of course.” The movement was swift and elegant, bowl outstretched.

When Martin grabbed the bowl, he forgot to thank Regulus and instead asked, “So, what are your intentions with our sister?”

Regulus’ brows furrowed. “I– I’m not dating your sister?”

You squeezed his knee again, suppressing a giggle. “He meant me, dear.”

“Oh.” His cheeks flushed yet again. To be fair, he should have deciphered that one himself. “Well… I intend to care for her for however long she’ll let me.”

Martin seemed displeased. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” you intercepted, reaching out to lightly flick his forehead. “That you should mind your business, you little worm.”

Martin opened his mouth, outraged in a manner only a 7 year old boy can be, lifting his finger in the air. “I–”

“Oh, don’t you dare say that, Martin McKinnon!” You cut him off, already laughing and making the little boy laugh with you, even as he crossed his arms petulantly.

“You’re no fun when you damage control too early,” he mumbled, despite his grin.

Regulus tried to follow the conversation, but found his eyes squinted in confusion.

This is where Margaret – Marlene’s two years older sister – chimed in. “It’s called with great powers comes great responsibility, twat. With legilimency comes the responsibility of shutting silly little boys up!” She reached her hand over past Marlene to pinch Martin’s side, making him shriek and giggle despite himself.

Legilimency.

Oh. Oh.

In a matter of seconds, Regulus’ world came crashing down.

For a brief minute, his mind was painfully empty, unable to think anything or draw forth any memory, all instinctively hidden away, even from himself. Then, he broke through his own walls and had wave after wave of memories hit him – lessons of “close your mind, young boy”, repetitions of “you’re pathetic”, the piercing pain of trying to shut it all out, the stinging hurt of feeling betrayed by the people he instinctively loved. Those memories had a unique ache to them, one he hadn’t dared try to combat yet; but the ones with you hit him harder. “I would never do that to you”, “you’re safe with me”, “I would never lie to you”, “I just get you”.

I just get you.

Except you didn’t – you were a mind-reader.

None of it was real.

Regulus sat frozen to his seat, the tensing of his muscles digging much deeper now. It was not eased in the slightest when your hand returned to his knee, a previous warm touch now disturbingly cold.

“Reg?”

It took an immense amount of force for Regulus to turn his head sideways and meet your eyes, trying to make his as unreadable as possible, trying to close his mind for the first time in months.

“Are you alright?” Your voice was feather-light, a question just for the two of you. A brief glance around told Regulus that no one had noticed his deceptively quiet change. Or, at least, they had the decency to not continue to notice.

An imperceptible nod of his head and a tight-lipped smile. No words.

Your brows furrowed in dismay, clearly unconvinced, but knowing better than to push him in public. You squeezed his knee once more reassuringly before Martin and Margaret dragged you back into conversation.

Regulus truly hoped no one addressed him going forward, because he couldn’t hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears. He wanted to further hope that if they did, you would answer for him and redirect, but he found his heart unable to trust you. It promptly shattered beneath the weight of that knowledge.

The dinner flurried by in a haze, your hand never leaving his knee and Regulus never getting used to its weight, always noticing with a sickening sinking feeling in his stomach.

The one thing that distracted him at last was a tug at his sleeve.

He whipped his head around, probably faster than what would be perceived as normal – to see little Mabel had run out of her seat and now sat at his side. She reached her small grabby hands up towards him. “Upsies!”

You leaned around him, smiling endearingly at Mabel, your hair moving in his peripheral vision. “Oh, Mabel, Uncle Reggie is a bit–”

Before you could make some excuse for him, Regulus leaned down to scoop her up. She was surprisingly light, it was honestly a miracle that such tiny lungs could produce a squeal so loud straight into his ear.

Regulus could feel your gaze burning a hole in the side of his face as he bounced the little girl in his lap. Mabel was giddy, immediately chattering away with you, Marlene and the others sitting nearby, holding onto his arms for support. He couldn’t explain how he was able to pick her up, still largely detached from his body while processing the day's revelations – but she was so young and vulnerable, he couldn’t stand breaking her heart by rejecting her.

When Mabel leaned over to pat your cheeks and blabber with you, Regulus was forced to move his body in your direction. Your hand left his knee in favour of tickling Mabel, but the side of your leg was now pressed against his. As your lips met the little girl’s forehead your eyes met his at last.

What he saw in them is what he any other day would have labelled pure concern. Now, he had a white prickling fear down his spine that those thoughts were not his own. Even if they were, they were not his because they were not private. Another thing stripped from him.

As Mirabel eventually came over to pick up her daughter from Regulus to go put her to bed, you also rose from your seat, getting a head-start on the dishes while Magda still sat, surrounded by grandchildren. Her head perked up when she saw you move about, but you waved her off kindly.

With robotic movements, Regulus got up and followed in your footsteps, not wanting his single visit to be remembered as rude. Picking up plates with much less skill than he had placed them down, he walked towards the kitchen that you were walking out of.

You tried to smile as you walked past him, but he didn’t look at your face.

Regulus’ entire body ached.

It ached even more when he almost collided with Marlene on his way back out of the kitchen. She, unlike the two of you, was not carrying any plates, only herself, as she acted like a door barricading him from the rest. Her light brown eyebrows were furrowed.

“Who pissed in your cereal, Black?”

Regulus couldn’t help himself, despite the circumstances. “I didn’t eat cereal.”

The blonde breathed out in exasperation, hands coming up to rest on the sides of her hips, though her features softened a little. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m alright.”

“What changed, then?”

Regulus stared emptily at her, only to find his own stubbornness mirrored perfectly in her. In this moment, she painfully reminded him of Sirius; a thought he immediately tried to file away.

He sighed. “I just didn’t expect… I didn’t know.”

“Know what?” Marlene’s face slowly morphed into one of uncomfortable understanding, seemingly piecing together what she had come to learn about Regulus and what she knew of her best friend. Her question came out as a whisper. “About the… legilimency?”

He drew a sharp breath through his teeth. “That was news to me.”

Marlene opened her mouth to say something, but Regulus found the audacity to hold up his hand. He hoped his look was more politely pleading. “Please – don’t. I really don’t want to hear it yet.”

She pressed her lips tightly together, evidently distraught at not having the opportunity to defend her best friend. Yet, her internal monologue decided in his favour. “Fine,” she answered tightly. “You better figure it out though.”

With that, Marlene gave him a final look and turned on her heel, looking for some toddler to scoop up and throw over her muscled shoulder. Her retreating form revealed you standing there with some plates near the table, stalling by chatting with Mr. McKinnon, whom Regulus had done his best to avoid. You were looking at him. The ice in Regulus settled in deeper at the thought that you could have been privy to this conversation, too.

He sucked in a breath and turned around to begin washing the dishes.

For whatever reason, you gave him a few minutes of space. With his back to you, he still remained painfully aware of you levitating dishes in to him in the kitchen as he began magically scrubbing them. Trying to scrub away his thoughts the same way, and then his feelings.

You gave him space, but you wouldn’t let him wallow – and thus, just when it felt like the world would never stop spinning, you placed your hand delicately on his shoulder. Everything stopped, for better or for worse. Regulus didn’t turn.

“Hi, love,” you whispered. “Ready to go home?”

Regulus turned around at that, desperate to keep neutral even as his face scrunched in confusion. “Didn’t you want to stay late?”

Your smile was wistful. “You see, I’ve gotten such a headache. Probably have become unadjusted to these environments. Magda has wrapped up some leftovers and gotten the floo network ready for us.”

Regulus’ heart twinged at the excuse you had concocted for him; then, it immediately broke as a voice reminded him that he couldn’t trust this, couldn’t trust you. The voice sounded eerily like his Mother’s.

At a loss, he found himself just barely nodding in agreement.

He summoned enough courage to smile as he entered the living room, seeing most of the adults and older children gathered, some already running up to hug you goodbye. And not just you – Regulus suddenly had Martin and Milly at his feet for goodbye hugs. He went through the motions, politely hugging and waving goodbye, trying to distance himself from his body so he wouldn’t have to feel it.

Despite having no intention of returning, Regulus knew he had to make a good final impressions, so he walked up to Mr. McKinnon and stretched out his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said with an as steady voice he could produce at the moment.

The older man looked down at his hand and back up at his face, before using the outstretched hand as leverage to pull Regulus into a tight hug. “It’s Mason to you, son. Come back soon.”

Regulus nodded with a tight-lipped smile, saying nothing else as he turned towards the fireplace. There he received two almost identical hugs from Marlene and Magda, save that Marlene whispered “don’t overthink this” in his ear while Magda whispered “be good to each other, alright love?”

Never before had Regulus appreciated the flurry of travelling with the floo as much as now.

When he landed in your flat beside you, everything felt quiet. Dark.

Your shared living room felt like it was closing in on him and Regulus quite honestly might have thrown up, had that not involved a touch more vulnerability than he was willing to reveal now. Instead, he shrugged, trying to shake the feeling off him, and immediately made a beeline for the bedroom.

“Reg…” you whispered after him.

He didn’t respond; he closed the bedroom door behind him and leaned against it, effectively keeping it shut.

Feeling every bit like the 8 year old currently shaking in the depths of his memory, Regulus slid down the door, settling at the bottom of it, cradling his knees against his chest.

In the acute silence of your flat, he could hear your heavy sigh. He tried to interpret it without letting up on his attempts at occluding, at schooling his mind from you. It didn’t seem angry or disappointed, just… broken. He couldn’t decipher in what way.

Once upon a time, he had become excellent at it, but in the presence of his friends and you, he had let it slip. Somehow it was harder to hide his thoughts around you because his feelings were so screaming loud.

The creaking of the floorboards were unmistakable as you walked up to the bedroom door. He expected your hand on the handle, he expected a confrontation. Instead, he felt a soft thud against the door as you slid down on your side of it in parallel to Regulus himself. His mind began to imagine how you looked, how you leaned against it and slowed your descent down, how your head was turned sideways, looking down at the small gap beneath the frame – but if he began to imagine too much, he would lose his grip on his occlusion.

He drew a deep breath and leaned his head against the door. Closed his eyes. Focussed.

“Regulus, my love.” Your voice was soft and quiet, slightly muffled through the door, but he could hear you alright. “What’s going on in that pretty mind of yours? What happened, lovely?”

A flicker of irritation flamed in him at your word choice and he couldn’t stop himself from the bite in his words, the first real words he spoke to you since. “Can’t you just see for yourself?”

A momentary silence. “What is that supposed to mean?” A little wounded, a little wary.

“You know.” His voice was hoarse. The insistent voice in Regulus’ head was kicking him for engaging with you on this, for not waving his wand to pack his suitcase and run as far as possible. He didn’t want to think about why, but he… he couldn’t do that. Not yet.

He heard you shuffling through the door, as if you shifted sideways to pretend to see him through the door. “My love, is this… is this about the l-legilimency?” Your voice was shaking in a way that made Regulus’ face scrunch up in pain – you seemed scared and he hated it, even if he didn’t get why.

But if you were scared, he was terrified. “Of course it is,” he breathed out, frustration leaking into his voice. “Of course it is. You’ve deceived me.”

“I didn’t deceive you.” Your response was immediate. “I didn’t deceive you, I just didn’t tell–”

“That’s the same thing! You… you kept it from me.” Regulus curled up into a smaller ball, hands coming up to cover his face. Breathe. Close your mind. Breathe. Close your mind.

You were silent for a second. “I have never used it on you. Regulus, I have never read your mind.”

“Bloody convenient that I would never know, huh?” He laughed darkly, spiralling further.

“You could, if you wanted. I would… I would let you try to read mine. Anyone can learn, it’s just that I… I had to be born with it.” Your voice was wavering. It almost brought Regulus clarity, but he couldn’t bring himself to allow it to. “I promise you Reg, I wouldn’t have.”

Slowly, he let his hands fall to either side of his body. He let out perhaps the worst-tasting sentence his lips had formed. “I don’t believe you.”

This time, you were silent for longer.

You sounded painfully choked when you at last spoke up. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Regulus whispered in the same tone, and that was himself talking, not any voices.

The unmistakable sound of you beginning to get up rang through the silent flat, and panic surged through Regulus’ heart. Your name blurted out past his lips before he could stop himself.

“W-wait.” He turned to face the door, sitting cross-legged and leaning his forehead against the wood. It was terrified defiance, self-perceived stupidity and relentless love that drove his speech. “Don’t go. Not yet, please.”

If you had walked away now, Regulus was sure he would have crumbled, he would have had to apparate to Barty’s and never look back. Instead, you let out a breath he was beginning to suspect was a sob and sat back down. He felt the soft thud of you leaning against the door once more – he hoped it was your forehead, that yours were pressed together with only the wood separating you.

“Explain. Please.”

Your breathing was ragged enough that Regulus knew you were crying, rubbing your face to rid yourself of the tears before they could fall too far, like you always did. “I’m sorry,” you repeated, voice high-pitched. “I didn’t… I don’t tell people. Anyone. Because of… because…”

Because of this exact moment.

You seemed to try to stabilise yourself. Regulus ached to reach for you but remained silently rooted in place, save for the way he nudged his forehead against the door as if it was your skin.

“Why did you think I’m so close with the McKinnons?” you asked after what felt like an eternity of silence and brazing yourself. “Why do you think I’m not close with my family?”

Regulus didn’t have an answer to that. In his friend group, no one had a good relationship with their biological families and, if it could be helped, no one talked about it. A realisation began to settle in. “I just assumed… I just assumed they were bad.” He cringed at how weak of a response that was.

You laughed a bit dryly. “No, they were entirely justified. Who would want a freak for a daughter?”

If a single sentence could have changed his mind, it would have been that one. His eyes squeezed shut in pain as he shook his head. “Amour, you’re not–”

“No?” You cut him off, tone a bit pointed. Regulus could understand why. “Some people train for years to master legilimency but I came out of the womb seeing and understanding everything. It freaked me out and once they realised, same thing there. Only the McKinnons had enough children to not care for an oddball or two.”

Regulus trained his eyes on the little gap beneath the door. He placed one hand near it, not close enough to slide his fingers beneath, but enough for his fingertips to dream of it.

“They were kind to me, Regulus,” you whispered in a hauntingly sweet voice. “That’s why I… wanted you to meet them too.”

“They are kind,” he agreed at last, voice hoarse and rough.

The breath you let out at that thankfully sounded more like a choked laugh than another sob. “I tried to get rid of it, you know. I learned to control it, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I couldn’t stand living like this. So I… I don’t do it anymore. I hold back. I don’t read minds, I don’t read feelings or instincts unless I absolutely have to or… unless that person wants to. The McKinnons want to and with them it’s never been… something bad. It usually makes me feel sick, but it feels good with them. I don’t tell people because I don’t want them to know that I can do it, not because I don’t want them to know that I am doing it. I swear to you Regulus, I swear, I have never read your mind.”

At last, tears spilled down his cheeks. Searing and stinging, dripping over porcelain skin and splattering softly against the floor. “You should have told me, amour.” It was all he could say.

“I’m sorry.” He supposed that was all you could say.

Regulus fought for power over his own voice as tears continued spilling. He fought for power over his mind that was still screaming at him that you could be lying, he fought for power over his heart that knew you weren’t but was busy splintering at the pain you’ve carried. Of all the things he prepared himself for this afternoon, this conversation was not it.

“I am sorry,” he managed to force out at last, urgent. “Trust… trust is everything to me, and it is nothing because I almost never have it. That isn’t your fault, it’s– it’s probably my parents. I don’t talk of them. I don’t want to talk of them, you know this, but they– they would use anything against me. Anything I said or did, but also anything I thought or felt. It terrifies me that someone might have control of me.”

It cut him so deep to speak those words out loud, to share them with someone else, but either you had read his mind and already knew, or you were true, in which case you deserved to know. He heard you sniffle through the door.

“I would never.” Your voice was adamant despite how it broke. “I would never. You’re the one with control over me. I love you so deeply Regulus, I would never intentionally hurt you.”

“That’s what she would say,” he whispered. Not because he didn’t believe you, but because he needed to say it.

Your hand came down to rest near enough the gap beneath the door that he could see your fingers. “Did you feel loved by her?”

A sob. “No.”

Your next question was tentative, fragile. “Do you feel loved by me?”

It scared him that it was an immediate answer for him. “Yes.”

Your fingers scooted beneath the door, an open invitation. Slowly, as if this was the major decision, Regulus moved his fingers to brush against yours, to rest side by side under the door.

“I’m sorry I didn’t think to tell you before we went,” you whispered with a renewed energy. “I can’t say I’m sorry for not telling you right away, because I wouldn’t have been able to – but you didn’t deserve to find out like this and I should have known better. I am so sorry for putting you through this.”

Regulus’ fingers pushed more firmly against yours, tear tracks on his face drying slowly. “You didn’t put me through anything.”

You laughed quietly, shortly, unsure of how much was allowed, unsure what would happen. He didn’t really know either, acting on his heart’s instinct in a way wholly unfamiliar to him.

“I’m sorry for reinforcing your fears,” he whispered then. “You’re not a freak. To me personally or in general. You’re not. You’re beautiful and wonderful and so capable. Legilimency isn’t… freakish, it’s a skill and a weapon. It’s the weaponisation that scares me.”

“Will you be able to live with the fear?” you asked, voice small. “I promise I will never weaponise it, never use it on you, but… is that enough?”

Regulus was quiet.

Then – ��Can we open the door?”

“It’s up to you, my love.” Your voice sounded more defeated than he liked.

He withdrew his fingers and slowly lifted himself back up, slightly lightheaded as he reached for the handle. Tentatively, he turned it and opened the door inward, finding you sat in the exact same position he had been, cross-legged in front of the door.

You began to sit up, but before you could, Regulus quickly sat back down in front of you – this time, without the door separating you. Your legs were pressed against each other and slowly, ever so slowly, he reached out to place his hands over yours folded in your lap.

The sight of your face, riddled with many more tears than what Regulus had caught through the door, eyes shining with uncertainty was enough to tear him apart. He squeezed your hands.

“I– I love you.” The words were thick, incredibly hard to form on his tongue. “I do. And that is your greatest weapon against me, probably much more than legilimency could be. I didn’t think I could withstand it, but now… I don’t think I can do anything else. I can’t lose you.”

A few more tears rolled down your cheeks. Your lips trembled, but curled into a small smile nonetheless. With delicate movements, you turned your hands so that you could intertwine your fingers with his. “You couldn’t lose me. Even if you left, I would still have been yours, just a lot more heartbroken about it.”

Regulus laughed wetly. “We’re not wired right, amour. We’re just not.”

You leaned forwards and Regulus met you halfway, foreheads finally touching. “It doesn’t matter,” you whispered. “We can rewire each other together. You just… have to believe me. Trust me.”

He closed his eyes, leaning more heavily against you. “I trust you. I do trust you, it’s just– it’s just my mind that doesn’t. And not because of you, it can’t trust anyone. Not even Barty, not even Pandora. Not even Sirius.”

You let out a breath of laughter. “I know all about battling your mind. If your heart trusts me, I reckon that’s enough for me.”

Regulus drew you closer, moving his fingers up to hold your wrists, delicate long fingers spreading out over supple skin. “If you are trying to figure out if you are enough for me, amour, then of course. Of course you are, yes. That’s why it would break me so if you weren’t true, if you had been deceiving me – you’re not just enough for me, you’re all I need.”

He could feel your tears landing on his forearms as you gently nudged your nose against his in response.

“Please,” he whispered, not knowing what he was pleading for.

Somehow, you still gave it to him. You tipped your chin upwards and let your lips meet his in a slow, wet kiss. Every movement spoke of dozens of layers of emotions, layers that were stripped back and doted on as your hands continued its caress up his arms and shoulders to cup his face and hold it like it was yours.

Regulus sighed into the kiss, leaning more of his weight against you as he enveloped you, inviting him into his very being despite how hard he fought to keep you out earlier. The Walburga-like voice in his mind was drowned out as he tried to repeat mantras over and over to wash it away.

Her, her, her, her.

Mine, mine, mine, mine.

Safe, safe, safe, safe.

When you came apart, you kept peppering small soft kisses around his lips, cheeks and nose, catching the last of Regulus’ tears as they fell. Your hands cradled his face so gently it almost hurt, but this was a kind of pain he welcomed.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated breathlessly.

“Please don’t be,” you whispered back, moving to kiss his closed eyelids with reverence.

“I always will be.”

“As will I.”

Regulus opened his eyes to frown at you. With a slight smile, you leaned in to kiss it away. He let you and hummed as he deepened the kiss, holding you close.

It was a tender, fragile night as the candles around your flat were finally lit and you changed into more comfortable clothes to hold each other on your wide window sill, looking at the stars as you talked it through.

The atmosphere remained somewhat tense, but in the same way you are tense after almost losing your partner on the battlefield, not the tension that comes from any lingering hostilities. Regulus kissed your shoulders softly each time he wanted to speak but didn’t know how, lips pressed against skin in silent apologies and declarations and promises.

You believed him – and you trusted that he believed you.

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d1s1ntegrated · 1 year ago

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Fugk shigrli LSOEE LOSER SHIGARAKI PLZ PLS SAVE MEEUGHHHH...can yu do..like THIS SOUNDS CRINGE BUT READER ISEKAI AND THEY R OBSESSD W SHIGARAKI,,, like, they get plopped down into his bar, they explain his lore to him, his fanarts, shiparts ALL OF THAT🙏🎀

Love u munch plz dont die

love u too munch!! hope u enjoy <3

i died violently in a car crash and all i got was this weirdo virgin!

shigaraki x isekai!reader

cw: no use of "y/n" (i used "______" instead!), fem reader, loser shigaraki (aka early chapter shiggy), virgin!shigaraki, isekai, tw: implications of death/major trauma, car crash, oral (male rec), loss of virginity, slight musk kink if you squint, kinda canon shiggy? rough sex, unprotected, pathetic virgin moment lol, teasing, missionary, p/v sex, choking implied for a few seconds, desperation, premature ejaculation, sliiiiiight breeding kink? if u squint

not proofread! pls dont eat me im sorry but its 5am i dont have the energy to edit rn!!!!!!!

you don't know how it happened. there was a sharp, hollow static, paired with the feeling of drowning, choking, sputtering. you could hear screaming, you could feel the branches interlocking with your innards, pinning you to the car seat. but...everything was so soft, so light...

until it wasn't.

you figured heaven would be a little less daunting than this. even atheists could dream up a place better than this.

but here you were, plopped onto a worn stool, a long mahogany bartop splayed in front of you. maybe it was a sick joke, maybe this bartop was the tree you lost your life to. maybe it was one big metaphor. either way, the leather was sticking to your legs already, a loose nail prodding at your thigh as you shifted in your seat. there was a strange smell here, a mixture of sweat and blood and something smoky, and you couldn't place whether you liked it or not. you tapped your fingers against the worn wood for a moment before glancing around the sullen room.

it looked so very familiar. worn furniture, brick walls, and a dingy carpet splattered the room like dollhouse furniture. the bar was fully stocked, but no one was tending to it. there were a few rooms down a hall, but nothing you could recognize. across from you, a little tv sat, with a torn poster of something you felt on the tip of your tongue. you forced yourself to move, standing from the seat and rubbing your eyes as you approached the wall. with a shaky hand, you wiped dust from the ripped paper, revealing a heroic-looking man. little holes scattered the image, as if it had been used as a dart board. bold writing splayed beneath his portrait read: "ALL-MIGHT", and like a crashing wave, everything came flooding back. your favorite manga series, my hero academia, had a bar similar as the base for the league of villains. you sucked in a sharp, excited breath as your eyes took in another look of the room. maybe this was heaven.

but...this shit doesn't happen in real life. isekai's were a favorite trope of yours, like re:zero or konosuba, yes, now you remembered- you had loved the idea of another world rather than death or rebirth. maybe it was your version of heaven. you bit your nail at the idea of being able to see the base for yourself. sure, it wasn't at all what you had imagined it to be- it wasn't as enchanting, per se, as you had thought. but it was...all in front of you. as you swallowed your discoveries, a squeal of joy erupted from your core. shit, your core. your body, fuck, was it okay? you lifted your shirt, expecting to see the gory visual of your death still imprinted on your skin...but it was gone. as if it had never happened. shit. this isnt so bad then, right?

but something surely was missing. and no, it wasn't your life. well, technically yes it was, but fuck that, who cares? what you really were missing was them. if this was a true isekai...

the sound of metal clanging sends a freezing shock through your bones. you whip around in time to see a very battered and bloody league stumbling in, kurogiri rushing to the bar to grab supplies. you stay silent as you watch them all individually groaning and pushing each other for a seat, too scared to say a fucking word. sure, your obsession was there, but it was all-too-intimidating when they're right in front of you. your breath is stuck in your chest, until a voice shatters your glass-persona.

"boss? who the FUCK is that?" a raspy voice slices the air and you feel everyone's stares fall onto you.

your eyes widen as shigaraki slumps out of his seat wordlessly and slinks over to you, hand extended. he's much larger than you thought he'd be. his frame towers over you slightly as he approaches, a sinister smile creeping up on his cracked lips.

"good question, spinner" his teeth are bared, and he's inches from you now as you shake. "who the FUCK are you?" he repeats the question, a sickening twist in his voice that shows he's really not in the mood to talk. without hesitation, you slip underneath him and head for the door, but he grabs you before you reach it. he yanks you back with four fingers, his grip deadly on the back of your shirt. in a panic, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

"please! i'm sorry! fuck, i'm your biggest fan i promise! i don't know how the fuck i got here i just died and woke up here pleasedon'tturnmeintoashesi'msorry!" your voice is rushed and trembling, but he releases you onto the ground with a thud. you catch your breath as you stand, wiping the dirt from your legs.

"...the fuck?" dabi's voice rings through the thick silence, and the group breaks into a bellowing laughter. except for shigaraki. he stands over you, a wide, confused expression on his face.

"fan? so you've heard of us?" his smirk reappears as he couches down into your face, and you nod rapidly.

"yes, yes, i know all of you, you're my favorite characters!" you point at all of them, reciting their names. toga's smile consumes her entire face as you do so, and grabs onto twice's arm as she squeals.

"characters? tch, what are we to you?" shigaraki shakes his head as he looks down at you.

your expression falls as you realize they all have no fucking idea what the hell you're talking about. you take a deep breath and begin infodumping about "my hero academia", your favorite manga. everything from deku and his quirk, to all might, to the league itself. shigaraki finally backs up a step and offers you space to stand, and you do so. he nods as you recite the plot, his eyes widening in confusion and anticipation. when you run out of breath, he raises a finger to you, and you go silent.

"she sounds fucking crazy..." twice mutters sing-songy through his teeth. you chuckle nervously as shigaraki glances to the rest of the group, still bleeding and beaten.

"tend to your wounds elsewhere. i want a minute alone with...this thing." he gestures with a curled lip to you and you wave awkwardly. the group sighs and exits to their own spaces, toga examining you head-to-toe before bouncing away, exclaiming: "okay, but i want her when you're done!".

you cant help the anxious fiddling as he guides you to the worn stools again. he throws himself in one next to you, poppy irises still fixated on you with furrowed brow. he scowls at you, but says with a hint of amusement, "tell the truth now". his voice has a twinge of agitation to it, and you smile weakly at him.

"that's the truth, i swear" you start, and he shakes his head. you can feel the annoyance leeching off of him, and you start your next sentence very carefully.

"have you ever heard of an isekai?" you drag the words as if it would prevent your death, and he nods. "okay okay, good. so i think that's what happened. see, i'm not from here, as you can tell...and i died in a car crash, really brutal shit man, like literal sticks in my lower intestines and shit, that sucked balls." you trail off as you describe the fatality and he sighs.

"sorry, i got carried away. but yeah, basically, no need for an introduction on your part, i already know everything about you". you smile gingerly as he raises an eyebrow at you and scratches at his neck.

"mhm. everything, eh?" he leans into you again now and your breath hitches. you can smell him now, and it's unlike anything you could have imagined. the smell of sweat is combined with a faint sugared citrus scent. it's strange, honestly you didn't imagine he'd smell like anything more than a general stink, but he isn't unpleasant in the slightest. he's also all-too-close to your face, and you're able to see every patch of dry skin, scar, and scrape on his delicate pale face. strands of powdery blue hair drape around his face, and he pushes it back with a brutish movement as he takes in the image of you. you fight the urge to reach out and touch him as he speaks again, his breath on your face.

"what else do you know about me then, hmm?"

him being that close to you was overwhelming as fuck, and it takes a minute to reboot your brain and respond.

"well, fuck i don't have my phone" you exclaim as you pat your pockets down.

"need mine?" he slips his out of his hoodie pocket with two fingers and you shake your head shyly. "no thank you" you creak out, and shrug.

"well, basically, you're like, all over social media. and people really love you" you start, and a smirk forms on his face again.

"so, in another world i'm...people like me? in this other world...do i kill all might?" he says excitedly, snaking his long fingers together with a clap.

"well," you start, "sometimes?" you bite your lip, thinking of how to phrase it. "people write stories about you, and draw you, hell, some people even cosplay you..."

"cosplay? like...dress up? like me?" he says shocked, and you respond with a content "mhm!"

"...in your other world, do i win?" he smiles manically and you frown. you know his fate in your world. but maybe, in his, it's different. maybe you can lie to him.

"yes." you recall the recent manga leaks and chapters, and force a smile out. "you win, victoriously. and...you're the best villain!"

he leans back in his seat, a cocky look on his face as he folds his arms. "and society...does it fall?"

"you make it yours, shigaraki" you nod, distracting yourself from the blatant display of his death that replays in your mind.

"excellent" he hisses out. "tell me how i do it".

you shake your head. "i promise i can!" a look of determination overcomes you, your confidence way too high for someone who just got obliterated by a fucking tree branch. "if...if i can join you, i can show you everything from my world and help you" you propose, fighting off the aching in your chest. he glares at you for a moment and purses his lips.

"hmph. i'll consider it" he raises a brow and you respond with a tight, flat grin. he rolls his eyes as you shimmy closer to him. at this point, he hasn't killed you, and fuck it, if you die again, who knows where you'll go.

"did you know that a lot of people want to fuck you?" you blurt out, and he chokes on air.

"WHAT?"

"yeah, and they write about it all the time. and draw it, too. they also think you and dabi are together, sometimes you and spinner, hell i've even seen you and eraserhea-"

"WHAT THE FUCK?" he shouts out, and you laugh. you feel the excitement from before come rushing back, making you slightly delirious next to this definitely unstable and unhealthy villain.

"yeah! in my world, you're like, so hot" you giggle.

"i'm going to need you to shut the fuck up while i process that" he raises a hand and takes a deep breath.

he takes a few seconds, rubbing his temples and sighing. "...in what world would i fuck dabi?"

you laugh, violently, and he grimaces. you cant reply, so you just shrug as your laughter continues to startle him.

"well, a lot of people also think you're," you whisper the next part, "a virgin". he scowls at this and flattens his lips. he doesn't respond, which causes you in your delusional state to scooch closer to him.

"...is that true?" you ask quietly, and he glares at you. you take his silence as a yes, and nod.

"hmm. thought so" you reply with approval, slightly satisfied your favorite headcanon was very much true. he grits his teeth and stands from his seat, stretching a bit before walking away with a huff. you immediately fling yourself off your own seat and follow him.

"you know, that's not a bad thing!" you say behind as he trudges down the hall. he flings open a door and slams it in your face, sending you back a bit. you frown, not realizing how far you've been pushing it. you reach for the doorhandle and somehow, it's not locked. you push the old wood and enter slowly, the smell of dirty laundry and that same citrus smell enveloping your senses. he groans as he meets your gaze and you smile sheepishly.

"hey, sorry, i'm not sure why that of all things bothered you..."

he rolls his eyes and flops onto his bed. the springs creak with exasperation as his weight squishes against the old frame.

"of course an idiot like you wouldn't understand. even in your world i'm still somehow seen as a loser" he grumbles and you bite your cheek. you close and lock the handle behind you, and shuffle over to the bed. you dont sit, but you sway slightly as you watch him. his body is more defined from this angle, you can see the gentle muscles under his tshirt-his hoodie has been flung onto the floor with the rest of the clothes-and his baggy pants fall just low enough to expose his porcelain skin just above the waistband of his boxers. you take him in with a greedy stare as you plan your next response.

"...well, yes, but...we all think it's hot." the words startle him and he sits up slightly.

"we??" his eyes narrow, "you're one of them?"

you cringe and nod slowly. "sorry, shiggy, but if its any consolation" he cuts you off with a snap-

"i should kill you right now and send you back to your other world".

your hands fidget uncomfortably at your sides and you fight the urge to take off sprinting again. seems as though when you died, your proper judgement died with you. you sit slowly on the edge of his worn mattress and raise your hands in defeat.

"i don't think that's how it works. if i die again here, i'll just be sent somewhere else, and then i can't help you". he interjects with a quiet "ughhh", and you shrug. "like i was saying, if its any consolation, everyone who does think you're a virgin just wants to fuck you all the more. so in my world you get like, infinite bitches" you grin, and he frowns again.

"are you also one of those freaks?" he retorts, and you wince.

"hmph. checks out. mystery girl from mystery world shows up and says i, quote, get infinite bitches, and allegedly wants to fuck me" he throws his hands up in defeat. "i don't suppose you actually want that, just the idea of it, hm? i'm sure you get off on your world's portrayal of me. for all i know though, you could be lying, you could be a narc little NPC that works for the heroes, and they sent you to weaken me. i don't think i'll fall for it this time, idiot. get out." he points furiously at the door and you pout, folding your arms.

"fair assumption, but with all due respect, even if i were a spy, i don't think i'd be so stupid as to lock myself in a room with you" you motion to the locked door, and he huffs.

"prove you aren't then." he challenges, and you very quickly oblige. at this rate, you're living a fanfiction fantasy and you're thanking that tree branch more and more. you yank your shirt off and climb into his lap, choking out an exclamation from him. you straddle him and almost immediately feel him harden underneath you, eyes blown wide in shock as you wrap your arms around his frame and plant your lips on his. they're cracked and dry, but you couldn't care less. it feels like death all over again, the swirling static enveloping you as you taste him on you. a sweet twinge of blood and candy and salt coats your tongue as you slip it in past his lips, swallowing him whole. he whines as you tug on his tangled hair, rutting into you from below desperately. his body is already shaking, a silent plea as you grind down into him again, the friction of his rock-hard dick against your already throbbing center causing you to both moan. you cant hide your excitement and desperation as you claw at his back. he pulls away for a moment and shakily points to his hoodie on the floor.

"g-gloves" he chokes out, and you nod. you spring up and reach for the pocket, pulling out two artists gloves and tossing them to him. your hands brush against Father in his pocket and you suck air in through your teeth, completely forgetting about that weird fucking thing. you shake off the strange feeling and turn your attention back to him. he's hastily strapping the gloves on and fiddling with the button on his jeans. you lower yourself down to his crotch, the fabric strained against his length. with a surge of newfound confidence, you bite the button and undo the zip with your teeth, and he gasps at the sudden motion. you silently fist-bump yourself as he shimmies the jeans down his legs, tossing them off the bed. you follow, peeling the fabric off your own body and placing yourself back on top of him. he finally reaches up and squeezes your tits with his gloved hands, groaning at the feeling of them in his hands. his eyes are lit up like stars as he ogles your chest, yanking them out of your bra. you silently chuckle and completely lift the article off of you, and his jaw drops. he looks absolutely blown away, and as he greedily cups your tits and squeezes them, he whimpers underneath you. you feel his cock twitch and you grind slightly against it, and within seconds, he's panting and cumming all over you and himself, crying out a string of vulgarities. you kiss him again as he coats you both in slick, hot beads of cum and he bites your lip in pure craze. you remove yourself from his wet lap and look at him with a soft expression.

"aww, you've made a mess already. your boxers arent even off, shiggy" you whisper out and he balls his fists.

"mmf, fuck you, mystery girl" he mumbles out, and you help him pull his boxers off.

"call me by my name, _________". you plant a chaste kiss to his cheek. as his cock springs free, you audibly gasp.

its much bigger, and much angrier right now, than you typically read about. you take it in your hand and feel it, the soft, delicate skin feeling almost out of place on him. it's surrounded by thick baby blue hair, going up to his navel in a sparse trail. its heavier than you expected, too, as it switches in your palm. the creamy skin of his length is offset by a very sensitive silvery-pink tip, already leaking precum again as you thumb over it, sending pathetic whimpers to escape his lips in a fury. you blink away your greater morals and bring your mouth to it, licking a thick stripe from the base, tasting the slightly salty precum against your lips. he shakes as you slip him into your mouth, stretching your jaw out more then you expected you'd have to.

you begin slowly, keeping a hand twisting around the base as your mouth adjusts to the sheer size of it. slowly, you gain comfort and confidence in your actions, and you let your hand go. you take him further into your mouth with a sharp exhale through your nose, and he grips at your hair. he pushes you down, shuddering, and you bury your nose into the mass of hair, breathing in the aroma of his sweat and warmth. you feel yourself slicken more at this, and you bob your head up and down graciously as he whimpers, your name spilling from his lips a few times between labored breaths. you feel the blood pulsing in his shaft, and you wrap your hand around his balls as they tighten, squeezing them as he shatters into you again, thick ropes streaming into your mouth. his grip tightens on your hair and he shoves you all the way down, gagging you slightly as his cum drips down your throat.

"hnng, f-fuck" he drools as his seed fills your mouth generously, adn you pull off with a sloppy mixture of saliva and cum dripping from your lips. you swallow it feverishly and he shakes, watching as you collapse next to him.

it takes him a moment to speak, and its barely above a whisper when he does.

"_______?" his voice is raspier than before as he says your name, and is thick with desire still. you turn to him, still aching for your own orgasm.

"i'm going to fuck you now" he says, a little louder than before. you look at him with wide eyes and nod, spreading your legs are he peels his tshirt off and centers himself between them. he grips a thigh with his calloused fingers, digging his dirty nails into your skin. you hiss slightly but your back arches at the contact.

"why aren't you afraid of me?" he presses himself against your soaking cunt, leaning in to bite your neck. you gasp and grab his face, bringing him to your lips. waves of desire crash over you as he throbs against you. for a virgin, his stamina is something else.

"because i know that if i die again, i'll at least die happy this time" you admit, and reach a hand down to grab his cock. you center it to your opening, and nod. he presses himself in sharply, without warning, and you shriek out in pain.

"gah, fuck, okay, shigaraki" you put a hand to his chest to slow him, "easy, slow, please". he shakes his head and rams himself back into you, snaking a hand to your throat as he pumps inside of you haphazardly. there's no real rhythm to it yet, and you do your best to adjust to the size of him stretching your tight hole hungrily.

"tomura" he replies through grit teeth, and you moan.

"tomura," you repeat with a desperate sob, "please"

his eyes glaze over and with a newfound glimmer of faith, he grips your hips and begins to slowly rut into you, allowing the both of you to finally adjust. he exhales slowly as he rocks his hips into you, and you grab one of his hands, dragging it to your core.

"try...fuck, tomura, touch me" you plead, and he immediately presses his middle finger to your clit. its hard, almost too forceful, and you pull his hand back. he loses concentration and falls out of rhythm for a moment as you guide his hand around, showing him what feels good. you recall a few stories you had read and get an idea.

"like an analog. thumbstick. fuck. you know what i mean" you stumble out, and he very quickly nods.

"so not like a trigger." he follows, and suddenly, his movements are a lot more fluid. he smirks as he rubs your clit steadily. he begins to thrust back into you shakily, then with harder, longer strokes. he follows your directions as you moan and squirm under him, beads of sweat forming on his forehead and shoulders as he gains momentum, the mattress squeaking rapidly under the both of you.

you feel yourself at your own breaking point, the fire inside of you melting like metal as it fills you, and you sink your nails into his back as you clench even tighter around his merciless cock. he snaps out with a cry and thrusts into you faster, becoming a little unsteady as you soak his length. your body splinters in ecstasy as he drives himself relentlessly into you, orgasm ripping your body like a hurricane. you call his name out like an unholy prayer as you fall from your high, and he throws his head back as his own climax tears through him. you feel it as he rams himself as deep as he can, filling you with sticky cum furiously. his jaw slackens as he huffs and pants, the most angelic sounds emanating from the villain's flustered body.

as you both crash hard, he pulls out slowly with a hiss. his arms turn to jelly as he collapses on top of you, the weight of him crushing the air from you slightly, and you giggle breathlessly. you wrap your arms around his sweaty, shaking frame and kiss the top of his head as he hyperventilates.

he gathers the strength to push himself off of you and rolls onto his back next to you.

"was that real?" he asks, and you chuckle lightly.

"well, as real as i am, i suppose". he shrugs and closes his eyes.

"did you read about this? in your other world?" he asks gingerly, and you turn to him.

"something like this, yeah" you admit, and he nods slowly.

"you can stay, mystery girl, so long as you keep telling me about those things you read. or just show me" he says, and you smile. "oh, and help me kill that all-might fucker."

your eyes flutter shut in pure bliss as his visage interrupts your greater thoughts. if this is what your new life would be like, then perhaps the violent death was worth it.

===============================================

this took me like 3 hours to write tbh, i hope its good! i think im gonna cross-post this to ao3 to get the ball rollin. thank u sm for the ask! it was a pleasure (literally) to write this :)

#myposts #mha #bnha #my hero academia #tomura shigaraki #mha shigaraki #tenko shimura #shigaraki x reader #myfics #myoneshots #bnha shigaraki #shigaraki smut

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cranberryjuice-posts · 1 year ago

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Hi!! I love your Clarisse fan fics so much <3! I was wondering if you could right one with very very sweet reader being in a straight toxic/abusive relationship and she just takes it but never tells anyone. Her and Clarisse where enemy’s but secretly loved each other. Than one day reader was walking around with a bruise on her face horribly covered in concealer but if you were looking for something you could still see and Clarisse did, but not at first, she was coming up to you to bully you but than she saw the bruise and she got all upset and reader was confused because Clarisse always bullied her. Reader just brushed it aside and walked away but left her dagger at the table, so when Clarisse returned it she saw your boyfriend through the window smacking you in the face and she lost it. She didn’t even knock on the door she just bursted in and she didn’t want to make you upset so she grabbed you boyfriends arm and dragged him out to the forest and beat the living shit out of him. She ran back to see reader and comforted her and it ended up with both of them confessing their love for each other and maybe some fluff or smut towards the end, you choose! 💕💕

Thank you!!

Not talking bout boys

Pairings - Clarisse La Rue x Daughter of Aphrodite! Fem! Reader

An - yes reader has a bf them being a lesbian in the fic is important side note I have a smutty Abby fic and a cute fic for clarisse coming out on Valentine’s Day so look out for those two

CW - abusive relationships, dyke is used, religous trauma

Everyone knew who you were. You were a beautiful charming daughter of Aphrodite as well as the vice councilor for the Aphrodite cabin.

You were a sweet heart, always being the first to show the new kids around camp, ready to help settle disagreements and you were well known for being someone anybody could come to for relationship advice.

Ironic.

People would often tell you how much they wished they had a relationship like yours. Your boyfriend Logan a son of Athena. Brains and beauty that’s what everyone said about you.

Funny thing about people is that they never saw what happened behind closed doors. You tried not to blame him but it was hard not to.

Laying on the floor of the empty Aphrodite cabin your held yourself up with your hands, your tears dropping on the floor after he hit you, why? It could be for anything today however it was because you wore a too revealing top that attracted attention, attention that Logan didn’t like.

“Really?! How many times do I have to tell you to get it through your dumb fucking head huh?” Logan yelled at you, kneeling down he forced your head up. He glared at you for a moment before letting you go, grabbing you softly and hugging you. “I’m sorry baby” he kissed your shoulder.

“I’m sorry baby you know I don’t like hitting you but sometimes it’s the only thing I can do to get messages across” he frowned gently holding your face, his personality doing a complete 360 from before.

“I know” you whispered. Leaning into his touch you couldn’t help it. Something felt off however, his touch made you feel dirty and guilty, the furthest thing from love yet… yet you still forgave him and felt as though you needed him.

——

Days normally blured together, with mornings going normally with you slowly doing your makeup mainly because you wanted to look your best but also because you needed the extra time to cover the bruises — dozing off you hadn’t realized you used to little yellow concealer to hide the purple of the deep mark.

After about an hour you walked out of your cabin, walking towards the dining pavilion for breakfast. Being shoved to the side you watched as Clarisse softly laughed with her siblings clearly mocking you. “It’s impolite to not say excuse me” you softly spoke fixing yourself shirt.

Turning around she looked you up and down. You felt her gaze linger for a moment before turning more serious. “Go get your share I’ll catch up” she ordered at her siblings. Once they started to leave she harshly grabbed your chin turning it so your cheek was In direct sunlight. “The hell is this” she carefully examined the mark

“Nothing” confused you looked over at her slightly offended by the circumstances. “Besides why would you even care”

“Because I can— How the fuck did you get that bruise on your cheek? Someone deck you or something” she sarcastically laughed. Immediately you shook your head denying it. “No no I uh, I fell”

Clarisse looked down at you for a moment, taking her thumb she caressed the sensitive bruise. “Whatever… just be more careful” she let you go before leaving you alone, irritated and.. flustered?

——

You laid in bed looking up at the ceiling not able to think.

Reaching up to your chest you softly took the cross necklace, something your father had given you before you arrived at camp.

Thinking about your dad always brought bad memories, how he forced you into the church. The snobby kids and the religion forced down your throat. Not allowed to ask questions or question anything. But the thing that stuck with you the most was the treatment of gay people.

You personally had no problem with them, the gods themselves seem to be fine with homosexual relationships but… why did it always feel so weird to you. You knew things were different about you but this time you didn’t mean being a demigod.

The way you viewed your boyfriend vrs well.. clarisse of all people made you confused. When you were with Logan you didn’t feel the same butterflys as silena would constantly brag about getting with Charlie. When you kissed it felt forced, how his hands touched you it make you want to rip your skin out.

But..

How clarisse had grabbed your chin today… you rolled over and silently groaned into your pillow.

Clarisse the same girl that would shove you. The same girl that made fun of your archery skills and called you weak for being kind. The same girl that would gently run a hand around your waist when you were in line for food… clarisse the same girl, who looked at you differently from everyone.

Why did you feel like this, why did she out of everyone make you feel like an idiot, a love sick idiot at that.

You groaned once more into your pillow, not realize how loud you were until one of your sisters threw a throw pillow at your head telling you to sleep.

Laying back down on your back You Just looked back up at the soft pink ceiling. Sure you had always thought women were pretty, and while it was true you found yourself thinking about them how you should think about Logan— there was no way you were gay.. you had a boyfriend you were straight.

A straight girl

A… straight girl

——

A few days had passed.

You had been sitting inside the armory looking around as you waited for your daggers sheath to be repaired. Walking back you bumped into someone.

Before you could fall you felt a strong hand grab your waist, looking up you saw the curly haired girl who haunted your dreams.

“Watch where your going” she pushed you up helping you regain your balance.

You felt your cheeks turn red, “uh thank you” tucked some hair behind your ear embarrassed. Clarisse nodded taking note of your outfit of a camp shirt and shorts. She rolled her eyes. “Yeah whatever”

Charlie had decided to walk over finally “hey, sorry look were a little backed up but I can Promise your sheath will be fixed tonight alright?” He asked, You nodded before you could speak however clarisse scoffed “That’s bullshit, fix her sheath now”

“I just said i couldn’t”

“Whatever we both know it’ll take you five minutes—“

“It’s Fine Clarisse i don’t mind waiting” You looked up at her placing a hand on her forearm.

You smiled at Charlie as you walked out the armory. You left embarrassed by how clarisse had stood up for you, but also how you had touched her and how she allowed it.

Once you were gone Clarisse looked over noticing your dagger laying on the table. She swore you would loose your head if it wasn’t attached to your neck. “Fix her sheath now”

“Cl—“

“Did I stutter?”

——

You found yourself inside the Athena cabin with Logan while everyone else was at the bondfire, his siblings making teasing remarks as they left. He just shook his head before looking back at you. “Hey there sexy” he grinned, you stood between his legs with his hand on your thigh.

You cringed slightly but smiled. “Hey” playing with one of his blonde curls you felt his hand travel towards your ass. You grabbed his hand pulling it away “not today.. please I just really am not in the mood for it”

Logan rolled his eyes dramatically taking his hands off you and turning to face the books on his desk. “Of course” he complained.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You asked confused crossing your arms. “You know what it means— every-time we’re alone you don’t want to do shit I’m fucking over it, what’s the point of having a girlfriend if she doesn’t even want to make out with you”

“I’m just not that good of a kisser I—“

“Your a daughter of Aphrodite your good at everything love related, know what can you just stop with this bullshit” he stood up aggressively making you flinch back some. “Stop what” you looked down to afraid to meet his eyes.

Logan grabbed your chin harshly forcing you to look at him, it made you think back to clarisse how when she grabbed you it was almost gentle. You looked to the side and for a moment it was quiet, thinking he was done you heard Logan let out a scoff like laugh.

He pushed your head away. “Fuck you”

“What?”

“You know what you fucking slut.” He stepped towards you. “Can’t believe i didn’t realize it sooner” Logan continued to shake his head in disbelief. You tried to stand up for yourself but all you felt was a harsh slap met your cheek not even a moment later.

“Your disgusting, I see how you look at the other girls at camp— clarisse fucking la rue to be specific, I notice how you let your eyes wander on her, I bet you wish she was with you now huh?! I bet you wish she was the one who was kissing you huh?!” Logan tightly grabbed your face once again, tears brimming around your eyes. Trying to shake your head he just continued. “You disgust me- what would your dad think huh? To know his previous daughter was a fucking dyke

Logan jerked your head up forcing you to look at him before he hatefully kissed you.

It felt like forever, until you were suddenly dragged out the cabin. Looking up you saw clarisse having a tight hold on you.

It came back to you slowly, clarisse kicking open the door, shoving Logan into his bunk making him hit his head and now here where she started to take you across the camp

Her firm hold on your hand made you blush. It hurt how much you liked her and how much you knew you shouldn’t.

You watched as she yelled for everyone out of the ares cabin, letting out a string of offensives if anyone had something to say. Once they were gone it was quiet.

Clarisse led you to her bed setting you down gently before taking your face in her hands while examining the condition of you. “How Long” she mumbled.

“2 months after we got together” you quietly replied looking down. Clarisse pulled you into a hug, keeping a loving hold around you.

“I’m going to kill him” she tightened her grasp slightly, pulling away you shook your head “no, please I don’t want anyone knowing”

“Knowing how he treated you like shit”

“Knowing that I’m a fucking hypocrite clarisse!”You yelled, Clarisse kept quiet as this was the first time she’s heard you cuss. “Don’t you get it! How am I supposed to act if people find out that my entire relationship was toxic when im the one person most all people go to for love advice huh?! I’m a daughter of Aphrodite I’m supposed to be the person people admire! Imagine how embarrassing it’ll be to have people know I let my boyfriend hit me! And how the hell am I supposed to face anyone even my own father if they know im..” You choked on your tears leaning Into clarisse crying. She held you close not wanting to let go.

At this point you didn’t want to be anywhere else but in clarisses arms, where you didn’t feel forced or threatened you just simply felt loved.

——

You silently laid beside clarisse, just looking quietly into each-others eyes. Calmed down from your breakdown, You watched as she reached out fixing a piece of hair from your face. “..can I ask a question” she whispered. You nodded leaning some into her touch. “Are you.. are you gay”

After sone silence you nodded once again. “Yeah.. im not sure what I would be but.. I know for a fact I don’t like men” you admitted, a sense of anxiety washed over you. Clarisse continued to hold your face with an unreadable expression. “So a lesbian?”

You shrugged your shoulders. “I guess so, I don’t really know much about queer identities anyways..”

“If You don’t like men Why did you bother to date Logan?” Her tone was sweet but confused. You couldn’t help but smile at the well known angry girl was now holding you with such care it made you feel butterflys. “I’m ashamed to be like this.. I’m not supposed to be a lesbian but I… am”

Before you noticed it, clarisse had leaned in kissing you. It was a quick kiss with her pulling away after a second. She muttered an apology while trying to leave, you however grabbed her before you could think bringing clarisse into another kiss, however this time it was longer and loving.

Sitting on your knees with your he daughter of ares fit in an awkward position you still continued to kiss her. Everything from before left your mind, how disgusting it felt up even kiss your boyfriend or now ex boyfriend, all you could think was how much you loved this girl.

Pulling away you kept your face close to clafisse. “I don’t understand.. I thought you hated me”

“Hated you.. really?!” She pushed back fixing her pose to be more comfortable. “I’ve been flirting with you this entire time”

“You Call shoving me around and calling me names flirting?”

“Yeah I—.. Look i don’t know shit about flirting but i thought it clear i liked you”

“No clafisse not at all” You laughed before moving to sit on the girls lap to kiss her. “Whatever it still worked Didnt it! Your here in my bed kissing me”

You lightly hit her with a smile. “I hate you”

“No you don’t” she laughed back kissing your cheek before looking at you, almost like she was trying to prove how much she loved you through just her eyes alone.

———

The following morning you had learned that Logan was currently in the infirmary with a long list of injuries you couldn’t even Name and your new girlfriend clarisse who was now being punished by Chiron. Aswell as the Ares cabin having a new found protective stance on the Aphrodite cabin

——

#lesbian #wlw #clarisse la rue #clarisse pjo #clarisse x reader #percy jackson fanfiction #clarisse x female reader #butch clarisse #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse x you #clarisse larue #percy jackson show #pjo fandom #pjo show #percy jackson

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codename-adler · 2 months ago

Note

Would love to hear more of your thoughts about Renee, I saw you post some headcanons and there were some interesting ones regarding her that I’d LOVE to hear about. She’s my girl and I love her so much

here are my transcribed notes about my post-TKM Renison fic Baby Girl, Good Luck <3

***CW: all AFTG triggers apply

reminder that she was 10 at the time of her initiation/1st rape according to EC

while in the gang she joined, Natalie Shield was often forced into sexual work, either with fellow gang members, strangers, or enemies

Natalie completed the tasks as best as she could, and sometimes even foolishly enjoyed it, like in a sort of power trip, which she feels guilty about and ashamed of, given all the trauma it left her with and all the times it was painful, terrifying, scarring, dangerous, inhumane...

[Natalie didn't solicit in the streets, and wasn't part of a 'brothel,' nor did she have a designated pimp]

the sex work pushed Natalie further into a premature adulthood, along with the bloody jobs, the beatings, the fear, the threats, the punishments, the deaths, the drugs, the murders...

when Renee came into Stephanie Walker's care, and pursued high school, the first year was rough, in terms of Renee's coping mechanisms; while she did not self-harm or get into fights like Andrew did, she still used sex as a way to cope, assert her independence and agency over her own body, sort of, but in truth it harmed her further, even more so that in the early stages of her newfound faith, she shamed and blamed herself thinking God would hate her and so would Stephanie—but she couldn't stop herself, get rid of the itch

in HS, Renee dressed mostly like she does now with the Foxes, was very studious and mostly stayed out of trouble (due to fear of rejection + abandonment from both Stephanie and God)

however, Renee had not yet given up her knives nor her observational skills, leftovers of a past life, so she would always know when a fight was coming her way, and when someone had been captivated by her

she'd approach the person when she felt the itch, offer them point-blank a deal, calmly and with her known lack of ulterior motive and evil; she always demanded money in exchange for her 'services,' so people wouldn't go thinking feelings had anything to do with it (assert control, take before it's taken)

the money she got out of the sex, she at first kept in a 'sock of shame,' then tried giving it at church but felt dirty doing so, thus she gave it to charities

never the same person twice; mostly her school classmates, from the same year or older; sometimes strangers outside of school; thrice a teacher (2M, 1F)

she never let herself think about her potential sexual orientation or let it affect her methods; this will cause her yet another layer of trauma, and trouble with acceptance, feelings, etc.

Stephanie eventually found out about everything, because the janitor caught the last teacher with Renee and reports him to the principal; the janitor only saw the man kiss her (quite roughly), but Renee revealed all of it to the principal and Stephanie, emotionless and dissociated af; Renee personally would not have said anything, but when Stephanie told her that she was safe, that the man was in the wrong, a predator bound to do it again, if he hasn't done so in the past already, Renee confesses for other past and potential future girls (but not for herself)

Renee's written testimony, as Jane Doe because she is a minor, is enough to convict the teacher, send him for a (short) trip in jail, and pay the Walkers in the thousands (Renee demands all of it goes to charity; Stephanie only uses the bare minimum to move states and transfer Renee to a new HS)

so the Walkers move to a new town and Stephanie doubles down on trying to make Renee see a therapist, previously because of Renee's past and now more than ever after her statutory rape(s)

Stephanie considers holding back on the religious thing, not wanting to further harm Renee by pushing her into something she might not want, but Renee is actually hungry for it

Renee agrees to seeing a specialized psychiatrist and therapist, who mainly treat cases like hers, instead of just the school's therapist

said specialist is a man, which makes Renee distrustful from the get-go, she applies herself into superficially getting help from him, reciting what people told her during her teacher's court case, how it's not her fault, that it probably comes from her family issues and abuse, etc.

she never speaks to him about what actually happened in her home or her gang, nor does she ever mention the other adults who took advantage of her—though she doesn't see it that way yet—and her coping with sex; only Betsy and the new town's pastor will be able to get through to her and actually unpack her trauma, and make her feel comfortable and safe to talk

however, the psych specialist, Stephanie, the new school's principal and the PE teacher guide her towards Exy, her new outlet

Renee stops anything remotely related to sex, which does cause and abrupt/dry withdrawal; she plays Exy like her life depends on it, she reads the Bible, involves herself at her church, and continues training alone with knives

the rest is history, and now fast forward to mid-/post-TKM (*this fic was started pre-TSC announcement and everything that followed*)

Renee's old itch is triggered at PSU and she begins to rely on sex to cope again

she starts absenting herself from the girls' room often, spars more and more with Andrew, has trouble with her studies, and pulls away from Betsy

Stephanie knows most of Renee's life story and coping mechanisms (almost as much as Betsy), but she notices no change in Renee's behavior when she relapses, as she believes the worse is over and Renee is wholly healed

when she relapses, Renee is careful not to ask for her knives back from Andrew, as he would instantly know something is wrong, although not exactly what

she follows the same patterns at PSU as in HS, and the same tactics as in her gang; she demands money still to keep her partners' secrets, and because subconsciously the money aspect brings her back to her life in the gang

money means she did well; means others are happy with her; means safe from repercussions; means success; means closure; means a task completed; money means she has fulfilled a purpose and deserves to live

Renee suffers from a deep lack of and need for approval, usefulness, touch, praise, and acceptance; if I can help others, it's the closest I'll get to being helped myself

unlike Andrew, who strictly defines his sexuality and boundaries to cope with and pursue sex, Renee disregards everything and anything about herself to please her partner; almost nothing is off-limit

like before, Renee doesn't use any of the money; she keeps it in a sock in her court locker and plans to donate it

Renee inevitably gets caught in the act, by none other than Allison Reynolds

everything about the situation baffles Allison: Renee and sex, Renee being vulnerable, Renee with someone, like that, the place, the roughness of the act, etc.

Allison starts yelling at the guy Renee's with, causing a scene and making him flee while Renee kind of dissociates for a bit, empty stare and soiled mouth

nobody else is present, and nobody else knows or finds out, because Renee's privacy and safety are very important to Allison, and she respects Renee too much to betray her trust, even if that act of trust could possibly hurt Renee

Allison does push for them to have a private discussion, in Renee's room, about what she just witnessed, why, and how Renee is struggling and hurting

Renee is rather surprised that Allison saw through what was happening and immediately knew something was wrong, knew that Renee was being a danger to herself, and not simply having a relationship, intercourse, or wasn't being entirely coerced

Allison does indeed have an innate understanding of Renee's character despite all (Ally's personality, Renee's, how different they are, how close but not-that-close they are, etc.)

Allison does believe in Renee's goodness, what she preaches and projects, but a Fox is a Fox, and she doesn't believe in Renee's trouble being done and over, a thing of the past, that is completely healed

Allison doesn't know why or when she understood all that about Renee

after the discussion, the girls part ways, with Allison offering a verbal promise not to tell anyone

on her own, Allison tries to think of ways to help Renee; she is the only one, and has to remain the only one, who can do anything...

after multiple failed strategies, Allison decides to directly and physically involve herself

thus, "the Deal" is born

Allison now has to present her Deal to Renee, which involves a fuckton emotions Allison wasn't prepared for

"You claimed me from Andrew. Said I was yours to handle and protect. Now I protect you."

and so it becomes that Allison takes on a role much like Andrew, and Renee receives protection like Kevin and Neil, which is special and interesting because you would expect the opposite, or at least for Renee to be similar to Andrew in that type of dynamic

truth is, Renee is very much like Andrew in terms of her past and her being a protector at her core, but she shares a similar past with Neil as well, and masks superbly like he does, which could explain his discomfort/uneasiness towards her (and explains tolerance of her)

as for Allison, she shares Andrew's need for the truth, she despises lies, especially if they hurt those she cares for; she's very possessive—as in feels responsible and hurts when they hurt—of those she considers hers; she is all too familiar with self-harm and sexual assault

and that's all i have at the moment! i still have a Raven!Renee ask somewhere, and i might do more general Renee hcs in the future, but i hope this was 'fun' for you even if i went on a completely different tangent...

#ty YB <3 #baby girl good luck #bggl #my asks #aftg ask #renison #renee walker #allison reynolds #aftg #all for the game #the foxhole court #stephanie walker #my wips

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carmelves · 4 months ago

Text

snippets of fics I'll never finish: 4/?

Context: Ever managed to capture Sylus and rip the Aether core out of his eye. MC rescued him, and now they're imbarking on a blood-soaked revenge spree against everyone who wronged them. Just couple things ♥️ CW: violence, eye trauma

The scientist tries to run but you’re faster. In the blink of an eye you grab a handful of his hair and kick the back of his knee out, forcing him to the ground. He cries out, fingers scrabbling desperately at the leather of your glove, trying to tear your grip free, but you press the barrel of your gun to his temple and he freezes, trembling like a prey animal in a trap.

“I suggest you cooperate,” you say softly, and he gives the faintest of nods.

“I’ll cooperate,” he stutters. “Please, please, I’ll do whatever you want.”

The slow, deliberate clack of boots on the tiled floor behind you signals Sylus’s arrival. Redmond seems to realize this too and he wheezes, breaths coming fast and shallow. Sylus stops in front of the two of you, gazing down at the scientist dispassionately. He’s removed his eye patch, revealing the livid hole in his face, and with the blood splattered across his face and hair, the shadows swirling around him, he looks like something that had crawled up from hell. That’s probably why he’d taken it off, the dramatic bastard.

“Doctor Redmond,” he says, as if greeting someone at a social event. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. You have me at a disadvantage, seeing as I was unconscious and chained to a chair last time we met.”

“Mr. S-Sylus,” the scientist stuttered. “Listen. Just listen. Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you… money, protocores, weapons. Just say the word and I’ll make it yours.”

“Whatever I want…” He stares down at Redmond, a small smile on his lips, and pulls out a small knife, flipping it between his fingers with a casual grace. “You’re quick to bargain.”

The man nods eagerly, whimpering when you tighten your fingers in his hair to halt the motion. “Yes, yes, anything! Exclusive trade partnerships, first claim on any new technology, a spot on the board! I’ll get it for you!”

“A tempting offer. Unfortunately, you only have one thing I want. Well, maybe two.” He traces the tip of the knife around Redmond’s eye socket. “How does the saying go? An eye for an eye?” He leans closer, the tip of his knife pressing into the soft skin under his eye, not quite hard enough to draw blood. His voice drops to a low, deadly register. “Tell me where the Aether core you took from me is.”

“I don’t know.”

Sylus smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that.” His other hand shoots out, grabbing Redmond by the jaw. The knife flashes twice. A livid x blooms over his eye socket and he screams, writhing backwards to try to get away from the pain. The movement nearly knocks free your grip on him. You hook the arm with the gun around his throat, holding him steady in a headlock. Sylus shoves his fingers into the man’s eye socket and pulls, wrenching out the eyeball in a gush of blood. He regards the eyeball with mild curiosity then tosses it aside, wiping his hand on his pants. Redmond sobs, his entire body trembling in your grasp.

Sylus sets the tip of his knife just below the other eye. “I’m going to ask you again, and I highly suggest you rethink your answer. You only have one eye left, after all. I’d have to start on your fingers next. Where is the Aether Core?”

#lads #lads sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #sofinf #cw blood #cw eye trauma #vv writes

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weeeyotch · 1 month ago

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ღ i'm still on my bob reynolds bullshit ღ

. . . and i'm going to have more time to write soon.

after i finish up my current requests, i want to focus on writing a bob fic. i have two in the works but i can't decide on which to write first. the vibes are pr relationships with silly sexual exploits or evil!thunderbolts with archaic bloodbaths and no in between.

୨୧ Kiss Me, I'm Unstable

When Bob's identity as the Sentry gets leaked, the already-fragile reputation of the New Avengers is at risk. Naturally, the next step is to fabricate a "rehabilitation romance" between him and 'Knockout', a chaotic D-list street hero with a modest social media following and a strange past. Her job is simple: be hot, charm the press, babysit a god-tier superhuman, and not fall in love. But between fake red carpet kisses, awkward magazine shoots, and late-night stakeouts, things start to blur. As the chemistry turns real, so does the danger. Heroes are going missing. Dark secrets are revealed. And she starts to realize that she might be way in over her head.

cw: smut (18+ mdni), violence, gore, alcohol & drug use, traumatic pasts

୨୧ Hallowed Be the Blood

The Thunderbolts have taken over the world. They're corrupt, violent, and worshiped like gods. Their new decree? Annual gladiator games where the youth of New York fight to the death for a chance to join their ranks. When a seemly chemistry graduate student wins the match, her surprising strength and resolve are put to the ultimate test. Brutal training, forced starvation, and unyielding pressure—they'll either break her or turn her into one of their own. Watching her through it all is Bob Reynolds, the unpredictable and revered god that constantly teeters on the edge of sanity. He's drawn and devoted to her in ways he can't explain—and she plans to use it to burn their empire to the ground.

cw: smut (18+ mdni), violence, gore, alcohol & drug use, trauma themes, dark themes, emotional manipulation, physical and mental abuse

#marvel #bob reynolds smut #bob thunderbolts #bob reynolds angst #bob reynolds #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts #sentry smut #sentry #robert reynolds smut #robert reynolds #lewis pullman #the new avengers #new avengers #john walker #ava starr #yelena belova #bucky barnes #alexei shostakov

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wildflowerblurbs · 11 months ago

Text

A Light for the Knight of Shadows | Isaac Rhoades

Isaac Rhoades x GN! Mythic! Reader

CW: mentions of past trauma/mistreatment, reader feeling anxious, minor injuries

A/N: wrote this ages ago and recently found it in my drafts; please disregard any mistakes.

“I’ve been lying to you.”

Isaac freezes in his chair before quickly relaxing and placing the documents he’d been reading on the desk. He slowly turns towards you, motioning for you to come closer.

“You certainly know how to get my attention,” Isaac replies nervously. You could tell he was wary despite his playful words. “What have you been lying about, exactly?”

You fidget in front of him, not quite able to look at him while you contemplate just how you’d broach the subject of who you were—or rather what you were.

Thanks to the stupid rules of your kind, you couldn’t outright tell him what you were. Something about “ignorance being bliss” or however that human saying goes. It was a safety issue. Hunters can’t hunt what they don’t know.

Truthfully, if someone had told you that you’d be in this position six months ago—telling a human of your true identity—you would’ve laughed in their face and reported them to the elders for even suggesting a thing. Well, to be fair, you would’ve done anything to get in the elder’s good graces six months ago, but that’s not the point. Details don’t really matter. What matters is the forbiddenness of what you’re doing.

It’s a bad idea, really. Humans are fickle creatures and there’s no guarantee Isaac’s love will last. You’d waited until he finally opened up enough to begin a relationship with you, but—disregarding the fact that your kind isn’t even supposed to fall in love with humans—that doesn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things. He’s human. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

The guilt of keeping this from him was easier when he held you at arm’s length, when the possibility of him throwing you out was high. But things changed. He opened up, slowly but surely, and even revealed his biggest secret. A secret that killed his family and destroyed his innocence. A secret that wasn’t a secret to you.

When he showed you the video of the werewolf, you’d tried to respond in a way that didn’t alert him to your own extended knowledge on the topic, of a life that most humans don’t know about. You’d questioned the validity of the video, both because you weren’t sure if it was created by some human to create chaos and because, if it truly was real, you wanted to gauge his opinion on the matter. You wanted to know if he believed it was real.

Despite his suspicious nature, he did end up believing the validity of the video. Was it perhaps because he wanted to believe the thing that killed his parents wasn’t some sort of practical joke? Maybe, but that doesn’t really matter either.

He knew creatures like you were out there, which makes it easier to approach telling him the truth of your existence but also a lot harder at the same time. The shock won’t be from your existence, but rather that you kept it from him.

Moreover, when it comes to the logistics of your exact conversation, there are a few major issues.

There is no name for what you are. Names and identifying information are forbidden. Any utterance of information on your kind is immediately quelled before it leaves your mouth. Your throat closes up and you’re left a sputtering mess. Writing anything down is out of the question as well, your hands only producing incoherent scratches and marks if you tried. It’s a curse, you suppose—and an inconvenient one at that—but also an effective way to hide. And an effective way to lose the man you love if you don’t hurry up and say something already.

You must’ve been quiet for too long because Isaac had long since abandoned his chair and walked over to you when you heard his voice again.

“You… don’t need to force yourself to tell me if it’s difficult. I’m well aware that some secrets are best kept hidden. It’s my job to pry, but you’re not a case to be opened. You more than have the agency to tell me what you wish.”

At his words, you finally look up at him. His face is a mixture of concern and the same wariness as before.

“It doesn’t feel fair. You’ve told me things you’ve tried to keep hidden for years and yet here I am struggling to tell you something so important.”

At this, you feel Isaac’s hand gently lift your chin.

“Have you been spying on me this entire time?”

The shock must’ve been evident on you face at his question.

“No, of course not!”

“Were you sent by an enemy organization?”

“Isaac, you know that’s not the case.”

“You’re right. I do know that’s not the case.”

“Then why are you—?”

“I’ve long since accepted you for who you are, for everything you are. You don’t need to hide from me. Whatever it is you’ve been lying about, I know it was never to hurt me.” You could feel Isaac move closer, closing the gap between you two. “And even if you did try to hurt me, my heart is yours to hurt. Call it unhealthy, but I wasn’t lying when I said that you were now my motivation to live. Do whatever you need to soothe your aching heart. I’ll be here to bear it all.”

You weren’t sure which one of you moved first, but before you knew it his lips were on yours. It wasn’t like one of the kisses you’d share to greet each other or show affection, this kiss was full of something else. It conveyed the love he professed to you moments before, but it was also vulnerable. Isaac’s heartbeat was more honest about his feelings than he was. You could feel his heart pounding. He was anxious despite his comforting words.

After you pull away, you decide you’d let the suspense go on for far too long. His words had finally let you find your resolve.

“Follow me,” you ordered as you pulled Isaac outside of his office. While he normally would’ve teased you for sudden boldness, Isaac knew to keep quiet and let you lead, something you quite appreciated.

He didn’t question you as you lead him into your shared bedroom. Originally quite bare and minimalist, you’d added your own charm to the bookshelves and wooden furniture that furnished the room. Isaac welcomed your changes, even if he still pauses upon seeing your stuffed animals or displayed collection of fairy tale figurines. It’s not a bad pause by any means, but rather one of disbelief. His room had never been this lively before you. It now had evidence of your shared existence.

“Ok, I need you to bear with me. This isn’t something I can outright tell you,” you warn as you finally let go of his hand and shut the door.

He simply nods and waits for whatever you’re planning to do. It’s not until you start to take off your cardigan and shirt that he shows any kind of reaction besides his existing nervousness.

“What are you—?” Isaac starts but is immediately cut off by a large flash a light and sudden blast of wind that would’ve knocked him down if not for the door behind him.

Suddenly, the fact that you are shirtless in front of him is the last thing on his mind. He has bigger issues to discuss, namely the wings that were now sprouting out of your back.

He is speechless as he takes in your new form. Your wings are birdlike—white like a dove’s but don’t look nearly as soft. Rather, the feathers look sharp enough to cut him if he were to touch them, a risk he’s debating taking as he continues to look at you, enthralled by what he’s seeing.

You stand in silence for a few moments, waiting for him to finally say something. You look for any signs of fear or anger, but only see pure amusement.

“…An angel…,” he manages to breathe out.

You don’t even try to speak. Confirming or denying his claim is just as forbidden as outright telling him what you are yourself. Instead, you walk over to him, taking note of how he steps back—an impulse even he can’t shake—and immediately freezing in your spot.

You lower your wings, not wanting to intimidate him. They weren’t as big as the others of your kind—a reason why you were cast out—but they’d seem big to anyone who’d never seen them before. Hell, the wings themselves are intimidating.

At seeing your attempt to make yourself smaller, Isaac walks towards you.

It wasn’t just the wings that were different about you. Your skin was glowing, radiating a soft light that was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. Your eyes were sharper, not quite glowing but still brilliant enough to notice. It was like your entire being was made up of light. It was all so inhuman.

Despite this—or maybe because of it—Isaac doesn’t hesitate in gently placing his hands on your both sides of your face, caressing the soft skin.

“I’m not who I said I was, Isaac,” you say finally, almost too quiet to hear.

“Strange, I don’t ever recall you ever claiming to be human,” was his response.

You look up at him in disbelief. His tone was playful, but his eyes showed something different. You’d figured he was delirious from the shock, but he was quite serious.

“I don’t understand. You’re…ok with this? That I kept this from you?”

Isaac pauses for a second to think before be responds.

“After my grandfather showed me the video, I spent months trying to find as much information on the supernatural as possible. I didn’t follow any threads that would put on their radar, but not knowing anything about these creatures that I was suddenly now aware of was difficult. I needed to do something to ease the uncertainty I was facing.”

He had moved his hands from your face, opting to hold yours instead, squeezing them in comfort.

“The research I did was quite extensive and I managed to find quite a lot of information once I weeded out the websites and blogs that were obviously written by humans who had no idea what they were talking about. There were hundreds of entries, both by creatures writing about themselves and by those who hunt them.”

His face hardens.

“The hunting records were endless. Reports of entire clans being massacred, the best ways to torture every kind of creature you could think of, their strengths and weaknesses, the trafficking of supernatural creatures for purposes of protection or… other unsavory reasons. All of these records claiming that the supernatural are dangerous, yet only showing the cruelty towards them at the same time. I thought that the video of the werewolf being tortured was bad, but it was nothing compared to what I found afterwards.”

His expression becomes intense as he brings you close to him, minding the wings as best as he can.

“You know my stance when it comes to human nature. We are weak compared to the supernatural, but we aren’t innocent by any means. Humans are cruel and seek out any and all kinds of power for the sake of their own advancement... You were protecting yourself. I can’t blame you for that.”

You weren’t sure when it started, but his final words made you realize that you’d started crying. Once coming to this realization, you bury yourself further into his chest, feeling his arms hold you tighter to him as well, now letting your wings cut him as much as they want.

“You’re you. It doesn’t matter if you’re not human. Everything you’ve shown me in the time we’ve known each other has only proven that you’re better than any other human could be—even without having so-called ‘humanity.’ I love you. That hasn’t changed, nor would it have changed over something like this to begin with.”

You pull back slightly and he wipes the tears from your eyes as you finally speak up again.

“You really mean it? This doesn’t bother you?”

At this, Isaac looks offended that you’d even ask those questions.

“My feelings for you aren’t so fickle that they’d disappear over something like this,” he asserts with a tinge of a tease in his voice, hoping to lighten the mood. “It doesn’t matter what you are, you are mine—”

He pauses and lifts your chin once again.

“—and I am yours,” he finally finishes.

When he leans over to kiss you, you let him take over, trusting his words fully as he shows you his determination. Your mind is a blur of all kinds of emotions as you melt into his soft yet somehow still firm hold. When you finally pull away, you’re breathless from the sheer intensity of it all.

It’s also once you pull away that you realize you’ve been shirtless for the entirety of this conversation. Suddenly embarrassed, you shift back into your wingless form—much to Isaac’s disappointment—and rush to pick up the shirt you were wearing to put it back on.

As you quickly—and shyly—put on your shirt, you take notice of Isaac’s own appearance, or rather the cuts covering his arms where he’d made contact with your wings. Your eyes widen as you rush over, apologetic over having hurt him unintentionally.

Before you can say anything or apologize, Isaac cuts you off: “Don’t. I did this to myself. Besides, they’re more like scratches than anything. It’s nothing to worry about.”

He sighs as he sees your guilty expression. An expression he reasons is due to his injuries, but is rather something much deeper.

“…The first aid-kit is in the bathroom. You can patch me up if you’d like.”

You perk up at his offer, quickly rushing to the bathroom to grab the first-aid kit as he’d requested. It’s not hard to find by any means—meant to be easily accessible for emergencies—but you’re delayed by your own thoughts.

You should’ve been defeated by the fact that you couldn’t heal him in the same way others of your kind easily could’ve in your position. You should’ve wished to be as strong as them, to be worthy of calling yourself [redacted], but for once in your life you weren’t.

Here you were, living a life with a man who loves and accepts you for who you are. Even if it’s just the two of you, you finally have a home and family. You have a purpose, whether it be being Isaac’s life partner or a private investigator. You were actually glad to have been cast out, to have been abandoned and left to fend for yourself. All of the pain and suffering—

“Having trouble finding it? I’ll try looking for it downstairs. I may have left it down there.”

You smiled to yourself. Right, you had a job to do. This reflection can come later.

“Nope, it’s right here! I’ll be there in a bit!”

The day would come when you’d finally grow strong enough to protect the two of you, to tell Isaac of your upbringing and the reason why you were cast out—or at least as much as you were allowed to—but that would come in due time. Right now, you’d help in the way you knew how, and that was more than enough.

#isaac rhoades x reader #isaac rhoades #sakuverse #mythical reader #zsakuva

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that-basic-simp · 2 months ago

Text

Inked

Abby Anderson x Fem! Reader

CW: Mentions of self-harm

WC: 1.0k+

A/N: Kind of a continuation of Ride or Die.

It was odd that Abby always wore long sleeves no matter how hot it was outside. She could be sweating her ass off, but she had on sleeves with basketball shorts. I found it strange, but when I asked her, she brushed it off or evaded the question. I kept asking her and she kept getting more and more evasive. We have been dating for almost a year now and she still does it. There's nothing much I can do when it gets to the fall and winter seasons, because it's normal for people to wear long sleeves. What was she hiding from me?

If it were scars, she doesn't have to be ashamed of anything. No matter the story, there is nothing wrong with going through hell and showing you survived. It just shows that you're not going to go down without a fight, even though you suffered in silence. But after everything she has shown me, introduced me to her father, it sounds like she didn't struggle at all. But struggling is silent, depending on the person.

"Abby?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever it is you're hiding," I began.

"This again?"

"Yes, this again. Look, I don't want to talk long about it. But just know that whatever it is you're hiding, I don't care how it came about."

"What?"

"Usually when you hide your arms, you're trying to not reveal something."

"I'm just used to wearing long sleeves in summer."

"I get that, but still, you don't have to hide anything from me."

She nodded, "Got it."

What was I expecting? For her to reveal why she covers her arms? For her to trauma dump on me? Yes. I was expecting something, but for her to just brush it off again, it ticked me off. I just sighed and shook my head. She didn't seem to notice since she hasn't said anything about it since.

Now it wasn't like I was going to force her to show me or tell me. It was her business and her story. She will tell it to me in all due time. But it just made me more interested in the story. I just wish she told me and I didn't have to find out on accident.

"Abby," I opened the door to the bathroom after she finished a shower. Yes, we got to that part of the relationship.

"I need to talk to you about some--" I picked my head up to find she had just gotten out and her towel was around her body.

I was totally wrong about the reason why she hid her arms. I shouldn't have even jumped to that conclusion earlier. From her wrist and all the way to her shoulders, were full sleeve tattoos. On her right arm was a long Chinese dragon at the center. There were other items, such as flowers and fire around the dragon. On her left arm was a long vine like flora snaking up it. In between the leaves were various images as well. I think one was even a hammer. Or was it a knife? Or both? Whatever it was, both of the sleeve tattoos looked pretty badass. And knowing she drove a motorbike, it just made something inside my heart pound with excitement.

"I-I am so sorry," I said as I backed out of the bathroom.

"Y/N, wait."

"Get dressed first."

I closed the door and sat on the bed. The door opened up and she was wearing a short sleeve shirt with joggers. She sat down beside me and let out a heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry for not telling you earlier."

"I-I don't mind now that I know."

"I was just afraid you'd see me differently if you knew I have this many tattoos."

"Can I see your arm?"

She lifted up the one closest to me. I ran the pads of my fingers along her arm. I patted her bicep as I smiled up at her.

"Still the same arms that hold me tightly when giving me a hug. Still the same arms that wrap around my waist when you want to kiss me. You're still the same person, Abby."

"I-I know, but people think differently about people who have tattoos. Especially sleeves."

"Abby, you're a biker. I've seen many people who ride motorbikes who don't have tattoos. I've seen people with a full body of tattoos. Seeing you with them, while I was a little surprised at first, it just makes you who you are."

She smiled, "So you're not mad?"

"I'm mad you didn't tell me sooner!"

"Why?"

"In the summer time, when you ride, you have to show them off! Just imagine it, you with your helmet on--since no one can see you're a girl with your helmet on--and they just see this big, buff person stroll up. They have tattoos littering their arms and they're wearing nothing but a tank top and shorts. Tell me you don't think that's badass?"

She chuckled a bit, "Yeah, they are a bit badass."

"And that person is you. You're badass, Abby."

She kissed the side of my head, "Thank you."

"You better do that in the summer time."

"I will, just for you. But I just want you to know, you better help me put sunscreen on them."

"I will. Is that why you wear long sleeves in the summer?"'

"Yes. It helps reduce the amount of sun the tattoos see."

I nodded my head, "I wouldn't have minded doing that for you."

"I know, but I was just nervous about it."

"I told you, you don't need to hide anything from me. Well, you shouldn't feel scared about coming to me about anything. Your tattoos, they don't change who you are on the inside, Abby."

She leaned towards me and pressed a light kiss to my lips.

"Thank you, for loving me for who I am."

"Always, Abs," I said and pecked her lips. "Always. You know what this means, don't you?"

"No. What?"

"When we are being intimate, I get to kiss every inch of your arms."

A dark look appeared in her eyes as she turned and pinned me to the bed.

"You know I am a visual learner."

"I know."

"Give me a demonstration," she growled.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #tlou abby #abby x you #abby x reader #abby anderson

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whumpawaydarling · 1 month ago

Text

revelations

summary: essentially the aftermath of this prompt by @whumppromptoftheday - Calyx is a villain not by choice, but out of necessity/contract, and is completely oblivious to the fact that their best friend of 5 years is also their worst enemy of 5 years.

the sequel to countdown! (i tried to make it understandable without reading that, but it's helpful for knowing backstory, this one doesn't cover it more than flashbacks)

cw: living weapon whumpee, defiant whumpee, compliant/conditioned whumpee, fear (so much fear), self surgery, blood, recovery whump, kneeling, forced to kneel, nightmares, multiple caretakers, (temporary) referenced suicide, beatings, collars, whump reveal, trauma reveal, did i mention fear

---

Calyx stumbled to the house, dizzy and feverish. They clutched their side wound, thankfully more on the side of graze than full stab wound but still incredibly, world-shatteringly painful, and bleeding, just oozing but undeniably bad. Their hands were sticky with their own blood, and they were freezing from their clothes being incredibly unsuited to the weather, but they were free.

A particularly vengeful gust of wind blew in their face as they approached the door and they let out a cry, a whimper of pain and fell onto the steps in front of the door, knocking it with their head as they went down. They half fell in as the door opened, eyes closing with relief as they heard Tom's worried voice.

Immediately, he was crouched down to the ground, holding their face with his hands - so gentle, he was always so gentle.

"Shit, Cee - Cee? Cee, what happened? Fuck, get inside, should I call - that's so much blood."

They looked at him (well, tried to, because the black eye had bruised and swollen magnificently, and the slap K had given them before they left hadn't helped matters) with a weak smile despite the pain, and mumbled, "'S not that much, really. Just sort of… everywhere. Sorry. Didn't know where else to go."

He sounded incredulous as he said, "A hospital, Calyx? Here, come on, let me help you up. God, you're freezing."

Calyx cried out as their wounds and bruises bumped against the doorframe, leaning on Tom as he apologised and started leading them to the kitchen.

"N- no. It'll make a mess. Bathroom." Calyx pointed up, shaking like a puppy brought in from the rain, soaking up the warmth of Tom's home.

"Upstairs? Cee. You aren't thinking."

Calyx frowned, muddling through clouded thoughts. (Home, free, Tom, free, hurt? Alive, alive, alive.) "'M good."

"Fuck me, Calyx, you're - you can hardly walk."

Calyx unattached themselves from him, standing unaided for a moment before the black spots came back in their vision and they had to throw out a hand to the wall to catch themselves.

"I have - I have to sit down." They heard their voice come out slurred, then dropped to their knees and let their head loll to the side and eyes unfocus. Their arm twitched slightly, but the ringing in their ears dissipated and they winced as they saw a vague bloodstain on Tom's wall.

"Sorry for the mess."

"No. Don't - oh, you can't apologise for this. Right. Are you sure about the bathroom?"

"Yeah."

So they walked up, Calyx clutching the rail for dear life and Tom one step behind them, a hand on the small of their back. They cried out at every step, but finally reached the bathroom, and they threw a leg up and over the bathtub, landing face-down in a heap. They curled around their wound, faced away from Tom and let out a sigh of relief.

"Okay." They felt giddy with joy.

"Okay?"

"I'm going to sleep for a bit."

Panic filled his voice. "No, no, Calyx, stay with me, you -"

They huffed and flipped over, wincing at the pain in their side and lifting up their shirt, too focused on inspecting the damage to see the way Tom paled at the sight.

"What happened, Calyx?" His voice took on a new tone.

They couldn't look him in the eye. "Accident. I fell. You know me."

"Calyx. I'm not stupid."

"No, but you believe it every other time." It wasn't cruel, or sarcastic. There wouldn't be any other times, so this one time felt okay.

Tom fell silent, a queasy look washing over his face. Calyx felt bad, showing up like this, but it was true. They didn't know where else to go. So he'd find out that Calyx got up to slightly more dangerous activities than he had thought. They were exhausted, but more importantly, free. It didn't matter now. This would be the last of it.

They pulled their shirt half-off, silently asking Tom to help them get it over their head as a wave of dizziness washed over them and they had to stop. He complied, held it with a puzzled expression that made them smile, and then put it in the sink after a moment.

"I'm so tired."

"Yeah, I can tell."

Calyx closed their eyes, opening them again after Tom started his panicked pleas again. "Seriously. I'm going to sleep. I haven't slept for 36 hours and I can't patch this up till I do. Do you have pain meds?"

"36 - Calyx! And, yeah - yeah, one second."

He left, and Calyx wondered what this must look like to a civilian. Bad, probably. They'd have to establish ground rules about questions. He came back and they took the pain meds without water, swallowing them with a practiced ease.

"One thing, and I'm serious about this. Thomas. Listen to me."

He nodded, eyes wide.

"Do not call an ambulance. No hospital. Promise me. On our friendship, you have to promise."

"Calyx…"

Tears filled their eyes, unexpected but probably helpful to plead their case. "Please, Tom. I know this must be a lot. I'll be okay, but if I go to a hospital, they'll ask all these questions that I can't answer. People will find me."

"People?"

"I can't answer that."

Tom took a step back, wiping away tears and taking a deep breath. "Fuck. Fuck. Okay. Can I call anyone? Lex? Elene? What about Amber or Evan? Cee, you have to get checked over."

Calyx thought about it, waves of pain coursing through their body. They needed to sleep. "Lex. Tell zir to bring a suture kit. I'm so sick of magical healing, no offence to Elene. The other two are too official. Maybe later."

Tom nodded, and sat down, taking out his phone.

"Are you gonna stay here?"

"Yeah? You might die."

Calyx laughed, wincing at the cracked ribs, probably. It'd been a beating and a half today. They didn't know what'd gotten into Perseus today. Distantly, they wondered if K had got in touch to make sure they were out of commission at the end of things. Maybe even dead.

"Bastard didn't hold back, huh?" They muttered it to themselves, but Tom looked up, paling.

"What'd you say?"

"The person who - never mind."

"Oh." He sounded quiet, and a wave of sympathy washed over them. They really should've dealt with this alone.

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"This has nothing to do with you, okay? Not your fight. Don't get revenge into your head, I'll deal with it." They didn't plan on dealing with it, but they had to make sure Tom wouldn't go on a vigilante mission, because that was exactly the kind of loyalty-driven escapade he'd embark on.

"Oh. Okay."

— — —

Tom backed away once Calyx was sleeping, going downstairs to call Lex. It wasn't too late, considering they'd just got in from the fight barely two hours ago. Lex picked up on the second ring.

"Hey, Percy, what's up?"

Tom's eyes widened. "That's not my name, Alexander."

"I know, but Perseus suits you so much more than Tom. What were your parents thinking?"

"I'm with Calyx."

"Oh, shit. Sorry. Were you on speaker?"

"No. They're upstairs, actually, but - look. You have to come. They're in trouble."

Lex's voice was serious, suddenly business-like. "Fuck. Fuck, do you think Kitten got to them? I knew it was a health hazard, keeping them around. Are they really hurt? Should I bring anything?"

"Hey, listen. Don't bring anyone else, but they said a suture kit. And pain meds, if you have any lying around. I didn't want to give them my morphine but they've fallen asleep with two ibuprofen."

"Right. Coming. I'll be there in twenty." Tom was about to cut the phone off when Lex spoke again. "Scratch that. I'll be there in ten."

Tom's heart leapt at the concern, but he just managed to get out a thank you, then waited, head in his hands for Lex to show up.

After a minute of tense silence, he walked upstairs, checked Calyx was alive, then walked back down, looked outside the window, went back upstairs, checked they were breathing, and repeated.

They looked… awful. The black eye looked bad, and Tom remembered throwing the punch that put it there. Their hair was a mess, slightly damp and sweaty, strands of their bun flying askew. They were covered in bruises, and Tom couldn't believe that he'd done that. They winced in their sleep, bruises on their torso meaning cracked ribs, meaning pain when they so much as breathed.

Tom knew that pain, those sharp, piercing agonies, and felt an incredible surge of protectiveness and fondness for his best friend. Then he remembered that they'd been the reason he'd ever felt them in the first place, and it turned sour, till they whimpered in their sleep and any resentment fell flat like water thrown in the air.

They must have such a high pain tolerance to be sleeping through that. What had they been doing for all these years? God, they'd hate him if they ever found out. What would Lex say? What would all the rest of them say? How are they sleeping so peacefully? Where is home, for them? I swear the red cheek isn't mine. Fuck. How would I even know? How many of their scars are mine? How many of mine are theirs? Who healed them? All those times we sat together and talked about the fights when they came on the news, and all that time, I was Perseus, and they were Kitten, and we had no idea.

Ze was pretty accurate, but the eleven minutes that Tom was waiting dragged on for hours.

When Lex finally arrived, Tom had the door open before ze had even knocked.

"Hey."

"Hey. Where are they?" Tom stopped zir with a hand on zir's chest, heart thumping with adrenaline.

"Upstairs. Listen. Lex, you've got to… we have a situation."

"What is it? Ransom? Threat? I'm poised and fucking ready, just say the word. They won today, the bastard, why kick us when we're down? Attack a civ-"

Tom cut zir off, unable to think about anything else. "Calyx is Kitten."

The shout was loud enough to flinch at. "What?"

"They don't know I know."

"Oh, you did not just say what I think you said, or so help me I will - you want me to suture Kitten? Are you absolutely certain? Calyx? Why haven't you arrested them yet?"

A wave of anger rushed through Tom, and he saw red. "Hey, don't talk like that. Don't fucking talk like that. This is Calyx." Tom pointed upstairs, then put a finger to his mouth. "Sleeping, in my tub. With a stab wound I gave them."

Lex's eyes widened. "From the fight in which they won, today."

Tom winced, pulling zir inside and closing the door, but still blocking the way upstairs. Lex stared at him for a moment, then said "we have to tell them," at the same time Tom said "we can't tell them."

Lex scoffed. "What happened to Mr 'I don't give a shit if Kitten dies tomorrow?'"

Tom winced. Oh, fuck. Calyx had heard him say that recently. "He died when I found out that Kitten is my best fucking friend, what don't you get, Lex?"

"Kitten is a wanted criminal who you've spent five years fighting. You longer than any of us."

Realisation dawned on him. "I've been friends with Calyx five years."

"That's worse, right? You know that's worse."

"Look, if they knew, they could've killed me in my sleep years ago. They don't know, and right now, they're my best friend."

Lex opened zir mouth to speak, but Tom stopped zir with a glare. "We're wasting time and blood talking. I won't let you touch them. I won't let you fucking touch them, and if you so much as hint that we know, or that they'll be arrested or captured or trapped here, Gods above help me, because after that, they won't be the only wanted criminal in our group, okay? Are you going to help or not?"

Lex, to zir credit, seemed unfazed, though sweat had broken out on zir forehead. "Fine. Fine, I'll fucking suture."

Calyx's voice from upstairs made his blood run cold. If they'd heard any of that… "Hey, Tom? Something wrong?"

He yelled up, feeling his face go red. "Nothing! Lex is here, we're just sorting some stuff out. Be up in a minute!"

Lex pointed to zir throat, speaking barely above a whisper. "They can talk. Kitten never…"

"Never talked. I know. I don't fucking know. We can ask those questions later, I'm sort of -" He pressed his palms to his forehead, shaking his head. "I'm sort of losing my mind."

Lex replied dryly, "Yeah, I can tell."

Calyx was still in the tub, though they'd somehow shimmied out of their trousers so they were just in boxers and a binder, both of which were slightly bloody but not as bad as Tom expected. Scars all down their legs were on full display, and bruises, cuts, gashes coloured their skin as if it was a grotesque canvas. It looked like the main thing oozing was the side wound though, and a few smaller gashes here and there. They sat up slightly and smiled, and Tom saw Lex return it weakly before speaking.

"Calyx, hey. What happened?"

Their smile faded a little. "Oh, nothing."

Lex, no-nonsense as ever. "Looks like a lot of something."

"Accident. I fell."

"On a knife? Shit, Cee. That's the worst excuse I've ever heard in my life."

They closed their eyes, putting their hands over them. "Yeah, I know. It won't happen again."

Tom and Lex exchanged a look, and Lex probed further. "What does that mean?"

"The person who um, did this. I won't be meeting them again."

Tom, half-behind Lex, drew in a breath, and he was quiet when he spoke. "What does that mean?

"I mean, I was sort of… under contract. That make sense? Contract ended today, so I'm all good. Won't ever see the guys on the other side again."

Oh, shit.

Tom had about a hundred questions, but he breathed through the tension.

Lex seemed to do a similar thing, then held up the suture kit.

"That wound looks pretty rough."

Calyx laughed, then winced, clutching their stomach. "You could say that. Here, gimme."

"What?"

"I said what I said. I love you, Lexie, but I've been suturing longer than you have."

Lex paled, and Tom felt himself do the same. This was just getting worse and worse.

Lex spoke weakly, moving closer to sit by the tub. "Suturing… yourself?"

"Oh, yeah. Plenty of times. You got any anaesthetic? I've done without, but this one's pretty big. I'd rather not."

Lex made a pained sound. "Yeah, and some morphine."

Calyx raised an eyebrow, and Lex coughed. "Just what was left over from when Tom broke his leg. Remember?"

Tom had not broken his leg. Tom had been in his car after a successful mission when a grenade came flying into it, and he managed to get out just before the blast, but the front of his car had landed on his leg, meaning he was out of action for a good while, enduring magical and physical healing and all associated side effects. That'd been Kitten's work - Calyx's work. Tom felt slightly sick, and had to sit down on the toilet seat, trying to remember what he was supposed to say. What would civilian Tom say?

In the end, he didn't have to say anything. Calyx took the lie, because of course, to them it wasn't a lie, that was just what they'd said while Tom was in a high-security hospital ward. They asked to come, but Tom couldn't let them.

He looked at them, taking the suture kit and straightening up so they had a better angle, and wondered if they'd ever had doubts about him.

Lex was pleading to be able to help. Typical.

"I just don't feel right-"

"No, look. Okay. You can assist. Hold the torch. I will do this, Lex, okay?" They shushed zir, and Tom watched in morbid fascination as they worked.

They were methodical, cleaning the wound with just a grunt of pain, but when the time to suture came, they grabbed a bar of soap and bit down, hard. Tom made a noise of surprise that was only met with a raised eyebrow from Calyx, who injected the anaesthetic and then started stitching, slowly but surely closing their wound. The wound he'd given them. He couldn't believe it, kept staring at the scene as if it wasn't actually real.

Tom watched as sweat plastered their hair to their forehead, offered a towel which they leaned into and let him clean them up. He pushed away stray strands of hair, promising that he'd help retie their bun if they wanted to, later. It was ridiculously, painfully intimate, and Tom felt horrendously guilty.

Lex insisted on helping them tie the bandages, and they leaned back, wincing more when Lex touched them than when they did. Tom knew the feeling.

They grimaced as they got rid of the soap, apologising again. "Sorry. There's usually a block or something but everything's metal here and I really didn't want to scream. Or bite my arm. That doesn't work great. I'll get you another." Tom must've looked blank, because they added, "Another bar of soap."

Tom spoke quietly, barely present. "Right. All good."

Calyx lay back down, sticking out their tongue with an expression of distaste. Lex made a pained noise, said, "What the fuck, man."

They laughed, but it morphed into a scream as they clutched their side, breathing heavily. "Okay, okay. Fuck. Morphine. Please." They threw their head back, smiling. "Oh, I can't believe you guys have morphine. Thanks for breaking your leg, Tom."

He wanted to scream. You broke my leg, Calyx. You threw a fucking grenade in my fucking car. You tried to kill me, and so did I, so many times, and I don't know what to do with that.

Lex gave the morphine, and Calyx sighed in relief. "I'm going to sleep again now."

"Do you want, like, a blanket?"

Calyx stared at him, then leaned up and grabbed their shirt from the sink, wincing as they did. "I'm a bit disgusting right now. I'll cope. Slept in worse places."

Tom didn't know how to reply, didn't know if there was a reply possible to that. Calyx covered themselves with the shirt and closed their eyes, and shockingly, was asleep again in a few minutes.

Tom didn't say a word till he was downstairs, in the farthest room from the bathroom, with the doors closed.

"That was insane."

Lex sighed, then whistled. "Yeah. Shit. That is Kitten. No civilian would be that avoidant. A contract? A fucking contract?"

Tom nodded, putting his head in his hands. "I- I don't even know what to say. I shouldn't have told you."

Lex sputtered, sitting down beside Tom. "Shouldn't - you think I'm easygoing enough to accept ‘I fell?’ Tom, I'm hurt."

"Sorry." It came out bitter.

"We have to hold a meeting."

Something in Lex's tone made Tom panic, a wave of protectiveness building up inside him. "No. No, we won't. And do what?"

"Tom, you aren't thinking. We have to arrest them. They're incapacitated in your bathtub, weaponless. All we have to do is lock the door. Like- "

Tom didn't let zir finish, holding a blade to zir throat. Lex didn't flinch, hardly even adjusted zir breathing as Tom hissed, "you will not. You will not arrest Calyx. I swear I will never speak to you again."

"We basically have cold, hard evidence that they're a wanted criminal, and you of all people are letting emotion cloud your judgement." Lex's eyes flicked down at the blade, and Tom pushed it deeper for just a moment till he retracted.

"No."

"Tom."

"No. Please." It was out before he could think about it. "Please. Just give me time, Lex. I need time. I will tell them, and the rest of us, just… not now. Not today." Tears welled up in his eyes, imagining the look on Calyx's face if police walked in to arrest them. "They said they were done. I believe them. Give us two weeks, okay? Please?"

By some miracle, Lex softened.

"Only because I value our friendship, Percy. You're fucking crazy, you know that?"

Tom laughed, dizzy with relief. "Yeah. I know."

"Promise me this."

"What?"

"If Kitten comes at you with one of those cursed swords or something, you have to duck. You have to fight like it's Kitten, because if you fight like it's Calyx, we lose you, and I'm sorry, but -"

"Don't say it. Please don't fucking say it."

Lex let out a deep sigh. "Percy, where's your loyalty? Us or them?"

Tom didn't think about it. Their small smile in that library all those years ago, that uncertain yes that changed the trajectory of his life. Out of all of them, Calyx was his oldest friend. "Them."

"Fuck me. Fuck. Tom, you - I'm gonna be sick." Lex leaned forward and put zir head in zir hands.

Tom felt about the same, but his thoughts were with Calyx covered in blood and bruises and injuries, kneeling at his feet, collapsed on his doorstep, completely at his mercy. If Calyx knew who he was, there was no way that would have happened.

"Alright. I'd have thought Ember would pull some shit like this, but no. It has to be you. God fucking dammit, Tom, you and your fucking loyalties."

He laughed weakly, suddenly exhausted. After making Lex swear that ze wouldn't tell anyone, Tom let zir go, and trudged back upstairs to Calyx, who was frowning in their sleep.

They were mumbling something and turning around, and Tom got closer to listen, and to try and stop them aggravating their wound.

"Fuck off! You promised… No. No! Leave him -" Then Calyx woke up with a wordless yell, heaving for breath and rubbing their eyes, blinking rapidly against the light.

"Woah, hey, hey. You okay?" Tom leaned over the tub to hug them, noting how they still seemed lost, but let themselves be hugged. It lasted longer than Tom expected, Calyx putting their hands up and holding him tightly, and Tom didn't want to move away. Eventually, they sagged against him, letting go and sitting back, eyes still wide.

"Oh. That was a bad one."

"What was it about?"

Calyx's face darkened, and they looked away. "Bad things. Bad people."

Then they sighed, and moved their neck, wincing again. "Tub sleeping was not my brightest idea."

"Do you want me to help you get out?"

"I need a shower first." They looked down, frowning at their bandages. "Would you help?" When Tom didn't answer, they spoke again, quickly. "Its okay, obviously, you don't have to, I can manage, I just… everything sort of hurts."

Tom smiled. "Yeah, I can imagine. I'll help."

He helped Calyx get the binder off, though they ‘showered’ in their boxers, mostly just rinsing all over everything else. The water turned brown and red and neither of them talked about it. When Calyx tried to get up, they fell, yelling in surprise as their legs gave out. Tom caught them, arms around their chest, but the downwards momentum sent them both sliding down, so they ended up in another half-hug, and Calyx laughed softly against his chest.

"Wow. No one's ever caught me before."

Tom felt stunned, close enough to feel their heartbeat under his fingers. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah. Freedom is so awesome."

"Freedom?"

They grinned, eyes wild. "Yeah."

He got out a new set of pyjamas ("you can keep ‘em"), his softest towel ("don't worry about getting blood on it, I'll wash it for you"), and an old binder Calyx refused to wear.

"My ribs hurt way too much for that."

"Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Compression?"

"Yeah, but it hurts like a bitch. I'll do good healing practices in the morning. Right now, I need copious amounts of alcohol."

Tom shot them a look. "I thought you don't drink."

"I don't. I'm also free, so we're changing a lot of things today."

They kept saying that - 'free'. Tom's mind kept stuttering at the word. What on earth could that mean?

"I don't actually think I want to drink. I'm starving though. Got leftovers from yesterday?"

Right. Yesterday. They'd shared Chinese. Calyx stole Tom's noodles and Tom read Calyx's fortune cookie. I am resilient, and Calyx had laughed, bright and clear. They had been doing a lot of that, far more than usual. Tom didn't realise how much Calyx didn't laugh till they started doing it. He loved their laugh. It seemed like a lifetime away.

"Yeah, some. I'll order more, if you want."

Calyx thought about it. "Mm, no. Don't. Actually… no. Thank you though."

Tom made a little bow, getting flashbacks to all the times he'd done that as Perseus, to Kitten when he'd won, to the crowds when they'd been spotted leaving a scene, to Calyx when he won at bowling. He straightened up quickly, blushing. Calyx didn't seem to notice, already halfway down the stairs and making a beeline for the fridge.

They found the Chinese. Tom didn't end up ordering more, because Calyx decided that they were really tired again, and wanted to sleep on the couch, even though Tom insisted he didn't mind sharing a bed. It wasn't like they hadn't done it before.

"I don't want to wake you. Plus, I'm so comfortable right now. If you try to move me, I will scream."

Tom laughed and raised his hands in surrender, then put them down again when he remembered the times he'd done that for Kitten. On his knees for Kitten, their gun to his head, their knife to his throat, their sword at his chest. The memories adjusted themselves, and Tom stuttered through the difference in how it made him feel. Where anger, boiling, white-hot, rage had once sat, Tom suddenly felt… small. Scared. Not betrayed, because he had also betrayed them, surely?

Calyx looked up at him from the couch, blanket tucked up to their chin, an expression of absolute contentment on their face.

"I'm so happy."

"I'm glad, Cee. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Tom."

— — —

Three fucking nightmares. Three nightmares before Calyx gave up on sleep, annoyed and still shaken.

The first two had been normal. Like, they failed another fucking mission. K was mad. Calyx had actually figured out how to jerk themselves awake, out of those dreams, most of the time. More than once, they'd tried to do it in real life, groaning when she didn't go away. They weren't even scary, really, is what they told themselves as they calmed their racing heart and ached at the phantom pains from whatever she'd done. Except, of course, today, they actually ached too.

Anyway. Those first two? Fine. Calyx could survive only seeing her smug fucking face in dreams. The last one was the reason they currently sat up on the coach, sweating, with a horrible sense of dread.

Remember where you are, Cee. You're being too blasé. Their own voice. Protective, scared. They listened to their only real protector. Calyx had done a lot of protecting themselves, against their parents, against K, against Perseus and the cluster.

They'd been sleeping, in the dream, on Tom's couch in Tom's blanket in Tom's wonderfully comfortable pyjamas, when they'd heard sirens. They didn't think anything of it, though their heart raced as they did every time they heard sirens nowadays.

Then they got closer, closer, and then there was a helicopter too, and suddenly, the house was engulfed in light.

"Come out with your hands in the air, or we'll enter by force!"

Calyx froze. Their blood ran cold. Really? Really? Today? Their first day as a civilian, and they'd been rumbled?

They didn't go out. They grabbed a knife from the counter, though outside the dream, Calyx frowned. They wouldn't do that. Why were they doing that?

They weren't quick enough to do whatever it is they wanted to do, because Tom came downstairs, bleary eyed and half-asleep.

"Cee - what?"

"We have you surrounded."

Calyx looked at him, looked at the door, and had a split second to watch his face contort into a smile, for him to step away as armoured soldiers burst in to surround them in Tom's pyjamas.

They didn't care about the soldiers. Their heart stuttered and their body surged with humiliation as they were swiftly disarmed of the knife (not that they were planning on using it anyway), kicked in the back of the knee and forced to kneel, hands cuffed behind their back and gag poised to cut off their speech.

"Wait!" They'd never heard Kitten speak. Never heard them plead for their life. It had happened, of course, in Calyx's mind, all-consuming fear that reduced them to begging in their own mind, knowing full well that they physically could not say a word. So they stilled, the soldiers, and mercifully let a teary-eyed Calyx speak.

"I just - Tom? Tom, you… did you do this?"

"How could you, Calyx? Betray me for five years? Make me think you were a civilian, a friend-"

"I am your frien-"

Their plea was cut off by his hand in their hair, wrenching their head up and pulling out a distressed yell. Their best friend was doing this, and the worst part? Calyx agreed with him.

"Everyone saw the fight. Everyone saw Perseus stab you, and you have the gall to show up at my door? You're nothing," he spat. "I hope you rot."

Then Calyx woke up, disoriented and terrified and in so much pain from falling off the couch and hitting the table in their panic, their wound sending black spots into their vision.

They listened for sirens. They listened for helicopters.

They only heard the sound of their breathing, their beating heart, and you're nothing, you're nothing, you're nothing, over and over again, till dawn came and their muscles relaxed. Barely, but with light came a release of tension, an end to torment. Usually.

Calyx wanted to wait for Tom to wake up, but the potential that he could look at them like that scared them more than they had words to say. So they left, penning a note that said, Had to run. Call me if you want. Thanks for everything, seriously. <3, C.

Tom called them an hour later, sounding worried.

"Where are you?"

"At the park."

"Did you change?"

Calyx reddened, looked down at their pyjamas. It was essentially a t-shirt and trousers set, but it was still pyjamas. "Yes," they lied. Then they sighed. "No. I got - I had to get out."

Tom's voice sounded tight. "Will you come back home?"

"Yeah. Just… give me a minute. Well, a bit longer than a minute. It took a while to walk here."

"No, it's fine. I'll come get you. Our park?"

Calyx smiled. "Yeah. Our bench, obviously."

They heard Tom laugh, and watched ducks swim across a pond. Listened to birds sing, closed their eyes to soak in the joy of trees rustling. They had been worried that freedom wouldn't feel any different, that they would feel just as paranoid, nervous, stressed, but they didn't. They really felt free. It was intoxicating. They held up the phone to the air, asking, "Can you hear it?"

Tom was quiet. "Yeah, I think so."

"God, it sounds so beautiful."

"You do sound happy. Were you not happy all this time, Cee?"

Calyx sighed. Thought of - panic, stress, pain. Fear, anguish, bruised limbs and egos. Restraints and beatings and punishments. "I'm okay now. That's what matters."

"I don't know if I agree."

Calyx hummed, and didn't have anything more to say. "I love you."

"I love you."

They cut the phone off and waited. They kicked off their shoes, sank their feet into the dewy grass and sighed, drinking in the morning air. They were free. It was over. They'd never have to face K, or Perseus, or Aceso or Sentinel, or any of them ever again. Silent tears fell down their face, and they let them come.

— — —

Tom was strategic with who he told about Calyx. He knew he had to, but it still scared him. It still hurt, being the one to betray their friend over and over again.

It was Ember first. Their brown eyes widened, their voice soft as usual. "You want to protect them."

"Yes."

They sighed, and nodded, putting a hand out to Tom's head, and he leaned in to let them use their true power, not the energy blasts they used in fights. They didn't do it often, because it sapped just as much energy to feel another's emotions, to understand truths, but Tom had been banking on them doing it now. They did, and Tom felt the full force of his conflict in a single moment, compressed and packaged into a singular point. They both wobbled, and when Ember looked up, their eyes filled with tears.

"Okay. I understand. Oh, Tom. You love them a lot."

Tom's voice was thick with unshed tears. "Yeah. God, I do."

"I'll help. It seems like we never knew the whole story. I'd like to find out."

They had guessed that Kitten had some sort of team or base, because they would be yanked away sometimes, vanishing into thin air, disappearing around corners when they were bleeding and broken, but there had never been any actual proof. Calyx's mutterings seemed to be that, now. Suddenly, there seemed to be a worse possibility than Kitten being immensely lonely for five years - not that Tom had cared, but Ember had mentioned it once.

The news was on. Lex wasn't in the room, because ze hated seeing zirself on the news. Tom loved it, most of the time. Today, a shot of Kitten making a theatrical bow and blowing the cluster a kiss before zipping away had made him so angry that he had to switch it off. Calyx was reading a book, and had looked up with a vaguely interested expression.

"I hate them," he'd said, incandescent with rage. "I hate them so much. I can't believe they can just get away with this!"

Ember had chimed in. "They're always alone. I wonder if they're lonely."

Calyx had snapped their head to look at Ember, expression unreadable.

Tom exploded, furious. "I don't give a fuck if they're lonely! You know what, Perseus or Knight or - any of them, could fucking kill them tomorrow, and the world would be a better place for it."

Calyx hummed, returning to their book. They got up after a while, and Tom watched them leave, thinking nothing of it. Calyx had never been particularly interested in the happenings of heroes. They'd all thought it was just general disinterest. It didn't affect them, the things Kitten did being grand theft or assassinations, so they didn't have to care.

Tom thought about what he'd said. Thought about his best friend, bleeding in his bathtub, and felt awfully, incredibly guilty.

The next to find out was Amy. They didn't seem fazed, which threw Tom more than he could say. All they did was shrug, and nod.

"I let them go once. As Kitten. Just had a feeling."

"You had a feeling? You didn't say anything?"

Amy put their hands up in surrender. "Listen, I didn't know. I had a feeling. Those two are very different. You are sure about this?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty positive. It all makes sense now."

"I could ask them?"

Tom's eyes widened in panic. Amy could truth-seek, if they wanted to. It wasn't ambient, because they appreciated secrets, but they could force truth out of a directly asked question. "No. No, don't do that. I'm not ready yet."

Amy raised an eyebrow. "You aren't ready yet?"

"No. Don't mention it at all. Don't let on that you know."

"Tom, I've been doing that for months."

"I thought you said you didn't know!"

"Hm. So I did."

Tom groaned, pressing his palms to his eyes, and listened to Amy laugh with Calyx for a good while, feeling wholly inadequate. How did Amy figure it out, and he'd had no idea?

It was getting harder now, the more volatile members of the cluster left. Elene, he was pretty sure, would want to at least hear Calyx out. Ada had a violent streak, but could probably be persuaded by her sister, not because she particularly placed a lot of weight on what Elene said, but because Tom had a feeling that Calyx's particular past would strike a chord with Elene, who could then strike the same chord with Ada.

Then… Clem. They were fiercely loyal. They had already offered their services to Calyx. It had happened years ago, within months of meeting them. The whole group, bar Ember and Amy had been there for it, so they all saw how flushed Calyx got when Clem pledged their loyalty. It was adorable in the moment, but now Tom reconsidered it. Kitten worked alone, or so they thought. Having a friend pledge themselves would have been strange.

Clem was being brought along with Elene because it was no secret that they listened to Elene first, in any group decision. It seemed unconscious, the way they'd fallen into step with each other, and they loved each other so intensely. Whatever Elene did, Clem would follow. Tom was… pretty confident. Still, it was nerve-wracking, and Tom had gone over to theirs instead of bringing them to his, just to put a little distance between them.

He swallowed, sitting down on their couch, thinking of Calyx asleep and injured in his bed. Clem and Elene sat together, and Ada stood a little to the side.

"Right. So, you know that Calyx got hurt recently."

"Yeah, and you've been a bitch about letting us see them." Ada sounded genuinely angry, and Tom recalibrated his prediction for her reaction.

His throat was dry. "It's, um. Complicated. I -" There was no other way to go about it than to say it, so he swallowed, and braced for impact. "Thing is, Calyx is Kitten. Was. I-"

Elene sat up straighter, eyes wide. "Wait. What?"

Clem's eyes narrowed. "Are you serious? Tom, don't joke about that."

"I'm not joking. They showed up with the same injuries I gave Kitten on the last day we fought them, and they haven't given a single decent explanation. If they had something watertight, maybe I wouldn't have thought of it, but they're being so cryptic and strange, and they keep having nightmares and talking about being free, and - I've seen more of their scars in the past couple of weeks than I ever have before, and I'm… convinced. It's - they're all mine. Most of them. God."

He put his head in his hands, waiting for the fallout.

"Well, that makes sense."

"What?"

It was Ada, sitting down on the floor by the couch, leaning her head back onto it to stare at the ceiling. "It makes sense. They've never cared about the heroes. They never defended Kitten, but…"

Clem spoke, voice surprisingly calm. "They never hated them either."

Tom had to intercede. "Listen, I don't think they did it out of their own volition."

Elene sounded angry, though not at him. "Of course not. I knew that."

"You - what? Why did everyone know-"

Ada sat up, staring at him, panic in her voice. "Wait, who knew?"

"Not… she didn't know, but Amy said they had a feeling."

"Oh. That doesn't count, Tom, you know that. Amy's Amy."

Tom felt winded, letting out a huge sigh. This was going way better than he'd thought. "You're all taking this really well."

"Look, we all knew something was up with Calyx. If they were being forced to do all that, I think they deserve forgiveness. A little grace, from us especially."

Ada nudged her sister. "Watching and learning, hm?"

Elene choked, but nodded, slightly red. She muttered, "something like that."

Tom turned to Clem. "What do you think?"

"I'd like to hear them out. If what you and Elene suspect is true, then there is a different enemy entirely that we should be focusing on."

Elene hissed. "That collar that wouldn't come off. Okay. I have questions. Are you sure they're safe?"

"Y- yeah. I- they're at mine."

Clem narrowed their eyes, and Tom didn't enjoy the implication that his home wasn't safe, but panic settled in his gut anyway.

"We can go see them now? Don't - don't tell them we know. I don't want to stress them out while they're healing."

— — —

Calyx was sleeping when they heard it, footsteps on the stairs. They squinted, listening through the silence. Sounded like… Lex? Why was Lex here? Two weeks into their recovery, everyone had come to hang out for a while, except Lex.

Ze cracked open the door, and Calyx waved, gesturing for zir to come inside.

"Hey, you're up."

"Light sleeper. Good to see you, Lexie." Calyx was the only person who called zir that, and it usually made zir smile, but today, ze frowned.

"It's been a while. Sorry. How are you holding up?"

"Oh, I'm okay. Been better." Calyx laughed, winced. Their ribs still hurt, but it was getting better. They were alive.

Lex sighed, pressing zir palms together and looking away from Calyx. This felt bad, suddenly.

"Is something wrong?" Calyx, out of instinct, stared at the door. Lex sat between them and it, and their side wound would protest if they moved too quickly. Panic started rising when Lex didn't answer. "Hey, if -"

"What's up with you, Ambrosia?" Okay. Formalities. Shit. Their nightmares began to take shape, and they gulped to push them down.

"I - I don't know? I'm good, I think." They grinned, though it had none of their usual charm behind it. "I'm free."

Wrong thing to say. Wrong thing to fucking say. "See, look. I don't understand you. What does that mean? Calyx, you can't just show up with a stab wound, refuse medical treatment, do your own stitches, fucking perfectly, and keep talking about freedom and not expect people to ask questions."

Calyx paled, stammering. "I'm - I. I - I told you, I was in a bad spot. In a bad crowd. I'm done now, I'm out. I'm done." They had their hands to their chest, over their heart, instinctively making themselves smaller, unsure what to do with this new Lex.

"Look, I - I don't know why you aren't saying anything of substance. It's weird, Calyx. You're being really weird, and I don't know what to do about that. Give me an explanation, a better lie, even. You're my friend. I want to believe you, but I just… don't."

This felt bad. This felt really bad. Did Lex know? Their mouth was dry. "I don't have a better explanation. I'm s- sorry. Do you - "

They didn't get to finish their sentence, because Tom opened the front door and yelled upstairs. "Hey, Lex, what's your car doing here?"

Calyx felt a wave of relief wash through them, but they tried to hide it from Lex. Ze stood up, looking conflicted.

"Get well soon."

Their voice came out quiet, more timid than they expected. "Thank you. Sorry."

Ze nodded sharply, then opened the bedroom door as Tom did. They stared at each other for a moment, and Calyx had the sudden, lurching feeling that they were on the outside of something, some feud between the two of them.

Neither of them said a word, but Tom looked over at Calyx, and they gave a weak smile in greeting. "Hey."

Lex didn't look back. Tom clambered onto the bed, holding their hands in his, leaning his forehead against theirs.

"You're scared."

They were. Their heart thumped wildly, their breathing was erratic. Tom had his finger on their pulse, and they leaned into him.

"Um. A little. Not sure why." A small laugh came out, but it was relief more than anything. What if Tom hadn't come at that moment?

"Okay. That's okay. Memories?"

"Something like that."

— — —

Recovery was long and hard, because they refused magical healing. Calyx wanted this scar, wanted proof that Perseus had hurt them, didn't want the anger to dissipate. They wouldn't do anything to him now, well and truly a civilian, but they pressed it sometimes to remember the pain.

He really had been a nuisance. The first time they failed a mission because of him, they remembered just an incredible amount of confusion.

K's voice in their head mirrored their own - who the fuck is that, what on earth is he doing? He didn't have a proper suit all that time ago, and Calyx scoffed at it, looking down at their own suit. They hated it, but it was better than his. Then they failed, and K was angry.

They had to leave the scene quickly, before the police arrived, and it was the first time they couldn't follow through with an order, and a mental shield built itself up in their mind as they prepared to get yelled at.

Oh, if only they knew. They wouldn't have bothered. It didn't make any kind of difference.

K grabbed them by the shirt, but at least she dismissed the suit. Only she could, and they could talk when they were out of it. Not that it would be a smart thing to talk when she was in this mood.

She punched the side of their face, and they went limp so they didn't hurt their neck too much.

She hissed in their ear, sending shivers down their spine. The mental shield was already dissolving as they re-predicted how bad this would be. "Calyx. What are your orders?"

"Follow through with whatever the mission is?"

She smiled, all teeth, and threw them to the ground, knees knocking against hard stone. "And did you do that?"

They grit their teeth. "No, Master. Failed." Failed, failed, failed.

"Right. Do you think I made the deal I made for you to fucking fail?"

"No, Master." Calyx didn't know if submissiveness would help, but it seemed to spill out of them anyway. "Sorry."

A hand in their hair, wrenching their head up. "You'd better be fucking sorry."

Perseus's voice, masked somehow. They couldn't place anything about it. Anger filled their chest. They were being punished for his mess. He put them here. They were good, and they were going to win, and then he fucking showed up.

"I'll get - Perseus."

"You will not. Unless I give that order. Strip. Face the wall."

Right. They obeyed, and the beating they got that day left bruises for weeks. So it was no wonder they hated the fucker. Five years of that. It never got any better.

Calyx breathed through their anger. Remembered that they were out of that. Pressed on their wound, on their healing stitches. Eventually, it would heal, and fade, and so would their anger, but they wanted to hold onto it for just a little while longer.

They weren't used to having so much unstructured time, and it wasn't long before they started job hunting. Ada helped them look, and Elene pointed them in the direction of nice bookstores and cafes she knew. Amy was no help at all, more like an active nuisance, but Calyx much preferred their incessant voice than K's. Tom hovered over them like a moth to flame, never going far. He worked from home, always had since leaving university, so Calyx saw him constantly. It was nice, but strangely suffocating.

Their first day had been all Tom had allowed in terms of unhealthy healing practices, and eventually, he insisted enough that Calyx conceded that Evan be allowed to check them over. Calyx preened with pride when he praised the stitches, grinned when he paled as they explained how they'd done them themselves.

They ripped said stitches once, desperate to get out and breathe some fresh air. They doubled over in pain, unused to it after so much softness and relief. It was stunning, the speed at which their tolerance had diminished. They almost felt like stabbing themselves again just to get it back, but Tom would probably cry, so they didn't.

After a month, they were (in their mind) sufficiently healed enough to move out of Tom's bedroom. He wanted them to stay, but Calyx wanted their own apartment. They messaged the group, anyone want to come apartment hunting with me? The only person who didn't show up was Lex. Calyx didn't mind. Ze was busy with their last year of medical school.

Calyx had noticed a difference in the group. They were a little family, though they never admitted that to them. They never admitted that they felt part of it, even now, five years in, with their status as Tom's best friend firmly cemented. The group had built up around them, but they still felt… separate. Disconnected, somehow.

They had always chalked it up to their secret, but now they didn't have a secret, not really, and it still felt strange. Like they had reason to be paranoid around the people who helped them pick an apartment, who took them IKEA shopping, who put good words in and got them a job.

Maybe they'd shifted too quickly. The pivot from trapped Calyx to free Calyx had been hard. They thought about it one night, locked in their bedroom as usual. Their own little nook. Their own. They paid for it with the money from things they'd stolen and sold. Not all of it had been at K's bidding.

Maybe that was what it was. Maybe they were just playing at being good, and the group could tell. Maybe they reeked of evil, and -

Okay, stop. No. We aren't going there. They breathed through the panic, and kept staring at the ceiling.

Two months passed, and then three. Calyx felt themselves open up, adjust to life as a civilian. They had hobbies, owned things, bought clothes and food with their own money from their actual job, thought about going back to university. They grew out and cut their hair, at first hating the length K had picked for them, then missing it. They dyed it though, deep purple and blue streaks. A pink one that faded far too quickly to enjoy, but they hadn't got out to get more dye yet. They would go, soon. They had time. They decided they really liked cooking, and grinned when the scale showed a bigger number after five fucking years. Finally. They sang, badly, and danced around rooms, and giggled when anyone caught them.

The group relaxed, and Calyx relaxed with them. Mostly. The hairs on the back of their neck still stood up when too many of the group were in the same room as them, because it felt too much like being surrounded, and they could do with a little less being surrounded.

Calyx always stood by an exit. Unless they were reading or eating, they refused to sit. They didn't like how it irritated cuts and bruises they hid under loose clothes, didn't like having to hide winces when they got up. They predicted that they were operating on a constant low level of blood loss, so it was stupidly common for their blood pressure to drop if they got up too quickly. They'd made sure everyone was used to it though, laughing it off every time till they did it themselves.

Oh, there goes Calyx again. They'd smile from the floor, blinking up at whoever came to sit with them as they got their vision back, as their limbs stopped feeling so heavy. People stopped rushing over, then stopped coming altogether. It was fine. It was on purpose, but Calyx would be lying if they said they didn't feel a sad pang in their chest when they fell and didn't hear a word of concern.

So, Calyx stood. If more than three of them were in a room, they stood by an exit. It'd make it easier for them to slip out, if K called, or if a conversation turned sour and they had to turn away to hide red cheeks or teary eyes.

That wasn't a problem anymore, but they still felt itchy when they weren't by an exit.

Three months. Kitten hadn't said a word. (Obviously.) The news channels were going crazy, and then the cluster had announced that they were unmasking. If hero-related headlines were common, they became insufferable, pictures of the heroes with giant question marks on their faces, and Calyx groaned every time they saw them.

The group was going to watch the livestream together. Apparently, it'd been prerecorded for 'privacy reasons', and Calyx couldn't help but roll their eyes. Stupid idiots had nothing to do now Kitten had retired, so they had decided to stir the pot themselves. One of them should go evil, they mused. It'd be so much fun to see Perseus go batshit crazy on someone. See how he liked being Most Hated for a change. He'd spent so much of his energy chasing them, for five fucking years, and they'd won. Surely it'd make him go a little mental.

They smiled at the thought as the group huddled together in Tom's living room. His was the biggest, and Calyx's favourite. They stood against the wall, next to the door to the kitchen, scrolling idly on their phone, and watched the hubbub as seven friends found their places on the floor or the couch, watched Ada and Elene fight over the armchair. It was all so intimate. Familial. Family, this was Calyx's family.

The news anchor announced the group, and when the camera panned over to them all, in their suits and masks, on the same fucking couch that everyone sat on, Calyx snorted, then reddened very quickly when a few of the group turned around.

"Sorry, it's just funny seeing them so casual."

Amy laughed, and high-fived Calyx. "Yeah, I hear that."

The news anchors both sounded so excited and shrill, Calyx was glad they weren't in line of sight of anyone so they could roll their eyes. It wasn't that exciting. Who cared who the heroes were? Calyx didn't particularly want to know, but Tom had insisted they come down to watch. He loved the heroes, always had. Calyx sighed. Maybe they should make an effort now, to be a little more excited.

"So, why now? Why reveal yourselves now, when all is quiet?"

Perseus spoke, voice changed by the modulator as always. "When this first started, it was just me vs Kitten. I was barely more than a kid, and scared."

Calyx didn't want to hear this. They had been barely more than a kid, and terrified, and Perseus had only made it worse.

"I didn't want to reveal my identity, because I didn't want my life to be flipped upside down. I've aged, now. I'm five years older, I've changed and grown as a person, as a hero. We as a cluster decided to reveal ourselves now, because we're tired of living in the shadows, tired of living double lives."

Oh, okay. Sure, because it's so hard for you.

"We also have it on good authority that the villain known as Kitten won't be back."

Calyx froze. How did they know that?

The news anchor asked the question, and Calyx started to get nervous. Angel answered it, voice distorted and echoey.

"We received a letter," and it showed on screen. Calyx couldn't read it properly, but felt frozen in place, unable to move closer to read it. "Telling us to 'have good luck chasing their tail.' We appreciate the pun, Kitten, and we do take this as confirmation that they are done."

What the fuck was that letter? They didn't write that letter. Calyx paled, eyes flicking to the group. They all seemed rapt.

Sentinel was next. "Their last heist was regretfully successful, and it seemed to be a big mission, but we fought hard. We predict that Kitten may be out of commission."

"Then who, do you think, wrote that letter?"

Perseus again. "We think that they may not, as previously predicted, have been working alone."

Calyx let in a sharp intake of breath. No. No, they couldn't know that. How would they know that? Perseus and his fucking meddling, if K came and found them again for that, they would never forgive him. Their anger had less bite, though, and they shifted imperceptibly closer to the door. An energy in the room was building as they got closer to the reveal, and it was unsettling. More unsettling was they had no idea why.

"For that reason, and we may be shunned for saying this, but," Perseus looked - or did the approximation of look, with his blacked out mask and goggles - straight at the camera. Straight at Calyx. "If Kitten is out there, listening, if they ever want to make amends, we're willing to hear them out. We could always be eight."

Calyx felt like they'd been stabbed, and they knew the fucking feeling. That was a shift. Willing to hear me out? Could they take that offer? Of course they couldn't. A memory flashed in their mind - when there'd only been two heroes? Or three? Kitten had been winning. Calyx kept beating them, and they offered immunity if they offered themselves up. Calyx had pondered it for hours, wondering if they actually could protect them against K. Their answer came without asking, though, because when K got to the base, she stormed into their room.

Calyx had groaned in mild annoyance, getting on their knees. She'd grabbed their hair, forced their head up, and they winced against the pain.

"Understand me, Calyx. You're mine, whether you like it or not. No one can save you. No one is going to save you. These petty heroes have nothing, no power at all, compared to me."

"Understood." It was a half-lie. Really, Calyx just needed convincing.

K let go of their hair, and they bowed their head, fighting the urge to fix it. She scoffed, adding, "It's probably a fucking ruse anyway. Get you to walk in there, white flags up, and they'll arrest you in a moment. Immunity? The only immunity you have is with me, pet."

Calyx bit the inside of their mouth. "Yep. Understood. Again. Thanks for the clarification."

They thought of that moment now, as the ad break ended and Ember hushed everyone so no one would miss the unmasking. No. They had been anonymous all that time, and they would stay anonymous now. If it was a ruse, and their friends found out -

Calyx was only half paying attention, but their eyes snapped to the screen when it happened - Aceso unmasked.

Their breath stopped in their throat, the blood drained from their face, and Calyx felt suddenly, incredibly unsafe, because oh fuck, that was fucking Ada, Ada, who was sitting sprawled out on the armchair, Ada, who helped Calyx get a job, Ada - Ada - and Calyx didn't realise they'd taken a step back till Ada looked over - but Calyx didn't have a chance to read her expression, because they were suddenly very concerned with the fact that no one else was reacting? Why was - no one - else, fucking reacting?

Breathe, Calyx. They did, through their nose, shaky, one foot half in the kitchen, eyes on the door to the hallway in the kitchen, to the front door, to escape. Ada didn't know. Ada couldn't know. Their wound? Their freedom? No. No, NO - because that was Panacea unmasking, and that was Elene, Elene, Elene - oh god, oh fuck - Calyx, breathe, breathe, they don't know, they don't fucking know - maybe it's just the two of them, the sisters, the -

Clem. Their heart stuttered. Oh, they were so hot, and cold. Breathe. Run. Now, while you can. Calyx stayed fixed to the floor, breathing as quietly as they could when it was coming in gasps. The Knight - Calyx had impaled themselves on their sword. Fear settled in their chest, and they heard K's voice as if it was a memory. Why aren't you running? They're going to kill you. Calyx couldn't move, couldn't think, desperately trying to think about what they'd said, what scars they'd shown to people -

Oh, okay. Okay, okay, and that was Angel dropping their glow, revealing Amy, fucking Amy, who they'd fucked, and - Calyx couldn't breathe. No, no, this had to be - some - sort of, fucking joke, but it wasn't. It was awfully, terribly real, and Calyx had a horrible feeling that all their paranoia had been warranted after all. Oh, please wake up. They didn't. No, no, no, no, no. This is making things worse. Breathe. You're supposed to be a civilian, you're supposed to be excited - then Ember, even Ember was in on this, they had hurt sweet, kind Ember every time they hurt Phoenix, then Lex, and - no. The only person left - they took a step back and hit a counter, legs buckling so they fell to the floor, too heavy with cold fear and dread to get up. They pressed themselves against the counter, watching the screen with horrified eyes as their worst enemy, the cause of so much of their pain and punishment, unmasked, and was - their best friend.

Tom, who they ran to on the last day. Tom, whose dagger had pierced their skin, who almost killed them, who announced in his civilian life and hero life, that - he wanted them dead, he wanted them dead, he hated them so much that he wanted Calyx dead, gone, buried. Tom, who knew instantly what he'd done, what they'd done, who they were, who made sure he had them trapped so he could arrest them and turn them in.

Oh, they were so royally fucked. Not a single weapon on them, because why the fuck would they need one, no armour, hardly any magic, not enough to take all seven of them. Did they even want to? A high noise rose up, the intake of breath before a sob - their family, their fucking family, gone in an instant.

Calyx screamed - a wail, a noise of anguish, short and terrified, and ran.

Or they tried to, because the door to the hallway didn't budge.

Please, please, please -

"Calyx, don't!" Tom. Perseus. Tom.

Freeze - stop where you are - hands above your head, where I can see them - how many times had they heard Tom say it? Memories and phantom pains of being shoved to the floor, kicked in the knees, punched in the stomach filled their mind, and through the armour it hurt but they didn't have any armour any more. Silent tears fell.

The room was silent, else he might not have heard it, how quiet it was when they said, "okay. Okay."

They looked down at their civilian clothes and saw it then, the red magic tendrils around the door handle, and let go like it burned them, tear tracks cooling on their face. They couldn't turn around, couldn't face him, shame and humiliation and fear, fear like they'd never known, panic like they couldn't believe, paralysing them to their core, so they waited for his hands on their shoulders to do it, already dissociating and lightheaded. Of course it would end like this. Of course they couldn't have anything good.

"You know." They leaned their head on the door, voice was tight with tears.

"I know, Cee."

They made a high, keening sound, and braced for impact. Braced for a sword through their middle, braced for cuffs or manacles, braced for being surrounded and interrogated and humiliated by the people who they'd shared blankets with, who they made meals for, who they loved.

He knew. They all knew. That was why they'd been so strange. A sob shook their body, and they felt suddenly, suddenly, young again. In this new house, in this new kitchen, but alone again, with no fucking family, no friends, no hope, again, because they had the fucking luck to attach themselves to the people who they killed, and hurt, and lied to, lied to, lied to, for all these years. The option of calling K presented itself, but they would rather be arrested, shamed, ruined, than ever choose her again.

Calyx choked, turned around and dropped to their knees, hands out. "Please - please, please, oh God. I fucked up -" and they stuttered on his name, which drew a soft whine out from them. He must hate them. "Tom, Tom, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I- Sorry, fuck," and then they were just sobbing, heaving, repeating apologies over and over, knowing that he didn't have to accept them, knowing he wouldn't, that at any moment they would be hauled up and cuffed and taken away, and all their joy and freedom would be for naught.

Nothing came, and blind panic spoke. "Please just arrest me, don't leave me like this, please. God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was so awful to you all - I - didn't want to, oh fuck, but I did it anyway, and I'm sorry. Do you want a confession?" They took in a breath, feeling new sobs shake their body as desperation pitched their voice higher, faster. "I'll confess, I promise, I - I'll go quietly, I won't fight - I can't, anyway - fuck, I'm s- sorry. I'm sorry." They took in a deep breath. Even K ended their misery earlier than this.

He let out a shaky breath, and Calyx started to look up, because that was Tom, and then snapped their head back down, because that was Perseus.

"God, Calyx. I'm not going to fucking arrest you."

Then he was around them, and they flinched away, tried to move away from whatever he'd decided to do, didn't push him, because it was always worse when they fought back - but - a hug. A hug. A hug? Their racing heart skipped a beat, as they let themselves be hugged, limbs heavy with distress, as he pressed kisses to their head - so gentle. He was always so gentle with them.

Every frenzied thought in their mind paused. He could've arrested them the moment they showed up. He could've arrested them at any point in three months.

"Three months?" Their voice broke, and they closed their eyes to block out the sight of more people coming. Everyone had heard everything. Calyx didn't want to reckon with that right now.

"I'm so sorry, Cee. I didn't know - I didn't think you'd be so -"

Calyx laughed wetly, bolstered by his embrace. "Terrified? Perseus, you've been fighting me for five fucking years. I thought you wanted me dead, forget arrested."

He pulled back, "Hey. Hey, look at me. No. I changed my mind. I've got you, okay? No one's ever going to force you to do anything anymore. I'm sorry I didn't figure it out earlier. I could've helped."

Calyx let out a soft whimper, then shrank into themselves when they saw the group - the cluster, approach, wishing they had a wall to press themselves against, but appreciating Tom's weight against them. Though, they thought, one hero wasn't enough against six.

Then Ember, Amy and Elene all sat on the kitchen floor in near unison, and Calyx flinched away from the sudden eye contact, unsure who to look at, terrified to raise their head.

Elene spoke, voice gentle, like how she spoke to her scared cats. "I asked you once, if you needed help, that I would. The offer stands, okay?"

Then Ember. "It seems like you were in a lot of trouble."

Amy leaned against a counter, infuriatingly casual. "I mean, I sort of knew already."

"You did?"

Their eye contact didn't hurt, somehow. "Calyx. We slept together so many times. Scars add up."

They blushed, looking away, incredibly aware of the fact that the rest of the group only vaguely knew the specifics of their relationship. "Okay." They nodded, still on their knees, but feeling far more protected.

"You seem very upset by all of this." Clem's voice, imperious in the way they got when they were conflicted. Going back to their roots.

"No shit - sorry." They looked up but imagined Knight with their sword, and felt their usual spark flicker out before they even got through the sentence. They bowed their head, sighing deeply. "Sorry."

"Forgiven. I think."

Calyx took in a sharp breath. Forgiveness had to be earned, they understood.

"No, hey, Calyx. Can I just ask you something?"

They nodded, throat tight.

"Did you want to do any of what you did?"

Shame bloomed in their stomach, and they spoke quietly, incredibly aware of Tom, still holding onto them.

"I - for most of it, no. Some days you were all very mean and I hated you a lot." They hiccuped, and shifted on their knees, uncomfortable now but terrified to move.

"That's understandable. You're human." Ada was the one who replied, sitting down cross-legged on the kitchen floor.

"That's true." Clem knelt down, on one knee at first, then matched Calyx's posture. "My services remain extended to you, Calyx Ambrosia."

Amy huffed, started saying, "overkill as always -" but Clem, razor quick, threw out an arm and put a knife to their throat. Calyx flinched with their full body, but Amy just laughed and let herself glow a little, and in a moment, Calyx remembered that both heroes were immortal - so this was play, and then they realised how things could be.

"Thank you. All -"

They cut themselves off. Lex was still standing.

They met zir gaze, eyes wide.

"It seems I'm outnumbered."

Calyx's mind felt slow, but they remembered a conversation from their early recovery. "You want to arrest me."

"I do."

The atmosphere shifted in a split second, as everyone on the floor turned to look at zir, a wall of heroes between Calyx and Lex, who pinched the bridge of zir nose.

"Hey. Okay, I did. I know when I'm beat, and you really freaked out then. You could easily have taken all of us, if you wanted to."

Calyx felt small and incredibly sad. "I don't want to." It's why they didn't run earlier.

Ze sighed. "You didn't talk. Like, ever."

Calyx winced, nodded. "No."

"You can talk. Why -"

"The collar."

Elene hissed, putting a hand on their knee. "It stopped you talking?"

Calyx laughed, bitter and slightly incredulous. They couldn't believe this was happening. "Yeah, and if I tried to get it off or say anything, it'd stop me breathing too. Just to prove a point, I think. She wasn't the nicest."

The room fell silent. Not one person said a word for a few moments, and Calyx felt both hot and cold again.

"Sorry. I-"

Ada hugged them, and Tom still hadn't let go, so it was a sort of group hug, all three of them huddled on the floor. She pulled away, and Calyx watched her eyes blaze with fury.

"Do not apologise. Ever. I don't want to hear another one."

Calyx stuttered. "Um, okay." It died on their tongue, the apology, but they felt sick for not being able to say it.

Ada's eyes widened. "Fuck, actually, scratch that, you can say whatever you want to say. Sorry. Just - that's fucking awful, Cee. We hurt you so much, and you were dealing with that too?"

Lex's voice was similarly furious. "Where is she?"

That room. Those four walls. Being thrown into them, chained to them, bleeding all over the floors. Sleeping in the smell of their own blood. Being gagged and cut into, only to be healed so she could do it again, being belittled and punished and screamed at for failures that weren't their fault. Being forced to patch up their own wounds when she got angry, or otherwise temperamental, or when she wanted to hear them scream. Five years of threats and pain and fear. Three months of freedom.

Calyx sighed, deeply, grit their teeth through the fear, and opened their mouth, only for their throat to go tight and their air supply to be cut off, and they choked for a moment, tears filling their eyes. It wasn't her. Their own body had done that.

"I - can't. I can't. I can't, I'm sorry, I'm sorry -" Oh, they were crying again, giant, gasping sobs, and Tom held them through it.

"It's okay, it's okay, starling, I've got you."

They took a deep breath, eyes fixed to the floor. "I can try."

His voice was firm but soft. "No. No, you look exhausted. We don't have to do this now. Is everyone happy?" Murmurs of assent went around the room, and Calyx whimpered at the knowledge that their fate had been in their hands for so long. It always had been, in a way, but they all knew where Calyx lived.

Tom started to help them up, but their knees protested, and they buckled, falling forward. Lex caught them, and they tried to straighten up themselves, but ze helped anyway.

"You're free." Ze said, matter-of-fact.

"I'm free," they agreed.

Calyx woke up on the couch, blanket tucked to their chin, Tom sitting at their feet. He looked over as soon as they moved.

"Woah. I just had the craziest dream."

"Wasn't a dream, Kit."

Calyx's eyes widened, and they paled at the nickname.

"Please don't."

He softened, leaning over to kiss their forehead. "Sorry."

Calyx looked around with bleary eyes. Amy was on the armchair, Ada was reading but throwing glances when she thought they weren't looking.

"Angel?" Amy looked up, smile building on her face.

"In the flesh, sweetheart."

Calyx's mind paused - every thought on hold while they processed it. Again.

Then they asked no one in particular, voice small and tired. "Don't you hate me?"

They all replied no in unison, and Tom continued. "Wasn't your fault. You didn't have a choice."

Calyx opened their mouth to speak but Amy cut them off.

"It doesn't count as a choice if you have to do something or die, Cee."

"Ah." They sighed, still stunned. "That was a lot, huh? Big secrets out today."

Tom laughed, and Calyx smiled. If he'd changed his mind for them, then - he chose family. He chose Calyx. They didn't know if they had the words to ever thank him, but they could make a start.

"Thank you."

"I love you, you know?"

"I know."

For the first time in their life, Calyx spoke to him knowing that there was no secrets, no lies, no betrayal possible. It was exhilarating. They were home.

---

taglist: currently none!

#oh wow i really got hit by the inspiration beam huh. this is 12.3k #my writing #whump writing #original whump #villain whumpee #hero whumpee #living weapon whumpee #defiant whumpee #compliant whumpee #conditioned whumpee #collared whumpee #oh i love the collar in this one. i love a collar in general but this one Does stuff eheeh :)#enjoy <3 guys i had an absolute BLAST writing this #and they're ALL transgender !!!!!!!!! yay !!!!!!!

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hmgt-writes · 5 months ago

Text

Beneath The Mask

Chapter 1: Where It Begins

AO3 Link Next Chapter

CW: Intense violence, torture/interrogation, captivity, physical harm, whump, psychological distress, implied PTSD/trauma, threats, gore, emotional turmoil, and relentless rescue mission.

_________

You find yourself in the middle of a mission spiraling out of control. The intel is missing, and the enemy believes you are holding it. Their relentless pursuit pushes you and Ghost into a deadly maze of interrogation rooms, where the pain they inflict is as sharp as their demands for answers you don’t have.

Separated and vulnerable, every scream they wring from you fuels Ghost’s fury and resolve. Through hidden comms, you cling to whispered plans and the promise of escape, but each second feels like an eternity. Your captors test your strength, and even as your body falters, you refuse to break.

Ghost is relentless. His calm, methodical violence tears through the stronghold as he hunts for you, driven by the sound of your suffering and the unyielding promise he made. The closer he gets, the more the walls he’s built around himself begin to crack, revealing the raw determination beneath.

_________

The alarms screamed, sharp and unrelenting. Red lights pulsed across the corridor walls, painting everything in ominous flashes. Your chest tightened, your heart hammering as you trailed Ghost. What should’ve been a simple intel-gathering mission had unraveled when the drive disappeared.

"We don’t have it," you hissed, barely able to keep your voice steady over the crackle of the comms. Ghost’s tone had been sharp in response but not unkind.

"Doesn't matter. They reckon we do."

And that was the crux of it. Someone had stolen the drive somewhere in this labyrinthine stronghold—a critical piece of intelligence the enemy was desperate to recover. The timing couldn’t have been worse. You and Ghost had been caught in the wrong place at the worst possible time, and now the enemy believed the two of you had it. They were wrong, but that didn’t matter to them. Their fury was absolute, their conviction unshakable. And that made them dangerous.

"Keep movin'," Ghost had ordered, his voice steady but sharp, his movements exact as he scanned ahead. "Stick to th' plan. Exit’s not far now."

But before you could make it another step, the pounding of boots erupted behind you, the sharp bark of commands echoing down the corridor. Shadows stretched long against the walls as a squad of guards rounded the corner, weapons drawn and eyes locked on Ghost. The first guard shouted something you didn’t catch, but Ghost didn’t flinch. His shoulders straightened, his posture tense as he instinctively placed himself between you and the guards.

"Hands in the air!" one of them yelled, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

You froze, your mind racing, but Ghost’s response was immediate. His hands rose slowly, his dark eyes scanning the guards calmly. He didn’t resist as they surged forward, forcing him to his knees and snapping cuffs tight around his wrists. The moment the guards spotted Ghost, tension snapped through the air like a live wire.

Even then, Ghost’s mind raced, quickly gauging his surroundings. He barely spared a glance your way as two other guards grabbed you, their grips ironclad. The enemy fixated on control and cared only about the breach of their secure facility. Furious over the missing drive with its critical intelligence, they were willing to do anything to retrieve it.

In a clumsy attempt to extract information, the captors quickly separated you and Ghost, hauling you both to different interrogation rooms. Each of you sensed the severity of the situation; the enemy's strategy was to break you down individually, thinking that the pressure would force one of you to divulge the location of the drive. They believed, with unwavering conviction, that either you or Ghost had hidden it away. Little did they know, their haste blinded them to a crucial detail: neither of you had the drive.

Amid the chaos, you and Ghost hid earpieces, creating a silent, unseen link. As the enemy’s threats echoed down the hall, you exchanged whispered strategies, preparing your escape while they remained oblivious. When Ghost was alone, he muttered over the comms that everything would be alright and that he was working on a plan. He didn’t expect to hear everything once they started questioning you. They repeatedly interrogated you, ignoring your insistent claims that you didn’t have the drive.

"Please," he heard you sob, your voice breaking as the weight of the moment bore down on you. "I didn’t take anything, I promise!"

A faint whisper crackled through the comms, followed by your scream—a raw, agonizing sound that pierced Ghost’s chest. His breath hitched, heart pounding like a drum. His fists clenched, knuckles white, and veins taut as fury coursed through him. Your screams grew louder, reverberating through his mind with unrelenting pain. Ghost shut his eyes, his jaw locking as fury surged beneath his calm. The knife in his belt pressed against his side—a silent promise. He shifted against the ropes, teeth clenched. When he got free, they’d regret every scream they’d torn from you.

His mind burned with the sound of your screams—raw and agonizing, an unrelenting echo that struck him like a hammer. He couldn’t sit there any longer, bound and useless. Not while you were suffering.

Ghost’s fingers brushed the knife hilt, the cold steel grounding him. Slowly, deliberately, he worked the blade against the ropes. Fibers frayed, his breath shallow. Seconds dragged like hours. But he couldn’t stop—not with your screams still tearing through his mind.

Ghost’s escape had been nothing short of brutal. The knife in his belt was his lifeline. Slow and deliberate, he worked the blade against the ropes, fraying the fibers bit by bit. Muffled voices echoed down the hall, pushing his urgency to the edge. Ghost had escaped restraints before, but the stakes were different this time.

The moment Ghost freed himself, the predator took over. Silent and deadly, he moved through the corridors like a shadow, fury driving every step. The first guard saw nothing but the glint of a knife before Ghost’s hand clamped over his mouth, the blade cutting clean and fast. The second guard crumpled after a single, crushing blow. Ghost didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Your screams still echoed in his mind, propelling him forward.

The last guard crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Ghost crouched low, steadying his breathing as he scanned the dimly lit corridor ahead. The quiet was unnerving—too quiet. He wiped his blade clean against the fallen man’s uniform, his eyes sharp and calculating.

Every step deeper into the stronghold coiled dread tighter in his chest. Door after door mocked him, each wrong and dragging him further into the maze. But he kept moving. He had to. You were still in there.

By the time he’d eliminated the immediate threats, his path to you was clear—at least physically. But the deeper he moved into the enemy’s stronghold, the heavier the silence became, each passing second tightening the coil of dread in his chest.

Hours blurred as Ghost hunted the dim corridors. His boots echoed against the cold floor, each step tightening the air around him, damp and metallic. Every creak sharpened his senses, but his focus never wavered: find you at any cost. He passed door after door, each one a wrong answer, until finally, he stood before a heavy steel door at the end of the hallway. Its foreboding presence was broken only by a small rectangular slit near the top. He could barely hear your strained breaths, each one labored and faint through it.

Leaning closer, his gloved hand pressed against the cold metal, the chill biting through the fabric as his voice dropped, strained with barely suppressed anger. "Angel? Angel, y’alright?" he murmured, his low tone carrying a quiet urgency that betrayed the storm raging beneath his calm facade. He released a shaky breath, resting his forehead against the door, the cool surface grounding him as his body remained coiled like a predator poised to strike. Though you couldn’t see him, he needed you to know he was there—to feel his presence through the barriers separating you.

"It’s me," he said, softer now but no less resolute. His voice carried the weight of a promise. "I’m here. Just hold on, yeah?"

Inside the room, his voice reached you like a flicker of light in the darkness. For a moment, the suffocating weight of the ropes around your wrists and the ache in your ribs eased. But the oppressive silence of your captors watching you kept your fear sharp, pressing down on you like a vice.

You took a shaky breath and whispered, "I’m okay," though the tremor in your voice gave you away.

He stepped closer, his concern palpable in the air. "They didn’t hurt ya too badly, did they?" he asked, his brow furrowing as he searched your face for any signs of pain. "They were brutal… I could hear ya screamin’ over the comms."

He took a moment to collect himself, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on both of you. The memory of your screams echoed in his mind, fueling the fire of his resolution. He knew he had to get you out of there, no matter the cost."It hurts," you whimpered, voice barely above a whisper as sharp waves of pain radiated through you. You clenched your jaw, closing your eyes tightly as sharp waves of pain radiated through your body. A single tear slipped down your cheek, betraying the control you fought to hold. Ghost’s jaw tightened at your admission, the weight of your pain cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

"They didn’t break anythin’, did they?" he asked softly, his voice low, laced with worry that he couldn’t entirely hide. "Can ya stand?"

He waited, the silence stretching painfully between you, each second tightening the knot of anxiety in his chest. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his following words coming out rough, almost pleading. "Please tell me ya haven’t got broken ribs or crushed legs. I—" he paused, the crack in his voice betraying the weight of his fear. "I couldn’t take that."

"Ropes still bind me," you whispered, your words laced with exhaustion and despair. Ghost’s heart clenched at the quiet fragility in your voice, and his chest tightened as your admission sank in.

He stared at the steel door, his fists curling involuntarily. Anger surged through him, sharp and unforgiving, as the thought of you bound and helpless gnawed at his control. "They still haven’t let ya out?" he muttered, his voice tight with disbelief and dread. "They’re still in there with ya?"

His words were tight, each syllable heavy with raw concern. The silence that followed pressed against him like a vice, suffocating and unbearable. Despite his best efforts to stay composed, desperation bled through.

"Are they doin’ anythin’? Talkin’ to ya? What are they sayin’?" The questions tumbled out, sharp and frantic, each one an unspoken plea for clarity, a desperate grasp at a lifeline to tether himself to your nightmare.

He stepped back, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the door—a cold, impenetrable barrier that seemed to mock him with its unyielding silence. "Bloody hell, this thing’s locked," he muttered, his frustration boiling. His fist slammed against the unforgiving metal with a force that sent a harsh, reverberating echo down the dimly lit corridor.

His breath came faster now, short and uneven, as if the knot in his chest was cutting off his air. His mind raced through a thousand worst-case scenarios, each darker and more chilling than the last. "Can ya hear them talkin’?" he asked again, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his worry. "Are they threatenin’ ya? Tell me, what the hell are they sayin’?"

His face set with fierce determination, he pressed his ear to the narrow slit in the door. The cold metal bit at his skin, but he ignored it, straining to catch any sound beyond. His breath hitched as he strained to hear something—anything—that could guide him.

"Can ya hear them?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now, raw and trembling with a flicker of hope. "Is there anythin’ I can use to get ya out of there?" His words hung in the air, heavy with desperation but resolute, his entire body coiled tight like a spring ready to snap the second you gave him the slightest clue.

Your response came slowly, a soft sigh that seemed to echo the weight of despair hanging in the air. "No." The word hung heavily between you, thick with unspoken fears and the stark reality of the situation. It lingered like a fog, suffocating and filled with worry, leaving both of you to grapple with the crushing sense of helplessness.

He paused, uncertain, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like a vice. "Bloody hell," he muttered, dragging a gloved hand through his hair in frustration. His mind raced through options, each one riddled with risk. "I could break the lock and get ya out in seconds, have the lads bring ya to safety, but—" He hesitated, his voice dropping into a lower, more calculating tone. "That’d tip ‘em off," he muttered to himself. "They’d know someone’s loose, start searchin’, maybe even hurt ya worse if they realize we’ve been talkin’."

His fists clenched at the thought, the image of you being harmed again sending a fresh wave of fury boiling through him. His jaw tightened, his breath hissing through his teeth as he forced himself to stay in control. Slowly, deliberately, he let out a measured exhale, pushing down the anger threatening to cloud his judgment. "I can’t let ’em get the upper hand," he murmured, his voice rough, almost a growl. "We’ve gotta play this clever."

Ghost pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulders sagging as doubt crept in. "I don’t know what to do," he admitted, his voice lower now, almost inaudible. "I don’t want ya stuck in there, but I can’t let ‘em catch on."

He groaned low, shaking his head as frustration tightened in his chest. "Bloody hell," he muttered, his voice rough with anger. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he forced himself to focus, the tension in his muscles loosening just enough for him to think clearly. "A'right," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "Just need to figure a way to get ya out without ’em twiggin’ on."

His mind raced, calculating risks, scenarios, and outcomes. The silence from your side weighed heavily on him, but he held onto the faint, steady sound of your breathing through the comms. It kept him grounded.

When he finally spoke again, his steady but strained voice cut through the oppressive quiet of your dark room, filled with a quiet resolve. You close your eyes, focusing on it, letting it ground you and tether you to the outside world. He was still out there. He hadn’t given up.

You could almost picture him pacing, his mind working tirelessly through possibilities, every step deliberate, every detail analyzed methodically. You could nearly hear the faint rustle of his movements, the soft creak of the floor beneath his boots, and the sharp exhale of frustration when another idea failed to hold.

Then his voice came again, softer this time but clear, each word carrying the weight of his determination.

"I’ll get ya outta there," he promised, his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver racing down your spine. "Don’t care what it takes—I’ll find a way."

Your chest tightened, something warm and fragile breaking through your fear. Even through walls and darkness, his voice carried something you hadn’t realized you needed: certainty. You swallowed hard, clutching your knees, whispering to no one but yourself, "I trust you." And you did, with everything you had.

When he heard your soft voice over the comms, he paused, listening closely. He could almost see you—trapped, alone, yet finding strength in his voice. Ghost’s heart swelled with something indescribable. He’d always compartmentalized his feelings, but hearing you say you trusted him broke down walls, his breath hitching.

He clenched his jaw, trying to hide the emotion. How had he come to care so deeply? He didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. You believed in him, thought he’d get you out.

Ghost let out a soft huff, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep the emotion from his voice. "Ya can trust me. I’ll get ya out," he said firmly over the comms, his voice a low, gravelly promise. "I swear it."

His words sent relief flooding through you, anchoring you like a lifeline. You closed your eyes briefly, letting his voice settle your fear. He sounded so certain, resolute. You knew him well enough to understand what that meant. Ghost didn’t promise lightly—when he did, he meant it.

You took a shaky breath, fingers loosening their grip. "I know you will," you replied quietly. "I trust you, Ghost. Always."

A pause—a beat of silence. You could imagine him on the other side, jaw tight, eyes sharp, fighting to maintain composure while his mind raced.

"I trust you, always." Your words echoed through the comms, steadying something in Ghost he hadn’t known was unsteady. His shoulders loosened, his jaw slackening just enough to breathe. How easily your voice calmed him unsettled him—but he clung to it anyway.

"Yer too good for me," he murmured, his voice so low it was barely more than a whisper, like the thought had slipped out before he could catch it.

Leaning his forehead against the cold wall, Ghost closed his eyes, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. He could hear your breathing through the comms, faint but steady, the sound anchoring him even as it made his chest ache. The soft shuffling as you tried to get comfortable only made it worse, his mind painting vivid pictures of your bruised, exhausted form. The room on your side was quiet, save for your strained breaths—and it killed him that he wasn’t there to take that weight off you. To hold you. To shield you. But it was too dangerous.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself as he shoved down the sharp edges of his helplessness. His voice softened as he finally broke the silence, quiet but edged with a tenderness he rarely let show. "How’re ya holdin’ up in there?" he asked, the words slipping past his lips like a lifeline, his heart clenched tight as he waited for your answer.

"As I mentioned earlier, the pain is still overwhelming," you responded, your voice a fragile whisper, strained but determined as you fought through the throbbing discomfort. Each word felt like a monumental effort as you continued, "I suspect I’ve got a few broken bones; the sharp pangs radiate through my body, and I can feel the tension building as they begin to pick up on our communications." You inhaled slowly, bracing yourself against the waves of agony, knowing that the situation was growing more critical with each passing moment.

Ghost’s expression darkened, anger washing over him at the thought of your injuries. He pressed his palm against the cool, concrete wall, feeling frustration and worry churning in his gut. He paused for a moment, straining to catch any shift in the tone of your voice.

"Are they talkin’ about our comms now?" he asked, his voice low and tight, every word laced with quiet urgency. "Got any idea what they’re plannin’?"

You shifted carefully, wincing as pain rippled through you. Ghost heard the tension beneath your composure. "They haven’t said anything specific yet," you answered, striving for steadiness. "But they’ve been lingering. It’s only a matter of time before they catch on."

Ghost’s mind raced, your pain weighing on him. He clenched his jaw, chest tightening at the thought of you hurting, alone, while those bastards lurked out of sight. He forced himself to breathe, fists curling involuntarily.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, his tone sharp and low, frustration curling through the words.

"What’s the status of the rest of 141?" you murmured, your voice barely rising above the cacophony of distant explosions and shouting. Anxiety churned within you like a restless tide, a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked in the chaos. The thought of losing Ghost amid this turmoil spills your spine. You needed reassurance, a sign that your team was still united, standing strong beside you in the chaos that surrounded you.

Ghost inhaled deeply, the tension in the air thick enough to taste. Your anxiety lingered like a phantom he couldn’t shake, weighing on him even through the static of the comms. He knew your thoughts were consumed by worry—for him, for the team—and it cut through him sharper than any blade. Forcing his voice steady, he responded, masking the unexpected warmth that your concern stirred within him.

"They’re nearby, keepin’ a vigilant watch. No one’s approachin’ the building. Not yet, at least." His tone was calm, deliberate, as if sheer certainty could anchor you both.

Each word was carefully chosen, meant to soothe rather than alarm. Still, he wasn’t blind to the tension creeping into the atmosphere like a rising tide. He could feel time slipping away, grains of sand cascading through an hourglass he couldn’t turn back. Leaning his head against the cool wall, Ghost closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as he allowed himself the slightest moment of respite amid the swirling uncertainty.

"What’s goin’ on in there?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a murmur but sharp with intent. "Can ya hear ‘em movin’? Anythin’?"

You closed your eyes, straining to listen past your pounding heartbeat. Footsteps echoed faintly down the hall, approaching and then retreating. Your chest tightened, and you tried to decipher the sounds.

"They’re moving around," you whispered, voice low. "It’s like they’re waiting for something– or someone."

Silence, save for the comms’ faint crackle. You could almost feel Ghost’s mind racing, weighing a hundred dangerous possibilities.

"Stay quiet. Stay low. Don’t give them a reason to come in," he murmured, voice rough but controlled. "We’re running out of time, but I need you to hold on for me, yeah?"

His calm words were like armor around you. You nodded instinctively, though he couldn’t see you. "I’ll hold on. Just– be careful."

Ghost inhaled deeply, hearing your nervousness and fear, but your willingness to hold on to him sparked something warm in his chest. He nodded to himself. "I’ll be careful," he replied, his voice a low rumble. I’m coming to get you. Just– hold on."

His mind churned through countless intricate and dangerous plans, discarding each as quickly as it formed. Over the comms, he could almost feel your heartbeat, hear the edge of your anxiety threading through the silence. It clawed at him, an ache buried deep in his chest. He longed to comfort you, to say something that would make it better, but the mission came first. It had to.

"Just stay quiet," he murmured, his voice steady but firm, the words carrying the weight of a command and a reassurance all at once.

He stayed still, listening intently; every faint sound beyond the door amplified the tension, coiling it tighter with each passing second. Closing his eyes, he shoved down the ache in his heart, forcing himself to stay focused and block out the part of him that just wanted to tear that door off its hinges.

"Just stay quiet," he repeated, his voice unwavering, low, and deliberate, as though his words alone could shield you from whatever waited on the other side. He pressed his ear closer, straining to catch even the faintest sound, every muscle in his body taut and ready.

As the shadows loomed closer, determination surged through you. You leaned in, your voice barely above a whisper but firm. "Yes, I can," you breathed, feeling the moment's weight intensify.

Relief swept through Ghost like a wave at your steady response, easing the knot of anxiety in his chest. The gravity of the situation still pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting, but he clung to your resolve like a lifeline. "Good. That’s good," he murmured, his voice low, almost tender. "Keep holdin’ on. Just a little longer. I promise—I’m gettin’ ya out of there. I’m comin’ for ya."

The footsteps echoed in the hallway, growing more insistent as they approached your room. Ghost’s entire body tensed, his instincts screaming as the tension coiled tighter, threatening to snap. His mind churned, calculating, weighing options, running through possible actions, all while forcing himself to stay steady.

"I’m comin’ for ya," he murmured, voice low and steady. "Hold on, sweet girl. Just a little longer."

The footsteps halted outside your door. Ghost stiffened, his jaw clenching as he strained to listen. Muffled voices filtered through the cold, oppressive silence, each indistinct word twisting the tension tighter around his chest. His knuckles whitened as his grip on the knife hilt tightened, the desire to end this nightmare almost overwhelming.

"Keep steady," he urged, his voice dropping to a quiet but confident command, cutting through the noise like steel. "I won’t leave ya here. I swear it."

Pressing his forehead against the door, the cool metal did little to temper the heat of his fury. He exhaled slowly, his muscles coiled, his grip on the knife firm and ready. "Just a little longer," he muttered the words as much a vow to himself as they were to you.

You swallowed hard, throat aching, but you forced words out. "I can," you whispered, voice soft and hoarse, barely audible.

Ghost let your quiet words settle over him, a balm to his frayed nerves. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly before drawing a deep, steadying breath. "Good," he murmured, his voice softer now, though the tension still lingered beneath it. "Just—just keep holdin’ on. I’m comin’ for ya. I promise. I’ll be there soon."

Outside, the guards shuffled, voices slightly louder, tension thicker. Ghost knew he had to act, but thoughts of you—your soft, steady voice—lingered in his mind.

"They’re catching on. I have to go silent–" you whispered, your voice trembling. The faint shuffle of boots outside sent fear spiking through you, the sound growing louder and closer, like a coming storm.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry, and your heart hammered. Your hands flexed against ropes, and your skin was raw. The dim light flickered, the air heavy and thick. Each breath was a struggle, the silence pressing down like a vice.

"They’re outside– they’re listening. I can feel it," you breathed, voice barely audible but enough for Ghost over the comms.

Admitting it made it real. Your gaze darted to the door again, shadows shifting beneath. Every instinct screamed to stay silent, vanish, not give them a reason to enter. But Ghost needed to know.

One last shaky breath escaped your lips, your voice trembling as it became little more than a whisper: "I have to go silent—I’m sorry." Each word felt like a weight, a stone sinking into uncertainty. The line cracked faintly with static charged with unsaid emotions. Even as you slowly pulled away, his presence remained a tether, grounding you in the swirling chaos of your thoughts and fears.

Your hands clenched into tight fists, and nails dug painfully into your palms as if seeking a physical outlet for the anxiety coursing through your body. "Please—be careful, Ghost," you murmured, the plea slipping from your lips with an intensity that made it almost a prayer, meant more for your own heart than his ears.

Then, abruptly, the line went quiet, and an oppressive shroud of darkness enveloped you, swallowing the last traces of connection between you. It felt heavy and suffocating, a void left after his departure.

Meanwhile, Ghost pressed his back against the cold wall, his grip tightening as he felt the tremor in your voice resonate deep within him. Your words echoed in his mind, and worry surged through him. The knowledge that you’d told him to be careful stirred a protective instinct, amplifying the anxiety he could sense radiating from you through the comms. The heavy silence that followed was like a physical force, sitting on his chest and making it hard to breathe, a reminder of the weight of the moment and the stakes ahead.

He took a deep breath, his jaw clenched, fighting for composure. Outside your room, the guards shuffled and murmured. Knowing you were alone inside, suffering, made it hard to focus. The urge to comfort you almost overwhelmed him, but he had to stay controlled and think of the mission first.

Murmurs grew louder and more impatient, and frustration mounted. Ghost sensed tension nearing a breaking point.

Gritting his teeth, he tried contacting 141 through cycling channels. There was only static—no backup, no answers, no time. His heart hammered, and his muscles tensed. Where were they?

He tried again and again, each attempt meeting silence. Ghost's fists tightened until the skin across his knuckles whitened, a dull ache radiating through his hands. He inhaled deeply, forcing slow, measured breaths to combat the rising tide of panic within him. The silence on the comms was unbearable, static crackling like a taunting specter, making him feel isolated in his thoughts.

With a sudden surge of frustration, he slammed his fist against the wall, the sharp impact reverberating through the cold concrete. The noise echoed in the stark emptiness of the room, a stark reminder that he was trapped in a waiting game while you were out there, fighting your own battles in silence. The thought sent a jolt of urgency through him; he couldn’t just sit idly by, hearing shadows of voices beyond your door, knowing you were suffering alone.

His mind raced, conjuring countless scenarios, each more frantic than the last. Charging in could jeopardize the entire mission—he understood that rationally—but the notion of letting another second tick by while you were left to endure whatever lay beyond was unbearable.

He took a deep, shaky breath, seeking clarity amidst the chaos swirling in his head. Ghost prided himself on his ability to thrive under pressure; he had faced overwhelming odds before and emerged intact. Yet, this moment felt different. The stakes were personal this time, and you were in that confined space.

Pressing his forehead against the cold wall, he let out a low, guttural growl, the sound laced with frustration and desperation. "Keep it together, mate. Think," he muttered, the words rough and biting, part plea, part command. They hung in the air like a lifeline as he battled the rising dread clawing at the edges of his control, threatening to drag him under.

He switched channels one last time, a flicker of desperation lurking beneath the calm facade he tried so hard to maintain. But once again, all he found was the oppressive static, an unyielding reminder of his solitude.

Jaw tightening, he stepped back, drawing the hidden knife. If no one were coming, he’d go in alone if the team were out of range. He’d get you out himself.

He wouldn’t let them hurt you again. He couldn’t.

Ghost stepped back, his eyes fixed on the heavy steel door that separated you. The guards’ murmurs had quieted, replaced by a tense silence—the calm before the storm. He flexed his fingers, tightening his grip on the knife, his breath slow and deliberate. He could feel it, the moment just before everything exploded. His pulse quickened, but his focus was razor-sharp.

"I’m comin’ for ya, Angel," he murmured, low and steady. Every word carried the weight of an unbreakable promise. He shifted his stance, muscles coiled tight, then moved.

Fast. Silent. Deadly. Shadows swallowed him as he darted forward, a blade in hand and fury in his chest. Nothing would stop him now.

As murmurs outside fell silent, Ghost went rigid, every muscle coiled. He sensed tension thick in the still air. His gut screamed something was about to happen, heart pounding at the reminder that you were inside, hurt and alone. Inhaling deeply, he steadied himself, every nerve primed. He crouched, listening for any sign. Seconds stretched, silence suffocating, a bomb ready to explode, static before lightning.

Inside, the faint click of the lock sent ice through your veins. You froze as the door creaked open. They were coming back.

The footsteps were slow and deliberate. The air shifted like a dark cloud pressing into your lungs as they entered. Your head was down, your arms aching, and each breath was a dull burn in your ribs.

"Still quiet, are we?" one of them taunted, his voice dripping with condescension as he drew nearer. You felt a shiver run down your spine as his boots scraped against the ground, the gritty noise echoing in the tense silence. Your heart raced, but you fixed your gaze on the floor, determined not to offer them the satisfaction of seeing your fear. A rough hand gripped your chin, forcing your head up. Pain flared in your jaw, eyes meeting his—cold, cruel. You wished you had the strength to break free.

"You’ve been real stubborn, sweetheart," he sneered, his voice thick with mockery, each syllable a deliberate attempt to grind down your will. "But I’m done playing games."

The slap struck without warning, the sharp crack reverberating through the cold, sterile room. Your head whipped to the side, the force of the blow rattling your skull. Stars erupted in your vision, shimmering like jagged shards of glass that stabbed behind your eyes. Pain flared hot and immediate, radiating down your neck and into your jaw. The metallic tang of blood filled your mouth as you bit into your cheek, swallowing hard to lock the pain away.

Don’t scream. Don’t give them what they want.

"Let me ask again." Another sharp and venomous voice cut through the ringing in your ears. "Where’s the drive?" His tone was low but seething, each syllable curling around you like smoke, suffocating and invasive. The promise of violence dripped from his words, not a threat but a certainty. He prowled before you like a predator scenting weakness, his boots striking the concrete with methodical, measured force. Every step echoed in the barren room, magnifying the oppressive silence that swelled between each question.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, bracing against the weight of his presence. The sound of his slow and deliberate footsteps felt like a countdown—each strike a warning of how close he was to shattering you. Your breath hitched, catching painfully in your bruised ribs, the ache growing sharper with every shallow inhale. You tried to shift, to ease the strain on your wrists, but the ropes cut more profoundly into your raw skin, a cruel reminder of how completely trapped you were.

Your mind was a battleground, fear and resolve warring with every passing second. You couldn’t give them what they wanted. Not the drive. Not your will. Not the satisfaction of seeing you break. But the thought of enduring more—the blows, the taunts, the suffocating pressure of their hatred—pressed against you like a vice. A flicker of doubt crept in, its whisper insidious: How much longer can you hold out?

You pushed the thought away, clinging to Ghost’s voice like a lifeline. Hold on for me. I’m comin’ for ya. The memory of his words steadied you, even as the predator’s shadow loomed closer.

"Still no answer?" His voice dropped lower, almost mocking now, but the kind of mockery promised pain, not laughter. You heard him stop before you and felt his presence like a heavy weight pressing down your chest. The scrape of his boot against the floor sent a shiver down your spine.

Your head throbbed, ears ringing, but you forced yourself to look up. Every instinct screamed: submit. You didn’t. Cracked lips, a swollen face—none of it mattered. You met his gaze, defiance burning bright through the pain.

"I don’t know where it is," you rasped, your voice hoarse but steady. Each word burned like fire in your throat, raw and grating, but they emerged strong enough to cut through the silence.

The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with tension. His jaw tightened, and you could see the flicker of frustration in his cold, calculating eyes. He hated that you hadn’t broken yet, that his methods weren’t enough. That small, fleeting victory stoked the embers of your resolve.

"You’re lying," he hissed, stepping closer, the scent of stale sweat and smoke rolling off him in waves. His hand shot out, gripping your jaw with bruising force, tilting your head up as he leaned in. "I can see it in your eyes." His breath was hot against your cheek, his sneer cutting through the haze of your pain.

You bit back the tremble threatening to betray you. Pain radiated from his grip, shooting through your skull, but you refused to flinch. Refused to give him the satisfaction.

Ghost’s words wrapped around you like armor, burning bright in the darkness. You clung to them, repeating them like a mantra. You had to believe him. Without him, the pain would swallow you whole. Without that belief and him, the pain would be unbearable. But with him—just the thought of him—it was manageable. He was your anchor, your shield, the one thing they couldn’t take from you, no matter how hard they tried. You clung to his words like driftwood in a storm. Each blow sent the world spinning, pain tearing through you. But his voice held you together—steady, resolute, unbreakable.

They could break your body, shatter your bones, and try to strip you of your will, but they couldn’t touch the promise echoing in your mind. Ghost was out there. His voice was in your ear, in your heart, a steady, unrelenting reminder.

And you believed him.

No matter how much they hurt you or how many times you wanted to give in, you held on to the truth of those words. Ghost was coming for you.

And nothing would stop him.

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