#she goes from halfway dead to giggling

[mariatesstruther]

thinking about tommy wrapping maria’s locs for her

[sunnami]

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

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

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

wc. 24.1k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How repulsive.

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

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

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

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

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

What a bunch of insufferable fools. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He furrows his brow. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately! 

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

That, after all, is how you learned.

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

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

What’s wrong? 

The question echoes in your head. 

Ha! 

You scream inwardly, if they only knew! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you are not fine. 

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

 —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ve made it all too easy for you. 

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

Sirius staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before? 

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

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

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

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

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

When does duty end? And when does life begin? 

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

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

You want to go to sleep already. 

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

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

You miss your cat. 

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

You want to die.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

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

Dimwitted fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains. 

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

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

“Daphne!” 

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

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

“Daphne, get away from there!” 

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

But there is nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How confusing.

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

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

(Hogwarts is the best!) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily says thank you, by the way.” 

“Oh? For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly. 

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how easy they make it for you. 

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

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate her. 

You hate her with all your heart. 

But even monsters need a heart to breathe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bile rises to your throat. 

Tears fall from your eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

You pass out in her arms. 

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

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

You are tired. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss the newspaper into the fire. 

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

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

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

Maybe. . . 

If you move a few inches forward. . . 

If you just fly. 

You’d be free. 

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

I don’t care. 

Go away. 

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone? 

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

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

You let your weight shift over the window. 

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

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

You sigh. 

Maybe tomorrow, then. 

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

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

You stay silent. 

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

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

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

You nibble on your bruised lip. 

Could you really? 

Maybe just this once. 

You’re only human, magic as you are. 

You take one step forward. 

Then another. 

Another.

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

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

To do what is right. 

To endure. 

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

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

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

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

Your mother. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not!” you scream.

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

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

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

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

Tom snarls, “Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Mum, wake up, please!” 

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

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

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear. 

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

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

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

There’s a faint smile on her face. 

“I’m. . . sorry.”

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

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

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

Tom Riddle. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

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

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

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

My Best Friend’s Brother Is The One For Me » 40s Bucky Barnes

Pairings: Best Friend’s Brother!40s Bucky Barnes x Female Reader with Rebecca Barnes and Steve Rogers

Summary: Y/N’s best friend’s brother is the one for her.

Warnings: Fluff, language, flirting, kissing, use of pet names

Written on my phone. I’m sorry for any mistakes and typos.

Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier

GIF IS NOT MINE! Credit goes to the creators.

“Y/N!” Rebecca squeals, practically pulling you in the house. “It’s been so long!” She hugs you. “How are you?” She asks.

“I’m good. I’m happy to be home.” You say with a smile.

You followed Rebecca to the living room and sat down on the couch next to her. Her mom walks in the living room to give you guys tea and snacks.

“Thank you, Mrs. Barnes.” You say politely.

“You’re welcome, sweetie. I told you to call me Winnie.” She says with a smile before leaving the room to give you and Rebecca time to catch up.

You told her about your 2 week trip New Jersey that you just got home from. You told her about the scenery, the stores, everything. You were in the middle of telling her a story from your trip when her older brother, James Buchanan Barnes, walked in the living room. You couldn’t help but blush when you seen him. You have a huge crush on him. Even Rebecca knows that you have a crush on her brother.

“Hi, doll.” Bucky smiles, making you blush. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?” He asks, taking a seat in a chair across from you and Rebecca.

“I’m good. I just got back from my trip to New Jersey. I was just telling Rebecca about it.” You tell him.

“Don’t mind me then. I’ll just sit here and listen. I love listening to you talk.” He says, sitting back in the chair.

You picked up from where you left off with your story. Bucky was staring at you the whole time as you were talking. You were currently telling Rebecca about a really cute dress.

“So did you buy the dress?” Rebecca asks.

“Of course I did.” You say.

“I bet you’re going to look drop dead gorgeous in it, doll.” Bucky says with a flirty smile.

You felt blush creep up on your cheeks. You went back to telling them about your trip.

“Sorry to interrupt you, doll, but I got to meet up with Steve. I’ll see you later.” Bucky says.

Bucky walked towards you and gave you a kiss on your cheek before he left, making you blush like crazy. Rebecca caught the way you were blushing.

“You should tell him how you feel about him.” Rebecca says.

“What?” You say.

“My brother is obviously the one for you. You two need to date. You two would make a cute couple. Also, imagine how amazing it would be if you to got married! We would be sisters!” She says.

“Becca, him and I aren’t even dating yet and you’re talking about us getting married.” You giggled. “Besides, I don’t think Bucky feels the same way about me.” You say.

“Trust me, he does.” She says.

“Really?” You asked.

“Of course! I hear him talking to Steve about you all the time. You’re the perfect girl for him, Y/N.” She says.

You looked down and blushed, thinking about what it would be like if you and Bucky were a couple. You opened your mouth to say something, but caught a glimpse of the clock.

“It’s late already?” You say, looking at the clock.

Rebecca turned her head to look at the clock and turned back towards you.

“I guess it is. Time flies when we’re talking.” Rebecca says.

You two stood up from the couch and she walked you to the door.

“We should go out to lunch tomorrow.” She suggests, giving you a hug.

“Sounds good to me. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You say with a smile before walking out the door.

You were about halfway down the street when you heard a familiar voice say your name. You stopped in your tracks and turned around to see Bucky walking towards you.

“You shouldn’t be walking home by yourself, doll. It’s dangerous.” Bucky says.

“Mind walking me home then?” You asked with a smile.

“Of course!” He says with a smile.

Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer to him. You couldn’t help but smile when you felt his warmth.

“So I was thinking…” Bucky starts. “You and I should go on a date Friday night.” He says.

“Of course I would love to go on a date with you!” You say too fast. “Oh god, I didn’t mean to say it like that! What I mean-” Bucky silenced you with a kiss.

You were caught by surprise, but kissed him back. Bucky’s hands gently caressed your cheeks. Yours and his lips moved in sync. It felt like everything around you guys was moving in slow motion. Bucky slowly pulled away from your lips, looking deep in your eyes.

“Holy shit…” You say breathlessly and speechlessly.

“A lady shouldn’t use language like that.” Bucky says teasingly.

“I’m sorry!” You apologized nervously. “You’re just a really good kisser.” You say.

“You’re a good kisser too, doll.” He smiles. “Friday at 7pm sound good to you?” He asked.

“Yes.” You say with a smile.

Bucky smiles and kisses you one more time.

“Wear that new dress you were talking about.” He says against your lips.

“Will do.” You say with a giggle.

“Let’s get you home before your ma starts worrying about where you are.” He says.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[youresodarkbabe]

eyes roll back (a. turner x reader)

smut.

warnings: it's a blurb so not much, oral (f!receiving), dom!al if that even counts

word count: 624

i didn't die!!

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“what are you reading?”

your voice hits alex’s ears like a song. he looks up from his book, and smiles at you wrapped in a baby pink towel, straight out of the shower.

“that romance novel katie left behind last time she was ‘round.”

“oh? how is it, baby?”, you ask as you pull out one of alex’s shirts and a pair of shorts from your shared dresser.

“’s good. getting very.. interesting right now.” alex pulls a pillow out from behind him and lays it down on your side of the bed for you. you jump into bed, resting your head right on his shoulder. alex wraps an arm around you, running his hand up and down the length of your arm.

“how so?”

alex sighs, resting the book page down on his chest. “look for yourself, love,” he mutters as he folds his arms behind his head. you reach out and take the book from him (not without him reaching his neck out to kiss your arm).

you read the line at the top of the page, quietly murmuring along as your eyes glide across the inked words. about halfway down the page, you see what alex was talking about. “oh.” alex chuckles, “yeah? keep reading it out for me, ‘m interested.”

you raise an eyebrow and look at him, eyes boring into his. “you, interested in this?” you giggle at the prospect of the alex turner, old as he is, being interested in these silly little spicy romance novels. “yeah. read it for me.”

“okay.. where’d you stop?”

“somewhere around ‘he kissed down her’ somethin’.” alex sits down and moves you so that you were lying dead centre on the bed. he lies down on his side, waiting for you to start reading.

“‘he kissed down her chest, spreading apart her thighs with his hands as he-’ alex.”

alex looks up at you, lips still attached to the side of your stomach. “mhm?”

“what are you doing?”

“don’t worry your little head about it, love. keep reading?” he presses a kiss far lower, right above the waistband of your shorts. he nudges your thighs apart with his head, resting his cheek on you. “c’mon, do it for me, i know you can,” he rests the palm of his right hand on your clothed cunt, gently pressing the heel of his hand into you. you raise your hips slightly, bucking into his hand as you moan quietly.

“careful with the book, don’t wanna lose the page, do we?”

“mm-mm, we don’t.”

“good girl. now hold the book steady.” alex stretches out his hand to straighten out the book for you to hold.

“um, ‘spreading apart her thighs as he kisses her hip. he hooked his-’ alex, i can’t.”

alex kisses your hip once again. “‘you can’t’ what, baby?” he bites the inside of your cheek to stop himself from laughing at you whine.

“can’t focus. at all!”

“try. you’re my smart girl, i know you can.”

“i forgot where i was, uh, ‘he tugs them off, down to her ankles.’”

“done. next?” alex moves away for a quick second to let you kick your shorts off. “‘he kisses and bites on the insides of her thighs and-’, fuck, alex. if you know what’s happening next, then why are you making me read this?”

alex sucks and bites the inside of your thigh until they’re as red as your face. “you look fucking adorable when you’re embarrassed.”

your face goes even redder.

“it’s okay, you don’t have to keep reading. i got you.” alex’s kisses stray further and further towards your pussy. “do you want me to read to you, or would you prefer having me show you how the book goes on?”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

[morgana-larkin]

Alrighty, after many creative blocks coming and going, I finally finished the next chapter of Mine!with Canadian thanksgiving and Halloween coming up, I decided to do a holiday chapter. Also for the few that were wondering their ages, in this fic, it takes place 7 years after season 2, and Melissa is 59 and reader is 34. Not edited in the slightest and I hope you like it!

On another note: the next fic I post will be an Agatha one as inspiration hit after watching the first 2 episodes of Agatha All Along and she’s clearly gay. I’m also aware that I haven’t updated my masterlist with like the last 6 fics I’ve posted, but I’m going to be doing a little reorganization and pretty-ing it up 😉

Mine - Part 8

Warnings: Smut, strong urge to be Mel’s wife (the usual)

Words: 4.5k

*Halloween Day*

“Got to hold still.” You tell Amelia as you’re finishing up her hairstyle for her costume. While you just bought shirts and wigs for the twins and dressed them up as thing 1 and thing 2, Amelia wanted something different.

You showed Amelia Scooby Doo and she chose to go as Daphne, so of course Melissa contacted some people and now Amelia has a great Daphne costume.

While you were helping Amelia get ready, Melissa was downstairs putting the costumes on the twins and getting breakfast ready.

“Do you tink people will know who I’m dressed as?” Amelia asks as you’re putting the headband in and fluffing some of her hair

“Well Mamma found you a great replica so I think they will.” You tell her with a smile. “Alright turn around.” You tell her as her costume is complete. Amelia does a little spin and you giggle. “You make an adorable Daphne, honey.” You tell her.

“Breakfast!” You hear Melissa call from downstairs and you take Amelia’s hand and help her down the stairs.

“Coming Mamma!” Amelia says when you’re halfway down the stairs.

When you and Amelia get to the dinner table to eat, Melissa looks up and immediately has a huge smile. “You both look amazing!” She says as Amelia goes running up to her and sits on her lap. “You look cute, Amore.” She says with a flirtatious tone when you get to the table. She then puts Amelia’s plate right in front of her and Amelia starts eating immediately.

“So do you, Poison Ivy.” You say as you grab the bat that Melissa decorated for you to complete your Harley Quinn costume.

“I am worried though that your lack of clothing will send the wrong message to some people though.” Melissa tells you and you can hear some jealousy seeping through her tone.

“My love, most of the staff and parents know that we’re married.” You tell her and give her a kiss before you all eat your breakfast.

“You could have gone with the full body suit with the hat.” Melissa says as you’re eating.

“The one with the devil looking horns? I like the option I picked.” You tell her. “Love, I don’t think anyone will try and hit on me when they know I’m married to Melissa Schemmenti.” You say and she blushes and smiles at that.

“I guess you have a point.”

“Besides, if they do try.” You start as you pick up the bat. “Then I got this handy dandy bat I can use that my lovely wife taught me how to use on our fourth date.“ You say with a smile and Melissa lets out a little giggle.

“Want me to do your makeup, Amore? Get your face all white and half dead looking.” Melissa says with a smirk.

“Sure, I’d love that.” You tell her and then you all finish your breakfast. “Do you want to finish getting everything ready while I pump before you finish my makeup?” You ask her and she nods.

“Sure thing.” She says and gives you a kiss on the cheek. “Want to get my cheek kiss count before you push me away from doing them all day. Especially when you’re wearing that.” She says and looks at your outfit.

“Think I look sexy as Harley Quinn?” You say with a flirty tone.

“I think you look sexy in this outfit.” She says as she wraps her arms around your waist and gives you a kiss. You were about to say something but then you remember you have to pump or you’ll start leaking.

“Well thanks love but I do have to start pumping.” You say as you give her a quick kiss and then leave the room. You come back in the room to Melissa taking a bunch of pictures of the twins and Amelia. Amelia had no problem posing for pictures for Melissa. You watch the scene for a minute and then you let your presence known and tell Melissa to go stand next to Amelia and the twins to get a picture. Melissa crouches down next to Amelia with the twins on the other side of her and you set your camera up with a timer and take a family Halloween picture.

“Alright I’ll do your makeup quickly now, Amore.” Melissa says to you. “Amelia, why don’t you go do some colouring while I put the finishing touches on Mommy’s costume, alright my little Tesoro?” She says to Amelia which Amelia quickly nods and runs to her colouring books in the living room.

“Alright maybe we should do this in the living room cause last time she coloured without supervision, our walls paid the price.” You say to which Melissa laughs.

“She takes after me that way.” Melissa says with a smile.

40 minutes later and you and Melissa are walking into the break room at Abbott.

“OMG you guys look AMAZING!” Jacob squeals.

From across the room, Melissa can see another teacher checking you out. Melissa wraps an arm around your waist and sends a glare their way.

“Oh damn! Check you out girl!” Ava says as she enters. “You’ll definitely be on my mind today.” She adds and Melissa huffs. She knows Ava likes to tease her that way.

“I’d be better if you refrained from thinking of my wife.” Melissa says with a glare.

“Why Melissa, are you jealous?” You say teasingly. “Although you should all know that Melissa decorated Edith for me for today. So any funny business and your head will meet her today.” You say as you show them the bat.

“Omg! Can I see that! It looks so cool, looks just like her bat in the show.” Jacob says with a huge smile and goes to inspect the bat.

While walking to your classrooms to welcome the kids, you both hear someone do a catcall and look around and see Janine down the hall looking at you both with a huge smile.

At lunch you show everyone the pictures you both took this morning of the kids and the family picture.

“They all look adorable.” Barb says to Melissa as you’re showing the trio.

“They look so cute.” Janine says excitedly.

“Amelia is like a mini me of Melissa.” Jacob says and you turn to look at Melissa who’s looking your way with a smirk.

“Well there’s no denying she’s Melissa’s kid.” You say as you go to sit down next to Melissa.

“Was there any doubt that she was.” Melissa says with a quirked eyebrow.

“A little.” You tell her and she tickles your exposed stomach and you start laughing.

“Little minx.”

“It’s Harley to you.” You say after Melissa stops the tickles, you get Edith out and Melissa bursts out laughing.

When you’re saying goodbye to the kids, a few parents check you out and hit on you and you can feel Melissa’s glare on them.

“I didn’t like having to watch those parents hit on what’s mine.” Melissa says in the car when you’re on the way to the daycare to pick up your kids.

“Well I’m sorry I’m so irresistible.” You say with a smile and Melissa gives you a side eye before shaking her head with a smile.

“You are irresistible.”

“And I’m also yours, so no need to worry about a few parents. You should see it as evidence that they’re jealous that you have me instead of them.” You tell her.

“You’re right, I mean we have 3 kids and we’ve been together for 9 years. And we’re still happy.” She says with a smile and you give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Exactly, so put everyone else out of your mind, it’s time for Amelia to go trick or treating for the first time. And then to steal some candy later on.”

After picking up your kids, you all go home to have supper and then you put jackets on the twins and Amelia.

“But the jacket hides the costume, I don’t want a jacket.” Amelia complains the entire time.

“Ok how about we bring your jacket and when you get cold then you put it on. How’s that sound, Tesoro?” Melissa compromises and Amelia agrees.

You take her out trick or treating around the neighbourhood for a couple hours, with the twins in a stroller, before she says that she’s tired and falls asleep in Melissa’s arms on the way back to the house.

Back at the house, Amelia takes a small nap while you put on a movie while taking turns getting up to give candy out to trick or treaters.

“Oh look at all your costumes!” You hear Melissa say on one of her turns and you get up to go see and stand next to her. “A little shark, a pirate, a princess. You guys look amazing!” She says.

Half an hour later and you're each feeding a twin while Amelia is colouring on the floor. “Mommy! Look what I dew!” Amelia exclaims and you look to see her masterpiece.

“Oh wow, what a lovely heart honey. Why don’t you go hang it on the fridge?” You tell her and she runs to do that.

“How bad was it?” Melissa whispers to you.

“It’s terrible but adorable.” You whisper back with a smile and Melissa chuckles.

“Mamma, if I’m youw Tesowo, then what about the twins?” Amelia asks Melissa after being read a bedtime story.

“Well they’re my sole and Luna.” Melissa tells her. “Which means my sun and moon.

“I’ll always be your Tesowo wight?”

“Of course, forever and always.” Melissa assures her with a fond smile.”

“Which one is the moon and which one is the sun.”

“Well I decided that Nico is the sun as he’s always smiling and giggling. And Caterina is the moon as she has a little devil side to her. Now get to sleep, my little Tesoro.” Melissa says and gives Amelia a kiss on the forehead and tucking her in.

*Thanksgiving*

Amelia is holding on to her stuffy, Teddy, and sitting on the couch, while she watches you guys move around to get ready for thanksgiving dinner at Melissa’s family’s house.

You both go to the kitchen to get the food, and you instruct Amelia to watch the twins. One of the starts crying and when you run out to see what’s going on, you then see Amelia hand her stuffy to Caterina who immediately stops crying. You snap a picture of the moment before going to scoop Caty up in your arms and grab the stuffy from her eyes to give back to Amelia. As soon as you grab it, Caterina starts crying again.

“That was so sweet of you Amelia, and I’ll get Teddy back from her when we get Auntie Mary Camille’s place.” You say and Amelia nods.

“Why is Caty holding Teddy?” Melissa asks when she steps out with a couple bags of containers of food.

“Because Amelia gave it to her when she was crying and now when I try to take it from her, she just cries again.” You say and Melissa smiles at Amelia.

“You’re such a great big sister, my little Tesoro.” Melissa praises Amelia as Amelia smiles proudly.

You get to Mary Camille’s place and both of your families are all over the twins and Amelia. After 20 minutes, it ends up with Amelia playing with some of her cousins, Kristen Marie holding Caty and your mom holding Nico. You and Melissa sit down and let out a breath.

“Is parenting getting to you?” Vinny asks you both and you chuckle while Melissa gives him a hug.

“Getting to us but we love it.” Melissa says as you all sit back down after hugging each other hello.

“I’m very happy for you Mel. I mean my little cousin finally has the little family she’s always wanted.” Vinny says with a smile.

“What are you talking about little cousin, I’m older than you.” Melissa says.

“You may be older but I’m taller.” Vinny says with a smirk, while Melissa lets out a huff and crosses her arms.

“Are you torturing my sister?” Kristen Marie says as she comes to chat with you all. You and Melissa both turn to see that Caty is now being held by Toni.

“Which one?” Vinny jokes.

An hour later and you all get up to go get some food and you chop a little bit of food up on a small plate for Amelia and hand her a small plastic fork and her bottle. You already handed bottles to whoever was holding a twin about 10 minutes ago so they can be fed.

“Alright so before we all eat, I would like for us to go around the table and say what we’re thankful for.” Mary Camille says. “I can start us off. So I am thankful for my husband, my 2 boys and all 8 of my siblings. And also thankful for the rest of our family.” She says and then it’s Melissa’s turn.

“Ok, well I’m very thankful for my wife.” She starts and grabs your hand and looks at you with a smile. “Who gave birth to 3 of the most wonderful children I could ever ask for. And also thankful to my family for all the love and support we’ve gotten.” She finishes, still holding your hand.

“Well I’m also thankful for my beautiful wife and amazing kids. And I’m also thankful for all of you, for taking me in as your family even right as Mel and I just started going out. You all treated me like family right from the start and very grateful for that.” You say and then you both turn to Amelia. “Amelia, honey, do you want to say what you’re thankful for?” And Amelia looks at you confused for a second. “You can be thankful for the people that you love.” You explain to her.

“I’m tankful for my mamma and mommy. And I love my sibwings.” She says and everyone says ‘awww’ at that.

And then everyone at the table goes to say what they’re thankful for and then you all dig in to your meals.

A few hours later you both start to get ready to go home when Amelia falls asleep on you.

“You both can come anytime you want. We love to see you and your children.” Mary Camille says as she hands Caterina to you. Just then your mom comes in and hands Nico to Melissa.

“You can always bring your kids to see me and your father as well.” Your mom tells you. “And as well to see you and Melissa.” She adds on and you shake your head with a smile. “Looks like Amelia might need some help with her shoes.” Your mom says with a chuckle. You all turn and look down and see Amelia asleep on the floor, feet bare.

“Let’s put the twins in the stroller and then I’ll carry Amelia.” Melissa says and you nod in agreement.

When you get home you put the twins to bed while Melissa puts Amelia to bed. You both then flop down on the bed, ready to go to sleep. Melissa turns around and spoons you while you get comfy in her arms.

“Happy thanksgiving Mia Amore.” Melissa says softly in your ear.

“Happy Thanksgiving my love.” You say right back to her. You turn your head around to give her a kiss then you both fall asleep.

*Christmas Day*

“MAMMA! MOMMY! GET UP! GET UP!” Amelia yells while climbing on the bed and starts jumping. “Santa came! I saw presents under the tree!” She yells and sits on Melissa’s stomach.

“Oh, Amelia.” Melissa says, shocked as she wasn’t expecting for Amelia to sit on her.

“I want to open pwesents!” Amelia exclaims and throws her hands in the air, excitedly. Just as she does that, you grab Amelia and pull her off of Melissa.

“How about Mamma can go get the twins and we can go down and arrange the presents.” You suggest and Amelia nods excitedly. You bring her downstairs and read the names off the presents and then hand them to Amelia who was putting them in organised piles. A few minutes later, Melissa comes down with the twins and puts them in their playpen.

“Pwesent time?” Amelia asks excitedly as soon as Melissa joins you both.

“Yep, choose whatever present from your pile and open it.” You tell her and she does just that. While she excitedly tears the wrapping paper off, Melissa puts an arm around your waist after you both sit down on the floor.

“Mommy! It’s the Bawbie doll I saw at the store and I loved it!” Melissa exclaimed excitedly.

“Oh my god! Look at that, it seems Santa really does know everything.” You tell her as you go and look it over with her, pretending you didn’t send the idea to Melissa at the store when you saw Amelia light up at it.

You both watch her open all her presents and even let her open the twins Christmas presents as well. Melissa got a few pictures of her excitement from opening the presents. After she finished then she handed both you and Melissa your own presents and she watched you both open yours.

“Oh amazing! Santa got me a new bat to replace the one that broke!” Melissa exclaims and looks it over thoroughly. “And got the best one too.” She says and sends you a smirk to which you secretly wink at her.

After all the presents are opened then you and Melissa tidy up after getting a garbage bag. “Mamma.” Amelia says and looks at Melissa.

“Yes Tesoro.”

“I have to use the potty.” She says and Melissa gives you the garbage bag and brings Amelia to use the bathroom.

You both started potty training about a year ago and it seems she’s gotten the hang of it but still not quite tall enough to sit on the toilet or reach the sink herself yet.

They come back a few minutes later and you’re putting the twins in their chairs to feed them. Melissa was so excited to start introducing them to foods over the summer. Sometimes you put what Melissa makes in the blender instead of giving them store bought purée food. And to Melissa’s delight, they enjoy her food a lot more.

“For breakfast, how would you feel if I made your favourite frittata?” Melissa asks Amelia.

“No.” Amelia says, and Melissa sees that Amelia has another meal in mind.

“Ok, what do you want for breakfast then?”

“The tiwamisu crepes.” Amelia says excitedly. Melissa made the crepes only a handful of times before. Last time was the morning on the last day of summer.

“Oh, well I can definitely make that for breakfast.” Melissa says with a smile.

Melissa makes the breakfast with Amelia while you feed the twins. After the twins are fed is when Melissa is done cooking as it only takes about 20 minutes until they’re all ready.

You all eat breakfast and then get ready for the Christmas party at your parents house. Once you get there you see that a few of Melissa’s siblings are already there as you see their cars.

“How did Marie get here before we did? She’s usually late?” You ask Melissa who’s just as surprised as you.

“No idea, my only guess would be that Seamus stayed over at her place and hitched a ride with her today. And you know he likes to be on time.” She tells you. Melissa is holding Amelia’s hand while you push the stroller with the twins to the front door.

The door is opened by your mom who immediately bends down and brings Amelia into a hug.

“Hello my dear!” Your mom exclaims.

“Hi grandma!” Amelia says to her.

“Francesca and Liliana are already here if you want to go play with them.” Your mom says to Amelia who bolts to the living room after your mom helps take her shoes off.

“I guess we won’t have to worry about her for the rest of the day.” You joke as you wrap your mom in a hug. “Merry Christmas mom.” You tell her.

“Merry Christmas dear.” Your mom says back to you. “And Merry Christmas to you as well.” Your mom tells Melissa and hugs her.

“Merry Christmas Diane.” Melissa says to your mom.

“Well come in, come in. Many people are already here. Oh and Y/N your cousin Alex is here.”

“No way! I thought he was still in Germany.” You say.

“He was able to come back home for the holidays.” Your mom explains.

You and Melissa go into the living room and there’s about 40 people already there. You both say your hellos to everyone and the twins are already taken by family members.

“As much as I love the kids, I love when we get some time to ourselves without having to worry about them.” You tell Melissa, who gives you a kiss on the forehead and wraps her arm around your waist.

“I feel the same way, Amore.”

When everyone arrives then your mom shouts that it’s present time and all of a sudden, all the kids, including Amelia, comes running into the room.

“Weirdly enough, if we were to shout anything else then they act as if they didn’t hear us.” Mary Camille, who’s right beside you, says to you and Melissa.

“I mean that selective hearing can be tricky.” You tell her and she chuckles.

You all watch the kids open their presents and you rest your head on Melissa’s shoulder as you both are sitting on one of the couches.

“Mommy! Mamma! I got a new paint set! And it’s so big!” Amelia says excitedly as she shows both of you.

After everyone opens their gifts, then everyone gets up to go eat. It’s buffet style to make it easy with so many people. You and Melissa make a plate for yourselves and one for Amelia who’s busy playing with her new toys.

“Amelia, come and eat!” You tell her from one of the couches.

“But I wanna play!” She says and crosses her arms and pouts.

“You can play after you eat.” Melissa tells her.

“I nevew get to do anything I want to do.” She complains and pouts as she makes her way over to you both.

“Awe, my poor baby.” Melissa says and wraps her arms around Amelia and gives her a big dramatic hug.

“Ah! Mamma, wet me go!” Amelia says through giggles.

You all begin to eat and Amelia’s face scrunches up a bit when she’s eating something.

“What’s this Mamma?” She asks Melissa and points to the food on her plate.

“That’s spaghetti, Tesoro.”

“That’s not spe-tti, it tastes nothing like it.” She tells you. Then it hits both of you that the only spaghetti she’s ever had was Melissa’s, who’s only ever made Italian spaghetti.

“It is, just a different kind. Some people make things differently than Mamma does.” You explain to her.

“Well Mamma makes it bettew.” Amelia says as she takes another bite. You then look over at Melissa who’s beaming, from the comment her daughter said about her cooking.

After a few hours, Amelia sprints over to you both and climbs onto Melissa’s lap and lays her head on her chest.

“Getting tired, Tesoro?” Melissa asks her as she strokes her head and Amelia nods. “Alright, we’ll leave in a little bit.”

After you say your goodbyes, and get the twins back from whoever had them, you all leave to go home.

“You know, when we get home, then I wouldn’t mind opening my last present.” You tell Melissa, after checking that all your kids are asleep in the car. Melissa smiles after a second when she figures out what you mean, your seductive tone of voice certainly helped.

After putting the kids to bed, you and Melissa get ready for bed. As soon as Melissa steps out of the bathroom, you ambush her with a kiss.

“Oomph.” Melissa says as she didn’t expect it, but it was certainly welcomed. Melissa lifts you up and brings you both to the bed. Both your clothes are off quickly as you both can’t wait any longer. You were both excited the entire car ride home. The one downside of having kids is you can’t pull over and have spontaneous car sex anymore.

Melissa kisses all over your body before plunging two fingers in you. You moan out when she does and Melissa silents you with a kiss. You both don’t want to wake any of your kids at that moment.

Melissa keeps a steady pace as she fingers you. She wants you both to enjoy this so she goes at a pace that won’t make you cum in 30 seconds. She knows your body like the back of her hand, which is certainly an advantage in many situations, especially sexual situations. You keep moaning and gasping into the kiss as you get closer and closer to an orgasm.

“Come when you need to, baby.” Melissa pulls away to say that then goes right back to kissing you. You gasp into the kiss as you come seconds later and Melissa gently pulls out of you. After not having sex for 2 weeks, that was an intense orgasm. Melissa can tell you’re having trouble moving so she gets an idea as she knows you want to make her cum now. “Just stick out two fingers so I can ride them.” She tells you and you immediately obey. She slides down on your fingers and starts riding them as you watch her. It’s not the first time she’s done this, as she’s extremely good with her fingers, but you love it when she does. The fact that she’s bringing herself that enjoyment with your help, and on top of you, with her breast moving with her, it’s definitely one of your favourite sights. Her mouth then starts hanging open and you can feel her pussy wrap around your fingers tightly and you can tell she’s about to cum. “Omg baby, your fingers feel so good inside of me.”

“And I love having my fingers inside of you, being able to feel you.” You tell her, and at that, she comes. Melissa then flops down on the bed next to you and you’re both breathing heavily.

“Don’t know why you’re breathing hard, I did all the work.” She jokes with you and you chuckle.

“Well the sight took my breath away.” You say to her with a smile.

You then cuddle as she comes down from her high and you both feel very content at that moment. You then look at Melissa as an idea pops in your head.

“What is it Mia Amore?” She asks you.

“How do you feel about getting a puppy?”

Taglist: @esposadejoyhuerta

@imaginesmultifandoms

@idonothingalldays-blog

@sexysapphicshopowner

@dvrkhcld

@lilfartbox1

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@unicorniusfallapatorius

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@sleep-deprived-athlete

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@midnight-lestrange

Let me know if you want to be added!

[starrystevie]

based on this post because i couldn't read it and not picture it as anything but steddie

the house is quiet. it's steve's favorite time of the day when everything feels still, comfortable and warm, like a cozy cocoon that his family has built around themselves. daisy is curled up at his side like a personal heater, her head resting peacefully on steve's stomach as they snuggle in bed. he knows eddie will come in after finishing up the kids' bedtime story and yell at him for letting the dog on the bed, but steve knows he'll get away with it once they both turn puppy dog eyes on him. he always does.

steve's just about to put his bookmark in between the pages of his book and turn off the bedside light for the night when there is what can only be explained as a commotion on the other side of the house. it startles both steve and daisy, her big head perking up immediately, cocked to the side as she tries to place the sound before jumping off onto to the floor. steve follows quickly and is standing fast enough that his vision goes a bit blurry.

he hasn't had this fear in a long time. he hasn't felt the need to reach for the bat under his bed in years. his heart starts to beat a tick faster, but then he hears it.

they're laughing.

both he and daisy make their way down the hallway to the kids room where streams of multicolored light spills out over the hardwood from the mini disco ball josephine just had to have. he doesn't even make it halfway to their room when he hears just what they're all laughing about.

"dad, do the voices! you always do the voices!"

by the time steve is leaning against the open doorway, he sees it: his home. it's his kids, josephine and winnie, sitting up excitedly in their beds. winnie's damn near falling out of her bed as she tries to sneak peeks at the pages of their bedtime story. and it's eddie, salt and pepper hair piled on top of his head with glasses almost falling off his nose as he reaches his hands up to imitate some sort of soldier or king or something steve can't figure out.

eddie's yelling some speech with a big boisterous voice, the girls are shrieking with smiles wide enough to split their faces, and steve can't do anything other than take it all in. daisy pushes past him and goes to jump on joey's bed, kissing her into another laughing fit.

"my king!" eddie says once he's spotted steve, bending to one knee with a closed fist over his heart. josephine pulls herself up to her knees on her bed to copy her dad and winnie, who will do anything her big sister does, follows suit. "to what do we owe this most wonderful pleasure?"

eddie's smiling this mischievous grin, his eyes twinkling like the stars the girls stuck to the walls, and steve feels that familiar tug in his heart that always seems to come around when he thinks about how damn lucky he is. he playfully rolls his eyes in opposition of how much love he feels and hurries across the room to press a quick kiss to the top of his head.

"at ease," steve murmurs, his voice a little flat. he's not as good at the fantasy voices as eddie is. "just had to come see what all the ruckus was about."

eddie scrunches his nose, standing back up and pressing a kiss of his own to steve's cheek. he can hear the girls behind them faking a gag, winnie's tiny elongated 'ewwwww' barely audible over how loud joey's acting is. when he gets a good look at them, josephine has found a way to lay across her bed to play dead and it forces a giggle out of winnie.

"why do you guys have to be so gross all the time?" josephine says, picking her head up only to drop it back down, eyes closed and tongue sticking out.

"to annoy you, obviously." steve's response it dry enough to have eddie chuckling at his side. "how much longer do you have?"

steve nods to the book and eddie looks down at where his finger is holding place. he scans over the pages, eyes growing larger when he realizes just how far away the end of the chapter is. he pulls the hand painted bookmark off of the girls' bedside table and sets the book down despite the groans it gets him in return.

"looks like we're done for the night, fair maidens."

"do we really have to be done, dad?" winnie's trying her hardest to get eddie to pick the book back up. her lip is pouted and her big brown eyes are wide enough that even steve almost caves to the 4 year old, but eddie's shaking his head and tucking her in instead.

"just for tonight, nugget," he whispers against the side of her head as he presses a kiss to her temple.

"but daaaaad-" josephine starts, fighting against steve as he tries to pull the blanket up to her chin.

"nope, no buts, joey girl. it's a school night anyway. you guys can read more tomorrow night."

with the girls grumbling, the two dads trade off kissing them each good night and steve flicks off the bedside lamp to leave only the disco ball flickering rainbow colors over the room. daisy curls up next to josephine who promptly picks up her covers to settle over them both.

when the door clicks shut, eddie lets an arm loop around steve's waist, bringing him in for a soft kiss. they pull away with a smile, crow-footed eyes crinkling in the low hallway light.

"sorry that we got too loud." eddie looks sheepish in that endearing way that he knows will get him of the hook, but steve just shakes his head before reaching his hand up to pick the reading glasses off his husband's face.

"no need to be sorry. you know i love seeing them that happy."

when they turn off the light for the night, tangled around each other before flopping onto their sides of the bed, steve breathes in deep. he gives his husband a kiss goodnight and doesn't think about the bat under his bed. instead, he thinks about his family, winnie's big brown eyes and josephine's toothy grin and eddie's hand forever in his own, comfortable and warm in the home they built around each other.

[rageprufrock]

Superposition | The Devil Judge WIP

Just a sneak peek into the inevitable outcome of me finding out that I can write a story about a 17 year age gap.

After the fire, Yohan wakes up every morning knowing that Isaac is dead. 

Elijah wakes up every morning convinced her father is alive. 

It's the crush damage of new grief each day, too big for her tiny body and too heavy for her to carry. It's worse than all of Yohan's years under his father's belt; it's not until he loses Isaac and Heejin, until Elijah cries herself unconscious in his arms, that Yohan realizes that his father had been a clumsy jailer, that for all his cruelty he'd been a blunt instrument compared to all the ways suffering can visit itself upon a person. 

It's a miracle Elijah is alive, surviving multiple complex fractures and then delayed treatment. They save the flesh and bone of her legs, piece her back together with literal pins and needles. Her x-rays are difficult to look at; the scarring across her ghost-pale skin is worse. She hurts, in a relentless way that is at first impossible to explain to a child, and then is so ordinary she goes quiet with it, turns it inward. She stops crying. She's too weak and immobile for her once-infamous tantrums. She goes quiet instead. She throws books, toys, anything that Yohan brings into her beautifully appointed private room to try to distract her. 

"It will be hard, and it will take time," her doctors say, with an infuriating paternalism, as if their performed empathy could dampen constant burn of searing fire across Yohan's shoulders, cut into the shell of him. "But she's young and she's resilient—she'll surprise you." 

For the first six months, Yohan spends his limited waking, functional hours desperately trying to hold back the flood with his bare hands. He wakes and he's in too much pain to function. He sleeps and his doctors adjust his pain management regimen. He wakes and he tries to comfort Elijah. He sleeps and he dreams about the skin grafts he's been informed are needed. He wakes and he calls Lawyer Ko. He sleeps when he knows Isaac's Social Responsibility Fund donation is canceled. He loses hours and entire days in the labyrinth of the hospital, winding between the VIP ward and the children's wing, meeting with Elijah's orthopedic surgeon, her occupational therapists, the revolving cast of nurses that transport her from procedure to scan to bedside. He arranges Isaac and Heejin's funeral, and ends up back as a patient when Elijah's meltdown at the gravesite has him tearing one of his barely healed graft sites trying to contain her flailing arms, to swallow all of her screaming pain into the bottomless well in the base of his spine. 

It's eight months and six days after the fire that Yohan hears Elijah laugh again. 

***

Later, he'll get a comprehensive readout from the hospital grapevine, but the day he meets Gaon for the first time, all he knows is that he's been summoned by the terrifying peds nurses because Elijah and her new friend have committed some kind of juvenile crime.

Yohan's not ignorant to the fact that Elijah is a nightmare child, but he's still a little confused about how a five year old who is—frankly—abysmal with her new wheelchair is any kind of threat to society. He fetches up at to the pediatric OT clinic fully prepared to act like a complete entitled asshole about this, because while Elijah is a monster, she's his monster and therefore completely innocent of all sin, original or otherwise. 

Except halfway down the hallway there, he hears the sharp cackle of Elijah's laughter, a goblin shriek of pure wicked joy. It lands like a punch, like a blessing, it leaves him lightheaded. 

When he rushes the door, it's to find Elijah in full glory, giggling so hard she can't speak. Her hair is tied up in a series of tiny ponytails that frame her face like a lion's mane, her face is covered in marker, and she's clutching a filthy orange cat to her chest. 

"Kang Yohan-sshi," says one of the nurses, who is trying and failing to look severe, from the way her mouth keeps wobbling and her voice is trembling. "As you can see, we have a situation."

"I—where did she get the cat?" Yohan asks, faint.

Another nurse, who is making no effort to hide her grin, says, "Apparently, they found him behind a trash can in the garden and snuck him into the hospital." 

Yohan slants his eyes toward her. "They?" 

"I'm really not sure how you missed her very obvious partner in crime," the nurse tells him, actively laughing now, and when Yohan turns to look again—turns to see anything other than the miracle of Elijah's smiling face—he sort of understands her point.

Because sitting next to Elijah is a skinny teenaged boy wearing Elijah's headband, all of his short hair pushed back and sticking out like a massive frill around his thin face, his nose colored black and whiskers drawn across his cheeks. He looks less embarrassed than he probably should be, and more incriminating, he's holding some contraption made out of stolen hospital supplies that looks like one those little fishing toys for cats—a single inflated glove hanging from the end—that the fat orange on Elijah's lap keeps reaching for with outstretched paws. 

Standing in the doorway, surrounded by staff and other parents who are barely containing their hysterics, the whole thing is even more batshit. Nurse Woo Yeji, the iron fist of the pediatrics ward, is looming over Elijah and the kid on the ground, hands on her hips as she booms out:

"Kang Elijah-sshi, give me that creature immediately." 

Elijah narrows her bright little eyes. "Oh no," Yohan mutters.

"My cat," she declares, her chin stuck out in defiance.

"He was so sick and skinny, we had to rescue him," the boy chimes in, with the admirable application of a pair of doleful, sweet eyes. It might be more effective if his face wasn't covered in washable marker and he didn't have a purple heart drawn over his left eyebrow. 

"That cat is at least 4 kilograms overweight," Nurse Yeji tells them both, unmoved. "And let me say: Kim Gaon, I thought you had better judgment than this."

The boy, Gaon, takes the comment with the ease of long familiarity with disappointment, but Yohan still sees his eyes go briefly flinty, briefly cold, before he pastes on a smile and says, "I rode my motorcycle into a wall. If you thought I had good judgement, that's your own fault." 

"Yah! Kim Gaon!" the nurse yells, which just sets Elijah off again into pealing laughter. 

And from the back of the room, Yohan watches the way this mouthy kid, this little punk, glances over to his niece, watches how the fake grin on his face dissolves for something softer—something run through with tenderness too old for his years. 

***

Kim Gaon is 17, orphaned, and a frequent flight risk from the group home he's been remanded to with both his parents dead. In the 13 months since his father had died by suicide, and the 10 months since his mother had followed, he's been picked up by the local cops at least a half-dozen times: for smoking, for drinking, for fighting. Yohan looks up photos of Gaon's once-happy family, reads SNS posts mourning the closure of their family restaurant, the police reports about the suicides, the note in Gaon's hospital file that notes that he's going into arrears for his parents' funeral costs. Kim Gaon's social worker talks about him with a sort of resigned apology, approaches Yohan's interest like another black mark in the boy's service jacket. She looks at Yohan's suit and briefcase, takes his business card and calls him Lawyer Kang, spills the whole of Gaon's history, reassures Yohan that however self-destructive, however volatile, Kim Gaon's never displayed any violent tendencies toward children, that Lawyer Kang should feel free to reach out immediately if he feels concern that Gaon has become Elijah's friend.

"If you'd like me to speak to him, to tell him you're not comfortable with him spending time with you niece, I completely understand," his social worker says. 

Kim Gaon has been treated for two different STIs and tried to kill himself with a motorcycle three months ago. The only people he has left in the world are a childhood friend from down the street and Judge Min Jeongho, who used to eat lunch at the Kim's restaurant every day. 

Kim Gaon is 17 and entirely alone.

Yohan smiles at her. "No need," he reassures her. "I'll handle this on my own." 

***

Too much of Kim Gaon's character reference is ultimately hearsay. Yohan doesn't trust himself, exactly, but he trusts his judgement, so he watches quietly from the sidelines, collecting data. Yohan hears all the nurses talk about how Gaon is achingly polite, how they can't understand how such a nice boy could be such an evident wild child he would ride motorcycles with reckless lack of self preservation. He watches Gaon do other peoples' homework, quizzing them on Joseon history and showing a middle schooler who's learning how to write with his left hand trigonometry. Kim Gaon plays Smash Brothers with a flock of elementary school kids and ruthlessly kicks their asses every single time.

The Kim Gaon that's considered a neighborhood menace, the one sends his teachers into a blind fury, that's the protective armor. Yohan knows from defensive adaptations. 

But being a nice kid isn't the same as belonging in Elijah's life in any meaningful way, Yohan acknowledges, and spends a pointless day drafting soul-killing discovery motions and wondering why he's devoting so much time to this distraction. Maybe it's how Elijah's sleeping through the nights better, communicating her pain and what she needs better. Maybe it's how she tells stories about her friend Gaon, and it briefly feels as if they've traveled backward through time, that Yohan's watching her for the night, hearing and becoming deeply invested in all of her day care drama. 

"Elijah-ah, why do you like Gaon so much?" Yohan asks her one night, midway through the intricate ritual of her bedtime routine.

From her bed, Elijah says, "Gaon is funny and cats like him and also his parents are dead, so someone has to take care of him," and without missing a beat, points her sparkling princess wand toward the closet, commanding, "Check there, too." 

Yohan climbs off of the floor where he'd been checking under the bed and goes.

"Would you want to see Gaon even outside of the hospital?" he asks her, doing a careful four-point inspection of the closet: more clothes than one child could ever wear, 200 pairs of shoes, a stuffed sheep the size of a horse—no monsters. "Closet's clear."

Elijah makes a considering noise. "Gaon-oppa said he was a really good cook, so I want to eat his food," she decides, and shy now, she waves Yohan toward her, tiny hands flapping. "Samchon, come here. I want to tell you a secret."

Yohan cherishes every secret he has with Elijah. Since she was born, he's kept so many for her: that she stole a cookie, that she's really really not scared of thunder, that she loves her uncle best, that church is boring. 

"I'm ready," Yohan promises, and sits at the edge of her bed with his most serious expression. 

Elijah looks left and right, as if there are spies around every corner, before she cups her hands around her mouth and Yohan curls over her so that she can whisper:

"Sometimes I forget I'm sad about Mom and Dad, but Gaon-oppa says that's okay because I never forget that I love them." 

It lands somewhere in Yohan's soft underbelly, in the forever ache of his scare tissue. He looks down into Elijah's solemn little face, her riverstone eyes, and he wonders what kind of benevolent God allows this—forces children to patch one another's broken hearts. He used to wish that he would have died instead, that he could trade himself for Isaac, for Heejin, but he's comforted Elijah through too many nightmares of his own death to entertain it any longer. Love's always been a chain, whether wrapped around his wrist with a cross or trapping him in his father's house. 

"You will, you always will," he whispers back. 

"And they love me, too, of course, in heaven," she tells him, with the haughty confidence of a spoilt only child, who'd grown up with three adults circling around her in constant adulation. 

"And I love you here, on Earth," he says, and does not add, your grandfather loves you, too, from where he's burning in hell.

Elijah goes suddenly quiet, thoughtful and a little distant, and Yohan waits patiently until she says at last, "Gaon doesn't think his parents love him in heaven." 

Yohan stills. "Did he say that?" 

"He told his friend, the unni that visits sometimes," Elijah reports, and staring dead into Yohan's eyes, she adds, "I was hiding behind a curtain listening. He also said he can't be her boyfriend." 

"Okay, well, time for little goblins to go to sleep," Yohan says, because he absolutely cannot start laughing about this because somewhere out there, in the beautiful hereafter that Isaac so fervently believed in, he would be furious if Yohan encouraged this kind of behavior.

***

For all Yohan's been investigating the mystery of Kim Gaon, he's wholly unprepared to be confronted by the reality of the boy while sitting in the hospital cafe at half past five, working his way through a stack of files for court the next day.

"Kang Yohan-sshi?" comes a voice, and when Yohan looks up, it's into the shaggy bangs and thin face of the boy who makes Elijah laugh, standing awkwardly at the edge of his table.

"Ah," he says, flipping his pen across his knuckles. "You're Kim Gaon."

Gaon's eyes round. "You recognize me?" 

"The nurses tell me you're friends with Elijah," Yohan says, and waves at one of the empty chairs at the table, shuffles a few folders around to make room. "Please."

It takes more than a little maneuvering for Gaon to take the offered seat, between his backpack and his crutches, his leg still in its cast, and Yohan offers him a steadying arm, takes his bag, helps shift the table this way and that way. Gaon looks mortified the whole time by these small courtesies, stumbling over thank yous and apologies. It tells on him in ways Gaon can't possibly know, but that Yohan can't possibly ignore.

"What brings you to my temporary office?" Yohan asks, when he's sure the kid isn't going to tip over and break anything else, and is only in immediate danger of blushing to death.

Gaon squares his shoulders, and taking a deep breath, says, "I wanted to talk to you about a cat."

This is how Yohan learns that the orange furball that he's first seen that day in the OT room all those many weeks ago is a stray that's been named Gam, and that Elijah's youthful enthusiasm for petty hospital-based crime has undergone a metamorphosis toward more elaborate heists.

"Not that I don't admire her ambition, but I'm pretty sure you'd notice the yowling lump in her sweater when you pick her up from OT," Gaon says, still nervous and too polite, darting wary little glances upward at Yohan. "I tried to talk her out of it, but she started arguing about how cold it was going to get and I had to admit defeat."

Yohan feels the corners of his mouth curl up, reflexive. "There's wisdom in recognizing when you're beaten," he says. "And I appreciate your letting me know."

"Sure," Gaon says before going quiet for a long measure, some unfinished sentence still hidden behind his lashes. Yohan's patient, waits him out, and is rewarded when a half-minute passes and Gaon says, with a brittle courage and poorly concealed vulnerability, "I—I'd take him with me if I could. I like Gam. But the house where I have to stay won't allow pets."

Yohan can hear a universe in between the confession here: that Gaon must have been worried about the cold weather long before Elijah even noticed, that he'd tried to find an answer all on his own. Yohan feels, tugging in the hollow underneath his breastbone, a hurtful recognition of a younger version of himself, all those raw edges fraying, and maybe—sitting here—he can understand a little of Isaac's quiet sadness, the way Yohan had carried all his suffering alone, as a matter of course, without ever trying to ask for help. 

He looks at the slope of Gaon's shoulders, the wrinkled collar of his school uniform shirt, his terrible haircut, the little divot of a piercing in his ear. Yohan thinks about the sunburst of Elijah's laughter and all the terrible things he's willing to do to sustain it; it's strange to realize he hadn't anticipated something so easy, something that wouldn't hurt at all. 

"Do me a favor," Yohan sighs.

Gaon's head darts up. "Um—if I can?" he says.

"Back me up when I tell her that I thought long and hard about this, and that I'm going to be a strict taskmaster about this cat," Yohan says, with a rueful certainty that there's no way in hell that Elijah is going to buy this narrative, because it looks like the sun is rising in the brightness of Gaon's eyes, the pink happiness of his too-thin cheeks. This kid couldn't lie effectively if his life depended on it. In this light, Gaon looks a little like Isaac, if Isaac was too thin and too hopeful, all gamine pleasure; it makes Yohan feel his bones creak just to look at him. 

"I will, I absolutely will," Gaon promises, smiling now and still shy, but so achingly sweet that it makes Yohan want to buy him hot chocolate, to tell him he's done a good job, to ask if he's eaten dinner. 

He forebears, and starts packing up his work documents instead. 

"Come on," he tells Gaon. "If I'm going to make a fool of myself trying to trap a feral hospital cat, you're coming with me."

Yohan ends up scratched to hell and back, his hand-tailored wool trousers covered in mud, while  Gaon laughs at him with a wide-open happiness that makes something in Yohan's chest feel too big for his rib cage. He decides not to think about it in favor of fetching Elijah from her PT and ferrying her down to his car, where Gaon is waiting for them both, a sulking Gam zipped into the front of his hoodie like an uncooperative child. His smile could light every building in Gangnam. Elijah's shriek of pure joy when she spots him leaves Yohan half-deaf for the drive home, and so the warm patter of Elijah and Gaon talking in the backseat rolls over him in indistinct syllable noises until he drops Gaon off at his group home and helps him to the door. 

"Thank you, for today," Gaon tells him, starry and still rosy, covered in cat hair. 

"Elijah's already drawing up plans for shared custody, so don't be a stranger," Yohan warns. 

He'd been ordered by Elijah to participate in an exchange of contact information with Gaon because everybody in the car had a unique and unaddressed relationship with the trauma of abandonment, and so of course Gam could not be suddenly bereft of one of his humans.

"I won't, I promise," Gaon swears, and nods back toward the car, where Elijah is holding Gam up against the window and waving his paw at them. "You should get her home."

Elijah talks nonstop during the drive out of the urban density of Seoul into the forested beyond where their family home is perched on a melodramatic cliff above a lake. Yohan hears about her nurses, her rivalry with another little boy in OT who sounds like he has a world-ending crush on her Gaon-oppa, and listens to the way Elijah sometimes stops mid-sentence when Gam meows at her and then replies, as if she can understand cat. 

Whatever is bubbling in his veins, its too violent to be the warm kindness of joy. This ferocity feels like some holy gratitude, feels like the way Isaac used to talk about God. Yohan has never any good at faith, but he thinks—to himself, so loudly he hears it over the roar of blood in his ears and the chattering happiness of Elijah, vividly alive—he thinks, thank you, thank you, to whoever is listening: to God, to fate, to fortune, to the fucking cat—to Gaon, waving at Elijah with both hands, a smile on his face and Gam curled close against his chest. 

[if-lost-please-return-to-maliksi]

....Maliksi turned into a what?!

Disclaimer: I do not own Maliksi and Makisig - Full Credit goes to HC - @ask-emilz-de-philz. Please check out their blog for amazing art and the wonderful world of Planet Puto..

A/N: I heard u guys need a way to cope? Coz same. Don't take this fic seriously kasi crackfic nga diba? HAHAHA ((Also, I might not be able to post angst sa mga susunod na araw coz...aym missing my bibilohoneybunch, pag nakita nyo sya, ples paki soli ako sakanya.

Genre: Fluff/Crackfic

You sat on your bed, arms crossed on your chest before violently wiping hot angry tears on your eyes.

That damned Maliksi.

You grumbled underneath your breath as you let out a heavy sigh- he's not always like that and you knew it but that doesn't change the fact that he just somehow says all the wrong things, using the wrong tone, during the worst times.

He's been on an extra sour mood lately that he can't get past 5 minutes without starting fights with the other binibinis. And today, while trying to get him to calm down, he snapped at you- using words you definitely hated to hear and without saying anything, you just left him and went straight to your room in order to prevent the situation from getting worse.

"Y/n!" One of Makisig's ladies came running towards your room, yelling for you as she held into the doorframe to try to catch her breath.

"Hey, what happened?"

"Maki was away and Maliksi he-"

You quickly got into your feet, unconsciously running towards the living room, worried to the core.

"Noooo! You're not Kuya Maki! Maliksi only wants Kuya Makiiii-""

You can hear the high pitched cries of a child from right across the room, you also didn't miss his light sobs and sniffles. You quickly stopped dead on your tracks, giving one of Makisig's ladies a baffled look.

"T-that's Maliksi? He turned into a child?"

"Yes, we already called Makisig and apparently this really happens to tamawos every 10 years- they regress to their most vulnerable state. That also explains why he's been extra mean recently."

"When will Makisig be coming home?"

"Tomorrow. We tried everything to make him stop crying but he just cries harder whenever we try to touch him."

"And what makes you think he'll be okay with me? We just had an argument earl-"

As soon as the now child Maliksi heard your voice, he instantly stopped crying while he tried to use his little hands to wipe his tears and snotty chubby face using his shirt.

Everyone looked in awe as the little Maliksi tried clinging into the couch to guide himself to take small steps towards the direction of your voice.

"Maliksi?" you softly said as you met him halfway, crouching down to his level. He didn't speak but he tried clinging into your legs, nuzzling his face into the fabric of your dress.

You gently picked him up, cradling him to your chest as you wipe his tears. "C'mon, stop crying little guy." The little Maliksi nodded before nuzzling his face into your chest. You let out a soft sigh as you ran your fingers along his soft hair.

"I'll be taking care of him at the mean time."

Everyone else nodded, still in awe on how you managed to make the now toddler Maliksi calm down effortlessly. You sat down on the couch with him in your arms as the other ladies started to go to their respective rooms.

"You're adorable like this." you softly chuckled before giving him a small peck on his chubby cheek.

"Y/n...Maliksi ish cool, not adwo...adwbl.."

"Adorable."

The moment you corrected him, you can see red slowly creeping into the entirety of his face as he tried to hide into the crook of your neck.

"Sowee, Y/n" he whispered, his words a little muffled from his face still being smooshed into you.

"Hm?"

"Sowee for yelling earlier..." He slowly looks up at you with big eyes, fat tears threatening to fall.

"Now that's an unfair way of apologizing, how can I say no to that?" You softly giggled before kissing the top of his head and tickling him- the living room being filled with his tiny laughter.

You spent some time playing with the tiny Maliksi and giving him snacks- making sure to be mindful of his sugar intake so he doesn't go into sugar rush.

"Y/n, I... so eeepy-" he softly said while rubbing his eyes, he must be tired after all that playtime. You gently lifted him in your arms to carry him into your room.

Tucking him under the sheets and softly humming a lullaby, it didn't took long before the tiny Maliksi is sleeping soundly. You gently kissed the top of his head before slowly closing your eyes and drifting into slumber.

Hours passed and a feeling a slight shift on the bed slowly woke you up. The next thing you knew, you were being cuddled into Maliksi's chest- the normal, adult Maliksi.

"Maliksi?" you asked while still half asleep, not bothering to open your eyes just yet.

"Hm? You can go back to sleep, Y/n." Maliksi whispered as he wraps his arms around you gently before giving you a quick kiss on the lips. You smiled and nuzzled back into his chest before falling asleep once again.

((FLUFF IS SERVEEEEDDDDD))

Art by: @ask-emilz-de-philz that's their OC, Maliksi the Tamawo. Please support them <3

[illbisexual]

cuddles with the yellowjackets Warnings: fem!reader, this fic excludes Misty, Mari, Akilah, and Laura Lee Proofread: no

Lottie Matthews

Teddies GALORE on her bed

She collects the little beanie babies and you cant escape them when you go over..

Her room is usually tidy

Bed ALWAYS made before you come over

She has super cute sheets like pink floral ones that she adores

Insane amount of ribbons tied around her bedposts

she likes when your laying on top of her

Sometimes you two just lie side by side

She always has to be touching you or she goes insane

"Let me play with your hair" "no lottie I'm trying to sleep" "okay so why do you hate me.."

Jackie Taylor

Everytime you go over to her house she tries to convince you to let her do your makeup

Which you usually do let her after a few minutes of her constant "please"s

She forces you to sit on her vanity chair and she sits on the desk. Don't ask why she just does

She refuses to let you take the makeup off after she does it

After she does your makeup she drags you into bed

She plays with the drawstring of your hoodie/pants if you're wearing clothes with drawstrings

She has those cute pillows that are heart-shaped on her bed

Little spoon

She likes when you have your arms around her

She matches your breathing like a DORK !!!

Shauna Shipman

Fusses over making sure you're warm enough even though she's like a literal human heater

She liked having her arm around your shoulder and plays with the ends of your hair

She likes when you lean into her side it makes her giggle like an idiot

Halfway through cuddling she'll usually fall asleep and roll over and accidentally smother you

If she doesn't fall asleep she shoves a pillow in your face which prompts a pillow fight

..which she usually wins. Like always

She makes fun of you for "looking sleepy" when she looks like she's about to fall asleep standing up about 50% of the time she's with you

Your voice just makes her tired she doesn't know why

Taissa Turner

Blankets upon blankets stacked on her bed

it doesn't help her room is like an oven

You step one foot into her room and immediately you have to take your jacket off or you'll cook alive 😭

She makes you pick out a CD to play and then makes you put it in the CD player because shes too lazy too

You spend atleast 10 minutes just adjusting to how heavy her covers are

She has her arms wrapped around you constantly

She goes dead silent and just when you think she's fallen asleep she starts giggling and calls you an idiot

you guys sing along quietly to the music playing

Natalie Scatorccio

She usually goes over to your house after school

When you do go to her house she doesnt even give you the chance to properly get through the trailer door before shes dragging you to her room

She puts music on immediately and closes her door

You convince her to paint your guys' nails

She then proceeds to get pissed at you when you mess up your nail polish she just painted

She's over it in the next 5 minutes when your in bed with her

She likes to lie in between your legs and wrap her arms around your waist and she rests her head on your stomach

She sings quietly when you mess with her hair

She plays with her rings and she feels really peaceful with you

Van Palmer

You guys walk home from school together to her house usually

You crash into bed with her the minute you get into her room

You guys fight over the covers for a couple of minutes until you both start laughing and eventually sort them out

she strikes me as the kind of girl to have like.. christmas/Halloween bed sheets on even though its the middle of September

"What? I'm getting in the spirit" "or did you just get forced to change your bed sheets??" "Maybe.."

She makes you braid her hair for her, or just makes you do it general

But you don't kind because you like running your hands through her hair

And pulling on it and watching her offended face as she whips her head around to look at you

She has her arms wrapped around you and you have your arms wrapped around her

[your-divine-ribs]

Valentine’s Day (Dad Van)

Valentine’s Day with Dad Van 💗

Dad Van Masterlist Main Masterlist

💗 Van's always said he hates the commercial side of Valentine's Day and you do too, but that doesn't mean that you don't secretly want him to spoil you.

💗 You have a sneaky plan to drop major hints around your daughter Grace who has a habit of feeding everything that she hears back to her dad.

💗 "Mummy likes peonies the best Daddy... big red ones... and tulips too... but they've got to be pink or white..."

💗 You smile to yourself as you hear Van asking her to use her 'quiet' voice whilst you're in the kitchen next door. It's not working... you could probably hear her if you were halfway down the street.

💗 "She likes chocolate too... any type of chocolate... she's not fussy about that!"

💗 "Shh Gracie!" Van urges back. "We don't want Mummy finding out beforehand do we? We gotta keep it a secret!"

💗 "But Mummy always says we shouldn't keep secrets from each other!"

💗 "Mummy's right but this is different angel," Van explains patiently. "Some secrets are good secrets... when you're doing something nice for someone and you want it to be a surprise... it's okay then."

💗 It's quiet for a moment and you can picture the thoughtful look on your daughter's face as what Van's told her sinks in.

💗 When she does speak again she is actually whispering this time and you have to press your ear against the door to listen... you know you really shouldn't but you can't help it... you love to hear their Daddy/daughter chats.

💗 "I've got a secret too," she giggles secretively. "I have a boyfriend... at school!"

💗 "A... a boyfriend?" Van splutters and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to stop the loud laugh that nearly bursts forth that would give away your eavesdropping. "Bit young for that ain't ya?"

💗 Grace has already filled you in on the 'big fat crush' she has on one on her class-mates, Robbie, but she's not told her dad yet whose protective streak goes into overdrive around his daughter.

💗 Grace is all coy giggles as she confides in her dad. "Well he's not my boyfriend yet... but I want him to be. Can you help me? I want to do something nice for Valentines and Mummy says you're dead romantic!"

💗 "Oh, she does, does she?" You can actually hear the smugness in your husband's voice.

💗 Without warning the door's suddenly opening and you're stumbling forwards, driven by the momentum of leaning against it.

💗 "Ahhh!" You gasp, lurching over the threshold, your fall broken by a pair of strong hands as Van catches you.

💗 "You weren't snooping by any chance were ya love?" He smirks at your glowing cheeks as you right yourself, flustered but trying to hide it.

💗 "No I wasn't!" You cry out rather unconvincingly as Van and Grace look at each other, sniggering. "I was just... errr... I was just coming to ask if you wanted a cuppa actually."

💗 Van and Grace spend the rest of the afternoon sitting cross-legged and hunched over together on the living room floor, Van with his acoustic guitar in his lap and Grace with her little pink sparkly notebook and matching pen.

💗 There's plenty of tinkling laughter from Grace and chuckles from Van, cries of "No that sounds silly Daddy, that doesn't even rhyme!" and "That's class that is Gracie, you're a natural!"

💗 "What're you two up to then?" You ask, intrigued, peering over Grace's shoulder to try and decipher her messy scrawl in the notebook. "Looks like fun."

💗 "It's nothing!" She blurts quickly, snatching the notebook up and swiftly closing it, hugging it closely to her chest.

💗 "Doesn't look like nothing to me," you say, full of curiosity. "C'mon, tell me. What is it?"

💗 Van nudges Grace gently with his elbow and they share a knowing look. "I reckon Mummy's being nosey again, what d'ya think, eh?"

💗 "Yeah... and we can't tell her because it's a secret!" She purposefully exaggerates the last word, a huge mischievous grin stretching wide across her face. She really is the spitting image of her dad sometimes. They're like two peas in a pod.

💗 "You'll find out soon enough love," Van adds mysteriously and you look between them both, taking in Van's tight-lipped smirk and the sparkle of excitement in Grace's eyes. There's no way you're going to find out what they're cooking up between them.

💗 "You'd better not be up to no good!" You laugh, backing away to leave them to it.

💗 Van presses a hand to his chest, speaking with an exaggerated innocence that doesn't match his cheeky expression. "Us? Up to no good? Never!"

💗 The next few days leading up to Valentine's Day you have to endure plenty of hushed whispers whenever you walk into a room that Van and Grace are occupying, their sneaky collusions mounting the closer you get.

💗 On the day you awaken to the sensation of a pair of soft lips peppering gentle kisses all over the exposed skin of your shoulder. You hum in appreciation, pushing your body back against the length of Van's, your bare feet tangling together.

💗 "Morning beautiful," he greets you, hands sliding around your waist and nudging under the hem of your pyjama top. "D'ya know what day it is?"

💗 "Hmm... morning," you reply, practically purring as you feel him moving your hair to one side, his lips brushing the delicate skin of your neck. "It's... Wednesday isn't it?"

💗 "Yeah it's Wednesday... but it's a special Wednesday," he murmurs in between kisses. "D'ya know why?"

💗 "Nuh-uh..." You decide to play dumb, enjoying the attention he's lavishing on you too much, taking full advantage. "I am still half asleep though... maybe a few more kisses will wake me up..."

💗 Van needs little encouragement, a hand curling around your shoulder to pull your body down so you're flat on your back and he's hovering over you. "Now that's a service I can certainly provide!"

💗 You lie back, feigning sleepiness whilst Van kisses your forehead, your cheeks and the tip of your nose before scattering tiny kisses all down your jaw. "You awake yet love?"

💗 "Nah... not yet... still sleepy... keep going!"

💗 His hair tickles your skin whilst he nuzzles into the hollow of the base of your neck and you let out a contented sigh, your body relaxing into the mattress.

💗 "Maybe this'll wake ya up..."

💗 Why is he so good at this? You can feel your toes curl involuntarily as he sucks gently at your pulse point... you have to stifle a moan.

💗 "Daddy! Daddy! Wake up! It's the day! It's here!"

💗 Van leaps a foot into the air away from you in shock. The excited cry is followed by the sound of tiny feet drumming on the floor before your bedroom door flies open, crashing back on its hinges.

💗 Grace is carrying the biggest bunch of flowers, all your favourites, lush deep red peonies and delicate white tulips, all hand-tied and finished off with a silk bow. They're so big she's practically obscured by the petals.

💗 "Happy Love Day!" She announces proudly, grinning at you, thrusting the flowers towards you.

💗 "Oh wow! Thank you sweetheart," you beam as you take them from her, then you turn to Van. "They're beautiful, thank you... but I didn't think we were doing gifts this year?"

💗 Of course despite your words you've already thought of Van, a bottle of his favourite cologne stashed away in your drawer and some racy lingerie you intend to keep for later on tonight...

💗 "Ahh that's only a little something," he grins. "Wait till we get to the main event!" Him and Grace exchange looks before he's rising up off the bed and him and Grace are rushing out of the room, whispering conspiratorially to each other.

💗 They return just moments later, Van with his acoustic guitar and Grace with her notebook, settling themselves down on the end of the bed.

💗 "Let me go first!" Grace says excitedly, thumbing through her notebook and clearing her throat like she's just about to give an important speech.

💗 "I do love you Mummy, but this isn't for you... this for Robbie." You and Van exchange smiles full of quiet amusement at her serious tone then back to her she starts to read out a wonderful poem. It's full of declarations of love and how it makes her feel all warm and fluffy inside.

💗 You can definitely hear Van's influence even though Grace insists that it's all her own work. You're pretty sure not many 6 year olds would slip the word 'acquiesce' into a poem unprompted though.

💗 "That's amazing!" You enthuse as she comes to an end, giving a little bow as you and Van both applaud her. "I'm sure Robbie's going to fall madly and desperately in love with you after hearing that!"

💗 "Just like you and Daddy," she smiles, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. "He says he got you to fall in love with him by writing you a song."

💗 "Talking of which..." Van's grins widely as he starts to strum, keeping his eyes fixed right on you as he begins to sing an unfamiliar tune.

💗 You've been together for years but his voice still gives you goosebumps, especially when he looks at you like that, with all that love and adoration in his eyes.

💗 Grace joins in on the chorus and you can't hold back the pearly tears that brim in your eyes and overspill down your cheeks. You can hear that your daughter's definitely put her creative stamp on their little project.

💗 The melody is sweet and simple and the words are touching and heartfelt and the fact that they wrote it together just for you makes your heart swell with emotion.

💗 There's no for need showy words or fancy metaphors to get the message across, it's quite simple and abundantly clear... they love you... and just like once before all those years ago you can feel yourself falling in love all over again.

[ticklystuff]

Hellou~ hope you're doing oke! It's been a while since I chatted with anyone here ^^✨️

I have teams for both so you get to pick~

Genshin team xiao (Boi is c5 now- so close to c6T-T), baizhu, yae and zhongli

And star rail is Blade, Kafka, Jing yuan and Argenti (the team makes no sense I'm sure but I roll with what I have^^)

ask game is closed!

hi mochi! i hope you've been doing well. i got xiao already, so pls take the rest of my luck to get him to c6 ✨ (congrats on c5 though! his c6 is very fun)

also i was dumdum and didn't see to just pick one team until halfway through so uhhhh have both LOL (also there are so many parallels in your teams: xiao/bladie are darker and aloof, miko/kafka are very gaslight/gatekeep/girlboss, zhongli/jing yuan are the senior citizens, and baizhu/argenti have flamboyant ways of speech but in different ways)

who’s the most ticklish character

xiao is the only right answer here hehehehe sometimes zhongli will reminisce about the old times when xiao was younger and he'd tickle him more often and HE DOES THIS IN FRONT OF MIKO AND BAIZHU and xiao is covering his ears and cringing while zhongli keeps talking and then he gets mad at zhongli and is like "you're embarrassing me on purpose" and zhongli swears he isn't (he is)

i am.. very biased and i'm going to put jing yuan here bc i love him and i think he would have the best laugh. like he doesn't try to hold back or stifle it so it freely flows and it's soft but also has that low growl to it that his normal voice has ahhhh i love it and him

who’s the character that most people would assume isn't ticklish, but actually is

hmmm i don't think this would apply to your genshin team! like even the craftier characters like miko people would assume she's ticklish because how is she good at it and how does she know all the good spots?? surely this means she's ticklish as well hmmm

oh i am putting bladie here because he is so intimidating and aloof but jing yuan and kafka KNOW the truth and the day they meet argenti they drag blade by the arms to him and jing yuan and kafka just smirk at each other and bladie looks at them puzzledly until he starts to feel their fingers scribbling up his sides and the sudden shift from his normal dead expression to a wide smile and outburst of laughter kinda freaks argenti out

who’s the character that everyone gangs up on and tickles

xiao! but they go after him separately and he's always the default lee of the group. like zhongli might stealthily run his fingers along xiao's knee while the two are having tea and xiao will just suddenly spit his tea out and give zhongli a scowl. or baizhu will insist on giving xiao a checkup because of all the fighting he does and sometimes he'll sneak in a few pokes and when xiao giggles baizhu will be like "oho~ looks like your nervous system still works" and xiao just grumbles "i guess.." and i feel like miko would have a soft spot for him, so she goes easy on xiao compared to the other two. she loves to take him shopping because he's the only one that looks like he's ready for combat all the time so he needs more casual clothes, according to her, and she'll give a few pokes whenever he steps out of the dressing room in a new outfit and she can't help it because he always looks cute in whatever clothes she throws him in, especially any outfit that shows exposed skin ehe

oh this one also goes to blade lmao kafka and jing yuan are always at the ready to wreck him and the worst part is that he's so clueless whenever they're planning a tickle attack against him and he can't defend himself while laughing. argenti also joined along because "you have such a beautiful laugh, bladie~ 🌹✨" and blade wants to rip him to shreds

who’s the character that somehow knows everyone else’s tickle spots and reveals them to others

zhongli and miko! miko would absolutely go around revealing tickle spots in a very sly manner, but zhongli is a good man and doesn't like to do so. the only time when he puts his knowledge to good use is when he feels like xiao has had enough tickling. he'll suddenly pull miko or baizhu off of xiao and start wiggling his fingers and they're always caught off-guard because it's usually xiao on the receiving end of tickles

kafka and jing yuan! neither would go around revealing tickle spots, but kafka does use her knowledge as a threat to others. jing yuan is much more subtle, though, and the others aren't aware that he knows all of their weak points, so someone like kafka is always confused when the eepy general is always able to hold his own in a tickle fight

who's the character with one specific tickle spot that only one other person knows about

baizhu has ticklish ears and a ticklish neck! changsheng told xiao one day and she even proved it by flicking her little snake tongue around said areas. she would've revealed more but baizhu strangled changsheng to stop her

for all the times bladie has been tickled by kafka, he does have one thing over her. silver wolf told him one day that she does have ticklish shoulder blades, but he knows the potential consequences if he dares to try

who’s the most likely to win gang tickle wars

xiao is a flop when it comes to tickling others and baizhu has like 0 energy 110% of the time lol so miko always thinks she has it in the bag bc zhongli serves big grandpa energy but then she's suddenly swept off her feet and in zhongli's arms as his fingers wiggle all over her good spots and she tries to squirm free but he's surprisingly strong

jing yuan for the same reason as zhongli! like no one expects it from him because he's always so drowsy and laidback but then it actually happens and he manages to pin them one after the other ehe~

which character has a kink for tickling

miko on some days, i think. like she'll experiment with it and sometimes she say does, but then other times it's no interest to her

oh kafka absolutely. like her whole thing is psychological warfare and she loves the mind games she can play when she involves tickling.

which character didn’t even know they were ticklish until another character tickled them

oki so i know i said earlier that changsheng would know some of baizhu's tickle spots, but he's never really been tickled by other people because of his frail state. it wasn't till he joined the team that miko gave him some tickles as part of a welcome ritual to the group (he was on the floor wheezing after a few pokes poor thing)

i think none of them! kafka and silver wolf get into tickle fights all the time, blade is tormented by kafka all the time, jing yuan got into tickle fights with all the members of the quintet, and i'm not too knowledgeable on the knights of beauty yet but argenti has such a handsome laugh i hope the rest of the knights tickled him all the time aklsdjf

which two characters have tickle fights all the time

not necessarily tickle fights but zhongli tickles xiao so much he just wants to see his boy smile. they've very sneaky and unsuspecting pokes or skitters of his fingers and the funny part is that xiao never expects them because he's very comfortable around zhongli (which makes things easy for zhongli nyehehe)

oh kafka and jing yuan bully blade all the time lol most of the time they'll fight blade alone but sometimes they'll tag team him. like, they don't even discuss getting blade, they just communicate by looking at each other and they just know and blade can never fight back because he's so incapacitated when tickled lol

[daintyduck99]

Those nights when you both party hard and now you have to take them back to their house and they say, no insist, that you stay. For PeterPatterLina?

As much as he hates to compliment her, Luke has to admit that Carrie throws the best parties. 

It's nearly midnight before Julie drops, and there are still people partying all over the mansion, whooping and dancing and diving into the pool as music pulses through the whole place like a hypnotic heartbeat. A single glare from Carrie is usually enough to stop anyone from getting too disorderly, though. She cracks down hard, and no one wants to wind up on her notorious ban list. It’s like—the high school equivalent of getting blacklisted. Social death.

Luke and Reggie are pretty safe because of Julie. Try as Carrie might to hide it, she has a soft spot, and she has just as much trouble as they do when it comes to Julie’s puppy-dog eyes. 

So, honestly? A last-minute dive would’ve been tempting if Luke hadn’t had Julie’s dead weight in his arms. It’s fun, openly delights Reggie, and annoys Carrie if she’s around—partially just because he’s him, but also because he ‘shakes all over her like a demented wet dog.’

Maybe he does. If she’s gonna call him a dog anyway, he might as well have fun with it, right?

And Julie—Julie’d pretend to be annoyed, but she’d actually be just as delighted as Reggie. 

She’s sleeping in the backseat of Reggie’s truck now, though, so. There’s none of that spirit she’s usually showing. But she’s cute like this, too, serene and small in her nest of jackets.

Reggie chuckles, and Luke’s gaze shifts from the rearview over to Reggie with a little huff. 

He realizes belatedly that he’s in what Alex has dubbed his ‘pouting stance’ and uncrosses his arms, which makes Reggie visibly suppress a grin. Luke scowls. “What?!” 

“Nothing.” Reggie’s eyes briefly flick over to Luke, bright with the grin that wants to play out properly on his lips. He signals to turn onto Julie’s road. “You guys are just—adorable.” 

Luke squawks. “I am not! You take that back before I decide to stay in the studio.” 

Reggie just hums as he pulls into the Molina’s driveway, waiting until they’re safely in park.

Then he hits Luke with his own puppy-dog eyes and pout, which is honestly just as good as Julie’s, if not better. He even flutters his eyelashes. 

“Aw, but Lu. Who’s gonna stargaze with me in the bed of the truck until we fall asleep, then?”

Luke blinks, huffing out a laugh as his pulse picks up. “Um—” 

“Nobody’s sleeping out here or in the studio,” Julie slurs, albeit firmly, as she sluggishly sits. 

Luke could kiss her for the save.

Reggie snorts. “Jules, I think you’re still half-asleep out here. Looking very comfy, too.” 

“Actually,” Luke says, smirking, “I believe the word you used was adorable.” 

“Please, like you weren’t thinking it—and you are also— ” 

Julie’s soft, sleepy giggle slips through their banter, and they fall silent as she yawns.

“Guys, just come inside. We have guest rooms. I won’t…I can’t worry if you’re here.” 

Luke and Reggie exchange a knowing look. It’s not like they want to go home, anyway. 

Finally, Reggie asks, “Are you sure that Ray won’t mind?” 

Julie flaps her hand in a Flynn-like, albeit sleep-smudged, way. “Not if you aren’t in my bed.”

Reggie goes very red. Luke does too, a little bit, but he mostly just snickers at Reggie. 

“Really, though,” Julie adds, swaying through the space in the seats, “you should stay.” 

“Well—” Reggie looks at Luke again, smiling a little as Luke nods. “Okay. Thanks, Julie.”

Reggie is the one who carries her, this time, with Luke hovering after as they quietly move through the house. Ray may be more lax with her curfew now—she’s almost eighteen—but they half expect him to pop out of the walls like a ghost. He doesn’t, but light shines under his door.

It’s not until they’re halfway out of Julie’s that she says, “Also…we’re all adorable. So even if someone did find you here…in the end, it’d be fine. Just…just so you know.” 

Luke and Reggie just blink at one another owlishly until Luke looks away. He swallows. 

“Okay, um—goodnight, Jules.” 

Then he yanks Reggie into the nearest guest room, where Reggie beats him to the punch. 

“Did—was she implying that we’re too cute to get in trouble for being caught with her?” 

“I think so?” Luke tries to smile. “I had no idea that either of you were so biased.”

Reggie gives him a real punch for that, albeit a super light one. “Oh, like you aren’t, too.” 

Luke hums. “I think—this is a morning conversation. One that we should have with Julie.” 

That’s when Ray decides to clear his throat. “I think that would be wise.” 

They spring apart and wheel around, only to find that a faint smile has crossed Ray’s face. 

“Take it from me,” he adds, “it’s not good to stay up overthinking this stuff. Get some sleep.”

There’s a story there, and a question on Reggie’s lips, but Luke doesn’t let him ask it yet.

“Okay. Thanks, Ray.” 

He inclines his head. “Thanks for bringing Julie home safe. Goodnight, boys.” 

Ray also makes a point of telling them where the other guest room is, which is—overkill, in Luke’s opinion, but he does manage to smack a kiss to Reggie’s cheek before he goes. 

He can’t help but laugh as Reggie gapes at him, bravado gone, flushed and wide-eyed.

“Yeah,” Luke admits, “you’re pretty adorable, too.” 

And honestly?

He could get used to getting kisses instead of swats or punches for his teasing. 

[gnomishcunning]

8/28: "It will be okay as long as we're together"

(an alternative approach to the day 8 prompt of @writ3rstears #BG3FicFeb. cheesier than intended, but sometimes that’s how it goes.

i’ll rewrite this one someday when i have more braincells available.)

“Volunteers.” 

Marrow’s voice is shaking. 

That’s what draws everyone’s eyes away from dinner; their small, somber meal, camping on a bluff among the Shadowlands; halfway between the Thorm family crypt and the terrible omen of Moonrise Towers in the distance. 

Halsin freezes, Lae’zel stares. Gale loses concentration on the Mage Hand stirring the stew, leaving the wooden spoon to clunk against the side. Wyll’s gaze is straight concern. Even Shadowheart, silent since they left Shar’s temple, looks up from the depths of misery.

If Karlach had a heart, she’s sure it would clench.

“Yesterday, we freed the Nightsong. An aasimar by the name of Dame Aylin. She was the source of Ketheric Thorm’s immortality.” They state, nodding towards cleric. All eyes shift to her, and she freezes under the attention. After a long moment, she nods. Eyes return to Marrow.

“Tonight, Jaheira and her Harpers prepare to march on Moonrise Towers.” They hold up one hand. There’s a small stone clutched between two fingers, a deadringer for Wyll’s dead eye. A sending stone. “I got the message fifteen minutes after the Nightsong took flight.”

In four months of adventures, countless deadly situations and tense negotiations, the little leader had never hesitated to speak. Quick to throw a word, a comment, a comfort or a flirt. Whether their words made the situation worse or better, their opinion made its way into the world. 

Now? The words march off their tongue with all the enthusiasm of a funeral procession.

“In good conscience, I can’t ask any of you to come. Ketheric Thorm is stronger than any opponent we’ve faced before, and there’s an army between him and us we’ll need to fight our way through first.” They try to state, but — their voice breaks. A choked sob, like someone broke the spine of a small animal. Tears bead at the corner of their good eye. “If there’s any fight, any opponent that may kill us before the ceremorphosis does, it’d be here.”

That’s when Karlach moves. Her stew’s abandoned to the dirt, and she slides across the log she shares with her lover to wrap her arm around their thin shoulders; a tail curling around their waist. Marrow stays bone-straight. She can feel the tension in their spine, trying to resist from melting into her arms. 

“So.”  They croak, unsure, outright terrified; they’re speaking through fractured glass. Their gaze skips around the circle, staring at frozen faces. “I won’t ask any of you to come. Volunteers only. Follow me to Moonrise only if you’re sure you’re ready to risk your life.”

Before anyone can respond, it’s Astarion who finds his voice first.

“You mean to tell me, you’d march to Moonrise all on your little lonesome if we all opted to stay behind?” He asks. He sounds incredulous, almost curious — if the concept is some sort of indulgent fantasy.

Out of everything, this makes Marrow snort. 

(Karlach’s immediately shot back to when they first set foot in the Grymforge. Marrow spent most of that mission giggling their way through these conversations with the Duegar, shooting intermittent glances at the deep gnomes — the bodies lining the floor, the hunched backs of slaves, the nine-tailed whip in the hands of the Duegar master.

So horrified at the condition of their kin, incredulous laughter was all they could manage)

Her tail snakes a notch tighter around their waist. Marrow’s forced to wheeze, their laughter cutting off. 

“W-well,” They manage, still grinning. “You’ve all opted to trust me with your lives thus far. It’d be a shame if none of us were present to try and find a solution to our common affliction. It’d only be right as leader, dutifully elected or otherwise.”

The statement hangs in the air. It’s the first time Marrow has vocalized it, but far from the first time it’s been acknowledged. Leading Shadowheart up off the ravaged beach where it all started had snowballed into serving as the figurehead and face of a makeshift mercenary company, an adventuring party none had asked to join. Making decisions, giving orders, taking lives — they all looked to their little leader.

 Team Tadpole, Marrow had joked once. Everyone had groaned, but nobody had thought of anything better. 

“I’ll be there.”

Karlach’s voice breaks the silence, no better than her first rushed iloveyoutoo. 

Marrow turns to look straight at her, so grateful they might cry — oh hells, they are crying — but wearing the crooked little grin Karlach’s only seen when they’re truly happy. The gnome shifts to slide a small arm around Karlach’s back, leaning in to press a silent, grateful kiss to her cheek. 

“Aye.” Wyll’s the second to agree, nodding solemnly. “Your instincts haven’t led us astray yet.”

“No jhe’stil,” Lae’zel interrupts. “Yet you led me to see Vlaakith’s eyes. My blade will be at the ready.”

“You fed me without question my first week in camp,” Astarion muses. “I’d be remiss to lose a source of free meals.” 

“And as much as you hoard every bit of magic we’ve come across, you’ve always found a spare bit of Weave for me to consume. It’s mighty time I repay that generosity.” Gale adds.

“After everything you’ve done for Thaniel andI ? It’s no question.” Halsin affirms. 

Marrow’s gaze jumps around the circle. Their face is pure stun, tears leaving wet streaks down one side of their face. Their eyes eventually land on Shadowheart, the only one who hasn’t spoken. 

Next to Karlach herself, Shadowheart’s been Marrow’s constant companion since the very beginning. Even when the barbarian isn’t, the cleric always is. If Shadowheart weren’t so shy and Marrow so secretive about their family, Karlach would almost call them sister and sibling.

“...You followed me into the Shadowfell, convinced me disobey Shar and spare the Nightsong and pulled me back out in one piece. I’ve abandoned my goddess and my purpose at your urging.” She eventually manages. Marrow winces like they’ve been stabbed. 

Then she smiles, for the first time since they’ve left the Sharran temple. “Where else would I be?”

Marrow doesn’t quite grin, but something else rises. That ineffable determination, an improv actor’s faux-confidence. Enough to bring about a grim smile, knowing their troupe was behind them. 

“Then tomorrow,” They manage, voice rough but whole. “We march on Moonrise.”

[poledancingdinos]

You've Got Me Hooked - Epilogue

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC (Riley McKenzie)

Word count: 4K

Warnings: Sex work, Stripper, OnlyFans, Smut, Breeding kink, Hospital, Childbirth

Catch up: Series Masterlist

Taglist: @amberangel112 @utterlyhopeful-fics @marantha @kebabgirl67 @littleone65 @omgkatinka  @luclittlepond  @marytudorbrandon  @enchantedbytomandhenry  @narnianaos  @foxyjwls007  @peaches1958 @identity2212  @summersong69  @liecastillo @islacharlotte @evansabove1981  @eskiix @lilacwineandthesinkingsunmain @tryingtoliveonmywishes @geralts-yenn

A/N: OMG THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE CONCLUSION TO THEIR LITTLE STORY 😭 I'm really emotional and grateful to all you guys for following this journey with me. Expect a cheeky little bonus scene in the next week.

I don't think I'll ever be completely over these two. I'd love to hear what you guys think happens along the way in this universe. Who knows, I might even write a few more bonus scenes 🥰

If you want to be added or removed from my taglist, let me know! If your name is crossed out, I can’t tag you for some reason.

Masterlist

6 months later

Sy

"You're up early."

Riley lifts her head from whatever she’s preparing and greets me with a smile.

"Actually I'm up late. I just got back."

I let out a low whistle, settling on the stool across the island from Riley. "Damn, that's a long day. Didn't you leave the apartment mid-afternoon yesterday?"

I’m sure she texted me around two to let me know she was leaving. When our work schedules conflict too much we still just sleep in our own rooms to avoid waking each other up. I didn’t expect her by my side but I also didn’t expect her to still be awake at this hour.

"It was a long day but I had a bunch of things that needed to get done before I went to the club. Then there was this celebration thing for one of the girls who’s leaving and, of course, there was no food, just booze. I'm starving."

She moves to the pantry and pulls out a loaf of bread then rifles through the spices above the stove. The big hoodie she’s wearing — my hoodie — rides up, exposing the tiny flannel shorts she’s wearing underneath. I should probably help her reach what she needs but that thought comes second to admiring the view. She looks adorable. I can’t help but think back to how she was when I first moved in. How she used to hide but was still always unashamedly herself.

"I was just making French toast if you want any," she offers, setting the ingredients down on the counter. 

I’ve never been much of a cook beyond my regular bacon and eggs or most combinations of meat and potatoes. I normally take care of myself in the mornings though if she cooks before going to bed she always leaves me some. French toast sounds way better than whatever I can manage.

"I'd fucking love some. Ya need any help?"

"Nope, it's all good. You have time to shower while I finish this up."

"Yes, ma'am." I give her a mock salute that makes her giggle and head off to the hall bathroom. 

When I get back to the kitchen I have a pair of coveralls on over some loose shorts. It’s hot as hell right now in the workshop so I try to keep the clothes to a minimum. I have coveralls zipped only halfway with the sleeves tied around my waist to keep from stepping on them.

Riley turns her head as she hears me approach, her eyes lingering on my bare chest. I have a black tank top hanging out of my back pocket for later but I figured I’d let her look her fill first. 

She seems to remind herself that she still has a hot cast-iron in her hand and shakes her head in order to return her focus to preparing our two plates. She slides them into place on the island then goes back for our coffee, pouring two large mugs. Riley has this superpower where she can down about a gallon of coffee and still be dead to the world in bed ten minutes later.

We eat in comfortable silence with me occasionally sneaking a treat or two down to Aika. Unfortunately she chews so loudly that there is no way Riley doesn’t notice it even if she’s practically falling asleep with her head in her plate.

I take our dishes to the sink and start to fill it with hot water but Riley comes up behind me,  wrapping her arms around my waist and placing a kiss between my shoulder blades.

"Hey, don't bother yourself with those, I'll get them in a few hours when I get up for the day."

I turn in her hold and she sets her chin on my chest to look up at me.

"I can't do that, my Mama raised me better than to leave a lady with the dishes after she cooks me a meal." I lean down, stealing a slow kiss. Well, I guess it’s not really stealing if she’s happy to oblige. “Go get some sleep, darlin’.”

She nuzzles her head into my chest and squeezes me even tighter. “In a minute. I’m not done hugging you yet.”

“I love you,” I say as I place a kiss to the top of her head.”

“Love you too,” she mumbles back.

12 months later

Riley

I keep staring at my computer, expecting the numbers to somehow change or for some pop up to open and plaster the word “PSYCH” on the screen but the display doesn’t change. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, only moving to slide my fingers over the trackpad when the screen goes dark.

Balance remaining to be paid: $0.00.

I can’t believe it. I’m finally, finally free. A while back I paid off the last of my credit card debt and today, I made the last payment on my student debt. It’s finally over. My days of working three jobs and losing over half my wages to loan payments are over.

I should be happy but somehow I’m mostly terrified because now… Now I actually have to choose. Before, stripping and running my OnlyFans seemed like my only options. No one was hiring and I had no way of proving my worth to a potential employer anyway.

Now I have the chance to give up one of the three jobs. I guess it would have to be the diner since that’s the one that pays the least and since the club and the OnlyFans sort of feed into one another.

Or I could keep doing what I’m doing now. I’ll be able to start living a more normal, less restrictive life or maybe I’ll start putting whatever I used to reserve for loan payments into some savings. That seems like a smart thing to do.

Then why does it feel like both of those options make me a coward?

“Your thoughts are really loud.” I look up to find Sy settling in the chair beside me at the table. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you think I could keep doing what I’m doing? Running my OnlyFans and working in clubs, I mean.”

“What, like, as your career?” I nod. “Yeah, I guess for a while. Don’t know much ‘bout it but it seems to me like something people only do for five, maybe ten years at most.”

That’s true. The oldest stripper at the club is maybe in her early forties but she spends a lot of money on trying to look younger. The men who come to us tend to get bored when there isn’t a fresh batch of newly legal dancers every now and then. I’ve changed clubs a lot in the last year to keep the money from drying up.

“What’s really botherin’ ya, sweetheart?”

“I never thought about… after. Like, I knew eventually I wouldn’t have to dance but I didn’t… I didn’t really let myself believe I would make it out. And now that I can…”

“You’re scared,” he finishes for me.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

Sy pushes his chair back enough to pull me to sit sideways on his lap. I love it when he does this — when he just holds me to let me know I’m not alone.

“When I got discharged… I felt lost. I’d given 17 years to the army where every decision was made for me. Sure as a Captain I told people what to do but most of the time I was just passin’ on whatever orders the higher ups had given me.”

It’s weird to think that a man like Sy felt lost. Or scared. It feels like I’m the one having constant meltdowns and he’s holding me steady through the storm.

“If ya keep dancin’ that’s your decision. But I don’t want ya to keep doin’ it because it’s familiar. You should do it because that’s what ya want deep down. I know you must be terrified of fuckin’ everything up because that’s exactly how I felt when I came home. You’re worried that you’ll make the wrong choice so you’re tryin’ to avoid choosin’ at all but I see that sparkle in your eye every time Don calls ya up for help. Don’t pass that up.”

I pull my socked feet up, curling myself into a little ball on Sy’s lap. He happily shifts his hold to hug me closer as I press my face into the crook of his neck. I do love working with Don. And I think I might actually be good at it too. Sy’s right. It’s time.

“I might need you to make that speech again in a few weeks.”

“I’ll tell ya again and again until it sticks. You’re amazin’, Ri. You can do this.”

I can do this.

“Okay. I’ll shut everything down tonight.”

21 months later

Sy

“The purchase orders for the parts are in this file. You’ll want to double check the invoices from Collins, the new girl they hired is still getting used to their computer system and sometimes bills the same part twice. I had Sy change the code for the safe to your birthday and the bills for tomorrow’s pick-ups are all filled out and ready to print unless there are last minute changes.”

Riley is talking about a million miles a minute. Since she took over managing RD’s she’s been practically impossible to pull away from that desk. Convincing her to go up to a cabin with me for a week was no easy feat.

“Miss McKenzie, I ran this place for damn near 40 years, I think I can manage one week without your assistance. Now get, you and Sy both deserve the time off.”

Riley looks around, seemingly trying to decide if she’s forgotten to mention anything important. She eventually nods and throws her duffle bag over her shoulder. It’s packed to the brim with everything she needs for the next week but if I have my way, she won’t be wearing any of her clothing. Well, maybe that new order of lingerie she doesn’t know I know about could be the exception.

I hold out the keys to the truck, not moving from where I’m leaning against the doorframe.

“Go get settled, I’ll be out in a minute.”

She gives Don a kiss on the cheek and hugs him goodbye before taking the keys and heading out of the office.

I make sure the shop's front door is closed before pushing off the frame and walking over to Don’s — well, Riley’s — desk.

“Did ya get it?”

“Boy, when have ya ever known me not to follow through on my word?” He reaches inside his coat pocket, peaking towards the door to make sure it’s still just the two of us. When he’s sure the coast is clear, he produces a small black velvet box.

“Guess I won’t be callin’ her Miss McKenzie for much longer.” 

“Not if things go my way.”

He hands me the box and I open it to take one more look at the ring. It was my mama’s. I dropped it off at a jeweler to be resized and I asked Don to pick it up for me so Riley wouldn’t accidentally find it. My parents were dirt fucking poor when they got married and my mama insisted that one simple wedding band was enough. My dad always regretted not being able to get her a flashy engagement ring so he gave her one when they renewed their vows on their thirtieth anniversary. She told me once that when the right woman came, she wanted me to have it. Said a ring like that deserved to witness a love story from the beginning.

“You don’t need any sorta luck, Sy. That woman is head over heels in love with you.”

I snap the box shut and shove it in the side pocket of my shorts. My hands are fucking sweating just thinking about dinner tomorrow night. It’s our two year anniversary tomorrow which is how I convinced Riley to go to the cabin with me. She’s cooking up something fancy although I don’t know what since she wanted it to be a surprise. Little does she know, I’ve got a life-changing surprise of my own.

“Were ya nervous when ya proposed to Charlotte?”

“Every man gets nervous, Son. But you wouldn’t be askin’ if ya actually thought she’d say no. When it’s right, it’s right.”

It’s definitely right, so fucking right. Riley is the best thing that ever happened to me and I don’t ever want to be without her. I know she feels it too.

So much has happened since I first met her. So much has changed. Riley took over managing this place for Don while also doing some freelance consultant work. She’s not that reserved, timid girl I met that first day. She’s still herself, just a more self-assured and confident version of herself.

“I should go. If I stay much longer, Riley will start wonderin’ what we’re talkin’ about.”

Don drops into the office chair, running his hands over the leather of the arms rests like he’s getting reacquainted with the feeling.

“Make sure you get a picture for Charlotte. She’ll have your hide if ya don’t.”

That makes me laugh because I know it’s a hundred percent true. She takes her responsibilities as godmother very seriously and she is absolutely in love with Riley. She loves to tell Riley all the town gossip when we go over there for Sunday dinner.

“I’ll be sure to do that.” I readjust my cap on my head as I head for the door. “Call if ya need anything.”

“Ya don’t mean that,” Don scoffs.

“Damn right I don’t,” I call over my shoulder with a smirk.

“Drive safe, Son.”

36 months later

Riley

I’m almost done packing up the last of my newspaper wrapped mugs into a box for the move next week. It’s so strange to see the apartment so empty, even if that means it’s currently filled with boxes instead.

“Hey, Ri?” Sy calls out from the bedroom.

“In the kitchen!”

Sy walks into view with a familiar blue gift-wrapped box in his hands.

“Oh… That was supposed to be for your birthday in May,” I explain quickly. I thought I’d have a few more weeks to figure out how I was going to bring this up. If my words failed then he was supposed to just open the gift and know what I had to say.

“Well, I haven’t opened it yet.” He extends the box for me to take back.

This is my out. I could take back the gift, shove it in one of the boxes and forget about it again until I gather the courage to do this all over again or I could just let this happen.

“You know what, it’s fine.” I place the box of mugs on the ground by the door and turn my full attention to Sy. “Open it now.” 

Sy frowns at me, tipping his head to the side. “You don’t look sure.”

“No,” I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, “go ahead.”

Sy knows something is up, looking between me and the small box in his hands. He turns it over, looking at it from all sides.

I can imagine what’s going on in his head. How he’s probably analyzing the way the contents rattle as he drops onto the couch. How the box feels really light compared to what you would expect for the size.

I’m a lot more nervous than I thought I would be. That’s part of the reason I was waiting until his birthday to bring this up. I figured the added pressure of it being his birthday would be the final push I needed to broach the subject.

I sit on the coffee table across from Sy, rubbing my hands over my thighs. Am I sweating? Is it hot in here?

Sy picks up on my nerves — obviously — and he takes my hand in his. I look down at where his thumb rubs over the back of my fingers, lightly brushing my wedding ring.

“Ri, what’s going on? You’re worrying me, here.”

I can’t help but feel so incredibly fond of him right now. This. This right here is why I married him. Just like that, my worries are abated.

“Just,” I sigh, smiling, “open it.”

I watch as Sy peels back the tape torturously slowly and lifts one side of the paper. As I expected, Sy doesn’t immediately recognize the box. He frowns as he reads the packaging but then his mouth drops open when he finally understands his gift. Or rather, when he finally understands the meaning behind his gift.

“Are ya serious about this?” He holds up the box of ovulation test strips, trying to mask the hopeful expression on his face. We’ve talked about this, of course. It’s typically good practice to make sure you and your partner agree on whether or not to have children before you marry them but we’d always just talked about doing so at some point in the future.

I knew this was something Sy really wanted but as with everything else, he’s just patiently waited for me to be ready too. The house we just bought has plenty of room to accommodate a growing family. And the new puppy Sy promised we could get soon.

I bite my lip but it doesn’t help contain my smile. “I’ve already checked with my doctor. I can go off my pill whenever we want to start trying.”

Sy looks back down at the box on his lap and is unnervingly quiet for a moment before he throws it to the other side of the couch and pulls me to straddle his lap.

“Sy!” I squeal, taken by surprise. I don’t have time to process what just happened before my shirt is ripped over my head and Sy attaches his lips to my neck.

“You haven’t started the new pack after the sugar pills right?” His hand dips under the band of my leggings and his fingers dig into the flesh of my ass. “You were supposed to start it tomorrow?”

My eyes fall closed and I bare my neck to give him better access. “How do you…”

“I take notice to my wife’s health, sue me.”

My bra comes off next and then I’m lifted into the air.

“You gonna fuck me, Captain? You gonna knock me up?”

All I get is a growl in response and he sits me on the edge of the dining room table. I lean back on my forearms and lift my hips to allow my pants to come off and Sy pushes his jeans down just enough to free his already impossibly hard erection.

“Fuck yeah, I’m gonna fill ya up and keep ya filled ‘til you’re good and pregnant.”

“Do your worst, Cap,” I taunt as he pushes in, spearing me with his dick.

I guess I had no reason to be nervous after all.

47 months later

Sy

“You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart, you gotta keep goin’.”

Riley looks absolutely exhausted. She has deep circles under her eyes since she hasn’t slept in almost 36 hours and she’s panting like she just ran a marathon. The last hour has indeed been a grueling test of her strength but she’s so so close. On top of all that, if the way she’s crushing my hand is any indication, she is in excruciating pain.

“I can’t, Sy. I’m sorry, I can’t do it, I can’t...” She collapses back on the bed. The hand that was clasping the side rail covers her mouth as she sobs and I wish so badly that I could fix this for her but, unfortunately, that’s not possible.

I look towards the doctor at the foot of the bed and hold up one finger as a silent request to let me try something before she intervenes. We’ve talked about the possibility of a C-section and I don’t want that for Riley if we can avoid it. Recovering from surgery is difficult enough without being almost a thousand miles away from home. There’s no way Riley would handle the ride home just a few days post op. We already have to make the drive with a newborn in the backseat of the truck. At least I had the sense to put the baby seat in to be ready for when Riley made it to her due date.

“Darlin’, look at me.”

Riley’s eyes are shut tightly as she shakes her head. Fat tears fall down her cheek and I wipe them away with my thumb.

“Ri, sweetheart, look at me.”

She sniffs as she opens her bloodshot eyes, her chin quivering as she tries to regain her composure. 

“Just you and me.” That’s not quite true, there’s the doctor and a handful of nurses in here with us but she understands what I mean all the same.

She releases a shaky breath. “I’m really glad it’s you, Sy,” she answers, leaning into my touch. I press a kiss to her forehead, smoothing away a few strands of sweat soaked hair before helping Riley as she pushes herself back into a seated position. Well, as seated as she can manage with her legs spread wide and her remarkably large stomach.

When it’s time to push again, Riley follows the doc’s gentle encouragement and she bares down, managing to get through the next fifty seconds like a pro. I wish I could say it only takes a few more contractions to get the job done but it’s another half hour before a sharp wail fills the little room.

Riley falls back onto the bed, rapidly heaving air into her lungs as she attempts to catch her breath. I’m vaguely aware of the medical staff speaking to us but I can’t hear them over the pounding in my ears. I’m transfixed as the tiny human is gently deposited on the towel over Riley’s stomach.

My amazing wife reaches down to trail a finger over our baby’s forehead, barely daring to touch at first before cradling them against her. We’re both quiet as we admire our child, only looking away when I’m handed a pair of scissors and told where to cut. 

It’s a lot harder than I would have imagined it would be, taking me two or three snips to fully get through the thick cord. As soon as I’m done, I go back to the head of the bed and all but collapse over Riley’s chest. She presses her face into my neck and her arms wrap weakly around me.

“You did it, Ri. I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

“Okay, Dad, are you ready to hold your baby boy?”

I turn to see one of the nurses holding my son who they’ve cleaned off and wrapped up in a bundle of blankets. I’m aware that he’s not actually that small for a newborn but he looks so fucking breakable.

I hold my arms out and the nurse places him against my chest, making sure I’ve got a good hold on him before stepping back and giveng me a Riley a bit of privacy.

“Hey, bud. Let’s say hi to your Mama.”

Riley’s crying again but I know that they are happy tears. “Hi baby,” she coos, using all her remaining strength to lean forward and kiss his forehead. “I want you to know you have the best Daddy in the world.”

“Na,” I argue, “your Mama is the best. She made sure you were nice and warm and safe before you came out to meet us.”

We could argue back and forth like this all day, both of us pressed close together with our son between us. I count my blessings because I am one lucky son of a gun to have the most breathtakingly beautiful and phenomenal woman to share this moment — and my life — with.

It’s fitting, really. From the moment I met her, something about Riley had me hooked. And now with our son? Well, I can’t tear my eyes away so what does that tell you?

Bonus Scene

[pacifymebby]

t r o u b l e // chapter four

Peaky Blinders Balletcore Story

Chapter List

Sonya

"No," said Sylvie quite simply, quite plainly, doing well to hide the fear I knew came with standing up to our brother Tommy.

"You don't have a choice Fen..." he said, "its a vendetta, they won't stop until every last Shelby is dead..."

"Well my names not Fen fucking Shelby anymore is it," she snapped her eyes cold and glassy, almost a match for his. But if Tommy was moved by her defiance he didn't show it. Didn't waver in the slightest, just stared her down long and cold, hands resting flat atop the desk that split them.

"She's right Tommy, you've not had anything to do with us since we were little girls, the Italians probably don't even know we're your..." I started but the slamming of his hand on the table cut me off and silenced the both of us, left a shiver running through me, the whites of my eyes showing because I wasn't as brave as my twin sister and I never would be.

"Yes they fucking do," he spelt it out so plainly and so firmly, his cold eyes fixed on mine, threatening mine silently, that I couldn't raise my voice to him the way that I wanted to. Instead I stood there shaking quietly, terrified of my brother despite knowing he'd never do anything to hurt either of us. I'd seen him and our brothers fight on more than one occasion but never in all my years had I seen him raise a hand to any of us girls.

Still, he could hurt us without raising his hands.

What he was proposing would end our careers, would pull us from the world we'd fought so hard to break into, the lives we'd struggled since childhood to build.

"They fucking know you Fen alright... They know both of you, you can change your name and your accents all you like but at the end of the day you're still Sonya and Sylvie fucking Shelby and there's no escaping that..."

"You don't fuckin say..." murmured Sylvie, her words stirring a stifled giggle from me and a smirk from John which was quickly shaken off when Tommy fixed him with a glare.

"Tommy if I drop out of that cast my careers as good as dead" I said folding my arms to hide my shaking. There were little tear pricks in my eyes but I was holding them back as best as I could and it was all I could hope that when they looked at me they saw Sylvie, fierce and defiant, not Sonya mousy and afraid.

We both knew what our brothers could see however. Two unruly, stubborn and naive little girls. Whenever they saw us they said things like "you still look the same you did when you were a little babby," and they said it like it was a joke but we knew. In their eyes we would always be the babies. The little ones. They'd never treat us as the adults we were.

"If you go back to London you're as good as dead..." he warned and though the cool threat might have been enough to silence me it only sparked Sylvie's temper.

"Tommy you can't fuckin do this to her!" she cried, "her name is on the front of the fucking theatre, she's worked for this her whole life you can't just snatch it away from her now over one of your pathetic fucking fights!"

"If she goes back to London she will die!" he shouted, knuckles and cheek bones white as a sheet, his teeth gritted as he all but hissed through them. "What part of you don't have a choice do you not understand?"

"The part where a man I haven't even seen for five fucking years sends another man I haven't seen for god knows how long, to drive me halfway up the country with no fucking warning, and when he tells me I can't go home he expects me to nod my head and just... Just keep tottling along like it makes no fucking difference to me either way!"

I flinched, the tears in my eyes threatening to escape now because I hated seeing my family going for one anothers throats.

John remained still and quiet, watching Sylvie with a smirk that could have been percieved to be proud. A smirk which made me feel guilty for letting her stand up for me when I should have been standing up for myself.

There were tears in Sylvie's eyes too but I couldn't see them. All I could see was the fierce way she stood before him defiant and unruly. The Fen they'd never been able to tame. Glaring at our brother as though he were the furthest thing from a brother.

"Tell me Fen... What do you thinks going to happen to you if she goes back to London?" he asked it as though it were only a question, as if he were genuinely interested in the answer, but Tommy wasn't really having a conversation anymore and Sylvie could tell. We all could.

The room bristled with the pinprick silence of a loaded gun waiting.

"Go on, you tell me now eh, exactly what you think lifes gonna be like for our Sonya if she goes back to London tonight... You think the Italians are just going to let her get on with everything like normal eh? You think she's gonna be able to get the tube into the city without being followed and watched, every single step she takes noted by someone just waiting for the opportune moment? You think the Italians are gonna care about her career eh? Or maybe they will right, maybe they'll take a trip down to the opera house to watch her dance eh? Maybe she'll take their breath away, so beautiful and delicate, a real shining star and maybe they'll get to thinking that she deserves a little more recognition, that everyone should know her name yeah, cause they know a nice little trick that'll get her the front fuckin page..." he said holding her gaze, holding his two fingers up to my forehead like a gun, his thumb a mock hammer pulled back. He held her gaze and she stood there trembling, those little tears still trickling as she held her ground, her eyes fixed on his. She refused to sniffle or snob, refused to look away and give in. 

He held the barrel of his two fingers pressed to my forehead like a kiss and waited knowing she wouldn't be able to hold her ground for very long. I starred back at him helpless and horrified, tears staining my cheeks, a sniffle escaping me much to my own humiliation and regret. And not once did either of them look away from eachother, not once did either of them acknowledge me.

"Alright Tommy leave her alone you've made your fuckin point," John shoved my brothers hand away from my face and pushed him back. His hand briefly rubbing my shoulder to steady and comfort me as Tommy and Sylvie stumbled out of their little stand off but he couldn't do much and his half hearted gesture did little to sooth the tremors shaking me in that moment. Because Tommy's speech had hurt me more than it had hurt Sylvie.

I watched as she stepped back into line beside me, breifly turning to look at me though I couldn't bare to look her in the eyes and show her the fear Tommy's speach had instilled in me. It made me feel all kinds of unworthy when she stood up to him like that, when she put her neck on the line for both of us and I just stood there crying the same way Id have done had we been children. Except we weren't children anymore.

"Can't Alfie keep an eye on her..."

"No," Tommy waved his hand dismissively, not bothering to look at either of us before he turned to John. "You're too soft on them John boy, so the truth upsets her... Maybe she needs to hear the truth..."

"We're not fuckin Shelbys" said Sylvie again though now she spoke just as soft and defeated as I did and Tommy knew that he'd won, for now.

The truth was that if there was a price on the Shelby name we were just as much Shelby as our brothers and the enemy wouldn't care how well we hid behind the name gray.

"Zabini doesn't give a fuck whether you answer to the name Shelby or not. You're staying here, both of you." he said in a tone of finality. "We're closing ranks, all the family together..."

"What fucking family?" I mumbled watching them glaring at one another, watching them argue about me as if I wasn't even there. So convincing they were that it had been enough for me to forget myself though no sooner had I spoken did I regret it when Tommy turned to me with a flash of rage in his eyes.

"You got somet to say have you lass? Eh? You got somet to say to me?" he shouted, the veins in his neck flaring as he jabbed an acusatory finger in my direction.

"Tommy!" groaned John.

"You wanna know what family? I'll show you a fuckin family yeah cause see you're pretty fuckin lucky that yours are still alive! Today your cousin Michael was ruthlessly attacked right, Zabini's men beat him half to fucking death, they used their knives and their fucking guns and they left him for fucking dead... And your big brother Arthur narrowly avoided the rapid fuckin fire of an AN 94 and I know we spent a fucking fortune on your education so I know you're a smart enough girl to work out where your big brother Arthur would be right now if they hadn't fucking missed... Yeah?"

There was nothing I could say. All I could do was stand there whilst his words sank in heavy as lead and left me feeling that cold, metalic dread.

John had said Michael was going to be okay. He'd said Arthur was completely fine. That there was nothing to worry about. Now Tommy was looking at me like I'd spat on our mothers grave.

"Just you remember who your fucking family are Fen..." he said, his voice much quieter now as his icy blue eyes locked with mine and he lowered that accusatory pointing finger to my chin forcing me to look up at him and hold his gaze despite my trembling lips.

"Sorry Tommy..." I whispered my voice barely escaping me. My total capitulation to him completely humiliating, but just then even Sylvie looked as though she would have crumbled under his temper.

"For fucks sake Tommy leave em be now..." sighed John again his hand reaching out to mine, tugging me in gently to his side, the softest of our brothers, the one who had always been the most forgiving and was being the most forgiving now as he wrapped his arm around me and hugged me into his side. "We'll work it all out Fen don't worry, Tommy'll sort it, won't take long..." he tried to offer us reassurance but we weren't stupid.

If shit was as bad as they were making it out to be. If this was all out war. We could be trapped in Birmingham for months and Sylvie was right, my career was over before it had even begun.

Tommy backed down but not because of the tears in my eyes or because John had asked him to. He backed down because he was finished talking. Because to him the discussion was completely over and even though John had said we'd work something out, as far as Tommy was concerned there was nothing left to work out.

"You can stay in your old bedroom or you take some of the spares..." he said turning away from us to sit back at his desk and light another cigarette.

"Our old bedrooms been demolished now Tommy," said Sylvie, her voice so laden with bitterness that for a second I didn't recognise her for her spiteful tone, "it was in a council flat on watery lane."

She was glaring at him still, daring him to look up at her. Her voice a desperate challenge. Desperate for him to look up at her and fight her again. But he wouldn't. He was looking at his laptop now, his fingers hovering over the track pad, the glow of the screen reflecting off his contact lenses.

John squeezed me into his side and reached out for Sylvie too, nodding us both in the direction of the door saying something about showing us around and then, only when we were almost at the door, did Tommy speak again.

"I'll tell you somet else about family Fen..." he said looking at neither of us, addressing us both, "family means my blood runs through your veins and your blood runs through mine. That means unconditional love, yeah?"

But if that was a question neither of us knew how to answer. I didn't have the heart and Sylvie didn't have the fight so when she reached for my hand and her fingers entwined with mine, she did so in silence and I held onto her silently too.

Next Chapter

[sopefulheart]

it was always you

→ pair: hoseok x female oc

→ word count: 1.6k

→ tags: hoseok x oc, college au, original character, best friends, REJECTION, no smut, hobi comes out of his shell, hopeless pining, angst, bedsharing, sleeping together but JUST sleeping

→ warnings: nothing other than soul-crushing angst.

“No,” Hoseok whines as he’s being dragged to the bathroom. “I don’t want to.”

His best friend, Yoora, sits him down on the ledge of the bathtub. “It’s good for you.”

“Right.”

It’s midnight. Hoseok and Yoora have emptied two bottles of wine together.

Now they’re in the bathroom doing skincare before they go to sleep. Yoora’s too drunk to drive back to her apartment, so Hoseok’s agreed to let her stay over as he’s done many times before.

She squeezes onto her hand a dime-sized amount of cleanser, rubbing her hands together and putting it all over his face.

Hoseok groans. “It smells.”

“It’s relaxing,” she says extremely slowly. Yoora pats the cleanser in to let it sit for a moment, giggling when she pats a little too hard.

Hoseok flinches.

“Wash it off now.”

He obeys and as soon as he’s done, Yoora runs out of the bathroom and comes back in quickly with a jade roller.

“The hell is that?”

“Hear me out, Hoba.” She gently puts it to his face and rolls it on his cheek.

Hoseok sighs at the coolness of the jade roller. “Holy.”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

He nods. When she’s done, she puts everything away and sits next to him on the ledge.

“How does your face feel?”

“Really good,” he whispers as he rubs his palms over it.

“Moisturizer,” she says when she hops up and goes to the sink.

This is so normal. Hoseok feels so normal with Yoora’s hands smoothing the moisturizer all over his face.

It’s so normal.

She yawns and squeezes both of his cheeks.

“Alright, someone’s had a bit too much to drink.” Hoseok gets up and attempts to pick Yoora up, giving up quickly.

“Hoba,” she whines.

“You’re practically dead weight. Can’t you at least try to hold yourself up?”

She grunts as she tries to get up. “Fine.”

Hoseok puts his arm around her waist and walks her to the bedroom which, thank god, is not too far away. He picks her up to put her down on the bed, then walks around to the other side to lay next to her.

“Put me on the couch,” a half-asleep Yoora says. “I feel bad taking your bed.”

He sighs. “You’re already in the bed.”

They both fall asleep quickly, Hoseok feeling like he had only blinked before he woke up again. He woke up to some kind of impact in his chest, and trying to figure out what had happened in the dark was quite difficult.

Eventually, he realized that it was Yoora’s head burrowing into his chest. She also threw her leg over both of his at one point during the night.

Hoseok has shared a bed with her a million times but something is different this time. He’s trying hard to not wrap his arms around her but now he’s uncomfortable, laying there with his hands behind his head.

So normal.

He comes home from work the next night and immediately starts preparing for he and Yoora’s movie night. This is so normal for them that he doesn’t even remember the first time they started this.

He’s pretty sure Yoora was the one who suggested it when she asked him if he had seen x movie and he hadn’t and she felt like that was unbelievable so she decided to show it to him.

It always involved cuddling and closeness for them, which made Hoseok want to sleep more than anything. It never consisted of anything weird though.

Until tonight.

Because halfway through the movie, Yoora started talking about her longtime crush on Jimin. All the while, her head rested on Hoseok’s shoulder.

“I think I’m gonna ask him out,” she says suddenly.

His heart drops to his stomach. “What?”

“I’m gonna ask Jimin out.”

“Why,” Hoseok blurts. “It's been long enough. It’s been two whole years.”

She scoffs and puts her feet up on the ottoman. “Two years too long.”

“Yoora…”

She crosses her arms and lifts her head to look at him. “Why are you so against this? I thought you were my best friend.”

“I am. I support you, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hoseok cringes. Maybe some of that was a lie.

“Right,” she says with a voice laced in sarcasm. “You don’t want me to be happy.”

“Look, I don’t know if he’s already involved with someone else.” He puts his hands up, palms up. “I can’t let this hurt you.”

“It wouldn’t hurt me to find out.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, it certainly would.”

Yoora starts laughing suddenly. “Now I see what’s going on with you.”

“What?”

“Is it because you want me?”

He whips his head to look at Yoora, whose smirk is the only indicator that she’s teasing him.

He blows a raspberry and laughs rather unconvincingly. “God, no.”

But do I?

No. There’s no way he likes Yoora. There’s no way he’s in love with her, either. That would certainly be something.

She leans in and runs a finger along his jawline. “Because I’m yours, you know.”

His breath hitches.

“Seriously though. I love you, Hoba. It’s nice that you’re worried about me like this but I can take care of myself.”

Damn.

“Right.”

“I’m a big girl now. I’m not the little girl who’d cry when you didn’t share the sandbox.” She sits at the edge of the couch and pours herself more wine, leaning toward the coffee table.

“I know.” Hoseok raises his empty glass. “Wanna pour me some more?”

When Yoora falls asleep a little before the movie ends, he doesn’t even want to think about carrying her to his bed. He’s too busy trying to identify the heavy feeling that has been in his chest since the stupid Jimin conversation.

“I don’t love her, I don’t love her, I don’t love her,” Hoseok whispers over and over to himself.

Yoora hums softly in her sleep, making him jump.

He leaves her there on the couch and goes to his bedroom. Laying down alone, he convinces himself that he’s too good for bed sharing…

Even though he misses the warmth of her body next to him.

Defeated, he gets out of bed and walks out to the living room to get Yoora. He picks her up, supporting her back and carrying her legs with one arm under her knees.

“Hoba,” she mumbles. “I’m awake.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yeah,” she whines. “Wanna finish the movie.”

“The movie’s done.” Hoseok giggles softly at her cuteness. He lays her down on the bed and puts the sheet over her. “Just get some rest, ‘mkay?”

“Don’t wanna.” She rolls over and wraps her arms around Hoseok.

“Will cuddling you make you sleep?”

She looks up at him and beams. “Uh-huh.”

Oh.

-

“I think I’m in love with her, hyung.”

Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hoseok-ah—”

“No, seriously.”

“You’re in love with everyone.”

Hoseok shoots daggers at him. It’s not like that’s entirely false but it’s not entirely true either. So what if Hoseok has had a very small crush on the last two girls he’s met? Isn’t that what happens to everyone?

“It’s real this time.”

Seokjin sets a plate of sashimi on the table in front of them. “Sure but I think you’re just friends.”

“We’re just friends who cuddle and share a bed and say ‘I love you?’ Yeah, right.”

“I just don’t think you’re being rational about this,” Seokjin says before popping a piece into his mouth.

“She’s thinking about asking Jimin out.”

“So?”

“So,” Hoseok replies. “I’m fucked.”

“If you really do feel like you’re in love, tell her.”

“Really?”

Seokjin rolls his eyes. “Hoba, you just tried to convince me that you’re in love with this girl and you basically wanted me to tell you to tell her about your feelings.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

“It’s just that you know she’s in love with Jimin, so…”

Hoseok sighs. “She’s my best friend. I don’t wanna lose her if I tell her.”

“Then you’ve gotta decide what you’re gonna do.”

So the next night Yoora’s over, Hoseok is ready to confront her. He’d already sweat profusely through one t-shirt that he had to change.

He breathes deeply. “Yoora. Can we talk?”

“Sure,” she pauses the movie they’re watching and turns to Hoseok to give him her full attention.

He can feel himself getting warm. “I don’t know how to say this, but I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna jeopardize this friendship.”

“…okay?”

He stutters. “I’m— I think…”

“What? Hobi, you’re scaring me.”

“It’s not anything bad,” he blurts. “Not unless you don’t feel the same way and I know you don’t because you like Jimin so—”

“Wait,” she interrupts. “Hold on. You like me?”

“Shit, I didn’t even get to tell you properly.”

Yoora pales. “You like me.”

“Well I— kind of.”

“How did I not know?”

“I mean we already act as close as friends. Blurred lines I guess.” He thinks for a moment. “But you don’t like me.”

“Hoba…”

“You don’t.” He scooches away and sits back.

“I’m so sorry. You know I’ve liked Jimin all this time.”

Hoseok bites back tears. “He’s all I’ve been hearing about lately.”

“Well I’m sorry.” Her tone changes to frustration. “I’m sorry I’ve only ever thought of us as best friends.”

“Yoora, no, just…”

She folds her arms. “I’m sorry I don’t like you.”

Ouch.

Hoseok quiets. “Me too.”

“I gotta go.” She stands up, a little too much alcohol in her system to keep her balance. Yoora still manages to collect her belongings and leave the apartment.

Hoseok sits on the couch all alone staring at her half-empty glass of wine.