#Angst Born

[itsswritten]

Cauldron-born

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word Count: 1.7K

Summary: When an unexplainable energy pulls the Inner Circle to barge into the Day court, they're all shocked at what they find. But it's Azriel who can't help wonder if his dreams have finally been answered.

Part 2

“I hadn’t meant to hide this from you Rhysand,” Helion’s usual warm tone was replaced with something sterner, bolder— unwavering.

A breeze pulled on your skirt, the floaty material rippling under the wind. It was always warm in Day, but now, with the appearance of uninvited guests, there was a coldness in the air you hadn’t experienced before.

A bite that pulled at your skin raising goosebumps across your arms.

You guessed this reaction wasn’t a rare occurrence when facing the Night Courts Inner Circle.

Helion shifted his weight, his body stood in front of yours in a protective manner. A nervousness emitted from his energy, an emotion that actually seemed strange to even be associated with him. 

Helion wasn’t the nervous type. Charming and flirtatious, bold and defiant— not nervous.

Helion pushed his shoulders back, his stance flexing against the shadowy group that had just arrived. 

They had shaken him. 

Perhaps you were naive to think these people wouldn’t, naive to believe you could live your life quietly. Slip through the cracks. Go unnoticed. No you were not destined for that, as much as your dear friend may have wanted that for you.

So if a quiet life was not meant to be, then you would at least claim it as yours. 

With a light step you moved from behind Helion to his side, coming into full view of the group who had appeared unannounced in the courtyard. Your hand came to Helion’s gently, giving him a soft squeeze and light smile that stretched to your eyes.

How they had gotten through Day Courts shields didn’t come as a surprise really. Helion had divulged how powerful the High Lord of the Night Court was. That if he really wanted to take them all down, then Helion suspected in that unrelenting pit of power Rhys probably could.

But despite this power, Rhys had never ravaged control over the land. Helion was fond of Rhys and his family, they were allies. Perhaps he would even consider them friendly.

And yet Helion hadn’t told them about you.

Energies and rhythms rippling from their bodies, all with their own melody of colours unique to them floated toward you. Your eyes scanned over their features quickly, reading their expressions, the tight lines their faces made before one look pulled you to a hasty stop.

A hazel lock held you tightly as a males gaze ensnared you. 

Golden rays broke through a midnight blue aura, trapping you in a moment that seemed to expand and retract all at once. He was the most beautiful male you’d ever laid eyes on, and it took every ounce of will power to pull your gaze from his.

There was a simmering at the pit of your stomach, something familiar and warm, and you swore you could hear singing—

“She is like us.” A girl from the back of the crowd spoke, beautiful and sweet. Elain, you assumed. Her aura, one that resembled sunlight radiating in golden flicks. If you hadn’t known who she was you’d had assumed she was a Day court resident from her glow alone.

Elain stepped forward, another girl stepping beside her as if they’d both been pulled by the same magnetic pulse to the front of the group.

This girl. This girl was Nesta. You were sure of it. That silver flickering aura licked at her skin, an energy so similar and yet so different to her sisters.

“Hm..no not exactly like us…” Elain seemed to mutter, more to herself than anyone else. Her eyes scanning you as she tried to get a read, try and decipher what had pulled her here in the first place. 

Why you had pulled them here.

“Something other.” Nesta spoke.

You don’t think she’d actually intended for it to sound so venomous, but the words had snapped like poison. You noticed how for a split second there was a softeness in her energy. Whether she was regretful of her tone or not, you had flinched at the word.

Other.

Hm. Perhaps that was the best way to describe you.

Elain glanced at her sister, her face not changing as she digested Nesta’s words. There was a shuffling behind them, only slight and small. Would barely be noticeable if it wasn’t so hard for you not to notice.

Him.

His scarred fingers twitched at his sides, shadows swirling around them as they peered over those giant black membranes that were drawn in at his back. A tattoo creeped up the side of his neck, peeking through his shirt as you followed up to his jaw. Black leather’s covered his body, blue siphons shimmering under the setting sun. You tried so hard not to let your eyes wander back, but as though you had no control you gaze landed on his again. 

Only to find he was already staring.

Azriel.

Helion had mentioned him to you before and you recalled how you had rolled the name a few times in your mouth. The name feeling so foreign and familiar all at once.

“Not cauldron-made, no not quite.” Elain had turned her attention back to you.

You had stepped forward now, stepped out from the shadow of Helion.

Stepped out to face what you had been avoiding. 

“You are Cauldron-born.” 

✵

“Would you like to join us for some tea?” Your response had been after Elain’s heavy statement.

Your words coming out in a flurry to cut through the heaviness in the air. Despite being outside it felt stifling. Several eyes piercing into you. You could almost hear the way they were trying to decipher you— breakdown what Elain had said. 

You hadn’t allowed them the time. Quickly offering them tea, as you glanced at the small set up you and Helion had come to the courtyard to enjoy.

It was only a matter of moments before more furniture was erected and began the awkward silence while the piping pot of tea began to simmer to a cool.

Your hands were scrunched up in your skirt, fists full of fabric on your lap being an obvious tell of unease to those who knew what to look for. A strained smile was forced to your lips, expression light and brows arched in apprehension as you watched the uninvited guests silently take sips of tea. 

With a quick sideways glance you gave Helion a nervous smile, your lips wobbling as you took a sharp inhale. Helion responded with a gentle pat of your head, his large hand coming to ruffle your hair while a lazy smiled adorned his lips.

His energy finally shifting to one you recognised more, warm and teasing. He was relaxed again. Whatever shock the inner circle had originally caused, Helion now seemed...somewhat nonchalant.

That should have been reassuring, but the tension in your muscles didn't want to relax.

“This is y/n,” Helion finally spoke, addressing the people who had barged into his court. 

At the revelation of a name, the inner circle cast their attention solely on you. 

“These are my friends y/n, I’ve told you about them already. We had anticipated your arrival at some point,” he continued giving a knowing look to Rhys.

Your eyes scanned the expressions of the five people in front of you. 

Rhys, Amren, Nesta, Elain and of course Azriel. Not the whole inner circle, no there were members missing. But Helion had done such a great job at explaining them to you, that it really wasn’t difficult to figure out who was who.

“It’s l-lovely to meet you all,” you managed out, voice falling softer than you had hoped. Your own eyes gently moving across them all before flitting to the shadowy presence that remained stood behind the Night Courts High Lord. 

Azriel.

Spymaster and Shadowsinger of the Night Court.

You couldn’t seem to stop yourself from looking, among all the noise he sung the sweetest. His energy, amongst those swirling smoke coloured tendrils was the most beautiful display you had ever seen. Not the most powerful by any means, Rhysand and Helion’s outshone his aura in many ways but his was the most enticing— at least to you.

Composure wasn’t something Azriel usually lacked, but after hearing the softness of your voice fill the warm evening air he had to collect himself entirely.

From the moment he’d set his eyes on you, he couldn’t ignore the feeling in the depths of his chest. Maybe if you hadn’t been the cause of it, he’d have assumed there was something wrong with his heart. 

Azriel noticed the way your fingers nervously picked at your skirt, fists tight with the material as you sat up straight beside Helion. As if your posture would bring a confidence you were clearly lacking. 

He could sense it, your unease, nervousness. Picked up on it before even his shadows could whisper it to him.

Nervous, nervous, nervous.

He blinked them away. He already knew. 

Pretty. 

Another whispered. He already knew that too.

Pretty was putting it plainly though. You were breathtaking. 

Azriel wanted to reassure you. Comfort the anxiety he could tell you were drowning in. It was such a strange sensation, to feel this connection so deeply with someone he’d never met before, that Azriel couldn’t help but question why.

Azriel allowed himself to consider that perhaps something he’d been dreaming of for so long was finally his. 

That feeling, the ache in his chest you caused— was almost painfully lovely. He swore this was exactly how his brothers had described it to him.

Azriel found himself allowing the smallest curve spread to the edge of his lips, a gentle, secret smile. Just for you.

A smile that softened your own forced expression to something more relaxed and genuine. 

For a moment it felt as though it was just you two. The noise and vibrations of everyone else seemed to fade. An embrace of cobalt and hazel filling you with a warmth that felt so familiar.

“But Elain is correct. Y/n is cauldron-born.” Helion’s voice broke the trance you both seemed to be in.

Your nervousness from before simmering hotter.

“It cannot be,” Amren declared, disbelief tinging her tone as her gaze pierced into you.

“You think I lie?” Helion challenged. 

“How do you know for sure?” Rhys pressed back, an uncertainty in his tone.

“Because I know you all feel it too,” Helion’s voice was deep, a gleam in his eye as he turned to you proudly.

“She is the Mother’s daughter.” 

A statement. Even more bold than Elain’s settled a silence across the courtyard. This time it wasn’t stifling, their energy shifting to something of awe, admiration and then devotion.

In one quick movement a figure dropped to their knees. Head pressing to the cool stone ground.

Amren had bowed before your feet. 

And Amren bowed to no one.

a/n: Okay I know this a whole lot more of elusive-ness and I'm sorry, I just thought sharing this little bit more is better than nothing at all. I wanted to flesh this first out properly so here's the full part one! I've been so swamped with work and inspiration struck this evening so I quickly wrote this in my notes. I promise I will eventually finish it, even if it's just little updates here and there. I'm hoping maybe 2 more parts, so it'll be a nice little mini-series!

I also took it upon myself to try and tag everyone who commented and reblogged because you all seemed very invested so didn't want you to miss this installment even if it is tiny<3

Forever tags: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @milswrites @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @lilah-asteria

CB tags: @hannzoaks @je-suis-prest-rachel @awkardnerd @cleverzonkwombatsludge @faerieboismh @glitterypirateduck @paradisebabey @jesskidding3 @searchingforbucky @beardburnsupersoldiers @chubby-unicornz @toxicsociety17-blog g @sapphenaa @starsidesigh @kalistaangelsbane @bookishthoughtss @pit-and-the-pen

[dreamcubed]

you need to calm down | theodore nott x reader

song; you need to calm down [taylor swift] pairing; theodore nott x fem!muggle-born!reader genre; e2l, smut, angst word count; 5,9k timeline; subsidiary 8th year warnings; swearing, alcohol consumption, implied drug consumption, hook-up, drunk sex, piv, oral sex (male and female receiving), discrimination (muggle-borns), smoking, violence, blood, mentions of the war, arguments, yelling summary; after returning to hogwarts for a subsidiary 8th year to make up for the loss of 7th year due to the war, you are a completely different person, and muggle-born-hating theo finds himself obsessed with you

masterlist

"stressing and obsessing about somebody else is no fun."

MINORS DNI!!! 18+ content.

————————————————

In the time that the Second Wizarding War had been going on, you had been absent from Hogwarts, attending a muggle school under a fake name. Also in that time, you had changed significantly, partially to help your cover, but also because you had made muggle friends with similar styles and decided that you loved it. There were no uniforms at muggle college, so you were able to explore. These days you loved having black hair, having both your septum and nose pierced, and dressing almost entirely in black.

Your witch friends hadn't recognised you when you showed up at the Summer party you had received an invite to, after Voldemort was defeated and you were able to come out of hiding. The party you were attending was for seventh and eighth years— eighth year being introduced as a subsidiary for the education lost last year. Even most of those who had attended seventh year elected to return, as the final exams had never taken place, and what they had learned had been heavily rooted in the dark arts.

The party was booming, the walls of the massive house shaking with the sound of the music. You had consumed your fair share of alcohol, amongst other things, and had enjoyed catching up with everyone you had missed so dearly.

And that was when you saw him watching you.

Theodore Nott, a Slytherin boy in your year, who was from a wealthy pure-blooded family. A cigarette hung from his lips, and the smoke billowing around him sent a shiver up your spine. He was a sexy man, personality aside, and intoxicated you conveniently forgot about his attitude towards muggle-borns. Fuck, maybe he had changed?

He started approaching you, eyes raking up and down your accentuated figure, and he lingered a while on your fishnets. When he was close enough to talk, he said a simple statement, "I've never seen you before."

Theodore Nott hadn't changed. Not one bit. While he had never wished death upon muggle-borns like Voldemort, he had despised them— viewed them as lesser than he. He had seen you, laughing with your friends and seductively moving your hips, and assumed you were from the year below. You knew in that moment that he didn't recognise muggle-born goody-two-shoes Y/N L/N.

But, you were too drunk to ignore the red flags.

"No?" you murmured, "What are your first thoughts?"

He smirked, "I think I'm in for a very interesting night."

You chuckled, "I'll say."

His hands found your hips, and he began swaying with you to the music, which made you move your body closer to his. Even in the warmth of the room, the heat of his body hit you like an electric spark, coursing through you— straight to your core.

He moved even closer, his hot breath fanning against your neck as his hands moved round to your back. Then he lifted his head, his lips close to yours, and you let your eyes flutter shut as the kiss began. It was passionate: a hazy, powerful passion that had every hair on your body standing on end. His hands lowered to your ass, and squeezed, bringing a gasp from your lips, which he took as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth.

All of a sudden, he pulled away, only to whisper in your ear, "Wanna find somewhere more private?"

"Lead the way," you said breathlessly, and he took your hand in his.

Neither of you knew whose bedroom you had ended up in, but it was empty and had a lock on the door, so it was ideal. Sure, a little unlocking charm could get someone in, but hopefully they would realise what was going on inside if the door was locked.

Theo wasted no time in pressing his lips to yours again, pushing you back until you fell on to the bed, pulling him with you. He moved down to your neck, kissing and sucking in a manner that would definitely leave hickeys, before he returned to your lips. You tugged at his shirt, and he let you pull it over his head, revealing a toned chest and arms that had you drooling.

He smirked at your loss of composure and beckoned towards your shirt, "Your turn, miss."

This time, you smirked, and held up your arms to allow him to remove your upper body clothing. First your tight black mesh top, and then your bra, freeing your boobs for him to gaze at. "Look who's drooling now."

Your statement made him snap out of his shock: clearly the sight of your nipple piercings had been a new experience for him. He attacked your lips with a new fervour, then moved down to suck on your nipple and its barbell. Gasps escaped you at the sensation, and you arched your back up instinctively.

"You're so sexy," he stopped for breath, complimenting you, "How have I never seen you before?"

Your breath hitched, and for a moment the reality of the situation came back to you. Just as quickly, though, it left again, as he began work on your other nipple. It was a wonderful feeling, but you needed more, so you pushed him over until you were on top and began unbuckling his trousers.

His dick was big and thick, and you could tell by the glint in his eyes as he looked down at you that he knew and was proud. You shook your head, bringing your lips to the tip and pressing a gentle kiss. Your teasing didn't last for long, however, as you soon gave into the urge to take it into your mouth. He groaned deliciously in response, and you took that as your cue to lick a strip up the side as you began fondling his balls.

"Just like that, baby," he moaned, making you realise he hadn't even asked for your name.

You took him in your mouth again, this time going as far down as your throat would allow, feeling the urge to gag building up in you. His louder groans made the effort worth it, though, as you deepthroated him. Pulling away for breath, you looked up at him with doe eyes and said, "If I'm sucking your dick, you might as well eat me out." And with that, you pulled your tights and panties down, leaving only your skirt on, before sitting on his face assertively.

The action made him groan more, and you leaned down to continue work on his dick as you felt him find your clit almost immediately. His tongue ministrations had you moaning around his dick, making you begin grinding on his face out of reflex. If you weren't drunk, you wouldn't be nearly this shameless and forward.

To his credit, he ate you out like a man starved, and it wasn't long before the pleasure became so much you had to give up on his dick and give in to the sensation.

"Fuck, Theo, I'm gonna come," you moaned, and his movements only got quicker, until you felt your core tighten and then release. Your body convulsed as he rode you through the high.

Eventually, you got off his face.

"D'you have condoms?" you asked, knowing he hadn't yet finished and also that you weren't yet satisfied.

"Always." He reached for his trousers over the side of the bed and pulled a condom out of his wallet.

You took it from him, tearing the packet with your teeth whilst making eye contact, and carefully sheathing his dick. His breath hitched once you were done: the only warning you got before he got up and pushed you down on to all fours, lining himself up behind you. The push in wasn't difficult, since you were quite well prepared, but it was still sensationally tight for him.

"Fuck, baby," he grunted, pushing in the last couple inches, "You feel so fuckin' good. So wet for me."

In reply, you moaned, and he took that as his cue to begin moving.

He pushed up your skirt to slap your ass, leaving a red imprint on your cheek, before gripping your hips and picking up the pace. You became a mess beneath him, even more so when one of his hands snuck around to begin rubbing circles on your clit. The bedsheets were crumpled in your hands with how tight you were gripping them, but Theo didn't stop.

"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna-" he cut himself off with a grunt.

"Me too," you squeaked out.

"Come with me." The assertive way in which he said it had you falling apart yet again, and by the way his movements were becoming sloppy, you could guess that he was too. When he then collapsed next to you, you knew that your guess had been correct.

Turning to lay on your back, you let out a content sigh.

"You know my name," he said.

You chuckled breathlessly.

"Who are you?"

You shrugged, deciding that you had given yourself enough time to regain your composure and getting up off the bed to clothe yourself. "You'll see," you said as you pulled your final clothing item back on.

And, with that concluding comment, you left Theo speechless on a random bed of the host's house.

***

You told no one of that night, deciding that you didn't need to hear your friends say what a stupid idea it was for you as a muggle-born to fuck a pure-blood supremacist. You already knew that yourself, but that didn't stop you from dreaming about how his tongue felt against your pussy, or how his hands felt on your body. Merlin, it was the best sex that you had ever had, and it just had to be with someone who would never want you again after finding out the truth.

It was on the train to Hogwarts that you saw him next. Despite how excited you were to return to the castle after over a year, the anxiety of your next meeting with Theo had been consuming you. And, in a lit up train in your classic school uniform, you were a lot more recognisable than in the dark in your own clothes. Especially considering you were with your friend group.

You stared at him as he stood in the doorway of you and your friends' compartment, with Mattheo Riddle and Lorenzo Berkshire stood behind him. They were likely on the hunt for some younger years to belittle.

"Well, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes has certainly changed a lot, hasn't she?" Riddle chuckled from behind Theo, who was simply staring at you with widened eyes and a clenched jaw.

"Theo? Mate? You alright?" Berkshire asked, snapping his friend out of his daze.

"Yeah, yeah, fine," he said dismissively, "Let's go."

His friends appeared confused, but didn't question it.

Your friends, however, did.

"What the fuck was up with that?" your best friend, Elena, asked, "Is the man scared of a couple piercings or something?"

She didn't even know what she was saying when she said that, you thought to yourself, thinking back to his reaction to your nipple piercings. You simply shrugged at her, "He just hates to see a muggle-born succeed."

Everyone agreed with hums, and the conversation shifted to other subjects.

***

Theodore Nott had spent the last two weeks of Summer wondering what the fuck the mysterious girl he fucked at a party meant by, "You'll see," and then following that up with a wank using memories of you. But, in that moment, stood in front of you on the Hogwarts Express, where you were in better lighting and more recognisable attire, he felt the world crash down around him.

How had he fucked a mudblood? The one thing that was ingrained into his brain since childhood to never do? Ever? The worst part is, he hadn't just liked the sex, he had loved it. He had already had numerous wet dreams about your lips and your boobs and your ass. And now? Now he had to push all of that aside because he couldn't ever fuck you again.

He just couldn't.

"Theo- Earth to Theo," the voice of Lorenzo next to him brought him from his thoughts.

"What?" he snapped back.

"What's got you so worked up?"

Mattheo chuckled, "Can't you see him staring at mudblood L/N? I can't tell if you wanna kill her or fuck her."

That statement earned Mattheo a glare from Theo.

"Maybe both?" Lorenzo suggested, making them both laugh.

"Who was it again that you hooked up with at the party?" Mattheo asked before shovelling food into his mouth.

"He didn't say, remember? Said she never told him her name."

"It doesn't matter," Theo spat.

Lorenzo and Mattheo exchanged looks as realisation dawned on them, and they both slowly turned to Theo who was still glaring daggers in your direction.

"No, you didn't..." Mattheo said first.

Theo said nothing.

"You fucked a mudblood," Lorenzo stated, finishing Mattheo's thought.

"You didn't realise it was L/N," Mattheo continued.

"She'd changed a lot, okay?" Theo said angrily, "I thought she was from the year below or something."

His two friends began howling with laughter, meanwhile Theo sat brooding in silence at the Slytherin table.

***

Saturday rolled around, and you were relieved to be able to shed the school uniform and tug on your clothes that had become an important part of you. Thankfully, Hogwarts hadn't been too strict about your piercings, in fact you had even received compliments from some professors. But, honestly, the rules weren't all that strict since it was still a sensitive time with many grieving from the war.

The Summer weather was still lingering, and you basked in the sunlight as you walked down one of the open hallways, watching first years giggling amongst themselves as they played with their new magic skills. It brought a smile to your face, to see things returning to normal; you had missed Hogwarts dearly while you had been away, not knowing how long you would have to remain in hiding. You had even begun applications for muggle university— because, really, how could you have known whether it would be one year or ten before you could freely be a witch again?

You turned a corner, and in your drifted thoughts, didn't notice the person walking around the other way until it was too late and your shoulders had shoved against each other.

"Shit, sorry," you muttered, realising all too late that it was Theo. He was glaring at you, just like he had at every meal and every class you shared all week.

"Watch where you're going, mudblood," he snapped.

Rolling your eyes, you mumbled, "Wasn't a problem three weeks ago."

"Never speak of that," he said lowly, his voice threatening.

"Why? Annoyed sex with a mudblood was good?" you retorted, and then you found yourself pinned up against the wall.

"Watch your mouth, miss."

"Don't you mean 'baby'?" you smirked, relishing in the way his eyes darkened.

You almost missed the way his gaze flicked to your lips, but then he pulled away, refusing to look at you.

"Fuck you, L/N," he spat, storming off, and you watched in amusement with your back still against the wall.

***

Theodore Nott was livid. Absolutely livid. You wound him up in the worst way possible, only for him to try and scare you- fail- and then find himself wanting nothing more than to smash his lips on to yours. When you reminded him of the pet name he used while you were fucking, the blood in his body rushed straight to his dick: the feeling of his arms gripping yours and the close proximity had felt electric. Your very presence set him on fire in every single way possible.

He hated every second.

With previous hook-ups, he had hooked up a few more times with them until he had gotten bored and moved on to the next. Before he found out who you were, he had been planning on doing the same, and now the fact he couldn't was driving him crazy. He thought about you every minute of the day, every minute of the night, and- unfortunately- whenever his hand was wrapped around his dick. And, after his interaction with you in the hallway, he knew that he needed a good fuck from at least a half-blood, if not a pure-blood.

Yes, that was all it was, his body was desperate for sex and as you were the last person he fucked, his thoughts simply went to you first. That was all it was.

Definitely.

***

Potions lesson on Monday rolled around quicker than you would have liked, but it wasn't all bad, as Slughorn was a nice enough professor. You sequestered yourself next to your best friend, ready to begin the lesson. He had promised you all your first practical lesson today, and you were excited to use a cauldron again after so long.

The only real downside of the class was that Theo was in it, and he seemed even angrier (if that was possible) than he was last week. His eyes were pinned on to you like you had murdered his family. You shrugged it off, setting up the work station while Elena went to fetch the various ingredients that you required.

Meanwhile, Theo sat across the class from you, feeling incredibly frustrated. Saturday night, he had tried to fuck another girl, but he couldn't get himself hard until he imagined that she was you. And, even then, he couldn't finish. His imagination couldn't go as far as making her feel and act like you, after all. Now, all he knew, was that you were his enemy, and his remedy. And you had the audacity to act so calm and unbothered all the fucking time.

"Your obsession isn't healthy," Mattheo spoke from next to him, dumping the potion ingredients on the table.

"It's not an obsession."

"What is it, then?" his friend scoffed, "Love?"

Theo furrowed his eyebrows.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

Mattheo watched as Theo rose to his feet and began haphazardly chopping ingredients, the tiny knife taking the brunt of his anger.

"If it's affecting you so bad, just fuck her again."

"She's mudblood."

"It's not like you're impregnating her," Mattheo reasoned.

Theo sighed deeply, "It's not that simple. I've had it trained into me since birth that we don't associate with mudbloods."

"Well," Mattheo shifted on his feet, "Parents aren't always right."

"Since when did you sympathise with them?"

"I don't- I just," Mattheo muttered something inaudible to himself, and then said, "I don't want people to think I'm my father."

Theo said nothing.

"I'm just saying, mate, your mother's dead and your father's in prison for life— who gives a fuck what they think?"

"It's the principle."

"What even is the principle?"

"What would Draco think? Lorenzo? All of our friends?"

"Draco's not the man he was before the war," Mattheo said quietly. He knew better than anyone, being Draco's cousin, he had grown up with him due to his parents' absence. "I'm just saying. Maybe we should leave some beliefs in the past."

"You've gotten soft," Theo grumbled, "Just last week you were shitting on me for fucking her."

Mattheo shrugged, "Force of habit, I guess. I've just been doing a lot of thinking lately."

"That's rare."

"Shut up."

***

Truth was, despite all of Theo's dick behaviour and discrimination of your kind, you still found yourself waking up in a sweat thinking about his hands roaming your body. That goddamned Slytherin was the bane of your existence and the reason for your catharsis. He had diseased you, plagued you. He was a parasite that you couldn't get rid of, that was eating away at your sanity. What happened to your self respect? To your pride? You got fucked into heaven, that's what. And now your sexual urges were spreading like fire all throughout your bloodstream.

Wanking didn't feel the same anymore— your fingers didn't hold the electricity and passion that Theo's did. You craved him like a drug: and that's exactly what he was. He was something you shouldn't do, something that was bad for your health, but something that could have you seeing stars. Why did he have to be a blood supremacist?

But would it feel this intense if he wasn't? Maybe you two being forbidden, being star-crossed, was the reason that it made you feel so alive. You loved the fact he stared at you, even if it was with fury so powerful it made his whole body shake. It made you feel as if you had gotten to him the way he had gotten to you.

Just one taste of heaven had left you wanting to experience it a thousand times over.

"Get your shit together, Y/N," you cursed to yourself, forcing yourself out of bed.

"What was that?" one of your dorm mates asked.

"Nothing," you replied, "Just going crazy."

"Aren't we all?" she agreed.

***

"Party in the Slytherin dungeons tonight," Pansy stated to you one hellish week later.

You blinked at her, "And I'm invited?"

The girl nodded, evidently feeling awkward, "A lot of us are trying to- uh- make amends with mud- muggle-borns."

You raised an eyebrow at her near slip-up.

"Look- I'm- I'm sorry for how I treated you in the past," she said, actually appearing genuine, "It wasn't right."

"Um, thank you," you replied hesitantly.

"I know I don't speak for all the Slytherins, but a lot of us have done some thinking over the Summer," she continued, "We've lived in an echo chamber for too long."

That you agreed with.

"And, honestly, I think you're really cool- and I hope we can be friends."

You were taken aback by her words, never imagining that a pure-blood like Pansy Parkinson would be saying such words to you. But, maybe, forgiving her wouldn't be such a bad thing. "I... forgive you, I think," you said slowly, "I hope we can be friends too."

She gave you a small but warm smile, "Thank you. Will I see you there?"

You nodded cautiously, "Yeah, I think so."

"Great, uh, come say hi when you get there."

And with that, she disappeared, leaving you in a state of shock and confusion.

***

"Why are there so many mudbloods here?" Lorenzo asked irritatedly, sitting down on the sofa next to his friend group.

"Be civil, Enzo," Pansy gently scolded, "They're witches and wizards just like us."

"But they're not, though. Right, Matt?"

Mattheo shrugged slightly, "I'm with Pansy on this one, I think."

"See, Enzo? Even the Dark Lord's son agrees with me."

Mattheo grimaced at being reminded of who his father was.

"What about you, Theo?" Lorenzo asked.

But Theo wasn't listening, too busy glaring at you with his jaw clenched as you entered the common room, dressed up in an annoyingly similar way that you were back at the Summer party. Lorenzo followed his gaze, but he already knew where it would be leading to.

"Theo is not the person to ask," Blaise chuckled, appearing out of nowhere and sitting next to Theo, "I reckon he's about two interactions with L/N away from saying 'fuck it' and accepting his fate."

"What fate?" Theo snapped.

"The fate of falling in love with a muggle-born," Pansy said with a giggle.

"I'm not falling for her."

"Yeah, you just think and talk about her all the time," Draco, who had been quiet the whole time, spoke.

"Do you not have a problem with it?" Lorenzo asked Draco.

The blond boy shrugged, "I have a lot of regrets regarding muggle-borns. I don't want anymore."

Lorenzo groaned.

"Times are changing, Enzo," Pansy said gently, "I think you should change with them."

The man scowled and stormed off.

Meanwhile, you had finally spotted Pansy across the room, surrounded by the Slytherin boys— including Theo. You took a deep breath, deciding for the sake of a potential friendship you would have to bear it and fulfil her request of saying hi. You arrived at their group moments after you had seen Berkshire leave angrily.

"Uh, hi," you said to Pansy.

"Hi," her face lit up, "Have you got a drink? I'll get you one."

"Oh, thank you."

"It's no worries— make yourself comfortable," she then turned to the boys, "Play nice."

Mattheo raised his hands in mock surrender, but all Theo did was keep his eyes glued on to you.

Zabini shifted along the sofa, gesturing for you to sit in between him and Theo, which you cautiously accepted. The second you felt the warmth of Theo's thigh brush against yours, sparks jolted through your body, and you nearly jumped. You could have sworn you heard his breath hitch, too. This was the first time in two weeks that he wasn't looking at you, instead his eyes were trained ahead like he was retaining every ounce of self control within him.

"The sexual tension is suffocating," Mattheo remarked, standing up to go after Pansy.

His statement seemed to fuel the flame that you had desperately been trying to keep dim inside of you, and suddenly staying sat next to Theo seemed like an entirely impossible task. You were not nearly drunk enough for this. Thankfully, Pansy returned quickly with Mattheo lingering behind her, and she handed you a glass.

"Firewhiskey and coke," she said simply.

"Thanks," you accepted the glass, and downed the entire thing, "I'll get another one."

You left them all, hearing Pansy scold Theo for scaring you off, but you could still feel his eyes burning holes into your back. Just a couple more drinks and then you would join the dance floor, you decided.

And there you soon were, grinding up against a Hufflepuff boy with liquid courage flooding through your veins. You had just about managed to push Theodore Nott to the back of your mind, but you knew that it was only a temporary fix. This Hufflepuff boy was attractive, but he didn't set you alight.

"Someone's jealous," Blaise chuckled, watching as Theo glared daggers at the boy you were dancing with. Ever since you had joined the dance floor, he had been necking back drinks like his soul depended on it, and it just might. With every gulp, he was feeling more reckless and dangerous. "Accept it, mate, you're in deep."

Theo let out a sound that bordered on a growl.

"The only thing stopping you is yourself."

And as Blaise's words sank in, and the Hufflepuff boy appeared to be going in to kiss you, something snapped within Theo. In a flash, he was on his feet and taking large purposeful strides in your direction. Then, the Hufflepuff boy was torn from your side and being punched directly on the nose with such a force he toppled over. He didn't even get a chance to fight back as Theo continued to hit him, merciless in his moves.

You stood in shock watching the scene unfold before you. After what felt like forever, Mattheo and Lorenzo showed up, pulling Theo off the poor boy who had done nothing wrong.

"What the fuck was that for?" the boy yelled, blood pouring down his face.

Theo said nothing, glaring at him as he finally stopped fighting his friends' grip.

"You need to calm down, mate," Mattheo said sternly, digging his fingers into his friend's bicep.

"Theo." You said, unaware what your intentions were when the name slipped out of your mouth. Regardless, his eyes snapped to yours, appearing to soften slightly as he observed your fearful stance.

What was stopping him, really? Did the purity of his bloodline really matter to him that much?

"I think you two need to talk," Mattheo said firmly, "And I think one of you in particular- not naming any names- needs to get over his own bullshit excuses and give into what he wants."

Theo's bloodied hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you in the direction of the Slytherin dormitories. You didn't fight him, strangely feeling your fear slip away despite what you had just witnessed Theo be capable of. When you were stood in his empty dormitory, face to face, you knew that you would have to be the first to say something.

"You were jealous," you said it as delicately as you could.

He said nothing, not even looking at you. This made you angry— enraged, even.

"Fucking look at me, Theo!" you screamed, "You haven't had any difficulty with it all week— staring at me like I'm the shit on your fucking shoe!"

His eyes locked on to yours.

"If you regret fucking me, just say it!"

"I don't regret it," he said, his volume low but tone dangerous, "Everything I've been raised to believe wants me to regret it but I can't."

You stood, stunned at his confession.

"I need you like I need water, you're an itch I can't scratch," he was stepping closer to you, making you step back, "You make me feel fucking ecstasy and misery all at once."

Your back hit the wall, and he grabbed your wrist again, bringing it to press against his crotch.

"Do you feel what you do to me?" he said darkly, "I've never been so hard in my life."

You gulped, "I'm not just gonna be another of your bitches, Theo, so forget it." Even though you wanted it so bad, and you were dripping from your core.

"That's the thing, L/N," he chuckled sinisterly, "I don't think I could ever get enough. I don't think anyone else will be able to satiate me ever again."

You jaw dropped.

"I think..." he continued, "...that you're a drug I got addicted to after only one hit."

You closed your mouth, looking up at him expectantly.

"And I don't think I ever want to be sober from you."

"But, I'm a muggle-born-"

He cut you off by slamming his lips on to yours with such furious passion your mind became hazy as you eagerly returned the kiss, lifting up your arms to wrap them around your neck. For a moment, he pulled away, just to whisper, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't think I care. I think I just want you in every humanly possible way."

"Then have me," you murmured.

It became a blur as his lips crashed on to yours yet again, and he picked you up by your thighs with his blood stained hands, leaving imprints on your bare skin through your fishnets. He moved you over to his bed, kissing down your neck while he blindly reached for the hem of your top. He wasted no time in pulling it off, along with your bra, so he could continue kissing down your body.

You relished the sensation— savouring it— feeling like you were the only girl in the world. Theo was treating you with such roughness and yet such care, like he had tunnel vision for you and only you.

He pulled off his shirt, before moving down to pull down your skirt, fishnets, and panties all at once. You watched breathlessly as he dived into your leaking pussy and ate you out like a man starved. He groaned, murmuring, "I've missed this taste so fucking much," before continuing his ministrations, eliciting the filthiest moans from you that had ever been produced. This felt even better than the last time.

"You are my goddess," he licked up your pussy, "And my devil."

He began sucking on your clit, and your body felt as if it was lifting from the bed as your orgasm hit you like a shockwave, coursing through your body and sending you to places you had only brushed against before.

"Fuck, Theo," you moaned, "Please fuck me."

The man didn't need telling twice, unbuckling his belt and kicking off his trousers. He didn't waste any time going to his bedside table to grab a condom out of the drawer, tearing it open and pulling it on in record speed. You would have helped him, but your orgasm had you borderline paralysed.

And, then, he was lining up in front of you— for the first time in his life, all he wanted was to fuck missionary. He wanted to see your face (and your nipple piercings that had him drooling) and he wanted to see your expressions as you came undone below him. To him, this was the most intimate that you could get in sex, and he only wanted that with you.

He groaned louder than he had ever groaned when he let himself push inside you, knowing that no other pussy would ever feel as magical as yours. Knowing that he should never have even considered depriving himself of this for some stupid blood purity reasons.

"Fuck, baby, you feel fucking amazing," he breathed out. You reached your arms up, gesturing for him to come down closer to you.

Theo obeyed, kissing you as he began thrusting, while his bloodied hands explored every inch of you, leaving a trail as they went.

"I'd rub your clit, but I don't want to get blood there," he said through heavy pants. You couldn't help but let out a small giggle, moving your own hand down to aid yourself along.

Your moans increased tenfold, as did his pace, and it wasn't long before he was biting down on to your neck in order to contain the groans that were fighting their way out of him. Who would have thought that such plain love making could make him feel so on top of the world?

"Theo- I'm gonna come," you choked out, and the way his teeth sank deeper told you that he was going to as well. As you both reached heaven in unity, he gave up suppressing his moans, and gave you the most melodious earful that you had ever heard as his movements became sloppy and tingles spread through your veins.

Eventually, he collapsed on top of you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, stroking his hair gently as you lay in a post-sex haze.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, making your brain short circuit.

"You what?"

"I'm sorry for being a pretentious asshole."

A smile creeped on to your face, "So, is this just a sex thing, or...?"

"Fuck no," he snapped, "I need you all the time. You're mine."

"So, it's a girlfriend boyfriend thing?"

He froze, but then relaxed, and said into your neck, "Yeah, I guess it is."

"You guess?"

He sighed, "Well, you've ruined me for anyone else."

————————————————

masterlist

written; 07/04/2024 —> 08/04/2024 published; 10/04/2024 edited; —/—/——

[starry-bi-sky]

"Stillborn? No, no, still born." -- DPXDC AU

Based off a comment I saw where Bruce knew about Talia's pregnancy in the earlier comivs, and was ecstatic to be a father. So much so that Talia feared he'd give up being Batman for it, so when she gave birth she put the baby (Damian) on a doorstep and (seemingly) told Bruce that the baby was stillborn.

Instead of Damian, that baby was Danny! Meet Daniel Brown, the 14 year old foster kid whose been living with the Fenton family for the last two years. He's about two years older than Damian.

His last name, "Brown", was a generic surname given to him because the note he came with didn't have one on it. It just had the name "Danyal" on it, but albeit 'Daniel' was the one that had been put into the system for, I'll be totally frank here, racism reasons.

(I looked it up to make sure, and it's generally not permissible for foster parents to change the names of their foster kids even if it's a permanent residency, and for that reason Danny doesn't have the last name "Fenton".)

Danny's got ✨~issues!~✨ He's been through a handful of homes growing up, most of them terrible for a variety of reasons. Which has, as a result, left lasting scars. He's generally a very sweet kid, just very distrustful and jumpy. He's got the signs of a kid suffering from PTSD, and a handful of other issues including attachment and insomnia. His inferiority complex could rival Damian's, and that's going to make for an interesting mutual hatred for when they finally meet.

(something I'll get into later)

He still has the blanket he was found in. It's made of a very high quality material and is a beautiful emerald green with little golden thread accents, it's high quality as a result has Danny clinging onto a desperate hope that his bio family might be out there, and the only reason they gave him up was because of some outside factor. It's been taken a few times in old foster homes, and he's flipped out each time.

While he still calls Jack and Maddie by their names, he likes them well enough. The bar isn't that high though, and while they're some of the better foster parents he's had, "better" doesn't equal "safest". Their laboratory malpractice. Basically, C- Fenton Parents. They're negligent by virtue of being engrossed in their work, but they do care equally about Jazz and Danny. So he doesn't hold it against them that much.

He kinda prefers it that way, their loud affection is overwhelming and Danny doesn't know what to do with their attention, even if he craves it. It's a bit of a complicated situation.

They took in Danny because they genuinely wanted another child, but didn't want a big age gap between them and Jazz. It was actually Jack's idea to foster, and they discussed it with Jazz beforehand. She was all for the idea. Thus, a handful of weeks later, a ton of paperwork, and inspection later, and Daniel Brown entered their household with a trash bag in one hand and eyes like shards of stained glass.

His relationship with Jazz is kinda strained, but that's by virtue of her constant psychoanalyzing and helicoptering. Like with the parents, Danny's overwhelmed by the attention and also just, straight up doesn't like the fact that she's telling him that there's something wrong with him. He knows that, thank you. He pushes her away when she does this.

Other than that though? When Jazz isn't smothering him and is acting like an actual sibling and not a third parent, they're pretty close, and Danny really likes her. They've hung out a few times on their own volition, and Jazz showed him how to take better care of his long hair.

His school situation,, pretty similar to canon with the bullying, albeit with a few more instances of him blowing a fuse and lashing out against his attackers. He's a rather angry kid, but it's quiet. It builds up, piles on top of itself, until eventually, like a volcano, it erupts and burns everyone within radius.

Danny's got a fire core, not an ice core. Phantom's hair is made of white magma; thick and heavy, setting itself on fire when his anger runs hot. When he gets angry, his skin begins to char and split open to reveal pulsating lava underneath, and he crackles and pops like a raging forest fire.

I haven't decided yet on how he meets the batfam -- i've got two ideas but they're both in opposition to each other, and drastically alter how the rest of the plot goes. But I do know that him and Damian hate each other in the beginning. And it has nothing to do with inheritance or "being the blood son" -- although their blood relation absolutely plays the major role in their disdain for each other.

Simply put, they're jealous of each other for the same thing: thinking that the other was wanted.

Damian hates Danny because, unlike Damian, Bruce knew about Danny since conception and wanted him from the moment he heard about him. He had a whole nursery set up, and still does. He never took it down -- just locked the door. Damian was thrust upon Bruce without warning, and he feels like he forced himself into the family. And while on some level Damian knows and understands that Bruce wants him and loves him as much as his other children, that doubt and feeling of inferiority still remains. He looks at Danny and sees him with what Damian always feels he needs reaffirmed.

Meanwhile, Danny hates Damian because he looks at him and sees him with everything Danny's ever wanted. He hates him because Damian grew up knowing both of their parents, with one of them for most of his life, and then moved over to the other. There was never a moment where Damian was (seemingly) left to doubt his place within the family. Damian was raised with the very same woman who left Danny on a doorstep, with no clue to his identity beyond a little green blanket and a note with only a first name. Damian was wanted everywhere, and Danny was wanted nowhere. Damian is Danny's replacement in his eyes.

(It's the little revelation that Damian grew up with their mother that elevates Danny from being quietly envious of Damian to downright despising him. What did Damian do, that Danny didn't? He could live with Damian living with Bruce -- Bruce didn't know Danny was even alive. But him living with their mom? Are you fucking kidding him?)

Damian never outright attacks Danny physically, but it's not like he hides that he didn't like Danny. Meanwhile, Danny, in all his repressive anger, quietly despised him from a distance until finally one wrong snide side-comment has him blowing up and it becomes a screaming match. They're both just enough similar to each other that when they look at each other they really just see a mirror.

They'll work it out together, eventually. But it'll be ugly and cruel and explosive, and they'll start mending the bridge to become brothers in more than just blood relation in the end.

But yeah, stillborn Danny has... a lot going for him.

[marybatson]

the only reason I hc billy as an emancipated minor is literally just so that mary can still live with the bromfields and freddy can be fostered by the vasquez family. so rosa and nora have no actual relation to each other or have the rights to tell billy what to do but theyll pick him up for school and have extra bedding and a toothbrush saved for sleepovers and knuckle down his head (rosa) and fix his collar (nora) and. will pick up a household object and swing harder than any mlb player could trying to protect him faster than he can blink

[reefs-camp-blog]

sally and percy were always each other’s constants, they became a bit more distant once percy found out he was a demigod, but they were still each others firsts

then estelle was born

percy loves estelle so much, so much it physically hurts

but he sees estelle and how happy she is, how she had a mom that doesnt work the night shift nearly every night and instead is home nearly all the time, and she has a dad that’s present and there and is safe and percy is so so happy that she has what he never did

but at the same time he knows thats the exact reason why it hurts

estelle has what percys wanted his whole life

and now estelle has the only thing percy had his whole life

being his mothers first and top priority

he knows why, he understands why, estelle is a baby and needs to be cared for constantly, and percys nearly 18 and doesnt need his mom all the time anymore

but it hurts because all the food is no longer blue, it hurts because he sees estelle grow up and get help, it hurts because he sees estelle with the life he always wanted, but knows he will never had

and it hurts because hes no longer his mother’s constant.

sally has paul now, she has paul to help her through her issues and she has a child that doesnt get expelled from every school shes been in

and percy has his family. but its not the same. annabeth has always been there, but she doesnt understand, thalia has been through the same childhood as percy but she doesnt know what its like to watch the bad go to good in the same household, grover has always listened but he just doesnt understand

because hes happy estelle has the life he always wanted. hes glad his mother has the life she always wanted. but hes not in that life. because hes moving out soon. and hes no longer his mothers son, at least not in the way he was before

[thebabblingbrookenook]

Okay, I know it has been a few days, but I needed time to digest how it made me feel. Your writing always soaks in, and I end up heavy with it for awhile. I mean that as the highest of compliments. Bear with me as I clumsily try to express how this upended me.

Immediately, you start with a progressing sense of hopelessness. All they had to cling to from the night before was the hope that Benedict’s fever would be broken by the morning. Anthony was sure of it. And then the morning came, and he still burned. Slowly, but surely, you can feel the people around him starting to relinquish their hope over to despair. Sophie refusing to let them bleed him - I’m assuming not wanting to add unnecessarily to his suffering. The doctors admitting they were out of solutions. All of his loved ones placing his fate in God’s merciful hands. That’s how you know when most people have reached the end of their own hope. They turn to God, desperate to borrow some of His. You did such a good job of setting up the emotional landscape of this chapter all within the first paragraph. Very impressive.

Out of all of them, Anthony is definitely the least willing to start accepting the possibility of a morbid outcome. I’m loving the war you are depicting within him. It’s exhausting, and slightly manic. It sets him a part from the other characters. I think it lends to the fact that we are mostly experiencing these events through his lens. Not always - you do lace in moments of Sophie and Eloise - but I feel most tethered to Anthony through it all. It’s a bit like strapped to lightning, but I’m with him nonetheless. He would be the family member in the ER that required a direct and blunt delivery when the doctor has to notify the death of a loved one. Say it. Just say it. He won’t stop until he hears the final word.

I only made it a few paragraphs in before I started sobbing. That letter to Kate... It was my undoing. The faith, love, and trust he has for her. The way there was no shame in his declaration - Come to me, I need you... 😭😭😭. The knowledge that she is on her way to him seems like the only thing keeping him afloat. He won’t be able to crumble until she’s there to hold him up. And THANK GOD he stressed the importance of getting Violet getting there. I didn’t think I was going to make it much longer without her knowing how severe this was. Benedict, a grown man with his own child on the way, just wants the comfort of his mother.

You transitioned seamlessly into a striking parallel between Anthony’s vice grip on his emotions and Sophie’s snapped, unraveled release of her own. I could almost feel the panic humming through his body as Anthony recognized her decent, knowing his own hinged on Benedict’s labored breathing. But even though he feared the kind of emotional turmoil she had succumbed to, he went to her. He didn’t shy away. His instinct was to comfort, despite his own discomfort. That is why I love Anthony as a character so much. He puts up an impressive wall around himself, but in the end... the goodness... it can’t be hidden.

All these small little details that you slip in there are my favorite! The fact that Sophie has silently pledged to herself that she never wants to appear weak in front of Anthony was stunning to me. It makes so much sense to me with what I have gleaned of her personality in the books. He has already done so much for her. And she reveres his steadfast strength and stability. The respect she has for him is beautiful. Especially because it seems like the qualities that Sophie so easily observes tend to be looked over by those closest to him. They don’t have years of baggage causing space between them. So when she looks into his eyes - eyes normally hard guarded from emotion - and she sees her own fears reflected back at her, she instantly puts away her worry of being weak in front of him. She falls apart for the both of them. The trust is beautiful and layered. 

And then... THE BOMB! She’s pregnant. This is the part where I started to remember that I should be mad at you for putting me through this. I was to caught up in the beauty of their relationship dynamics and then you bitch slapped me with the possibility of a reality so bleak that I nearly doubled over. The pain in my stomach never eased after this revelation. Oh gosh, and then Anthony’s reaction to the news. It feels like there is someone standing on my chest. The memories of his mother, pregnant and utterly wrecked with grief, just took him over. “It brought him to his knees in front of her, eyes wide as he gazed into a future that was also his past.” - God, Eleanor, that was gorgeous. Wrapped around my mind in silky waves - gorgeous. The imagery of him lowering himself before her, bringing them to a place where they are equals... To a place where she is FAMILY. She is under the safety of his wing. Fuckkk... She isn’t a maid who married his little brother, and now found herself in debt to him. No. She became his sister in that moment. She became someone that he would protect at all costs. She transformed into a young Violet, and he would give his life to prevent history from repeating itself with his brother’s love. His brother who looked so like his father... Guuuuuhhhhhhh- I CAN’T BREATHE!

“The thought ignited something desperate, nearly angry in him. Magic or no, fate would not wrench his family apart again. Whatever it took, whatever he could give of himself to prevent or mitigate a tragedy, he would do it. He would not watch Sophie wither as his mother had. He would not hold Benedict’s child the way he had held Hyacinth, cries echoing around an empty nursery devoid of either parent. Grief had nearly taken his mother and left his family with scars that would never fully heal. It wouldn’t run its cruel game over the Bridgertons again. He would not let sorrow swallow them all whole.” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💔💔💔💔💔 Whyyyyy, Eleanor?! Whyyyyy? His fingers grip hers and he all but claims her as something that he refuses to lose. This man.... He DEMOLISHED any doubts that still plagued her, and she felt truly protected. Drenched in phileo love. Damn it, Eleanor. 

Man, this story has me all over the place emotionally. I went from writhing around in beautiful pain to reeling from Sir Phillips arrival. Hope crept back in as his presence filled the room. Even though Anthony has a mistrust for him right now, that hope still made itself known. Perhaps leaving Benedict in God’s hands was the best place for him to be. Maybe Phillips arrival was divinely orchestrated. A mending that they have all been praying for in some way or another. Eloise needs a partner who sees and understands her needs differently that from the eyes of a brother. She needs comfort that Anthony and Sophie can’t provide. She also needs reassurance from their previous fight. She needs to seem someone not so easily chased away by her challenging willfulness. Anthony needs to see that his sister will be cared for by a man worthy of her. He needs to let go and pass on a piece of his heart. They all need the freshness of his offer to help Benedict. They needs something else to reach out for. And he came just in time. I love the way he handled himself with all of them. You were even able to stitch in his own painful past, and how that allowed him to come to their aid today.

The image of Sophie pleading with Benedict to drink the tea was perfection. Whump gold. And Philip helping her lift him up so that they could coax his sips more easily. Yes. Yes. Yes. I also enjoyed the thirst trap moment of Plant Daddy rolling up those sleeves and getting down to business.

The POV change up going into this next part was really nice. Seeing the Bridgertons from Phillip's perspective was interesting and somewhat of a reprieve the intensity of their raw emotions. He was so respectful and intentional about every word he said, and every move he made. The longing he has for Eloise makes my heart flutter. He just wants to be there for her. I think he wants to SEE her. I liked the observation he made about how he had never actually seen her cry. And he was so tuned in with her every micro-expression, looking for a way back into her affections.

Another thing that was nice about seeing through Phillip's lens was watching how the interaction between Anthony and Eloise played out. Phillip loves El, but he also has some knowledge of what is like to be in Anthony's position. The fact that we, as readers, get to absorb his observations of the surroundings, really hits it home how much stress Anthony is under. Just like Phillip saw the same gestures in Eloise that clued him in to how she was feeling, he is also seeing Anthony in the same light. He is seeing how haggard he looks. How close to his breaking point he truly is now. He sees the pinching of his nose, and the slump of his shoulders resting on his knees. She sees a brother hanging precariously on to his last strand of patience, trying desperately not to snap on his baby sister. But he also sees a man trying to outrun his own emotional storm. I liked that Phillip, or at least it felt like his lens, even clocked that Eloise ignored Anthony's clear pleading for the conversation to stop. Even though he loves her, he can still see the flaws. He can still see the places where she is selfish and stubborn. He can still see the places where she fails to yield to mercy, instead running full speed into her own self-indulgence. Anthony needed her to stop. It was too much. I think I was actually a little upset with her for this. I know she was just trying to process her own fears and anxieties, but does she not see her brother? Does she not hear the pain in his voice? Is she so willing to force him to endure more suffering, just to continue to hear the sound of her own voice as she outwardly processes? Getting up to leave was the only thing left for Anthony to do at that point.

The moments of Eloise and Phillip alone together after Anthony made his departure were so sweet, and very satisfying. It felt good to see El getting to know her heart a bit better. She is slowly letting him in. I think she is realizing, that while she is capable of doing so many things herself, she doesn't always want to have to. And having Phillip there to lean on is a reminder of that. He knows she is capable, but he wants to be her place of refuge when the storm gets to be too much the weather alone.

Sophie is exactly where she needs to be. Not even Anthony could get me to leave Benedict's side at this point. I would need to be curled against him at all times. Feeling the warmth of his body, the rise and fall of his chest. Even if he never got better, I would make sure that I was there holding him until his lungs pushed once last breath over his lips. I would want to know that he was held to the very end. And the idea of her sitting next to him, placing his hand on her belly, possibly the only time their child would know it's father's touch... Just let the sobbing commence. Ever since I saw Pearl Harbor as a child, this death bed pregnancy scenario has lived rent free in my brain.

Rounding this out nicely, throwing us back into Anthony's POV, was a good call. Again, I think it really highlights how alone he feels in this. He has so many moments of solitude, sitting with his own cruel inner voice. A voice spewing accusations of ineptitude. Taunting him with his shortcomings, and convincing him that he would not be enough to carry his family through a tragedy of this magnitude.

I cannot wait to see what you have planned for the 4th chapter. My heart is begging for a united family. I trust your vision with this, even if that vision lands me 6 feet under, laying next to Benedict. As long as you keep pouring out these gorgeous sentiments and emotional complexities, I will endeavor to endure.

Willow Bark - Day 3: An Arrival

Rated: T, whump and angst Word count: 5.6k

Day 2 Masterpost

No more summaries, so as not to spoil!

By late morning the next day, the fever had not broken and the medicine had done nothing to improve Benedict’s condition. Dr. Crowe and the village surgeon were jointly called back to the house to examine him. Their theories on his malady differed, with the surgeon suspecting that it may be brain fever. When Sophie refused to let them bleed him again, they were in agreement that there was nothing more they could offer. He was in God’s hands.

At Benedict’s bedside, Sophie brought his palm to her cheek and refused to look at the physicians. Eloise sank silently into a chair. Anthony stuttered, eyes wild, all but accusing them both of malpractice. He would seek another opinion, someone far more qualified from the city. He practically shoved them both out the door and began to pace at the foot of the bed, rambling. They were country hacks who didn’t know what they were talking about. He would have the best London doctor brought to sort everything out. There was still more to be done. This was not the final word.

As he strategized aloud, Sophie smoothed Benedict’s hair back from his white forehead. She didn’t protest or say anything at all. She nodded at Anthony but her eyes were such bottomless wells of grief and pity, it was clear she had no faith in his plans.

Shaking with adrenaline, Anthony stalked into the study once again and dashed off two hasty letters. One to his solicitor, instructing him to dispense any amount of money necessary in order to send the best doctor post haste. The other was to Kate, his heart pounding and fingers trembling as he wrote: 

En katal, 

I would not ask this of you if I did not know you were the most capable. Please tell the family, Mother in particular, that they must come now. There isn’t an hour to waste. I need you.

-Anthony

How many messengers were in the area, especially considering he had sent one off the day before, Anthony didn’t know. And how quickly they would be able to rush to the city through the interminable sheets of rain, he couldn’t guess. But he growled at Benedict’s beleaguered footman to do everything in his power to send them out and promised the man a financial reward. Then he moved in a circuit up and down the hall outside the bedroom door, assuring himself that help would arrive, that all would be well.

---

The day progressed with a kind of muffled lethargy, a thickness to the air and a slowness of movement with no one knowing where to situate themselves or what to say, but they all stayed congregated in Benedict’s room. The passage of time became impossible to contend with. Should they desire the hours to pass more quickly so that the fever might inevitably break? Or should they try to stop time altogether and stay in these moments before a darker turn occurred? They stood in silence, each tuned into the cadence of Benedict’s labored breath, each refusing to abandon hope and none of them wanting to be the first to acknowledge what they may be facing.

The relentless rain continued as the daylight faded into dusk. Anthony sat watching Eloise kneel next to Benedict, cooling his brow and neck with a cloth. Sophie stood between them, biting the nails of one hand with the other wrapped around herself. Her eyes were sunken, her frame withered. She was growing as pale as Benedict and starting to look skeletal. The thought occurred to Anthony that he had not seen her eat anything since he had arrived.

Before he could encourage her to address the matter, she suddenly spoke. “Did Ben ever tell you how we met?” Her voice was brittle but a small smile tugged at her lips as she looked down at her husband. “The second time.”

Eloise looked back. “It was at the Cavenders.”

“Yes,” Sophie nodded, smiling as she relished the memory. “We were both…escaping. He found me and gave me a ride to safety.” Then her face fell again. “We were caught in the rain and he came down with a fever. I took care of him. I don’t know why he’s so prone…” Her voice trailed off as tears began to brim in her eyes.

Anthony perked up. “What helped last time?”

Sophie shook her head, shrugging helplessly. “Just a night’s rest. It was only a few hours. This has been days.” Her voice cracked again and she started to tremble as tears began pouring down her face. She gasped, fighting for each word as she started to reel and babble. “I don’t know what…I don’t…I can’t…”

She was breaking. At last she had reached the end of her strength and feigned confidence. As he watched her Anthony saw the terror, the void of despair which was all too familiar to him. He had been to that place before and knew its overwhelming, inky grip. He rose and moved to her.

“Sophie,” He wrapped a steadying arm around her shoulders. She crumpled against him, heaving raggedly, unable to catch her breath, her eyes darting behind her endless tears. 

Eloise watched them with concern and shared a wordless exchange with her brother. “Go. I’ll look after him.”

Anthony nodded tightly then steered his sister-in-law out the door and down to the sitting room. She leaned into him, grateful for the guidance, and lost herself to the panic that was tearing through her veins. She didn’t have the fortitude to fight it anymore and part of her wondered if she even should. This seemed the appropriate response to the news she had received that morning. She had done her best to restrain her feelings this long and now they demanded to be heard. 

Anthony sat her in a chair and she continued to tremble, crying wretchedly. He kept a hand on her shoulder. “Sophie, you must remain calm. That is what Benedict needs from you right now. That is what we all need.”

Gulping through her sobs, she looked up at him. Even with the shared grief in his eyes he seemed so steady, so sure. She admired the Viscount for the many ways in which he provided for his family, including for Benedict and herself, and she had never wanted to appear vulnerable in front of him. It was enough that he had accepted her, a bastard maid, into his family when most other gentlemen would have exposed and banished her from their tier of society. Now that she was a Bridgerton, she had vowed to prove herself worthy of his name and his gracious support. But in this moment, he shared the cause of her weakness and she felt compelled to confide in him.

 “I can’t lose him, Anthony.”

His lips tightened into a line as he clenched his jaw. “He will recover. I know that he will. He is strong.” It sounded like a recitation, a dogged insistence that if he said it enough times it would manifest.

As her sobs dried to shuddering breaths Sophie inhaled deeply, locking into his eyes until he could see something desperate in hers. “Anthony…I am with child.”

He froze. If there was one thing that could make this situation even worse than it already was, surely it was this. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but Sophie wasn’t showing any indication of her condition. Benedict’s words echoed back to him, his desperate plea for Anthony to take care of her. The urgency of his request made even more sense now, though he hadn’t mentioned…

“Does he know?” He tried to keep his voice calm.

Sophie stared at her lap and nodded, wiping tears from her cheeks. She began to ramble again but devoid of energy, her voice was faint. “I can’t…I don’t know how your mother…” Buried within her fear he detected a layer of sympathy. “Anthony, I’m so sorry. I don’t want anyone to go through this again.”

He nearly stumbled backward. She saw the parallel, but he hadn’t until she spoke. He instantly remembered his mother, heavily pregnant and running across the lawn at Aubrey Hall on that black day; heard her wailing in the stairwell as the maids tried to calm her for the sake of the baby; saw the utter despair in her eyes as she endured her labor without her husband by her side. History was threatening to repeat itself, to grow into some kind of curse he could not escape.

It brought him to his knees in front of her, eyes wide as he gazed into a future that was also his past. He recited the words again though there was no conviction in them. “We wo…we won’t. He won’t... It will be alright.”

Sophie stared off over his shoulder, her sunken eyes misted over. After a moment she spoke, her voice hollow. “He is my soul. I will die.”

Anthony shuddered. How many times had Benedict used that same phrase? Claiming that he and his wife shared a soul. It was what he had lobbed at Anthony when justifying his reasons for marrying outside their class. It was what he had said in his toast at their wedding. It was a well-worn declaration Benedict fell into when the brothers had too many drinks together. Anthony had always written it off as his brother’s typical dramatic flair, his poetic temperament run amok. But now his wife was before him, asserting the same in their darkest hour when there was no space for hyperbole. It was enough to make him consider that it may actually be true. That there may be a level of magical connection between Benedict and Sophie that he couldn’t perceive or understand.

The thought ignited something desperate, nearly angry in him. Magic or no, fate would not wrench his family apart again. Whatever it took, whatever he could give of himself to prevent or mitigate a tragedy, he would do it. He would not watch Sophie wither as his mother had. He would not hold Benedict’s child the way he had held Hyacinth, cries echoing around an empty nursery devoid of either parent. Grief had nearly taken his mother and left his family with scars that would never fully heal. It wouldn’t run its cruel game over the Bridgertons again. He would not let sorrow swallow them all whole.

He snapped to attention, gripping Sophie’s hands in his own, his eyes burning. “You will not! You will not, do you hear me?” His tone was commanding, harsh even, but he didn’t care. “You will not lose yourself in grief. I will not allow it. It was a lesson hard-learned for me, but this kind of pain is the price we pay for love.” He wound his fingers between hers. “I will not lose any of you.”

In that moment, cutting through her shroud of woe, Sophie felt for the first time in her life a novel sense of protection. Something she had longed for throughout her wretched childhood and despaired of ever finding. Someone who would shoulder her with the guidance and care of a father; a brother. The fierceness of Anthony’s grip and the fervor in his eyes left no room for doubt. She stared back at him, stunned.

The silence was suddenly broken by the footman appearing in the doorway.

“Mrs. Bridgerton, there is a Sir Phillip Crane here to see you.”

In the entry hall Anthony and Sophie found Sir Phillip dripping with rain. He brushed the droplets from his eyes with one hand while the other grasped the handle of a valise. He bowed to each of them in turn.

Anthony’s brow furrowed. “Sir Phillip. What are you doing here?”

Phillip glanced cautiously between them. “I went to Aubrey Hall and was informed of Mr. Bridgerton’s condition. How is he?”

The last time Anthony had seen this man, he had caused his sister to storm off in a fury and he still did not know the reason why. Despite Eloise’s mercurial nature, he would of course always lay the fault at her suitor’s feet before laying it at hers. He clasped his hands behind his back and stuck his nose in the air. “I don’t know that it’s any of your concern.”

Phillip retracted into himself, bowing his head. “Of course. I wanted to apologize to Eloise. But focusing on your family is the top priority.”

Anthony stared down at him, his voice clipped. “It is.”

Sophie had no patience to deal with the tension between these men, whatever its origins. It was unlikely that the mere desire for a conversation had spurred their visitor to travel through the rainy night. She kept her tone gentle, letting him know he was welcome in her home. “Sir Phillip, what is that you are holding?”

Phillip tore his eyes from Anthony and seemed to remember himself. “Mrs. Bridgerton, if you will allow me to impose myself. I came here to offer help to your husband, if I could.” He gestured toward the valise.

“Do you know something of medicine?” Her voice edged on desperation but she didn’t care.

Phillip shrugged. “As much as a botanist would. I have brought medicinal herbs. I am sure that a doctor has prescribed his own treatment, but I only sought to help.” His piercing blue eyes were impossibly kind. It seemed that Eloise had found herself a fiance with a pure heart.

Sophie felt a spark of hope flicker within. A practical stranger, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and ask him to assuage all her fears. “The doctor has said there’s no more to be done,” she rasped, biting her lip as new tears formed.

A haunted look passed over his features. “I am sorry…”

“Please,” Sophie spluttered, moving forward and taking him by the arm. She had nothing left to lose and his arrival seemed too serendipitous to question. “Please come see him. You must try.”

Fully ignoring the flustered, angry look on Anthony’s face, she pulled Phillip through the house and up to the bedroom where Benedict and Eloise waited.

When they opened the door, Eloise leapt to her feet at the bedside. “Phillip!”

Dragged along by Sophie, he couldn’t pause for a polite introduction. He tried to convey as much apology and concern as he could through his eyes alone and nodded at her. “Eloise.”

“What are you doing here?” She glanced between them all, Anthony marching grumpily at the rear.

“He’s going to help Benedict.” Sophie said with a new strength in her voice. It was clear she would brook no further questions or protests. 

Anthony and Eloise huddled near the wall as Sophie and Phillip spoke in hurried, hushed tones, leaning over the bed. Sophie shared everything the doctor and surgeon had told her while Phillip felt Benedict’s forehead, his neck, his fingers. He looked into his eyes and timed his pulse all while he lay feverish and unresponsive. He tried to hide from Sophie how his own hands were shaking, overcome with memories of the last time he sat at a fevered bedside, some of the darkest days of his life. But she was so focused on her husband she didn’t seem to notice.

They called the maid to bring hot water, muslin and a tea set. Phillip stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves as he began to sort through his valise, calling upon every lecture he had attended and study he had read which may be of help in this situation. With the supplies laid out before him on the bedside table, he gathered two fistfuls of dried flowers.

“Mrs. Bridgerton, can you make a poultice?”

“Yes.”

“Here,” he laid the herbs on a strip of muslin.  “Meadowsweet and yarrow. Place it on his chest. If this is a lung infection the permeated compounds may help.”

Working quickly, Sophie ground the flowers into the cloth, wrapped them and soaked them in the pitcher of hot water. Then she laid the bandage across Benedict’s chest and pressed it into his skin.

Beside her, Phillip produced another odd looking herb from his case and began to crush it into the teapot. At this, Anthony stepped forward.

“What is that?”

Phillip glanced over his shoulder. “Willow bark. A professor of mine claimed it could break fevers.” He wouldn’t tell the Viscount about his prior attempted use of the cure or its outcome. He still had faith in his professor’s hypothesis and had seen literature to support his claim. This was the plant in Phillip’s collection that held the most promise, regardless of what had occurred before.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Crane.” Anthony practically growled at him.

“Anthony…” Eloise’s cautioning voice behind them made Phillip’s heart flutter with gratitude but he couldn’t escape the Viscount’s steely glare.

He found himself stuttering. “Nothing should cause him any harm, I only…”

When Eloise’s hand closed around Anthony’s arm he stepped back. If he was willing to do anything to help his brother, that included having faith in someone else’s ability to provide a solution, whoever that person may be. Dr. Crowe had been of no help and there was no guarantee his letter to the solicitor would send anyone else. His methods had failed and he needed to stop interfering while someone else took the lead. He didn’t like the thought of placing Benedict’s fate in the hands of Eloise’s suitor, a man whose character they hardly knew, much less his credentials to be feeding medicines into a member of their family. But it was the only option available now. There was nothing else to be done.

“I know,” he cast his eyes down in apology. “I am sorry. You are here to help. Excuse me.” He had to remove himself before he interjected further. Watching Benedict lay so limply as a stranger picked over him was stoking something defensive inside and he couldn’t bear it any longer. Without another word, he turned and left the room.

Eloise remained, transfixed as Phillip worked with quiet care to brew the willow bark tea. When she had last seen him in the gardens at Romney Hall, she had snapped in his face, fled his presence and began contemplating whether their relationship should continue any further. Now, adding to the unresolved confusion in her heart, she could not have been more grateful to see him. She could never have anticipated that he would make the journey to Benedict’s home upon hearing that he was ill. She remembered her brother’s assurance from the day before. Deeds, not words. She felt something spreading through her as she watched him helping her brother, a steadiness that made her feel less unmoored in the gloom of their situation.

Together, Sophie and Phillip pulled Benedict to sit up against the pillows. Sophie sat beside him as Phillip handed her a cup of tea and she brought it to her husband’s mouth. 

“Benedict my love,” she whispered. “You must drink.” She held his head with one hand and tipped the cup slowly with the other. Mercifully, the tea passed his lips and he did not cough. He swallowed it gently, guided by some level of instinctual consciousness. “Very good,” Sophie sighed, something hopeful lighting her features. 

Patiently and carefully, Sophie fed Benedict two small cups of tea as Phillip kept a watchful eye, replenishing the drink. When Benedict fell back against the pillows with a rattling breath and Phillip confessed that these were all the remedies he could offer, Sophie thanked him with a small smile then turned back to watch her husband. Phillip left his supplies where they were. There was nothing to do now but wait and see if the herbs made any difference. This too he was familiar with, the waiting game of indeterminate length, indeterminate hope. He had played his part and now the tenor in the room was intimate and somber, no longer a place for him. 

He turned and found his eyes meeting Eloise’s. She was staring at him intently, her expression unfathomable. He wanted nothing more than to take her somewhere private and gather her in his arms, to prostrate himself with apology and beg her to remain his betrothed. But this was not the time. Not when her brother was lying beside them battling for his life. It would be inappropriate for them to be alone together and the last thing he wanted was to incur more ire from the Viscount who was unsurprisingly even more raw with his emotions under their current circumstances. An unspoken agreement passed between them to grant Sophie and Benedict their privacy. He took Eloise lightly by the arm and walked with her to the sitting room where they found the Viscount, hunched with his elbows on his knees, head hung low.

They sat on a sofa across from him and respectfully distant from one another. Phillip desperately wanted to comfort his intended, even to just hold her hand. But not only was that out of the question with her brother watching them, he didn’t know if she would allow such advances anymore. He sat in indecision, unsure if he was welcome to stay or if his presence was scorned. Fortunately, the Bridgertons spoke about more pressing matters as if he wasn’t even there.

“Anthony, did you write to Mama?” Eloise’s voice was uncharacteristically unsteady.

“Yes. I have twice.” The Viscount pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly exhausted. “She will be here as soon as she can, I’m sure.”

“What if…” Eloise halted. Phillip could see the tears rimming her eyes, glinting in the low firelight. It suddenly struck him that he had never seen her cry. “I don’t know if…Do you remember? In the days after Papa…”

Anthony’s head snapped up and he shot her a threatening stare. “Eloise, now is not the time to talk about that.”

But she ignored him, struggling to find words, clearly insistent on recalling something important. “Benedict was always there, don’t you remember?”

Anthony continued to glare at her, his jaw locking, tears threatening his eyes too. 

“Those days are a bit of a blur, Eloise.” He ground out.

Still she did not heed his obvious entreaty to stop. Instead she looked between them both, something of a pained smile contrasting with the sadness in her eyes. “He took care of us. All of us. He read us stories and played games when you were busy and mother was…ill. He taught me how to shoot.”

“He what?” Anthony spluttered. “It was a slingshot.” Eloise shrugged innocently.

Eager to provide even a moment of levity, Phillip joked. “Ah, so we have him to thank for that.” The mystery of Eloise’s prowess with a pistol was at last solved.

Her faint smile gave him a sliver of hope. “Yes, he made sure we were occupied. Something to distract us from our tears. Though he took care of those too.” Then she turned to look into the fire, despondent, her voice falling to a whisper. “Now he’s the one…”

With that, the Viscount snapped out of his seat and unceremoniously stormed out of the room, leaving them alone. 

They sat in silence, staring after him. Though he remained somewhat terrified of the man, Phillip had empathy toward him. He knew how much weight rested on titled shoulders, and he knew what it was like to worry for a brother, but he had never juggled both pressures simultaneously. Indeed, in his life one had consequently resulted from the other. By all rights he should have been eager to leave the house, to get away from the kind of gloom that he had hoped to relegate to his past. But he found he did not want to go. Not when Eloise was there. She was why he had come, and she was why he would stay. Anything for her.

He turned to find her staring blankly ahead, mind clearly whirring. Concerns of propriety and chaperones fallen by the wayside, he was grateful for a moment alone and only wanted to give her solace.

“Your brother is strong. I have seen it firsthand.” He arched a jesting brow when Eloise looked at him. Neither of them would ever forget his eventful introduction to the two eldest Bridgerton brothers. “I’m sure he is going to be alright.”

His humor didn’t work and Eloise only deflated. “I’m tired of platitudes, Phillip. Don’t make me pretend with you too.”

Here was her honesty. He exhaled, relieved that she still trusted him enough to bare her true feelings. He would be her respite. “Alright. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, and I don’t know if I did anything to help. But I have had a brother in peril before. I know what it feels like.” She turned to meet his eyes, listening intently. Something in them was grateful. “And I can tell you that it is nothing but wasted time if you allow yourself to despair before there is cause to.”

Phillip had despaired of course. He had despaired greatly upon losing his brother. But knowing what he did now, he wished he could retrieve the weeks lost to worrying. Though his worst fears had ultimately been realized, he had cut the joy out of his life prematurely in anticipation of them. If he had only known that they were the last weeks of his life that were truly his own, where he was simply Phillip Crane, untitled student of botany, he would have savored them more. For Eloise and her family the threat was much more visible, more imminent, but he wanted her to continue to hope, not to consign herself to unnecessary grief for even one moment.

She studied his face as if searching for answers. “What if…we find ourselves facing a future that is not as we imagined it would be?”

Phillip held his breath, anguished once again that his actions were causing her to contemplate one of those uncertain futures, though in truth he was not precisely sure why. It was still unclear what he had said to cause such a strong reaction when they were in the garden. Nevertheless, he felt guilt at saddling her with so much simultaneously, though of course none of it was intended. He could only impart what he had learned from his own experiences and he would not coddle her. It was not what she wanted.

“I have faced many such futures. You adapt. The world rearranges itself into odd new configurations but just because they are unfamiliar does not mean there is no joy to be found. We must wrench our own happiness from the earth. Nurture it with care and persistence and it will grow, despite the shadows it arose from.” 

Her fleeting smile lifted his heart. She knew what he was speaking of, the incredible gift of the twins. Despite their unconventional and tragic trajectory into his life, they were its brightest points, next to her.

He leaned in closer, shifting his hand to rest beside hers on the sofa. “You have already done this, Eloise. You can do it again if need be. You have the strongest spirit I have ever known. And you are not alone. Please know that.”

She looked up at him, close enough that he could feel her breath dance sweetly over his skin, but she did not kiss him. Instead her fingers inched over, covered his own and held tightly. Warmth rushed through him and they settled against one another as they reclined back into the sofa.

Resting her head upon his shoulder, Eloise sighed, “I am glad you are here.”

It was only in this moment that she felt her body truly relax, felt as if she had stepped back from teetering on an edge of raw nerves. Ever since arriving at the cottage she had felt lost somehow, out of place and waiting for someone to alleviate that feeling. She had assumed Anthony would do it but that hadn’t occurred. Then she assumed she must wait for her mother to arrive to find any relief. But it was Phillip, his steady, solid presence that made her reassured. With him at her side, she felt prepared to face even the unthinkable because she knew he would bolster her. 

As she began to fade into sleep, she realized that a part of her had been longing to see him again. This entire time, she had silently been wishing for him to share in her burden and guide her through it. The anger she had felt before paled in comparison to her desire for his companionship. Ever since she had last parted from him, he had never been absent from her thoughts.

Benedict’s words echoed through her mind once more. Every deed Phillip had committed toward her had been gentle, caring, supportive. The way he had welcomed her into his home, the way he had tried to prevent the twins from bothering her despite how his efforts failed. Every touch, every kiss stolen in his greenhouse, all of it so tender. The very fact that he had agreed to marry her immediately and without question when Anthony demanded it. And now appearing, unlooked for, in her family’s hour of greatest need. His words had driven her from the gardens days earlier. Words always seemed difficult for him to say, their intention difficult for him to convey, so unlike herself. But his deeds - his intentions behind them were unquestionable.

— 

Left alone with Benedict, Sophie carefully laid down beside him. Nothing could compel her to leave him tonight. He hadn’t shown any change since they had given him the tea. The only sounds in the room were his agonized breaths. She ran her fingers across his brow and down his face. His features were sunken, like a specter of the husband she knew. She continued down his arm to grasp a limp hand and press it to her stomach, ever so slightly rounded. She allowed herself to hope that somehow it would help him wake if he could feel his child. If he was reminded of the person most dependent upon him. But still, he did not stir.

She held his hand in place, stroking it with her thumb, and pressed her forehead against his cheek. She was worn through with grief and exhaustion. She had no words for him. She had spoken them already, or they were sentiments that she could not bring herself to say. She could not utter a goodbye or imagine that he would never hold their child in his arms. The cloud of such thoughts hovered at the edge of her mind but she fought not to focus on it and to focus instead on the fact that he was still breathing.

In God’s hands. She didn’t know if God’s hands were to be trusted and so she held him in her own. Curling herself around him she laid her head on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, rapid and thready, and the sound of it forced more tears from her eyes. How many times had he pressed her hand against it and told her it beat only for her? How many times had he told her it was hers entirely? If the song of his blood was dedicated to her she would listen to it, even if it was drawing to an end.

Despite how she fought to stay awake, sorrow had exhausted her to her very bones. She had no energy left to fight or to hope or to sob. All she could do was cling to her husband, the love of her life, her very soul, and drift into the uneasy dark willing this nightmare to end.

When Sophie did not respond to his knock on the door, Anthony opened it slowly and peered into the room. Something clenched within him when he saw her lying with Benedict, her face still sad despite that she was asleep. He would not wake her. Quietly, he moved to the bedside chair and studied his brother. Gaunt and pale, his face sheened with perspiration, Benedict somehow appeared older and the sight made the Viscount shudder. 

He was still replaying their last conversation in his mind, haunted by the weight of his brother’s words. He wouldn’t allow himself to believe that they were the last he would hear Benedict say, but a dark whisper from within was chastising him for not responding with a goodbye. How does one say goodbye to a younger brother? To a best friend?

Eloise’s recollections gripped him too. He was well aware of his own role within their family and its accompanying limitations. He was charged with steering the ship. He hadn’t seen what his closest brother had done after their father died because he had been too crushed by his own responsibilities and anguish. But a latent part of him also knew, however much he failed to acknowledge or celebrate it, that Benedict was the beating heart of their family and that he himself was not the man capable of healing wounds of grief. 

His siblings were not children anymore. They didn’t need bedtime stories and games. But he couldn’t fathom the yawning pain they would all feel if faced with another loss of such magnitude. And he would be left this time to shoulder that grief alone, and for an even larger family. Protector to a widowed sister. Uncle to a fatherless child. What could he offer to dry their tears? What remedy would prevent them from feeling entirely fractured? What would he do if the heart of their family actually stopped beating?

Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @musicismyoxygen84 @queen-of-the-misfit-toys

[telanadasvhenan]

One of my favourite things abt the solas romance is that it literally doesn’t start until like 2 minutes before he breaks up with you. Perfect. No notes. I literally wouldn’t have it any other way

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

Bruce regrets sound proofing all his children’s rooms

There are some things parents don’t want to know or hear when it comes to their children and it seemed like a great idea at the time.

That being said, as he looked down at his tired youngest, bottle feeding a baby in a way that seems to be half muscle memory, with a look on his face that can only be encompassed by the sentence “oh shit.”

Bruce was suddenly wondering if he made the right call.

[itsswritten]

Cauldron-born | Part 2

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word count: 4.1K

Summary: When an unexplainable energy pulls the Inner Circle to barge into the Day court, they're all shocked at what they find. But it's Azriel who can't help wonder if his dreams have finally been answered.

Part 1

A cackle pierced through you as Cressida  looked upon you with a devilish glint.

“You believe you are a witch?” Her tone caught you off guard. Her patronisation questioning everything you had ever held to be true. Surely you were? It was the only thing that made some sense. Your brows furrowed  tightly as you regarded the woman who had offered you shelter and refuge over the past few years.

Her laughing died down, her beautiful skin perfect by the ruins and spells she’d used for centuries, not displaying a single crease visible upon her flesh.

“Oh child what an easy life this would have been if we were more akin.”

~

You sat upright with a jolt, the murmuring of a dream— a memory whispering at the corners of your mind. Your heart swelling with the familiarity of someone you missed, despite her disposition, her cruel tone, that mean glint in her eye— you missed her. But as you felt the plush sheets beneath your body you knew you were no longer in the witches cottage at the corners of The Middle.

You had left that plagued land a while ago now.

A soft rap roused you from your thinking. The usual wake up call must have been the noise to stir you from your slumber in the first place, a familiar rumble of a tone behind the oak doors. 

“Come in,” you replied softly. Your feet swinging off the side of the bed, as you walked towards the large curtain that hung from the high ceilings to the dark obsidian floor beneath your feet.

It should have been cool to the touch under your toes, but the house had a magical way of ensuring your comfort— always.

You heard the bedroom door swing open, your back to the welcomed guest as your fingers dropped from the luxe curtain fabric you had just pulled, inviting the warmth of the morning sun into your rooms.

“Blessed be my morning star, did you sleep well?” A deep sing-song tone bellowed into the room, a playfulness dancing on his words.

You cringed under the greeting, choosing not to turn to show your disdain at his choice of greeting and nickname. The sun was only just rising, sending splintered beams of light across your bedroom floor and walls.

“Helion, must you greet me in such a way?” He could practically hear the way you rolled your eyes and cringed at his words. You hadn’t turned to him yet, your gaze settling on the tops of the city below that the curtains had just revealed.

The view from your bedroom had changed more frequently in recent years. No longer the welcomed view of your childhood— the farm fields you grew up in, the misty fog that covered the northern part of the continent that you had always found comfort in.

No longer the harsh winding forest, dark trees that looked more like creatures that lurked outside the witches cottage— Cressida’s home— if you could even call it a home. Her den, rooted in The Middle.

No longer the glistening golden rooftops of Day, the sparkling white walls that danced the sunlight off the buildings in a way that made the whole court shimmer.

Instead, the panes of glass showed three mountainous peaks, dusted with snow in the distance and a city below— Velaris, the city of starlight.

Or the city of slumber. You were not well acquainted with the routines of the Night court residents. Them usually rousing from sleep well later into the day. However it did make your mornings quieter.

The auras of people settled in sleep, their noise, their colours dimming as you watched the kaleidoscope of energy dance lazily along to rooftops. It would be beautiful, if it wasn’t so loud.

You winced slightly at the sight, the lights and colours nudging on your mind. Poking and prodding a little harder than they had yesterday. It had been several days since Helion’s spell. A string of wryds to help contain your ability— dim it down, to subdue it, make it more bearable— but the spell was wearing thin.

Ever since that night—that fateful night where you almost left this world— your ability had been at a loss. Something that had always been as easy as breathing, as easy as a crisp night breeze filling your lungs, was now overwhelming and terrifying. If it wasn’t for Helion and his spell cleaving you're not even sure you’d still be here, in fact you’re certain it would have consumed you. 

As beautiful as the auras of the world were, if you couldn’t control it— it would be the death of you. 

“How are you feeling?” You had finally turned to Helion now, his question lingering in the air. 

How were you feeling? 

You could see, feel, taste Helion’s energy in front of you. A golden glow, so fitting for the High Lord of Day. It beamed within him like an orb of sunlight. You couldn’t touch it though, not like you used to, not like when you were a child and you used the naively play with creatures auras like a toy. Not like how Cressida had taught you to toy with people’s auras which was far from play.

That sense of control had broken, leaving jagged scars across your body to match.

Your hands, almost subconsciously went to touch the rugged scar that ran from your shoulder down to your torso. It tingled under your thoughts, but you pulled your hand back. Not allowing another moment to be wasted on what had happened and the marks it had left on you. 

That was why you needed Helion and his spells. He had a way of dimming it with his own power, making it easier for you to navigate your day-to-day without being utterly consumed by the noise and colours of everyone else.

“I feel okay actually,” you had responded, your eyes moving up to the lines on your friends face. He smiled softly at you.

“This is the longest you’ve been without us having to spell cleave, but today—“

“Today could be a noisy day,” you finished his sentence, understanding what he was implying.

Tody, you were to begin training with the Valkyries.

“Those priestesses are already a bundle of emotions when they pass you, I think resealing the spell would be wise. Amren agrees.” 

Well then, it wasn’t really up for debate. 

You cocked a brow at Helion before moving towards the table in your room. That was now adorned with breakfast, courtesy of the house of course. Helion folded his arms across his broad chest. He still wore the colours of Day, white and pristine, glittered in gold jewellery along his wrists, earrings bejewelled with sunlight themselves. Grand and beautiful, just like him. However he looked so out of place against the dark background of the Night interior. As ornate as the House of Wind was, Helion didn’t fit. 

No, he belonged among his own court, but the High Lord of day had left his court to accompany you. That in itself was such a large display of loyalty. You swallowed your guilt as you sat at the table, spreading butter across the warm toast and taking a bite. 

“But of course the decision is always yours to make y/n,” Helion spoke, his tone as warm as the butter melting upon your breakfast.

They only wanted what was best for you, you knew that. Reminded yourself in moments like these. But you couldn’t help the feelings that slipped up to the surface. Since you’d come to the Fae courts and discovered who you were—what you were. Every piece of guidance came with a weight you felt like you couldn’t refuse. 

You were the Mother’s daughter— Blessed be— you had status, respect, power— to do as you please, but that came with a responsibility that felt too heavy to bear. Every decision you made had to be considered, because it didn’t only affect you but the entire world and the peoples and creatures within it.

That meant, even if you wanted to try and push another day without the spell. See how far you could go as the spell thinned, you couldn’t risk it. As it wasn’t only you who it would endanger, but every living thing.

When Helion had found you— a shattered version of yourself— he’d spent the time piecing you back together. Perhaps out of duty to begin with, but somewhere along that journey a genuine friendship grew. However that would never negate from who you were, and what you were born to do— what your life’s duty was to be, and what he, what Amren, whatever everyone else on this island needed to do ensure you accomplished it.

“Let’s reseal the spell,” you muttered before taking another chomp of your toast, a softer look on your eyes this time. “…after breakfast.”

Helion smiled warmly, joining you at the table as he had done now every morning since he saved you.

~

The simmering of the fresh spell lingered on your skin, Helion’s magic coursing an invisible shield around you. The spell acting as a filter to the aura you were always so sensitive to.

The early days of his spells were always the nicest, at least they were nowadays. After building your tolerance back up with Helion, the first week of his spell usually lasted with minimal discomfort. He always had to be near though, his rooms were only down the hall to yours.

Sometimes your tolerance was less, or someone or some creature’s aura louder than usual that you needed him to reseal. It was why for the past year he’d essentially been attached to you at the hip, like a doting father or brother. And then there was Amren— doting wasn’t the word you would use. But she was always there too now. Out of duty of course, the way she’d collapsed down to her knees in your first encounter revealed how strongly her loyalty would lie to you.

Or lie to what you stood for.

Amren, the ancient one knew what your existence meant. Felt it in her bones, remembered the murmurings of stories and prophecies she listened to back in her own adolescent years. She knew what was coming, and knew how important it was that the Mother’s daughter had her ability under control.

So here you were, stood before Helion and Amren like a girl on her first day of school. Helion tightened one of the straps on the leathers you had been told to wear. He couldn’t attend the training class, only approved males were sanctioned so he would stay the floor below. In a waiting room. A handful of books already tucked under his arm.

“Stop fussing over the girl,” Amren snapped, her expression as hard as it always was. Despite her being utterly devoted to you and your protection, that dedication did not come with a slither of a smile.

You may have found her scary, if she didn’t remind you so much of someone you missed.

Helion gave you a knowing look before playfully winking at you. His large hands coming to squeeze your shoulders.

“How do you feel?” He asked, ignoring Amren at his side.

“The world is quiet once more,” you replied in a slightly chipper tone that garnered a smile from Helion.

He tapped the top of your head, “If we need to reseal, or something triggers it you leave right away, okay?”

You nodded in response along with a hum in agreement. This training was supposed to do the opposite of just that, however there were concerns. After the inner circle had barged their way into the Day Court a month ago, after Helion revealed who you were— a lot had changed.

Your belongings— which wasn’t very many— were packed up, along with you and Helion as you were practically shipped to the Night Court. You realised when you arrived how this had always been Helion’s intention. Why he’d taken the time to tell you the names of the Night Courts inner circle all those months ago. It was because they held significance in your journey.

The Night Court was safer, Velaris having an ancient spell that had protected it for so long. Amren was to teach you, she had knowledge that even Helion’s libraries didn’t share. There was Rhys too, with his mind and magic who was a crucial part to play in you regaining control of your power.

And now there were the Valkyries, who you were to train with.

~

You leaned against the railing of the rooftop, your eyes dancing upon the still sleeping city. It was quieter now, thanks to Helion. No noise and colours probing into your mind.

It was peaceful, and yet so lonely. When you had full control of your ability, back when it felt like an extension of you. You could slip in and out of it with ease, danced with it, sung with it. Now, it felt like a headache that could only be dulled with Helion’s magic.

“It is the mind-stilling which is a priority in your training. I believe it could be key to you regaining control over your abilities. You will train with the Valkyrie’s everyday until you master it.” Amren spoke. You didn’t turn to look at her, your eyes still gazing onto the cityscape below. Your mind wandering to what the people below were up to, what they may have been dreaming of. Thinking back to a time when your life was much simpler, when the most daunting part of your week was whether one of the village boys would fancy you.

You stopped yourself there. Stopped yourself from indulging and reminiscing in the past. The continent was so far away now, as was that version of you.

“What if it doesn’t work?” You turned to Amren, concern evident in your tone. The sun kissing your face as your brows furrowed.

She was sat in the shade, back against the cool stone wall of the house, “It has to.”

A silence settled between you both. Amren was right, this had to work because Mother be damned if it didn’t.

~

Nesta cringed as she watched the priestesses fuss. She had told them to be on their best behaviour, but in the presence of a living deity the females couldn’t help themselves.

They blushed and whispered, giggled and muttered words of prayer, some even curtseying as soon as they stepped onto the rooftop. Rollings of ‘Blessed be’ harmonised from their tongues and even Gwyn’s eyes widened in the presence of you. The female looked ready to burst with excitement.

There was something about your presence that was otherworldly, not just in your beauty but in the way you moved among the earth spoke of grace. Nesta couldn’t believe her eyes when she had found out you’d grown up on the continent on a farm and then The Middle— with a witch! And yet there was a regality that existed within you that couldn’t be taught, it had just always been, you had been born with it, cauldron-born to be exact.

You stood in front of them all, your own embarrassment from the fuss evident in your averting gaze. Gently— with delicate grace— you bowed your head towards the priestesses, responding appropriately with a whispering “Blessed be,” which only seemed to elicit more noise from the females. Enough noise that it took you a beat to notice the gust of wind that blew across your face as a shadow blocked out the sun for a moment. With a thud two large Illyrian males landed in the middle of the rooftop balcony.

Helion’s spell had been working fine till now, not a whisper or a simmering of aura— till you saw him.

Felt him, scented him.

In a flurry of steps you found your back pressed against the railing on the rooftop. The very presence of someone causing your feet to stumble back, hands clutching the railing tightly in a blur of a moment. He was here. The very male you often found yourself dreaming of when your mind wasn’t caught in the past.

Azriel.

Amren had launched from her place, she had been watching you so closely that even just a tremor of difference she would notice. But it wasn’t just Amren who had stepped towards you, the Shadowsinger himself had taken several large strides since landing as if he’d also always been watching.

“Do I need to get Helion?” Amren asked with an urgency in her tone.

Your breaths were shallow, your gaze falling to your feet as you tried to focus. You had been caught off guard, in the silence of spell you hadn’t expected any noise at all. You hadn’t been affected by the lively group of priestesses, Nesta’s silver aura hadn’t been licking at your mind or even the thousands of people in the city below hadn’t affected you.

But him. He had triggered something, somehow.

Azriel looked upon you with a concern that felt heavy. Hesitant as he stood only a step behind Amren.

Had he startled you? When him and Cassian had landed? Azriel couldn’t deny he had rushed to this training session, after spending the month on a mission. Rhys had sent word that you were to begin training, and the swell in Azriel’s chest was enough to have Cassian trying to keep up to the Spymaster on their entire flight home.

Azriel’s eyes wandered over you, his shadows whispering their own concerns. They had noticed your nerves, just as he had noticed them during his first encounter with you. It was his job to notice the little things, his duty as spymaster to notice the things others couldn’t, but even he couldn’t explain why he felt so attuned to you.

The morning breeze gently blew across your face, pulling the pieces of hair that were loose from your braid. You had calmed yourself, calmed yourself enough to raise your head to the audience on the rooftop. He could see you now, fully, for the first time in a month, and Azriel forgot how to breathe.

Divine.

He thought it was his shadows that whispered it, but maybe it was his own thoughts too. You were the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid his eyes on— angelic and saintly.

Divine was the only word for it.

Divine, divine, divine. His shadows sang.

“No, I am fine,” you finally replied to Amren. She looked at you sceptically, a look in her face that told you if you were lying then there would be hell to pay. You repeated yourself though, stepping away from the railing you had pressed yourself against.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, not yet. Not after what he had just triggered, that tightness in your chest was new and overwhelming to say the least. It was different though, to the way auras usually felt that left you with confusion and questions to why the Shadowsinger felt, smelt, tasted so different to everyone else.

You were grateful for the male beside him who decided to speak. “Sorry we probably startled you, just dropping from the sky like that— we tend to do that sometimes.” It was Cassian who had spoken, a warmness in his tone that reminded you of Helion. There was a twinkle in his eye of light-heartedness that seemed to dissipate the unease that had settled among the group.

You offered him a soft smile that only seemed to spur him on. His tone bellowing as he outstretched his arms in introduction, “I’m Cassian, and this is—“

“Azriel,” you finished his sentence for him. Not being able to stop yourself from saying his name out loud. Not being able to stop yourself from finally looking at him.

“Right, Azriel. You’ve already met,” Cassian replied, a look in his eye as he glanced between his brother and you.

It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t fair how much lovelier he was than in your dreams— which you didn’t think could be possible. The handsome lines of his tanned face, the dark hair that fell in loose curls and those large wings that were tucked behind his back. Your eyes dragged across him, finally landing on his own gaze. How it brought you back to that first moment you met him—how he had trapped you in his gaze back in the courtyard of Day.

“And I’m Gwyn,” the words had practically burst from the red-headed female. Her deciding now was clearly the right time to introduce herself, not that you minded. In fact if she hadn’t you may have just stared at the Shadowsinger all day, “…and I think I can speak on behalf of us all, but it is truly an honour that you wish to train with us.”

There were some murmurings from the priestesses then, as if in agreement and even Cassian tipped his head in bow towards you.

There it was again, that weight you held. Crushing and terrifying, they put you an a pedestal, showered you with adoration you weren’t too sure you deserved. With subtle strain you forced a gentle smile onto your lips.

“The honour is all mine Gwyn,” and you meant it. The people on this balcony had earned that praise more than you ever had.

“She just said my name,” Gwyn whispered in disbelief to her friends, her cheeks going rosy at the recognition. Nesta simply rolled their eyes, Emery teasingly nudged Gwyn with her elbow.

But it was a sentiment Azriel was still stuck on too. You had said his name, knew his name— knew him. His name on your lips was like a song, a melody you serenaded him with. His shadows had felt it too, your recognition of their master causing a stir that had them wanting to reach out—which they would have if Azriel didn’t have them on such a tight leash. Azriel only tore his gaze from you when Amren spoke up.

“Enough about honour and names,” Amren snapped, her eyes not landing on you but the the two males who had just arrived. They understand her stare, her tone, the waft of her had as she strode back to her spot in the shade.

“Right let’s start ladies, find a space and we’ll begin with stretches,” Cassian commanded, his tone authoritative that had the females moving into motion. Even Azriel snapped himself from his thoughts, collecting himself as he stalked towards one side of the balcony.

You followed suit, following the motion of the other females and finding yourself in amongst the group to begin. You noticed though how Nesta had come to your left, Emery flanking your right, and Gwyn directly behind you. As if creating their own shield. Perhaps a statement to the swooning priestesses— regardless, you were appreciative.

Stretching began, and you copied Cassian’s movements in front of you. In sync with the other females around you. Moving your muscles in a way you hadn’t for a while, stretching the aches you didn’t know were there. Cassian stood in front of the group, bellowing whenever the stretch would change.

The movement was welcome though. You’d always had an active life. Growing up on a farm, tending to the crops and harvests had been your way. You weren’t new to the ache of a hard days work. Then you’d spent your time in The Middle, with Cressida who had an unrelenting method of training you.

“I’ve heard you’re not a novice?” Nesta asked you as the group was split in two. One side had been pulled to practice mind-stilling, the other, your group, had been given wooden staffs to practice more physical exercises.

You took the staff in your hand, curling your fingers around the rod. Nesta wasn’t referencing your past though. She was asking about your time in Day, you hummed in response with a nod. “I trained with Helion’s sentries for a few months,” it helped…for a while. Your progress had soon dropped off though, plateaued, which was why you were here. To see if the Valkyrie way of training would help in any way.

Nesta nodded in response, before tapping your staff twice with hers. “Show me then,” she moved into a defensive stance and your brow quirked.

It was a challenge, she had been the only one who had dared, the only person to treat you with some semblance or normalcy— and it made you smile.

a/n: well here is part 2, I’m sorry this has quite literally taken months to get this instalment live, so I really appreciate any of you who might still be around to read this! I do think this has the potential to be a slightly bigger series than I first anticipated, but I guess that’s my fault for giving our mc the coolest back story ever 😅 anyway enjoy my loves 🤍 - Lottie xx

[dreamcubed]

it's nice to have a friend | theodore nott x reader

song; it's nice to have a friend [taylor swift] pairing; theodore nott x fem!wallflower!muggle-born!reader genre; s2l, angst, hurt comfort, fluff word count; 7,8k timeline; subsidiary 8th year warnings; swearing, reference to incestual rape, anxiety, nightmares, daddy issues, mommy issues, smoking, abusive mother, abusive grandfather, attachment issues, references to theo's mum's death, references to sex summary; elusive and unknown, you slunk along the walls of hogwarts without ever being noticed. that was, until, a boy who everybody knew spotted you

sorry i'm just so obsessed with the idea of a muggle-born who comes back to hogwarts after being in hiding atm

masterlist

"feels like home, stay in bed the whole weekend."

————————————————

Who was Y/N L/N?

Many would frown at that question, saying that they had no idea who that was, even if they had shared a vast number of classes with you throughout the years. Some others would pause, and ponder, as the name rung a bell but they just could not put a face to it. The rare few would answer, "Oh, I know her! Never heard her talk though." And that was all there was to it, really.

You had flown under the radar for many years— which had been enormously useful when you had to go into hiding as a muggle-born— but you weren't exactly a nobody. You were the girl at the back of class, who always had a hood over your head, always had dark circles around your eyes: a mixture of eye bags and your smudged days-old black eyeliner. The girl who disappeared after class for a cigarette out of the window of an abandoned part of the castle. The girl who was almost never at meals— at least not at the typical times.

You were an enigma to anyone who actually knew you, which essentially only included your dorm mates. They had tried to befriend you initially, but you were distant and asocial: they were still friendly with you, but they had learned not to push or pry. Thankfully, none of them had taken it personally.

But being so unknown had been incredibly useful while you were in hiding from Voldemort. It was unlikely he knew you existed— nor would anyone he interrogated about existing muggle-borns and their whereabouts. Thus, you returned to Hogwarts after his defeat for the subsidiary eighth year completely unharmed. You hadn't changed at all in the time, apart from a few more piercings, tattoos and freshly dyed hair.

It felt surreal being able to sit on the window sill of your favourite castle smoke spot again, as no matter how little friends you had at Hogwarts, you felt peaceful there. You had missed it sorely.

Taking a drag from your cigarette, you held the harsh smoke within your lungs and gazed at the cloudy view of Scotland, feeling tranquil. That was, until, you heard footsteps, which made you freeze. You internally prayed that it was neither a professor nor a prefect— but this part of the castle was abandoned, and it wasn't even close to curfew yet, so you didn't see how it could be. Cautiously, you peered around as the footsteps came to a halt, to see a Slytherin boy from your year pausing as he caught sight of you with a cigarette in hand.

Theodore Nott. Everyone knew who he was, including you, and because of that you let relief wash over you: he wouldn't snitch, you were pretty sure that he smoked himself.

He tilted his head at you, clearly with no recognition in his eyes.

"This is my smoke spot," he said simply, hands in his pockets. He had discovered the spot the year prior, when his smoking had become a serious habit, partially due to the depressing atmosphere that the war created.

You stared at him, not saying a word.

"Who are you?"

Releasing a sigh, you turned back to face the view, "Y/N L/N. And I came here long before you, Nott."

You felt the burn of his gaze on your back, and then heard him move closer to you until he sat next to you on the large windowsill. "You know who I am."

"We only had classes together for six years."

He seemed to mull over those words for a few moments. "I've never seen you before."

"Not many have," you shrugged, taking another long toke of your cigarette.

Nott didn't have a response for that, instead pulling out his baccy pouch and beginning to roll. You weren't necessarily happy about the intrusion on your alone time, but you didn't own that windowsill, and you weren't about to waste the rest of your cigarette.

Eventually, once he had lit up his own, he spoke again, "You're a muggle-born."

You quirked an eyebrow, which he probably couldn't see under your hood, but he explained how he knew regardless.

"That's why I never saw you here- at this spot- last year."

Nodding in confirmation, you breathed out smoke, watching as it dissipated into the breeze. The two of you settled into silence as you smoked, which you found to be an immense relief. You didn't like talking, you didn't like people knowing things about you. You weren't shy, like your dorm mates thought, you had just learned throughout your life that saying too much had negative consequences.

Finally, your cigarette burned to the filter, and you put it out next to you before flicking it out the window. You stood up and looked at Nott, who was still smoking, unsure of how to end the peculiar interaction.

"I would say you'll see me around, but no one ever does," you finally said, shoving your hands in your pockets and leaving without waiting for a reply. You hadn't said it in an attention-seeking self-pitying way— you had stated it nonchalantly, as it was a fact.

Nott watched you curiously as you disappeared.

***

The next morning, instead of going to breakfast, you went straight to your smoke spot. You never ate in the mornings, it didn't sit right with your stomach. Only, when you climbed the last step to the abandoned tower, you saw that it was already occupied by the same Slytherin from yesterday. His gaze flicked to you as he heard your approach.

As much as you wanted to just turn around and find another smoke spot, you didn't have enough time before your first lesson, and your nicotine addiction needed satiating. So, reluctantly, you took a seat on the windowsill and began rolling as Nott puffed away next to you.

"Good morning," he said as you glided your tongue along the paper.

You glanced up, muttering a, "Morning," before focusing on your cigarette again.

"Are you in my DADA?" he asked.

You gave a curt nod: it was your first lesson back that day.

He hummed absently, putting his cigarette out, but not moving from where he was sat. You said nothing on the matter, hoping to Merlin that he wasn't waiting for you in order to walk to the lesson together.

You began reaching around in your pockets for your lighter, cursing when you couldn't find it. Just as you were about to pull out your wand as a substitute, Nott was holding a lighter out towards you. You narrowed your eyes at him: you used a lighter out of the habit you had developed while living as a muggle the last year, but why would he use one?

As if sensing your confusion, he supplied your answer, "It's more satisfying."

It was strange to see a pure-blood who wasn't against anything and everything muggle, but you accepted his lighter, a strange sensation washing over you as you did so. It felt like you had just made an oath of some sort, agreed to something you didn't know the terms of— like something had now been sealed between the two of you. Pushing that thought aside, you took your first drag, letting the familiar contentment that nicotine provided take over you.

"Thanks," you murmured, handing the lighter back to him.

There was nothing but silence as you smoked, not another word said even as you finished and went to stand up. He stood up, too, and it was then that your fears were confirmed: he was going to walk with you to the lesson. You supposed it was probably just politeness, but Nott had never struck you as someone who cared about that sort of thing. He, like the other Slytherin boys, was known for his quick temper and rude disposition. But for all you knew he could have changed in the year that you were gone.

You didn't ask— you seldom asked questions, no matter how curious you were. Instead, you allowed him to walk alongside you without complaint, subconsciously adjusting the bag strap on your shoulder.

When you reached the classroom without having exchanged a word, Nott's friends— Riddle and Zabini— approached and greeted him. They didn't notice you, which was expected, so you took the opportunity to slink away to your seat at the back of class. You felt Nott's eyes linger on you as you went, but paid no mind to it, refusing to turn around and look at him.

The professor called attention to the room.

"From what I understand, you all made contact with a boggart back in third year," she began, "Obviously it has been sometime, and in order to ease you back into Defence Against the Dark Arts after learning the Dark Arts, I think it would be a good idea to revisit some basics."

There were murmurs of fear and excitement as she pulled forward a cupboard, much like the one from third year.

"Everyone, form a queue," she said, "Do you remember the charm to counteract a boggart?"

Hermione Granger's hand instantly shot up, and the professor gestured for her to answer.

"Riddikulus."

"Excellent!" she smiled, "Let's begin, shall we?"

You had taken a position in the middle of the queue, and watched as the first people faced their fears and turned them into something ridiculous. Laughter began rippling throughout the classroom, and you even felt your lips curving up ever so slightly. But, when it came to your turn, your face went completely solemn.

You watched as what had been a massive snake from the previous person morphed into a reflection of yourself: only, it wasn't you. You would never wear such a glamorous and expensive dress, and you would never have such a wide smile on your face as flashing cameras surrounded you. Clenching your jaw, you watched as boggart-you waved and posed for the cameras, and raised your wand.

"Riddikulus," you murmured, and the scene before you unfolded with boggart-you slipping on a banana peel and tearing her dress. Laughter boomed from behind you, and you quickly walked away to the back of the classroom as the next student had their go.

It wasn't long before it was Nott's turn, and for some reason you found yourself paying more attention than you had before. Your eyes followed his movements as the boggart took the form of an older man, who had a stern look on his face. He seemed familiar, and it only took you a few moments to realise that you had seen him in the Daily Prophet after the war. It was Tiberius Nott, a death eater who had been sent to Azkaban for life after Voldemort's defeat— also Theodore Nott's father.

Nott remained emotionless as he faced his father, refusing to react as he raised his wand and muttered the spell. Then, Tiberius Nott was suddenly wearing clown attire, quickly becoming the next laughingstock of the class. Theodore Nott left the front of the queue and came around to the back where you were while Riddle faced the boggart.

"You're afraid of being popular," he stated as he stood beside you.

"You're afraid of your father," you replied— not as an insult, just as a fact.

"Fathers are terrifying when they're death eaters."

You shrugged, "I don't know mine."

Nott eyed you curiously, as he didn't know what to make of you. Not that anyone really did. Before he could say anything else, Riddle was walking towards the both of you. It was of no surprise that he didn't acknowledge you, likely not even noticing you stood there beside his best friend. That was how you liked it, so you moved your attention away from their conversation and watched as Zabini approached the boggart.

When he finished and joined his friends, you heard Riddle ask, "Wanna go for a fag after this?"

Nott agreed easily, whereas Zabini declined.

"L/N," your eyes widened, and you snapped your head in Nott's direction, "You coming?"

"Coming where?" you knew what they were talking about.

"For a smoke," Nott tilted his head towards the door, "After this lesson."

You watched in horror as Riddle and Zabini's eyes settled on you in confusion and lack of recognition, despite the fact a celebrity version of you had just been displayed to the whole class. But, you supposed, celebrity you didn't resemble your natural state all that much.

"No, thanks."

He raised an eyebrow at you, as if he believed that you would definitely be going for a cigarette after the lesson, just not with the Slytherin boys.

The professor called for everyone to sit down as the last person finished with the boggart, and as the three boys walked away from you, you heard Riddle mutter, "Who the fuck is that?" to his friends. With a sigh, you took your seat and got out some parchment, hoping that the interaction wouldn't be the trigger for everyone in the school knowing who you were.

But, had you ever been lucky?

***

It horrified you how easily Nott could spot you in a crowd, as it wasn't something you were used to— in fact, it was something that you had purposefully avoided. But that was no more, as when you entered the Great Hall for dinner, at the usual time as everyone else for once (your hunger had dictated that), he had made eye contact with you and gestured for you to come sit with him. Immediately, you shook your head: you weren't there to make friends, and you weren't about to sit on the Slytherin table as a muggle-born.

When his friends turned to see who he was beckoning over, they scanned the area you were in without their eyes ever landing on you. Not even Zabini or Riddle, who had seen you the other day, noticed you stood by the entrance. So, why was Nott different?

You took the opportunity to take a seat at the Ravenclaw table with your back to the Slytherins, not wanting to further engage. You had experienced more than enough socialisation for a lifetime in the last week, in your opinion. It was probably at least once every couple of days that you happened to venture to the tower smoke spot at the same time as Nott, and part of you wanted to find a new place. Alas, you had developed an attachment to that tower, and the views were remarkably soothing, so you hadn't.

It was why you didn't bother to move when Nott arrived to see you sat on the window sill that evening, after you had disregarded him at dinner.

"Are you really so scared of making friends?" he asked from behind you.

"Why do you care?" you scoffed.

"You intrigue me."

"Forget about me, Nott. I prefer it that way."

He chuckled, "I think forgetting you is impossible."

You clenched your fist, "Why would you want to associate with a mudblood?"

"I don't give a shit about blood purity, L/N," he said, accidentally dropping his lighter. You heard him curse under his breath in Italian, before looking at you again. "Can I ask why?"

"Why what?" you grumbled, taking a puff from your cigarette.

"Why do you keep to yourself?"

You assessed his intentions cautiously, debating how much information you should give him. Eventually, all you said was, "Saying too much has consequences. If people know too much about you, they use it against you."

"Who's they?"

"Everyone."

He shook his head, "But, it's not, though, is it? Who gave you such a warped perception of reality?"

"It may not be your reality, but it's mine."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Why should I tell you?"

Nott shrugged, "I'm just trying to understand you."

"Well, stop trying."

"I won't," he said simply, "But if you're worried about me having something on you, I'll tell you about me so we're even."

"Please don't."

"My mother died when I was quite young," he began, against your will, "Which left me to my father, who you are familiar with."

"Are you looking for pity?"

"No, I don't want your pity," he scowled, "I told you why I'm telling you. Stop being dense."

You frowned at his words.

"Where my mother was sweet and loving, my father was anything but," he explained, "Physically abusive, literally a death eater, punished me if I ever cried."

You focused your eyes on to your cigarette, ashing it with a tap of your finger.

"I won't let him dictate my life. No matter how much I feel like I'm just as bad as him, I can't let it get in the way of having friends and a decent life."

"You're not your father," you said quietly, unsure as to why you were still entertaining this conversation.

"How would you know?"

"Because you're talking to me."

He hummed softly, "So, there, you know about me. You know something I hardly even talk about with my closest friends. Tell me about you."

You thought about it for a couple minutes, mulling over whether or not you should finally share what has hung over you your entire life. Nott remained silent as you finished your cigarette and fought an internal war within yourself. Eventually, you spoke.

"My grandfather abused me when I was young," you said quietly, "Whenever he visited, whenever I went 'round to his. In the night, he would come into my room and-" you cut yourself off.

Nott said nothing, regarding you cautiously.

"He told me not to tell. Not to say a word," you finally continued, "But I told my mum one day, because I was bleeding..." you gestured down to your crotch.

"She didn't believe you?" he asked, his tone gentle.

You chuckled, "Of course not. I tried to ask her to look, to prove that I was bleeding. She wouldn't. Said her father would never do such a thing."

"Sounds like denial."

"I'd bet my life he did the same to her when she was young, and she's blocked it out. That seeing it on me would have brought back memories that she's so desperately shut out."

He nodded.

"She told my grandfather what I'd accused him of, and my life became hell right until I got the letter inviting me to Hogwarts."

"And that's why you think telling people anything is a bad idea."

With a sigh, you stood up, "All honesty and closeness brought me was pain and suffering."

"You've just been honest with me."

"Rowena knows why," you muttered.

"You can't let him haunt you forever."

"He's still alive," you said simply, pinning your eyes on to his face, "Don't tell anyone about this."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

And, strangely, you believed him.

***

After trusting Nott with your life story, you had found a new smoke spot: it didn't have the views or tranquility of the abandoned tower, but it didn't have anyone else either. You saw him in class, and occasionally at meals, and he would always lock eyes with you and give a nod as greeting. Sometimes you returned it, sometimes you didn't. But before long, a couple months had passed, and you were quite secure in the knowledge that he hadn't told anyone your secret nor was he going to use it against you.

You didn't hesitate in signing up to stay at Hogwarts over Christmas, not wanting to face your family. When Voldemort's return had been confirmed, both your mother and grandfather— as your apparent two closest relatives— had been obliviated and sent abroad. Once he was defeated, they were found and given back their memories of you, but you hadn't gone to see them. Instead, you had stayed at Hogwarts over the Summer, helping to rebuild what had been destroyed during the battle. And now, you weren't sure if you could ever go back home. You hadn't seen either of them in years, and had become quite content with the lack of danger over the Summer holidays.

It was the first day of the castle being almost empty, and you made your way down to the Great Hall for lunch. Only one of the house tables was laid with food: the Gryffindor one. It would have been a waste to lay any more tables with so few students present.

You noticed that Nott was sat at the table, and when he saw you enter (the only one who saw you, that was), he gestured for you to sit near him. Maybe it was because he wasn't surrounded by his friends this time, or maybe it was because the food was only on one small section of the table, but you sat opposite him.

"How've you been?" he immediately asked.

Shrugging, you put some sandwiches on your plate, "Same as always."

"You stopped coming to the tower."

You sighed, "I like to smoke alone."

He pursed his lips, but changed the subject, "What are you doing on Christmas day?"

An incredulous look swept across your face, "Same as everyone here."

Nott rolled his eyes, "Even the people who are here open gifts with each other."

"I doubt I'll get any gifts."

"That makes two of us," he replied, "Do you want to do something on Christmas day together?"

"Why?" you frowned at him, "Surely Riddle is here."

He shook his head, "He spends Christmas with the Malfoys. They're cousins, y'know." At your raised eyebrow, he added, "On his mum's side."

"Regardless, I told you I'm not interested in friends."

"There is no obligation of friendship here," he raised his hands up in mock surrender, "You can never talk to me again after these holidays."

Taking in a deep breath, you said, "Fine."

He smiled at you, and you couldn't help but notice how soft and non-threatening he looked with such an expression. It was a rare sight on him.

***

Apparently he had taken your agreement to spend Christmas day with him as an agreement to spend the entire holidays together. Nott joined you for studying in the library, and followed you to your new smoke spot, making you sigh and decide at that point you might as well return to your preferred abandoned tower. He didn't talk a lot of the time, just sat in companionship with you, and you found yourself getting irritated. Not at him, but at the fact you were beginning to feel comfortable in his presence, and experience the urge to seek him out on occasion. It was a foreign feeling: one that you had never allowed yourself to come close to.

But you weren't sure if you wanted to stop it any longer.

The bubble you had become wrapped up in shattered one day when Professor McGonagall, the headmistress, found you in the library and informed you that you had visitors. You looked worriedly over at Nott, realising that for the first time in your life, you didn't want to face a situation alone. Because you had a sneaking suspicion of who it might be.

You stood up, and Nott did too. For once, you were grateful that he was following you around without your permission. McGonagall assessed that you were okay with him coming along, and led the both of you to her office, where you found yourself fidgeting with your fingers as the stairs rose up. Nott placed his hand on yours and squeezed gently before pulling away again, an action so soft and without malice that you damn near broke down on the spot.

Moments later, your fears were confirmed: your mother and grandfather stood before you. They had smiles on their faces, but they looked so forced that you felt sick to your stomach. Subconsciously, you shifted closer to Nott, who had straightened his back and let his typical resting bitch face fall upon him— one of arrogance and threat. McGonagall hadn't come in with you, saying that they wanted to speak with you alone. That was when you had said that Nott was going in with you or you weren't going in.

"Y/N, it's been so long, darling," your mother spoke, making bile rise to your mouth. You swallowed quickly, not returning her smile.

"Why didn't you come home for Christmas?" your grandfather asked, taking a step towards you. Instinctively, you stepped back. He paused and frowned, "We haven't seen you in years, but it's finally safe, is it not?"

It's never safe with you. That's what you wanted to scream, but no words came out.

"We've missed you," your mother added, also taking a step forward. You felt so small in front of them, like you were once again that heartbroken six year old who had just discovered that no one was there for her.

"And who's this?" your grandfather asked, surveying Nott cautiously.

"Theodore Nott," the boy replied through gritted teeth.

"Is this your-?"

You cut your mother off by asking, "Why are you here?"

"We've come to take you home," your grandfather said with a grin that was clearly meant to appear jovial, but to you symbolised the devil's incarnate.

"No," you said as firmly as you could, but your tone held a quiver.

The smile dropped from your grandfather's face, and he turned to Nott once more, "May we have a moment alone?"

"Not a chance," the boy instantly replied, crossing his arms. He was a lot taller than your grandfather.

That was when the eyes of your grandfather darkened to their usual state, and your mother's mouth settled into a grim line.

"I don't know what she's told you," the former spoke, "But none of it is true, she was a very imaginative child-"

Nott cut him off with a scoff, "No child who's had a normal childhood imagines such fucked up things."

Your eyes widened in disbelief at Theo's (when had you started thinking of him as Theo?) bluntness.

"My father would never do such a thing," your mother immediately cut in, "These allegations are extreme and unjust."

"I'm not coming home with you," you said, changing the subject.

"I am your mother," she said curtly, "And you are my child."

"I am an adult now."

You watched as she took a deep breath, "Y/N, we are family. Christmas is for family."

"I never want to see either of you again," you said quietly, your voice feeling separate from your body.

"We should have never let her go here," your grandfather said to your mother, "Her delusions have only been fed."

"The only delusions around here are yours," Theo said sternly, "I think it's best that you leave."

"This is none of your business, boy," the old man before you growled, taking strides towards him. In a flash, Theo had pulled out his wand and held it towards him, causing him to back up out of fear.

"I'd watch your mouth, if I were you. Y/N's welfare is every bit my business as it was meant to be yours."

Your relatives said nothing.

"I believe that everything that needed to be said has been said," he continued, "So we will be leaving. If you try to contact her in any way, shape or form again, I won't hesitate to use dark magic on you."

And with that, Theo wrapped his free arm around you and guided you back to the exit. Only once the door behind you was closed and the stairs were lowering did you realise that your entire body was trembling. All you could think to do was murmur a "thank you" towards Theo, who stroked your arm gently.

Once you reached the bottom, you were faced with McGonagall, who had a deathly serious look about her. You broke down, collapsing to the floor as tears and sobs that you had suppressed for years bubbled to the surface and shook your body violently.

"Get them out of here," Theo said to her, crouching down beside you and taking you into his arms. You accepted the embrace, having not felt one in years, and cried into his chest.

The headmistress nodded, scanning over you one last time.

"I'll take care of her," Theo muttered, and that was all the woman needed to head up the stairs with a look of fury that could ignite nations. You didn't know what she had made of the situation, but she had evidently decided that she didn't like your family. "C'mon," he murmured, helping you up and guiding you in a direction you were too bleary-eyed to register.

Your sobs escalated as the two of you walked, and finally you realised that you were heading down to the dungeons. You heard him say the password to the door before you were led into the Slytherin common room of black and green. He didn't stop there, however, instead taking you down further stairs to where the dormitories were.

It wasn't long before you found yourself curled up on his bed, the other beds in the dorm vacant for Christmas. You rocked back and forth, gripping your knees tightly.

Theo shushed you softly, sitting next to you and pulling you into his side.

"It's okay, angel, you're safe now," he whispered, "I won't let anything happen to you."

"You-" you hiccuped, "-promise?"

"I promise. You never have to see them again."

"P- Pinkie promise?" you held up your pinkie to him, and that was when Theo saw in your eyes that a part of you had never grown out of infancy.

He kissed your head, hooking his finger around yours, "Pinkie promise."

***

Numerous nightmares followed after that day— flashbacks and memories that you had blocked out catching up to you and forcing you to re-live it all. The first night, you pushed through, staying awake after waking yourself up and sobbing under your sheets until the sun came up. You didn't tell Theo why you were so exhausted when he questioned it, showing concern for you, as you didn't want to worry him. But, the second night, when you nervously drifted off and your demons returned, you snapped awake only wanting Theo.

With tears streaming down your face, you crawled out of bed and pulled on your Ravenclaw jersey, before creeping down the dormitory stairs and into the common room. There weren't many people that you could have woken up, but you really didn't want anyone seeing you in your current state. Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the tower door and left, ignoring the statue's questions of where you were headed.

It was a long trip to the Slytherin dungeons from the Ravenclaw tower, and you almost ran into Filch— luckily, you heard him from around the corner and hurriedly went a different direction. Since you were only wearing socks, your footsteps were soundless.

When you reached the portrait into Slytherin, you paused for a moment as you prayed that the password hadn't changed since he took you there two days prior. "Sonoros," you murmured to the painting, which gave you a disapproving look but reluctantly opened the door for you to enter. You scurried in, relieved to see no one was in the common room, and made your way up to the boys' dormitories. When you landed on the eighth years' floor, you pushed open the door and padded over to Theo's bed.

He was sleeping deeply, his remarkably attractive face almost glowing in the moonlight. The sight of someone sleeping reminded you of your night terrors, and more sobs choked out of you, causing you to lurch forward and shake Theo.

"Hmmph?" he grumbled, forcing his eyes open. When he saw you stood beside his bed with puffy cheeks and shaking limbs, he jolted awake. "Principessa, what happened?"

"I had a-" you hiccuped, "-a nightmare."

His gaze softened, and he lifted up the forest green bedsheets to beckon you in. Obliging, you curled up against his warmth and nuzzled your face into his neck. He didn't ask what you dreamt of, instead asking, "Is this why you didn't sleep last night?"

You nodded against him, and he sighed.

"You should have told me," he mumbled, stroking his hand through your hair. And then he talked you softly into a sweet dreamless sleep wrapped in his embrace, feeling safer than you had ever before felt.

***

At dinner the next day, Theo observed you as you picked at your food, clearly nervous about what that night had in store for you.

"Do you want to stay with me again tonight?" he asked, a question which made your eyes open wide.

"Uh..."

"You can stay with me all holiday, if you'd like."

"I..." your instinctive response was to put up your defences, and distance yourself from proximity with any individual. But, you felt the words of rejection get caught in your throat, and realised that there was a new instinct within you fighting with the old one. The part that was attaching itself to Theo, and firming itself into an iron grip that wouldn't let go now that it had finally found something to grasp on to. As the man in question gazed into your eyes, trying to read your body language, you realised that a suppressed part of you had surfaced— and you weren't sure that it could be locked away ever again. "Yes, please," were the words that finally came out: they were quiet, and felt foreign, but they were all you had to offer.

He gave you a soft smile: not the devilish smirk you had seen him give other girls from a distance, seen him use whenever he won a fight. No, it was genuine, with teeth and all. You were smiling back before you could stop yourself.

Theo eyed you curiously, "I've never seen you smile before."

Your breath hitched, "I'm not sure I've ever smiled before."

***

What commenced was a domestic routine. You kept pyjamas and some clothes in Theo's dorm, and you would brush your teeth together. Then, you would get into his bed, waiting until he beckoned for you to curl up to him. At first, you had been awkward about it, but it quickly became an instantaneous act of muscle memory. Theo felt and smelt like home— home. You had never felt at home before, and you certainly had never expected it to be with a person rather than a place. For the longest time, you had assumed that home would be the place you got for yourself after finishing Hogwarts.

Christmas Day started with a snowstorm in the middle of the night, one that had you waking up at dawn to see the layers of white outside the window. The holiday had never been a good day for you: mainly one of loneliness and a lack of gifts. You weren't materialistic, you didn't care about the presents, but that didn't mean you weren't envious of everyone going home to loving families.

But, that Christmas, you awoke in the warmth of Theo's arms, with a sense of peacefulness fulfilling you. His gentle breathing soothed you as he hugged you from behind, and for a while you remained like that, looking out the window at the snow and relishing in Theo's presence. When had he crept his way through your barriers? When had you started allowing it to happen?

"Buon Natale, principessa," you eventually heard him say from behind you, his deep morning voice sending a shiver up your spine.

"Buon Natale," you mimicked, making him smile into your neck.

"That means Merry Christmas," he murmured.

You chuckled softly, "I figured."

"I got something for you," he said, rolling on to his back, which made you turn over to face him.

"You did?"

He hummed, "It's nothing big."

"I got something for you too," you replied, knowing that there was a vinyl sat in your satchel across the room, which you had put in there on an offhand thought that Theo might like it.

"Should we exchange presents before or after Christmas dinner?"

"Before," you said immediately, "I haven't opened a present in years. I'm not waiting any longer."

"Okay, but can we stay in bed a little longer? È così caldo."

Those terms you could easily agree to— even finding yourself smiling fondly at his Italian. It always slipped out more when he was sleepy.

When had you come to know his habits so well?

***

"Merry Christmas," Theo grinned, handing a large velvet box to you as you sat cross-legged on his bed.

"What is it?" you asked cautiously, carefully popping open the lid only to have your breath taken away. A white gold necklace rested before you, with blue sapphires shining on the pendant that hung from it.

At your speechlessness, Theo explained, "It was my mother's. I thought you should have it."

"I can't take this," you said quickly, "It's a family heirloom."

He shrugged, "Then consider yourself as keeping it safe until I have a daughter."

"Is this your way of ensuring I stick around?" you chuckled.

"Maybe. Is that bad?"

You shook your head, "Thank you. It's so pretty— puts my gift to shame."

"Cara mia, it is not about the cost."

With a sigh, you got up and went over to your satchel, pulling out the vinyl that you had treasured and loved for so many years. "It's not much, but I thought you might like it."

You handed the album to him.

"What is it?"

"It is a vinyl. What muggles play music from."

His lips parted in understanding. "You will have to teach me how to use it."

"I will," you agreed, feeling like what you had actually agreed to was being around forever.

"Thank you," he said, "Would you like to try the necklace on?"

"When I'm dressed. I must do it justice."

Theo chuckled.

***

One thing you had to admit was that Theo's dead eyes sent a shiver up your spine: you felt it as he put the necklace on you, his warm hands a contrast to the cold of the metal as he did up the clasp. You were dressed up for Christmas dinner— not impressively so, but nicer than you normally did. For once, you had foregone your hoodie, and properly cleansed your face of your makeup before doing it again. Maybe the motivation for it had been Theo in the room, but ultimately, you felt quite calm.

"Sei bella," he murmured, and you knew enough Italian to know what bella meant.

You suppressed a smile, admiring his attire of dress trousers and a shirt. He lacked a tie, and the top buttons were undone— topped with his rolled up sleeves, he looked divine.

"Let's hope the dinner isn't too boring," he chuckled, "But, either way, we can have a smoke after."

"Sounds like heaven," you said, turning around to look up at his gorgeous face. A few weeks ago, you would never have let yourself find someone attractive: in your head that was as good as an attachment to someone. Yet, here you were, knowing that your soul had grasped on to Theo's and would never let go. You still had your hesitancies, but they were being overrode by your intense craving for affection.

"Should we go down?" you asked, glancing at the clock on the wall.

He hummed, "Just one more thing."

"What?"

His thumb and pointer finger delicately touched your chin, and your blood pressure skyrocketed when he leant down and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. "I couldn't resist."

You were rendered speechless— was that what a kiss was supposed to feel like? Magical, willing, heart-fluttering?

"Shall we, amore mio?"

"We shall," you smiled, accepting his extended hand.

***

The dinner was as boring as Theo had predicted, with the expected speech from McGonagall and then everyone falling into separate conversations. However, the delicious food was the saving grace, and you ate more than your stomach could handle, as well as drank a few glasses of red wine which had been provided for the professors and the adult students.

But, the highlight of your day was when you and Theo smoked in the usual tower spot, remaining in a soothing silence as you watched the snow fall.

"Can we build a snowman?" you asked, putting out your butt on the stone wall.

He quirked an eyebrow at you, "Why?"

"I've never built one," you muttered, wanting to rekindle the childhood joy that you had never truly experienced.

"Well, then, I hope you've got thick gloves."

***

"He's so ugly," you commented, staring at the snowman before you. He had a carrot on his face, courtesy of the kitchen, and a variety of stones creating a disturbingly fake happy expression. You turned around to where Theo had been stood next to you, only to see that he was gone. "Theo?" you called out, spinning around to find him when you felt a thud of something against your back.

When you looked in the direction of the throw, you saw the man you had been looking for laughing and gathering up snow into a ball.

"You son of a bitch," you cursed, leaning down and accumulating some snow of your own. Immediately you let fire, hitting him right in the chest.

"Oh, it's on!" he shouted back— the trigger for ten minutes running around and hurtling snow at each other until you tripped. Only, you found yourself laughing as you hit the ground, flopping into a starfish position as Theo dashed over to you. "Are you okay, principessa?"

You sat up and tugged on his leg, making him topple over too. "I'm perfectly okay."

"Clearly," he groaned, propping himself up on one arm to gaze at you.

"I think I won this one."

Theo rolled his eyes, "If my lips weren't so numb, I'd kiss you right now."

Your lips parted in shock, making him laugh.

"And I won that one," he said, "Can we go inside before we freeze, please?"

And when you and Theo were cuddled up in front of the fire with hot cups of tea, you knew that your isolated life was no more, and you had almost fully let go of your reservations about forming attachments.

***

Bliss can only last so long, of course, and the horde of students returned early January with their trunks and chatter in tow. You reluctantly returned to your Ravenclaw dormitory, knowing sleep would be difficult after growing accustomed to the comfort of Theo's arms.

But you had no choice.

Still, as you walked down the hallways alone for the first time in two weeks, your hood over your head and eyes cast down, you felt lonely. You had never felt lonely before— well, maybe in part. But your fear of knowing someone and being close had overrode the loneliness: your phobia of being hurt again had made you view loneliness as a comfort. It didn't feel like a comfort any longer, not now that you had tasted Theodore Nott and all that came with him. Not now that he had shown you good intentions and security.

"Y/N!" you heard a call from behind you.

You spun around, feeling a smile tug on your lips as you recognised the voice. That was another thing Theo had brought you: smiles that came naturally, like a flower blooming because it had been nurtured and nourished to perfection, not in spite of its environment.

"There you are, principessa," he murmured, pulling you into his embrace, "I haven't seen you since last night."

"It's not that long," you shrugged, but you had missed him too.

"Too long," he said, taking your hand in his, "I could hardly sleep without you. Kept worrying about your nightmares."

Your face dropped, and that told Theo everything he needed to know.

"You had one, didn't you?"

With a dismissive nod, you turned and began walking down the corridor with him, "It was nothing. I'm fine."

"You promise you'd tell me if you weren't?"

"I'm always fine when I'm with you," you said quietly, "I wasn't fine last night, or this morning, but now you're here— I'm fine."

His eyes softened at your words, and he squeezed your hand. "Let's get some lunch."

***

When you entered the Great Hall, you felt Theo tugging you over to the Slytherin table where his friends were gathered. You swallowed your anxiety and shifted closer to him, deciding that as long as you had Theo as protection, these people couldn't hurt you.

They didn't notice either of you until you sat down.

"Theo! Where have you been?" Mattheo Riddle asked, his eyes then flicking to you, "Oh, it's you again... L/N, right?"

You nodded the affirmative.

"Who?" the girl next to him, Pansy Parkinson, asked.

"The girl Theo's been courting."

"I didn't know Theo was courting anyone," Lorenzo Berkshire frowned.

"Are you in the year below?" Pansy turned to you.

"No. I'm in your year."

Her eyes widened, "Salazar, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," you said. And, really, it was. You were used to it.

"Are you official, then?" Mattheo questioned, changing the subject effectively.

"Yes," Theo replied, before you could even process what Mattheo had just asked.

"Never thought I'd see the day where you settled down," Blaise Zabini chuckled.

"Just hadn't met the right girl yet."

Your heart flipped.

***

"Sorry about that earlier," Theo said to you later at the smoke spot, "I figured it was the only way to not make the situation awkward."

"Sorry about what?"

"Saying we're official."

"Oh."

Theo quirked an eyebrow, "Unless you're not sorry?"

You pursed your lips, "Maybe I'm not."

He grinned, "Then allow me to ask you officially, cara mia, will you be my girlfriend?"

"I want to," you took a deep breath, "But, I just— certain things are going to take some time for me. I— I will need easing into things like, uh..."

"Sex?" he finished for you.

Shamefully, you bobbed your head.

"Of course, we will take all the time you need," he smiled, moving closer to you to place a hand on your cheek, "I'm not in it for the sex. I'm in it because ti amo."

"I think I love you too."

"I'm here for you always, amore mio. I promise."

"Pinkie promise?"

"Pinkie promise."

——————————————————

masterlist

written; 04/05/2024 —> 22/05/2024 published; 26/05/2024 edited; —/—/——

[spider-murdock]

hello folks here’s a sad Murdock edit for yall

[sunflowersandsapphires]

What Goes Up

Small Creatures, Chapter 3

Series Masterlist       Next Chapter

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader 

summary: Matt Murdock always assumed he’d never meet his soulmate. After all, who would want to end up stuck with a blind vigilante carrying enough baggage for a whole jet? Unfortunately for you both, his cursed love is closer than ever and determined to support him as his paradoxical life falls apart.

warnings:  swearing, Matt being a grump, Matt doubting himself, mentions of canon typical violence, one very brief mention of vomit, fluff

a/n: HI EVERYONE! I am so sorry for being so absent this month. I dislocated my knee, spent 2 months getting a doctor to agree to fix my dislocated knee, and also bought a house. What a time. ANYWAYS here are two of my loves for you all to enjoy. This chapter is mostly Matt.

w/c: 4.1k

A soft breeze waltzed over your skin, making a skipping sound as it hopped around you. It whirled toward him, carrying the subtle powdery scent of your skin, the aroma left behind from various soaps and lotions. 

It mingled with the smell of freshly cooked pasta, tomatoes and salt, the taste of potatoes bursting across his tongue. A source of deadly comfort, like the magnetic pull of unconsciousness when one is bleeding out. Warm and tempting–with a jagged, perilous edge. 

Thudding steadily, your pulse looped through his ears. Too quick for his liking, but solid and real nonetheless. 

“...did you feel it?” Your heart thumped consistently, providing a ticking rhythm underneath your question.

“Yes.” He murmured, in awe of your ethereal presence. Something about you seemed intangible and hazy, as if you were made of mist.

“So, that means we're...” Your pulse grew louder, booming in his ears as your body flooded with adrenaline. Inhaling sharply, Matt grimaced as the acrid taste of cortisol slipped beneath the weight of carbs on his tongue. 

Across from him, you began to fold in on yourself, breath coming in rapid pants. Panic flared in his own chest. A shrill whistle somersaulted in his ears, piercing the soft tissue of his ear drum. The mouthful of pasta he had yet to swallow dissipated into tiny, ashen granules. As he took a harsh breath, his throat constricted, his lungs fighting for air.

“We’re…” You repeated, your mellow voice distorted by the thundering in your rib cage. With each sprinting beat of your heart, you trembled, bones rattling together like chattering teeth. 

Someone was choking. He couldn’t tell which of you it was–too distracted by the sound of crackling, gasping breaths. 

Continuing to hunch over, you backed away from him, afraid. The muscles in your legs creaked as you tensed up, desperate to escape him. Your terror was palpable, sticking to him with invisible barbs, forcing distance between you.

Oh Matty, He flinched as a gnarled hand gripped his shoulder. His former mentor’s hoarse, mocking tone freezing him in place. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Love is a death sentence, nothin’ more.

Warmth spread over his fingers as a thick, crimson liquid seeped toward him. He scrambled away from the slick puddle, angling his head away from the metallic smell as it drew tears from his eyes. The blood wasn’t his. It wasn’t his. 

With a jolt, Matt erupted out of bed, a gurgling echo repeating in his ears. His lungs ached as he fought to catch his breath. Clenching fistfuls of silk sheets, he rested his forehead atop his knees, exhales coasting over the goosebumps dotting his flesh. With a shudder, he ripped free of the tangled blankets, toppling out of bed. 

Water. He needed water. Something to clear the charred taste of blood and flour from his throat. 

Dragging himself into the kitchen, he fumbled for a glass with clammy hands, nearly dropping it in the process. Pull yourself together, kid.

His teeth ground together in frustration as Matt tossed back a mouthful of lukewarm tap water, ignoring the horridly familiar metallic taste. Carefully setting the cup on his counter, his pinky brushed against the edge of a scrap of paper before he recoiled guiltily. 

Your business card. Rather, the card you’d given him “in case he needed to contact you.”

In a moment of overwhelming optimism, he’d scanned the sliver of cardstock with a screen reader, noting the number on his laptop. After a drink, or three, he’d mustered the nerve to call. It was possible the voices in his head were blowing your reaction out of proportion and you truly wanted him to reach out. 

Or so he’d hoped, until reaching an automated “out of service” message instead of a politely nervous photographer. Twice. 

Slamming a thumb down to end the call, he’d hurled the card across the room, where it had fluttered to a halt on his kitchen counter. He hadn’t been man enough to truly throw it away. 

Of course it was a fake number. You didn’t want him. Who on earth would ever want him? You felt obligated to thank a stranger because he’d saved you from serious harm. Isn’t that exactly what you’d said?

“I just wanted to show my appreciation for the other night.” 

Matt should’ve known better than to let his hopes run wild.

Murdock men weren’t destined for love. They had the Devil in them, just like his grandmother always said, and there was no way anyone out there would ever choose the Devil.

Turning his palms to the ceiling, Matt squeezed his eyelids shut, hoping the motion would clear the disgusting gritty feeling he’d been battling for hours after the dream. Losing sleep always dried his eyes out, every blink irritating them further. Add another night without rest, and he started suppressing migraines. He was in for a treat this week, no doubt.

The solution was less simple than it seemed. He wasn’t choosing to lay awake for hours on end thinking about you. He’d much rather lose consciousness than relive the horrific sound of your voice cracking, your anxious pulse when he’d grabbed your hand without thinking. You were terrified of him. Rightfully so, he supposed. You’d had the misfortune of meeting him as Daredevil.

If things were different, if you’d met him as Matt Murdock, maybe it would’ve worked out. Maybe he could’ve locked the suit away, pursued another path. But that wasn’t God’s plan.

With an aching arm, Matt stretched towards his nightstand as he blearily fumbled for the compact plastic clock residing on it. Grasping it with one hand, he pressed the button along its side, grimacing at the mechanical voice that screamed back at him.

“SIX OH TWO A.M.”

A more reasonable waking time than when he’d checked two hours ago. Digging the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, he groaned as the muscles in his abdomen bulged against bruised skin. Dozens of broken blood vessels stretched with his torso as he sat up, protesting the whole way. He’d be lucky if he could walk without constant wincing. Foggy was going to kill him.

The short walk between his loft and the office cemented his sour mood. Navigating the city with a cane was frustrating on a good day–the infamous New York City apathy leading to people tripping over the thing, ramming into him from every direction, and screaming at him for using a mobility aid. Heaven forbid disabled people live in urban areas. Didn’t they know random Wall Street broker number 7 had places to be?

Gritting his teeth against every jostling movement and snippy comment, Matt nearly howled back when a massive dog tackled him against a shop window, barking angrily at him and slobbering all over his tie as the owner tried to pull the creature off his hips.

“He’s friendly, I promise!” She yelled over the deafening roar of the dog, dragging him away by the scruff of his neck.

Matt said nothing, stalking the final few blocks to their building, failing to ignore the ringing in his ears and lingering musk of the dog hair littering his shirt. Shoving at the exterior door with his shoulder, Matt narrowly avoided breaking his nose on the musty glass panel when the entrance refused to budge. Guess it was too early for maintenance’s opening shift.

Growling under his breath, he dug out his keys, unlocking the door hastily and stomping up the stairs.

Most days, stepping foot into the office filled him with a sense of pride. The ramshackle space was a representation of everything he’d accomplished, the payoff of years of hard work courtesy of both himself and Foggy. It wasn’t overly spacious. There was barely enough room for their daily onslaught of new clients–the excess body heat making the sputtering AC tremble with exertion. The suite was perpetually dusty and home to more than a few pests, but it was theirs. Most days, that was enough for Matt.

Today though, all Matt could focus on was the scent of mildew wafting up from the ancient carpet and the aggressive scrabbling of tiny claws in the building’s walls. Prying his tie from around his neck, he rolled his shoulders, collapsing into his second-hand office chair with a groan. Rifling through the files in his bag, he withdrew the flimsy folder containing their firm’s notes on an ongoing guardianship case.

This specific file wouldn’t lighten his mood in the slightest, but it had been nagging at him for days. The client had requested their assistance only about a week ago, looking for someone to help him revoke his court appointed guardian–his mother.

After an accident on the highway left him nearly entirely paralyzed, Mr. Sandoval had endured years of reconstructive surgeries and other invasive medical practices, unable to properly advocate for himself when his only known form of communication was ripped away from him. Contrary to the story his mother had pitched to the judge, he was capable of making his own decisions, he just required certain technological accommodations to speak his mind.

While under the guardianship of his mother, he was intentionally kept from any text-to-speech tools and subjected to emotional, as well as financial, abuse that his parent claimed was punishment for driving under the influence. Mr. Sandoval had been stripped of his autonomy and dignity because of a rushed court order and blatant ableism from the court officials. Matt and Foggy had readily agreed to represent him when he challenged the existing ruling.

But the case was proving to be more frustrating than they’d first imagined. None of the judges within the jurisdiction were willing to sympathize with someone who had committed what they deemed as an immoral act. The fact that he was not simply the cause but the only survivor of the crash always sealed his fate. Yet Matt was determined to keep trying.

Persistence was one of his few remaining virtues.

He was so engrossed in the paperwork, fingers flying over the lines of braille repeatedly as he grew more enraged, that he didn’t hear the office door open.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Came Foggy’s cheerful greeting.

Matt groaned in response, earning him a laugh. “I see someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. If you ended up in bed at all last night. Geez, Matt, you’re carrying a family of suitcases under those eyes.”

“Good to know.” Matt muttered, not moving from his hunched position. “I’ll get right on that.”

“You know, for a professional liar, you need to step up your fibbing game, Murdock.” His friend exhaled forcefully, planting two palms on Matt’s desk as he leaned forward. “You look like microwaved crap.”

Chuckling in surprise, Matt flapped a hand over his chest in feigned gratitude. “You really know how to boost a guy’s ego, bud. Really lifting my spirits here.” 

“Stop deflecting.” Foggy hissed, his glare surely intense enough to drill two parallel holes in Matt’s skull. “How late were you out last night?”

And that was the other half of the issue. After failing to reach you and properly introduce himself, he’d been too busy spiraling to fill his best friend in on recent events. Now, so much time had passed that the omission seemed deliberate. If he asked Foggy for advice now, would their firm survive another argument about honesty? Matt doubted it. 

He could still hear Foggy’s trust being torn to bits in his living room, the other man’s voice quivering with hurt and thinly veiled fury as he interrogated Matt. 

“What the hell do I know about Matt Murdock?”

Letting Foggy assume he’d been losing sleep over crime in the city seemed less harmful somehow.

Shuddering against the crowning mass of guilt in his abdomen, he shrugged. 

“Late.” His reply was clipped, anything beyond curt would give away the battle raging within him. “Didn’t mean to be, it just happened.”

At least that much was true. 

“For fuck’s sake, Matt, you’re going to kill yourself gallivanting around in those stupid pajamas–”

“Not pajamas.” Matt interrupted, not bothering to hide his smirk when Foggy grumbled over him. 

“Getting stabbed by whatever low lives are lurking in the shadows. And I’m, what, supposed to pretend you aren’t scaring the shit out of me?” Skin chafed along denim as Foggy’s hands landed on his hips. 

Fiddling with a torn corner of the case file, he swallowed the lump crawling up his throat. “Foggy, I’m–” 

“You’re not, Matt!” His partner exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air with exasperation and worry.

“Not what?” A second voice asked, the question light and curious, rather than filled with weeks of resentment and strife. 

Both men whirled towards the open door in surprise, no doubt giving Karen an amusing spectacle, jaws dropping to the floor as they stared toward her.

“Uh–” Foggy blurted out, head swishing between the pair of them indecisively. 

“Well..” Matt grimaced, threading his fingers into his hair as he desperately sought out a response. Unfortunately for his quick wit, exhaustion had coated his brain–the metaphorical wheels within screeching to a halt. Before he could even close his gaping mouth, Foggy had come to his rescue.

“Not letting me pay for coffee! Seeing as he totally foiled my plan to get here before both of you and hold my diligence over your head for the rest of the day.” Foggy sighed wistfully, no doubt dreaming of the high horse he wasn’t able to hop on.

Hands stilling over a line of text, Matt gave an exasperated huff. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“It’s been mentioned.” Foggy smiled, grabbing Matt by the elbow and towing him out of the office. “Karen, hold down the fort, will ya?”

Karen scoffed, slightly miffed as the two men made their escape. Still being dragged by the fabric of his shirt, Matt dug his heels into the gritty carpet, yanking free of his friend’s grasp. 

“She’s not gonna just let this go, Fog.” Hand fumbling for the bannister, he began his trek down the creaky stairs, Foggy hot on his heels. 

“Well considering that someone has a certain illegal alter-ego she can’t know about, I’m not quite sure what I can do to remedy that.” Foggy griped, footsteps harsher than normal as the pair descended to the lobby. 

Matt’s teeth clenched together as the stiffness in his jaw grew increasingly tight. “I’m sorry, Foggy. Truly, I–”

“Yah, yah, you’re sorry. I got it.” Foggy snapped, whisking past him to open the lobby door. With a sigh, he extended his arm for Matt to grasp. “Just…promise me you’ll rest tonight? You and I both know it’s been quieter this month, and I’m not kidding, dude. You’re like a walking Ambien ad.”

Accepting Foggy’s elbow, Matt hummed thoughtfully. “For you, buddy? I’ll try.” 

Matt was trying. He was. 

In the interest of keeping his promise to Foggy, he’d planned on executing a quick loop around the kitchen before heading back to his loft to crash. Somehow, after his third useless tussle with a criminal, he’d actually followed through. Heaving trembling breaths, he stood on the roof of his building, rivulets of blood trailing down his limbs and onto the concrete at his feet. He had no idea if the crimson liquid was his or someone else’s. Probably both.

Cool air coasted over the tip of his nose, making his nostrils flare with a sigh. The tiny reprieve from the sweltering heat made him sink to the ground, following the trail of air desperately. His knees collided with concrete, sending a tremor through his bones. Head swimming, he flattened his palms along the rough surface, clenching his jaw against the roiling nausea in his stomach.

The Kitchen hadn’t been too active tonight, his last wild goose chase ended with him landing a well-aimed punch into a drunk man’s uneasy stomach, causing the guy to spill his guts across the pavement and Matt’s shoes. He’d have to throw this pair out. No amount of detergent or vigorous scrubbing would remove the scent of partially digested alcohol from the tightly woven fabric. Letting his own bile escape his sealed mouth would certainly not help the issue.

Swallowing roughly, he inhaled a slow breath, the devil whirling amidst the chaos within him. Starving for a fight, for a chance to be set free. Every cell within him was wound too tight, the primal need to unleash something strangling him, exacerbating the pounding in his head and sloshing in his gut. 

On days like these, he missed her. His other half. The only person to witness his rage and accept it wholly, not shying away or asking him to dampen it. In fact, she encouraged it. Taking him to Fogwell’s, begging him to throw a punch her way, to surprise her.

That night in the ring, he’d shown her his mark. After they’d sparred–and practically devoured each other–during the brief moment of peace, he’d revealed the one thing he managed to keep from his childhood. And, with a kiss, Elektra had told him they were soulmates.

She believed it, too. At least, that’s what her heart had told him–so Matt was willing to do anything to stay with her. Indulge her every whim. Fail his classes and abandon his future if he had to, anything for her.

But it wasn’t enough. She still left. They always did. Whatever demon the clergy had failed to exorcize when he was a child had matured, mutated. Dripping fangs and barbed claws whirling around within him. Insatiable. Pushing her away.

She’d abandoned him. Leaving him alone, like his mother had his father. It was almost poetic, the way he followed in his dad’s footsteps.

His mother. His father. Stick. Elektra. Foggy had returned for now, but Matt would inevitably lose him and Karen too. Everyone he’d ever loved, gone because he was too much to bear. 

A monster, a martyr, a pariah. 

Nobody feels sorry for you and nobody ever will. Stick’s nasally voice taunted him, dancing around his head when he desperately shook it. He was wrong. Foggy and Karen cared. They did. 

You sure about that, kid?

With a deep growl, he drew back a fist, driving it into the pavement. Knuckles quivering upon impact, he curled his other hand, mirroring the motion. The noise of the city faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. Hit after hit landed on the stagnant target, scraping away layers of skin and testing the strength of his bones. Without realizing it, his mouth opened, a barbaric roar tumbling from his vocal chords until they ached. 

Relationships are a luxury men like you and me can't afford.

Stick was wrong. He had to be. 

Hazy memories flowed over him, like a shallow current of water he was face down in, seeping into his mouth and lungs–ridding them of breath. A brief glimpse of his father’s smile, the feeling of a hand vigorously ruffling his hair. The press of plush, warm lips against his as a whiff of jasmine perfume made heat coil in his gut. The cool, clammy exterior of a beer bottle in his grip as Foggy and Karen bickered good-naturedly across the table. 

You’ll be the death of ‘em, Matty. Every one of ‘em.

His cry dwindled to a rasp as the scent of copper slid over his tongue, his blood staining the cement as the skin across his knuckles split. Heaving breaths shook his torso, pained whines shuddering through him as he crawled towards the half-wall, sinking against the cool brick.

It was all too much. The blaring horns and the stifling heat and the musty scent of half-charred cigarettes. The pulsating weight in his sinuses and the sharp tang of lingering vomit spilled over his shoes. The frustrations of a difficult case and a failing justice system, only made worse by sleep deprivation and overstimulation. He wanted it to stop, all of it. Just one moment where the world wasn’t turning and time wasn’t passing and he was allowed to catch his fucking breath. To exist without feeling like a goddamn burden. To love and be loved without it feeling wrong and full of tension.

His shoulders bumped against the stiff surface he had propped himself on, trembling with the movement of his lungs. He couldn’t quite tell if he was laughing or crying. Did it matter anymore?

The stern voice of his former mentor struck him like a branding rod.

Never were strong enough, were you?

His meaning was left unsaid, though Matt heard it anyway. Not strong enough to keep his mind from unraveling. Not strong enough to be a soldier for his war. Not strong enough to keep him around–not strong enough to keep anyone around.

Fists clenching against the despair building in his chest, he tilted his head up towards the heavens, silently begging for guidance. His prayer was rewarded by a pelting droplet smacking his forehead. Pure, untainted water began to weep from the sky, slinking through the seams of his suit and crawling over his skin. The moisture soaked into the suit, forcing the material to cling to him forcefully. 

A hand flew up towards his chest as it clenched painfully, his breaths became shallow and quick, as if his body had forgotten how to process oxygen. He couldn’t do this anymore.

Staggering for the door to his loft, he heaved the slab of metal open, cringing as it slammed closed behind him. The suit was ripped off, piece by never-fucking-ending piece hitting the floor of his place with an echoing slap. Finding them all again would be tedious, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. As his thick-soled boots finally left the staircase, touching down on the floorboards below, his mind was buzzing as it tried to sort through the dozens of stimuli. 

The static of a TV blaring through a busted speaker in an apartment down the hall.

The piercing scream of a baby being sleep trained a few blocks away, apparently not ready to self-soothe.

The patter of an anxious heartbeat darting past his window, the thrum mingling with the pounding rain. Familiar and absolutely haunting. 

A pained cry escaped him, hands whipping over his ears as he tried to drown it out. He needed to focus on something else, anything else.

But it was too late. As if he’d been teleported back to that moment, he once again stood before his soulmate as she agonized over their bond. It didn’t matter that he was crumpled in a ball on the floor of his loft, he could still hear that same tuft of air careening toward him, carrying the scent of powdery soaps and saline. It mingled with the acidic smell of tomatoes draped over pasta, the taste of potatoes lingering on his tongue. Tantalizingly warm and comforting, but cursed all the same.  

Your hesitant pulse looped through his ears, matching the one scurrying down the block. Too quick. Far too quick for his liking, but no longer solid or real. A figment of his imagination, taunting him with a life he’d never live.

“...did you feel it?” 

This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t with you. Your heart wasn’t convulsing wildly, supplying a horrifying rhythm beneath your question.

“Yes.” 

Only God could judge him for speaking the words aloud. He was too desperate to keep you near, to hold onto the last remaining sliver of your ethereal presence. You were fading from his grasp, falling through his outstretched fingers like grains of sand. 

“So, that means we're...” 

He braced himself for impact, for the booming stream of beats exiting your anxious heart. The same soundtrack that had been interrupting his sleep at night because he was practically sick from the crippling guilt and his own pathetic misfortune. 

Instead of growing louder, saturating his brain until he could feel each contraction of your heart, your pulse began to fade–as if…

Gritting his teeth, Matt straightened his posture, trying to pinpoint the sound. It took a moment, his exhausted brain sorting through each stimuli like a slug sorting rocks, slowly and inaccurately. Eventually, he found it–a few blocks away now, accompanied by stifled sobs and shallow breaths as the person darted through an entryway. 

This wasn’t a memory, this was real. 

Unless Matt had lost the final ounce of sanity he’d managed to cling to all this time, it wasn’t some random woman barreling down the streets of Manhattan, just out of his reach. It was you. And every bone in his body was convinced that something was very, very wrong. 

Taglist: @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @marytheweefrenchie @cheshirecat484 @siampie @xxdrixx @gracethyomen @screechingphantommaker @spiderstyles04 @paradox-brody-chase @blue-devil-of-the-lord @yarrystyleeza @sarahskywalker-amidala @lotrefcp @silas-aeiou @harleycao

[anticidic]

Thinking of a cursed reincarnation au with skk

as they reincarnate, at random only one of them remembers their past life and it just goes on like that—so one cycle Chuuya remembers his past life but Dazai doesn't, then the next Dazai remembers and Chuuya doesn't, repeat forever.

Chuuya's reincarnated into a painter and he remembers his past life as a prince where he eloped with Dazai, and when painter Chuuya meets with the new Dazai, he offers to paint Dazai who's just like…a convenience store worker now, but Chuuya draws the old prince Dazai out of habit. The old Dazai is still fresh in his memory, and it comes out vividly. Dazai just thinks painter Chuuya has a good imagination, and he even makes a little joke about how he wouldn't look too bad as royalty, and painter Chuuya's heart just kinda aches because the new Dazai doesn't remember him and what they had in their old life was nice.

But also like, Dazai's this random, ordinary guy being treated like royalty (pun intended) and doesn't know why?? Who is Chuuya?? He's literally, "I just work here."

And then next rebirth only Dazai remembers the past, so he remembers painter Chuuya making a painting of his old, old royalty self and when Dazai crosses paths with Chuuya again, this time Dazai being like a truck driver and Chuuya being a phlebotomist, Dazai ANIMATEDLY tells Chuuya about the painting in great detail and Chuuya's just, "…I can't draw or create, but that's a nice thought."

Then he asks if truck driver Dazai is feeling all right or if the blood draw is too much and he needs a moment

[the-solatorobo-fanatic]

i keep seeing people hcing that capsaicin is burning spice's son or descendant, and that HC is valid, very cool, and nice!

but consider capsaicin being an early vessel for burning spice's soul that was eventually discarded, but still chained by another group because of his power and eventually made his way to scovilia

and now that burning spice is back he's searching him

[firerose18991]

Special agent! Gojo x reader

A/N: No this is not based on special agent Oso my friend pointed out the name and now I'm 😭.

Info: JKK AU, Omegaverse!, Alpha!Gojo,  gn!reader, omega!reader, reader is in a pack(so they share him👍🏾), NSFW/smut at the end

Minors DNI!!

wrdcnt: 1.22k

Special agent! Gojo who's been working on a case tracking a crime lord through the deep mountains.  After chasing him around the world, his team managed to corner him in the region.  The problem is he is hiding among the civilians.   

Special agent! Gojo and his teams have a rough idea of where he is.  But none of the locals are talking.  While walking through town he notices everyone avoiding him until he locks eyes with you.  You and your pack quickly scurry away, but not before he tells his team to track you down and bring you in.

Special agent! Gojo who has you all pulled from your cozy hut a few miles away from town into the team's makeshift camp for interrogation.  

“Sorry to treat you all so rough.  But everyones been ignoring us, you know how it is.” He entered the cold tent where they placed you all.

“You tryna get my pack killed?” you growled back.

“I'm trying to save this whole region sweetheart. And I bet you can help.  Seen him around?” He slid a picture toward you.

“Nope.” you kept you glare on him.

“It'd help if you looked at the photo.” But of course you didn't budge.

Special agent! Gojo could see he was getting nowhere and returned to his team for suggestions.  Nanami suggested a bribe, people in this region weren't known to give something for nothing.  And Gojo knew that well having been undercover in the area just last year.  Though normally if there was a threat to the community they'd give them up right away unless they knew them, meaning the target was one of their own.

“Bring them some rare sweets, I'm sure they'd appreciate it.  All omegas do.” Nanami suggested.

Special agent! Gojo shrugged, ambivalent to the suggestion.  He walked out of the hut wordlessly.  Which only served to piss Nanami off.  Why ask if he had his own idea?  Nevertheless they went through with it and presented you and your pack with a buffet of sweets.

The three of you sat at the silver interrogation table uninterested. Watching the Agents clumsily try to entice just one of you enough to get some info.  Your head turned when you smelled something heavenly from outside the tent.

Special agent! Gojo pushed through the tent opening holding a silver baking pan with a baking mit.  Whatever was in the pan was crackling and smelled like pure bliss.  He placed it down on the far corner of the table just close enough for you to peek over and see the giant roasted duck in the pan.  You and your pack's eyes glued to the bird, practically salivating.

Special agent! Gojo who took his original place across from you all smirking, waiting to see what all you were willing to give up in exchange for such a rare bird in your region.  

“Now can you tell me if you know this man?” The teasing lilt in his voice surfaced.

You got a nudge from one of your pack mates.

“Food is not worth our lives.” You composed yourself enough to speak.

“Well if he's a threat to you all, why are you protecting him.”

“The townspeople know him.  We're new to this area.  That's all I'll say.  Find someone else.” The waft of the duck had your mind muddled.

“Hmm I think you're exactly what I need.”  He leaned in close.  Enough to catch your sweet scent.  “You have my word, we'll keep you and your pack safe, or die trying.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you sneered.

“Well there's a reason this guy is runnin’ from us.” He winked.

Special agent! Gojo who finally gets the information he needs to bring this guy in and leaves you all in the protection of his team to enjoy your duck.  

Picking up the guy was no problem but it was a shame to break into his elderly parents home to do so.  It almost made him regret it, but the pay raise he was going to get from this take down may be worth it.  After all he's got the hopes of taking a small pack of omegas home with him.

Special agent! Gojo reports back to see you and your pack already at the bones of the bird.  He'd only been gone 30 minutes.

Special agent! Gojo escorts you back home through town.  Only to have your neighbors throwing stones at you as you passed by.  He blocked any before they could harm any of you.

Special agent! Gojo who acts clueless upon the three of you reaching home and panicking about having to find a new home, again!

Special agent! Gojo is happy to protect you all as long as need be and proposes a move down south with his team.  Your pack has no choice.  His agency comes and boxes your home up with efficiency and ships it to his high rise in the city. 

Special agent! Gojo watches as you and your pack wearily board the agency private plane, and take your first flight.  

Special agent! Gojo who brings you to his home and tells you all to make yourselves comfortable.  He couldn't wait for the place to reek of the three of you.

Special agent! Gojo who plans a special housewarming dinner with all the delicacies you could imagine (yes there was more duck!!!).  He watched you all happily gorge yourselves.  Occasionally one of you would shove a piece of food he “had to try” into his mouth, which he happily accepted.  

Special agent! Gojo who ends the night showing you all to a den he had prepared.  He let you all run around exploring the vast room while he sat in the corner of the Alaskan king bed waiting for you to tire out.

Special agent! Gojo sends you all to sleep bouncing on his cock.  Taking his time to make sure the whole pack is fully sated.  He'd have one of you waiting on his fingers, kissing the other and fucking the last into the sheets.  You were the last standing as your pack mates slept after a handful of orgasms.  

You were barely holding on as Special agent! Gojo folded you in a mating press onto the pillows.  

“Come on ‘mega. Know you wanna come for me.”  He could go all night but he can feel you holding out on him.

The way you'd force yourself to settle after squeezing him for a dangerously long time.

You shook your head, trying your best to match his thrusts.  “Wanna stay.  Feels good, wanna stay.”

“Nnnn I can get you here anytime you want, baby.  Let me make you feel real good now.” He purred in your ear.  Your skin felt like a wave of fire passed through.

You were so close, a few well placed thrusts was all it took to have you spilling over to which Gojo reciprocated.  After a few minutes of panting all over each other he began to pull out.  The two of you were connected by strings of your own release, painted all the way down Gojo's thighs, that fell as you came apart.

Special agent! Gojo laid next to his new pack already excited to tell his team what they'd all missed out on.

[royalelo]

Narancia was a kiss boy but Fugo was a boy kiss all along 😞 hit like an subscrib for more deep quotes