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fgumi · 27 days

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the fever: arrival

༺ ♰ ༻ synopsis: seeking refuge from a fever-ridden world, you stumble upon a decaying mansion where shadows move, portraits watch, and three mysterious boys warn of the sinister force that binds them. as you navigate the mansion’s dark corridors, you must stay on guard, unraveling its secrets while searching for a way to escape the fever’s reach.

༺ ♰ ༻ pairing(s): enhypen (hyung line) x f!reader ༺ ♰ ༻ genre: dark romance, psychological drama ༺ ♰ ༻ warning(s): monsterization, demons ༺ ♰ ༻ word count: 5.1k

✧ comments are appreciated! ✧

The mansion’s door closed behind you with a soft click, the sound echoing through the vast, empty space. The first thing that struck you was the air—thick, heavy, and damp, as if it had been trapped within these walls for centuries. A faint, musty smell clung to the back of your throat, mingling with the scent of decaying wood and something sweetly rotten, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. It was a scent that sent a shiver down your spine, warning you that this place was not as abandoned as it seemed.

The dim light from a distant chandelier flickered weakly, casting long, wavering shadows that danced across the walls like restless spirits. The walls themselves were tall and imposing, lined with faded wallpaper that might have once been vibrant but was now peeling away in delicate curls, revealing the cracked plaster beneath. Intricate moldings framed the ceiling, their once-gilded surfaces tarnished and dulled by time. Above, cobwebs clung to the corners, their silken threads swaying gently in a draft you couldn’t feel.

Beneath your feet, the floor was covered in a threadbare carpet, its once-plush fibers now worn thin and frayed. Each step you took was muffled, the sound absorbed by the dense fabric, yet you could feel the unevenness of the floorboards beneath, groaning softly under your weight. The sound echoed through the silence, a quiet reminder that this mansion was old—older than you could have imagined, a relic of a forgotten era.

Your eyes roamed the hallway, taking in the details that emerged from the gloom. Tall, narrow windows lined the walls, their glass panes dirty and clouded with age, filtering the moonlight into a soft, ghostly glow. Outside, the world was shrouded in mist, the trees swaying in the wind, their branches scratching against the glass with a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Portraits hung along the walls, their subjects long dead, their eyes following you as you moved through the space. The faces in the paintings were stern, unsmiling, their features sharp and aristocratic, as if they had been carved from stone. Each one seemed to watch you with an unsettling intensity, their gazes cold and unfeeling, as though they were silently judging your presence in their home.

The furniture was sparse and antiquated, pieces that might have once been grand but now stood as ghosts of their former selves. A large wooden table stood against one wall, its surface marred with scratches and stains, the wood warped from years of neglect. Atop it lay a vase of dried flowers, their petals brittle and colorless, crumbling to dust at the slightest touch. Nearby, an ornate chair with a high back and intricately carved arms sat empty, its upholstery faded and torn, the stuffing poking through in places.

The hallway seemed to stretch on endlessly, a maze of twisting corridors and hidden rooms, each one shrouded in darkness, as if the mansion itself were trying to keep its secrets hidden from you. The ceiling was high, almost oppressive in its grandeur, and you could see the faint outlines of water stains where the roof had leaked, the dampness seeping down the walls like tendrils of rot.

As you ventured further into the mansion, the silence grew heavier, pressing down on you like a physical weight. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t truly silent, filled with the faintest of sounds—the creak of wood settling, the distant drip of water, the rustle of something unseen moving just out of sight. The air was colder here, a chill that seeped into your bones, and you pulled your jacket tighter around you, though it did little to ward off the cold.

Your footsteps echoed faintly as you moved deeper into the mansion, the sound swallowed by the thick walls and high ceilings. Every now and then, you would catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye—a shadow darting across the floor, the flutter of a curtain that hadn’t been touched by the wind. But when you turned to look, there was nothing there, only the empty hallway stretching out before you, the darkness growing thicker the further you went.

The mansion was a labyrinth, each hallway leading to another, each door opening into a new space, each more unsettling than the last. Some rooms were completely bare, their windows boarded up, leaving them in total darkness. Others were filled with forgotten relics—dusty bookshelves lined with cracked spines, mirrors tarnished with age, their surfaces so cloudy that your reflection seemed to waver and twist, as if the glass itself was alive.

In one room, you found a grand piano, its keys yellowed and cracked, the once-polished wood now dull and covered in a thick layer of dust. A single sheet of music lay on the stand, the notes faded and barely legible, as though it had been left there by the last person to play, a memory frozen in time. You reached out to touch the keys, but the sound they made was hollow, echoing through the room like a distant cry.

The mansion seemed to be alive with memories, each one lingering in the air like a whisper, a reminder of the lives that had once filled these rooms. You could almost hear the faint strains of music, the laughter of long-forgotten voices, the clink of glasses in a toast. But those sounds were gone now, replaced by the oppressive silence that seemed to seep into your very soul.

And yet, despite the unease that prickled at the back of your neck, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, that someone—or something—was following your every move, waiting for you to let your guard down. It was as if the mansion itself was aware of your presence, its dark, ancient heart beating in time with your own.

As you moved further into the mansion, you felt a strange pull, a subtle force that guided your steps. It was almost as if the mansion itself was leading you somewhere, drawing you deeper into its labyrinthine halls. The sensation was delicate, like a bloom unfurling, beckoning you closer to something hidden, something waiting. It was impossible to resist, this gentle yet insistent lure, and though every instinct told you to turn back, you found your feet moving forward, drawn by a beauty that felt both inviting and dangerous.

Your thoughts were interrupted as you reached the foot of a grand staircase, its banister carved with intricate designs that seemed to twist and coil like living vines. The steps creaked under your weight as you climbed, the sound echoing through the silence like a heartbeat.

And then, as you reached the top of the stairs, you saw them.

Three figures stood at the end of the hallway, their forms half-hidden in the shadows. Your breath caught in your throat, not in fear, but in something else—something you couldn’t quite name. They moved slowly, deliberately, as if they had all the time in the world, their eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

The first of them stepped into the light, and you felt your heart skip a beat. His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and piercing, but it wasn’t just the intensity of his eyes that held you. It was something more urgent, something that made the air between you crackle with tension. His dark hair fell across his forehead in soft waves, but his expression was anything but soft. There was a hard edge to it, a barely concealed frustration that made your stomach tighten.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low, almost a growl, the words clipped with a frustration that bordered on anger. “You shouldn’t have come. This place—it’s not for you.”

Before you could respond, another figure appeared beside him. This one’s gaze was softer, more questioning, but there was a tremor in his hands, a nervousness that made you think of a child trying to act brave in the face of something terrifying. His eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of curiosity and fear, as if he was unsure whether to approach you or to flee.

“How did you even find this place?” he asked, his voice quieter, almost a whisper. “It’s not safe. You… you shouldn’t have come here.” His words wavered, his innocence evident in the way he looked at you, like he was afraid of what might happen next, of what your presence might bring.

The last of them stepped forward with a measured, deliberate grace that sent a shiver down your spine. His face was unreadable, his eyes cold and detached, but there was a firmness in his stance, a sense of finality in the way he held himself. He looked at you with an expression that was neither welcoming nor hostile—just resolute.

“You need to leave,” he said, his voice firm and unyielding, as if he were stating an undeniable fact. “This place isn’t what you think it is, and neither are we. Staying here… it’s not an option for you.”

You swallowed, feeling the weight of their stares, each one pulling at you in a different way, like invisible tendrils that seemed to wrap around you, drawing you in despite the danger they represented. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “I was just… trying to find shelter. The fever… it’s everywhere. I didn’t know where else to go.”

The three of them exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them that you couldn’t decipher. The first one—the one who had spoken with such hostility—finally nodded, though his jaw remained tight, the tension still palpable.

“You’re safe here, for now,” he said, though his tone was strained, as if the words were forced out against his better judgment.

You hesitated, unsure of what he meant, but the second one, the one with the frightened eyes, stepped forward, offering you a small, tentative smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“We’ll explain everything,” he promised, though there was a quiver in his voice, a nervousness that made you doubt his words. “But first, you need to rest. You look exhausted.”

The quiet one’s gaze remained fixed on you, unblinking. “Follow us,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With no other options, you nodded, your legs feeling weak as you followed them up the staircase. As you ascended, the walls seemed to close in around you, the shadows growing longer, more menacing. The mansion was a maze, its corridors winding and twisting in ways that defied logic, but the boys moved with ease, as if they had walked these halls a thousand times before.

Finally, they led you to a room at the far end of a long, narrow hallway. The door creaked open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished space—a bed with crisp white sheets, a single chair, and a window that overlooked the dark, misty landscape outside.

“You can stay here,” the first one said, his tone softer now.

The tension in the room was palpable, the weight of their stares pressing down on you as the silence stretched on. You shifted uncomfortably under their gaze, feeling the unease simmering just beneath the surface. Then, breaking the silence, the boy with the softer eyes stepped forward, his expression still tinged with worry but tempered by a warmth that managed to peek through.

“I’m Jake,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of brightness despite the situation. There was something comforting about the way he spoke, a trace of the person he might have been before all of this, someone who would have greeted you with a wide smile and open arms. But now, that cheerfulness was tempered by the fear and uncertainty that lingered just beneath the surface. “It’s… good that you made it here, but… you need to be careful. This place… it’s not like anywhere else.”

His words were meant to reassure, but there was an undercurrent of hesitation, as if he wasn’t entirely sure he believed what he was saying. Still, his tone held a gentleness that made you want to trust him, even though every instinct told you to keep your guard up.

Before you could respond, the boy with the intense gaze stepped forward, his movements sharp and deliberate. His eyes never left yours, and there was something almost challenging in the way he looked at you, as if daring you to question him.

“Jay,” he introduced himself, the name clipped and to the point, much like his tone. There was a roughness to his voice, an edge that hinted at the frustration he was holding back. “I know why you’re here. I get it. But you need to understand something—this place, it’s dangerous. You might think you’re safe, but you’re not. Staying here too long… it wouldn’t be wise.” There was a warning in his words, a caution that made your stomach twist with unease. Yet, as he spoke, his features softened just slightly, the hard lines of his face easing as if he was trying to balance his concern with the reality of the situation.

You nodded, the gravity of his words sinking in. But before you could dwell on it, you felt the weight of another gaze on you—colder, more calculating. The third boy, who had been silent up until now, finally stepped forward, his eyes never leaving yours. There was a chill in his gaze, something that made your breath catch.

“Sunghoon,” he said, his voice steady and cool. The way he spoke his name was more of a statement than an introduction, as if that single word carried all the weight of the judgments he was silently making about you. “You’ve made it here, but that doesn’t mean you’re safe.” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he continued to study you, as if trying to decipher something hidden beneath the surface. “Be careful. This place… it has a way of taking what it wants.”

His words, though few, were heavy with meaning, and the way he looked at you made it clear that he was weighing you against something—something you couldn’t see or understand just yet. The judgment in his eyes was unmistakable, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the unspoken tension that hung in the air. The three of them stood before you, each of their introductions laced with their own emotions—Jake’s hesitant warmth, Jay’s rough concern, and Sunghoon’s cold judgment. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something, teetering between safety and danger, and the ground beneath you was anything but stable.

But despite the unease that gnawed at you, there was something else, too—a pull, a strange, inexplicable connection that you couldn’t quite understand. It was as if, despite their reluctance, they were drawn to you just as much as you were drawn to them, a force that neither of you could fully control.

“We’ll talk more in the morning,” Jay finally said, his voice softer. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

You nodded again, feeling the exhaustion begin to creep up on you. “Thank you,” you murmured, though the words felt hollow in your mouth.

With one last glance at the three of them, you turned and stepped further into the room, the door closing softly behind you. The silence enveloped you once more, but it was different now—heavier, more oppressive, as if the mansion itself was holding its breath, waiting for something.

The tension that had been coiled tightly in your chest finally began to ease, but it was quickly replaced by a gnawing sense of unease. The boys had been kind—too kind, almost—but there was something about them that didn’t sit right with you. Their words, their actions, all seemed tinged with an undercurrent of something darker, something they weren’t telling you.

You moved to the window, peering out into the night. The mist swirled thickly outside, obscuring the world beyond the glass. The mansion felt like a world unto itself, a place where time stood still, where the fever that raged outside could not reach. But as you stood there, staring out into the darkness, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, that the mansion itself was alive, waiting for you to let your guard down.

And then, as if on cue, a soft whisper brushed against your ear, so faint that you almost missed it.

“Welcome home,” it seemed to say.

You spun around, your heart racing, but the room was empty. You were alone—or so it seemed. But as you climbed into the bed, pulling the sheets up to your chin, the whisper lingered in your mind, a haunting reminder that the mansion was far from ordinary.

You closed your eyes, but sleep did not come easily. The shadows in the room seemed to move on their own, and the walls creaked and groaned as if they were alive. And all the while, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, that someone—or something—was waiting for you in the darkness. And as your eyes fluttered closed, the last thing you heard was the faint echo of their names, lingering in the air like a whisper.

Jake. Jay. Sunghoon.

And somewhere, deep within the mansion’s walls, something stirred.

But exhaustion eventually claimed you, pulling you into a restless sleep. And as you drifted off, the last thing you heard was the soft, echoing whisper, repeating the words that sent a chill down your spine.

“Welcome home.”

༺ ♰ ༻

The morning light filtered weakly through the heavy curtains, casting the room in a muted, grayish glow. You blinked awake, the unfamiliar surroundings momentarily disorienting you. As the remnants of sleep slipped away, you became more aware of your environment, the details of the room slowly coming into focus.

The air was still, almost too still, as if the very walls were holding their breath. You could hear the faint creaking of the old wood, a sound that seemed to resonate through the entire mansion. The bed beneath you was softer than you expected, the sheets cool and smooth against your skin, but there was something unsettling about the quiet comfort they offered, as if they were trying to lull you into a false sense of security.

The light from the window was pale, almost ethereal, as if it were filtered through layers of mist. It bathed the room in a soft, diffused glow that would have been soothing under different circumstances. But here, in this mansion, it only added to the eerie calm that pervaded the space, casting everything in a faint, otherworldly hue.

You could smell the faint scent of something sweet—honeysuckle, perhaps—lingering in the air, mingling with the more familiar smells of aged wood and dust. It was a deceptive fragrance, one that might have been pleasant in any other place, but here, it felt out of place, like a memory of something lost and long forgotten.

As you sat up, the bed creaked beneath you, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Your gaze was drawn to the window, where the heavy curtains barely allowed any sunlight to seep through. The glass was fogged over, as if the outside world was trying to press its way in, but the mansion held it at bay, trapping you in its own isolated world.

The walls were adorned with faded wallpaper, the once vibrant patterns now dulled and peeling at the edges. A large mirror stood across from the bed, its surface cloudy and tarnished, reflecting a distorted image of the room. The reflection seemed almost alive, as if the shadows within it were shifting ever so slightly, moving just out of the corner of your eye.

The silence was oppressive, wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. But beneath it, you could sense something—an undercurrent of tension, a feeling that the calm was only a veneer, hiding something far more sinister beneath. It was as if the mansion itself was waiting, watching, biding its time.

Your heartbeat quickened as you stood up, the floorboards creaking under your feet. There was a slight chill in the air, enough to raise goosebumps on your skin. The chill felt unnatural, as if it were seeping up from the very foundation of the mansion, rather than being a mere result of the morning cold.

As you crossed the room, your fingers brushed against the rough, textured surface of the wallpaper, feeling the age and wear beneath your fingertips. The door loomed ahead of you, slightly ajar, as if inviting you to step out into the unknown, to explore the mansion further.

But something held you back—an instinctive wariness, a feeling that once you left the safety of this room, you would be stepping into something far more dangerous, something that the mansion was carefully hiding behind its deceptive calm.

A soft knock on the door broke the silence, making you jump slightly. Before you could respond, the door creaked open, and Jake peeked inside, his expression still tinged with that same mix of warmth and worry you had seen the night before.

“You’re awake,” he said, stepping into the room with a tentative smile. “We thought it might be good to talk… now that you’ve had some rest.”

You nodded, still groggy but curious. You followed Jake down the hallway, the mansion’s eerie silence pressing in on you once more. The other boys were already waiting in a small, dimly lit room that seemed slightly less oppressive than the rest of the mansion. A fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth doing little to chase away the chill that had settled in your bones.

Jay was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, while Sunghoon sat in a chair near the window, his gaze distant but alert. They both looked up as you entered, their expressions unreadable.

“Sit down,” Jay said, his tone less harsh than the night before. “We should talk about what’s going on out there.”

You took a seat, your heart pounding in your chest. You had a feeling that whatever they were about to tell you would change everything.

The room fell into an uneasy silence as you settled into the chair, the fire’s crackling the only sound cutting through the tension. Jake’s warm gaze met yours briefly, offering a semblance of comfort before shifting to Jay, who seemed to be weighing his words carefully.

Jay’s eyes darkened as he looked at you, his earlier concern now replaced with a grim seriousness. “You need to understand something,” he began, his voice low and steady, almost a whisper, as if speaking any louder would wake something lurking just out of sight. “This mansion… it’s not just some abandoned place you stumbled into. It’s alive, in a way that defies reason. It reacts to us—to our thoughts, our fears, even our desires. It’s like it has its own will, its own intentions. And those intentions… they’re not benevolent.”

Jake nodded, his expression somber, the usual brightness in his eyes dimmed by a shadow of unease. “We don’t know exactly what it is or how it came to be, but this place has a power over us. It’s ancient, older than any of us can imagine. And it’s infected with something… something that changes us. It feeds on our emotions, our vulnerabilities, twisting them into something dark. That’s what the fever is—it’s the mansion’s way of claiming you. Once it has you, it doesn’t let go. It’s been keeping us here, trapping us, for… we don’t even know how long. Days blur into nights, and time seems to twist on itself.”

You felt a cold shiver run down your spine at their words, the weight of the mansion’s presence pressing down on you even more heavily than before. The fire in the hearth flickered, casting shadows that seemed to dance with a life of their own, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that the room itself was listening, waiting.

“But why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why is it doing this? And why are you still here?”

Sunghoon, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke, his voice as cold and measured as his gaze. “We’re here because we’re bound to it. The fever… the mansion… they’re one and the same. It’s not just a place—it’s a living entity, feeding on us. It won’t let us leave. Not really. We’ve tried. Every time, it finds a way to pull us back. It twists reality, makes you see things that aren’t there… or hides things that are. It’s like we’re trapped in a nightmare that we can’t wake up from.”

Jay leaned forward, his eyes intense, and you noticed how the light from the fire caught the sharp angles of his face, casting half of it in shadow. “And it’s not just us. There’s someone else here—someone you haven’t met yet. Heeseung. He’s… different from us. The mansion, it’s—" he hesitated, glancing around as if the walls themselves might be listening, "—it's drawn to him in a way that's different from how it is with us. We’re not sure why, but he has a connection to this place that we can’t explain.”

“Is he dangerous?” you asked, the words catching in your throat. The very mention of this unseen presence sent a ripple of unease through you, as if speaking his name had summoned something dark and ancient.

Sunghoon’s expression tightened, his gaze flickering with something you couldn’t quite read—fear, perhaps, or something deeper. “Heeseung… he’s not dangerous, not to us, at least. But the mansion… it’s changed him. There’s a part of him that’s still the Heeseung we first met, but there’s another part—" Sunghoon’s voice trailed off, as if he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.

Jake took a deep breath, his eyes pleading with you to understand. “Heeseung is both a part of the mansion and separate from it. He’s been here the longest, and the fever has… shaped him in ways it hasn’t with us. Sometimes, he seems almost… in tune with it, as if he’s listening to something we can’t hear. He’s like the heart of this place. If you meet him, you’ll understand.”

Jay’s gaze hardened as he cut in, his tone suddenly sharper, more urgent. “No. You need to stay away from Heeseung.” The intensity in his voice sent a chill through you. “The mansion will use him to get to you if it can. It’s not above using anyone here to break you, to make you part of it. Heeseung might not mean to hurt you, but the mansion… it has its ways. And if you let your guard down, even for a second, it will take advantage.”

You felt a mix of fear and confusion, the weight of Jay’s warning pressing down on you like a physical force. “So what do I do? How do I protect myself?”

Jay’s eyes never left yours as he answered, his voice low and steady, as if he were delivering a final, crucial piece of advice. “Be prepared. Be guarded. With everyone. The mansion can twist what you see, make you doubt what you know. Trust your instincts, but don’t trust what you see—or even what you feel. This place… it’s designed to break you down, to make you question everything until there’s nothing left.”

Jake reached out, placing a reassuring hand on your arm, though his grip was almost too tight, as if he were clinging to some semblance of hope. “We’ll help you, I promise. But you have to be careful. The mansion is unpredictable, and Heeseung… well, you can’t always trust what you see here.”

Sunghoon’s eyes narrowed slightly, his tone flat, but there was a hint of something darker beneath his words. “The mansion will use everything against you if it can. It will try to break you, to make you part of it. You have to stay strong. We’ve managed to hold on so far, and if we’re lucky, we can all find a way out. But the mansion… it doesn’t like to lose.”

A heavy silence settled over the room as you absorbed their words, the enormity of your situation sinking in. The mansion was a living entity, infected with a fever that had ensnared these boys—and now you—in its grasp. And at the center of it all was Heeseung, the enigmatic figure who was as much a part of the mansion as it was of him.

“Where is he now?” you asked, your voice steady despite the fear gnawing at your insides.

Jay’s gaze was steady as he answered, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. “He’s usually in the heart of the mansion, the place where the connection is strongest. But don’t go looking for him. If the mansion wants you to meet him, it will make it happen. Just… be ready. The mansion has a way of twisting what you think you know.”

With those words, the reality of your situation settled over you like a heavy cloak. You were trapped in a place where the rules of the world no longer applied, where time twisted and the very walls seemed to pulse with life. And somewhere within this labyrinth of secrets and shadows was Heeseung, the boy who might hold the key to your escape—or your doom.

The fire in the hearth crackled, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the walls, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that those shadows were watching, waiting. Jake’s voice cut through the tension, soft but resolute. “We’ll get through this together,” he said, though there was a tremor in his voice that betrayed his uncertainty. “Just… trust us, and trust yourself. We’ll figure this out.”

You nodded, trying to gather your courage as the enormity of what lay ahead loomed before you. Whatever the mansion had in store, you knew that your only hope lay in understanding its secrets—and in facing whatever—or whoever—awaited you within its dark, twisted heart. The mansion seemed to hum with a dark energy, as if it was aware of your resolve, as if it was waiting for you to make your move.

But deep down, you knew that whatever awaited you in the heart of the mansion would be unlike anything you had ever faced before. And the thought of meeting Heeseung, the boy who was as much a mystery as the mansion itself, filled you with a mixture of dread and anticipation. The mansion had its secrets, and Heeseung was one of them. But would he be your ally in this nightmare—or would he be the one to drag you deeper into its dark embrace?

As you sat there, the firelight flickering across your face, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the mansion was listening, that it was aware of every thought, every fear that crossed your mind. And somewhere in its depths, Heeseung was waiting. Waiting for you to find him—or for him to find you.

disclaimer: this, in no way, reflects the idol. this is purely fiction. m!list | next

#enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #park jongseong #jay x reader #sim jaeyun #jake x reader #park sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #lee heeseung #heeseung x reader #!nanawrites

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mariasont · 6 months

Text

Our Minds Entwined------------------------

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5

Aaron Hotchner x Original Character x Spencer Reid

in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest youngest member

The clock struck midnight, its chimes echoing softly though the BAU's office, a space usually buzzing with the day's urgency now settled into a rare stillness, broken by the occasional shuffle of feet or the muted ring of a phone quickly silenced.

Evelyn, her silhouette illuminated by the soft luminescence of the computer screen, was a portrait of focus. Her eyes, reflecting the screen's pale blue light, moved rapidly as she scanned the data before her. Stray locks of hair framed her face, a few rebellious strands occasionally obscuring her view, only to be tucked behind an ear with an absent-minded brush of her hand.

Her desk was a landscape of organized chaos, with documents cascading over one another and colorful pens scattered across the wood. Her fingers, poised gracefully above the keyboard, were a study of precision, each keystroke a deliberate and thoughtful action.

The office around her was still, save for the soft hum of machinery and the distant sound of a siren that wailed briefly before fading into the night. The air was heavy with the scent of coffee, long gone cold, and the faintest hint of ink and toner.

Across the room, Reid's silhouette was framed by the window, his tall figure bent over a table littered with files. The faint light from the streetlamps outside filtered through, illuminating his furrowed brow as he pieced together profiles with the meticulous care of an artist.

Their interactions were sparse, limited to the necessary exchange of information, yet there was a comfort in the shared silence, a mutual understanding that words were superfluous when the work demanded their all.

Evelyn rose from her desk, stretching slightly to ease the stiffness in her back. She gathered a stack of papers, the edges crisp and cool against her fingers, and made her way to the copy machine nestled in the corner of the office.

Reid, his attention usually locked within the realm of profiles and patterns, found his gaze inadvertently drawn to Evelyn as she bent over to load the papers into the feeder, her hips jutted out, her ass perfectly outlined by her skirt. Her body was a rare lapse in his concentration, one that left him momentarily disarmed.

"Uh, need a hand with that?" Reid's voice broke the silence, a touch of hesitance threading through his usual calm as he diverted his gaze from her ass.

Evelyn looked up, a hint of surprise flickering across her face. "Actually, yes. It's being stubborn," she replied, her tone laced with mild frustration as the machine gave a disgruntled beep and ceased operation.

Reid crossed the room, his steps measured, the soft carpet muffling his approach. He stood beside her, their shoulders almost touching, as he examined the rebellious machine. "Sometimes it just needs a little...," he began, reaching out to navigate the copier's cryptic buttons.

Before he could finish, the office plunged into darkness, a power outage seizing the building in its sudden grip. The hum of the machinery died, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

"Spencer?" Evelyn's voice cut through the darkness, tinged with confusion and an instinctive reach for familiarity. Her hands, almost on their own accord, reached out into the void, fingers splayed in search of the tangible reassurance of her surroundings.

In the sudden stillness, Evelyn's breath hitched as she felt the unexpected warmth of Spencer's hands on her hips. His touch was gentle yet firm, a steadying presence that grounded her in the enveloping darkness. The soft fabric of her skirt offered little barrier to the heat of his palms, and she could feel the contours of his fingers pressing against her.

Spencer's front was close, so close that she could sense the line of his body against her back without either of them moving. It was an intimate proximity that had never shared, his chest almost brushing against her as they both paused in the unexpected closeness.

Evelyn's heart raced, not from fear of the dark, but from the sudden heat she felt. His presence was like a solid pillar, and for a moment, she leaned back ever so slightly, drawn by the comfort of his nearness. The air around them seemed to thrum with a new energy.

As quickly as the moment came, it passed, and they stepped away from each other, the space crackling between them with an unspoken tension.

"Sorry," Spencer's voice was a hushed murmur in the darkness, a soft admission that seemed louder in the silence.

Evelyn's response came quickly. "It's okay," she said. In the pitch-black office, Evelyn was acutely aware of the warmth spreading across her cheeks. "It's just... dark."

Her body shouldn't be reacting this way, she chided herself silently. He was a colleague, maybe a friend, and yet the fluttering in her stomach contradicted her rational thoughts. The darkness concealed her flushed face, but it couldn't hide the quickening of her pulse or the confusion that clouded her mind.

Evelyn's voice broke through the silence again, this time with a note of practically. "The doors... they're badge-operated," she stated, more to herself than to Spencer. The fact was a simple one, but it served as a necessary anchor, pulling her thoughts away from the lingering warmth of his touch.

Reid's mind, ever analytic, race through their options. "The backup generator should kick in, but it might be a few minutes," he said, trying to sound reassuring.

They moved together, almost instinctively, toward the door. Evelyn's fingers fumbled along the wall, seeking the familiar contour of the switch, though she knew it was futile. Reid, meanwhile, pulled out his phone, the dim glow casting shadows as he tried to illuminate their path.

The badge reader beside the door was unresponsive, it's usual green light extinguished. They exchanged a look, an unspoken agreement passing through them for a moment. They were indeed stuck, at least for the moment.

The stillness of the office felt different now, charged with the intimacy of shared confinement. They retreated from the doors, finding their way back to the center of room. "Guess we wait,"

"Or we could call Hotch. That man never sleeps." With a resigned sigh, he pulled out his phone and dialed. The call rang persistently, but there was no answer.

Spencer ended the call, a hint of frustration in his eyes. "No answer," he said, turning to Evelyn. "Maybe you should try."

Evelyn raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "What, and shatter the myth that Aaron Hotchner actually needs sleep like the rest of us mortals? Fine, I'll give it a shot."

She dialed the number, half-expecting it to go to voicemail. To her surprise, Hotch picked up almost immediately. "Hotch? It's Evelyn. Evelyn Gideon. I... uh, didn't actually think you'd answer."

"Yes, Evelyn I know it's you. Is everything alright?" Hotch's voice was calm, a stark contrast to the fluttering in Evelyn's stomach.

"We're locked in the building. The power is off and the badge reader's down and... well, we're stuck here," she confessed, her words more measured than she felt.

"I'll be there in ten," Hotch replied without missing a beat, and the line went dead.

Evelyn turned to Spencer, her earlier confidence replaced with a sheepish grin. "Okay, now we wait."

Spencer leaned against his desk, his eyes reflecting a hint of amusement. "You know, it's probably just the novelty of not hearing my extensive use of statistics in casual conversation. Hotch might've thought it was a prank call."

Evelyn's laughter filled the room, a sound that seemed foreign in the usually somber office. "Speaking of, what's the statistic of getting locked in the office with a power outage?"

Spencer glanced at her, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "Well, actually, it's quite rare. The probability is less than 0.005% on any given day."

Her laughter grew louder, and she shook her head in disbelief. "Spencer, I wasn't being serious."

He smiled, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. "No, I know that," he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "But you have to admit, it's an interesting statistic."

Evelyn hopped up onto the desk, crossing her legs as she faced Spencer. The conversation flowed easily between them, filled with light banter that had become their unique way of coping with the stress of the job.

"So, Dr. Reid," Evelyn began, a teasing tone in her voice, "if you're so good with statistics, what are the odds of us getting out of here before we turn into BAU office decorations?"

Spencer chuckled, adjusting his glasses. "Well, considering Hotch's driving skills and disregard for traffic laws when it comes to his team, I'd say the odds are in our favor."

As they laughed, Spencer's hand accidentally brushed against Evelyn's leg. The contact was brief, but it was enough for him to notice the smoothness of her skin. He quickly retracted his hand, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

Before either could comment, the lights flickered back to life, bathing the room in a harsh fluorescent glow. The badge reader beside the door beeped, its green light signaling the return of power.

The door swung open, and Hotch stepped in, his expression of concern and mild irritation. "I see the power's back," he said, surveying the scene before him. "You two alright?"

Evelyn slid off the desk, smoothing out her skirt. "We're fine, Hotch. Just enjoying some... statistical analysis with Reid."

Hotch raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on Evelyn for a moment. He nodded once, before turning to leave the room.

Spencer, curiosity piqued, hurried after Hotch. "Hey, Hotch," he called out, catching up. "Why didn't you answer my call?"

Evelyn, left alone by the desk, couldn't help but giggle. She quickly gathered her belongings, the recent events still playing in her mind like a curious melody. She slung her purse over her shoulder and made her way to the exit, her steps echoing softly in the now-quiet office.

As she rounded a corner, she collided with a figure emerging from the shadows. "Oh shoot, sorry," he exclaimed, taking a step back.

The man she bumped into was tall, with a friendly smile that reached his eyes. "No harm done," she said, his voice smooth and reassuring. "You're Evelyn, right? From the BAU? I'm Daniel, from the Counterterrorism Division."

Evelyn nodded, a little taken aback by the recognition. "Nice to meet you, Daniel. I didn't expect to run into anyone else here so late."

Daniel's grin widened. "Yeah, the hours can be unpredictable. But it's all in a day's work, right?"

Evelyn returned the smile. "Absolutely, makes the job all the more interesting." She glanced at her watch, groaning in her head at how late it was. "Well, I should head out. Early start tomorrow and all that."

"Of course," Daniel replied. "It was nice running into you, Evelyn. Maybe I'll see you around."

With a final nod, Evelyn turned and walked away. She stepped out into the cool air, the parking lot bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. She noticed two familiar cars: Spencer's old sedan and Hotch's study SUV. As she made her way to her car, Spencer's vehicle started up, and he drove past her, offering a small nod.

She then spotted Hotch, sitting in his SUV, his silhouette unmistakable. "Hotch?" she called out, approaching the vehicle with a curious tilt of her head.

The window rolled down, and Hotch looked at her, his face a mask of casual vigilance. "Just making sure you get to your car safely," he said, his voice carrying a subtle warmth reserved for his team.

Evelyn laughed softly, the sound carrying in the stillness. "Aw Hotch, playing the knight in shining armor?"

He cracked a rare, half-smile. "Well, considering you've attracted more trouble in your first week than most agents do in a year, I thought it prudent to stick around."

She shook her head, still smiling. "I'll take that as a compliment, coming from you."

Hotch nodded, his gaze lingering for a moment longer. "Just try to avoid any more late-night lock-ins, okay?"

She laughed, the sound crisp in the night air. "I'll do my best. Goodnight, Hotch."

"Goodnight, Evelyn. Drive safe."

With a final nod, Evelyn turned and walked to her car.

Evelyn arrived at her home, a pristine two-story house that exuded classic charm. The white paint glowed under the moonlight, and the dark roofing added a touch of elegance. Each dormer window was adorned with pastel flowers.

Inside, she moved gracefully, her high heels clicking on the hardwood as she placed her bag down. The day's tensions melting away as she slipped into her silky pajama, the fabric gliding over her skin like a gentle caress. As she settled into bed, the softness of the sheets a welcome contrast to the day's harshness, her phone rang. It was Spencer, his voice a soothing presence in the quiet of the night.

"Hey, Evelyn, just wanted to make sure you got home safely," he said.

Evelyn settled deeper into her pillows, a smile playing on her lips. "I did, thanks. But you know, you don't have to worry. Statistically speaking, the likelihood of encountering danger on a short drive within one's own neighborhood is quite low."

There was a pause, and then Spencer's voice returned, laced with his characteristic blend of humor and fact. "Well, actually, while the probability is low, it's never zero. For example, did you know that--"

Evelyn cut him off with a light-hearted laugh. "Spencer, I know whatever you're going to say is not going to be exactly a comforting bedtime statistic."

"I suppose not." He laughed, the sound warm in her ear.

"Thanks for the check-in, Dr. Reid. I'll see you tomorrow," Evelyn said, her voice tinged with amusement.

"See you tomorrow, Evelyn. And remember, statistically, your bed is the safest place you can be right now." Spencer added before saying goodnight.

Evelyn ended the call with a soft laugh, feeling a sense of warmth flood her body as she caught herself smiling into her pillow. The night was quiet, and for once, the statistics were in her favor.

you guys!!!!!! the support on this is unreal, ugh love u all <3 i also want to start writing drabbles, one-shots, etc. SOOO if you have any requests shoot me a message <3

let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

taglist: @nonamevenus

#Spotify #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x original character #spencer reid x oc #reid #dr reid #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x oc #aaron hotchner x original character #aaron hotchner x oc x spencer reid #aaron hotchner x original character x spencer reid #reverse harem #why choose #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds

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moodymisty · 11 months

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hello❤️‍🔥I hope everything is fine with you in life✨Congratulations on the beginning of October🥰 Lion El'Jonson/reader-aristocrat Let everything revolve around the official ceremonial portrait (well, you know those huge full-length paintings when women are sitting on a high-backed chair in a ball gown, and a man is standing a little behind with his hand on his wife's shoulder and they are holding hands) Lion in the days before the Heresy was very skeptical about the idea of making such a portrait, but in the end the reader persuaded him. Cute moment Then skip all the way to Heresy. There is confusion everywhere, war. The reader is either on Caliban or Terra. Lion sent them there, thinking that she would be safe. And so he looks either at the portrait itself or at a small picture and feels anxious and longing for quiet days. And skip up to 41k. Lion woke up after so many years, everything changed around. But he still has this little reproduction and he looks at it when it gets hard. Lion is transported to pleasant memories where everything was fine. He does not know what has become of the reader and the original portrait🥺 Hope for a happy ending or an open dramatic ending - the choice depends entirely on you how to complete it🌹

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙| 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's note: Hey! Sorry this took so long, it took me a hot minute to get it going but once I did I really like how it came out. I hope you enjoy, and it's close enough to what you wanted :3

Summary: Azrael asks a newly awoken Lion about a Chapter relic with a curious history.

Relationships: Lion El'Jonson/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Reader's fate is vague but given the amount of time passed largely spoken about as if dead, Typical 40kness, Far less fluffy than perhaps you wanted but I got carried away with the angst

Word Count: 1196

"Father,"

Azrael looks towards the man he calls his pater, who only spares him a sparse glance. They stand side by side, and while the Primarch in all of his glory dwarfs the Chapter Master, Azrael still feels more on equal terms that he thought he would- in the presence of their Primarch.

The Lion however still finds himself unfamiliar with the Chapter Master, and it has proven difficult for the two to navigate around each other. It has been many years since The Lion drew breath of his own accord; Much has changed since then. The Dark Angels have grown more suspicious, secretive; The Fallen have grown in number. The Necrons, the Tyranids, his father being nothing more than a rotting corpse splayed across his golden throne in a mimicry of what once was.

He stares at the 'relic'- as Azrael had called it when they'd first approached- ahead of him, and it serves as a beacon to a place he can no longer go.

He knows this isn't the original.

The original was put in a gold frame with a delicate filigree, this one is in one of the distinctive Dark Angel green. To match the surroundings, or perhaps the actual art was removed from it's old frame and into this one. Damage, perhaps. The canvas is torn, yellowed with age and the signature of the artist who'd captured this moment in time is unreadable. He can barely see your face, with how much the paint has fallen away.

He can barely see his own as well. Perhaps it's all for the best.

"Who is she?"

The Chapter Master holds his winged helmet in his hands, a rare moment of him not being fully armored. He glances towards the portrait with a stoic curiosity and continues speaking.

"We, know vaguely of her mention in texts from the Heresy, but nothing else. Not even her name." The Librarium is quiet. Only he, Azrael, and a few others occupy the monumental space. The painting is surrounded by other relics of the chapter; Statues, weaponry from warriors of old, scripts and written texts.

"We've never known. Years of searching lead us nowhere, so we had given up our attempts. It was thought to be knowledge lost to time." He hesitates. "Lost to the Heresy."

The Astartes faces trouble with identifying the expression on his Primarch's face, as they both stand paces away from the tattered relic. When he accepts that it's unreadable, he casts his eyes back towards the old painting.

Azrael can tell from what paint is left on the canvas that you're clearly smiling.

Even thousands of years later the warmth of that smile is still palpable; Multiple Dark Angels have found an odd, abit unfamiliar solace in it. It's not uncommon for the Captains and Commanders of the chapter to ponder it in the rare moments they need a form of clarity. It seems to help, and none of them have ever found why.

The dress you wear in the portrait matches the green they cast their armor in, though the paint has lost it's vibrancy over the years. It still matches The Lion's armor however, as he stands behind you the chair you're seated in. You're on a small platform, to make it easier to fit the Primarch who is massively taller into the same frame. His hand rests firmly on your shoulder, and your much daintier, unarmored hand softly grasps two of his fingers.

It's peaceful. It makes the Chapter Master think as to what life was like before the Heresy took it all away. It makes him wonder how a clearly baseline human could have had such a bond with a god; A Primarch.

Meanwhile, it makes The Lion think back to when it was first being painted- the original one- before he'd lost so many of his brothers.

"Smile for once, Lion."

He doesn't, but he does look down on you with a familiar glare. His face barely changes orientation, but you can still so clearly see his desire to scold you. Tucking a single bit of hair behind your ear, you make sure to keep the same position you'd started in. The artist has already requested once you do so, as to avoid any errors in the painting.

Still as you possibly can be, you try not to hurt your cheeks from holding back a smile.

"Roboute was actually right about you having such a sour moue all the time."

Again, he doesn't say a word. His hand stays heavy on your shoulder however, as he stays remarkably still. He can't feel your gentle grasp through his armor, though he can glance down towards it and his nerves attempt to simulate the feeling; a dull accuracy from the memories of previous times.

He thinks this is all pointless. But it's clearly pleasing you, so for once he'll begrudgingly allow it.

After towing you all the way to Terra, to tear you from everything you knew to surround you with thousands of fresh Astartes all hungry for battle, looking to you for orders you aren't yet trained to give. He supposes he can gift you this rare platitude. Perhaps it will serve as a memory to this time that can be looked back upon in the future. To remember how hard they fought to make the galaxy free of the scourge that fills it.

The painter gestures to his serf to gather another color for him, and the young man quickly scurries off to go retrieve it. Meanwhile the artist continues, working in a fashion far more slowly and inferior to the current technology of the time.

The Lion considers it a waste, though unlike him you come from a planet with an emphasis on the arts; Same as Fulgrim and Roboute. There's something in this you value, and while he doesn't consider himself as soft as some of his brothers, the love he has for you prevents him from squandering your joy.

Sanguinius will surely find this all hilarious.

Azrael glances upward again towards his Primarch. He thinks he hears him mumble something, but The Lion is silent by the time he realizes something might've been said.

The Primarch could taste your name on his lips, but speaking it would only make it worse. He silenced himself before it was spoken aloud for the first time in thousands of years.

He knows that after his 'demise', after he was put in the dreamless sleep deep within The Rock, you briefly issued orders alongside his old council. That's all the Chapter's records have left, after so many centuries.

Not a single one of those texts even mentions your name, let alone your fate. You're a ghost of his own mind. Your memory is but a relic in a Librarium locked away for untold years.

Part of him is glad he acquiesced to your silly, human desire. Another part is hateful, because now he has a memory he can do nothing with but feel the way it aches.

He never answers Azrael. And so the Astartes files the question away in his mind, discontent but accepting to never ask it again.

#Lion El'Jonson x reader #primarch x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

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cheezwood · 7 months

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portrait "17" - pencil, fineliner on paper 18x18cm

#art #artists on tumblr #oc #sketchbook #sketch #doodle #abstract #minimalist art #simple #sparse #contemporary art #incomplete #weird #unconventional #profane #onpaper #portrait

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lulublack90 · 1 month

Text

Prompt 17 - Dawn

@jegulus-microfic August 17, Word count 766

Previous part First Wolfstar part

He followed James through the wooden entrance doors and then left down the steps towards the dungeons. He kept close to James and tried to match his footsteps, so the echoing corridors didn’t give him away.

They stopped before the blank expanse of wall that served as the secret entrance to the Slytherin dorms.

“Oxyuranus microlepidotus,” James recited, and the wall began to shudder. A door with intricate silver filigree adorning it appeared in the previously empty wall. James hesitantly reached for the handle and swung it open.

The Slytherin Common room was exactly as he remembered it. Dark, with black leather chairs and sofas, sparsely illuminated by a few candles dotted about, helped by the small amount of light that drifted in through the waters of the black lake, but right now, with it being dark outside, the windows that made up the far wall were as dark and cold as obsidian.

“Hi, erm, Mr Slytherin sir,” Regulus’s head snapped in the direction of James’s voice. He’d moved to stand in front of the portrait and was trying to get its attention. “Hi, sorry, I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?” James continued. Salazar ignored him, looking out of the side of the frame away from James. Regulus felt a surge of anger swell in his stomach. He ripped the cloak off and stormed across the Common room.

“Oh, it’s you,” Salazar sneered as Regulus came to a stop beside James.

“Oh, he talks,” Regulus shot back rudely, balling his hands into fists.

“I do to students I recognise. This one I do not.” Salazar peered closely at James. “He looks decidedly Gryffindor to me,”

“James Potter, a pleasure to meet you, sir,” James forced a smile on his face and Regulus caught the jerky movement of his arm, realising James had been about to offer his hand to the painting.

“Hmmm,” Salazar replied. “And why are you darkening our doors again, Mr Black?” Regulus rolled his eyes before retrieving the locket from his pocket.

“Look familiar?” He said, letting it swing to and fro on its chain.

Salazar lunged out of his chair and got as close to them as the confines of his canvas would allow.

“Where did you get that?!” He spluttered.

“In a god-awful cave surrounded by inferi,” Regulus answered, letting the locket rest in the flat of his hand, the chain pooling around it.

“It is wrong,” Salazar murmured, as he moved his head trying to get a better look. Regulus took a step towards him, holding it aloft. "What has been done to my locket?" He furrowed his brow as he continued to examine it.

“We believe that a man who calls himself Lord Voldemort has turned it into a Horcrux,” Regulus told him.

“OUTRAGEOUS!!!” The portrait bellowed, the frame around it coming away from the wall with the force of his emotion. “HOW DARE HE!!! THAT DESPICABLE EXCUSE FOR AN HEIR!!!” Salazar paced around his small area, his snake coiling itself under his ornate chair to avoid his stomping feet. “Curse that Tom Riddle!” Salazar continued his tirade. He spun to look at them again. “What do you need?” He asked with determination in his eyes.

“We need to know how to open it so we can destroy it and in turn destroy Voldemort,” Regulus told him, being totally honest.

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” James butted in. Regulus, too, wanted to know he’d never heard that name before.

“They are one and the same,” Salazar said, sitting down in his chair, tired from his outburst, and retrieved his snake from under his chair, hissing what Regulus guessed were soothing words to it. “A childish nickname he made up for himself now his only name,” Salazar looked up from his snake. “Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort,” Regulus and James looked at each other. This was new information. Something no one else knew.

“Now about my locket…”

By the time Salazar had given them as much information as he could, the pinks and golds of dawn were peeking above the horizon. Regulus was exhausted, his mind swirling with too much information, and all he wanted was to slip into James’s comfy bed and snuggle into the man beside him, but first he had to follow James up to Dumbledore’s office. He yawned under the cloak as James spoke the password and followed him up the stairs behind the stone gargoyle.

“Ah, James, good morning,” Professor Dumbledore welcomed him the second they stepped into the office. “Please, sit down, we have a lot to discuss. Sherbet Lemon?”

Next part

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beansprean · 1 year

Text

Queening the Pawn Act 3 Part 7

Back to Nandor… Crew cameo! Wives cameo!! Jahan cameo!!!

Acts 1-2

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Waist up of Nandor sitting on the couch in the library, continuing the talking head from part 1. The camera is now shooting from the side, and behind him you can see the right half of the bay window; a side table with a lit lamp, abandoned book, candle, butterfly display, and a small brass horse statue; a bucket of loose scrolls, and a wide gold mirror. The camera crew are reflected: a brown man with floppy bags and a sparse mustache is in the front, aiming the camera with one eye in the viewfinder; behind him is a large older Samoan man with a white beard ducking in front of a light reflector and pulling up cords; behind him is a white woman with long blonde hair in a ponytail, presumably the director, wearing a headset and holding up an iPad that she is writing on; behind her is a bored-looking Latine sound technician with long messy brown hair holding up the boom mic. Nandor is looking pensively away from the camera, brow furrowed and cheeks lightly flushed, fiddling his hands together in his lap. He says, “I was very confused by Guillermo’s conclusion. Which is obviously an unusual feeling for me, as he is normally so predictable.” 1b. Close up on Nandor at the same angle as he whips his head toward the camera, wide eyed and incredulous. He shouts, “Fuck that guy for making me feel confused!” 1c. Repeat. Nandor calms slightly and looks away again, flustered, hands curling into fists to press uncertainly against his chest. He spits sardonically, “Like I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like…”

2a. Flashback in sepa tones on a mottled brown background. Waist up shots of several of Nandor’s wives in a line, dressed in their 13th century finery and chatting happily together. One is clearly Marwa; there is also an older woman with short hair tucked beneath a scarf, a younger woman with freckles and long reddish hair, a fat man with a beard and long curly hair playing a barbat, a young person with a Roman nose, a man with a very fun handlebar mustache, and a person with long dark hair with their back to the viewer. Nandor’s dialogue continues from the present: “I loved many of my wives, but I did not want them around all the time. Or even most of the time. They were appealing primarily because they allowed me to do whatever I pleased and did not bother me unless I asked for them.” 2b. Zoom out to full body as the flashback continues. The group of wives, now including a young woman with a mole on her cheek and a young bearded man with three, are on the right, engaged with each other and mostly ignoring human Nandor and Jahan as they pass by. Human Nandor and Jahan are dressed respectively in the blue and silver armor and bejeweled tack they wear in their portrait together. Nandor has one hand on Jahan’s saddle and the other on his sword as they both trot excitedly across the frame, Nandor sporting a large open-mouthed smile and Jahan holding his tail high and ears pricked forward, uncaring of the wives left behind. The only wife to make a fuss is the younger woman with the mole, who has her skirts gathered up and is glaring at Nandor’s back as if readying herself to stomp after him. Marwa stops her with a hand on her arm, expression compassionate but sad. The older wives know better than to expect much attention from their husband. Present Nandor’s dialogue continues: “The one I preferred to spend all of my time with was my dear horse, John.” 2c. Shoulders up of present Nandor in front of the flashback in 2b. Pausing his narration, he looks down at his lap and bites lip softly, a contemplative line appearing between his brows. His speech bubble holds only an ellipses. /end ID

#wwdits #queening the pawn #nandermo #mlm #marwa wwdits #nandors wives #aspam john #aspam jahan #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #my art #fanart #fan comic #image described

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luveline · 2 years

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𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

one | chapter list

Finding out you're a princess isn't half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can't seem to stop flirting with you.

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au (sort of), all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance james isn't flirty this chapter i lied but he will be <3

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You're in the process of ruining your pyjama bottoms with willow charcoal when your father dies.

The charcoal is fragile, unhoused, and it snaps with too much pressure. An uneven half falls between the sheets of your sketchbook, marring the artwork it rolls over indiscriminately.

You sigh without thinking and rub your tired eyes, spreading a line of smudgy black under your brow. Squinting, you peek at the portrait you'd been drawing. A young woman with deep, dark skin, her cheek shaded by the leaves of a sycamore tree. The branches arc over her skin in shadowed lines, sunlight dappling illustrated by sparse triangles of the white paper underneath.

It had been an okay sketch. The snapped charcoal distracts from what you'd originally set out to do — a dynamic, revealing portrait — and instead replaces it with a more abstract feel.

You sigh again, this time with a melodrama you'd only ever feel comfortable displaying alone. Thankfully, that's the case more often than not. You live by yourself, no partner, no pets, nobody around to see you drop your sketchbook onto the floor beside your bed, kick out your feet toward the rug, and moan. Your socks slide against the hardwood. You kick them like a child as you slip down the side of the bed, shirt caught behind you, soft middle exposed.

You swear to yourself quietly, pressing the backs of your hands to your eyes.

A sharp trilling sound chimes. On the nightstand, your phone vibrates hard, and the water in the glass next to it crests against the sides like tiny shockwaves.

You pull it into your lap and stare at the number. It goes to voicemail, and then it rings again. Again, again, and again.

You consider turning your phone off. Five phone calls and counting indicates an emergency, but every cell begs to avoid whatever it is on the other side.

You can't avoid everything, no matter how much you want to. You answer the phone.

"Hello," you greet.

The muffled echo of a cheerful voice responds.

"Yeah, that's me… Okay. Yeah, now is fine."

More chattering. Less cheerful, diplomatic.

"My father?" you ask.

You are told two impossible truths.

"Oh," you say. The walls spin. "Right."

—

"I hate flying," Sirius mutters.

James hums, noncommittal.

"You know, my good looks are wasted if we end up lost in the middle of the Atlantic ocean."

"It's not the middle of the Atlantic ocean," Remus says, sounding about as interested in Sirius' whining as James is currently. "It's an arm."

"It's the fucking English channel," James says. It's barely the ocean. "How much do you reckon a pair of in flight headphones will cost?"

Sirius, despite his anxiety, has the bandwidth to appreciate James' bad mood. "What crawled up your arse?"

James sinks down into his seat, knees immediately pressed into the hard plastic of the chair in front, back aching and head heavy from a lack of rest he won't make up anytime soon.

"He's agitated," Remus says.

"Helpful, Moony. Super helpful."

"Fuck yourself, then," Remus says, pulling his sleep mask over his eyes and plugging in his earbuds.

The tannoy dings. The seatbelt light flashes.

A flight attendant raises his voice from the start of the aisle. "If everybody could take their seats and buckle in, we'll be taking off in less than two minutes. Please turn all electronics to aeroplane mode. Thanks so much."

"Is your phone off?" Sirius asks.

"No, I actually want us to drown in the channel, but thanks for asking."

A dark shock of curls lands against his shoulder. Sirius drapes himself unabashedly across James lap, hand on his friend's thigh, ankle crossing over ankle. Genovian through and through, Sirius doles out affection wantonly, smelling ridiculously nice as he does: a heady smell like browned sugar and citrus blossoms coalescing tickles the inside of James' nose.

"Are you still cranky that you got demoted?" Sirius asks, smooth tones pitched into bubbly baby talk.

"I didn't get demoted," James argues.

James had, in fact, been demoted.

"No, of course not. You've fallen from third guard to the Royal Prince of Genovia, may he rest in peace, to glorified babysitter of said Prince's illegitimate, forgotten child. Sounds the same to me."

"Then we agree," James says, wanting to close his eyes.

He'd pretend to sleep if he thought Sirius would believe it. Growing up together erases any semblance of privacy. Sirius knows James as James knows Sirius, and as they know Remus. Remus likely knows them all better than he'd ever admit, the youngest of the trio and the smartest, most perceptive man James has ever met.

Sirius isn't perceptive, he's vigilant. He can read even the smallest signs of unrest, and it makes him uneasy. There will likely always be a shadow cast over him from a rough childhood, and while James is in a god awful mood, he reaches out to alleviate Sirius' anxiety.

"I'm fine," James assures him, "just tired." Not mad at you goes unsaid.

"It won't be as bad as you're thinking."

"I'm fine. I'm not worried. Didn't sleep last night, and," —he grins as Sirius clasps his arm, their seats shaking underneath them, the plane beginning its race across tarmac— "some scrawny git is squeezing fuck out of my arm."

Sirius flinches away from him. "You're annoying."

James presses his shoe up to the side of Sirius' and leans back in his chair, wincing at the rattling carriage as they take off, and again when he remembers where they're going. You wait in London, though nobody in the task force assigned to your assimilation or the advisement team could come to explain how you'd ended up there. Your Genovian citizenship is unacknowledged on your passport, your birth certificate, even, and as far as Lily had been able to suss, you have little understanding of who you are.

"She sounded tired, mostly," Lily had said when pressed for details about the new princess' personality. "In shock. Slightly disbelieving, but could you believe it?"

Lily, James'... friend, and work colleague at a stretch, is an ambassador for the UK and full-time genovian resident. Along with a handful of other representatives and officials, she’d been responsible for opening the talks between Genovia and yourself. That is to say, she'd broken the news.

Surprise! Your dad just died! Double surprise, you're a princess. And, no pressure or anything, but we kind of need you to come back to Genovia to maintain the royal lineage before your grandmother abdicates the throne (unwillingly).

"Did you mention the tiara?" he'd asked Lily. The Princess' diadem, a master craftsmanship of silver-gold with a diamond the size of an apple.

"Weirdly, Potter, I didn’t mention the jewellery."

He supposes there hadn't been time to weasel that tidbit in between condolences and recruitment.

You haven't promised anything in ways of returning to Genova or taking up the mantle. James understands. If he were in your shoes, he likely would've laughed down the line and blocked the number. You’d shown incredible promise as a future leader, agreeing to meet with Lily and her team at the Genovian embassy. Then, a day later, they'd modified the plan and asked if you'd be okay meeting somewhere more private.

You'd said yes.

As someone who may be very involved in your bodily safety in the near future, James thinks you're an idiot. Somebody calls you, claiming that you're a princess, though nobody has ever bothered telling you this before because you were never heir apparent, and that they'll tell you more should you deign to meet with them in a place with meagre surveillance, and you say yes to this?

How you've survived as long as you have is a mystery.

He hopes you won't make his job difficult. Isn't that what everyone hopes? He feels guilty for judging you without meeting you, promising in his head to be nicer to you in actuality. You're probably grieving and definitely confused. He shouldn't be worrying about his job.

Redetermined, James lets the anxiety of his new assignment water down.

Sirius is thinking along the same lines: how easy will you make his particular occupation. "Bets are on. Scruffy or sweet?"

"Huh?" James asks, pretending he doesn't understand in hopes of rectifying Sirius' attitude.

"Slovenly or love-nly?"

"I'm sure she's fine."

"You should hope so, you'll be looking at the back of her head for a while."

James rolls his eyes.

"I'll manage, pretty or not."

His confidence draws Sirius' curiosity. "How're you so sure?" Sirius asks, chin-lifted, light eyes narrowed in bemusement. His expression dances with the surety of somebody well-raised. He could wear a potato sack and his regal air would endeavour, deep-seeded and neat like the trim stitching of his expensive clothes.

"Look at my face right now. Do I seem affected?"

Sirius laughs much too loudly at the implication. "Don't act like I'm not handsome, Prongs."

"Years of practice." James schools his features into an unaffected mask. "Uggos have no effect on me."

"How else would you look in the mirror?" Sirius drawls.

When Remus wakes afterward, he finds they haven't quite killed each other, though James has threatened it twice. With one hand, Black.

"Far are we?" he asks.

Sleep has made little difference to him. He’s the kind of fatigued that can't be improved with an afternoon nap, and the kind of unwell that can't be fixed. Medicated, diminished, but never fully healed. He rolls his neck and makes three separate, unfortunate sounds, stretching his tight hands out flat over his thighs.

"Landing any minute now is my guess," Sirius answers. "How are you feeling?"

He waves his hand around, tired eyes locking onto James' lasting frown. "Sorry for leaving you alone with him."

Sirius gasps his indignation. The three of them all smile in tandem, James in a rush to add to the joke.

"You should be, fucker, I don't care how sick you are. You're sick in the mind if you think it's acceptable to-"

"You're sick for acting like I'm some misbehaved child you've been pandering to. You're bullies, and as soon as we're in the airport I'm ditching you both in favour of a Great British Burger King."

"One," James says, still smiling widely, "I have your per diem, so unless you brought your wallet, you're sunk." Sirius frowns. "Two, I'd love it if you would repeat that little moniker you gave me a minute before he woke up. Seriously. Shed some light on the real bully."

Sirius pulls his sunglasses from his jacket pocket and places them over the bridge of his nose delicately. "Unnecessary."

"I wouldn't mind Burger King," Remus says.

"We have to be quick," James says.

Sirius is so incensed he actually spits a bit as he scathes, "You fuckers. I want food and it's lorded over my head, but Moons wants something and your only limitation is how fast he can eat it?"

He's not truly as angry as he appears. He's joking, and he's fallen into a familiarity that can only come with years of ragging on one another relentlessly. Still Remus pats his tight shoulder and smiles.

"I'm a slow chewer."

"He's a slow chewer, Sirius. Have some compassion."

“How fast could he chew missing a few teeth, I wonder?�� Sirius asks.

James gasps, delighted at his friend's casual threat. Remus does a better job at hiding his amusement, tamping back a smile as he reaches over the armrest between their seats and slapping a hand into Sirius’ seatbelt. The mechanism unlatches, the ‘Fasten Your Seatbelts’ sign flashes, and a shaming beeping sound rings overhead.

Sirius squeaks.

—

What do you wear to meet a British ambassador? A Genovian ambassador? Any sort of diplomat? You aren't too sure what an ambassador even is, only that every word Lily Evans has said to you sounds shockingly official.

"Your citizenship has been reinstated whether you choose to move forward or not. We want to stress that you have choices," Lily says. Call me Lily, please. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"We also want to stress," says Emmeline, the Genovian ambassador, "that your presence in Genovia is greatly desired. For the funeral."

"The funeral," you say softly.

"It will be a… very, very big event. We don't have to talk about all of the logistics now. Or ever, if you're not interested."

Emmeline clears her throat. "The family would appreciate it."

The family. The royal family. The Queen of Genovia, your grandmother, and her… unfortunate younger sister, who's behaviour (according to the Internet) has been less than ideal. Her sisters son, who might take the throne if you refuse it. Or, so you've come to understand.

All this lineage and politics has been hard to navigate by yourself, though rest assured, you've been assigned two personal assistants of a sort. One for appearances of the physical, and one for appearances of the mind.

A stylist and a tutor.

"And a bodyguard," Lily says, "your safety is the most important thing."

You grip the end of your dress in your hands and squeeze the skirts tightly. Safety? You'd rather not embarrass yourself by asking.

"We actually want you to meet them now," Emmeline says.

"Whenever they show up," Lily adds. She sounds embarrassed but unsurprised, like this has happened before.

There's a small silence. You pull your bag into your lap and squeeze it, hoping it hides the curve of your stomach. You aren't sure what you're supposed to wear to occasions like this, and so you'd worn the nicest thing you owned, a pretty, simplistic dress ruched under the chest, and a cardigan overtop.

You catch yourself frowning and quirk your lips up into a practised smile. Gentle, amicable, the kind you'd offer a passing stranger.

"Well," Lily says, filling the awkwardness, "I'm sure they'll come around soon. Maybe we should talk about inheritance."

"Legally, you're entitled to an inheritance. You could think of it like a pension, an allowance you'd be given from the age of eighteen. You've already passed that, and so you'll be given the years upto, and then the rest in annual increments," Emmeline says. "There's a team of people who can and will explain it better at a later date, or whenever you want to discuss it, once you've agreed to a paternity test."

"A paternity test?" you ask.

You feel rather useless. All you've done is ask for explanations since you sat down, your head a spinning mill. Information goes around and around with no time to sink in.

Emmeline opens her mouth to continue and is interrupted by three sharp knocks.

"Come in," Lily calls. She turns her gaze to you, orange hair moving over her shoulder in a silken sheet, and raises her eyebrows.

You don't know what it means.

First to enter the room is a modestly dressed man with straight, sandy hair. It's long enough to peek out from under his ears, where it curls. He steps into the light, illuminating a shock of shiny scars clawed over the bridge of his nose and teasing up into one thick eyebrow.

"Sorry," he says, not quietly but certainly not loudly. "We had trouble finding the room."

Behind him immediately stands a man with dark hair to his shoulders, white but tanned. He wears slacks, in which a shirt has been tucked on one side and not the other, a purposeful dishevelment.

"And the building," adds the second.

Last to enter is the biggest of the three. You'd hazard a guess that he's six foot or taller, not the tallest of his companions but the most imposing, with a monotone outfit of pristine blacks that he fills too well, his shirt clinging to the muscle underneath it. His skin is a warm brown that soaks up the big light overhead and shines golden, his hair black and thick, laying in mussed ringlets stroked back from his face.

He is the most handsome person you've ever seen in real life. It startles you. Worse, when he meets your eyes.

You smile carefully. He smiles back.

Lily stands to gesture toward each man in turn. The first, "Remus Lupin," she says, "your tutor on all things Genovia." The second, "Sirius Black, stylist and your guide on media presence."

The third.

"James Potter," Lily says, not looking at him. "Bodyguard. James will be with you for the foreseeable future, even if you decide on– Well. You should get to know one another, at any rate." You must wear your worries on your face, as she continues, "You're in safe hands. James was third in command in the protection of His Highness."

"Hello," you say.

Sirius' eyes widen in tandem with his smile. "Hello."

"It's nice to meet you. We're sorry for your loss," Remus says.

"No," you say, head tilted toward your shoulder as you frown at James sympathetically, "I should be sorry, you actually knew him. I can't imagine how this feels for you."

"Thank you. But don't be," James says. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Princess."

You look to Emmeline, almost like you're waiting for her to correct him.

She smiles at you hopefully. "Shall we talk arrangements for your departure?"

—

James is trying not to look at you too much, though if he is he can write it off as purely protective. You're sitting in your seat like you're worried about touching a seat mate who doesn't exist, arms wrapped around your middle and face pointed to the floor.

"I'll rent a car," he says.

You curl into yourself a little more. "What for?"

"It's much safer."

"I don't want you to– I mean, you aren't a chauffer."

"I'm not." He bends at the knees to speak directly to you. "There are seven other people on this bus. One is elderly. Three are younger than sixteen. All seven could potentially harm you."

You look to the left without turning your head, toward the sound of young laughter. He'd bet money on your thoughts. Even the children?

"The driver could have an aneurysm. He could be paid off. He could be carrying a concealed weapon." James smiles at you placatingly. "Understand? If I drive, the potential danger goes down to one."

"Me?"

"No. Me." He tries very hard not to wink and look like a dickhead. "But I'm not going to hurt you. Not really my perogative."

"Oh, good."

James recall what Lily had said, rightfully. You and James will be in each other's company for the foreseeable future, and while he has a job to do, there's room for friendliness. Sort of.

He splits his attention between you and the front of the bus, where a small family carts a pushchair.

"What do you do?" he asks.

He knows you attend classes for a degree equivalent at your local college. He knows you're a waitress. He knows you moved to central London when you were very young, and that your estranged mother had been the cause of all this confusion. He asks you because he wants to know how you'll frame it. In your own eyes, what is your life?

"I'm a waitress."

He nods. "Local?"

"Mm. At a pub called The Morgan."

"You have a shift today?"

"Not today. I took the day off." You stand up and click the STOP call button on the rail James is holding. Your arm brushes against his. "It's this stop."

James trails behind you, off of the bus and straight into a busy street.

"How far is it to your house?" he asks, loud to be heard over the hubbub and the roadworks.

"Not long. Are you okay to walk?"

James finds himself oddly charmed by your question. "I'm just fine."

You squeeze through the crowded pavements lining the street, folded in, keeping your arms close, and you apologise every time you touch someone, even if it's the other person's fault. James keeps close to your back, moving to your side when he worries you might sprain your neck trying to check that you're following. He had some height on you, which is a good thing for security purposes — he can see uninterrupted over the top of your head when he stands this close.

The day is cool, the last dregs of an end of summer heat lingering in the air and encouraged by so many bodies in one place. James wonders if you're too warm, dressed as you are in tights, but the thought fades when you trip.

James grabs the top of your arm, fingers sliding between your arm and your chest. Closer than he wants to be, crueller than he means to be as he keeps you steady.

To his surprise, you laugh. A really nice sound, sudden but sweet.

"Sorry, Princess," he says.

"You saved me," you say, a hint of breathlessness in your tone. "Thank you. My flat's in the next building over."

"Brilliant." His bag is fucking heavy, a weight between his shoulders that aches when he lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as it sets. You've got a long, long night ahead of doing nothing. "What's your address?"

You tell it to him. "Why?"

"For the rest of your security detail."

He slows as you come to the main door of your building. It's quieter here, the loudest sounds a symphony of barking dogs, car engines revving, and the jangle of your keys as you unlock the door and bump it with your hip.

"More people?" you ask. "Is that really necessary?"

"You always do that?"

"It gets stuck," you explain.

He hums. "It's necessary. The media's been paid handsomely to keep our operation to themselves for now, but there's always pressure to be the first to break a story."

"And I'm the story?" you ask, nodding toward the stairs in the centre of the room.

He steps over a bundle of scattered letters. The building is mostly clean, but mail bulges from cubbies, and an old mattress has been left propped against a wall.

"You're the story," he says, head up to analyse the atrium. There's a skylight spotted with green moss above.

You take the stairs up to the first floor, where your flat is the first he comes across. That increases your risk of a break in, rapists or robbers. He asks you to wait at the door while he clears each room, knowing it's an unecessary precaution but taking it anyway. It's not worth saving the half a minute it costs on the off-chance you've been infiltrated.

He snorts at his own train of thought and returns to you, where you're sliding a special locking mechanism between the door latch and the frame. You shake the lock.

"Did you get that recently?"

You look up at him and smile. "Since I moved in. I'm first on the floor. Don't want to get murdered in my sleep."

"Good girl," he says absentmindedly, crossing the room to secure your window.

He moves into your room again and secures the larger window over your bed. Then, because he's awful and curious, he catalogues your things.

"You're an artist," he says, head listed toward the doorway.

You stop by the dresser, hastily stuffing clothes left aside back into the top drawer. "Not– not really."

The room is a crammed collection of things. It's clear you've attempted to keep it clean. You were doomed to fail, an outpouring of your heart stuffed into a matchbox; books, sketchbooks, notebooks are stacked against the leftmost wall between your bed and your dresser, while paints and pencils take up two thirds of your desk. A small sketchbook rests closed in the mess of your unmade bed, dark bed sheets disrupted by a pair of white pyjamas discarded at the end. Soot or something similar stains the fabric.

He averts his gaze from your dirty hamper and faces you.

"At 8PM, one of my team will swap duty with me. His name is Frank, and I've worked with him before, but if you aren't comfortable with anything he does while I'm not working, you can tell me. If I do something that makes you uncomfortable, you can tell Lily. You can tell me, of course," he amends. "I can take the couch."

"You sleep at eight?"

"I sleep at nine."

"You don't mind sleeping on the couch?"

"Not at all."

You walk to your dresser and pull open the bottom drawer. Inside is a layer of linens, and you pull them out neatly.

"You don't have to, uh, put on a show for me," you say with a wince.

"Sorry?"

"I'm not a princess. I'm not the princess."

"You don't think so?"

You look sweet, kneeling on the floor, hair in pretty disarray from the walk home. You move it out of your face and offer a folded square to him with both hands.

"It's a misunderstanding. But…" You take a pillowcase into your hand and stand up, closing the drawer with your ankle. "Even if I were, I don't think you need to be so formal, you know?"

You move past him, a wave of nice smells.

"It's my job."

Again, you surprise him by laughing, climbing on top of your unmade sheets to grab one of your pillows. "Right," you say, stripping it of its pillowcase and shaking it into a new one. The tip of your tongue makes a brief appearance as you plump up the corners.

You climb off of the bed. "Here," you say, taking the sheet he's holding to press the pillow into his hands.

"Oh," he says, looking down at the pillowcase. It's covered in small pink flowers. "I don't need this."

"My settee isn't comfortable."

"Half of my job is being able to sleep anywhere."

You smile at him. His words don't discourage you, and he stands in the doorway between your bedroom and your living room as you lay down an old quilt over the settee and tuck a sheet around it and under the sofa cushions.

"I know it's strange, but you could take my bed, if you wanted to. You're so tall, I don't think-"

James cuts you off, not unkindly. "Thank you, but I couldn't." He lets the side of his chest rest against the doorway, arms crossed. Your back is straight, tense with anxiety. "I have something for you."

You blink at him. "For me?"

He grins, his first proper smile all day, and pulls his bag onto the freshly made settee to unzip the front compartment. He pulls out a small jewellery box, pulling the lid off to hold between his arm and chest.

The tennis bracelet inside is thin but strong, made up of gold-silver links with sapphire-coloured gemstone. He assumes them to be real sapphire or something similar, like blue-hued ruby.

"This is a panic button."

You seem more anxious than when he'd pulled out the box.

"Don't worry about losing it. I'm sure the Genovian coffers will recover."

"It's not that. Do you think it will fit?" you ask.

He hadn't thought about it. Luckily, Mary had.

"There are spare links hidden under the velvet."

James puts the box on your coffee table and clicks the links into place, handling the bracelet with less care than he ought to. Firmly snapped into place, he offers the lengthened bracelet to you unlatched.

"Here," he says, pointing toward one link in particular. "If you squeeze this tightly, the heat sensor will alert me."

"It won't feel the heat of my wrist?"

"It will. It's sophisticated, it'll disregard anything that isn't a sudden spike. That's your panic button. You squeeze that–" He pinches it in demonstration. The small radio clipped discreetly to his shoulder starts to beep, a circling alarm. He removes his fingers from the bracelet and it stops. "Okay?"

"I haven't even passed the paternity test yet."

"My being here indicates that you're of special interest. We don't know if you're the Princess for certain, and neither do the newspapers. You're still in danger either way."

You press your lips together and hold out your wrist.

James steps close to you, enough to see details and lines he's missed. The longer he stays in your company, the more endeared he is to your shy smile, and your kindness, and he thinks you're the type of person who's outsides reflect the insides. You smile.

Either side of your wrist glows with heat as he drapes the bracelet over your skin and clicks it closed, wary of pinching you.

The room is quiet. The clock over your small kitchen table ticks.

"There," James murmurs, taking back his hands.

"Thank you."

He disregards it completely. "No worries."

His informality gets you, and you smile, your own first and proper smile since you'd been introduced.

By the time Frank arrives for turnover, James is confident that his assignment to your protection won't be nearly as awful as he'd thought. You'd insisted on making him something to eat, which he'd been sincerely grateful for, as a man can't run on Burger King alone, and then you'd practically showered him in an awkward but entirely genuine hospitality, offering your bathroom and all its contents, every blanket you owned, the TV remote, and a tin of biscuits.

He introduces you to Frank, and for an hour you make yourself busy in the kitchen, cleaning dishes you'd refused his help with and wiping down the counters.

He senses your unease at being outnumbered in your own home. Unfortunately, there isn't much he can do to make you feel better, besides appoint Frank to door duty and try to offer some words of comfort.

James tries not to look as imposing as he feels, clearing his throat to draw your attention as you leave the kitchenette.

"Listen," he says softly, a mirror of you now that you're both changed into lounge clothes and damp-haired from the shower, "I want to reassure you— I'm here to protect you from any and every threat. I know this is unconventional, but I promise to do my best to make this easy for you."

You look down at your trainer socks. "Sorry."

"Can you do me a favour?"

"Yeah, of course," you say, raising your chin.

"No more apologies. This is hard, and I know that, you don't have to say sorry for anything. I'll promise you whatever you need me to if that will make you feel more comfortable."

Princess or no princess, you're confused, and you're unhappy in your own home. James wouldn't want that for anybody.

"Do you think someone's going to kill me?" you ask.

James softens. "No. Nobody is going to kill you." His smile melds slowly to mischief, dark lashes kissing in the corners of his eyes as he squints. "I'm a brilliant bodyguard, okay? Don't doubt my skills. And Frank's alright."

You laugh under your breath, relieved. "I'm not doubting your skills."

"Good. I'm not just a pretty face, Princess."

You sober at the title. The flicker of camaraderie between you fizzles, and you shake it off.

"Can I get you anything?" you ask.

He hopes that in a month, or a year, when you're living the high life in Genovia with a hundred serfs and lavish goods beyond your wildest dreams, you'll keep your earnest smile, and your good heart. He's seen exactly what court politics can do to timid young women like you.

"No," he says, matching your volume, "nothing."

"Okay. You can wake me if you need anything."

He absolutely won't. "Thank you... Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

You disappear behind your bedroom door. James lays down over the small sofa, alarm set for a dry-eyed 4:30AM, and listens to your flat as it cools. You close the blinds, sharpen a pencil, and for a period of time, he's lulled by the mild shushing of a pencil over paper.

He falls asleep. He must. A silence settles, thick and uninterrupted as poured molasses.

A splintering crash pulls him back to consciousness, and every nerve-ending sings as a weight falls to the floor. A thump sounds from behind your closed door. James practically leaps over the settee's arm to your door, Frank hot on his heels.

He throws open the door, braced for impact.

You aren't anywhere to be seen.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

thanks for reading!! i hope you enjoyed this first part, and if you did and you have the time please consider reblogging, it makes a difference! plus i'd love to know what u think or what you'd love to see in future<3

the fics title is adapted from a line in piedra del sol by octavio paz

#james potter fic #james potter #marauders era #marauders #james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fluff #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #the marauders #the marauders fanfiction #the marauders x reader #the marauders fanfic #james potter x fem!reader

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delicrieux · 8 months

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𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫, 3. summer 1972, late august

pairing for this chapter—sirius black x f!lestrange!reader warnings for this chapter—sirius hates his brother word count—4.3k

in which you show an act of bravery worthy of a gryffindor. if the come up, that is, wasn't so inherently slytherin.

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | ttp masterlist | < back | next >

all of sirius' records are bought by andromeda. no one ever speaks of her. it’s bad luck. might split the sky in half, or disentangle the galaxy and all of its atoms; unravel it all, suddenly, like aunt druella falling to her knees at the mention of a well-loved name. she claimed a fainting spell, but you knew. the lights were particularly dim that evening at dinner.

no matter, you're well-meaning enough not to bother. everyone is allowed their own interests. you find it in the depths of father’s coffee cup and the curious hills and swirls the grounds make as they dry. how they shift in the wispy morning light, or become swallowed by your shadow. andromeda’s lay in things not known by the lestranges, or perhaps things frowned upon. she mails her curiosities to sirius via the muggle post. when a strange man appeared at the gates of the lestrange manor, everyone had fallen into a frenzy. the whole household, all twenty-some-or-more staff and four inhabitants (discontent house-elf and mother excluded).

this foreign officer referred to himself as 'the postman,' whatever that meant. grumpily (he was left standing in the rain, see), he shoved a parcel into your affronted butler's hands and demanded a signature. no quill, only a slim, plastic tube that clicked irritably when pressed by his finger. you and regulus watched this whole display out the second floor window, leaning over the ledge for a better look. a whole variety of things came to sirius, it was revealed, all of it contraband in a sort, to your knowledge. a bit of illicit music, a few letters with charmingly fancy stamps. a card titled Miss you that you just managed to save as rabastan threatened to throw it into the fire. a glossy magazine you and regulus were allowed to browse through briefly, only to see for yourselves the unmoving, ugly muggle world.

of course, sirius didn't know of any of this – it was stored away without his knowledge of its arrival. locked up in the attic, where all unpleasant things lie. you and regulus and the staff were sworn to secrecy. sirius musn't ever know his disgraced cousin is sending him strange things and corrupting his impressionable mind. you didn't mean to linger, or listen, or intrude. the pool laid waiting for you, and regulus, impatient by your side, tugged on your sleeve. a plea to leave before your brothers went on a tangent. so many new words to learn. this was, however, the most interesting thing to happen all summer, overshadowing even the long awaited wedding. a muggle postman under the lestrange roof. bella, if she was not away, would have thrown a fit to be outshined by such a thing.

that very night, you sneak out of your room. the hallways are dark in spots where moonlight doesn’t spill; the portraits are asleep, and the landscapes are quiet. the soft echoes of your bare feet against the cool tiles of the flooring make you shudder in your linen. summer heat lingers by the ceiling, though the nights are usually chilly. you creep silently, as you have many times before. you are quite adept, a child who can't seem to stay put no matter the trouble it may cause. and this may cause quite the bit.

you wander to the attic, mind the seventh step with the creaky floorboard, and ascend slowly. patience is a virtue, and when you really want, you possess wells of it. here, the dark is thick, almost tangible, and how and where you move is more thanks to memory than sight. though the dust burns at your eyes, they do eventually adjust, and the outline of a shape becomes easier to see.

austere, sparse. only the sooty remains of old armouries are left. furniture gone to rot, and masses of small boxes and unattended bookshelves. never a pleasant place, even during the day. it sits right above mother's room, and you try to avoid this part of the house entirely. a blind spot, like the corner of your eye. nothing well is ever found here, and you never come searching.

a bit of fumbling and you locate the parcel. it would be good to bring everything, but it's quite heavy, and you'd rather not risk it. you'll let sirius know of his hidden belongings once you have surprised him. you are not as selfless to inform him instantly, no. no, no, to miss an opportunity as this would be a great loss. how else would you show a bravery than going against the collective wishes of the black and lestrange families and blindly grabbing around in the dark for his cousin's gifts?

you sort through the things. lay them gently beside your feet; hear the roll of a crystal charm as it travels down the room and gets lost in a shrouded corner. you thought of waiting for a few days. spun a great tale of being watched and trying to get the presents to him as quick as possible, only to amplify the intensity of it all. your attention span waned an hour into your promise to keep this secret.

you grab for a record and flee. sirius likes music the most. this will make him happy.

carrying your load through the manor's quiet maze, your senses prickle at each shadow. perhaps someone is following you, or you can hear them whispering. the slightest tinge of an anxious feeling comes and goes with each breath. when you were little, regulus needed to hold your hand through the dark, since sirius was too old and too cool for that at eight. the manor at night made his pulse jump under his skin and then, you were the braver of the pair. now, reggie doesn't need your help, and neither do you need his. you’d prefer his quiet reluctance beside you. a want to continue but being too cowardly to make the first step. you’d march together. should you have invited him?

no, sirius wouldn’t like that. he prefers his brother out of sight.

at last, sirius' bedroom door presents itself before you. the faint whistle of the wind rattles the windows. instinctively, you grab for a hand that isn’t there.

you hope he isn’t asleep. he’s too grown to go to bed at an early hour. he must see you in motion, so brave in delivering contraband. contraband is a new word you've learned recently, and you quite enjoy saying it. contraband. this record is the first in, what you presume, a long line of suspicious items you will have to sneak. it will all be worth the effort.

you rap on the door. one. two, three. a forth one for safe measure. no response.

"sirius! i have a gift," you whisper, leaning in close. your cheek presses onto the cool, glossy surface, and thunder rumbles somewhere far overhead. it is not the prettiest song, but you like how deep it is. and sometimes, late at night, when the dark is very deep and the manor is quiet as the grave, you like to hide under the covers, "sirius?" you add, and a beat passes, and it occurs to you might be sleeping.

your plans of grandeur are deflated a little. what is the point of a secret if he isn't there to be surprised?

then, the handle clicks. slowly, cautiously, the door creaks open just enough for him to stick out his head. he's pouting. his gaze flickers, a nervous twitch, "why are you awake?" his voice is raspy from sleep, and his cheeks are splotchy, "aren't you scared of the dark?"

of course not, you had told yourself that the whole trek over. he waits patiently for an answer, despite how tired and annoyed he appears. your heart pounds at the sight. his hair looks funny, tousled. a wave falls over his forehead and the rest stands in spikes. you wonder if regulus' hair will do that in the morning. at breakfast, likely not. if you came to wake him unannounced, it likely would. how embarrassed he’d be.

you hold the record close to your chest, but not too tightly. sirius had once said they are fragile and can shatter if handled unkindly. still, you fear your arms might crush it if the rumble of the thunder shakes it from your grasp, like it would a robber caught red-handed.

"it isn't scary," you try, and tentatively hold out the present, "this came for you. but no one let you have it because, you know, well. it's from, er, you know." can’t say her name, even to someone that would prefer to hear it.

you can imagine a carousel of thoughts whirring madly behind his face. shock. surprise. delight. gratitude. so much more. it's impossible to catch everything, not even in the blip of light. thunder rolls.

"thank you," is his only response. he perks up as he takes his present. perhaps he had gotten over the surprise a bit quickly, or he had expected this to be sent to him all along, but nonetheless, it seems he is rather touched. at least that's what you assume by how happy he's acting, like an eager puppy, "let's go to my bed, 'kay? i've got a record player over there. come on."

you rush after quickly, not one to miss such an opportunity. the room douses in a dim light with a flick of his wand. there are books and clothes and posters slew on every surface and corner, and you overstep a pair of expensive linen trousers carelessly tossed on the rug. next to the bed sits a heavy trunk. he must've been packing. a red and gold scarf peaks over the edge. yours to be, surely.

the space goes mute and settles. like a pop in your ears after travelling via portkey, the sound returns after a small discomfort. a silencing spell. his wand clatters onto the bedside table. you had picked yours only a few days ago, but didn’t dare touch it since you grasped it for the first time.

when you settle into bed beside him, and he sets up the contraption and places the needle, it sings in the quiet. he lowers the volume just a bit.

"muggles like big music, don't they," you remark, though you do rather like it, if it makes him grin so, "can we dance? please?"

a crack, finally, along with thunder. his face splits into a grin, "of course! but a bit quieter. don't want the whole estate to catch you here. come on, now,"

so the pair of you jump and whirl about his room. you're sure he knows real muggle dances. it's very different from waltz, not smooth at all, more free, and not nearly as dignified. but oh, the beats!

as the song finishes and the music winds down, your head spins. not from dizziness, but from pure, unbridled glee. his face matches the feeling. sirius claps, as if he had never been satisfied before now, as if a curtain had gone down. he smiles broadly, a full mouth of teeth, “imagine what people would say if they saw us."

you mirror his expression, "it’s horrendous, isn't it? such disgrace."

a smile and a titter escapes him.

"a terrible affair," he gives a nod to no one, the empty bedroom and his possessions, "it would displease my family greatly. i will never dance another way again."

“what of waltz?”

“what’s that?”

"oh dear, the absolute scandal!" you clasp your hands together in horror, though really, you don't mind at all, "they shall call you a heretic and a bumptious imbecile. surely. won't that be dreadful? your reputation will be ruined."

"utterly! completely ruined. mother will burn my portrait out the family tree."

"what a messy business. tragic. whatever are you to do, young sir black?"

his words and gesticulations and silly faces make you a bit warm. this is quite something to be cherished. him, in his lonely, messy room, and the mellow candlelight. the rain pouring. a nice and pretty tune in the air. dancing is one of your favourite pastimes, besides flying and stargazing.

"hey, wanna play pretend?" he inquires, plopping back onto his bed.

you snort, dropping the audacious accent, "isn't that what we've been doing?"

he shakes his head, though his lips curl and his eyes roll fondly. "different sort. c'mere."

you perch beside him, your head level with his shoulder. his eyes are very shiny. if he told you a story, you wouldn't have trouble believing him, since they tell more than his voice ever would. but that'd be cheesy, and you'd never hear the end of it, if you told him the same. his knee bumps into yours. his head falls forward, just a bit, "tell me a secret."

"tell me a secret."

"no, go first. my secrets are boring, your's are, uh. mysterious. and interesting. and a whole bunch better. pretty please. can i have a hint?"

the compliment, you have to admit, flatters you. so does his prodding and pleading, all his wheedling and how adorable he looks while doing it.

you think of an answer carefully, a plan already forming, "well…someday, i'm going to have to marry, right?"

he groans, "merlin, no, don't tell me you're also thinking of this nonsense?"

your thoughts scramble to change, like little ducklings hurrying away from an unpleasant sound. you frown, a bit ashamed to be rebuffed so unkindly, or you should, but he's still staring at you intently, waiting for you to elaborate. like you had assumed, all boys think weddings silly. sirius is no different.

"is it wrong to think about that? i mean, someday you're going to be married, too," you deflect, "in the future," the distant one, because a child like him cannot comprehend that. or perhaps he can. after all, he will be growing into a man soon, "and besides, with bella's wedding, i suppose it got me thinking."

he has, strangely enough, become flustered. his freckles are darker across his nose, "who says i'll get married?"

"don't you have to?"

"no," he answers defiantly, crossing his arms. how defensive he is suddenly! but with how fidgety he is, it must be a sore subject. perhaps he is being affected more than you'd guessed.

"you're the heir, though," you muss. it's very unlikely walburga won't entangle him into some arrangement. you're sure she already has some sort of ideas for sirius. they are likely being executed as you speak, "you have to make kids to carry on the family, no?"

the odd, stressed look on his face almost breaks your resolve.

"we don't have to do that," he states.

that's news to you, and, logically, seems to be rather improbable. that means you don't have to get married, either. at least you won't have to carry out the other portion of marital duties, of which you are far more squeamish, "hmm," you manage, but you're not convinced. it seems quite rational to you that you should follow the pattern set by generations.

"why would you even want to get married?" he grumbles. the question comes off snottier than intended, "like i'd want some girl telling me how to behave all the time."

"we aren't allowed much choice in the matter."

"the more reason not to, right?"

this conversation had taken a sudden turn, and a sickly, squirmy feeling has taken a seat on the bed between the two of you. the dance music has finished, and the sound of rain overpowers the room. the record spins and crackles.

"we can run away."

the suddenness of his declaration makes the both of you pause, staring at the carpet and bedspread respectively. it’s not a fully formulated thought. can’t be, and in your endless compassion and innate ability to forget audacious ideas, secrets, and suggestions at a moment’s notice, you decide that he never spoke of this, for what he suggested is a breach of trust so careless and terrible that you begin to worry what else lays on his mind. must be many things such as this, dangerous, modern ideas ready to spring free given the proper climate. and the climate is warm, here, built on your friendship and your inability to refuse him.

you decide he had been caught up in the heat of a moment. harmless, silly. he asked you to play pretend, after all.

he amends before the silence could deafen him: "it'll be just the both of us."

you don’t want to listen to this, not in his room, not in your linen, not with the night singing against the windows and the record scratching at the needle. the spin is mesmerizing. he’s older and should understand the implications better. you don’t want to be the one to understand. to be rational, when you only ever wish to be carefree.

you laugh, and it sounds a tad awkward, but what a great big joke! sirius is always funny, "of course. we could live on a raft, or in muggle london. recon there wouldn’t be much of a difference. or perhaps a particularly cosy cave in the scottish highlands. with the sheep."

his eyes narrow, miffed. "i’m serious.”

“don’t suppose i need an introduction, do i?” you smile, but it doesn’t break his frown.

“we can run away.” he says, quite firmly. no more playing, then, “the both of us together," he adds, flicking his eyes away from you. his voice wavers.

"we can't just go and leave,” you start gently, “there's, well, a lot to explain. they’d catch us, too, quickly, i recon. our families. i can’t work, my hands are delicate, even if sheep are a riot. we’d have no galleons.”

"i'd work."

stubborn prat.

"stupid, you're twelve."

"almost thirteen."

"your birthday's not till november," you retort hotly, "therefore: you're twelve. how can you even consider proposing such a stupid scheme?"

his tone shifts, anger showing itself, "don't call it stupid. you haven't thought of a better one!"

you take a deep breath, and fight the childish impulse to sock him on the jaw, "i'm not the only suggesting we run away. that's- you just suggested it, first, no less! all of the sudden!"

"yes! yes, i did, but you were supposed to agree."

you can barely find the words to reply. he just gets so impossibly brattish when he's not having his way, "we can’t leave. that’s positively mental. and we can't leave reggie."

he bristles at the mention of the name, "he's not my problem."

that hurts. for some reason, this cut is especially sharp and stinging, "don't say that. he's your brother."

"only by blood."

such callous words make your face burn. what's this coming from? his posture shifts, back perfectly straight and shoulders taut. this can only mean that his emotions have overcome him. that is never good, "blood is important, though."

his dark eyes glimmer and there's a storm building, something inscrutable, a bad feeling. your mouth goes dry. you had said the wrong thing, a terrible thing. he shan't ever forget or forgive you for this. not to mention the topic itself. these are very dangerous and tender and frightfully unknown waters. you cross your arms and huff, feeling especially very small, "how can you hate him, anyway, when he adores you so much?"

the hard glint in his eyes doesn't leave. in fact, he appears to grow taller and paler with the turn of conversation, or perhaps his skin had always been a rather milky white. his words are colder still, "why are you always defending him?"

"regulus has never done anything bad," your protest is weak. and that isn't what he wants to hear, "he loves you."

"you should be on my side."

"but, why are there sides to begin with?" your tongue feels big in your mouth, and a weird taste bubbles, like metal and rust and salt, "you're brothers, you shouldn't fight."

"he's a rat."

"sirius!"

"and an idiot," he grumbles, "and selfish. a tosser. stop defending him."

this is awful. to see him with such a harsh expression and to be berated as though you're an awful friend and a liar, "stop it."

"what? he's not worth the trouble of you protecting him."

"leave him alone."

"he should leave you alone."

you wince and jerk away. how has everything gotten out of hand so fast? this is his bedside. you brought him a gift, and you danced, and he spoke kindly, and now this. you bite your tongue. your teeth press a bit too hard, “you’re being awful.”

he doesn’t seem to hear you, "why do you even like him anyway?" he sulks. a funny word to describe a very unhappy young man.

"quit it."

"are you fond of him?"

"please, shut up."

"more than me?"

silence. the world tilts, just so slightly, to the right, and spins just a tad bit too fast. does he really dislike his little brother so much? you understand he may feel a twinge of annoyance sometimes, a tad of passive resentment every other hour, which is simply understandable and probably half-decent for brothers, especially those that have nearly nothing in common and no sort of trust. but, there's the matter of an absolute hatred for someone that does no wrong, that would never, by anyone's means, ever hate you back. that isn't fair. it's only heart-breaking.

perhaps you've done wrong not to believe regulus when he confided sirius was terribly cruel to him at times. the thought stings, an acidic sort of shame. regulus wouldn't lie, he's not very good at it. you've only ever seen him sweet and obedient, a boy very different from his older brother. he was honest and soft-spoken, but just as sincere as sirius, though in a subtler manner.

gentle is another good word. or lovely.

one could argue they've both been acting odd lately. regulus had the muddled, far away eyes, but sirius was aggressive in their shared proximity. isn't it expected for siblings to fight and bicker? you and rabastan rib all the time, like it's embedded into your very marrow. you've never grown cold toward him, and you feel this way won't change much, if ever, but there might be a deeper part of you, one that can feel you're much more similar than you originally gave it credit for. perhaps it's the same with them, too.

this discovery makes you itch. it can't be that simple. of course it couldn't be. is this who he is, truly? you almost hope he will suddenly apologize and maybe hug you a bit tighter, or, or make things better somehow, say he's just teasing, tell you you're the dearest most wonderful friend a boy could ask for.

his face crumples like a wet sheet of paper, "answer me. please?"

"you know i'm fond of you both."

"more than him?"

"both."

"so he's your favourite," his voice shakes.

the look on his face…a mixture of embarrassment and genuine hurt. your's must match.

"please don't say that, i don't have favourites."

"you just put up with me?"

"sirius,"

"stop being so vague."

"you're being mean."

he huffs, "fine. whatever, see if i care what you think."

"sirius?"

"don't bother. just leave."

"what?"

his eyes are strangely wet. you reach out to touch his cheek, in the hopes it'll soften him, but he jerks back, like you had attempted to strike him. the two of you gaze at each other wide-eyed and mortified. his eyes keep tearing, but the rest of him is perfectly still and calm. you decide it's probably best to not call attention to his tears, "what should i say then?"

his face hardens, "don't say anything."

"but--"

"go," he mutters, not even sparing you a glance, "just. stop bothering me."

his eyes brim again, and the sight makes your own become glossy. how humiliating. something coils in your stomach, uncomfortable and inescapable. how should you act? but he doesn't know either. all you have are bits and pieces of lessons and rules, none of which apply to this situation, not in a satisfactory way.

he doesn't move. neither do you. his heart beats and you can feel it, too, on your side of the bed. the clock ticks.

time stretches on.

it's a strange feeling, because it's not a foreign one, and you wish it was. the dull sense of loss makes you feel weak and empty, like you've skipped dinner.

carefully, you inch closer, until the tips of your fingers graze his. you clasp them, awkwardly. it's a childish way of keeping the two of you together. your insides hurt. you wonder if his do, too. he feels warm to the touch, solid and real. both of your palms are clammy.

you manage, breathlessly, "i don't want to fight with you."

his jaw remains tense, "no, you want to have my stupid brother's back,"

"please?"

"fine."

your stare at your joined hands.

"i'll leave," you promise quietly.

"good."

a cold silence creeps in after those words. you let go of his hands and step off his bedside, a great, wistful longing coiling in your gut. you gaze, again, hopefully, only for him to sneer. a terrible look, it doesn't belong there, and it doesn't suit him in the slightest. your head drops, you nod once, and step outside his door and out onto the staircase. the air’s tinted with something burnt and foul.

it's dark and quiet and you feel strangely hollow. the stairs twist beneath your feet. you trudge along, mindlessly, hand gliding down the railing you'd perched on with sirius on sunday. what a distance. it feels like an ocean has swelled, swallowing the shoreline. a curious heat rises up from your neck, itching, prickling, spreading all over.

light dances in the parlour room. the hearth cracks and pops strangely. a swish of a heavy robe, a crinkle of parchment, a sniff.

bellatrix.

she's returned. her silhouette stands imposing by the flickering flames. you're not sure why you came here, only that you did.

she notices you lingering there, head propped against the frame, staring. your hair, mused from earlier, likely gives it away, or, the puffiness in your eyes. her wet footsteps line the polished floor. the lull of rain is oddly soothing.

she tilts her head to the side, examining you, "it's awfully late."

you nod. your chin feels sticky. you wipe at it with the back of your hand, the pads of your fingers swiping your cheek and brushing beneath your nose. she holds out her palm and beckons. something in your stomach unravels, just a little. the carpet is rough, and her hand is heavy on your shoulder.

"shouldn't be wandering around at this hour, my dove," her voice is gentle, the light of the fire lapping across her. her eyes shine strangely, blacker, a dark, curious depth. a flash of green pierces through her iris and disappears. she smells like the night, fresh, and something sweetly charred, like a bonfire or campfire, or, smoke, "a proper little lady sleeps early."

a lump in your throat keeps you from replying. you gaze into the fire. the remains of letters and postcards crumple to black ash. a bright, smiling face on the cover of the magazine shrivels up, blackening at the edges and curling, melting in the cinders. andromeda's gifts.

this is why you never want to know anything.

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