#you know where they just eye you and then turn themselves

[sunnami]

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

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

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

wc. 24.1k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How repulsive.

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

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

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

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

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

What a bunch of insufferable fools. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He furrows his brow. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, dumbfounded. “Harry dearest, I don��t believe that is necessary—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately! 

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

That, after all, is how you learned.

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

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

What’s wrong? 

The question echoes in your head. 

Ha! 

You scream inwardly, if they only knew! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you are not fine. 

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

 —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ve made it all too easy for you. 

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

Sirius staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before? 

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

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

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

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

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

When does duty end? And when does life begin? 

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

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

You want to go to sleep already. 

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

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

You miss your cat. 

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

You want to die.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

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

Dimwitted fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains. 

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

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

“Daphne!” 

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

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

“Daphne, get away from there!” 

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

But there is nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How confusing.

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

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

(Hogwarts is the best!) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily says thank you, by the way.” 

“Oh? For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly. 

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how easy they make it for you. 

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

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate her. 

You hate her with all your heart. 

But even monsters need a heart to breathe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bile rises to your throat. 

Tears fall from your eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

You pass out in her arms. 

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

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

You are tired. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss the newspaper into the fire. 

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

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

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

Maybe. . . 

If you move a few inches forward. . . 

If you just fly. 

You’d be free. 

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

I don’t care. 

Go away. 

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone? 

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

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

You let your weight shift over the window. 

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

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

You sigh. 

Maybe tomorrow, then. 

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

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

You stay silent. 

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

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

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

You nibble on your bruised lip. 

Could you really? 

Maybe just this once. 

You’re only human, magic as you are. 

You take one step forward. 

Then another. 

Another.

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

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

To do what is right. 

To endure. 

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

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

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

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

Your mother. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not!” you scream.

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

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

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

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

Tom snarls, “Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Mum, wake up, please!” 

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

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

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear. 

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

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

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

There’s a faint smile on her face. 

“I’m. . . sorry.”

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

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

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

Tom Riddle. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

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

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

[songbirdseung]

happy accidents / park jongseong

synopsis: maybe getting hit by a basketball wasn't so bad?

pairing: jay x reader

warnings: injuries?

wc: 1k

Your solo trip to the park did not go as expected when you felt a sudden pain in your back. Ignoring the fact that your drink fell from your hand and almost ruined the white maxi skirt you were wearing, you turned towards the direction you assumed the ball came from.

"I'm so sorry, my friend is a clumsy idiot," a voice called out.

"Jake, shut up!" another male voice responded before facing you and apologizing for hitting you. "Basketball isn't really my thing, I'm more into guitars."

You blinked, still processing the pain and the sudden chaos. The guy who had spoken was now standing in front of you, looking genuinely apologetic. He had a warm, approachable aura that somehow made the whole situation less frustrating.

"It's okay," you managed to say, trying to smile despite the discomfort in your back. "Accidents happen."

Jake and another friend, who you assumed was Sunghoon, jogged over, both looking equally concerned. Jake had a sheepish grin on his face, while Sunghoon looked more serious.

"Are you alright?" Sunghoon asked, glancing at you with worry.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," you replied, waving off their concern. "Just a bit startled, that's all."

Extending his hand. "I'm Jay, by the way. Sorry again for that."

You shook his hand, feeling a bit more at ease. "I'm Y/N. And it's really okay, Jay."

Jake stepped forward, looking at the fallen drink. "Can we at least get you another drink to make up for it?"

You nodded, appreciating their efforts to make amends. "That would be nice, thank you."

As the four of you walked towards the park's cafe, you couldn't help but notice how easy it was to talk to them. Jay, in particular, had a relaxed demeanor that made you feel comfortable despite the awkward start.

"So, guitars, huh?" you asked, looking at Jay.

He chuckled, nodding. "Yeah, I've been playing for a few years now. Basketball is just something I do for fun with these guys."

"He's actually pretty good with a guitar," Jake added, nudging Jay playfully. "You should hear him sometime."

"Maybe I will," you said, smiling at Jay. "If you're not too busy accidentally hitting people with basketballs, that is."

Jay laughed, shaking his head. "I'll try to keep my basketball skills in check."

As you all reached the cafe, you realized that what started as a mishap had turned into a pleasant encounter. You got your new drink, and the conversation flowed easily among the four of you.

As the four of you sat at a small outdoor table at the park's cafe, the conversation continued to flow easily. You found yourself increasingly drawn to Jay's warm smile and easygoing personality. The initial awkwardness from the basketball incident had melted away, replaced by laughter and shared stories.

"So, Y/N, what brings you to the park today?" Jay asked, leaning forward with genuine interest.

"I was just taking a solo trip to enjoy the nice weather and watch the swans by the river," you replied, glancing in the direction of the serene water where you'd been earlier. "It's one of my favorite spots to relax."

Jay nodded, his eyes following yours. "I get that. Sometimes, you just need a peaceful place to unwind."

Jake and Sunghoon excused themselves to get refills, leaving you and Jay alone at the table. The air between you felt charged with a new energy, the kind that comes with the potential of something more than just a chance encounter.

Jay cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "You know, I really am sorry about earlier. I hope it didn't ruin your day."

You shook your head, smiling. "Not at all. Actually, it turned out to be a lot better than I expected, thanks to you guys."

Jay's face lit up with a smile. "I'm glad to hear that. Maybe we could hang out more often. You know, when I'm not accidentally hitting you with basketballs."

You laughed, feeling a warmth spread through you. "I'd like that. Maybe you can even show me some of your guitar skills."

Jay's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Deal. How about we exchange numbers? That way, I can let you know when we have a less hazardous hangout planned."

You both pulled out your phones, quickly exchanging numbers. As you saved his contact, you couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement at the thought of seeing him again.

Jake and Sunghoon returned with their drinks, and you all spent a bit more time chatting before deciding to head your separate ways. As you walked back through the park with Jay, the conversation continued to flow effortlessly.

"You know, I wasn't kidding about the guitar," Jay said, glancing at you. "I really would like to play for you sometime."

"I'd love that," you replied, looking up at him. "And maybe you can teach me a thing or two."

Jay's smile widened. "It's a date, then."

As you reached the park entrance, Jay turned to you with a sincere expression. "I had a great time today, Y/N. I'm really glad we met, even if it was because of my terrible aim."

"Me too, Jay," you said, feeling your cheeks warm. "Today turned out to be pretty amazing."

Before you could part ways, Jay hesitated and then spoke up. "Actually, do you mind if I walk you home? Just to make sure you get there safely."

Before you could respond, Jake and Sunghoon, who had been lingering nearby, burst into laughter. "Aww, look at Jay, being all protective," Jake teased, nudging Sunghoon.

"Yeah, make sure she gets home safe, lover boy," Sunghoon added with a grin.

Jay rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his smile. "Cut it out, you two."

You laughed, appreciating their playful banter. "I'd love for you to walk me home, Jay. Thanks."

With a final wave to Jake and Sunghoon, you and Jay started walking in the direction of your home. As you strolled through the streets, the conversation flowed easily, and you found yourself feeling more and more comfortable around him.

As you approached your building, Jay turned to you with a soft smile. "Here we are."

"Thanks again for walking me home," you said, feeling a bit shy.

Jay shrugged, his smile warm. "Anytime. I had a great time today, Y/N."

"Me too," you replied. "See you soon?"

"Definitely," Jay said, giving you a wave as he started to walk away. "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Jay," you called after him, watching as he disappeared down the street.

As you closed the door behind you, you couldn't help but smile. Today had turned out far better than you could have imagined, and you were already looking forward to your next meeting with Jay.

[mrsnottt]

-I've only ever loved you!

pairing: theo nott x fem!reader

Summary: where you and theo cross the boundaries of friendship.

warnings:slight mentions of smut near the end but purely fluff

note: I don't speak much English and i'm a first time writer let me know how I could improve pls!

It was a common occurrence for the group of slytherins to gather in the common room after a dreadful day of classses.

The boys had all gathered around the firepit. Mattheo,Lorenzo and Draco on the couch complaining about the last Quidditch game against Gryfinndor. Theo and Blaise sat side by side on their lounge chairs sharing a cigarette amongst themselves.

As you packed your bag and got ready to leave your final lesson your path was blocked by Cormac McLaggen “hey y/n are you still into that dumb slytherin or you going to take me up on my previous offer” it had taken a lot of energy to not punch him then and there.

“Cormac we’re never going to be a thing get over it” just as he was about to retaliate Pansy had thankfully interrupted him by pushing you into the direction of the door and showing him the finger.Once we were out of sight she began to ramble on “What a dick it’s been what 3 years ,come on, everyone can tell you and Theo are infatuated with each other”

“pansy come on it’s not like that” you didnt know why you still insisted when you knew she knew you better then yourself “yeah yeah why else have you been single your whole life?” you just rolled your eyes not in the mood to have the same repetitive conversation.

It's not that you didn’t like Theo it’s just you thought it was too good to be true.While you had been single he had managed to be seen at different parties with different girls and a part of your heart would break each time while you waited for your turn.

“Okay i’ll stop talking but will you tell him what happened and how McLeery will not stop bugging you” that had made you chuckle but it stopped when you thought about how Mclaggen had followed you around school during fifth year begging you to date him until Theo found out and had beaten him black and blue and he didn't stop until Mattheo and Lorenzo had dragged him away from the boy that became limp on the floor with blood everywhere. You shiver as you recalled the memories “I think i’ll refrain from telling him this time”

Y/N and Pansy had just returned to the common room from the final class of the day.

As you and pansy went down the stairs towards the boys you looked up and were met with theo’s eyes and he beckoned you over to sit with him as we made our way over you felt pansy nudge you and you looked over to see her wiggling her eyebrows teasing you.

You couldn't blame me for my feelings for the Italian boy with the hypnotising eyes, we had met during first year and have been inseparable since. We were probably the closest to each other amongst the group, we had been with each other through ups and downs and found comfort within each other.

As you made your way over to Theo he discarded his cigarette on the ashtray. You had gone to sit on the armchair but he snaked an arm around your waist and moved you over to sit on his lap "that's better amore mio" he then started playing with the ends of your hair while focusing on his conversation with Blaise.

As you turned around to face the other boys and pansy while trying to appear unfazed which was harder then it looked especially with Theo rubbing circles on your inner thighs causing butterflies to appear in your tummy.

You gave pansy a knowing look once you saw her move over to cuddle with Blaise. Apart of you felt quite jealous of how easy it was for your friends to form relationships but of course the other part of you felt joyful for your friends.

You began to relax in his arms and lay your head on the side of his neck until a trail of goosebumps began to form on your neck from Theo whispering “Are you feeling okay?You don't look well,my love” with the soft gaze in his eyes when he looked at you it was hard to not give in but you just nodded “I just had a long day and had double DADA lessons with Snape."

Theo looked at you unconvinced but he seemed to have let it go “Do you want to take a nap in my dorm and then we can hang out with them later” he knew you so well you gently nodded,now feeling more tired at the thought of sleeping.

He tapped on your thigh to alert you to stand up as he took you by the hand informing the group we were going for a nap. You refused to look back avoiding Pansys knowing look.

As he led you up the stairs to his dorm and brought you into the room with his hand still intertwined with yours.The room that was usually resided by Mattheo and Lorenzo now empty Theo had now gotten comfortable on his bed whilst you took of your shoes.

Theo spread out his arms inviting you into his embrace,you gladly joined him. After a few moments of silence Theo began to play with your hair and you glanced up to him to find him already looking at you “You know you don't have to hide what your feeling Amore mio”he let out a sigh“I know but i just don’t want to stir the pot or anything” He gave you a look which meant ‘stop playing or i’ll found out myself’ which caused you to reluctantly spill.

“It’s just i’ve been single my whole life and now i’m not sure if i’m destined to face unrequited love for the rest of my life and i feel like everyone’s gained some experience including you who has a a different girl each party and i feel like I'm missing out” you let out a breathe you didn’t know you were holding from your rant.

You felt like a weight was taken of your shoulders you glanced up again to see what he was thinking “principessa ,I truly wish you could see yourself the way i see you and how worthy and valuable you are,none of those girls compare to you and those excuses of a men don't even deserve to breathe the same oxygen as you."and with that he left a kiss on your forehead

Even though you felt flustered you couldn’t believed the words that come out of his mouth in absolute awe your gaze dropped down to his lips as he licked it and your words had began to spill out of your mouth “Would you ever love me more than a friend?" he looked taken aback and started to shift which made you regret your words instantly "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable I don't know why I said that" you started to remove yourself from his hold in a panic over the possibility of ruining your friendship before he pushed you back onto the bed, held you by the waist to secure you in place and connected your lips together with him on top of you.

His soft,pinkish lips against yours as you both fought for dominance he gently bit your lower lip.It felt as if your lips perfectly fit together and you knew it was going to be your new addiction. You both separated gasping for air "ti amo così tanto mio tesoro"(I love you so much my darling) you gazed up at him unable to speak you felt like you were in a trance"I love you so much I can’t even explain it in words but I know I only want you for the rest of my life and you heal different pieces of my heart each time I lay eyes on you" you couldn't even fathom the things he was saying it had all felt surreal.

"I love you too ragazzo carino" (pretty boy) you replied leaning up to give him another peck on his lips "does that mean your finally mine Bella ragazza?" (pretty girl) you chuckled you felt like the stars and moon had aligned "of course,its not like I haven't been longing for you since third year"at the confirmation he had been waiting for Theo tugged you closer to him on top of you giving you another kiss that should be written in the books.

The kiss began to heat up and become more passionate ,full of emotion, he tugged on the hemline of your shirt taking it off. His fingers crawling slowly upwards,stopping at your sternum.

You interrupted the kiss before it could go further "At least Mclaggen will finally leave me alone"Theo let out a groan at the mention of the boy "ugh principessa why would you mention him"you giggled as he rolled his eye out of annoyance "That bastard won't be able to touch you with a ten-foot pole"you felt yourself get turned on at his sudden anger "why don't you show him who I belong to?"

Theo grinned at the idea and continued his previous actions displaying his love for you all over your body.

The thought of a nap being long-forgotten..

[eukarisparadise]

I don't think you know why problematic tropes are problematic

This opinion may make me eaten and torn apart (in particular, by the BSD fandom, since I will use them as an example) but I will nevertheless say what I thought for a long time: media literacy is truly dead. Of course, it's useless to say this on Tumblr, where every second person apparently has a degree in literature, but most of the people who make up the fandoms, unfortunately, don't live here, but on Pinterest and TikTok. And their attention span is so short that it becomes even funny.

People see the word «proship», see the examples of these same proships, make their own analogies and go on, branding any pairing that they don't like as a proship – without understanding, at the same time, what makes a proship such.

Let's take as an example the absolutely harmless «mentor-mentee» trope, which in the eyes of the fandom somehow ALWAYS transforms into «teacher-student», which indeed very often turns out to be problematic (in fact, I can’t even think of a single example where this would be even ethical). I don't know what people are thinking about when they say there's some element of imbalance in a relationship like this – the thought process is probably: «one character is smarter/knows more than the other/can influence the other somehow» -> «the second character, accordingly, automatically becomes stupid, gullible, naive and helpless because of this, and the first one will inevitably use their knowledge to... uh... manipulate them? Something like that». When in reality, not only is this not a bad thing in itself – but it is also not the main reason why «teacher-student» is (let's be real, effectively always) a problematic trope.

I can't believe that I need to spell it out, but apparently it needs to be said: the real reason as to why relationships between students and teachers are considered unethical, is because most often they can be found, well, in educational institutions – in schools and universities. And if with the first everything is already clear – adults creeping on children is gross and illegal – then with the second, although both parties are usually adults, the problem doesn't magically go away.

Professors have power over the students – and this power has an unhealthy imbalance when the student’s education and career directly depend on the will, assessment and, more often than not, the whim of the professor. For this very reason, the relationship between a boss and a subordinate is also considered dangerous – the subordinate simply does not have the power to balance the influence of their superior on their life. This, and not the magical excuse «well, he's much more experienced, and so will probably RUIN him», is the main reason why the teacher-student relationship is toxic and wrong.

But let's be honest, the real reason for labeling certain pairings as proships isn't that people don't understand why certain tropes are problematic – it's just a fancy word to label your least favorite pairings and justify your hate towards them. I said I'll provide an example from the BSD fandom, and I give it: Soukoku shippers most often do this to others, and I admit this, despite the fact that I myself am one of them.

I am absolutely not ashamed to admit that, although Soukoku is my №1 ship, the fandom absolutely unfairly treats other pairings with Dazai – and in particular, Dazatsu. This pairing never really been to me, but I acknowledge its existence and genuinely don't see anything even remotely unethical or wrong in it – in fact, it seems a lot more healthy than whatever we are in rn – which leads me to conclusion, that people only pick on it to make themselves feel better about their respective pairings. Or maybe I'm just tone deaf and don't understand something (I have suspected autism so I apologize if I'm not reading the room or seeing the bigger picture).

It's just... another argument people like to throw at this pairing is the «age gap», and please don't even start with this – the age gap would be uncomfortably weird if Dazai was closer to 30 or older, but he's effectively Atsushi's and everyone else's peer. Or maybe I'm just biased, because I have an anecdotal experience of dating a 22 year old guy when I was 18 (I'm now 20) from my university (but we were from different faculties). It wouldn't, of course, match with everyone's experience, but to me it was just a normal healthy relationship like with any guy exactly my age. I was close-ish to 19 though, and already finished my first year of uni when we met, but idk – the interactions were absolutely equal and we felt no difference between each other at all. Which leads me to another take: a 4 year old age gap between an adult Atsushi and adult Dazai IS NOT THE SAME as 4 year old age gap between Atsushi and Kyoka 💀 Not only is it illegal, but even the mental development of a 14 year old child is much lower than that of an adult. And I know, there are people who ship them – why not keep the same energy for them? You know, for the actual proship?

And a separate topic is to label their relationship as «father and son». Dazai can be Atsushi's father figure no more than, let's say, Kunikida or anyone else. The same people who mold Dazai into an intelligent and adult, emotionally mature and responsible individual then turn away at the official art and laugh at how he is so «silly goofy, he’s such a menace to society lmao🤪» The fandom is well aware that this person (at least at this stage of his life) can hardly be left responsible for even a goldfish, much less raise someone, but this standard doesn't apply to everyone else except Chuuya. Why? Because Soukoku is the dominant pairing in the fandom. And although I personally like it, that doesn't mean this treatment is fair.

And sometimes people’s desperate attempts to draw at least some kind of problematic nature to this pairing begin to look really silly:

Idk, I think it's much more weird if people wish THIS to be a portrayal of father-son relationship...

As I said earlier, for the majority of the fandom that lives on TikTok, age and type of relationship are absolutely not a reason to ship something or not: otherwise the Sigma/Dazai pairing wouldn't have become so popular in the same TikTok. I understand that Sigma was «created» by the book as an adult (even though we don't know his exact origins), but technically he's only been in this world for five years – but no one had a problem with that. Why? Just because Sigma is pretty (but don't get me wrong, he really is pretty).

The age gap between them doesn't seem to be an issue, as well as their relationship status «the newbie to the Agency and the one that brought them there». Leaves a room for a thought.

[salmonball]

— [♡] ; Wish You Were Sober

FWB! Gojo x Reader

You and Satoru weren't interested in relationships. After a change in your dynamic, you start to question that.

includes: afab!reader, drinking, smoking, swearing, sfw content, hurt/comfort

wc: 5.4k

(a/n: the guy I wrote this about is in rehab and wants to reconnect and all of it is bringing back memories. so cope with me <3)

Satoru was attractive, to say the least. He just couldn't help it and on top of the confidence dripping from him, he was a hot topic. He had lines of girls out the door begging for a chance with him. But that wasn't something he was interested in, as a noncommittal person. Something you both had in common.

Your friend group had decided at the end of last semester to share rent for an apartment. This included you, Suguru, Satoru, and Ieiri. It was a nice setup, and although the guys sometimes forgot to clean up after themselves, you all coincided well. Suguru was a nice makeshift therapist, and Ieiri would bond with you over sharing hair ties and disaster date stories.

You were closest with Satoru, though. You guys had spent the majority of your friendship having endless late-night conversations and teasing each other any time you could. When you all moved in, despite having his own room, he frequently came to hang out and sleep over. You never thought anything of it, finding his womanizer persona, frankly, irritating. And you loved how open and real your friendship was. No way you'd ever allow yourself to fall victim to him.

Until that night. You and Ieiri had decided to pregame too hard before the four of you went to a party, so by the time you arrived you were barely processing anything around you. Despite this, you had a solo cup in your hand as you danced in the middle of the sticky basement. You knew Ieiri was next to you chatting up some guy, Suguru had left to smoke upstairs, and Satoru... Where was he? Probably finding his conquest for the night.

To compensate for the noise complaints you guys had given him, he'd been going to the dorms of the girls he fucked instead of bringing them home. Which you were thankful for since your rooms were right next to each other, with Ieiri and Suguru's across. Sometimes you wondered if the girls were faking it to be that loud, but you really didn't wanna ask for details.

Cringing at the thought, you quickly down your cup and interrupt Ieiri's conversation to ask if she wanted another drink. She smiles at you, yelling a "yeah, thanks" before you start moving through the crowd to grab them from the frat bartender. As it comes into view, you notice Satoru leaning against the counter, talking animatedly with a girl. You know best not to get in between that, opting to casually talk with the bartender while he makes your jungle juice.

Despite trying to be subtle about your presence, Satoru notices you and sends a blinding smile your way. He quickly excuses himself from the girl to come your way, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. You shake him off with a scrunched nose, not in the mood to feel his sweaty body against yours.

"Hey Y/N/N, you sure you should have that?" He asks, nodding to the cups being handed to you, his speech a bit slurred. "Don't want you to black out, now."

"I'm good, Toru. Go back to what you were doing," you say, flashing a smile at the bartender before moving to head back to Ieiri. You weren't sure you were convincing him or yourself.

"So mean," Satoru pouts at you jokingly. "But fine. I'll keep an eye on you, though."

You roll your eyes, attempting to flip him off. This gets some of your drink on you and you huff, stalking off.

Turns out, he was right to be worried. You're attempting to dance but your head keeps hurting, causing you to stumble into the people around you. Ieiri doesn't seem to notice, not that you'd want to bother her. It seems like her conversation with that guy was going well and you know she's been on a dry spell. You decide to get her attention briefly by gesturing over the guy's shoulder and she nods in acknowledgement.

You nod back, making your way outside to get some fresh air and possibly throw up. You clumsily manage to sit on the porch around some other drunkards, taking in the sight in front of you. The people who were leaving didn't seem in any better state than you and that makes you smile a bit. Someone next to you nudges you, offering their vape to you.

"Looks like you need it," the guy offering gives you a once over.

Wow, what a compliment. You begrudgingly grab it, taking a hit before handing it back. That's when you realize it was banana something something coffee cake extravaganza and the taste is so putrid you actually gag.

"Dude," you manage to cough out. "Get a new fucking flavor."

He laughs, patting your back comfortingly. "You're not the first person—"

"Y/N/N," you look up and see Satoru towering over you. He almost looks relieved to see you, you think. You can't tell anymore. "Hey, you okay? Do you need to go home?"

"I'm good," you say between pants. "I'm so chillin' right now."

"Yeah, I'm taking you home," Satoru looks over at the guy with you and nods at him. "I got her."

You don't process what he says back and it seems like he left. Minutes pass before Satoru walks you to an Uber. The ride home is mostly silent before you realize something and speak up.

"Wait, what happened to that girl you were talking to?"

"I'll live," he brushes you off nonchalantly. "Besides, I needed to take care of you."

"Thanks, dad," you roll your eyes, shoving him.

"There we go, looks like you're sobering up. Just rest for now, okay? We're almost home."

Once you arrive, he helps you to your bed and brings you makeup wipes, at your request. Then, he brings you a change of clothes from his closet. You liked somewhat planning your outfits for the week and he knew he didn't wanna mess that up for you. You both change in your respective rooms before he comes back with two waters and settles into your bed.

"Hey, who said you could be here?" You ask after you have gotten the bottle half empty. Despite this, you lay down to cuddle into him. He welcomes the intrusion, wrapping his arm around you and adjusting the blanket to cover you.

"Shut up, you like having me in your bed," he teases, looking down at your head on his chest.

"In your dreams," you deadpan, tilting your head up at him. "But thank you, uhm, for looking after me."

"Of course, princess."

"Don't call me that."

"Yes, ma'am," he mock salutes with his free hand and you laugh, rolling your eyes.

When you meet his gaze again, he's already staring at you in a way that makes you want to shrink into yourself. You break the contact for a moment before looking back at him, an unreadable look on his face.

"What?" You scoff.

His free hand is now moving to run through your hair, untangling it a bit. "You're really pretty," he hums as he starts playing with specific strands near your face and you're too scared to breathe. He thinks you're pretty right now? No makeup, face flushed from alcohol, your hair a mess from the humidity of the basement you guys just came out of, wearing his baggy clothes. The list goes on.

"Damn, the alc got to you too, huh?" You laugh again, albeit kind of nervously. Was he really drunk enough to use his flirting tactics on you?

"Yeah, but I've always thought you were pretty. Don't act like it's a new discovery," it's his turn to roll his eyes. "You know it, too."

"Okay, but not like this," you gesture down at yourself. "And definitely not from you."

"Let me prove I mean it," he murmurs and then came one of the biggest mistakes of your college career.

He kissed you. You kissed back.

When the realization came to you, you quickly pushed him back, mouth agape. "What. The. Fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck. What are you doing?!"

"I don't know!" He exclaims, brushing his fingers across his lips. "It just... happened. I don't know."

"Seriously, Toru. I literally just told you about how I felt like all my 'guy friends' secretly wanna fuck me and now you wanna prove me right?!" You fall back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm not—we can't. You're not gonna be one of them."

"Hey, wait. You can still talk about that shit with me, y'know?" He turns on his side to look at you, but you can't return the gesture. "We both have rosters, nothing has to change."

"What are you saying?"

"I wanted to kiss you. I know that. And I also know that I genuinely like spending time with you. Why not... have both?"

"You're fucked," you scoff.

"You don't have feelings for me, right?" He asks, and you shake your head at him. Of course not, you've never even seen him as an option. "And I don't have any for you. But I already fucked up. It's like... transactional. Cause I know I'm gonna wanna kiss you again, and we could do that. But still be the way we are."

"So you wanna be friends with benefits?"

"Do you like the idea?" It comes out cautiously.

You hesitate in coming up with an answer. "Can't we just pretend it didn't happen?"

✧˖*°࿐

So you guys tried. Again, you've never seen Satoru in that way before. But after that night, which both of you seemed to remember in the morning, things changed. You caught yourself staring at him more and when you guys hung out, there was nothing but tension. You tried to cuddle with him while you guys played Minecraft, but the proximity was too much and you ended up kissing again. And then some.

After you were both left naked and panting in his bed, he broke the silence. "So is that a yes?" He didn't have to say what he was referring to.

"Shut up."

And so it began. Your sleepovers became steamier and in the quiet moments, you would kiss through hushed laughter. Although you would rather drink 10 bottles of Pink Whitney than admit it, he was ranked number one on your roster. If he was actually participating, that is. You knew nothing would ever come out of this and that was the whole point of your situation. But between smoke breaks on the fire escape and him taking you to his hometown for break, you knew you were fucked.

It was actually in his hometown when you first felt it. Thanksgiving break, he'd informed you that his family was on a trip without him and asked you to come visit. Your family wasn't big on the holiday, so you did. He lived in the middle of nowhere so the trip was pretty long and boring, filled with plain fields.

That night, his friends were having a bonfire and he wanted to take you. He drove, so you knew he wouldn't be drinking. The music plays softly on the radio and you stare out the window. For some reason on the way over you couldn't help but feel nervous. You wanted his friends to like you, you wanted everyone you met to like you, but this felt different. It feels like—

"You're Satoru's girlfriend?" One of his friends had already come to greet you in the driveway, extending a hand. "I'm Nanami, by the way." Satoru quickly smacked it away, rolling his eyes.

"Ignore this idiot, Y/N/N," he comes to stand next to you, gesturing dramatically. You try not to concentrate on the fact that he didn't correct Nanami.

"Well, it'd be a shame if you are. You're too pretty for him," Nanami completely disregards him to focus on you.

You laugh at that, hiding your mouth behind a hand. It was refreshing to see the way Satoru interacted with his friends, you only ever saw how he and Suguru were. "Thank you, I wouldn't be caught dead next to him if I wasn't forced."

"Hey!" Satoru gawks at the two of you teaming up against him, crossing his arms childishly. "Fuck you both, then."

"Trust me, man. I don't want to," Nanami eyes him up and down in disgust.

The three (well, two) of you die of laughter while you walk over to the fire pit. You met everyone there, finding ones you could talk to easier than others. And of course, there were multiple comments on the status of your relationship, all of them along the lines of the first one. You found yourself easing into their dynamic and even making conversation unprompted by Satoru. You try not to get attached but you can't help but feel like you'd wanna come back.

The drinks arrived in the form of a man named Sukuna, who was quick to yell at everyone to "get off your asses and help me". It was kind of intimidating and you walked over to help along with several others. You decide to grab something simple (two bottles of Barcardi), worried about messing up your nails with the heavy boxes. Once the drinks were set on one of those outdoor folding tables, he turned to you directly.

"Thanks, beautiful. Who'd you come with?" He asked, opening a box to hand you a seltzer.

You take it gratefully, clinking cans with him. "I came with Satoru."

Sukuna scoffed, disgust flashing over his face. Compared to everyone else's reaction, his almost felt real. "Can't believe he actually brought a girl home. And she's way out of his league."

Laughing with a hint of unease, you nod. "I've been told."

"Hey, when he fucks it up you can cry on my shoulder," he offers, holding his can up at you.

You're not sure what to think of that so you just nod, thanking him for the drink before walking back to the pit. Looking around, you find there's nowhere left to sit. Satoru notices, giving you a look as he pats his lap. You try not to blush when you sit in his lap horizontally. How were you going to fight the dating allegations like this? You peek to see if anyone is looking, but everyone's in their own world.

The guys decided to start acting like guys and throw an excessive amount of wood into the fire, making it crackle and roar. The embers spit out at you way harsher, and you flinch away.

Satoru takes off his Carhartt jacket, putting it over you as his arms wrap around you. One around your shoulder and one on your thigh. Successfully comforted, you lay your head in the crook of his neck. "Thank you."

"Wouldn't want you to go up in flames," he smiles down at you. Then he leans down so your conversation becomes more private. "Try not to talk to Sukuna too much, he's an asshole. He's only here because he invited himself."

"He seemed nice enough."

A scoff is heard above you as Satoru wraps his arms around you tighter. "Only cause you're a girl. Watch the way he talks to the rest of us."

You do from the corner of your eye, sipping your drink casually. You loved the familial energy of everyone at the bonfire so far, but you could tell Sukuna's presence had a negative effect on the people near him. They didn't lean in to talk to him, more like leaned away. You hear him obnoxiously ask, "so where the bitches at?" which makes a few of the guys around him visibly cringe as he barks out a laugh, punching one of them hard in the arm.

"Wow," you giggle.

"I know," Satoru rolls his eyes. "So besides him, what do you think of everyone else?"

"Everyone's so kind. It feels really homey, you know?" You gush. "But I really like um... Choso? And Nanami."

"Good choices," he hums. "Nanami is my best friend, besides Suguru."

"Hey, how come you didn't invite him and Ieiri?" Your gaze moves to the fire, which has calmed down a bit.

"I didn't think about it. Wanted it to be just us," he shrugged. "And I told you I'd take you stargazing for real, right? Out here there's not a lot of light pollution." He points up at the sky.

You follow his finger and gasp, pulling your head away from his shoulder. You'd been in the city or along the border of one your whole life. You've never seen this many stars before and you can't stop staring. The night sky wasn't just littered with stars, it was covered in them. How had you not looked up sooner? "Holy shit, it's beautiful."

"Yeah, really is," you hear Satoru murmur. You take a break from craning your neck to gaze at the stratosphere to instead look down at him and notice he's already looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but you don't care because he's... beautiful. His eyes are reflecting yours, with speckles of stars in them and it's so much easier to see them because of how bright his eyes are. They look angelic, so calm and fond.

There, holding an unwavering gaze with Satoru under the stars, you knew you were fucked.

It could only go downhill from there.

✧˖*°࿐

A few days after you get back home, you're surprised when Satoru asks to visit you. "It's only fair," he claims over the phone.

You tell him that there's not much to do where you live, but he insists. During the day time he gets to meet some of your family, but you know they wouldn't let him stay over. At night, you show him your driving skills before he promptly switches seats with you, fearing for his life.

In the passenger seat, you give him instructions on how to get to your favorite parking lot. It looks over the water and at night, you can see the lights of the town across the way. He backs into the lot so you can open the trunk and sit.

"You know, compared to my sky yours isn't too bad," he says passively.

You stare up into the water and sigh. "Yeah, but I'm never gonna forget the stars in your butt fuck middle of nowhere town."

He shoves you and you smile. To distract yourself from your newfound view of him, you look around. In doing so, you start getting paranoid about the shadows surrounding you under the streetlights. He seems to notice and pulls you into his lap to face him.

"Scared? This is supposed to be your territory," he teases.

You push your hands against his chest, huffing. "The trees look like... people, like that one." You angle your body as much as you can to point to an area down the street.

He looks over and nods, smirking as he turns to you. "Yeah, it kinda looks like the lady from that horror movie we watched."

"Stop," you whine as he starts repeating one of her phrases. You curl impossibly closer to him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck in fear.

You feel his chest rumble with laughter as he rubs your back. "Hey, hey. I was joking, relax. She's not real and if she was, I got you."

You grumpily pull away to look at him, swatting at him. You're about to call him a slur of insults before your breath hitches. It was the same feeling you got at the bonfire and you can't help but savor it for a moment. The way he looks at you, or maybe looks in general makes your heart stutter.

You try to shake the feeling as you lean on him again, unable to hold eye contact anymore. You hate everything.

Once break was over and you were back in school, Satoru's list started back up again. Yours did, too. But no matter how much time you spend with however many other guys, nothing could recreate the spark you have with him. And to make everything worse, Satoru would shit on every guy you ever brought up. It's like he knew they couldn't compare.

Every weekend he wouldn't come home and you'd have to cry yourself to sleep, staying up to listen for a door click. It was pathetic. You felt pathetic. You knew the deal when you started this whole thing and it wasn't even your idea. In fact, this is something you never even wanted. So why were you the one catching feelings? It felt like a cruel and unusual punishment.

One of the times you actually heard the door click, you perked up in your bed. You sat up fully when you heard the knock on your door. You didn't even get to say anything before Satoru was stumbling in, clearly drunk.

"Toru? What's wrong?"

"It's so fucked, everything's so fucked," he mumbled, walking over to strip next to your closet, knowing you hated outside clothes on your bed. In his boxers, he climbed into bed with you, wrapping his arms around your torso.

"I thought you'd be gone tonight," you say, running a hand through his hair.

"I was supposed to be, but," he groans, huffing into your skin. "The girl told me she liked me and... I dunno. She knows the deal but she wants to go on a date."

Your heart pangs at that, glad the room was so dark he wouldn't be able to see how your face fell. You feel bad for her because you'd be in the same position if he continued to drive you crazy. Honestly, good on her for holding on for so long. And you feel bad for yourself because... well, it's horrible to hear about other girls from the guy you like. "So what'd you say?"

"I told her I dunno. Cause I don't. She's nice and all, but relationships scare me," he lifts his head to search around your drawers for a shot and takes it, sighing. "What'd—do I do?"

Biting a lip to try to hold back the tears forming in the corners of your eyes, you try to keep your voice steady as you speak. "Well, if you like her enough you should do it. I mean, you've spent enough time enjoying your youth. I'm not saying you should get married, but maybe it's time to settle down and stop fighting demons or whatever the fuck."

He snorts at that, shaking his head while you take the moment to subtly wipe your tears. "I dunno if I like her, dunno what that feels like."

"You've never had a crush before?"

"Of course I have, but 's different for every person I like. I dunno what it feels like for her."

You nod but realize he can't see you so you hum. "It's really up to you, maybe you could make a pros and cons list—" he interrupts you with another huff of laughter and you smack him lightly. "I'm serious if you're this confused. And then maybe the date could help you figure out if you like her or not. A date isn't a proposal, it's not even a relationship. The whole point is experimentation."

"Okay," he leans his head on you and you can feel how warm his face is. From the alcohol or the topic of conversation, you're not sure. "You're so smart Y/N/N, you know that? And pretty, and kind, and funny, and—"

"Are we talking about me or the girl?" You shut him up, frowning.

"Maybe that's what this is," he responds. "I like you 'nd not her. That's why I'm confused."

You freeze up, pausing your hand in his hair. You wonder if he can feel your heart pounding from the proximity and look down at him, the tears starting up again. "Y-You don't know what you're saying, Toru. You're drunk."

"Drunk words are sober words."

"You're such a fucking idiot," you scoff, wiping at your tears again. "Go to sleep, you can talk to me about her tomorrow. If you even remember."

"I try to commit everything we do to mem'ry so I can think about it when I miss you."

"Go to sleep," you state firmly. He can't play around with you right now, not like this. It hurts too much and the thoughts are swirling in your head. How dare he do this to you? And what happened to "no feelings"?

He seems to be ahead of you, saying nothing. You wait until his breathing evens out before you start crying freely, your tears rolling onto your pillow. Of all the people you could've fallen for, why him? What did you do to deserve this? In a negative connotation, of course. And what if he goes on that date and they get serious? You couldn't keep your situation with Satoru so you'd have to lose him. And even if your feelings aren't reciprocated, or so you thought, you'd rather be like this with him than not have him at all.

What are you saying? You don't even have him.

With that last heart-wrenching thought, you fall asleep. In the morning, Satoru retells you the story of him and the girl, seemingly forgetting everything past walking through your door. You give him the same advice and the idiot actually makes a pros and cons list on the whiteboard you guys have in the living room for study sessions. Ieiri walks in while he's writing it and raises an eyebrow.

"Is this not a red flag enough to not do it?"

"What? Is that a con to add?" Satoru turns his head to her. You make eye contact with her from the couch, both of you sharing an exasperated look.

"No, dumbass. The fact that you have to draw a Venn diagram to decide if you should go on a date probably means you shouldn't go on it," she crosses her arms.

"Bro, I don't know what I'm doing," Satoru sighs, bringing a hand to his forehead. "I wish she never confessed. I feel like I lead her on or something and I owe her the date."

"Everyone knows you don't do relationships. And if I were her, I'd rather you just turn me down than take me out for a pity dinner. And if I found out about this," she gestures to the board before grabbing a coat off the hangers by the door. "I'd ghost you."

Satoru looks between her and the board, his face falling. "You're right. She doesn't deserve that, especially if I don't like her like that."

"There you go," she coos at him like he's a child and he scowls back. "I'm out, have fun you two. But not too much fun." With that, she's out the door.

Ieiri and Suguru knew about your arrangement, of course. You lived together. But only Ieiri knew about your feelings towards Satoru and as your friend, she was rooting for you. You're glad it didn't show in the way she spoke to him and you're glad to talk to someone about it who knows him. Your other friends told you that you never should've gotten in the predicament in the first place and he was a piece of shit. But you couldn't help it. Sometimes things just happen and you can't just flip a switch to change your feelings. That didn't stop you from trying, but still.

"I'm exhausted and hungry," Satoru huffs as he plops down next to you.

"Aww, was that too much thinking for your small brain?" You mock him and he flicks your forehead. "I bought brownie mix I haven't gotten around to."

He perks up at that, heading to the kitchen to search through the pantry. You follow and open the cupboards for a bowl and a whisk. You wait for him to grab the box and the rest of the ingredients as you place your items on the counter. He lays them out for you and you add them to the bowl, humming a bit as you do.

He tells Alexa to play the song you were humming and you look at him indignantly. "If you wanted me to shut up, you could've just said so."

"I like your voice, pretty girl. I'm actually encouraging it," he grins at you.

"Whatever," you roll your eyes, adding another ingredient to the bowl.

Satoru comes behind you to circle your waist, resting his head on your shoulder with a mumbled apology for his teasing. There's not much for him to do as you're in charge of the bowl and he was very diligent in being your helper. You can't help but feel like the position is oddly domestic, getting lost in a daydream where you're married, baking together in a bigger kitchen. You didn't notice your hand had stopped on the whisk, so Satoru puts his over yours to guide it.

"What're you thinking about?"

He's right, what are you thinking about? What happened to the noncommittal oath you had at the beginning of the year? "Uh, nothing important."

"Everything about you is important to me. Tell me," he turns his head to kiss your neck, making you shiver.

"Don't say sappy shit like that, Toru," you scold him lightly when you come to your senses. "And really, it's nothing." He sucks on your skin in warning and you hiss. "Stop that, you could leave a mark."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you're gonna scare away my potential suitors."

At that, he sucks down harder and your free hand goes to grab his hair. "Toru," you say lowly, but he doesn't stop, moving his hands to trap you against the counter. You finally pull him off of you and turn around between his arms, putting your hand on his chest. "What is up with you?"

There's a pregnant pause where you both just stare at each other, your gaze harsher than his.

"I get jealous when you talk about the guys on your roster," he admits quietly, not looking at you.

"I get jealous when you talk about the girls on your roster. Especially today's," you murmur back and his eyes snap to yours. "So what does that mean?"

"It means we're stupid," he smiles as he leans down to kiss you and you could cry from happiness. It felt real and full of emotion, like his lips were meant for yours. Everything you've held back was put into the kiss. He only pulls away so you can catch your breath. "I realized that when I imagine getting asked out by you, I don't need the list. It's all pros."

"I can not believe you're confessing to me like this," you scoff in disbelief, a smile playing on your lips. "You really are an idiot."

"Will you let this idiot take you out on a date?"

You hum, pretending to think as you press a finger to your bottom lip. "Well, you might not need a list but I definitely do."

His mouth falls open, clearly offended, before he smirks and slides the things on the counter to the side. He lifts you onto it in its place and you squeal at the change in position. He rests his hands on your hips as he drops his head to your ear. "Then let me convince you."

✧˖*°࿐

When Ieiri got home, she was not happy to find that you guys did, in fact, have too much fun. Suguru gets home a bit after and you all sit in the living room to eat takeout together.

“So, this is an actual thing now?” Ieiri uses her chopsticks to point at the both of you.

“Yeah,” you try not to smile as Satoru leans in to kiss your cheek.

“Fucking finally,” Suguru huffs from the recliner. “I tried to tell Sato that the way he talks about you is not normal.”

“You talk about me?” Your eyes flicker to Satoru’s and he seems shy all of a sudden, using his food as an excuse to avert your gaze. His hair falls over his face as he eats quietly.

“Wouldn't stop, actually. I told him he liked you and he just told me it wasn't like that but, guess who’s always right?” Suguru obnoxiously jabs a thumb at himself. “This guy.”

“Tell me about it,” Ieiri leans forward to giggle, covering her mouth as she swallows her food. “Y/N wouldn't shut up abo—”

“Okay! Can we all just eat in peace?” You interrupt, face flushing from your friends’ analysis of you and Satoru.

“Wait, wait. I wanna hear about this,” Satoru presses into you again, sending you a sly smile as he throws his arm over your shoulder.

It was gonna be a long night.

— [♡] ;

[twstgarden]

✿ ❝ 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ❞

━ lilia vanrouge x gn! reader (reader can be yuu or an oc/twstsona) ━ you were once his light in his darkest days, but since then, he has not since you and still yearns for your return, yet he wonders if he is just deluding himself into thinking you're still here.

this work may contain spoilers for chapter 7, diasomnia's arc.

do not steal or translate without my permission.

ko-fi here if you want to support me, commissions are open

silver and sebek were in lilia's room, aiding him in tidying up his items as they tried to distract themselves from the fact that their beloved father and mentor had dropped the bomb that he was migrating elsewhere.

in the middle of their packing, silver came across a photo album that he had not seen before. sebek also saw the photo album and spoke, "is that yours, lilia-sama?"

hearing sebek's query made lilia turn his head before realising that his son held the photo album, and with a smile, he replied, "yes. go through it if you wish."

and so they did. silver sat on lilia's bed with sebek standing beside him as they went through each page of the photo album together. they were filled with pictures taken during their younger days, and one even had the photo that lilia took on silver's birthday with malleus and sebek.

as they moved on to the next page, they came across a photo of lilia in his prime general days with a person smiling next to him. they looked ethereal, the very definition of beauty and grace. they looked gorgeous and breathtaking, and yet they had never seen this person before.

silver took the photo and examined it with sebek as the former asked, "who are you with in this photo, father?"

lilia looked at the photo in silver's hand and his eyes widened a little in surprise. 'oh, they found it,' he thought to himself. as he tried to keep a smile on his face, lilia responded, "someone very dear to me... however, i don't know where they are now."

"a lover?" questioned sebek as he and silver looked at one another in surprise.

"i had not realised that father had a special someone before..." mumbled silver in surprise.

lilia laughed a little at their statements, "what's that supposed to mean? i am the charming little fellow! is it such a wonder that i have a fair lover in mine arms?"

silver and sebek were about to respond until lilia continued, "ah, but... that was in the past." he then took a seat beside silver, taking the photo from his hand as he looked at it once more, gently caressing the image of his love - the only remaining piece of memento he had on them.

"...it has been over 300 or so years since i last saw them. i don't even know where they are until now," muttered lilia, "they were the charmingly funniest person i have met. quite shy, but definitely can sense danger."

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"what are you doing in here?" the sudden voice made you jump out of your seat as you looked around your garden in a cautious stance, wondering who had just spoken when you were peacefully sitting alone in the lovely garden of your cottage deep in the woods. "who's... who's there..." you muttered to yourself, uncertain if you should even ask. a rustle was then heard nearby and in a blink of an eye, you were caught in a chokehold. you tried to pry free from whoever was holding you, but they had a strong physique. "i won't ask again. what are you doing in here?" "i live here...!" you quickly answered. hearing this made the perpetrator raise a brow before looking around and noticing the cottage, "...here? deep in the woods?" "yes!" they then stared for a while before sighing and unhanding you. you then got a good look at them. it was a fae, standing at 158 cm tall, with a mask to cover his face yet his uniform gave away his occupation. "...an imperial guard...?" you muttered. "a human?" muttered the fae as well, "living in the woods... hah! good joke." you raised a brow at his words before speaking, "um... i do live here, though..." feeling threatened, you quickly backed away from him, making sure you were getting closer to your crops. he thought nothing of it, but he sure did sense your weariness. nevertheless, he spoke, "you shouldn't be here. no human is supposed to live deep in these woods. do you live under a rock? if other soldiers stumbled upon you and this cottage, you'd be dead in no time." "and here i stumbled upon a soldier..." you remarked. he took a step closer as he spoke, "i won't say this again. lea——! wha— hey!" before he could complete his sentence, you grabbed a bunch of your tomato crops and threw each of them at him while yelling, "go away! i won't hesitate to throw more tomatoes at you if you try to kill me!" the fae clicked his tongue and groaned in annoyance as he shielded himself with his arms from your tomatoes. "stop it!" yelled the fae, "cease this tomfoolery at once, human!" he eventually got close enough to you and grabbed your wrists before you could throw another tomato at him. with a glare, he spoke, "what do you think you're doing, throwing tomatoes at a faerie - a general at that? do you have a death wish?" once you registered his words, you blinked owlishly and eventually brought your hands down, letting your other tomatoes fall back to the ground, "...general...?" 'i'm done for.' with a sigh, the fae dusted off some tomato residue on his clothing before glaring back at you, "i was only giving you a warning and you already threw tomatoes at me. do you really think that will help you when others - especially with bad intentions - come over and attack? really, this is the first. attacking people with crops. horrendous."

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"they threw tomatoes...?" spoke silver in surprise.

"what kind of defence weapon is that?" muttered sebek in shock before silver spoke, "perhaps it was the only thing accessible." lilia laughed a little as he replied, "well, it did take place in the garden. at least they had the initiative to be resourceful and use their surroundings to their advantage."

"i suppose..." replied silver, "what else?"

"well, aren't you two curious? they're also very sweet and ensure i am taken care of."

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"you need to stop throwing yourself at the battlefield so carelessly." you scolded as you looked at his injuries and tried to tend to them, even if he said he could heal them with magic. "i do not need your he— hiss!" "calm down! i can't clean the wound if you keep moving," you scolded once again as you continued to dab the cotton on his injury, "really now. is this a thing with you gents - humans or faeries alike? just throwing yourself at war and getting yourselves injured without a proper plan?" lilia huffed in annoyance at your nagging, but he did not exactly do anything to stop you as he let you clean up his wound. "i do not 'throw myself at the battlefield'. i was merely defending myself." you sighed and muttered, "whatever you say, general vanrouge." after cleaning his wound and bandaging him up, you collected your first aid kit supplies and returned them to your cabinet. "have you eaten?" you asked. "...roasted lizards, yeah." hearing his reply made you freeze as you blinked in shock. though you are aware that faes tend to have a different palate than humans — though they do enjoy a human meal from to time — you still could not believe his version of a "meal" is some random animal he comes across in the woods and roasts it. "...i'll make you some dinner."

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"your lover cared for you a lot, lilia-sama," cheered sebek, "how wonderful! this is an amazing love story!"

lilia smiled at sebek's remark as he replied, "...i'd like to think so too."

silver then spoke, "then... what happened, father? why have you not seen them for years now?"

"...i do not know if they're still alive and hiding from me... or..."

lilia did not have to finish that sentence for the two to know what he meant.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"f/n!!!" lilia cried out as he rummaged through the cottage, entering every room and going through every space possible to check if you were hiding. he had just gotten back from the silver owls headquarters and was supposed to be on the way back to the wild rose castle to chase them back and make sure they didn't get to meleanor. on his way back, however, he came across your cottage and saw its dishevelled state. not caring for baul's calls, he got off his grip and ran to your cottage, ignoring the aching pain coursing through his entire body due to his injuries. "shit! shit, shit, shit!" lilia cursed as he looked everywhere and found no one. baul was quick to enter the cottage as he called out to the general, "right general, we must go! princess meleanor might be in danger!" "THEY TOOK THEM!" his loud, wrathful voice stunned baul as he spoke, "right general...?" "f/n! that human i'm with! those bastards took them!" baul then realised who he was talking about. lilia had mentioned a human in the cottage once that he was acquainted with, and baul started to connect the dots. "let's go!" before baul could ponder more, lilia's command quickly snapped him back to reality as they both continued their journey back to the wild rose castle.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"they were kidnapped...?!"

"father, that's...!"

their concerned and shocked faces were not lost on lilia as he smiled sadly, "i tried searching for them everywhere, and i did everything... and yet, nothing came to fruition in my endless search. eventually, i thought... maybe i was too late."

lilia then stood up, looking at the photo before he cast it aside only for silver to grab it and return it back to the photo album once more.

"it may have been centuries ago, but i will never forget the radiant light they shone in my life."

'and now, i don't even know if i'll ever see my light again.'

© twstgarden 2024 || please do not steal, translate without my permission, or use this to train a.i.

[moonselune]

May I request something with bg3 ladies and their female tav, who is usually encouraging and friendly, became a little down one day? It's more subtle but you can clearly notice how gloomy tav is and with a rather blank face, they have a habit of kinda isolating themselves from others whenever this happens (going to a lake and sit and hopefully relax) maybe tav walks by one of them and instead of an upbeat smile and greeting, tav just says a quiet "good morning." I hope this isn't too much! I would love it in any way ♡😚

Karlach:

Karlach was used to seeing you with a bright smile and a cheerful disposition that could light up even the darkest corners of Avernus. Your optimism and friendliness were part of what made her fall for you in the first place. So, when she noticed you walking by with a blank expression and a quiet, almost whispered "good morning," her heart immediately sank.

"Hey there, sunshine," Karlach called out, trying to inject some of her usual enthusiasm into her voice. "What's going on?"

You just nodded slightly and kept walking, your shoulders slumped. This was not like you at all, and Karlach couldn't just let it go. She decided to follow you at a distance, her concern growing with each step.

She found you sitting by the lake, staring out at the water with a distant look in your eyes. The peacefulness of the scene contrasted sharply with the turmoil you felt inside. Karlach approached slowly, making sure not to startle you.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked softly, sitting down beside you without waiting for an answer. She could see the sadness etched on your face, the way your hands fidgeted nervously, the way your face rested in a natural frown.

"I'm sorry, Karlach," you murmured, not looking at her. "I just... needed some time alone."

Karlach reached out and gently took your hand in hers, her touch warm and reassuring. "Hey, it's okay. We all have our bad days. You don't have to apologize for feeling down."

You sighed, leaning into her touch. "It's just... everything feels overwhelming today. I don't know why."

Karlach wrapped her arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. "You don't have to know why. Sometimes things just get to us, and that's okay. I'm here for you, no matter what."

You leaned your head against her shoulder, finding comfort in her presence. "Thank you, Karlach. It means a lot."

Karlach pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Anytime, love. We'll get through this together."

Minthara:

Minthara was accustomed to seeing you bright and full of life, always ready with a kind word or a supportive gesture. So, when she noticed your subdued demeanor and the way you quietly muttered "good morning" as you walked past her, she knew something was wrong.

"Wait," Minthara called out, her voice firm but not unkind. "What troubles you today?"

You paused, but didn't turn around. "It's nothing, Minthara. I'm just... having a rough day."

Minthara's eyes narrowed slightly as she watched you walk away. She was not one to let things slide easily, especially when it came to you. With a determined stride, she followed you to the lake, where she found you sitting alone, staring into the distance.

Minthara approached silently, her presence strong yet comforting. She stood beside you for a moment, arms crossed, before speaking. "You are not one to be easily daunted, my love. What weighs so heavily on your mind?"

You looked up at her, your eyes filled with a mix of sadness and exhaustion. "...I just needed some time to think. Everything feels so overwhelming today. Just all of it is too much."

Minthara's expression softened, a tenderness in her gaze that was only reserved for you. She knelt beside you, her hand gently resting on your arm. "Even the strongest among us have moments of weakness. It does not make you any less."

You sighed, feeling a tear escape and run down your cheek. "I don't want to be a burden."

"You are never a burden," Minthara said firmly, lifting your chin so you met her eyes, she used her free hand to wipe the tear from your cheek. "You are my strength and my heart. We face these trials together."

You managed a small smile, touched by her words. "Thank you, Minthara. I just... I needed to hear that."

Minthara pulled you into an embrace, her arms encircling you protectively. "And you shall hear it as often as you need. I am here for you, always."

Lae'zel:

The morning air was crisp, a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves as the camp stirred to life. It was routine, you being the first to greet everyone with a bright smile and encouraging words for the day, your energy infectious and uplifting even to the grumpiest of the lot. But today was different. As you walked by Lae'zel, your expression was blank, your shoulders slightly hunched.

"Good morning," you said quietly, barely meeting her eyes before continuing on your way towards the lake.

Lae'zel's sharp eyes immediately noticed the change. Your usual vibrancy was replaced with a dullness that unsettled her. She watched you for a moment, frowning in concern before deciding to follow you.

She found you sitting by the lake, staring out at the water with a faraway look. The usual sparkle in your eyes was absent, replaced by a quiet, lingering sadness. Lae'zel approached you cautiously, her usual commanding presence softened by her worry.

"Y/N," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "What troubles you? Are you sick? Is ceremorphosis upon you- "

"Oh, Lae'zel. It's nothing, really," you tried to brush it off, but your voice lacked conviction and then you panicked, "And it is definitely not ceremorphosis."

Lae'zel nodded and sat down beside you, her intense gaze never leaving your face. "You are not yourself today. Do not dismiss your feelings, it is bad for battle. Speak to me."

You sighed, feeling the weight of your emotions pressing down. "I just… I feel overwhelmed sometimes. Everything feels like it's too much, and I don't know how to handle it."

Lae'zel nodded, her expression thoughtful. "It is natural to feel this way. You bear much responsibility and face many challenges. But you do not have to face them alone."

Her words were a comfort, a reminder that you had someone by your side who understood strength and vulnerability. You leaned against her, finding solace in her presence.

"Thank you, Lae'zel," you said softly. "I just needed to hear that."

She wrapped an arm around your shoulders, her grip firm yet comforting. "I am here for you, always. We will face whatever comes together."

Shadowheart:

The sun had just begun to rise, casting a golden hue over the camp. Normally, you were the one to greet everyone with a cheerful smile, your positive energy a constant source of support for your companions. But today, as you walked past Shadowheart, your head was down, and your usual bright demeanor was nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning," you murmured quietly, barely glancing in her direction before heading towards the lake. Shadowheart's keen eyes caught the change immediately and was quick to pursue you, though at a distance.

She found you sitting alone by the lake, your gaze lost in the rippling water. The vibrant spirit that usually shone in your eyes was replaced by a distant, melancholic stare. It hurt Shadowheart to see you like this. She approached quietly, her presence gentle and unobtrusive.

"Y/N, love," she said softly, sitting down beside you. "You seem troubled. What's on your mind?"

"Oh, Shadowheart. It's nothing, really," You looked up at her, slowly as you tried to dismiss her, but your voice lacked its usual conviction.

Shadowheart reached out, taking your hand in hers. "Don't hide your feelings from me, please. I can see that something is bothering you. Talk to me."

You sighed, your emotions overwhelming you, "I just… I feel too much sometimes. Everything just feels like it's too much, and-and I don't know how to handle it."

Shadowheart's eyes softened. "It's okay to feel that way. You're always so strong for everyone else, but it's important to take care of yourself too."

Her words were a comfort, a loving reminder that you didn't have to carry the burden alone. You squeezed her hand, finding solace in her touch.

"Thank you, Shadowheart," you said softly. "I just needed to hear that."

She smiled gently, her thumb brushing soothing circles on your hand. "I'm here for you, always, my love. We can face anything together."

The two of you sat in peaceful silence, the gentle sounds of nature providing a calming backdrop as you began to feel a sense of peace return to you.

[bubblewrapsnek]

Phantomarine Reread: Chapter 1

For this chapter I don't have too much to elaborate on so it'll probably be mostly stuff I enjoy about it so uhh enjoy!

Let's begin:

The cover of the chapter is just very fun and good, I love how in a full page what acts as frame is the composition itself, using the rock as both a titlecard, flat space made to have Phae stand out in the centre thanks to less detail around her, and has a couple skeletons climbing on it too making it interacted with the enviorment too, it's just very good, plus lots of cute critters

Bonus, pretty lady with pretty dress

One sword lady just happy to be there, good for her!

Cheth working like a lamp, getting turned off as soon as Phae chickens out is a very good bit xD

Something I also enjoy a lot from this chapter is just how present those godly veins are

You can clearly see them flowing into everything Cheth uses, they work at being somewhat subtle to me, at a first read I just assumed they were for flare, it's a god in the sea hopping bodies, of course he has an aura, but going back they are very consistantly threads coursing through what he touches and moves, around him at all time, and it makes the reveal that those aren't something he causes, but those are HIM very fun to go back to

Also Cheth being so unserious even when angry, giving eyelashes to a t-rex HE CHOSE TO THROUGH A HISSY FIT WITH, THIS GOD CHOSE THE DINOSAUR FAMOUS FOR HAVING TENEE TINY ARMS TO PERK THEM UP AND SHOW ANNOYANCE, love that for them

Something else I want to point out is how Phae is never still, every panel she is moving, posing with dumb bravado sometimes downplaying it a bit, it keeps her expressive and alive even when the obvious main show is Cheth's flamboyance and shapeshifting circus play, and that in itself is also a very fun thing, in a revolving door of actors, the play doesn't loose itself, Cheth's emotions are readable, a character is expressed constantly and flows nicely into a variety of states, and for both of them, keeping this bravado will pay off later in the chapter VERY well

Great visual, the veins themselves working as the smoke, showing he is loosing patience, he is fuming while being underwater

Another bonus point: Extremely rare instance where I find M!Cheth looking hot in a sense of coolness instead of the usual lovely dork clown (he is hot in both ways but this is a different taste)

Plus

The facless crowd of red eyes not playing, smiling or fooling around anymore, they are finally dead set on her, she created a play for them and he provides the pressure of an audience, more than the panel before, with her literally being portrayed in front of the t-rex's mouth, this feels like the maw of the beast surrounding her, sizing her and ready to devour her, ready to have her be part of the facless crowd of observers, very spooky

And this feeling of the maw of the beast pays off, 'cause shit gets real very fast, Cheth doesn't take it lightly and goes for the throat with a question that not only he thinks she would never know, but that hurts so so much, (and also shows what is in his mind when dealing with royalty, not the attacks towards him directly, not the damage to him, but the countless children who have been deprived of a family due to all this). This works as a tone shift, the first, altho minor, payoff from the swagger set up early in the chapter, and this question hits you in the face hard and fast

Cheth's frame while asking this is almost as big as the burden of that knowledge, a question so heavy the panel under it is quite literally being smothered, Phae's face accomapanying the reader who didn't expect the shift

And this leads to another piece of characterization that will come back later, Cheth cares for children, this isn't just a question done to hurt her but it's something he cares for, and why do I say this? well it's something I read not only in what will be said later on in other chapters, but in Cheth's reaction when Phae actually can provide an answer

He is confused, but also looks genuinely worried about her, he is dumbfounded AND concerned for the woman who showed to care about something he thought she would have only superficial empathy towards, for the girl who just admitted to being herself a lost child in grief (little headcanon, the cat showing up is there to be ready to help in case it got too far)

Something else I want to make note of that I find very compelling:

The background, Phae answers and the background goes BLANK, until now it consistantly framed her in either blue or red, either in Cheth's play or taking a step back from it, but now, this is something that wasn't part of his tease, this wasn't something he thought would happen, Phae's care and grief quite literally breaks Cheth's overwhelming, presence here, it feels as if not only is he shocked, but he is giving her a brief moment to breath, letting her have some space for just a moment, I love it

And this also leads to a moment I find very interesting, and I would like to give my reading to

The way I read it as of the time of writing this, is that Cheth has a deep fondness towards humanity, the anathema comic shows a devotion to his love for the people he fares in the afterlife, for the children of man who have all but forsaken him, and here he is ANGRY, but why would he be angry that the king actually cared for said people? I can think of one reason: at this point he has been waiting for a sign for 5000 years, made to sit back and watch for ages the humanity he loves sending their man foolishly to die in a war against him in which he isn't even participating, and I think he might have internalized how the people he loves have accepted a doctrine against him so deeply that they deem the sacrifice of their lives and the suffering of their children as worth less than fighting him. But what does he learn now? that the king, the guide of this war, feels guilt over this, that the mean leading all those people to die had to find a way to cope with how terrible that weight is, that they haven't forgotten how precious the lives of his people are, AND YET HE KEEPS SENDING THEM TO DIE, EXACTLY LIKE THEY DID FOR THE PAST 5000 YEARS. This is beyond foolish, this is pure denial of knowing that what you are doing is terrible, and thinking you can offset it by being kind instead of working on the problem at the root of it, I too would be angry if the man leading those fathers and mothers to abandon their children tried to save his conscience by doing charity instead of preventing those deaths to begin with.

God this came out rant-y, and probably not perfectly worded

Moving on

Remember when I spoke about how the constant expressiveness and bravado of the characters is a great setup, well here we get to the first very big payoff in my opinion

Once again, Cheth's overwhelming red get's completely broken, stark white coral framing the object of something that deeply hits him and breaks his flow, he stops to a screeching halt for the first time, speechless and astounded. without all that overwhelming presence before, all that bravado, this loss of control would hit so much less and it doesn't stop here, no this is the first punch of a two hit combo, the proverbial quiet before the storm

And this also leads to another reversal in their constant duel present in this chapter, up to now all of this has been a back an forth, a dance where Phae responds in kind to Cheth's provocations, and here, she doesn't reflect an attack, but just like Cheth seeing her at a low before had him react with a look of pity, she responds here with the same concerned expression

Sadly, Cheth isn't in a place where vulnerabilty is something that can be helped with pity or comfort, not now

Now all he is, is a raging storm of emotions

And how does he get back control of the scene? he lashes out, he once again becomes overwhelming, the entire scene becomes a vortex of red and anguished faces, Phae's bright yellow gets tinted in a red glow, something deep within him has been touched

And MY GOD is the subsequent page a mic drop, the red slowly drifts to the bottom, her emotions are settling down, there is a moment of reflection and quiet, of many things she probably couldn't hope to think about for such a long time finally piecing together, and with those elements coming into place, here comes a new face that we will come to know along the way, not only is this a new face in the chapter, this is an expression of Cheth's state of mind in my opinion, as we will later learn that the sign he was waiting for, all he is doing and setting up, it was all in the name of a promise made to this face. at least, this is my read atm, we'll have to see how the story unfolds to see how well it fits

Have you ever seen a lady so beautiful you forgot you are dealing with Satan and decided to flirt? Phae sure has

And here we arrive at the reason I said Phae's tired reaction to the death of children was the "minor" payoff to the bravado shown

Cause damn here we get to the main show of her fall

But also, shock factor aside, I want to point out how this is the first truly mean spirited move Cheth has made thus far, the question of children came from a place of care, this is purely mean, nothing can come from being this petty and evil in action, it's almost parody of the demonic figure he gets painted as, almost...

Yeah you all probably know what I'm getting at, this is the first action she takes after learning of the bonefish, of the sign, and we later learn that she actively decided to play up the evil aspect Phae knows her as, painting herself as a disgusting villain because that was the role she thought would work, after all, would kindness and explaining have worked? she is basically programmed to hate them...

And with this Cheth has completely put the curtain back on, the second act of the play has started and they are both the director and the actors, the scene once more tinges itself in overwhelming red as they start their show

After this point the chapter is quite straightforward to me, tho it doesn't shy away from some very neat shots that end up being some of my favourites of the entire chapter

Like this one, it creates a very good feel of having Phae on the backfoot, the textbox itself works in presenting her driven in a corner, against a wall, even amidst a boundless ocean she has no escape, and Cheth taking center stage to the panel also works in establishing them once more in control

Meanwhile, I honestly can't even explain why I like this laugh so much, it's just so visceral, so played to an extreme, the sea itself is laughing, Cheth looks like he could fall over on their back from how the laugh is bending them, you the reader aren't safe from the thunderous laughter as the panel itself breaks down, becoming seafoam, you are seeing them explode over the question of Shoshanna's return and once again, Cheth is playing up a villain, we see later down the line how the argument of Shoshanna breaks them and tears them down, and here I think they are masking it, they play up their bravado to an higher degree than ever before, a villain so incredibly sure of themselves that they can stop and laugh so much they aren't even seeing you anymore, they are completely exposed, not a single shade has their eyes open to keep watch on you

What grief could ever deserve such a boisterous mask?

AND HE KEEPS GOING, HE KEEPS UPPING THE FACADE

He both becomes and rides a wave about to wash Phae away, he both is master of a distaster and the disaster itself, all this part feels like is him deciding to play the villain and putting on his best theatrics to deliver it, they become mean, deameaning, ruthless, the teases don't feel as fun anymore, Phae isn't in a place to make it a back and forth anymore

The chapter starts as an ebb and flow between our main characters, but by the end there is no more pushback, Cheth has become a flood and Phae has lost the ground she was so confidently standing on before

And she manages to get a hold for a last desperate second, she has been pushed so far back in a corner that she lashes out violently, but in the end, even this is futile, in the end...

The tidal wave has crushed her, and she can do nothing but break.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

"I'm competing for your attention again, aren't I?" w Art Donaldson 🙏

From the Domestic Bickering Prompt List

Sure thing!

Warnings: Established relationship, twice-divorced Art Donaldson, fluff, smooches

You've caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye two, maybe three times—but you've been so damn busy answering the usual questions that you've hardly had a chance to catch up with him. You're certain that he's been getting a healthy handful of them, too, along with a heap of sarcasm—

Will you have the ceremony on the court?

Will the bridal party be in tennis whites?

Third time's the charm, eh, Donaldson?

While you hadn't had any idea who Art was when you'd first met him, he'd been forthright with you about being twice divorced. He'd told you that his first wife had cheated on him, and his second wife had been a rebound.

"I wanna get married again," He'd admitted, "But I want this one to stick."

Now, you pass a nervous smile toward where Tashi Duncan and Patrick Zweig are in the corner of the party. They've been keeping to themselves for the most part, seeming to trade smiles and barbs between one another, and exchanged bland pleasantries with Art's family.

Art having such a close relationship with his ex-wife had unsettled you at first, but they had a child together. His bond with Patrick was just as obvious but admittedly a little more nebulous to you. But, they were important to Art, so you adjusted.

Patrick catches and holds your eye, raising his beer in a mock-toast and shooting you a wink. Tashi meets your gaze you next, her brow arched slightly as she gives you a nod. It's just enough and nearly too much all at once.

You're drawn into Art's mother's arm a moment later, giving you a squeeze as she coos over your engagement ring.

"You have to meet Alan and Edith—they're Art's godparents."

"Oh, I'd love to!"

--

"There you are."

You look up, doing a double-take at the sight of Art leaning in the doorway.

"Hey! Where did you put that bottle of wine that your mother brought?" You ask, scanning the crowded counter tops in Art's kitchen—well, it'll be your kitchen, too, once you're fully moved in.

"Can't that wait?"

"It must be in here somewhere."

"Honey."

"Can you check the dining room? Or—maybe we left it in the front hall?"

You hear Art sigh and expect to hear him leave, but when he doesn't budge, you turn your head to get a good look at him. His head is hanging, his thumb sliding over his left ring finger.

"...Art?"

"I'm competing for your attention again, aren't I?"

You purse your lips, rounding the counter toward him. When the two of you had begun dating, he hadn't been the only name on your dance card. When he'd told you that he wanted to be exclusive all of that had stopped, of course—but he'd made his dislike of sharing your attention very clear.

"You know it isn't the same," You remind him. "I'm not texting a Tinder fuckboy. I'm trying to find the gift that your mother very kindly brought us to make sure I stay on her good side."

"You don't need to worry about that. She loves you."

"I worry about it all the same."

"C'mere." Art reaches out, taking hold of your left hand and drawing you in. You smile as he raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the ring, and then to your knuckles. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm just not used to having to chase you down for a kiss."

"Is that what that pout's about?" You lean in, pressing a tender kiss to his lips and grinning as he raises a hand to curl around your jaw.

"I wanna leave," Art murmurs.

"What?" You frown, drawing back to get a better look at him. "Why?"

"I'm sick of the party. I'm sick of this already," He thumbs your ring. "I wanna marry you tonight. Right now."

"Art!" You laugh, "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not kidding."

"You have to be. We haven't filed for a license yet—and we still have to arrange everything."

"We'll go to Vegas. If we leave right now, get tickets at the airport, we'll get there before the marriage license bureau closes. We can file online, on the way to the airport."

"...Art," You shake your head. "You're—Seriously?"

"Seriously." His eyes search yours. "I don't want to have to wait to call you my wife."

"We can't just leave everyone here."

"They're adults, they can see themselves out."

"It would be rude."

Art sighs, looking toward the busy patio. "Alright. We'll give everyone a very polite brush-off. And then can we fly to Vegas?"

"Won't your family be disappointed?"

"I don't care about that." He pauses, a wave of concern passing across his face. "Will you be disappointed?"

"What do you mean?"

"...I've done this a couple'a times. I can do without the big white wedding. But," His brows raise as he tips his head toward you, "If you want it, we'll have it."

You consider for a few moments, glancing toward the patio.

Tonight has been such a whirlwind. You've hardly had any time to catch a breath. The politics of wedding planning can be so nerve-wracking, and you'll have those little comments, those teases of third time's the charm hanging over your head. You'll have to invite Tashi and Patrick to the wedding, and where to seat them? With Art's other friends from the Academy? Will themed drinks be expected? Some hair-brained concoction called The Grand Slam, accompanied by a toothpick with a little tennis ball on the end?

There's press coverage to be had, too. Art may not be playing right now, but that doesn't mean he isn't news. You're not ready for those cameras, the questions, the months of speculation about your dress, about Tashi's attendance—

You look up at Art, resting your hand on his chest.

"I'm going to find the bottle of wine that your mom brought. We're going to finish this party like we planned...And pack when everyone leaves. We'll go to Vegas tomorrow."

The grin that breaks across Art's face is so bright and beautiful that you have no doubt you made the right decision. The crushing force of his kiss nearly bowls you into the opposite side of the door frame.

"I love you," He murmurs.

"I know, baby. I love you, too."

[keirawantstocry]

qfit finally coping with having gynecomastia bc his boyfriends also have tits and are taken seriously as men

boobs for everyone

Fit spent years hiding the extra tissue on his chest. He wasn't quite sure what caused it and he had tried everything he could think of to fix it. Exercising, eating less, eating more. There were no doctors in the wasteland, nobody who could tell him what was wrong with his body. All he could do was wrap. It started with cloth wrapped round and round but it grew to be uncomfortable. Fit had stopped for a while to see if the pain lessened. And it did, but his embarrassment and fear of people noticing and calling him less than a man was stronger than any pain the wrappings caused. 

Things were so incredibly different on the island. He still binded his chest, ignoring the pain but there was something that felt… calm about the island. 

And then there was Pac and Tubbo. They were his best friends. He had honestly never thought he could care about people to the extent he cared about them. They were strong. The awe he felt seeing them in battle was indescribable. And part of him couldn't stop and think, now these are real men. 

Fit was thinking it now as he relaxed down in the soft blankets that Tubbo had gathered for the three of them. Tubbo was brash and protested affection until he was blue in the face but he cared. So much. That was why he did things like this. Made sure Fit and Pac got the sleep they needed after sleepless nights working and watching over their kids. 

The kids were with various other islanders currently. Ramon and Richas with Mike while Sunny was spending the night with Tina, Bagi, and Empanada. 

They had the house to themselves. 

Fit tried to relax but the bindings around his chest made it hard to breathe. He tried to keep any visibility of it away from his boyfriends. Truthfully he knew they wouldn't care but the fear from deep down was stronger. 

Tubbo gave a contented sigh as he looked over the pile of blankets and pillows, hands on his hips. “I don't know about you two but I'm so fucking ready for bed.” 

Pac and Fit laughed in unison but Fit's laugh died as he watched Tubbo peel off his shirt. They had never all slept together in sleepover fashion like this before so the sight that met his eyes was surprising. 

“Uh,” Fit said, trying not to stare but failing tremendously. 

Tubbo blinked at him as he reached down to the bottom of his sports bra. “What's wrong?” 

“You're wearing a bra.” 

Pac turned to look at him curiously while Tubbo continued to stare. “Uhh, yeah, man. It hurts to bind for too long so I wear bras half the time.” 

“Bind?” Fit repeated slowly. 

“I have tits,” Tubbo said plainly. “You know that right?” 

Fit shook his head. 

Tubbo's expression turned to one of surprise. “Oh. Fuck. Sorry, man. I thought you knew.” A sliver of self doubt was forming in his stance and Fit snapped himself out of his surprise to reassure him. 

“I didn't. But it's okay. It doesn't matter to me.”  

Pac laughed, sounding a bit nervous. “I should hope not, considering we both do.” 

Fit turned his head to look over at him. “You… you do too?” 

Pac nodded, flatting the front over his shirt to show how the fabric clung to the roundness of his chest. “We thought you knew, Fitch.” 

Fit shook his head slowly. “Um.” His heart was racing, thoughts buzzing around his head. “I'm not. Trans. But I have.” He shrugged and reached back under his shirt to undo the bindings. He let them fall onto his lap, feeling his body visibly relax. When was the last thing he took those off, he wondered but was interrupted by both of his boys, throwing their arms around him.  

“Thank you for telling us that,” Pac murmured in Portuguese, Fit catching the translations as they flew up above his head. “I know it can be hard coming from such a backwards place to accept yourself.” 

Tubbo didn't say anything, just let his body language speak for itself as he held Fit tightly, tracing his fingers over his back where the cloth had dug in so tightly. 

Fit was too overcome for words. He just let his body fall back, both of them still in his arms as they snuggled into each other and the blankets. 

“Wait,” Tubbo squirmed out of the grip before pulling off his bra. “Can't have that thing on.” 

“Why not?” Fit asked as Tubbo settled back down. He was so incredibly warm. 

Tubbo squinted at him. “Cause it hurts your chest. It's not meant to be contained like that.” Understanding dawned in his eyes and he smacked Fit on the arm. “Have you been wearing that thing for years?? No wonder you have so much body pain.” 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Pac said, butting in. “No more of that.” He shook his finger threateningly in Fit's face. “We're gonna make sure you take care of yourself. No binding for a while. We need to assess the damage to your chest and figure out when it will be okay for you to bind again.” 

Tubbo and Pac fell into frantic discussions of medical stuff that flew right over Fit's head. But he didn't mind. He was relaxing. He was safe. And he was laying with two of the strongest men he had ever met. Nothing about their bodies could ever change that. He smiled and pressed a kiss to both of their foreheads before drifting off to sleep. 

[anthotneystark]

Wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face

It doesn’t happen suddenly.

Or, it does, but it’s a long time coming.

It’s a long time coming because it’s been coming his whole life. It’s been coming since the first time someone looked at him and said “it’s a good thing you’re pretty”. It’s been coming since the first time he heard someone say “beauty over brains”. It’s been coming since he was old enough to know that his dad was already planning on having to make connections to get him into a school of his choosing. He’s always known his book smarts were lacking, but it always hurt when he was reminded of it.

But it’s been more recent than that too.

It’s been coming since he felt that slick tail wrap around his neck. It’s been coming since Robin helped to change the bandages on his back. It’s been coming since the first date after everything ended with him going to bed alone because “I’m just not in the mood anymore” followed him pulling off his shirt.

It’s been coming since forever.

His looks have been his biggest asset his entire life, the only thing he could really use to get attention. And now there’s scratches in the paint.

After everything, when they’re finally safe, everything changes.

He doesn’t change, or he doesn’t think he does, because his habits are the same and his thoughts are the same and his nightmares are the same. But life slows down. And with it slowing down, he changes anyway.

Where once he was all lean, taut muscle, he softens. It’s still there, his daily runs and exercise are proof of that, but it’s a little more insulated.

(Robin tells him it’s because he’s been living with the stress of monsters for years, that feeling safe has pushed his body out of survival mode.)

It’s been coming though. With each comment from his mother about how he’s clearly eating too much junk food. With his father’s comments about how long his hair has gotten. With how girls’ eyes just skim right over him and move on.

It’s not all bad, of course. The kids, surprisingly, don’t comment beyond their usual teasing over things within his control – “stripes again? Don’t you have any other patterns?” or “why do you have to wear those shorts while you’re cleaning the pool?” which is usually followed by Eddie smacking whoever said it. Max makes exactly one comment, quietly, when it’s just the two of them still awake during a movie night.

“You’re a better pillow these days.”

Maybe it’s a joke, maybe she’s just being nicer with her teasing, but whatever her reasoning he likes it. When he thinks about it like that, being different doesn’t feel like a bad thing.

It doesn’t usually last long though.

So it’s not a sudden thing, until it is.

He’s not even totally sure what causes it. Some comment, sure, but the words themselves are in one ear and out the other. His parents are leaving for another trip, his mother comments about eating healthier while they’re gone, his father makes some dig that’ll lodge under his skin with all the other barbs he’s thrown at him for all these years.

All he really remembers is that a comment is made. The rush of heat and sour bile in his throat. The door shuts and all he can hear are overlapping echoes of all the comments that have ever been thrown at him. All he can feel is the tightness of the tee shirt he’s wearing the weight that no longer rests on his shoulders, but which is spread over his entire body. He finds himself looking into a mirror and suddenly cannot look at that any longer.

His hands shake and he doesn’t trust himself, but he knows where he can go.

It should scare him that he doesn’t remember the drive. It should scare him that he’s here but doesn’t fully know how he got here. But he doesn’t have room for more panic in his head. They’re past the point of knocking, of waiting to be let in, so pushing through the doorway of the trailer is a familiar motion. Eddie looking up and smiling where he’s strumming his guitar is a familiar sight.

The way his smile faulters and turns into a frown is less familiar.

“Stevie? What’s wrong?” He feels like he can’t breath, can’t possibly explain everything in his head, but he can’t just expect Eddie to read his mind. He’s not Robin after all.

“I need it gone. Off. I can’t…I can’t,” he manages, one shaking hand sliding into his hair and tugging, the pain grounding for just a moment. Eddie might not be able to read his mind, but he understands him these days more than most people. It’s an unlikely friendship founded in terror and fortified by countless hours in hospital rooms and new homes.

“Oh sweetheart. Are you sure?” He knows it’s extreme, but he can’t help what he needs, even if Eddie is concerned. He nods, swallowing hard. Eddie doesn’t try to talk him out of it, just pulls him to the bathroom and sits him on the edge of the tub.

“Lets start small, okay? And we can go as far as you need from there.” He wants to argue, but at the same time he knows it’s reasonable. And it’s Eddie. He trusts Eddie. He can’t make any words come out, but he manages a little nod. Eddie, doing what he does best, just starts talking. He’s not really paying attention to the words, but he doesn’t have to. He can feel the chill of the metal scissors, the soft rumble of Eddie’s voice, the too gentle fingers pushing and pulling him into whatever position is best. Eddie pauses now and again, a question in his eyes, but continues on when he sees whatever he’s looking for still lingering.

It's not until Steve feels his shoulders slumping, his hands loosening where they’re clenched at his knees, the chill of the breeze from the open window hitting skin that no longer feels boiling hot, that Eddie sets down the scissors. He feels lighter, doesn’t even care about the itchy feeling of stray hairs clinging to his clothes and skin.

When he finally looks in the mirror, his hair is shorter than it’s been in years. It’s not gone, not buzzed off, but it’s not the same as it was.

Neither is he though.

Eddie’s giving him a knowing look, one that says he’s got something to say but is holding off.

The cut itself is a little rough, but in a good way. It’s clearly not a professional sort of thing; he likes it more because of it.

“Thank you,” he whispers, exhaustion and relief hitting him in equal measures.

“You know, when I buzzed my hair, there were a lot of rumors,” Eddie says softly. “Stuff about my dad punishing me, about looking too girly before, that sort of thing. But really, it was just…so much going on all at once. My dad had just gotten arrested, mom took off, Uncle Wayne was stressed over having another mouth to feed. I felt like I couldn’t breath and just-” he makes a buzzing noise and mimes shaving through the mop of dark hair, which he’s got tied back today now that Steve can actually see it.

“Just had to get it off?” he asks.

“Yep. Needed it gone. Growing it back was a pain, but it was good too. Felt like a fresh start even if it was a little like trying to get back to where I used to be,” Eddie explains. It makes sense, at least to Steve. “So, you know, I get it. But I also know you’d have another breakdown if we shaved it all off completely,” he jokes. It’s enough to drag a laugh out of him.

It’s very Eddie, baring his soul while he’s helping to bandage a lost sheep, and Steve wishes he had the words to say how grateful he is. Instead, he just takes the towel Eddie throws at him and the soft, well worn clothes Eddie sets on the counter. He showers, pulls on a shirt for a band he doesn’t recognize, and breathes out a sigh of relief when the vice around his body finally, finally, comes loose.

Eddie doesn’t wait long once he sits down on the couch, immediately flopping back to use his thighs as a pillow while he goes back to strumming along to the music in his head. It’s a quiet moment, a safe moment. He doesn’t even notice as his head drops back to rest on the cushions, his breathing slowing as he finally feels light enough to rest.

Later, he’ll wake up with their positions reversed, with Eddie playing with his hair in a way that’ll make his brain turn into mush. Later, he’ll gather the courage to finally stop toeing that line of friendship and more that he and Eddie have been dancing on for so long now. Later, Eddie will hear everything that’s been in his head and will hold him down while he kisses every last insecurity and promises that it’s only made him more obsessed with him.

Maybe that won’t fix the insecurities, but that doesn’t mean Eddie isn’t going to make it very clear just how happy he is loving Steve exactly as he is at every point in time.

Because it doesn’t happen suddenly.

Or, it does, but it’s a long time coming.

[bibibbon]

MHA and the bystander effect (long post)

MHA's society suffers heavily from the bystander effect.

I wish that this plot point was further explored and this could of been where we actually take all mights character somewhere and not waste him on the whole iron might bs.

It can be argued that we first see this as early as the first chapter where we have people simply standing there watching a hero take down a villain. In all retrospect when I see this I genuinely think of some kind of performance, the hero is a glorified soldier that has to elegantly perform their duty while ensuring the safety of lives and entertaining them.

We then have the attack with bakugo and the sludge villain. People again are standing there watching another performance go down except here the heroes don't know what to do and it can be argued that they aren't trying hard enough at all. The heroes look at the situation, say they don't have any compatible quirk that helps the situation and simply stand in the sidelines waiting for someone to come and help that's after the manh failed attempts. Now this absolutely wouldn't work considering the victim in this circumstance was getting choked to death and him struggling even more literally caused a fire and property damage. I think it's interesting how no one thought of simply aiming at the sludge villains eyes (his obvious weak spot) and it was izuku in his panic that actually helped save Katsuki and gave all might the strength and confidence to step up and do something. What's even more interesting is that at that moment all might like the other bystanders was also contributing to the bystander effect simply standing there distanced from the fight and involved in it at the same time.

The third time we see this is during the UA entrance exams. Everyone is focused on getting points and destroying robots not really paying attention to their surroundings. After releasing the zero pointer everyone priorities themselves and starts to run with no one sparing ochako (who is injured) an eye and offering to help her. Rather the unconscious thoughts are that someone else will help her and it's full of people trying to prioritise themselves as this is also an exam. Izuku also priorities himself and tries to get away until he sees ochako and this is the second time where he recklessly runs into danger.

I think what's really interesting is that nedzu made this the point of the test which is something that iida says to izuku when they meet again. Iida points out that saving peoples lives and helping them is indeed the point of the test and heroism yet the test is very much structured in a way where you need to destroy to save and you need to prioritise yourself which can be the test just being a microcosm for the real hero society.

We mainly and clearly see the bystander effect in action when it comes to shigaraki tomuras backstory. It can be argued that this is one of the major reasons what drives shigaraki to villainy. Throughout tenko's backstory people see him suffer yet they don't help him physically at all or are quite late to do so. This starts from his father's punishments to him aimlessly roaming the streets scared and alone just for all for one to come along and offer a hand to him. A villain ends up helping a child instead of the people who are supposed to do so (Iam ignoring the contents of chapter 420 that revealed that AFO was behind this all along)

Tenko's backstory also emphasises just how much society is dependent on heroes that they think they aren't responsible for anything and any remains of social responsibility are rather diminished as people are busy and turn a blind eye to an obviously scared kid who is suffering.

Heck we even have momo a class 1A member acknowledge that the bystander effect is a very big thing within hero society yet no one does much to reduce this. It seems that hero society actually makes it somewhat of a taboo to even intervene in situations and help people when you aren't a hero which is why labels such as vigilantes exists. This could be linked to what we find out what happens to lady nagant and how she was in charge of killing vigilantes or anyone who opposed the government.

You can say that the government uses heroes (like hawks and lady nagant) as a way to control citizens but this turns out to be a double edged sword for them as time goes on and all mights notorious reign of 'peace' falls the people start to wake up you can say.

Hero society especially with the rise of all might and the all might era has created a society that is rampant in the bystander effect and a society that relies, worships and glorifies heroes to a toxic extreme. Obviously this has negatively effected everyone in different ways. It's not only civilians that suffer but also the heroes who are put into extreme situations and have to live up to incredibly toxic and high standards while also appealing to the public. I think a great example of this is all might who is a character who suffered from the system yet upheld and was somewhat responsible for creating it.

After the war arc we see the hero society system crumble away and we see the complacent bystander effect fade away and get people become distrustful or heroes and anyone around them. During this arc we also see the once glorified and worshipped all might statue become vandalised and people abandoning any hope of the hero system or hero society in general. Chaos and panic are rampant and people have lost hope as the system dissolves.

In conclusion, if horikoshi actually handled this theme of bystander effect in hero society properly then we could of gotten a compelling story where villains or victims that suffer from it are saved. Hori could of also used this to show how flawed hero society is and how corrupt the hero public safety commission is as well.

Add on

Horikoshi during the vigilante arc also has civilians realise their compliance in all of this and how the hero system set them up in a way which they can relax and watch without having to do anything as society crumbles. It's such a shame that horikoshi takes this and basically diminishes any proper hope by making the ending of the second war arc a disaster.

[rrahuntersblog]

I was on a live with my friend who has an account on Instagram specifically for Spn and she revealed that she went to a con and Jensen didn’t have his wedding band on and his manager found him, gave the ring to him and demanded he wear it. Apparently he seemed upset that he had to and he looked visibly sad and was anxiously fiddling with it the rest of the day. He doesn’t even hide his misery in front of us. Why do people choose to turn a blind eye and think danneel is a great person?!

Hi there!

Y'know, I had gotten this message this morning, but could not answer until now because of so many reasons, one of which was to ask which con this was at! Plus, I had to ask if you wanted me to hide your identity or not. I imagine there will be some Danneel stans and potentially AAs that will not take kindly to discovering that Jensen is very, very unhappy. It shatters their delusion of the "perfect marriage" and all that.

I'm heaving a sigh, because this is going to just pissed them off some more.

As I (and so many others!) have said: Jensen isn't happy!

Anyway, after corresponding with the asker, I have been able to confirm where and when this happened!

Credit to the asker who asked their friend and got me the information.

It happened at Burcon, during the St. Patrick's weekend. If it's the Gersh agent that was with him during at least one of the European cons (JIB, I believe?), I'm stumped as to why they would even care if Jensen was without his ring. I mean, it wouldn't be the first time.

According to the asker, it happened again while Jensen was at JIB.

We know that his "branding and endorsement" agent from Gersh was with Jensen. It's puzzling as to why. Maybe something involved regarding Countdown, but once again: why?

As confirmed by the person I spoke to, the follower who has been in the creative and entertainment industry, Jensen's narrative has always been inconsistent. If Jensen retained Gersh to expand beyond "brand and endorsement" to help improve his "family man image", I have so many questions!

Namely: the ring means jackshit. No, seriously, it means jackshit. All it indicates is that he's married--not that he's faithful, loyal, or anything. It's the keeping of the vows that make the difference, not the freaking jewelry.

Secondly: if he's so damned miserable--and anyone with eyes could tell, even in photos with Danneel, not that he's been seen with her in an age--why go through it even longer? Why impose such misery? Just end the blasted marriage and find happiness elsewhere already.

Third: if it is to improve the "family man image", uhhh.... going about it the wrong way. Especially given we haven't seen Jensen with Danneel since that one outing in Dallas... and that was just with Danneel. Family man image makes me think of him and his kids, which need not include his wife.

Fourth: Why does the manager/agent have the freaking ring?!

Soooo many questions, not nearly enough answers. I appreciate the asker for this incredible and heartbreaking update.

Oh! Before I forget! The asker asked: Why do people choose to turn a blind eye and think danneel is a great person?!

Because despite what they accuse me of, those Jenneel/AAs fans are putting themselves in that delusion. They want the marriage to be perfect, to have Jensen beyond reproach, to believe that Danneel is sweet and kind when we know better (seriously, I have quite a bit of evidence and there are others!). To see Danneel otherwise shatters that delusion and they can't accept it.

I, on the other hand, see Jensen as a talented actor who in a situation he's been miserable in for some time, placed on a pedestal that he never wanted to be on in the first place. However, to survive that attention, he became the mask. I don't know if he'll be okay....

[taihua]

Thank you for the reply! Now this gets even more interesting when I think about his relationship with Mu Qing. Honestly, their dynamic really fascinate me because what the hell is going on? Why is he so volatile with him? Cause MQ may be a bitch but the things feng xin said to him can be really below the belt. Like you said, i dont wanna say he’s a classist but ??? My guy you’re not helping. And now feng xin got more interesting in my eye than what fanon usually depicts him. I think when he loves people, he wants nothing but the best for them. Even if something they don’t necessarily want for themselves. And since MQ obviously don’t meet the criteria, he just gets pissed off and can think of him nothing but a bad person.

"What the hell is going on with Fengqing" is the question that scholars will be asking for centuries 😔

Nonetheless, I don't think I agree that Feng Xin is making any "below the belt" comments--this is going to be a super long response because I want to break down all the situations where fandom accuses him of being unfair to Mu Qing, but the bottom line is that it's not as simple as Feng Xin being mean to a poor abused Mu Qing for no reason.

"Crowds get handsy. We don’t want people sneaking it in their pockets before we find anything,” Feng Xin said offhandedly."

This is usually where Feng Xin gets (unfairly) accused of being classist and a bully to Mu Qing, I guess because it's viewed as a snide comment about Mu Qing's wealth?--but that's not true, because a) nowhere does Feng Xin say anything about social class in this statement (and in fact, in context of Xie Lian suggesting they call in help to look for his missing earring, it's more likely they would be calling in people from the palace) and b) he wasn't even talking about Mu Qing.

Which brings me to the second point, but half the reason Mu Qing overreacts and storms out of the room is because he thinks Xie Lian has been talking about him behind his back:

Mu Qing clenched his fists tight, then loosened them, but at last did not continue to blow up. However, his eyes were growing red, and he turned to Xie Lian, enunciating each word as he stared at him."You…don’t keep your promises."

So here you have Xianle Trio's first major communication breakdown--Xie Lian tries to do the right thing by not sharing the story about the missing gold foil, Mu Qing jumps to the unfair conclusion that Xie Lian broke his promise and told Feng Xin, and Feng Xin is upset because he's being accused of being a jerk about something he didn't even know about.

Book 4 rice scene

Here's another case where Feng Xin seems to be blamed for yelling at Mu Qing without any consideration for the context. Xie Lian went to go cultivate after seeing Feng Xin get beaten up for busking and they were counting on him to ascend to lift them out of poverty, Mu Qing ruined it because he wouldn't stand up for Xie Lian in front of the other officials, you can argue to what extent Mu Qing "had no choice."

What kills me about this scene is how Feng Xin is so nice to Mu Qing at first:

"Alright," Feng Xin said. "I’ll say my thanks then. We do need all this stuff right now. Heavenly officials can’t gift mortals things privately, so you be careful too." Then he shuffled to Xie Lian’s side and whispered, “I’m pretty surprised too, that he’d actually come back to help. I'm the one who judged him wrong. In any case…"

He doesn't begrudge Mu Qing going to work for another god, and he only gets angry when Xie Lian gets angry--Xie Lian, who is visibly injured and so angry he can't even speak to Mu Qing, so obviously Feng Xin is pissed off after noticing that, and he still gives Mu Qing a chance to explain himself before he starts yelling. Was he supposed to say "thanks for the rice, I totally understand why you humiliated Xie Lian and ruined our chances at escaping poverty, I can't wait to go back to begging for coins and getting beaten up"...?

Plus you have another example of bad Xianle Trio communication, because Mu Qing accuses Feng Xin of holding him to different standards than Xie Lian, based on the stealing incident that Xie Lian never told Feng Xin about. Once again, Feng Xin is the last person to find out about the incidents that Mu Qing is being weird about and is expected by fandom to take Mu Qing's meanest assumptions in stride because Mu Qing is a poor little meow meow or whatever.

(Side note that that's two examples where it's clear that Feng Xin views stealing as morally wrong; he's consistent in his values.)

"...and don’t think yourself a good person! Genuinely good people aren’t like you, YOU’VE NEVER BEEN ONE!"

From their fight on Mt. Tonglu. It's not very nice, but the context of the fight is arguing about whether or not Mu Qing killed Jian Lan and Cuocuo. Yknow, Feng Xin's girlfriend who he loved and their child that he didn't know about that he just recently learned were brutally murdered. Mu Qing's the main suspect and there's clear evidence that he had met them before, he's been on the run to avoid a trial, and all he can say is "I didn't do it"--it looks bad and Feng Xin has every right to be not only suspicious of him, but also really fucking upset with him.

Plus, the context of the fight is also that they're still blaming each other for abandoning Xie Lian, and Mu Qing thinks it's okay to bring Jian Lan into that argument as if he isn't the prime suspect in their murder investigation:

"Taking yourself for the model of loyalty, didn’t you ditch the boss when the wife came along? The wife and the son became more important?! Everyone’s doing things for themselves, it’s the self that’s priority! Aren’t you embarrassed hanging on to that old shitty deed over my head?"

If anyone's going below the belt here, it's Mu Qing for bringing up a specific and personal trauma to win an argument. Feng Xin's generic insult doesn't come anywhere close to this, but I often see "you've never been a good person" quoted as something Feng Xin is supposed to apologize for with no consideration for what Mu Qing is saying a few paragraphs later. If one is shitty, then so is the other.

Speaking of Mu Qing making below the belt comments...

"After Fu Yao entered the Temple of Nan Yang, for two whole hours he thoroughly criticized this statue of Nan Yang from head to toe, something about how the design was deformed, the colors tacky, the craftsmanship crude, the taste bizarre...."

Notably, Nan Feng doesn't respond to this. Two hours of holding his tongue before he finally comes out with "Don’t you be acting all sarcastic here, if you’re really so bored, go sweep the floor!" after Fu Yao recites the Ju Yang poem and embarrasses him in front of Xie Lian. Literally below the belt from Mu Qing here, since he knows full well that Feng Xin doesn't like it and takes great delight in mocking him anyway. Fandom gets mad at Feng Xin for yelling, but it's funny and quirky if Fu Yao insults him? Why the double standard?

So bringing it all back to your initial question, "Why is he so volatile with him?"--because they don't communicate well, because no one bothers to tell Feng Xin about anything until after Mu Qing has thrown a fit, and because every time he gives Mu Qing the benefit of the doubt Mu Qing does something weird and ends up throwing it back in his face.

[nerdieforpedro]

La Sangria es muy dulce – The Sangria is too sweet

(Roja/red) Part One of Coasting through the Rainbow

Summary: Javier Peña considered his life good, great even. He met a man who would change what he knew about himself.

This is the beginning of Javier’s journey.

My entire masterlist and blog are for readers 18+ MDNI. I do not consent to my work being used in AI, recommended on TikTok, borrowed or plagiarized.

Warnings: internalized homophobia, ANGST AND FLUFF, all the emotions, self-loathing, alcohol use, mentions of smut (nothing too descriptive), Nerdie’s so-so Spanish translations, Nerdie’s brand of humor (all of the place), Javier Peña being subject to Nerdie’s whims

Word Count: 2,587

Notes: I started this six part series for Pride month. I hope to have all parts out during the month so we’ll remain hopeful! Special thanks, hugs and big kisses to @perotovar and @julesonrecord for beta reading and encouraging me to write all of it out, not just in bullet points. ❤️💚💙💛💜🧡

Main Masterlist/ Javier Peña Masterlist /AO3 Link

Javier thought people lied when they said that they knew the exact moment that their life changed. It sounds like the telenovelas that Senora Ramírez always has on when he goes for his morning coffee and empanada with a piece of mango to her shop before heading to work in the morning. So grand and over the top. Exaggerated to prove a point.

All those crazy people were right and tonight he’s in a room full of them.

Earlier that night he’d been drinking with some suits from the ambassador’s office, wearing his own complete with a tie. He felt stifled and wanted to rip the damn thing off but couldn’t, so he had more whiskey on the rocks to cool himself. Laughing with them was alright, but his time could be spent in his apartment in his own company.

The group was getting ready to head to the next place, paying their tabs and dispersing. Javier used this opportunity to sneak way, down an alley where he was sure they wouldn’t ask him to tag along. The scarlet light from the building behind the bar on the next street reflected in a puddle at Javi’s feet. Shrugging, it wouldn’t hurt to look so he thought and stepped toward the light only to see a club he’d never heard of. People were gathered outside dressed in all sorts of colors and outfits, more men than women he noticed, but he figured there were usual drink deals for ladies’ night so they might be inside.

His feet carried him to the door where the bouncer looked him up and down chuckling before letting him in. ‘Must be because I’m the only one in a suit. This fucking suit.’ Inside the music was loud, the red light persisted, and Javier’s eyes were wide. It’s not like he didn’t know men dated other men. Who doesn’t know that? Javier Pena just isn’t around it. At all. Ever.

Now with the flow of the crowd, he’s slowly pushed to the dance floor in a sea of men dancing and enjoying themselves. It’s completely foreign to him what he’s witnessing.

That’s when it happens. A tug on his tie is all that it took for Javier to gain focus. A man is before him, a few inches taller than he is, bronze skin he figures, though it’s difficult to tell in this light. Shoulder length dark curls frame his face, and his eyes are light, maybe hazel or a green. He isn’t sure. Pena is distracted by this man’s lips, they’re fuller than his own and curved in a smile as the ephemeral man puts his cheap black tie to his lips that have a gloss on them, making their cotton candy color stand out against the red light. “Hey hermoso (handsome), you look lost as a cordero (baby lamb). Maybe you need a shepherd for the night.” The light dusting of dark hair a top of his lip moves with it and Javi exhales.

‘This man’s voice makes feel, feel what? Calm and turned on? What the hell is going on? Maybe I need to put a limit on my whiskey after all.’ He was going to tell him to let go of his tie, but the words didn’t come out. Instead, he grabbed the hand that was still holding his tie. Pena didn’t let go, he couldn’t. His skin was so cool and felt like a godsend. When did he get this hot? Fucking suit. “No, I don’t. I just need to get my bearings.”

“Maybe you should dance and take off that jacket. Looks uncomfortable and you are. You can’t look away from me, but you feel like you may bolt out of here.” The same plush lips are pressed against the back of Javier’s hand. “Come on, let’s get you from a cordero to a borrego (lamb) shall we? Just dance with me hermoso.” A slower song begins to play, its tempo lends to help Javi think. No one he knows is here. What’s one dance?

“Alright, but I’m not a damn lamb. I’m Javi. What’s your name bello angel (beautiful angel).” Releasing his hand, Javi slipped a hand around his back, tracing his tant muscles through his tight white t-shirt. The man in white laughed and leaned in Javier’s ear, telling his name before grazing his cheek with his lips.

“You’re so close. Name’s Angelo. Good to meet you, Javier. Relax and let me show you it’s okay. Touch me, though I’ll only bite if you tell me to.” Angelo tilted his neck and undid Javier’s tie, wrapping it around his broad shoulders. “You can pull a little if you want me closer. Do you want me closer Javier?”

A simple sí (yes) is all Javier said prior to Angelo’s hands finding their way to Javi’s narrow hips, swaying them with the music. The man kept eye contact with Angelo never losing the smile he had upon his face. Javier began to wonder if he truly was lost. He’s never put much stock into over thinking relationships. Things are what they are, no more and no less. Whatever this may become, at least he deems it safe for not with this enchanting man who’s now leading him out of the club at the end of the song.

The crimson from the neon signs highlight the sweat on each of their bodies. Javier hadn’t noticed that Angelo had glitter on his arms. There had been so much he didn’t see in the club: the red dragon tattoo on his left shoulder near his collarbone, the freckles on his neck, the rose on right hand, the white jeans he wore were tight around his thighs. Peña’s hands reached down to squeeze them curious if they were as solid as they looked. Angelo’s thighs indeed were. “Let me kiss you Javi, you’ve already got your hands on me. I know you’ve been watching my lips.”

“Stop asking.” Peña ran his fingers up Angelo’s body tracing his hips, abdomen and shoulders before stoping at the back of his neck. He used both hands to pull his head forward. Angelo’s lips were as soft as he thought. No, softer. So soft and so warm. A pair of hands settled on Javier hips and he doesn’t feel like he should pull away. Especially when Angelo’s tongue begins to explore his mouth.

Javier Peña has never expected to be in another man’s bed, but he is here with swollen lips, grunting naked with a beautiful man telling him about what luscious sounds his making between what’s coming out of his mouth and his slick cock that is in Angelo’s capable hand. Peña has also never preened, tonight he does while those lips he’s been entranced by all night take him into the morning mapping his body. He knows that the lips that have tasted him told him good night before he succumbed to sleep.

Awakening the next morning, Javier should find it odd that he’s slept so well. Restful sleep avoids him like a cartel member with kilo of coke. With only the bruised memories that Angelo make on his skin the night before, he trots around the bedroom, his eyes adjusting to the light before he sees the bathroom. Using it, he smells coffee and maybe eggs, following the smell, Javi is greeted to Angelo’s ass. A few shades lighter than his back and thighs. It makes him release a chuckle before wrapping his arms around his host’s waist, placing kisses on his shoulder blade. “Buenos dias Angelo. What are you cooking?”

“Did you sleep well Javi? I should have the eggs done soon. I didn’t go to the store yet this week so I’ve got toast, butter and some grape jelly.” He responds and it still isn’t strange. Javi finds himself pushing his concern to the back of his mind as they sit down to eat.

“I did. Normally I don’t eat breakfast. I’m usually still working. Smells delicious.” Javier’s bright smile is complemented by his mustache and he notes the first time he sees Angelo blush from the compliment. “Am I the first you’ve had over for breakfast in a bit. Are you a lamb in that regard?” His mouth is wide from putting a healthy helping on scrambled eggs in his mouth and a laugh upon hearing Angelo confirm that yes it has been a year or two maybe he can’t remember exactly.

“Stop laughing so hard Javier. It isn’t that damn funny.”

After finishing breakfast, they both washed the dishes and dressed. Exchanging numbers was easy with a promise to call later. Usually an empty promise from Javier Peña but he did call once he got in his apartment later that morning to shower and go to work. They talked the entire way to work with Angelo finally telling Javier to stop sitting in the parking lot and go in to work. Peña said he’d see him later tonight which they did.

The subsequent three months find Javier in a good place, still occasionally sleeping with women, though it doesn’t resonate the same liberating sense that he felt with Angelo. They both have made it clear that for now, they’re exploring other options. However, the more time passes, the greater the time is that they spend together, giving less opportunity for others.

There’s one night that bled into the morning as many of Javier and Angelo’s shared memories do. Paloma (Javier’s nickname for Angelo as he always remembered how he appeared to him in white) had come to Columbia for work as the government was trying to building more infrastructure and needed people trained in urban planning and development. Javier promised to show him the local eateries and bars, going from place to place. Peña was well known in these spaces and said that Angelo was ‘new and learning the ropes’ as he put it. It was on one of the hillsides, Javier had asked a passerby to take a picture of the two of them, both with a warm buzz from alcohol and companionship. He couldn’t recall the joke or which one of them made it, just that both of them were using their entire bodies to laugh.

A hand was in Angelo’s hair, fingers gripped Javier waist tight. Many night in Columbia were humid, both men were coated in a sheen of sweat and glitter from a previous bar run a few stops back. In the background, above the short buildings behind them, the sky was transitioning from it’s navy blue toward the heavens, slipping into purple, red and a faint orange before greeting the buildings. The stranger took a few pictures with his phone and handed it to Javi who thanked them as they left.

That was one of the last times they didn’t argue.

It began about why Javi wouldn’t stay the night. About how Angelo couldn’t stay the night in Javi’s apartment. These two issues were worked out fairly quickly. Alternating where they explored each other did the trick. What Javier refused to budge on, was going out with Angelo during the daylight hours.

Peña’s life was excellent, he was growing to care for someone. He was always so guarded, his heart needed time to thaw from past experiences. Coming to terms to being in a relationship with another man. He still saw himself as the Javier of the past, though at this point he wasn’t sleeping with women any more as nights spent at Angelo’s didn’t always include sex. Sometimes it was just spent in each other’s embrace.

Angelo demanded more from Javier. Exclusivity and to be seen together more places. Not just out on drunken nightly raids but on sober days. Such exposure was normal for him. He’s been living in his truth for decades. Understanding that Javier was new to reconciling his sexual identity was fighting against being hidden. Angelo had been squirreled away too often by men who said they cared about him but acted like they had never met him when around others. He had told himself he would not stand for it. Not from any relationship plutonic or romantic.

Javier was different to Angelo. The bravado matched by his tenderness kept him in their relationship for a time, but close to the four month mark, his patience was wearing thin.

“Mi amor (my love), I want a life with you but I will not be kept to the night. You’re a good man and the best lover I’ve had, but I won’t be someone’s secret Javier. I refuse.” Angelo tells Javier after a night of passion after another morning has come in his apartment. They stand beside the bed baring their bodies to each other as they have often. This time, they’re not just giving knowing looks and leaving words unsaid.

“I told you I need more time mi paloma. I’m new to this. You know I care about you. I don’t see why you have to push so hard. We’ll go to brunch or something eventually. You know I work long hours at the consulate. I’m not keeping you hidden, I just-just need more time.” Reaching for Angelo, he needs him to know. To know, how much he cares and needs him. It’s just so difficult and twisted his emotions right now. “I don’t want to lose you Angelo. Please.” His dove smacks his hand away, the lips Javi enjoys making swollen are quivering as tears fall. It’s a look Peña is familiar with. No matter the gender, it is universal. The face of someone who is angry, disappointed and saddened by his actions.

“Get out Javier Peña. I have a life to live. With someone who wants me anytime and not just when it’s convenient for them. I wish you all the best. I will put myself first Javier. Just like you do.”

“Goddammit Angelo. Fine. I have a life to live too. Goodbye. I-I do care for you, at least know that mi ángel (my angel).” Javier tossed on his clothes haphazardly and departed Angelo’s apartment. They didn’t call or text. Not even a casual drop-in either. It was an abrupt end to their relationship.

Javier dove head first into old habits with as many women and men as he could. Their bodies were warm but he always left the bed cold. No amount of cigarettes or whiskey would fill the hole he had in his heart from Angelo. After six months of this behavior and his colleagues noticing that the once nearly glowing agent Peña was now a dim version of himself. Even worse than last year, it was suggested that a change of scenery be in order.

A consultant position with the DEA had opened up in DC. Knowing there was nothing for him here except more self-destructive behaviors, Javier Peña packed up what was in his apartment and moved back to the United States.

Javier decided the love he had in Columbia would remain there as he watched the greenery of the land where so much had defined his life. Deciding to try something new to mark the occasion, Javier ordered a sangria, he never indulged in mixed drinks much. The scarlet of the liquid matched the profound resentment toward how he’d handled everything and himself. “Where there’s a Javier Peña, there will be a way to make someone cry.” A sip of his drink had him pucker his lips. “Fuck, this shit is way too damn sweet. Story of my life.”

First stop of the rainbow 🌈: @djarinmuse @megamindsecretlair @tinytinymenace @schnarfer @rulexofxnines

@djarins-cyare @secretelephanttattoo @604to647 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @soft-persephone

@soft-girl-musings @saturn-rings-writes @professionalpromqueen @for-a-longlongtime @morallyinept

@connectioneverywhere @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @fhatbhabiee @yorksgirl @guelyury

@readingiskeepingmegoing @survivingandenduring @rosecentaur1916 @westside-rot @romanarose

@lady-bess @sin-djarin @legendary-pink-dot @80ssong @kilamonster

@boliv-jenta

Part Two - Morado/purple

[thisisnotawendys]

Vegeta pounded his fist against the panel of the training pod, effectively switching off the gravity simulator with more force than was required. Another day of solitary training. Another day gone without his ascension. Sure, he was most certainly improving. How could he not be? It was biologically impossible for a Saiyan to push themselves thus, and not increase their power level.

He stripped off his black shirt and wiped it across his glistening forehead and chest before tossing it onto the steel panelled floor of the ship. This pod had become his unsuspecting home over the past few years. First, upon his (second) arrival on Earth following the cursed chess game that had been Namek. Then through a year of waiting for Kakarot to arrive from space and now in preparation for the androids.

Vegeta sighed huskily. His exhaustion washed over him leaving a chill on his bronzed skin. Dinner would have to wait, as would a shower. He climbed down the steel ladder into the cabin which housed a small mattress with plain grey sheets. He fell back onto the bed and covered his eyes with his forearm. It was mere moments before the fatigue took over his mind, and he was fast asleep.

He dreamt of Namek, but he had his tail again. He saw a deep ravine where he knew a dragon ball was hidden. He swooped down through the air and landed in the grass. Between himself and the ball stood a female figure with her back turned. It was her. Of course it was. It was always her. Bulma.

Her hair was back to its straight style, cut sharply at her jaw... just as he remembered her.

She turned slowly to look at him over her shoulder. Her bright blue eyes wide but dreamy, half-hooded under sky blue fringe. "Please," she pleaded. Her voice rang like a whisper through his mind yet her pink lips did not move.

"You know why I'm here, woman." he growled, but he didn't look at the dragon ball. Neither did she.

She turned to face him fully then, and slowly approached until her body was flush to his front. Her eyes never moved from his as she snaked her hand up his chest and around the back of his neck, the other she lifted to ghost over his bicep.