#Morning Star pattern

[bevanne46]

FREE Morning Star Pattern Final project measures 41.5" x 49". Designed by Cortney Heimerl for Robert Kaufman Fabrics. https://www.robertkaufman.com/quilting/quilts_patterns/morning_star/

[techmarkethunter]

Mastering the Morning Star Pattern: A Step-by-Step Guide

Title: Mastering the Morning Star Pattern: A Step-by-Step Guide Introduction:The world of technical analysis offers traders a plethora of tools to identify potential trend reversals and market opportunities. One such powerful pattern is the Morning Star pattern, a three-candlestick formation that signals a potential bullish reversal after a downtrend. In this step-by-step guide, we will explore…

[kirby-the-gorb]

if you eventually want to see the crochet lace work I struggled all day on fixing I am now sporadically posting my crafts on @sleepy-princess-craftery

[thisbuildinghasfeelings]

It’s love ❤️

[cheezyharu]

O. Oh wow a speed increase really DOES help w scoring (DFTM/LK exp sightreads while I’m trying out more 12+s)

Also some older ones. Tried to dabble into 13 w Valsqotch…. Which is probably not a good intro to 13 but. Oh well that’s a really decent score I think

[abubblyboo]

“Polaris. Indentura. Kolmamis. Tre’Ogdta.” Each word, the name of a constellation. His fingertip tracing the stars on my palm. It is poetry. I lean over to kiss him on the forehead. He does not recoil, too focused on his task to care. “Velminth. Ausa. The Twins. Gemshine.”

I almost do not catch it: the gentlest press of his lips against my skin. His next words are, “Beloved. Holy. Sacred. Kin.”

[shouyuus]

18+, vi-shaped brainrot, mdni

consider college roommate!vi who is the star of the rugby team and just such a fucking jock about it, spends hours at the gym, has pre and post workout drinks and never closes her door when she's blasting rock music, leaves pink hair dye on the bathroom counter, stains the tub when she gets drunk and tries to redo her roots, calls you everything but your name -- sweetcheeks, dollface, cupcake, princess -- isn't shy about her hookups, doesn't even bother to apologize the mornings after another pretty cheerleader scampers out of her room, shrugs and winks when you come out of the bathroom with a tiny thong dangling off your finger that's clearly not either of yours.

college roommate!vi who does kickboxing on the weekends and teaches a kid's course at the local gym. the first time you go there to drop something of her's off as a favor, you can't help but stare at the way she laughs and chases the kids around, so gentle with her movements, so careful, guiding their punches, correcting their forms. and the kids love her -- it's so easy to see, the stars in their eyes, the color high in their cheeks, the way the girls cluster around her legs and the boys are constantly vying for her approval, how she tries her best to divide up her attention equally between all of them.

college roommate!vi who goes real quiet the first time you laugh in her presence, a real laugh, not one of those ha-ha ones you snipe at her when she's trying to get a rise out of you, or teasing you about spending all your time in the library, but one that shakes your shoulders and makes your whole face light up. who has to blink when you cock your head and ask if she's okay bc she was so busy staring at you, wondering about the weird thumping in her chest, the tightness in her throat.

college roommate!vi who's there for you when you're stressed about your dissertation, and she knew you were smart, but listening to you rant about it at 3am in the morning, she's starting to realize that... you're kind of a genius. to be so young and already doing a doctorate in mechanical engineering, and the things you're trying to do -- they could conceivably change the world one day. who freezes when you let your head drop onto her shoulder with a heavy sigh, telling her that you don't know what to do.

"you'll figure it out, cupcake. with a brain like yours? you always do."

college roommate!vi who realizes way too late that she's kinda got it bad for you, bc since when did she start getting used to the sight of you wearing one of her gym shirts in the mornings, making scrambled eggs, rolling your eyes when she yawns her way into the tiny kitchen, leaning an arm against the fridge as she looks you over before asking what's for breakfast. who's gotten so used to falling asleep to the soft clatter of your computer keys that when you leave to visit your family for a weekend, she tosses and turns and can't figure out why it's impossible for her to get to sleep, wanders into sliver of space you guys have crammed a couch and tv into to call a living room, slumping down there to stare at the ceiling, only to feel her fingers graze against something on the ground, who tugs out the thing from under the couch only to find herself staring at one of your bunched up socks with the goofy cartoon cats pattern, and she remembers (suddenly) finding you tearing your room apart the week before trying to look for it because it's your favorite pair of socks.

she finds herself chuckling, letting the sock fall again, but the tightness in her throat doesn't recede, and invisible fingers clench in her gut as she lets her eyes fall shut.

"well... fuck."

college roommate!vi who doesn't know how to act when you get back from your weekend away, when you throw yourself into her arms, your skin still smelling of the crisp fall air and something warm, and spicy -- it reminds her of the holiday market you dragged her to last year, the cinnamon and spiced apples, the hot, mulled wine, the way it burned all the way down when she took the first sip, the way it worked the most darling flush into your cheeks above your pink knit scarf.

"i've got a present for you!" you say, when you finally extricate yourself from her gasp, your arms still around her shoulders, her hands still settled around your waist.

"y-yeah? you didn't have to do that, sweetcheeks --"

"yeah, but i saw this in a store window and -- well i just... it reminded me of you," you say, pulling back to dig something out of your travel bag, and it takes everything in vi not to tug you back into her chest. so instead, she settles for knitting her arms across her front and coughing to hide the fact that her throat's just tightened over itself at your words. you? seeing something and thinking of her? gods, she was so far gone.

"here," you say, pulling a small black box out and offering it to her on the palm of your hand.

vi stares, before reaching out to take it, her eyes flickering up towards your face, only to catch you chewing on your bottom lip in a way that makes her mind frizzle out at the edges. she refocuses her attention on the box -- opening it, she finds a tiny little gemstone, set on a thin golden chain --

"oh..." she breathes, tugging out up to let the gem dangle from between her fingers.

"it -- it's an alexandrite stone," you say, your voice a bit reedy, but you push on as vi continues to stare, "it's uhm -- one of the rarest gemstones in nature, but the cool thing is it changes colors depending on what kind of light it's under --" you reach up to grasp her wrist, her lungs seizing at the contact as you tug her into the incandescent light of the kitchen. "see? it was light blue a second ago, right? and now it's --"

"violet," vi says, her voice soft and disbelieving.

you quickly let go of her wrist, pursing your lips and wrapping your arms around yourself, looking anywhere but at her face.

"yeah -- i just --" your shoulders shrug up as she stares at you, her sky-light eyes wide, "it... it reminded me of... you."

college roommate!vi who, ever since the "necklace incident" (as the rest of the rugby team likes to call it), hasn't really been the same. she's put on the necklace and not taken it off for even a second since the day you gave it to her, but now she doesn't really know how to act around you -- bc did you actually like her? i mean, the necklace is... a pretty big thing to just give someone, but what if you were just giving it to her as a friend? as a roommate? she agonizes over it to the point that the rest of the team are so, so sick of hearing about it, they lovingly tell her to just fuck her and get it over with already. but vi insists that she can't -- it's different with you.

college roommate!vi who's stunned speechless when she gets home to find you staring at your computer, your expression blank. and at first, she thinks something's horribly wrong, but then you're slamming into her, squealing about how you've done it -- your thesis defense went well, that you're a doctor now -- and she's picking you up, spinning you around, buoyed up by the effervescence of your happiness, pressing a kiss to your cheek --

"oh my god, congrats princess! i knew it! i always knew you could do it!"

"thanks -- god, i just -- i've wanted it for so long i... i don't know what to do with myself now that i've got it, y'know?" you say, still suspended in vi's arms, your feet lifted off the ground. it takes a moment before you both seem to realize the position you're in, and vi clears her throat as she lets you down, you looking away, pressing your palms to your cheeks to cool the heat gathering there.

after a brief pause though, vi chuckles, reaching out to slip a finger beneath your chin, tilting your face up towards her's.

"c'mon, put on one of those pretty dresses of yours. we're going out."

"out?"

"yeah. to celebrate."

you blink as vi pulls her hand away.

"but it's like... 4:30 on a tuesday."

vi cocks an eyebrow, a smirk twitching at her lips, "yes, and? c'mon cupcake --" her eyes catch yours and instead of looking away, she holds it this time, something flickering behind their powder-blue depths that makes your skin prickle with heat, "i'll show you a good time."

college roommate!vi who takes you to one of her favorite clubs, tugging you through the crowd, the jostling bodies, holding your hand in her's, trying really hard not to think too much about it (or the fucking insane little black and pink miniskirt you put on), telling herself that it's just to make sure she doesn't lose you in the crowd, grinning when someone knocks you into her chest, and she finds her arm wrapped around your waist, fingers scrunching the material of your skirt, your palms splayed on her chest.

she buys the both of you a round of shots, watching with a hitched breath as your tongue flickers out to lick the salt daubed on your wrist, the way your eyes squeeze shut when you take the shot and your lips wrap around the lime slice, tries to ignore the twist in her gut like a turning blade, the way her whole body flushes with heat, the dull ache caught between her legs when you wipe your lips, your eyes bright and a little blown out, your cheeks flushed with color as you giggle and lace your hands with hers again --

"come on! i wanna dance!"

college roommate!vi who is just drunk enough to let herself dance with you, to let herself lean in to the way you're twisting your body, fingers in your hair, your eyes closed, an indulgent smile on your lips, who let's herself imagine (just for a second), pulling you in to kiss you, how soft your lips might feel on hers, how silken your skin might be beneath her hands, who tries not to groan when you lean in closer, link your arms behind her neck, press your whole body against her's, who grips your hips just a little too tight, grinds you against her, sees the way you gasp, your eyelids fluttering as you eyes glaze out --

college roommate!vi who can't help how she groans at the sight, tugs you in by the back of your neck to mash her lips to yours, crushing you to her as she kisses you (finally, finally) and you let yourself he kissed -- your fingers tangle in her choppy pink hair, and she swears you make this sweet, mind-bending whimpering noise in the back of your throat that drives her up the wall and right over it --

but when she pulls back, she sees the look on your face -- shocked and little confused, but you're drunk, and she doesn't wanna do this with you -- at least, not like this.

college roommate!vi who pulls away, only to have you follow her all the way out the club, into this small dark alley, her shaking her head, feeling a strange, saltwater prickle at the back of her throat as she says --

"shit -- sorry. i didn't mean to -- i just -- you were just so -- and i -- fuck, i didn't --"

"vi -- vi -- no, violet, listen to me --"

it's her full name on your lips that makes her pause, makes her turn to find you walking towards her. your lipstick is smeared, your hair a waterfall mess around your shoulders as you corner her against the rough brick of the club's exterior. faintly, she can still feel the pulse of music reverberating from inside the club, but out here, the air is damp and cold and quiet.

"i -- i'm sorry i kissed you," she says, her voice cracking over the syllables. she bites her lips as you frown up at her, your eyes searching her's before you let out a soft sigh and a scoff.

"well. i'm sorry you feel that way. cause..." you take half a step back, your arms curling around yourself before you glance back at her with a hard, determined light to your eyes as you press back into her space, your cheeks bright with color.

"i was really kinda hoping you'd do it again."

vi's breath punches out of her chest; it takes a few seconds of sputtering before she gathers herself enough to speak.

"wait -- what? you..."

you crinkle your nose, rolling your eyes, "i -- i thought i was making it obvious -- i mean, with the whole necklace thing -- it doesn't take a genius to figure how i feel about --"

you squeak as she pins you against the opposite wall, her lips seeking yours out, her fingers rucking up the material of your top, making you hiccup as they tease under the wire-rim of your bra.

college roommate!vi who can barely control herself when you sink your fingers into her hair, tugging lightly as you gasp out a breath, her lips tracking fire along the side of your neck, intent on making you whimper again, just the way she likes, grazing her teeth along your collarbone even as you jerk at her hair --

"vi -- fuck -- vi, not here --" you swallow around the burgeoning desire, and when you glance down to find her looking up at you, her eyes so dark they're almost black, you fight back a groan, cup your palms around her cheeks and pull her up for a long kiss.

"let's --" you suck in a breath even as vi whines at the loss your lips, "let's go home --"

"holy fuck," vi swears, somehow managing to pull herself back just far enough to taste the misty night air. she stares at you, your chest heaving, a daisy-chain of hickeys blossoming along the long expanse of your neck, your makeup good and smeared, your hair a mess, your eyes bright and so full of love as they flicker over her face.

vi smiles, helpless to the loud, uncertain drumming of her heart as she says, "y-yeah -- let's get you home, princess."

college roommate!vi who barely waits for the elevator door to close in your building before she's got you shoved up against the wall, hoisting you up, her fingers seeking out the softness of your skin, tugging up your shirt, her other hand dipping into the waistband of your skirt, her mouth open and hungry as she kisses your neck, bites down at the junction of your shoulder just to hear you moan.

college roommate!vi who's way too good at undoing your bra with one hand the second you get back to your apartment (if you were more coherent, you might've thought it hot), the door slamming closed, the pair of you toppling onto the room, breathy laughs and panting whines as she hoists you into her arms and carries you to your bedroom, laying you down so gently, kissing up your stomach till you're whimpering, your own hands pulling your top off your body, leaving you in an undone-bra and a miniskirt, your cheeks flushed. you push yourself up onto your elbows, watching as vi peaks up at you from between your legs, shooting you a wink before she's tugging down your skirt and panties all in one, an eyebrow ticking up at the lil lacey thing you had on beneath the skirt all along.

"all this for me, pretty?"

you press your lips, eyes cutting away as she looks between the bra dangling off your shoulders and the panties caught round your ankles. her lashes flutter.

"oh, a matching set," she cocks her head, running her palms up your thighs, pinning them open again as you try to press them closed, feeling suddenly much too seen (bc you'd be straight up lying if you hadn't put it on in the vague hope that the night might evolve into something like this).

she clicks her tongue, shaking her head with a cocky, shit-eating grin that makes your heart skitter in your chest. her drops a light kiss to your inner thigh, savoring in the way you whine again.

"nope, keep 'em open princess."

college roommate!vi who takes her time with you, bc rly she's been waiting way too long for this, has imagined it one too many times, but nothing can compare to the way your hips jerk up against her mouth, the way your fingers tighten in her hair every time she licks up the seam of your cunt, the way your breath catches on her name over and over again, like you can't quite get the word out even though it's just a single syllable. she groans against you, too lost in the taste of you to care about what a mess she must look like, with her tongue fucking into your desperate hole, her nose nudging your clit, her fingers digging crescent moon marks into your hipbones.

she's sure that if this were an old-fashioned cartoon, there'd be big, balloon hearts popping out of her eyes. she can't get enough of you like this -- moaning her name, your legs on either side of her face, your skin littered with the remnants of her. she has the eye-rolling thought of you the next morning, of how all these marks will still be there to remind you of her every single time you see one of them.

college roommate!vi who doesn't expect you to flip over after she's literally eaten you out seven ways to sunday, to tug her in for a soft kiss (though she really does like pressing your own taste back into your mouth with her tongue), before your fingers are inching down the length of her body to tease at her hips, trailing circles down the lines of her abs, toying with the thin line of hair that leads into her black boxer briefs.

"what are you --"

you shoot her a look that has her mouth going dry.

"what? didn't think i can give as good as i get?"

college roommate!vi who's literally going to lose her mind with the way you're fingers (at first sight so thin and delicate, but gods are they stronger than they look) are pressing into her, curling up with the kind of precision usually only associated with doctors, and then a voice in the back of her head reminds her -- oh, right, you are a doctor now. but logical thought dies after that, bc you've somehow worked your way between her legs and are looking up at her with those big dark eyes of yours, smiling sunshine bright before you drop a kitten-lick against her clit and she's twitching, keening as she cums all over your fingers.

"jesus fuckin' christ, doll -- is that what you're learning in those engineering classes?"

she's breathless, cheeks flushed, and honestly just a little embarrassed at how quickly she came, but she has to bite back another groan as she watches you lick your fingers clean, grinning sweetly up at her as if you didn't just get her off in record time.

"no, but i did do my dissertation on human-based robotics, which included a lot of late nights memorizing anatomical models so..."

vi pulls you in for a kiss, laughing against your lips.

"you're amazing, y'know that?"

college roommate!vi who can't really believe how much she's lucked out, sharing an apartment with her girlfriend, who literally cannot shut up about you, but the rugby team all agree that they'd rather have this than the months of endless pining. who brags about her genius gf to anyone who'll listen, and looks for you in the stands of all her practice matches when you can make it, who kisses you in front of everyone even when you make a show of trying to wiggle away bc she's sweaty (you don't really care).

who loves telling the story of how you guys met bc she still can't quite believe it herself, and the story always starts with --

"well, actually -- we started off as roommates."

[arkaiveofurown]

Unseen

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x Reader

Sanji flirts with every woman he meets, yet with you, there’s nothing. No swooning, no sweet words, not even a blush. It leaves you wondering… why do you seem invisible to him?

Word Count: ~2,200

tag: fluff

my masterlist here ♡

——

The first time you stepped onto the Thousand Sunny, Sanji didn’t faint. He didn’t sprout hearts from his eyes or launch into poetic flattery. He simply… nodded.

“Welcome aboard,” he said politely, adjusting his tie.

That was it. No roses, no flirty remarks, no swooning. Just a brief greeting.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. You had just joined the crew after all, and you weren’t expecting a grand entrance. But when Nami casually mentioned it later, it stuck with you.

“Wow, he didn’t even drool this time. You might be the first.”

You laughed along, but deep down, it left a small ache in your chest.

It wasn’t like you expected anything. You’d joined as a mapkeeper and assistant navigator, someone quiet and observant. But it was hard not to notice the way Sanji practically worshipped every woman who stepped on board. Robin always had coffee before she even asked. Nami had a seat pulled out for her every meal. You?

You got a plate and a soft “here you go.” No nicknames. No sparkles.

So you told yourself: You’re just not his type.

And it was fine. Or at least, you pretended it was.

——

Zoro saw it first. Sanji, standing outside the galley one morning, tray in hand, just… staring.

You were down the hall, laughing at something Luffy said. The sun caught your face just right, and Sanji? He froze like an idiot.

“Oi, cook,” Zoro muttered. “You gonna serve that or stand there drooling?”

Sanji flinched and muttered a curse. “Shut up. I’m just—checking the balance of the tray.”

“Uh huh.”

Zoro didn’t buy it. Over the next week, he started noticing the pattern.

Whenever you were around, Sanji got weirdly quiet. When you entered the kitchen, he found a reason to leave. When you complimented the food, he thanked you and turned away, ears pink.

“You’ve got it bad,” Zoro told him one night.

Sanji lit a cigarette and stared at the sea. “She’s not like the others.”

“Because she doesn’t punch you for being a perv?”

“No. Because she actually sees me.”

Zoro rolled his eyes. “You’re such a sap.”

“…Maybe.”

——

You leaned over the kitchen counter one afternoon, watching Sanji stir a pot.

“That smells incredible,” you said, inhaling.

He stiffened. “You… think so?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I don’t know how you always get the seasoning so perfect.”

His fingers fumbled the spoon. “Years of practice. Tasting. Balancing—uh, it’s not that hard.”

You tilted your head. “You always downplay it around me.”

“What?”

“You’re proud when Nami compliments you. You give Robin full ingredient breakdowns. But when I say something, you get all weird.”

He coughed awkwardly, grabbing the salt. “I—I do not.”

“You do,” you said softly, the joke falling flat as something in your chest twisted. “It’s fine, though. I guess I’m not really… your type.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. And for a moment, the kitchen felt too quiet. You busied yourself with brushing crumbs off the counter, trying to act like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

You’d seen the way Sanji looked at every other woman—stars in his eyes, endless flattery, a poetic streak a mile wide. Meanwhile, you got nods. Maybe a smile if you were lucky. No pet names. No swooning. You couldn’t help but wonder if something about you just didn’t measure up.

Too plain. Too quiet. Not glamorous enough.

Maybe he just didn’t see you the way you saw him.

Sanji didn’t say anything for a long beat. Then his voice came, low and strange.

“…You’re not boring. You’re the opposite of boring.”

You looked at him, surprised.

“What’s that mean?”

But he was already moving again, pretending to focus on a tray of bread as his face turned red.

“I’ve got stuff in the oven,” he said quickly, already backing toward the pantry. “Gotta check the spice rack. Or… something.”

And just like that, he was gone.

You stood in the kitchen alone, staring after him, your heart a tangle of confusion.

You weren’t sure what hurt more—that he kept running from you…

Or the possibility that it wasn’t rejection at all.

Just something deeper he didn’t know how to name.

——

“Nami,” you said quietly one night, sitting beneath the stars, “Do you think… I’m Sanji’s type?”

Nami blinked. “What?”

You shrugged. “He’s never flirted with me. Not once. I figured… I don’t know. Maybe I’m not pretty enough.”

Nami stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Are you kidding? Sanji blushes so hard when you enter the room, he has to stir soup just to calm down.”

You frowned. “What?”

“He’s obsessed with you.”

You shook your head. “But he doesn’t even talk to me half the time.”

Nami sighed. “Exactly. That’s how you know it’s real. You’ve seen him flirt—he lays it on thick when it’s easy. With you, it’s not.”

“…Why?”

“Because you matter,” Nami said simply. “You’re not a crush. You’re you.”

And suddenly, all the quiet glances, the silence, the fumbling—it made sense.

——

It was raining on the next island. You pulled your hood tighter and jogged ahead, boots splashing through puddles as you helped Nami carry supplies back to the ship.

Sanji was waiting at the docks, umbrella in hand. The second he saw you, something shifted.

Everything slowed.

He watched you running through the rain, hair damp, laughing, cheeks pink from the cold. Your eyes found his—and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

He held the umbrella out as you ducked beneath it beside him.

“Thanks,” you murmured, catching your breath.

He stared.

“Sanji?”

He blinked. “Y-Yeah. You’re welcome.”

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

“…I’m doomed,” he muttered.

You laughed. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Let’s get inside before you catch cold.”

——

You found him in the kitchen later that night, leaning against the counter, cigarette unlit between his fingers.

“You always stare at me like that when I’m not looking?” you asked.

He jumped. “W-What?!”

You smiled. “Zoro told me. And Nami. And Chopper.”

He groaned. “Traitors.”

“Why don’t you flirt with me?” you asked softly.

He swallowed. “Because I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He looked up, eyes burning. “Because you’re not a fantasy, Y/N. You’re real. You laugh when I’m stupid and smile when I’m quiet and I—” he broke off, voice low, “—I don’t want to screw it up.”

You stepped forward.

“What if I told you it’s okay to be nervous? That I see you, too?”

He stared.

“And what if I said I like the version of you that gets shy more than the one who flirts?”

He dropped the cigarette.

“I’d say…” he whispered, “…that’s the best lie I’ve ever heard.”

You grinned.

“It’s not a lie.”

——

The next morning, he pulled out your chair at breakfast.

“Good morning, my sunshine,” he said dramatically, hand over his heart.

You raised an eyebrow.

“You flirting with me now?”

He smirked, blush rising. “Maybe I’m just making up for lost time.”

Zoro groaned. “He’s back.”

But this time, Sanji didn’t wink at Nami or flirt with Robin.

He just kept stealing glances at you.

And when you caught him, instead of looking away, he smiled.

Because for once, he wasn’t scared.

[jijournal]

"Jealous Much?" | D.M

Potter!reader x Draco Malfoy

Summary: You receive a letter with a gift every week, and your brother Harry and his friends won’t stop teasing you about a “mystery admirer.” Little does he know, the sender is the last person he’d ever expect.

A/N: I'm currently in love with potter!reader x draco scenarios. ♡

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It started about a month ago—a quiet little mystery that became your favorite part of the week.

Every Friday morning, just as the Great Hall buzzed with chatter and clinking silverware, a sleek, pale-gray owl swooped down gracefully and landed in front of you. It was never late. And it always brought something thoughtful—something that made your heart race just a little.

The first gift had been a delicate silver charm bracelet, simple but elegant, with a tiny serpent dangling from the chain. The note attached was written in tidy script:

“Something subtle… to keep me close, even when I’m not there.”

The second week, it was a small box of enchanted chocolates—each one shaped like a star, and when you bit into them, they whispered things like, “You’re beautiful,” and “Thinking of you.” The letter that time said:

“A little sweetness to match yours. Don’t share them with Weasley.”

You had giggled at that one, earning a curious look from Harry across the table.

Week three, it was a pressed flower—some kind of rare, deep purple bloom you’d never seen before—enchanted so it would never wilt. The note was shorter that time, but no less meaningful:

“Even something rare and beautiful pales next to you.”

And today? As the owl landed gracefully in front of you, heads turned, and Harry, who had already caught on to the pattern, raised his eyebrows with exaggerated interest. You untied the small parcel and unfolded the parchment first.

It read:

“Meet me tonight. Same place. P.S. You look stunning when you smile at my letters.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you unwrapped the gift—a silver locket. When you clicked it open, inside was a tiny photo of you (one you didn’t even remember being taken) smiling down at something out of frame. Opposite it was a moving image of Draco, eyes soft and a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. Your heart squeezed.

“Alright,” Harry said, setting down his fork and leaning forward on his elbows. “This is getting serious now. A locket? You have to tell me who it is.”

Ron and Hermione both looked up, curious and amused, but Harry was the most relentless.

“I’m guessing—hmm—Ernie Macmillan.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking the locket carefully into your pocket. “Nope.”

“Michael Corner?”

“Wrong again.”

“Hmm…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Zabini? He’s smooth.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Lockhart?!” Harry gasped suddenly, eyes wide with mock horror. “Is it Lockhart? You can tell me!”

“Harry!” you squeaked, swatting at him, your face burning as you laughed.

“Look at her blush!” Harry crowed. “It’s Lockhart. Case closed.”

Ron groaned. “Please, no one wants to think about that.”

That night, you slipped out like usual, heart thudding as you made your way through the secret passage to your hidden meeting spot. And sure enough, there was Draco, already waiting, arms crossed, expression… stormy.

You frowned. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer at first, just glared down at the ground. His jaw was tight, and he seemed to be brooding even more than usual.

“Draco?” you pressed, stepping closer.

Finally, he huffed and muttered, “If your brother keeps talking about other boys, I swear I’m going to hex him into next week.”

You blinked, startled—then burst out laughing. “That’s why you’re sulking?”

Draco scowled but didn’t deny it. “It’s annoying. All day, it’s been Corner this and Zabini that—and Lockhart?! Are you kidding me? I should’ve hexed Potter right then and there.”

You giggled, sliding your arms around his waist. “Jealous, much?”

“Maybe.” Draco didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes were sharp but softened when you reached up to brush his hair back.

“You know it’s only ever you, right?”

That earned a rare, genuine smile. He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, pulling you flush against him like he never wanted to let go.

“Let them guess,” you whispered against his lips. “It’s more fun that way.”

“As long as you remember who you belong to,” Draco murmured, smirking now, possessive but playful.

You laughed, pecking his lips. “Always.”

⸻

The following Friday, you thought maybe things would settle down. But oh, how wrong you were.

The owl swooped in as usual—but this time, it carried a huge box. Bigger than any gift so far. You stared as it dropped the package in front of you with a graceful thud.

“Oh, this is serious now,” Harry announced, eyes lighting up as he grabbed the box before you could. “Come on, let’s see what lover boy sent this time.”

You groaned, but Hermione and Ron were already leaning in curiously, and of course, the Weasley twins—never ones to miss out on teasing—slid onto the bench with identical grins.

Harry opened the box dramatically—and all five of them gasped.

Inside was the most stunning gown you’d ever seen: emerald-green silk, shimmering faintly, clearly enchanted, with intricate embroidery that looked too expensive to even touch. You couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Holy—” Fred began.

“—bloody hell,” George finished.

“Is that designer?” Hermione whispered, eyes wide.

Harry held it up, gaping. “This must’ve cost a fortune! Okay, okay, this is big money. We need to think. Who’s rich enough to pull this off?”

You tried to grab it back, face burning. “Harry, stop—”

“Theodore Nott?” Harry guessed first.

“Nope.”

“Mclaggen?”

“Wrong.”

“Zabini?” Hermione chimed in, clearly entertained now.

“Montague?” Fred suggested, holding the dress up to himself with a wink. “If it is, tell him I want one too.”

“Ohhh,” George added dramatically, “I bet it’s one of those international students. Super rich.”

You groaned, hiding your face. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Fred and George shared a look and started chanting, “She’s getting married! She’s getting married!”

“I am NOT—!"

And then it happened.

A sudden clatter of footsteps, sharp and purposeful, echoed across the Great Hall. Everyone turned—and your stomach dropped.

Draco Malfoy was storming across the room, eyes locked on you, face like thunder.

The table fell dead silent.

“Uh… why’s Malfoy coming over here?” Ron muttered nervously.

Draco didn’t stop until he was standing right behind Harry, towering over him with his arms crossed and that deadly glare fixed in place.

“I’m the one who bought the dress, Potter,” Draco announced, his voice cool but sharp, loud enough for half the hall to hear. “Not the cheap students you’re rattling off like some pathetic guessing game."

Silence.

Harry’s jaw dropped. Fred dropped his fork. Hermione blinked like she couldn’t process what had just happened.

Draco turned to you then, gaze softening ever so slightly. “You’ll look stunning in it, by the way.”

Harry's eyes widen even more, practically bulging out of his eye sockets, as Draco leans in to kiss your forehead.

And with that, he spun on his heel and strode out, his cloak following behind him.

There was a beat of stunned silence… and then chaos.

“MALFOY?!” Harry exploded, whipping around to stare at you. “You’re dating MALFOY?!”

Fred and George howled with laughter, practically falling off the bench.

“Ohhh, this is gold,” George gasped between wheezes.

“Best reveal ever,” Fred agreed, wiping tears from his eyes.

Ron just looked horrified, and Hermione… Hermione slowly closed her book, gave you a look, and said, “I knew it.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “…Well. I guess the mystery’s solved.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[isasweetie]

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . drew starkey and the sweetie who interviewed him

you’re nothing — that’s what you always tell yourself, anyway. you’re a journalist at a small magazine company, all potential and questions wasted because you’re relatively shy and big names like vogue tend to hire the louder workers.

it was a shock to you when your editor landed you an interview spot at TIFF. she believed in you, wanted to give you an opportunity to chat with some big names.

walking into the room where the stars would be interviewed by all the big names, you’re accompanied by one photographer who brought his camera to film the interviews. your pink heels click on the ground as you walk, and you feel severly underdressed in a black mini slip dress, with your hair down.

you’re handed the less popular movie stars to interview, but you’re nervous nonetheless. face going red when you stumble during a long question (even if they’re extremely intellectual), and fiddling with your nails while you listen.

you’re assuming everyone you interview is lesser known, based on the pattern occuring, until a very familiar figure walks over. right, you almost forgot you had to interview him.

now, it’s not like you knew him personally. you were both from north carolina and you have a two mutuals on instagram, but you and him weren’t friends. the only reason you know him is because you’d be living under a rock if you didn’t — drew starkey.

you can’t help the way you’re shaking a bit, flustered, nervous, and excited all at once.

“hi, y/n l/n,” you greet, then tell him what magazine you’re from. you shake his hand.

“drew starkey,” his voice is deep and makes you shiver. you’d heard from almost everyone how captivating he is, and now you believe it.

“it’s nice to meet you,” you say gently. his baby blues haven’t left yours yet. “i just watched ‘queer’ last night, drew, it was amazing,” you tell him, easing your way into the interview. “what was it like filming around the world? have you ever done that before?”

“uh, yeah, i have,” he nods. “i went to vancouver to film ‘the other zoey’, i think, and i went to serbia for ‘hellraiser.’ but i mean, i feel like for ‘queer’, it was more of an experience. we filmed everywhere, multiple continents, it was kind of crazy. and i mean, i’m a country boy, north carolina, so experiencing cultures outside of traditional america will always wow me,” he explains. “where are you from?”

you smile when he flips it on you because he’s very polite. “i live in north carolina too.” you tell him.

“no shit,” he smiles. “what part?”

“charlotte. i mean, i’m not orignally from there, but it’s where i live now so…” you shrug.

“where are you originally from?”

“this isn’t my interview, mr. starkey,” you smile at him. he chuckles. “can i ask another question please?”

“yes ma’am,” he relents, and you giggle. his smile grows when you giggle — his eyes haven’t left you.

you ask a couple more questions, and eventually he has to leave to go talk to another journalist. but he grabs your hand again and squeezes it, intense eye contact as he says it was nice to meet you, and to have a nice night. you’re already in a trance, even though you try to convince yourself that he was just being polite. he’s polite to everyone.

when he leaves, you can’t help but turn to the photographer with a smile on your face and your jaw dropped, simply because that was the biggest name you’ve ever spoken to. you’re unaware he never stopped the video.

────୨ৎ────

the morning after, when reporters are posting their interviews everywhere, you can’t go three scrolls on tiktok without drew’s face at TIFF appearing. you’re half-asleep, until it clicks that every interview you’ve seen has been specifically your interview with him. captioned with, ‘how to be this interviewer???’ or ‘the way he looks at her?’ or ‘someone tell her hes taken by me already’, or even ‘he looks a little young for her?’ you’ve gone viral. everyone believes that the drew starkey is into you.

you’re down a rabbit hole. the slo mo videos on him glancing at your lips, then licking his own, the way he squeezed your hand, you and him both giggling. you can’t deny how it might look either.

you go onto drew’s instagram. he doesn’t follow you, and you’re a bit nervous to initiate. so you close your eyes, bracing yourself, before hitting follow. an hour later, he follows you back. you open the app — one new message.

[Drew Starkey] : Hey it’s the cute interviewer from yesterday! How are you?

you could’ve sworn that your lungs gave out right there.

[cherryredstarz]

Hush Meimei

A/n: Caleb’s a dirty perve. ☺️

Cw: NSFW, psuedocest?, use of pet names, breeding kink of you squint

Caleb, bending you over your childhood bed, his hands sliding under the soft fabric of your little pink night dress. You were visiting Grandma Josefine for Christmas—and your dear grandmother was asleep down the hall.

You’re struggling to stay quiet as Caleb’s large, warm hands grope at the plush of your tits, his thumbs rubbing around your pert nipples. You can feel a very prominent bulge against the curve of your ass, and it makes you flush. “Caleb!” You whisper-shout. Your nails dug into the mattress, and in the back of your mind, you were worried about ruining the manicure you’d paid for just days before.

“Hush, pipsqueak. Don’t want to wake Grandma up, do you?” Caleb rasps into your ear. One of his hands travel down your body and stops at your hip, pulling at the straps of your panties as he kisses and nips your neck.

“Don’t ruin my panties again, Caleb!” You mewl. You were beginning to regret wearing your good pair—the pale pink one with a white floral pattern and lace.

“I’ll just buy you another set.” He whispers. You squeak softly as you feel your panties being brought down to your ankles, and hear the distinct rustle of thick fabric, likely Caleb pulling down his sweatpants,

You gasp as your pussy is exposed to the cool night air, and whimper when you feel the swollen tip of his cock notch between your pussy lips. Caleb’s dick is disgustingly large. There is absolutely no way your grandma won’t notice you walking funny in the morning.

“So wet for me, pretty girl.” Caleb nips your earlobe as he lazily rocks his hips, watching as his dick rubs back and forth between your thighs, against your clit. You bite back a moan, and receive a light snack on your ass. “Let it out, pipsqueak. Right into your pillow if you gotta’.”

Feeling one finger enter you, you moan into the pillow, your thighs clenching around his hand as he adds a second and a third finger, pumping in and out of your tight hole. It feels so good.

You let out a frustrated cry when he removes his fingers, sticking his fingers into your mouth. as he thrusts his cock into you. You go crosseyed, tongue mindlessly sliding around his fingers at the taste of your juices.

“So tight..” Caleb moaned, biting your neck and leaving another hickey. He gives you a brief moment to relax and adjust before pounding into you. Your bed frame creaks with each thrust of his hips, tapping against the wall. You pray your grandmother took her hearing aid out before going to bed.

Caleb’s cock just rubs your gummy walls so well—the friction is delicious. His tip repeatedly kisses your cervix and your g-spot. Heat pools in your belly. The sounds you both are making is lewd. Wet slapping has filled your childhood bedroom, and you’ve already squirt on Caleb’s pelvis twice. “So damn wet baby..” Caleb moans into the soft skin of your neck. The bedsheets beneath you both are already soaked with fluid and cum.

Caleb covers your mouth as your moans get louder; you can feel your orgasm rapidly approaching. “So good, huh, baby? You like it when I wreck this tiny hole?” He tilts your head back, nipping at your cheek—he expects a response. You desperately nod, incredibly close to seeing stars.

“M’ gonna fill this pussy up. It’s mine, huh? Gonna breed her. She’s gonna look so cute filled up. Bet she wants a baby, no?” You know Caleb’s about to bust by the way he’s rambling, but you’re sure he’ll keep his promise.

You nearly scream into your pillow when your orgasm rushes over you, your cunt spasming around his dick. Caleb moans as hot cum spurts from his cock, filling your pussy to the brim. His hips keep jerking as you both ride out your highs.

By the time you come too, Caleb flips you over onto your back, and pulls your thighs over his shoulders. Your dazed expression amused him.

“What? You think we’re done already?”

It’s gonna be a long night.

[delicatebarness]

Omg pleaseeee can we have a super soft buckyxreader are in bed together (after activities) and he is having doubts about the New Avengers and his role leading them, reader comforts and reassures him. Anyway she wakes up the next morning to find him getting dressed into his new suit and they have a super soft/fluffy moment? Thank you sm!

someone worth following | bucky barnes

Summary: ^^ Request

Warning: Possible Thunderbolts* Spoilers | Bucky's Anxiety and Self-Doubt | Implied Intimacy / Non-Explicit

Word Count: 678

A/N: I fear I will never stop thinking about Bucky in Thunderbolts*. Also, I hope I did your request and Bucky justice! <3

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes

It was long past midnight, and the whispered praises and tangled limbs had settled into a peaceful quiet. The room was warm, the kind of sticky heat that lingered after Bucky opened himself up to you—something he never allowed until you. 

He lay beside you, one arm wrapped around you. His vibranium fingers traced a lazy pattern along your spine, leaving goosebumps to raise in their wake. The other arm was tucked under his head. Your body shifted closer to him, and you let out a content sigh. But you felt it—the tension under your weight. He wasn’t in the room with you, not really.

“Bucky?” you murmured, resting your chin against his chest to look up at him. “Is everything alright?” 

For a second, he paused his fingers. And you thought that maybe he might pretend to be asleep. Until a slow exhale released what seemed like years’ worth of weight. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke. 

Your brows furrowed, suddenly feeling wide awake. “With what?”

“This—” The arm which was previously under his head, now gestured around the room. “This team. Being their ‘leader’. Being an Avenger.” The title sounded bitter falling from his tongue. “Steve made it seem so easy. Why me? They’re all looking at me for answers I don’t have. Shit, I’m still trying to figure out who the hell I am.” 

“Bucky…” you whispered, lifted from him slightly to look at him properly. His blue eyes were fixated onto the tall ceiling like it held the secret cure to all his problems. After brushing a stray strand of his hair back from his forehead, your hand rested on his cheek. “You don’t have to be Steve.” 

“I know,” he said, yet there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “I just—I don’t want to let them down. I can’t get anyone else hurt. Or killed.” 

Leaning in closer to him, your fingers traced over the letters of dog tags and kissed his shoulder. Then his jaw. “You care, James Bucky Barnes. And that already makes you a better leader than most.” 

He turned toward you then, his eyes searching yours and his vibranium grip on your hip tightened.

“You’re steady even when you’re unsure and it’s hard. You think before you act… mostly. You listen. And you’ve never taken this role lightly. They trust you to lead them because they see your worth. And so do I.” 

He blinked, not responding straight away, at least not verbally. Something unreadable passed through his eyes before his arm tensed around you. Bucky pulled you in until you were chest to chest, nose to nose. 

“I’m scared,” he admitted in a breathy whisper. 

“I know,” you nodded. “But you’re not alone.” 

The other side of the bed was cold when you woke a few hours later. With a frown, you blinked against the morning light spilling in through the curtains. “B-Bucky?”

You alerted your attention over toward the vanity mirror upon hearing a rustle from the direction. Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze landed on him.

Bucky stood, adjusting the collar of a dark, sleek suit near the mirror. It was black and matte, a subtle, modern armored texture adorning his broad frame. Tailored to him, in every way possible. A red star lined his right arm, catching the light, while his left—gold-and-black vibranium arm—shimmered, bold and unmistakable. The new Avengers insignia sat high, proudly on his chest. 

He looked strong.

Commanding. 

Like a leader. 

His expression softened when he caught your eye in the mirror. 

“You look incredible,” you said, unable to hide your smile tugging at your lips. He turned, and you watched his cheeks pink just a little. “Like someone worth following.” 

He chuckled quietly, crossing the room and leaning down to kiss you. He was soft, lingering. Your fingers reached up to his hair, scraping your nails over his scalp gently.

Pulling back, he rested his forehead against yours. “Dinner tonight?” 

You smiled, nodding. “Don’t leave me waiting.”

___

[colouredbyd]

Bitter Sweetness

poly!marauders x fem!reader with diabetes

summary: you mistake your boyfriends worry for pity, which makes you feel small, fragile, and broken. so you push them away, needing to prove you’re not something to be protected, only to find yourself alone in the infirmary, aching with more than just a sugar drop. but not all worry is pity, and not all softness is weakness.

w/c: 7.5k (i swear i dont know how it came out this long)

warnings: chronic illness (diabetes), medical emergency, fainting, emotional distress, yelling, arguments, insecurity, overthinking, self-worth struggles, miscommunication, soft angst, fluff, comfort, feeling like a burden, self-blame, emotional hurt/comfort. can be read for any illness!!!

requested: here!!

a/n: this was so so so sweet to write !! <3 had to add a mention of my own struggles, as i heavily related to this for a long time :(

masterlist

The morning breathes strange against your skin. Like something is off-kilter in the universe, a quiet crookedness that only your body seems to notice. 

It’s not sharp, not dramatic, but it’s enough. Enough to make you feel like gravity has forgotten how to hold you the way it used to. Enough to make your limbs feel borrowed, your bones like wet paper, your stomach turning slowly beneath the hush of your sheets. 

There’s a hollowness behind your ribs, an ache you recognize — not pain exactly, but absence. Something missing in your blood. Something you’ve learned to read like a prophecy written just under your skin.

You know this feeling. Know it like an old friend you wish you could forget. The blood sugar dip, the slow unraveling of clarity, the prickling behind your eyes. The way the air starts to feel heavier than it should, as if simply waking up demands more of you than it asks of anyone else. 

And still, you stay still. Not because you think it will pass, but because moving would mean admitting it’s real. And if you admit it, they’ll know. And if they know — you will lose the illusion of strength you’ve fought so hard to keep stitched together.

Because they love you in a way that is warm, yes. In a way that is endless, yes. But it is also suffocating sometimes — this tenderness, this devotion. It wraps around you like silk dipped in steel. 

You know they don’t mean to make you feel like glass, but gods, they do. It isn’t their fault, not really, but it clings to you anyway. The way they hover. The way they watch you like something might crack open any second. Like your pancreas made you some kind of fallen star they have to keep patching together.

Remus will wake with worry already in his eyes. He always does. Like he’s memorized the shape of your unspoken pain and carries it in the hollows of his hands. He’ll look at you like a riddle he can’t quite solve. Scribble in his notebook when he thinks you’re not looking, trying to find patterns. Trying to outsmart a body that never plays fair. He means well, of course he does, but sometimes his kindness tastes too much like surveillance.

Sirius will make jokes, always the charm, always the sparkle. Calling you his sweetheart with a wink that’s meant to be clever but lands too close to the truth. He’ll pretend it doesn’t bother him. Pretend your slurred words don’t gut him. That your trembling doesn’t keep him awake long after you’ve fallen asleep. He’ll try to turn it all into some kind of game. But you know the way his hands tremble when he pours you juice, and you hate that you’ve made him afraid of mornings.

And James — James with his untamed heart and his relentless devotion. He’ll react the way he always does. With panic beneath his patience. He’ll press the back of his hand to your forehead like he’s checking for a fever you don’t have. He’ll fetch meters and supplies before you can even ask. He’ll fuss and pace and wrap you in blankets and wrap you in himself until you forget where you end. And even though you love him, gods you do, some part of you still wants to scream.

Because it shouldn’t feel like this. 

Like their love is a mirror, always reflecting back the parts of you you wish they wouldn’t see. The fragility. The constant management. The smallness. You know they don’t pity you — you know — but sometimes it feels like they do, or like they should, and the worst part is you can’t even tell if it’s their fault or your own.

So you lie there. Quiet. Letting the fog roll in behind your eyes. Letting the room blur softly around the edges. You hope the feeling will pass. You hope you’ll be strong enough to stand before they wake. You hope they’ll never have to know how much it aches just to be human in this body some mornings. You hope — selfishly — that you can love them and still be whole.

That you can be cared for without letting your insecurities get in the way.

You know you have to move. You can’t lie here any longer, not when the walls are beginning to feel like velvet-lined cages, not when your skin is humming with static and your mouth tastes like cotton and defeat. 

You hate this part the most — the way your body demands permission before you can even sit up. The way it pulls your pride out by the roots and lays it bare at your feet like a challenge. 

It’s just blood. Just numbers. Just sugar and something too human to be this cruel. But still, it’s enough to make you feel like the smallest thing in the world.

You shift beneath the covers, muscles trembling with the effort, breath catching for half a second too long, and the whisper of dizziness curls behind your ears like a secret you didn’t ask to keep. 

Your hands feel wrong — heavy and light all at once — and there’s a part of you, dark and buried, that wants to scream. Not from the pain, not even from the fear, but from the unbearable sense of helplessness that comes with mornings like this, when everything is just a little too hard and you’re already tired of the day before it’s even begun.

But you refuse to be a glass girl. You refuse to be some soft thing to be handled carefully, with gentle voices and hovering hands. You’d rather fall. You’d rather break on your own terms than be coddled back into stillness. 

So you swing your legs over the side of the bed like it doesn’t hurt, like the floor doesn’t rise to meet you too fast. You blink away the blur, press your palm to the nearest bedpost like it might forgive your balance, and stand. Just like that. You stand.

Getting dressed feels like wading through honey, like your limbs are tied down by invisible threads that tug when you try to lift them. You pull on the uniform skirt with shaking hands, the pleats whispering against your skin like secrets, then wrestle your way into the crisp white shirt, buttoning slowly so you don’t have to see the way your fingers hesitate, don’t have to feel the fabric slipping through your grip like water. 

You hate this part too — hate how the tie droops crooked the first three tries, how the jumper clings too tight when your skin already feels too warm, how the robe settles over your shoulders like a weight instead of a cloak. 

You hate that you have to think about any of this at all. You hate how being alive feels like a performance you didn’t audition for.

You don’t stop to test your blood sugar. You don’t want the numbers. You already know you’re low. You can feel it in the way your fingertips tingle, in the cold sweat gathering at the back of your neck, in the way your thoughts slip sideways when you’re not holding them down with both hands. 

Because if they wake up and see you like this — see you swaying just slightly, holding onto the wall like a girl drowning in invisible water — they’ll look at you like they do, like they always do, and the worst part is that it isn’t even condescending, it’s kind. It’s so kind. And that’s what breaks you. That’s what drives the knife deeper.

You’re almost to the door when you hear the low, sleep-rough voice from behind you.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

It’s Sirius. Of course it’s Sirius. Soft and velvet-voiced and too goddamn observant even with his eyes still half-shut. You freeze like a rabbit in snow, not because you’re startled, but because the words feel like a noose.

“I’m fine, Sirius.” You say it sharply. 

But already, you can feel it rising inside you. That slow-burning, teeth-gritting frustration that lives somewhere between your ribs and your pride. It’s not his fault. 

You know it’s not his fault. But it feels like it is. It feels like every syllable of concern is a reminder that your body is a storm they think they can shelter, like you’re something to be managed.

You hate that you snapped. You hate that it felt good. You hate that it makes your eyes sting, even as your shoulders square.

Because it’s not pity, you tell yourself. It’s not. They love you. You know they do. But your insecurity has teeth. And lately it’s been gnawing at the edges of everything they give you. So when Sirius shifts, when he opens his mouth to say something more, you don’t wait to hear it. You open the door and you leave.

And the echo of their care follows you into the hallway like a ghost you can’t stop dragging behind you.

You don’t wait for their sleepy footsteps or the familiar chorus of laughter that usually fills the dorm at breakfast. You slip out quietly, the chill of the morning air biting at the skin just exposed beneath your robe, your heart beating erratically in a rhythm that feels out of sync with the world. 

Your thoughts tangled in a storm of frustration and exhaustion as you weave through the castle corridors, the stone walls cold and indifferent against the ache pulsing through your limbs. 

Each step feels heavier than the last but fueled by a stubborn refusal to be seen as fragile or in need of saving today, or any day for that matter.

Classes blur into one another, the hours stretching like elastic, each lecture a cacophony you half-hear while your body wages a silent war you’re determined not to lose. 

Your vision flickers at the edges, a haze creeping in like smoke curling through the corners of your mind, the low blood sugar gnaws relentlessly at your focus, stealing the sharpness of your thoughts and replacing it with a fog that clings to every syllable the professors utter. 

The once familiar rhythm of lessons reduces to distant echoes as your fingers tremble slightly, betraying the effort it takes to hold a quill steady, the scratch of parchment beneath it a maddening reminder that you should be somewhere else, doing something else, anything but here succumbing to this invisible weight.

You hate the way your body betrays you, how this condition, unseen and silent, strips away your control in moments when you crave it most. 

The irony stings bitterly — you who pride yourself on your strength, your independence, now feeling tethered to this relentless unpredictability, a prisoner in your own skin. 

The ache in your chest deepens as the hunger pains twist and knot, a cruel reminder that your body demands what it needs even when your mind screams for it to be ignored.

The room tilts ever so slightly, forcing your teeth to grit and your jaw to clench, each passing second a battle against the creeping tide of weakness that threatens to pull you under. 

Yet, you refuse to pause, to slow, to rest, because the boys will worry, they will hover, and that suffocating attention is a cage of its own, gilded and beautiful but no less imprisoning. You bite back the pleading in your throat, the silent screams for sugar and rest, pushing onward despite the storm raging beneath your ribs.

The corridors grow longer, the chatter of other students a distant hum you barely register, your footsteps falter more often now. 

The familiar dizziness blossoms into a full-fledged tempest behind your eyes, your vision narrowing as sweat beads at your brow, your hands slipping against the smooth surface of the classroom desk, grounding yourself against the urge to collapse, to cry, to admit that you’re not invincible, that sometimes you’re fragile in ways that no one sees or understands.

But you won’t let them see you like this, won’t give them the satisfaction of pity or the burden of worry, so you bear it alone, swallowing the sharp edges of pain and fatigue, pretending you’re fine when every fiber of your being screams otherwise. 

As the morning stretches into afternoon, the weight of your silence grows heavier, pressing down like a storm cloud refusing to break. 

As the last lesson drags to a close, the oppressive fog in your mind still thick and unyielding, you gather your things with a stubborn precision, the worn leather of your bag rough against your fingers, the weight of it grounding you as you slip quietly from the classroom. 

The halls are bathed in the soft amber glow of afternoon light filtering through stained glass windows, casting fractured colors on the stone beneath your feet. Your steps echo with a hollow rhythm that matches the ache buried deep in your chest, the hunger and dizziness simmering just beneath the surface like an untamed fire you refuse to acknowledge.

You walk briskly down the castle’s winding corridors, the distant chatter of students fading behind you as you navigate the familiar labyrinth, the cool stone walls a silent witness to your silent battle. Your breath is shallow but steady despite the tempest building inside you. 

Just as you round a corner near the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, they appear—James, Remus, Sirius—their expressions lighting up the moment their eyes settle on you. 

A warmth that usually brings comfort now feels like a weighty presence pressing against your fragile resolve. Their eyes immediately lock onto you with a tenderness so thick it feels suffocating. 

The air between them is charged as if they are silently exchanging messages only they understand, those lingering gazes folding around you like invisible chains that tighten with every blink, every subtle glance they cast one another, and instead of comfort, a flash of anger ignites deep within you, a fierce flame against the gentle storm of their concern.

James steps forward first, his smile soft and concerned, voice dripping with a sweetness that you can’t quite bear today. 

“Hey, sweetheart, where have you been? We were worried when you didn’t join us for breakfast.” His words hang in the air like a fragile song, meant to soothe but only amplifying the tension curling in your gut. 

Your throat tightens as you fight the impulse to snap, to tell them you just wanted to breathe without their pity looming over you.

Remus follows, his eyes gentle pools of warmth and unspoken care. 

“We thought something might be wrong, you never skip breakfast, especially not on days like this.” His words are laden with such quiet worry that it almost breaks you, but that same ache twists into a stubborn refusal to let them see your cracks. 

“Are you feeling alright?” he asks, voice a soft caress you want to run from but can’t quite escape.

Sirius, usually the most reckless of the three, leans against the stone archway with a rare seriousness that unsettles you, his gaze sharp but softened by concern. 

“You don’t have to go alone, you know, we’re here, always,” and yet, the very weight of his words feels like a reminder that you’re fragile, like they see you as less than whole, a silent verdict that stings harsher than any accusation.

You force a smile, tight and brittle, the anger simmering beneath your skin flaring hotter as you catch their eyes lingering on you.

 “I’m fine,” you say quickly, voice sharper than intended, “Just didn’t want to slow you all down this morning.” The words taste bitter, a defense mechanism wrapped in fragile pride. 

They don’t ask further, their expressions folding into quiet understanding, as if they already know and don’t want to press, yet their gaze never fully leaves you, tethering you to the care you both crave and resent.

They exchange another glance, subtle and wordless, a silent pact made in the space between their concern and your resistance, and you can feel it—the unspoken message that you are theirs to protect, to worry over, to love fiercely, even when you push against it, even when it makes you burn with frustration and the aching need to prove you are so much more than their fragile, beloved charge.

Remus’s voice cuts through the lingering tension with gentle ease, “Well, dove, we’re all heading to the library to finish the work we have, why don’t you join us?” His words float like a soft invitation, an olive branch in the quiet that’s settled between you. 

Your lips part slightly in response but no words come, you just nod, the silence wrapping around you as the three boys exchange glances that speak of quiet concern and unspoken plans. 

James leans back with that familiar mischievous grin, “Come on, love, it’s better than brooding alone, and Sirius owes us detention for last week.” Sirius throws back with a smirk, eyes twinkling with teasing mischief, “And I’m only paying because you’re charming, Potter, not because I’m scared.” He jabs, earning a laugh from James that fills the corridor with a warmth you almost feel.

You trail behind them into the library, the silence between you and them folding around the pages of books and scattered parchments they begin to pore over. 

James immediately launches into a dramatic explanation of some complicated spell, his voice playful but serious, “Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m the smartest person here.” Sirius chimes in, rolling his eyes with exaggerated disbelief.

“Right, and I’m the King of England.” Their banter bounces back and forth, light and easy, but your mind is elsewhere, your fingers trembling as you try to steady your quill, the words swimming and blurring on the parchment, the hunger twisting in your stomach, the dizziness creeping back like a shadow, your body sending silent warnings you’re determined to ignore.

Remus’s voice drifts to you, gentle, patient, “You okay, dove? You seem a bit off.” 

You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes and murmur, “I’m fine, really,” but the lie tastes bitter on your tongue, your breath coming a little too fast, your vision swimming slightly, the world tilting as the ache inside you deepens, the sickness clawing at your resolve.

James shoots you a look filled with concern but masks it with a teasing grin, “Fine, but if you keel over on us, I’m dragging you back here, understood?” 

Sirius snorts, “I’ll make sure you’re the most pampered patient Hogwarts has ever seen.” 

You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that creeps onto your lips, even as the anger simmers beneath, the way their care feels like a cage, suffocating and sweet all at once. 

You hate that you need them so much even when you want to push them away.

You bite back the urge to snap, to scream that you’re not weak, that their constant hovering only makes you feel smaller, and instead, you tuck the feelings away, focusing on the books and the steady sound of their voices/.

The walk is a blur. The library looms ahead, all towering shelves and dusky light. You take your usual spot between them, but already your mind is slipping. 

You can hear Sirius whispering about how James tried to hex a feather into a quaffle. You can hear James laughing like he always does, warm and wild and boyish. Remus’s pen scratches steadily beside you. It should be comforting. It should feel like home.

But you can’t think.

The numbers on the page blur. The quill in your hand feels heavy. Your body is too warm and too cold all at once. The ache has grown deeper, sharper, like something sinking into your bones. 

The dizziness lurches through you again. Your stomach clenches with the kind of hollow that feels endless. You try to hide the way your fingers curl tighter, the way your foot taps beneath the desk as if movement alone can keep you grounded.

You stand too fast.

“I’m going to the dorm,” you say, your voice clipped and quiet.

Three heads lift. Three pairs of eyes on you.

“You alright, dove?” Remus asks.

“Fine,” you mutter, already turning. “Just tired.”

You don’t wait for permission. You push through the library doors, the cold hallway greeting you like a slap. Your pulse rings in your ears, louder than it should be. The world tilts again, and this time it’s harder to correct.

And then you hear it.

“Wait up!” James’s voice echoes, too soft to be scolding, too firm to ignore.

You spin halfway around, pulse rising.

You see their faces before they even speak — soft edges carved with worry, eyes that look at you like you might shatter if they breathe wrong. 

You hate it, that look, hate the way it wraps around your ribs and pulls tight, hate the way it sets something wild and bitter thrashing in your chest. 

Sirius is the first to take a step forward, his voice a slow murmur,"Sweetheart, talk to us, please," 

and James’s mouth is half open like he wants to say something gentle, something careful, and Remus is just watching, his eyes a little too knowing, a little too still, like he’s already bracing for impact.

And maybe that’s what sets it off.

You snap like glass beneath pressure, your voice coming out louder than you expect, raw and fraying at the edges.

"No — no, don’t — don’t talk to me like that, like I’m something breakable, I’m not — I’m not made of fucking glass," you’re trembling and you know it, your fists clench tight at your sides like maybe you can squeeze the tremor out of your veins, but it’s no use, the storm’s already here and it’s pulling everything down with it.

"I’m so tired of the way you all look at me, like I’m going to fall over if you blink, like I can’t breathe without you there holding my hand."

Sirius flinches, just barely, and James’s brows knit like he’s trying to find the right words and failing, and Remus is the only one who stays still, quiet in the way that only makes your fury burn brighter.

"I get it, okay?" you say, your voice breaking somewhere between a laugh and a sob, "I know I’m not easy to deal with — I know that when I feel like this, I’m not exactly sunshine and smiles, but that doesn’t mean I need you to hover like I’m dying — I don’t need pity, I don’t want pity, I just —"

“Stop looking at me like I’m some delicate thing, like one gust of wind is going to send me spiraling into the floor. I’m not a fucking doll, Sirius!”

His face shifts like he’s been slapped. James opens his mouth as if to speak, but you keep going, because if you stop now, the silence will swallow you whole.

“I wake up every day already behind. Do you know what that feels like? Do you have any idea what it’s like to be inside a body that refuses to cooperate? To feel it before it even hits — the cold sweat, the dizziness, the trembling that creeps in like smoke under a door. And then on top of that, I have to watch the way you look at me.”

Remus tries to step in. You see his mouth open, his eyes soften.

“Don’t,” you hiss, pointing a shaking finger at him. “Don’t tell me you don’t pity me. Don’t say it. Because you do. You all do. You act like it’s care, like it’s love, but I see it in your eyes. That flicker. That flinch. That pause. I’m not stupid.”

Your voice is rising. You’re spiraling, and they know it, and it only makes you angrier. You hate that their faces are so full of softness when you feel so raw, so splintered and exposed.

“I hate this,” you say, quieter now, but no less cutting. 

“I hate that I feel like I have to prove I’m strong every damn day. I hate that I can’t even skip breakfast or get dressed alone without you three acting like I’m about to collapse. I hate that you treat me like I’m made of sugar, like I’ll melt if things get too hard!”

You suck in a breath. Your vision is starting to tunnel at the edges, and you grip the wall behind you without thinking, just to stay upright. The words are getting harder now, sticking in your throat like splinters.

“I hate that I start to believe it,” you whisper, more to yourself than them. “That I am weak. That I’m someone who needs saving.”

James takes a step forward, his eyes soft, but you cut him off with a scream that rips through your throat like lightning.

“I don’t need saving!”

You’re trembling now, chest heaving, rage like molten iron in your bloodstream, and it’s too much. 

It’s too much because your body is already tired, your blood sugar is low, your hands are shaking and your vision is narrowing and your knees are made of smoke.

You open your mouth to yell something more, something cruel, something furious — but the words don’t come. Just a gasp.

The fire cracks. Your breath catches. Your heart gives a lurch.

And then everything tilts.

The corridor sways, the colored glass blurs, the boys’ faces twist into warped smears of panic and motion, and you’re falling before you can even feel it, the scream still half-caught in your throat as your legs collapse beneath you.

“Hey—hey. Love. Look at me.” Remus’s voice cuts sharp through the fog.

But it’s too late.

The fury that held you up has drained you dry. You hit the floor with a thud that echoes through the corridor, head lolling against Sirius’s arm as he catches you mid-fall, breath shallow, eyes slipping shut, the last thing you feel not pain — but shame. 

Shame, and the heavy pull of darkness swallowing your edges.

-

It’s white. That’s the first thing you know.

Not the gentle white of clouds through a window or parchment warmed by the sun, but something colder and brighter. 

The white of sterile linen and potion-light, of a ceiling too still above you and the thin, metallic scent of magic-sterilized air clinging to your tongue. It’s disorienting. Distant. Like you’re not quite in your body yet.

Your fingers twitch against the blanket tucked over your chest. It’s soft — far too soft to be your bed. And the light stings your eyes in a way morning never does.

There’s a muted clink of glass to your left. A voice murmuring — low, measured, careful. You turn your head slowly, as if it weighs too much to carry, and squint through the brightness.

Madam Pomfrey is leaning over another bed nearby. You recognize the girl there even through the fog; Dalia. 

She’s sitting upright with a thick book balanced on her knees, her dark hair pinned back, her expression calm as she listens to the nurse. 

You’ve seen her in classes before — quiet, clever, always with a quill in hand and an answer ready. Not a friend, not even an acquaintance, but familiar. Warm, in that distant way certain people can be.

You remember something else now. Sirius, offhandedly mentioning her once. “That’s Regulus’s girlfriend,” he’d said, like he didn’t care at all, even though you knew him too well to believe it.

She glances up then, sensing your gaze. Her eyes meet yours, soft and aware, and a small smile curves her mouth.

“Hey,” she says gently. “You’re awake.”

Your lips part, but your throat is sandpaper and nothing comes out.

Madam Pomfrey turns at the sound of her voice and sees you, her face breaking into a relieved expression as she makes her way across the room with brisk, familiar efficiency.

“There you are,” she says, checking your forehead, your pulse, the warmth in your palms. “Gave us quite a scare, young lady.”

You try to sit up, but your body protests — heavy, sore, like your bones have filled with lead. “What…” you manage hoarsely. “What happened?”

“You fainted,” she says plainly, adjusting the blanket higher on your chest. “Outside the library, your sugar was low. You’re lucky someone was there.”

The memory returns in broken flashes. The corridor. The boys. Your voice, loud and trembling. The way they looked at you. Concerned. Hurt. The throb in your temples. Then — nothing.

“Did you eat anything today?” Pomfrey asks, arching a brow.

Your silence is enough.

She exhales through her nose, not unkindly, but with that familiar edge of scolding she reserves for repeat offenders. 

“You’ve got to be more careful. You can’t just push through like that when your body is trying to tell you something. You’re not invincible, no matter how stubborn you are.”

You open your mouth, and then — “Where are—”

“They brought you in,” she says, already knowing.

“All three of them. James and Sirius carrying you, Remus storming ahead like he was going to hex anyone who got in the way. Wouldn’t even let me near you until I promised you were stable.”

Your breath catches.

She continues, her voice softening with something that might almost be fondness. “Stayed by your side until your vitals leveled. But when I asked if they wanted to stay, they said maybe you needed space. That you might not want them here when you woke up.”

You feel it like a blow to the chest.

They didn’t stay.

Because you told them not to.

Because you’d screamed in their faces, furious and shaking, eyes burning as you accused them of pitying you, of treating you like glass. You remember Sirius’s face — how it twisted, like your words had punched the air from his lungs. James, blinking like you’d slapped him. And Remus, quiet, shoulders tense, jaw clenched not in anger but in something far more difficult to name.

Shame creeps over your skin, slow and suffocating. It’s thick in your throat and hot in your eyes.

You curl inward under the blanket, as if you can hide from it — from the truth of your own cruelty.

They weren’t trying to make you feel weak. They never have. It was always you, projecting your fears onto their kindness, twisting their care into something uglier because it hurt too much to accept love without condition. And now look at you.

Alone. Dizzy. Hollowed out by your own pride.

Across the room, Dalia watches you gently, her book still open in her lap. She doesn’t say anything else.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

You close your eyes, throat aching. Not from thirst or from sickness, but from the weight of everything you said, everything you felt, everything you pushed away.

You’re not ready to cry.

But you are very, very tired.

It all happens quietly.

One moment, Madam Pomfrey is folding a blanket at the foot of the next bed, muttering to herself about potions inventory and how no one ever listens when she says rest, and the next, the infirmary doors bang open with a gust of cold air and frantic footsteps. 

A small boy — second year, by the look of him — stumbles in, his arm cradled to his chest, face pale with pain and panic. 

Another student follows close behind, stammering apologies. There’s blood, not much, but enough to make Pomfrey rush forward, her voice sharp with instinct and care as she guides the injured student to the bed farthest from yours.

And just like that, you’re left alone again.

The brightness of the room, which once felt clean and safe, now feels exposed and empty.

Your hands tremble beneath the covers, and you press your palms to your eyes, trying to breathe through the tightness in your throat, but it’s no use. 

The tears come anyway — hot and heavy and silent at first, like they’ve been waiting just behind your ribs for this exact moment, when no one’s watching, when no one can try to comfort you and make it worse.

It hurts. 

Not just your body — though that too, the way your limbs feel like stone and your stomach coils with the faint ache of shame and nausea. But the deeper ache is somewhere else. In your chest. In the cruel little part of your mind that keeps whispering you did this, you made them leave, you couldn’t even hold yourself together for them.

You’ve been so angry for so long — and what for? You don’t even know anymore.

You just hate this. Hate how your body betrays you. Hate how you’re so careful, and still it crumbles. Hate how you need help. Hate how soft their voices go when they look at you. Hate how much you love them for it, even as it makes you feel like you're being wrapped in pity instead of love.

You don’t hear Dalia approach.

It’s only when you sense someone hovering near the bed that you lower your hands and blink through the blur, startled to find her standing there, gentle and hesitant. Her book is tucked beneath one arm, and her eyes — a kind, unreadable shade of brown — are searching yours with a careful softness.

“Hey,” she says quietly, like she doesn’t want to startle you. “Are you okay?”

You shake your head without thinking, not even a pause to pretend. You don’t feel okay. You feel cracked down the center.

Dalia doesn't flinch or turn away. She steps closer and sits carefully on the edge of the bed across from yours, legs crossed, hands clasped in her lap. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

You hesitate.

Then, like something in you gives way, your voice spills out, raw and unguarded.

“I hate it,” you whisper, and then louder, with the tears returning, “I hate being like this. I hate that I fainted. I hate how they looked at me. Like I was made of glass. I know they care. I know they do. But it makes me feel so—so weak. Like I’m not someone they choose to love but someone they’re stuck loving because I need them too much.”

Your throat is thick, your eyes burning again. “I don’t want to be the girl they worry about. I want to be strong. I want to be… normal. And I feel like every time I collapse, I’m proving some horrible truth about myself. That I can’t handle life, that I’m a burden.”

Dalia doesn’t interrupt or rush in with empty reassurances. She just listens, head tilted slightly, face open, as if she’s holding the space for your pain without trying to smother it.

When you finally fall quiet, breath catching on the remnants of a sob, she speaks.

“I understand that feeling,” she says, voice calm, her words slow and thoughtful.

 “I have asthma. Pretty bad, actually. I carry a potion with me everywhere and I’ve had attacks in the middle of class, in the middle of dates. It used to make me feel humiliated and weak. Like I had this sign over my head that said fragile and everyone could see it.”

You glance at her. She’s still looking at you, not with pity, but with something deeper. Recognition.

“I remember once,” she begins, her voice soft, steady, like she’s unspooling the memory as carefully as it happened, “I was on a walk with Regulus. He didn’t know about it yet — my asthma, I mean. I was too proud to tell him, I thought if he knew he’d start looking at me differently. We were just wandering through this little grove near the edge of the Black Lake. The sky was golden, the kind of dusk that makes everything look like a painting.”

She pauses, drawing in a breath.

“And then it hit me. An attack, out of nowhere. My chest locked up, like I was breathing through a straw, and I dropped right to the ground. And Regulus — he panicked. Way more than I did. His face just—cracked open. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask what I needed. He just picked me up, like I weighed nothing, and ran all the way back up the hill to the hospital wing. Like the world had narrowed down to me and the next breath I couldn’t take.”

Her smile now is small, crooked, but real. “I was livid with him afterward. Told him I didn’t need saving. Told him I wasn’t made of glass and I didn’t need him treating me like I was already dying.”

Her eyes flick up, soft and faraway. “But he wasn’t treating me like I was dying. He was treating me like I mattered, like I was something precious. He didn’t carry me because he thought I was weak. He carried me because he couldn’t bear the thought of letting me fall.”

Another breath. “I couldn’t see the difference then. I mistook his fear for pity, his urgency for condescension, but it wasn’t that. It took me a long while to understand that sometimes love doesn’t ask permission. Sometimes it panics a little, sometimes it shows up without knowing the right words. But it always carries you, even when you push it away.”

You stare at her, frozen in the moment.

Dalia tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. Her tone softens even further, as if offering something precious. 

“Sometimes, the people who love us… they love us so much that their worry spills out of them. It doesn’t mean they think we’re weak. It means they’re scared to lose us. That’s what love does to people. It makes them feel helpless when the person they love is hurting. So they try to do something — anything — even if it’s too much, even if it’s clumsy. But it always comes from love, not pity.”

You don’t respond at first, you can’t.

Because she’s right.

You remember Remus’s silence, how it always feels like a steady hand on your shoulder even when he says nothing. You remember Sirius’s voice cracking when he said your name as you collapsed. James’s wild-eyed panic, the way he couldn’t stop touching your wrist to make sure you were breathing.

Not pity. Never pity. Just love, overflowing and terrified.

Dalia reaches across the space between your beds, her fingers curling gently around yours. 

“You’re allowed to hate it. You’re allowed to be angry. But don’t forget — strength doesn’t mean never needing help. It means surviving even when you do.”

Your lips tremble. “I was so mean to them.”

“I think,” she says softly, “they probably already forgave you the moment you fell.”

The quiet after Dalia’s words hangs between you like a shared breath, like something sacred and slow. 

You don’t know how long you sit like that, her hand in yours, the smell of healing potions soft in the air, the gentle rustle of Madam Pomfrey’s movements at the far end of the room. 

But eventually, you squeeze her fingers once in thanks, letting your hand fall back to the blanket as you breathe in deep, a little steadier now, a little less splintered.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “Really.”

Dalia smiles. That kind of smile that’s small but full of light. “Anytime.”

There’s a moment of pause, then you glance at her sideways, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Regulus seems much happier since he’s been with you..”

Her cheeks warm with color. She ducks her head a little, but the beam that takes over her whole face is unmistakable.

“He’s trying. He’s soft underneath, you know. Like… very soft. I think he forgets he doesn’t have to be perfect all the time.”

You nod. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“Well,” she says, cocking an eyebrow, “I could say the same. Sirius hasn’t hexed a studentr in almost a month, he’s practically domesticated.”

You both break into laughter — breathy and real, a little surprised by its own existence. The warmth spreads through your chest like sunlight on a winter morning, slow and fragile and new.

But then—

“—you’ll tell us if she’s awake, right?”

The voice cuts through the curtain — unmistakable, urgent, and familiar in a way that makes your stomach lurch. 

James.

You don’t even think.

Your body moves on instinct, bolting upright as you kick off the thin blanket and rush toward the curtain, heart hammering in your chest. 

You pull it back—and there they are.

All three of them.

James, pacing just a little, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes wild and rimmed red. Sirius, slouched like he’s trying to pretend he wasn’t moments from bursting through the doors himself. And Remus — closest to you, shoulders stiff, gaze locked on the floor until the movement makes him look up.

And as soon as he does —

It breaks you.

The tears rise again, sudden and sharp and unstoppable. You lurch forward and throw yourself into Remus’s arms. 

He catches you instantly, strong hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You bury your face in his chest, shaking, crying hard and fast as the dam bursts. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

His arms tighten around you.

“Baby,” he breathes, low and firm and warm, “I’m not mad at you, I’m not. I love you. I love you so much that you had me terrified.”

You sob harder. He leans his chin against your hair and rocks you gently like you’re something delicate and precious.

James steps closer, one hand landing on your back, not saying anything, just grounding you. Sirius stands at your other side, shifting awkwardly, like he wants to punch a wall but would settle for hugging you if he thought he wouldn’t make it worse.

And still, Remus holds you. “You don’t ever have to apologize for being human,” he murmurs into your hair. “You scared me, but I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.”

They don’t say much as they leave the infirmary, their footsteps soft on the stone floors, the silence wrapping around you like a fragile thread.

James gently slipping his hand into yours, the warmth of his palm grounding you, tethering you to this moment, to him, to them, and the steady beat of his pulse beneath your skin is a silent promise that you’re not alone.

 The walk back to the boys’ dorm is slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial in its simplicity, the corridor stretching ahead like a path lined with shadows and light.

When Sirius finally opens the door to the dorm and ushers you inside, the scent of worn leather, old parchment, and something unmistakably homey wraps around you like a cloak, but as he carefully sets you down on the edge of the bed, a sudden shiver curls up your spine — a flicker of fear that makes your chest tighten, because Remus said he was okay, James held your hand, and yet Sirius remains silent, still.

His eyes flickering somewhere beyond the surface, unreadable like a book with its pages dog-eared and worn, and suddenly your mind is a storm of whispers and accusations, of doubts creeping in on quiet feet, telling you that maybe, just maybe, Sirius is the one who’s still mad, the one who sees your sickness as something to pity or protect you from in a way that feels like chains instead of care.

You sink into the bed, fingers twitching in your lap, heart sinking with each passing second of silence.

Your thoughts spinning webs of worst-case scenarios and silent judgments, as if every glance you imagine from Sirius weighs like a verdict you aren’t ready to hear, and the room feels too small, the air too thick.

 The space between you is too vast, your breath catching in your throat because you can’t tell if you’re waiting for comfort or confrontation, for anger or acceptance, and the heaviness of it presses down on your ribs, making every heartbeat a question mark.

Then, quietly, unexpectedly, Sirius kneels down before you.

 His hands reaching out with a tenderness that stops the wild storm in its tracks, his fingers wrapping around yours like a soft anchor.

His eyes meet yours with a depth of understanding that feels like a balm to all the jagged edges inside you, and when he speaks, his voice is low, rich with something gentle and fierce all at once.

 “I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re weaker than any of us, ma belle,” he says.

His voice, low and soft, fills the quiet space between you, wrapping around you like a warm embrace.

 “You are far stronger than anyone I know,” he begins, each word deliberate, like he’s carefully threading a lifeline just for you. “This illness? It’s a part of you, sure. But it does not define you. It does not make you less. It doesn’t make you weak. Not in my eyes. Not in any of ours.”

He pauses, squeezing your hands lightly, as if reminding you that you’re not just hearing empty words but a truth carved out from everything he’s come to know about you. 

“I see how you push through every day — the pain you hide, the battles you fight silently. And I’m in awe of your strength, more than anyone else here. The way you refuse to let it stop you, even when it hurts, even when it’s hard — that’s real power.” His voice softens further, laced with tenderness, and you feel the weight of his words settle deep inside you, like a gentle rain on dry soil.

“I’m sorry if sometimes we make you feel fragile or weak,” he admits, voice gentle and sincere, “that’s never our intention. We worry because we love you so much, and sometimes we get carried away with our care, not realizing how it might feel to you. But if you ever need space, just say the word — we’ll back away without hesitation, and we’ll try to be better, to understand you more, to respect what you need without making you feel like you’re less than the fierce person you are.”

“No one here pities you. Quite the opposite,” he says, eyes shining with something fierce and protective.

“We love you, every bit of you. Your courage, your stubbornness, your fire. I promise you, when we worry, it’s because we care so deeply, not because we think you’re fragile or broken.” His thumb brushes over the back of your hand, slow and soothing.

“You’re not a burden, you’re not a weakness. And if anyone ever made you feel less, I’ll fight to prove them wrong. Every single day.”

He takes a breath, voice barely more than a whisper now, as if afraid to break the fragile moment between you.

“So please, don’t shut us out. Don’t push us away because you think you have to carry it all alone. We’re here, always.” His eyes search yours, earnest and full of a quiet promise. 

His thumb brushes your skin tenderly, “I love you so goddamn much.”

Remus’s arms wrap around you gently, the steady warmth of his embrace grounding you in a way that makes your chest feel a little lighter, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns along your back as he whispers softly, 

“You’re doing better now, I can feel it, you’re stronger than you think, love,” and you lean into him, feeling that quiet strength wrap around your trembling edges like a shield.

“I just wish I didn’t have to be so strong all the time, sometimes it feels like I’m holding up a world no one else can see,” and he tightens his hold ever so slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he replies, “But you’re not alone, not ever, we’re here, all of us, and we’ll carry the weight with you when it gets too heavy,” you nod against his chest, the honesty of his words sinking deep into your bones.

James leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, murmuring sweetly, “You’re incredible, you know that? Every day you amaze me,” and you feel your heart flutter, the tangled knot of fear loosening as his words wrap around you like sunlight. 

While Remus keeps doting, brushing hair from your face and murmuring more quiet encouragements, James turns to Sirius with a teasing grin and says, “Never knew a Black could be this romantic, eh?” 

Sirius rolls his eyes but can’t suppress a smirk, shooting back, “Oh, shut up,” before leaning forward and pressing a possessive kiss to James’s lips, the quiet declaration hanging in the air, James chuckling softly against him as he pulls back.

You and Remus exchange a look before soft laughter bubbles up between you, the warmth of their playful love easing the last of your tension as you settle into the comfort of being truly seen, truly loved.

James grins mischievously after Sirius’s quick kiss, catching your laughter as it spills through the room like a warm breeze. 

“Oh, you’re going to laugh now,” he teases softly, his eyes sparkling with playful intent. Before you can protest, he gently pulls you away from Remus’s comforting hold, whisking you toward the small bed, where the world narrows down to just the two of you.

His fingers find their way to your sides, tickling with deliberate softness. 

Your laughter bursts out again, bright and carefree, shaking through you like sunlight breaking through clouds. You try to squirm away, breathless and glowing, but he holds you close, his smile wide and steady.

When the tickling finally fades, and you lie beside him, still smiling, you whisper, “I feel so... lovesick. Like my heart is too full for words and it’s the sweetest kind of ache.”

Sirius smirks from the side, “Well, lucky you, that’s the only kind of sweetness that never makes you crash.” James and Remus’ laughter fills the space around the room and in between your heart.

And in that quiet, breathing moment between laughter and silence, you remember what Dalia once said—how sometimes love’s worry spills over not as pity, but as a fierce, tender strength. 

Now, finally, you feel so full of sweetness and love—not the sugar kind that flickers and fades, but the kind that hums deep in your bones, a steady, radiant pulse that warms every fragile corner of your heart, a quiet poetry written in the language of belonging, fierce enough to be gentle, strong enough to make you feel whole and loved.

Because sometimes, the sweetest healing comes not from what we take in, but from what we finally allow ourselves to receive.

[rxmye]

" 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 "

𝐀 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐂 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 — you're his entire world, his only thought, the very illness that has corrupted his mind and body . . .

gender neutral reader / yandere oc x reader / mentions of sleep medication / pathetic yandere / suggestive content / a character slightly aimed towards people with a savior complex

masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: edited, Lucas first fanfic is out !! . . click here to read it !! <3

He was someone with fleeting attraction—yet a hopeless romantic, who'd spend most of his class time doodling away in his notebook instead of taking actual notes, writing these scenarios that played out in his mind—tired hazy doodles of small characters, blurry lines of writing, scribbled out text, as he struggled to stay awake—

He had never had a proper sleeping schedule, and if he did he'd never stick to it, a night owl who often faced the consequences of his own actions, sleep medication was something he was all too familiar with, the feeling of being restless without sleep, his nerves always on edge, dark circles under his eyes made him feel insecure, and alarmingly out of character.

He felt something touch his back, he froze, nerves all over the place, a pit growing in his stomach as he turned almost instinctively to face whoever touched him, pushing their hand off harshly . . . "Hey Yoichi . . what's up with you man, why so aggressive?!" Lucas asked . . and then he froze, letting out a nervous and rather embarrassed chuckle, "Ah—um . . sorry Lucas . . just feeling a little tired that's all", he replied softly, voice barely coming out.

To be quite honest, when he first saw you, Yoichi thought nothing of it, he sat at the very back and you for some reason, sat in front of him, not that he minds, you're presence covered him from the teachers eyesight, which allowed him to do whatever he wanted, he was even able to drift off to sleep during that period.

However, it wasn't until he found himself, drawing tiny versions of you in his notebook, little doodles, pink ink staining the paper as he hearted your initials together—his name then your last name . . your name then his last name . . . names of future children—that he realized he was crushing on you . . . big time.

His emotions was fleeting, it had always been, he didn't think much of it . . it was just a simple crush, everyone has one of those, and they go away with time.

Yoichi was a punctual student—and a well organized one—he'd rarely forget his books, much less the notebook with his embarrassing doodles of him and you, it would ruin his image to be quite honest . . yet for some reason he had forgotten it in class today, it could've been his ever-growing restlessness due to a lack of sleep, or maybe the caffeine that's been fucking with his head since early in the morning—he sighed—knocking himself out of his own thoughts, as he twisted the doorknob, hopefully the teacher left the class unlocked.

The door was open, to his utter relieve . . . wait . . . "y/n?", he spoke, taken aback—you were soundly asleep on your desk—you looked so at . . peace . . . calm? . . . Nothing could describe the emotions he felt as he approached you, slowly reaching over to his desk and grabbing his notebook, quickly stuffing it in his backpack—he should go . . , that would be the best course of action . . .

Yet he couldn't . . . he knelt down on the floor, leaning his head on the desk, starring at your face, looking into every curve and line, in his eyes every imperfection just made you even more perfect, the pattern of your breath was soothing to his otherwise restless mind, a soothing scent radiated off of you, and for the first time in months, he felt sleepy . . . like he could sleep without a care . . . everything felt so right. . .—nothing felt displaced or disoriented.

That was the day that started it all, it seems, Yoichi had started forming something that was akin to obsession, he couldn't sleep at all without you—a piece of you—something that reminded him of that calming scent that he felt that day, you calmed his overdriven nerves, you halted his troubles for more than a fleeting moment.

Yoichi knew what he was doing was odd, especially when he found himself picking up the wrapper you threw out, and taking inhaling it, his eyes growing half lidded—he felt like a drug addict—drunk off of you . .

Fleeting touches would tick off his ever delusional mind, a small compliment could set him on overdrive and in the back of his head he knew he was growing addicted, a pit in his stomach grew as he felt slightly disgusted with himself, with the obscene and rather degrading things he'd do, just to get something touched by you.

Lucas stared at his friend, who seemed no better than dead, "Are ya' okay?" he asked, looking him up and down, "You look like a train-wreck", he stated half out of concern and half out of clear disdain and possibly curiosity, "Is it normal?", Yoichi spoke up, taking a gulp of air as he continued, "to want someone so badly that it's hard to explain—like—a part of me feels obsessed, like I feel like carving my own heart out and showing them just to prove my love wont be enough—they could claw out my fingernails—and from where I'm standing, I'd still look at them with only love . . . but at the same time I feel disgusted with the feelings I feel—", Yoichi kept blabbering on, until his friend shushed him, taking a sip of his drink as he jokingly replied, "I mean . . if you love them that much, then their clearly the one . . ."

Yoichi blanked out, as Lucas chuckled, he has no idea how much of his teasing words Yoichi would take to heart that day nor of it's lasting consequences . . .

want more, buy my limited time only advent calendar?

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Cycle

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: It's always the same thing with you two

Married at twenty-one.

Pregnant at the same age.

Two children before you were twenty-three.

This wasn't how you thought your life was going to go.

Fingers gently move up and down your skin as you blink back into the waking world. A familiar warmth lays behind you. A familiar breathing pattern. Familiar legs tangle with your own.

"Are you awake?" She whispers.

It's a familiar voice as well. A voice that you had promised family and friends you would stop seeing.

But you can't ever help yourself.

"No."

"No?" You can hear her smile. The kind of smile that's barely there, just a simple quirk of the corners of her mouth. She's laughing but only slightly. "You're not awake?"

You bury your head into your pillow. "No. I'm not awake."

Her hand sneaks under the covers, drifting lower and lower. "Should I help you wake up?"

You almost agree. The words dance on your lips. You're so ready to say yes and give in. Had it been silent for a moment longer, you would have.

But you can hear movement from one of the other rooms.

Your hand grasps Alexia's wrist, squeezing slightly as you guide it higher up.

"You need to leave."

You roll over, finally looking at her.

You were right about the smile, the smile and the amusement in her eyes.

"I do, do I?"

"Yes," You say, more firmly this time," The kids are waking up soon. You need to go before they see you."

She laughs properly this time and somehow shifts closer. "You don't want my own children to see me?"

"We have a schedule for a reason."

Alexia rolls her eyes. "We're also divorced. Yet here I am. In your bed. Again. After I fucked you into the mattress so hard last night that you saw stars."

Her grin only widens when your face grows hot. She knows she's got you flustered.

You know she's got you flustered too.

You shove her in the chest and pull back the covers.

The early morning chill makes goose bumps appear on your body and you hurry to pick up all the clothes strewn around your room.

"This is-"

"The last time," Alexia drones, repeating back words that you must have said a million times by now.

She's comfortable in your bed. She sits up against the headboard, arm behind her head as the covers bunch up around her waist.

You throw a shirt at her.

"Leave. Go."

You point at the door and Alexia shrugs.

"I'm fine here."

"Alexia, I mean it. The kids will be confused on why you're here, again. We're running out of excuses."

"This place is a shithole."

She makes you want to tear your hair out sometimes. She's always doing this, always changing the subject when she's told something she doesn't like.

It's no wonder the two of you are divorced.

"Alexia, I don't have time for this-"

"It's true." She looks at the walls of your room, the peeling wallpaper and the way your window barely opens because your landlord painted over the hinges one too many times. "I don't know why you don't let me buy you a new place."

"Not this again. I told you-"

But she's already got her phone out.

"A house," She says," Instead of an apartment with a garden for the girls to play in. Maybe a dog as well. They'd like a dog, I think."

"I'm not letting you buy me a house."

Her stare is blank when she levels it on you, brows raised up in some semblance of judgement she will never voice.

"At least let me move you all out of this place. Another apartment if I must but I saw-"

She's cut off by the trousers you throw at her face. They're suit pants. Fancy and pressed professionally for the event Alexia was at last night.

"If I can't afford the rent then no."

"Now why would you have to afford it if I'm paying?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes dismissively as you pull on your scrubs for another long day on the nursing ward. "The whole point of us being divorced is that I don't have access to your finances."

"The whole point of us being divorced is that we stop sleeping together and look how well that's going." To her credit, Alexia does finally leave the bed and dress herself.

It's the same outfit she wore to that fancy event she went to last night. It's the same fancy event she left early to appear at your door.

"We're not having this conversation."

"Really? I'm pretty sure that's exactly what we're doing."

She crosses the room in three quick steps, her hand resting on your waist as she pulls you closer. Her other hand holds your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek.

"Because I know you, baby. You say this every time I'm here. You say this is the last time. You say that we're not doing this anymore. But I know you. I know you like the flowers I send to your ward every other week. I know you run yourself ragged getting the kids where they need to be and still make time for your shifts. I know you make sure they never miss one of my home games even when you're stuck at the hospital."

"Ale-"

"And I know that no matter how you try to keep your feelings locked up in that tight little box you made to contain them, you still love me. Which is good because I still love you too. But I also know we're going to keep playing this game until you can finally admit it to yourself."

You pretend you didn't just glance at her lips. Alexia has the decency to pretend that too.

"Because when you do, I'll be right here. I'll be waiting for you. A new house, if you want it. A dog. Lots of dates because, baby, I know exactly what's going to happen."

"And what's going to happen?"

"Your ring is going right back onto that finger."

You kiss her, breathing words against her lips" You're so annoying."

"For telling the truth?"

You roll your eyes. "Go, Ale. I'll see you tonight. Your sister is picking up the kids from school and they're staying at hers. My shift finishes at nine."

"I'll be there to pick you up. Should I bring your ring?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself."

[whenstarsundress]

xavier isn’t an alpha that chases. he calculates. he watches you for weeks—memorizing your tells, your scent, your heat patterns—before making a move.

and when he does? it’s subtle. a hand on the small of your back. a low hum when your scent spikes. a lingering look that makes your knees weak.

“i’m patient,” he says with a half-smile. “but don’t make me too patient, omega.”

his scent is crisp and clean like citrus and a warm summer morning, but when he’s possessive? it thickens, heavy with cedar and electricity. it drowns out other alphas.

highly territorial. he won’t say a word if someone gets too close to you in public. but later, when you’re alone, you’ll find yourself pinned against the nearest wall with his nose in your neck.

“you’re mine. they need to be reminded.”

loves putting his scent on you. on your collar, your wrists, the inside of your thighs. not out of insecurity, but because it’s efficient.

“you belong to me,” he says, tongue tracing the spot just below your ear. “why shouldn’t the world know that?”

in private, he’s intense. dangerously focused. kisses you like he’s dissecting a formula. ruins you with precision. makes you beg for his knot before he even lets you feel him.

low groans. biting praise. dry humor mixed with filth.

“you say you’re ready, but you’re shaking.”

“look how pretty you are when you fall apart for me.”

“omega, do you even know what you’re doing to me?”

if you’re in heat, he handles you like glass, unless you beg. and then he breaks you on purpose, just to build you back up again.

knots you with low, shaky moans and then refuses to pull out. instead, he strokes your hair and whispers equations he’s been working on.

“i think more clearly when i’m inside you,” he murmurs. “you quiet the noise.”

doesn’t say i love you easily, but when he does, it’s in the middle of the night, still tied to you, his breath warm on your skin.

“you’re the only variable i’ll never want to solve.”

his first rut with you:

xavier didn’t want you to see him like this.

his calculations were off. the suppressants didn’t hold. his rut hit him hard and fast, like lightning striking his spine.

he tried to lock himself away. isolated, medicated, logical. but you? you knocked on the door, and he knew your scent before it reached the crack.

“no—don’t open that door.”

but your omega instincts pulled you. and when your scent touched the air, he fell to his knees.

you opened the door anyway. and found your alpha—trembling, sweating, destroyed by his first real rut.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he gritted out, hunched over, fingers digging into the floor. “i can’t think. i can’t think with you near me.”

but you stepped closer. touched his face. whispered, “then don’t think.”

that was all it took.

xavier surged forward, catching you in his arms like he couldn’t breathe without you. he buried his face in your neck, whimpering—a broken sound you’d never heard from him before.

“you smell like home,” he gasped. “don’t leave. please don’t leave.”

he stripped you slowly, reverently, like you were made of stars. like you were the answer to every question he ever had.

“omega,” he moaned when he slid into you, head falling to your shoulder. “i’ve needed this. needed you.”

he tried to go slow, but his body overrode him. soon, he was thrusting desperately, one hand fisted in the sheets and the other wrapped around your waist like he was scared you’d disappear.

“mine. mine—i need to fill you,” he gasped, knot swelling as your body clenched around him.

when he tied you for the first time, he let out a strangled sound—half-relief, half-worship.

“you calmed the storm. you always calm the storm.”

even knotted, he couldn’t stop moving. couldn’t stop touching. he kissed every inch of you, like his lips were answering questions only your skin could ask.

when you whispered, “you’re safe with me,” he almost came again.

and then? he stilled and held you, listened to your heartbeat.

“i understand now,” he whispered against your scent gland. “why alphas lose control. it’s because of you.”

softest. lowest. breathless:

“you’re everything.”