#I will be kind and cruel and lovely and wretched in turn

[reminiscingthesea]

Thinking about.. comforting Khaslana (aka dead eyes Phainon from the 3.4 story) in one of the million cycles..

Warning- Spoilers for 3.4 story quest, angst

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He lay across on your lap, his head nestled upon your soft thighs, as your fingers gently combed through his icy white hair, twirling a few strands around your nimble fingers. His gaze was fixed upwards, but not at you, but towards the sky, the sky that praised the two of you with beaming light and its warming radiance from the godlike sun. The same sky he knew was hiding the Destruction’s gaze from afar. A wretched, fake sky. The same sun he knew would bleed red soon. He has seen it all too many times.

But you? You were an exception- an anomaly- your occurrence in these millions of cycles were fleeting- rare. Almost by chance. He knew your presence made whatever above seethe with pure rage and anger, as you slowed down the Destruction’s synthesis.

There was something he didn’t quite understand, however. How was it that you knew who he truly was? How did you know that Amphoreus was of cyclical existence in nature? There were things you knew that you shouldn’t know. But, in every thousand of those millions of cycles where he had the chance to meet you- to ask these questions, he never found himself the courage to ask. Not once. Were you simply a cruel string of code curated by Lygus himself to keep him going? God, he hoped not. So why did he never find himself questioning you of your origins?

Was it his love for you? Yes. Was it because he didn’t want to find out something he shouldn’t know, for the sake of his and Cyrene’s mission? Also, yes.

“What’s on your mind, Khaslana?” Your voice was a soothing balm to his wound of a body, his body blazing with raw memoria, will, and passion. Even for a fleeting, sorrowful moment, he wished he could stay by your side like this, forever.

Turning his gaze to you, he saw how your kind eyes flickered with worry, and your expression contorting from one of peace and indulgence, to one of concern and love. It must’ve been his eyes. Cerulean blue, full of emotion and colour, with the faint shape of Kephale’s halo within, encasing small, bright yellow pupils. But they weren’t filled with light or shine, no matter how beautiful they may look. They were dead. Emotionless. Unmoving. Cold. Yet, you always kept eye contact with him, why?

“Things on my mind, that’s all.” He replied quietly, his tone unintentionally cold and distant as he spoke. He saw the way your eyes very briefly flickered with slight pain and sadness, before quickly being hidden by a mask of sympathy, a small, sad smile adorning your pretty face.

“I know that’s not true. But I won’t go into detail, since I know someone like you must have a lot on your mind. Though, tell me one thing. How many coreflames is it that you bear now, within you?”

“Two million, seven hundred-and-ninety-five thousand, eight hundred and sixty.” He answered without a beat, having known the feeling of the burning heat of over two million coreflames that burnt to brightly within him, the fire not weakening once, the light, not dimming a fragment.

Your face was was blank, expression, unreadable, but full of thought as you processed what he had said, temporarily seizing the comforting ministrations on his scalp, to which he gave you a slightly hurt look.

“Ah. So this must be the thirty-third million, five-hundred-and-fifty-thousandth, three hundredth and thirtieth cycle? Hmm.. that must mean something, right?” You pondered inquisitively, as you looked up, a finger on your chin as you thought.

When Phainon didn’t respond, you knew something in him must’ve switched. Normally, he had something to say or retort back with in an instant- having gone through identical moments in the past too many times before now.

But this? This was unexpected? Unrehearsed for. He didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to say anything. I realise I may be out of line for asking that, reminding you of.. your mission and the memories it may bring back.” After a few beats, you carefully coerced him to look into your eyes, hooking two fingers around his chin to secure his almost lifeless gaze.

“But, what I do know, Khaslana, is that you’re strong. Strong, determined, willful. I know the horrifying experiences you must face each cycle, the overbearing responsibilities you’ve had to bear as Khaslana during each cycle up until now, to avoid a complete Destruction. But for now, please. Just rest. I see it in your eyes, the pain and suffering behind them, the weight of so many wishes and memories.. The same eyes that yearn for respite.”

Your tone, so soft, so sweet, so loving, so reverent, so you. Rest wasn’t something he grew accustomed to over these long, torturous cycles, the memories he bore within screamed cries too loud for his mind to keep out, to keep quiet.

But, for some reason here, he found himself at peace. Devoid of thought, of memory, of the wishes of thousands. The scolding heat of the coreflames now engulfing him in a rather comforting warmth, rather than its usual fiery burns and flames. His lips separated slightly, trying to find the words to speak. But nothing. He knew he wanted this. He wanted respite- even for a few fleeting minutes or hours, even if it did cause jeopardy to his lifelong, eternal plan.

As if moving on his own accord, he lifted himself up, feeling weightless as he now sat next to you, back against the large trunk of a tree, looking at you with fuller eyes now. You swore you could see the smallest, the quickest of flickers of life pass through his empty, ocean eyes that resembled the sun, before immediately disappearing once more.

And then, without either your accords or his, your eyes closed, as the two of you leaned closer, lips capturing the other in a deep, intimate kiss. On your side, you were gentle, slow, and loving. But on his side, he was passionate, needy, and twice as loving, pulling you closer as his tongue made its way past your soft, full lips, and into the expanse of your mouth, the hot muscle loving it properly. You felt his teeth nip and bite at your lower lip, eliciting a soft moan out your throat as you held onto him tightly, wanting more and more, to which he responded to eagerly.

After some time, the two of you pulled back, your faces flushed, breath gone, panting hurriedly to make up for the lack of airflow due to the lovingly long kiss. Your lips, now wet with his and your saliva, placed big, sloppy kisses onto his cheeks, which drove out one of the sweetest, most beautiful sounds you hadn’t heard in so long. A laugh. Phainon’s laugh. Not the delirious or distant, shallow, fake laugh of Khaslana. But the bright, warm, contagious laugh of Phainon.

“You look better now, I can almost see the light returning back to your eyes.” There was a warm smile on your face as you spoke. You gently pinched his cheek with the pads of your fingertips, squishing it slightly as you did. Phainon, who now had a look of closeness and trust on his face, carefully brought down you hand from his cheek, and over his chest, where you could feel the enthusiastic, strong beat of his heart behind his bones.

“You feel that? That’s the beating of my heart. When you’re around in every odd cycle, it beats harder, faster, as if it knows you’ll be here in the next cycle. I.. don’t know when the next time we meet will be, but in every cycle, I’ll always love you. [Name].” Placing a delicate kiss on your knuckles, he looked up at you once more. His eyes, still dead with no shine, seemed to glow a brighter blue, yet the hue of his sun-yellow pupils glowed even harder, the dawn tattoo on his neck seemed to burn brighter now.

Cupping his cheek with your free hand, you gave him a peaceful, look of love, one full of adoration and affection.

“I’ll always love you too, Khaslana. Now then, you must rest now. Time won’t wait for you, you aren’t in Aedes Elysiae.” Slowly, he smiled and lowered himself back down, so his head was back resting onto the comfortable expanse of your soft, pillowy thighs. His eyelashes, long and pretty, fluttered daintily as his eyes shut once more, his pink lips parting slightly as he dozed off once more, to the heavenly embrace known as the land of dreams.

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Once he was asleep fully, you shifted him off roughly, his head landing onto the grass next to you, a look of disgust writing itself onto your face as you watched him unconsciously nuzzling his nose against the dirt.

“Pathetic.. Lycurgus was right when he said he was truly nothing more than a child at heart, such a mangy dog. I hate having to get close to him..”

Pulling out your tablet, you began noting down some things onto the indigo blue screen.

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>>[33,550,330 Computation]

>>Subject: “Neikos496”

>>Observation: In each cycle, Neikos496 —Khaslana— reacts differently around Admin- [Name]. Upon closer inspection, his physical body pumps golden blood—The Destruction— quicker around his body.

>>Admin notes: This is just as I predicted, as similar, affectionate behaviour from him was exhibited around me in each computation I was present in.

>>Conclusion: The Destruction synthesis of Lord Ravager, Irontomb, and Neikos496 progresses faster around Admin [Name]’s presence. Therefore, Irontomb’s presence grows stronger, leading to a greater likelihood of nearing ascension.

>>Strategy: Create more versions of Admin ‘[Name]’ in each cycle to speed up the development of Irontomb’s presence within Phainon Neikos496.

[surielstea]

Embers Entwined

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader was one of the most affected by Beron’s rule, after his death Eris was crowned High Lord and Reader became his personal servant by extension, what happens when she begins to recognize Eris for his kindness and not his cruelty?

Warnings: Beron being a right asshole as usual, and some kissing (*gasp* the scandal!)

A.Note: Sorry it’s been forever!! This one took me awhile but I’m pretty happy with it. Hope you guys enjoy too! Some Azriel smut coming out in a few days also! 💋💋

Word count: 7.9k

The ball was decadent, far grander than in previous years, though I supposed tonight warranted the excess. A special occasion, one that carried far more meaning than the usual frivolous gatherings meant only to remind the rich of their own wealth.

Tonight, the Autumn Court celebrated the coronation of Eris Vanserra. More importantly to me, we celebrated Beron's death.

I would never say such a thing aloud, never give voice to the hatred that simmered in my veins. But I knew I was not alone in my sentiments. Most despised that wretched male—just not enough to ever act against him. Beron had been cruel, but only to those within his grasp. His wife. His sons. His staff. Me, in particular—his personal courtier.

It had been my duty to obey him without question, to smile and nod and endure, no matter what vile thing he asked of me. The words he'd spoken to me, the way he'd toyed with me, broken me, forced me into submission—I would never find peace after him. I knew that.

I stood against the wall of the ballroom, my hands clasped in front of me, a pleasant, vacant smile painted on my lips. The same as always. My black dress marked me as staff, distinguishing me from the nobles twirling beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers. It wasn't an ugly dress—not physically—but the symbolism it carried made my stomach churn.

I was meant to be invisible. To stand for hours, heels biting into my feet, lips aching from feigned delight, waiting. Always waiting for the High Lord's command. That was my place.

But tonight, for the first time at an event like this, someone spoke to me. Not just someone. The newly crowned High Lord.

"Do you not wish to dance?"

His voice was smoother than I expected, rich and effortless, as though the words required no thought. When I turned my head, Eris Vanserra stood before me, resplendent in his deep forest green attire, gold-threaded embroidery glinting beneath the chandeliers. Rings adorned his fingers, catching the light as he gestured vaguely toward the center of the ballroom.

I had known Eris Vanserra since I was a girl—back when my father served as Beron's personal courtier and I trained under him, shadowing his every move. In those early years, Eris and I spent countless hours in the kennels, where I had been sent to feed the hounds, and he had sought my company. Even then, I knew better than to refuse a Vanserra. But it hadn't felt like an order. Not when he spoke so passionately about his dogs, his amber eyes alight with something rare and unguarded.

I had listened, quietly captivated, as he ran his hands through thick fur, naming each hound like they were something precious, something his father could not tarnish. And though I rarely spoke, I knew he never minded.

But time had a way of reshaping things. Our duties grew heavier, our paths diverged, and whatever thread had once tied us together frayed beneath the weight of expectation. I often wondered if he remembered—the girl who once sat beside him in the straw-covered kennels, listening in rapt silence as he spoke of things he loved. Or if I had faded into nothing more than a ghost of his childhood, long forgotten.

I snapped back to the present when I realized my hesitation, startled by his presence, by his question. By him.

I glanced at him only briefly before averting my gaze. I had long since learned better than to expect kindness from the Vanserras, Eris or not. "I'm working, my lord," I answered smoothly, forcing the usual mask into place. "Besides, the late Lord Beron was always particular about the servantry enjoying themselves at these sorts of things."

A flicker of something crossed Eris's face at my words. Perhaps it was amusement, perhaps something else. I wasn't certain. Then, he did something I never would have expected. He extended his hand to me, palm up. A silent command. I stared at it, my heart stuttering.

Was this a trick? A test? Was he waiting for me to disobey so he could remind me of my place? "Well," he mused, tilting his head, "I'm not Beron, am I?"

I swallowed thickly, but I did not take his hand. His amber eyes gleamed as he studied me, something unreadable lurking beneath their molten depths. "You were my father's personal courtier, yes?"

"Correct, my lord."

"And now that he's gone, you're mine." A statement, not a question.

I nodded.

"And you're required to do as I say."

Another nod.

"Then take my hand." His voice was softer now, quieter. "Dance with me." My breath caught in my throat. I hesitated. Was he attempting to humiliate me?

I had seen what his brothers were capable of, how they had reveled in Beron's cruelty, how they had wielded it against others for their own entertainment. I had heard the stories about Eris—his ruthlessness, his ambition, his callous disregard for those beneath him. I had no reason to believe he was any different.

Yet something about the way he stood there, hand still outstretched, gaze unwavering, made my stomach tighten. He wasn't forcing me. He wasn't demanding. He was patient. I hated him for that. For making me doubt my own certainty.

But in the end, I had no choice. With a deep inhale, I placed my hand in his. His fingers curled around mine—warm, steady. Not gripping. But I knew better than to believe in illusions.

Eris Vanserra was his father's son. And I would never trust him.

The moment my hand settled in his, a hush seemed to fall over the space around us—not total silence, but a ripple in the atmosphere, a shift in attention that pressed against my skin like a physical thing.

They were watching. The nobles, the courtiers, the sycophants who had spent years learning to fear and obey Beron, and by extension, his eldest son. They watched, likely waiting for me to make a mistake, waiting to see what game Eris Vanserra was playing.

I was waiting, too. But if this was some cruel trick, he did not let it show.

Eris led me toward the dance floor with unhurried ease, his grip firm but not forceful. A reminder, perhaps, that I was following him willingly. I didn't know what unsettled me more—that he had given me a real choice, or that, despite knowing better, a part of me wanted to believe he truly meant no harm.

The moment we stepped onto the floor, the nearest dancers shifted subtly away, giving us space without making it obvious. No one wanted to be caught in the High Lord's wake, in whatever he was planning.

He turned to face me, releasing my hand only to settle one warm palm against my waist, the other clasping mine once more. I stiffened beneath his touch, the weight of it burning even through the fabric of my dress.

"Relax," he murmured, amusement curling through his tone. "It's a dance, not an execution."

I forced my muscles to remain neutral, my expression placid, though I could still feel the weight of a hundred gazes searing into me. "That remains to be seen."

His lips curved slightly. "If I wanted to make a spectacle of you, I'd have chosen something far more dramatic." He guided me into movement, a slow, fluid step that I had no choice but to follow. "But I much prefer this."

I nearly scoffed, but reeled in my tone, replacing it with a polite one. "Dancing?"

His gaze flickered down to mine, something unreadable within it. "Yes," he admitted, voice quieter now. "It's one of the few things I enjoy."

I arched a brow at him, skepticism bleeding into my tone. "Truly?"

"Truly." A small pause, then, "My mother taught me."

His hold on my waist remained steady, his movements effortless as he guided me through the waltz. "She used to say that knowing how to dance was just as important as knowing how to wield a blade. Both would assist me on a battle field."

I couldn't stop the flicker of surprise at his admission. Not because I doubted his mother's wisdom—if anything, I had always pitied the Lady of Autumn, the horrors she must have endured under Beron's rule—but because I had not expected Eris to share something so personal.

And yet, before I could decide how to respond, he added, "It was the one thing Beron couldn't take from me."

I swallowed, focusing on my movements, on the way his body angled just to keep me steady, to keep the dance seamless.

He was watching me closely, I could feel it. I hated that I could feel it.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my voice quieter than before, as if the words might shatter between us.

His lips twitched, though there was something different in his expression now. A quiet sort of challenge. "Because you're expecting me to be my father."

I stiffened.

"I'm not," he continued, tone smooth, unwavering. "And I think you already know that."

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing down the retort that sat at the edge of my tongue. I wanted to deny it.

Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I had no reason to believe him, that I had no reason to trust him. That, after what I had endured, I had no space left in me for blind hope. But I couldn't. Because, for the first time, I allowed myself to see him—not the heir of Beron Vanserra, not the male who had stood by and done nothing while his father ruled with malice, but the High Lord before me now.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous, cunning, and far too quick-witted for his own good. But he was not his father. And as much as I hated it, as much as it made something twist deep in my chest—

He was also undeniably beautiful.

His russet hair gleamed beneath the chandelier light, his sharp, angular features like something carved from fine marble. And those eyes—deep amber, filled with fire and calculation, but not cruelty. Never cruelty. It unnerved me.

I averted my gaze, the pressure in my throat tightening. "I don't know anything."

His fingers flexed slightly against my waist, the only indication that he had caught the tremor in my voice.

"You will," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. A promise.

I did not know whether it was a comfort or a threat. But I did know one thing—

The game, whatever it was, had only just begun.

As the waltz came to an end, Eris's grip on me loosened, but he did not immediately step away. His amber eyes remained locked onto mine, searching, calculating—always calculating.

I did not look away. I refused to.

Even as my heart pounded against my ribs, even as my throat tightened with the weight of memories that clawed at the back of my mind, I held his gaze.

He exhaled softly, something almost amused flickering in his expression before he lifted my hand, his touch lingering just enough to send a sharp jolt of awareness through me.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that sent heat curling in my gut, Eris pressed a kiss to the back of my hand.

A calculated move. A display of power.

And yet—his lips were warm. Gentle.

He let my hand slip from his grasp, stepping back with an air of ease, as though he had not just sent my already-frazzled mind into chaos.

"Thank you for the dance," he murmured, voice like silk and embers.

I said nothing. Because I couldn't. I simply bowed my head and turned away, ignoring the stares, the whispers that followed me as I slipped back into the shadows of the ballroom.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous. And not for the reasons I had always believed.

I had not been able to get him out of my head.

I hated it.

No matter how much I tried to shove the thoughts away—to remind myself of the horrors I had endured under Beron, of the way his sons had stood idly by for years, of the haunting whispers that surrounded Eris himself—I couldn't stop replaying that moment in my mind.

The warmth of his touch. The softness of his voice. The way he had looked at me, not with hatred, not with indifference, but with something else entirely.

It was a trick. Had to be. And yet, I found myself watching him more than I should have.

Every time he called for something, every time I had to be in his presence, I bowed low, just as I had always done for Beron. I kept my voice neutral, my head down, my routine unchanged.

As if nothing had changed at all. As if I had not danced with him. As if his hands had not burned against my skin. As if I had not spent the past few days wondering, against all reason, if perhaps he was not as evil as I had once believed.

I would not let myself believe it. Not when I had learned, time and time again, that kindness was a dangerous illusion.

So when one of the guards found me in the halls, stopping me with a clipped, "The High Lord is requesting you," a cold dread curled in my stomach.

Requesting me. Not a general summons for any courtiers. Not a task that could have been handled by anyone else. Me.

For a moment, I couldn't move. Memories crashed through me—memories of Beron's summons, of being called for with no warning, no explanation. Of standing before him, knowing what was coming but never being able to predict just how bad it would be.

My hands clenched at my sides. I swallowed hard, pushing down the panic, shoving it deep beneath layers of practiced control.

This was not Beron. I knew that. And yet, my body did not.

With carefully measured steps, I made my way to Eris's study, every inch of me wound tight.

My mind whispered warnings, my heart pounded against my ribs. I forced my hands to remain steady as I knocked once, then pushed the heavy wooden door open.

And there he was—seated behind a grand desk, amber eyes lifting to meet mine the second I entered.

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn.

And the male who, for reasons I could not begin to understand, had called for me.

I braced myself, preparing for whatever awaited me next. And prayed that I was not about to be proven a fool.

The door shut behind me with a soft thud, the sound too final, too reminiscent of a past I wanted to claw away from.

I stayed near the entrance, hands clasped in front of me, chin dipped ever so slightly—not meek, but neutral. Just as I had been trained to be.

Eris sat at his desk, one elbow braced on the armrest of his chair, fingers resting against his temple as he watched me. Not impatient. Not cruel. Just watching. Then, with that signature tilt of his head, he asked, "What's your name?"

I blinked. "My name?"

He arched a golden brow, the flickering candlelight making the sharp angles of his face seem all the more severe.

"I'd like to know who to call for to keep my company, so yes, your name."

Company. Was this a game? A test?

I studied him, searching for the trap, but found nothing except expectation.

I told him my name carefully, waiting for the moment his expression would shift, for him to sneer or mock or twist the knowledge into something mean.

But he only smiled slightly, a soft curve of his lips that felt almost out of place on a face like his.

Before I could think better of it, before I could convince myself to stay silent, I blurted, "Have you been lonely, my lord?"

Eris's head tilted further, amusement flashing in his amber eyes.

I stiffened immediately. "Forgive me for asking. That was incredibly impolite. I'm so—"

"I have." He cut me off smoothly, his voice quieter now, but no less firm.

I swallowed.

"I imagined being High Lord would be quite different," he mused, gaze flickering to the stacks of papers on his desk, the glowing hearth, the empty room around us. "Nevertheless, here we are." He nodded as if conceding something to himself.

My lips parted slightly, but I had nothing to say to that. Nothing that wouldn't cross a line I was still hesitant to even approach.

Instead, I dropped into another practiced bow. "Will that be all, my lord?"

His eyes snapped back to me, something unreadable stirring behind them.

"Eris," he corrected.

I hesitated.

"I am not my father," he said, voice quiet but edged with finality, as if he were daring me to argue. "Nor do I wish to become him. So please, call me Eris."

I nodded slowly. "...Well then, Lord Eris."

"Just Eris, my dear," he corrected again, leaning back slightly. "Like friends."

I didn't know what startled me more—that he wanted me to call him by his name, or that he had referred to me as a friend.

Still, I tried to ignore the warmth curling in my stomach as I forced myself to say, "Eris."

His lips twitched, something satisfied gleaming in his gaze. "Good girl."

The praise sent something unfamiliar down my spine, not in the way it had whenever Beron complimented me... this was different.

"Now come, get comfortable." He gestured toward the plush green chairs adjacent to his desk.

I stared at him. "You want me to sit?"

"Stand, lean, lay, I don't care." He waved a lazy hand. "Just relax."

"My lord—Eris," I corrected, still trying to wrap my mind around the strangeness of this entire interaction. "I don't get paid to... relax."

He smirked. "No, you get paid to follow my orders. And I am ordering you to get comfortable."

I stared at him for a long moment, my heart hammering in my chest as I tried to decipher the true meaning behind all of this.

But I saw no malice in his expression. No cruel intent. Just anticipation.

I swallowed and, slowly, I did as he said. I sat stiffly, hands clasped in my lap, my back straight as if Beron himself was still lurking behind me, waiting to scold me for stepping out of line.

Eris, however, did not acknowledge my rigid posture. He only let out a pleased hum, as if my mere presence was enough to meet whatever unspoken standard he had set for this moment. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he returned his focus to the parchment before him.

The only sounds in the room were the quiet scratching of his quill and the faint crackling of the candlelight.

I should have been grateful for the silence. It was better than savage words, better than commands meant to humiliate me. But instead, an odd tension settled in my chest, as if I were waiting for the real reason he'd called me here to be revealed.

Minutes passed. Then—

"You're staring," Eris murmured without looking up.

I blinked, feeling heat creep up my neck. "I am not."

His lips curved slightly, and he flipped to another parchment. "You are."

"I was merely looking in your direction." It was wrong of me to talk back, but something about him let my tongue a little looser, he didn't seem displeased by it in the slightest.

He hummed, unconvinced, dipping his quill back into ink. "And why, pray tell, were you looking in my direction?"

I hesitated. "...I was thinking."

Amber eyes flicked up from the page. "Dangerous habit."

That small smirk still played on his lips, but something about it was softer than usual, teasing rather than taunting.

I frowned, not ready for this interaction to feel comfortable, for me to feel comfortable. "I don't find it particularly dangerous."

"That's because you've never played with fire." He twirled the quill between his fingers before dragging the tip across the parchment again. "Not the kind that burns."

I scoffed. "You forget who I served before you."

He paused at that, glancing at me fully and my heart rate spiked. Too far, I'd gone too far, just a few words and the walls I built were crumbling before my very eyes.

Something unreadable flickered in his expression, but it was gone before I could place it. Instead, he dipped his head slightly, understanding the point. "Then I imagine you know better than most that fire, when wielded incorrectly, only ever destroys."

I stiffened, his words striking something deep within me.

Is that what I was? A thing destroyed? Is that what he saw when looking at me, or himself?

Eris exhaled, shifting his focus back to his work. "For what it's worth," he murmured, quieter now, "I don't intend to wield it incorrectly."

I studied him carefully, as I had done many times before, searching for the game, for the cruel edge I knew so well from his father.

But there was no trick. Only a High Lord—no, a male—focused on his work, offering me something I had never once been granted in Beron's court.

Peace.

I swallowed, forcing myself to look away, to ignore the unfamiliar warmth creeping into my bones.

Minutes passed again in silence, but this time, it didn't feel quite so heavy.

"I was serious, you know," Eris mused, not bothering to look up as he broke the quiet.

I frowned. "About what?"

"Keeping my company." He flipped to another document, signing something at the bottom. "I'd prefer your presence over my advisors any day. They're old and dull. You, at least, have some spirit."

I scoffed. "I think you are confusing obedience for spirit."

"Oh no, my dear." His lips curved in a knowing smirk. "You and I both know you're anything but obedient."

I bristled, opening my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. "It's alright. I find it... refreshing."

I wasn't sure what unsettled me more—the implication, or the way my stomach twisted at his words. Beron preferred all the servantry to have a fiery spirit, which makes it more fun to break, but he never really could stomp my flames out, and now Eris was sparking the embers. It was dangerous, so dangerous.

Silence fell between us once more.

For a moment, I thought that would be the end of it. That I would sit there, a piece of furniture in this room while he worked, just as I had been in Beron's court.

But then, without looking away from his parchment, Eris murmured, "Tell me something, Fawn."

The way he said that nickname—so deliberate, like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue—sent something sharp down my spine.

"Tell you what?" I asked carefully.

He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled in thought. "Something real."

I hesitated. "That's vague."

"Intentionally so." He arched a brow. "Consider it a challenge."

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he only waited, watching me with that same expectant look, as if he truly wanted to hear something about me.

I exhaled. "I don't like the cold."

His lips twitched. "A courtier of Autumn who doesn't like the cold? Shocking, really." His voice was sarcastic, but something in his eyes told me he knew what I meant.

I shrugged, explaining anyway. "It reminds me of your father." The words left me before I could stop them, before I could think better of them.

Eris didn't flinch, but something in his expression shifted. "I hate the cold, too," he admitted after a beat.

I blinked, caught off guard by his honesty.

He returned his attention to the paper in front of him, but his next words were soft, almost contemplative.

"It's why I keep the fire going."

And despite everything I had come to know about Eris Vanserra—despite everything I feared—those words stayed with me long after I left his study that night.

It became routine.

Every evening, after the day's duties were done, I was summoned to Eris's study. At first, I had thought it was some kind of test, some trick to lull me into a false sense of security before he reminded me of my place. But the days passed, and the cruel words never came. The taunts never sharpened into something harsher.

Instead, I found myself sitting across from him as he worked, the fire crackling between us, filling the silence in ways neither of us felt the need to.

And I was learning things.

Not just about him—but about myself.

I learned that despite being raised under Beron's thumb, Eris did not rule with a hand of iron. He listened—to his advisors, to the reports of the court, to me, even. And when I spoke, he truly listened, as if my words meant something.

More recently I learned that he was—Gods help me—attractive.

That fact had been easy enough to ignore when I hated him, when I thought he was just another Beron in the making. But the more time I spent with him, the more I noticed things I shouldn't—like the sharp angles of his face, the golden hue of his eyes, the way his hands moved across parchment with effortless precision.

It was incredibly inappropriate.

He was a High Lord, for the Gods' sake. I was a mere servant. A courtier, yes, but still beneath him in every sense of the word.

But there were moments—subtle, fleeting—where I felt that he didn't see it that way.

Like when he'd catch me staring and smirk, as if he knew exactly where my thoughts had gone. Like when his fingers would brush against mine as he handed me a book, a touch so brief it might have been an accident, but my traitorous body knew better. Like when he said my name—not the way Beron used to, as if I were an object, a thing that existed for his whims, but as if I were someone worth hearing.

It was dangerous. He was dangerous. And yet, I kept returning to his study, night after night, drawn to him in ways I did not understand.

I was comfortable around him now. Too comfortable. And I wasn't sure if that terrified me or eased me more.

The fire crackled behind him, casting golden light over the room as I sat at his desk, scanning over the trade agreements he had asked me to review. Eris stood in front of the hearth, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the flames with a contemplative expression.

"They're bleeding the smaller villages dry," I murmured, flipping to the next page. "The tariffs are nearly double what they should be."

Eris hummed in response, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "And what do you suggest, fawn?" His voice was rich, edged with amusement.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, biting back a smile at the teasing lilt in his tone. "Lowering them would be a start."

He took a slow sip of whiskey, then turned, his gaze burning even hotter than the fire behind him. "Very well. Lower them."

I blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He smirked, as if amused by my surprise. "You have a sharp mind. It would be a waste not to use it."

A compliment. A genuine one.

I busied myself with the documents, ignoring the warmth that curled in my stomach. But before I could shift to the next matter, I felt it—him.

The space between us disappeared in a breath. Eris leaned over my shoulder, one hand bracing against the desk as he peered down at the papers with me.

His warmth seeped through the thin fabric of my dress, his scent—smoke, cedar, spice—curling around me, intoxicating. I stiffened, my fingers tightening around the quill.

"See?" His voice was softer now, smooth like velvet. "That wasn't so hard."

I swallowed, forcing my focus back to the parchment. "I assume the next set of reports won't be as easy."

His chuckle was low, deep. "Unfortunately, no."

We worked through the rest of it together, his proximity never wavering, his breath occasionally ghosting against my cheek as he murmured his thoughts. It should have been unbearable. It was unbearable. And yet, I didn't pull away.

Not even when he poured me a glass of whiskey.

I had refused at first, telling him I was technically working but he had simply raised an eyebrow and said, "I won't tell the high lord if you don't."

It burned going down, leaving warmth in its wake, emboldening me just enough to loosen the tight grip I always held on myself.

Perhaps that was why, when we finally leaned back in our chairs, the tension of duty momentarily relieved, I dared to meet his gaze with something close to ease.

"You're a better High Lord than I expected," I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty.

He turned his glass between his fingers, watching me over the rim. "High praise, coming from you."

I rolled my eyes, but the smallest of smiles played at my lips. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," he quipped, grinning.

I shook my head, but I wasn't fast enough to hide the way my lips twitched in amusement.

Eris noticed. Of course, he did. And he leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. "Careful, fawn. Keep looking at me like that, and I'll think you actually enjoy my company."

I should have ignored the remark. Should have cut the moment short, should have reminded myself that this was Eris, that I was his courtier and nothing more.

But the whiskey hummed in my blood, and I found myself tilting my chin up slightly, arching a brow.

"Who said I don't?"

His gaze darkened, a flicker of something wicked dancing in those golden eyes.

The air between us tightened, the tension shifting into something heavier, something dangerous.

And for the first time, I wasn't entirely sure if I wanted to run from it.

The room was suffocating with heat—not just from the fire, but from him. From the way he looked at me, like he could see through every carefully placed wall I had built around myself.

I should have left. Should have bowed my head, murmured a polite good night, and returned to the servantry quarters where I belonged.

But I didn't.

Instead, I stayed, rooted in place, watching the way Eris's eyes flickered between my lips and my eyes. The tension stretched unbearably tight, wound so thin that one more word, one more breath, would surely snap it.

And then it did.

One moment, we were speaking, our words slow and softened by whiskey. The next—I was in his arms, and his mouth was on mine.

It was a collision, a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

His lips were searing, his hands gripping my waist as if he couldn't bear to let go, pulling me flush against him. I gasped into the kiss, and he took full advantage, deepening it, his tongue sweeping over mine in a way that made my knees threaten to buckle.

He groaned, low and guttural, and something inside me snapped.

I met his fervor with my own, fingers tangling in his hair, feeling the silk of it between my fingertips as he backed me into the desk. The papers we had worked so hard on crumpled beneath us, utterly forgotten.

He exhaled a quiet curse against my lips as his hands gripped my hips tighter, and I—I didn't stop him. I arched into him, into the warmth, the danger of it.

And then—it happened.

A tether snapped into place.

Invisible, undeniable, unyielding.

My entire body locked up as a force stronger than anything I had ever known latched onto my very soul. The bond—a mating bond—solidified between us like molten steel cooling into iron, a force so absolute it stole the air from my lungs.

No, no, no.

I stumbled back so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet, my hand flying to my lips as if I could erase what had just happened.

Eris reached for me, eyes wide, something dangerously close to awe written across his sharp features. "Wait—"

But I didn't.

I turned and ran.

I ignored the way his voice followed me, calling my name, ignored the way my heart thundered in my chest, the way my mind screamed at me that this was impossible, that it couldn't be real, that it shouldn't be real.

Because if it was—if it was real—then it meant I was bound to him. To him.

Not just the male who had been slipping under my skin, infiltrating the cold emptiness I had built to protect myself. But Beron's son. Beron's heir. A Vanserra. A High Lord.

By the time I reached the servantry quarters, my breaths were ragged, my hands shaking as I shoved my door closed behind me, locking it with trembling fingers.

I pressed my back against the wood, squeezing my eyes shut.

This couldn't be happening. It was a mistake. A trick. A cruel, cruel joke.

I was nothing.

A courtier, a servant.

I did not get to have mates.

And certainly not him.

I curled onto my cot, my hands gripping the fabric of my dress as if I could anchor myself back to reality. I forced my breathing to slow, willed myself to forget the feeling of his lips, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, the way his hands had fit so perfectly against my waist.

I did not sleep that night.

I had been avoiding him.

Days had passed, and I hadn't stepped foot in his study again. I hadn't so much as looked in his direction, even as the court whispered about me, about us, about the undeniable scent of a bond snapping into place.

They all knew.

I could feel their stares, the pity in some, the amusement in others. I knew what they thought—that it was only a matter of time before I bent, before I folded myself into the neat little role fate had carved out for me at Eris's side.

I refused.

I stayed tucked away, keeping to my duties, bowing as I always had when in his presence, keeping my head low, silent. I had done it for years under Beron. I could do it again.

Or at least, I thought I could.

The bond had other plans.

It had been clawing at me, a sick, twisting thing in my chest, gnawing at my ribs every time I kept my distance. The more I ignored it, the worse it became, a restless, aching pressure that built until my hands trembled with the need to do something—run to him, scream, sob. I didn't know which.

I was too caught up in my own mind, too focused on fighting the invisible thread tethering me to him, that I didn't notice the male approaching me until it was too late.

"You've been rather elusive, haven't you?"

I turned sharply, expecting him, expecting Eris—

But it wasn't him.

It was Kyden.

My stomach twisted.

Kyden Vanserra had always taken the most after Beron compared to the rest of his brothers, cruel for the sake of cruelty, sneering down at those he deemed beneath him. Which unfortunately included me.

His smirk was slow, predatory. "I almost mistook you for one of the nobility, standing there all stiff and proper. But then I remembered—you're just a servant, aren't you?"

I forced my body not to react, not to let the memories claw their way up my throat. He had that same look in his tawny eyes that Beron always had on one of the particularly hard days.

Kyden stepped closer, voice a lazy drawl. "And yet, despite your lowly position, you managed to ensnare a High Lord." His lips curled, eyes gleaming with something dark. "Or rather, the bond did. Funny, isn't it? How fate makes fools of us all."

I kept my chin high, my hands at my sides. I would not cower.

He leaned in, his breath brushing against my ear. "You reek of him."

I flinched. Kyden chuckled. "It's amusing, really. Eris, of all people, shackled to someone like you." His gaze flickered over me, assessing, and I knew that look—I had seen it before, a lifetime ago, picking apart my worth, deciding how best to use me.

"What do you think he'll do?" Kyden mused. "Surely, you don't believe he'll actually keep you. A High Lord's mate should be powerful, worthy." He tutted. "You are neither."

The words hit their mark, sinking into my skin like tiny blades, because deep down I knew he was right. This is why I've been avoiding Eris, avoiding having that confrontation that will only result in rejection and sorrow.

"I wonder," he continued, tilting his head, "how long it will take before he grows bored of you. Before he realizes you're nothing more than the same little courtier Beron used to—"

A deep, guttural snarl split the air.

And then Kyden was no longer in my space, no longer crowding me like a looming shadow.

Eris had him by the collar, dragging him back, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl beside his brother's throat.

"Say another word," Eris hissed, voice like fire crackling over dry wood, "and I will tear out your fucking tongue."

Kyden, to his credit, did not flinch. He only grinned. "Touched a nerve, did I?"

Eris's fingers tightened, the flames in the nearby sconces flaring wildly.

"Walk away, Kyden," Eris said, voice quieter now, deadlier. "I raised you better than this."

A beat of silence. Then Kyden huffed a laugh, shoving Eris off him with a roll of his shoulders.

"As you wish, brother." He turned to me, and there was something smug in his eyes, something knowing. "See you around, little courtier."

And then he was gone.

Eris exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair before turning to me.

"Are you—"

I shook my head, stepping back. "Don't."

His jaw tensed.

I couldn't do this. Not here. Not now.

The hallway was silent except for the distant clatter of pots and the hushed murmurs of servants slipping past us, their eyes darting away the moment they caught sight of Eris. I could still feel the ghost of Kyden's words slithering over my skin, the way he had looked at me, spoken to me. But more than that—I could feel the weight of Eris's gaze, burning into me as if he were unraveling every thought in my head.

I didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to feel the way I did when he looked at me.

His amber eyes flickered with something unreadable, something heavy and tense. He hadn't moved since Kyden left, his hands clenched at his sides, as if he was still fighting the urge to chase his brother down and finish what he started.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. We stood nearly a yard away from each other in the servants' passages, the house was so vast that to get from place to place quicker in the manor there were secret paths to take. It was odd for the High Lord to even know about them.

I swallowed hard, then whispered, "Why are you here?"

Eris blinked, as if startled by the question. And then, with the ghost of a smirk, he drawled, "It's my house, isn't it?"

I narrowed my eyes. "You know what I mean."

More silence.

His smirk faded.

"I was looking for you," he admitted finally.

I stared at him, heart hammering against my ribs. "You could've called for me."

His expression darkened, and he took a step closer. "Would you have come?"

I said nothing.

He huffed a bitter laugh. "That's what I thought."

I clenched my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms. "It's my job, Eris," I whispered.

His jaw flexed. His fingers twitched—like he wanted to reach for me, wanted to touch me—but he didn't. Instead, he just stood there, looking more defeated than I'd ever imagined a Vanserra could.

"Can we go somewhere more private?" I asked, my voice quieter now, because we were standing a distance apart with maids and cooks scuttling silently past us, pretending they weren't listening, pretending they couldn't see the invisible string between us.

Eris studied me for a long moment, then nodded. Without another word, he turned on his heel, leading the way.

I followed.

The room he brought me to was small, tucked away in one of the unused wings of the estate. A study, maybe, or a reading room—the kind of place someone could go to disappear.

He shut the door behind me, and then we were alone.

Eris exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Are you alright?"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "I don't know."

His jaw tightened. "Kyden—"

"I don't want to talk about Kyden."

He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. "Then talk to me about something else."

I let out a breath. "About what, Eris?"

He stepped closer, slow and careful, as if I were something fragile. "About why you've been avoiding me."

I scoffed. "You know why."

"I want to hear you say it."

I met his gaze, and the heat in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine. "Because this—" I gestured between us. "—isn't supposed to happen. Because you're a High Lord, and I'm a servant, and this bond—" I swallowed hard. "It's cruel."

Eris's expression was unreadable, but his fingers twitched again, and I wondered if he even realized he kept doing that—kept stopping himself from touching me. "You think the Mother is cruel?"

I hesitated. "I think fate is."

Eris exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Do you hate it that much?"

I didn't answer.

Did I?

Hate was easy. Hate was something I understood, something I could hold onto. Hate had kept me alive under Beron's rule, had hardened me, protected me.

But this? This tether between us, this thing that hummed in my chest, that made my body ache to close the distance between us—

I didn't have a name for it. And that scared me more than anything.

Eris watched me carefully, as if searching for something in my expression. He let out another sigh and retreated, taking a seat on the small leather couch adjacent to the popping fireplace. I watched him silently, still standing by the door.

"I never wanted this either," he admitted, voice softer now. "I spent years ensuring I would never be bound to someone who could be used against me. And yet..." His lips quirked into something bitter. "Yet here we are."

My throat felt tight. "Do you hate it?"

His amber eyes burned. "No."

The breath I took was unsteady.

"You never answered?" he looked up at me.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Shook my head. "I don't know."

Eris nodded once, as if that answer was enough.

Silence stretched between us again.

Finally, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You don't have to accept it," he said. "Not now. Not ever, if that's what you choose." He met my gaze, something like resignation flickering in his eyes. "But I won't apologize for it."

He wanted to keep it? Wanted me to accept it?

I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

He tilted his head, considering me. "So what now?"

I shook my head. "I don't know."

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. "That's twice now."

I scowled. "Shut up."

He chuckled. "I suppose I should be grateful I got anything out of you at all."

I rolled my eyes, but there was no bite to it.

Eris studied me again, quieter this time. "I meant what I said," he murmured. "I was looking for you."

I looked away. "I know."

Silence settled between us again, but it was different now. Less suffocating.

More dangerous.

Because I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep pretending I didn't want him to find me. I approached his side quietly and sat.

The leather couch was cool against my skin as I sank into it beside him, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. The bond thrummed like a second heartbeat, relentless and inescapable.

The son of the man I loathed most in this world was the one I was expected to love beyond reason.

Fate was a sick, twisted thing.

I sighed, tired of thinking, tired of fighting, tired of everything. Slowly, hesitantly, I tilted my head, letting it rest against his shoulder. His body stiffened for a fraction of a second before he relaxed, exhaling a breath I might've imagined.

It was enough for now.

"I'm High Lord," he said after a beat.

"Painfully aware," I murmured.

"Meaning—there are rules of the Autumn Court that I can... simply get rid of."

I huffed a soft, tired laugh. "You're a lord, not a king."

"Mm, true," he mused, tilting his head back against the couch, "but if Rhysand can bend the rules to marry his mate, so can I."

I hesitated. "His court is much more pliable. Autumn is notorious for its... old-fashioned ways."

"Well, the Autumn Court has a new High Lord." His voice was steady, sure. "Let's just hope I'm changing it for the better."

I smiled faintly, my eyes fluttering shut. "You are, 'Ris."

The name slipped out before I could think better of it, before I could remind myself that familiarity with him was dangerous.

His body went still beneath me.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he looked down at me, amber eyes burning with something I couldn't name.

We stared at each other for a long moment, really seeing each other.

And then, quietly, almost reverently, he murmured, "I'm going to kiss you now."

I nodded.

And then he did.

His lips pressed against mine, slow and deep, as if we had all the time in the world. As if the bond wasn't something to be feared but something to be savored. His hand lifted to my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone before sliding into my hair, tilting my face up, pressing deeper.

I sighed into him, gripping the front of his tunic as the bond pulsed between us, as the warmth of his body and the scent of campfire and rainy mornings wrapped around me like something familiar, something I could fall into.

It should have scared me.

But all I could do was kiss him back.

Eris pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my lips. My heart pounded, my thoughts a chaotic mess, but the bond hummed in quiet contentment—as if it had known all along that this was inevitable.

His fingers stayed tangled in my hair, his other hand still cupping my jaw, holding me there, keeping me grounded. "We'll figure this out," he murmured, voice low, steady. Sure.

I let out a slow breath, my hands still fisted in his tunic. "You make it sound so simple."

"It doesn't have to be complicated."

I swallowed hard, my mind already spinning with the realities of what this meant, what it could mean. But as I looked at him, at the quiet determination in his gaze, at the warmth that had nothing to do with the firelight flickering around us, I found myself wanting—just for a moment—to believe him.

So I nodded, just barely.

His lips brushed my temple, lingering there for a heartbeat before he leaned back, his hand finally slipping from my hair. "One step at a time, my dear."

I exhaled, my pulse still thrumming in my throat, and echoed, "One step at a time."

And maybe, just maybe, we'd find our way through this. Together.

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[sunnami]

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

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

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

wc. 24.1k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How repulsive.

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

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

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

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

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

What a bunch of insufferable fools. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He furrows his brow. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately! 

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

That, after all, is how you learned.

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

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

What’s wrong? 

The question echoes in your head. 

Ha! 

You scream inwardly, if they only knew! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you are not fine. 

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

 —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ve made it all too easy for you. 

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

Sirius staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before? 

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

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

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

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

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

When does duty end? And when does life begin? 

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

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

You want to go to sleep already. 

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

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

You miss your cat. 

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

You want to die.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

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

Dimwitted fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains. 

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

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

“Daphne!” 

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

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

“Daphne, get away from there!” 

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

But there is nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How confusing.

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

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

(Hogwarts is the best!) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily says thank you, by the way.” 

“Oh? For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly. 

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how easy they make it for you. 

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

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate her. 

You hate her with all your heart. 

But even monsters need a heart to breathe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bile rises to your throat. 

Tears fall from your eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

You pass out in her arms. 

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

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

You are tired. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss the newspaper into the fire. 

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

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

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

Maybe. . . 

If you move a few inches forward. . . 

If you just fly. 

You’d be free. 

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

I don’t care. 

Go away. 

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone? 

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

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

You let your weight shift over the window. 

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

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

You sigh. 

Maybe tomorrow, then. 

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

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

You stay silent. 

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

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

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

You nibble on your bruised lip. 

Could you really? 

Maybe just this once. 

You’re only human, magic as you are. 

You take one step forward. 

Then another. 

Another.

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

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

To do what is right. 

To endure. 

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

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

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

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

Your mother. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not!” you scream.

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

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

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

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

Tom snarls, “Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Mum, wake up, please!” 

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

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

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear. 

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

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

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

There’s a faint smile on her face. 

“I’m. . . sorry.”

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

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

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

Tom Riddle. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

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

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

[luveline]

this request may be a bit of a long shot, but would you be willing to write a drabble for mouth of september? maybe she gives the boys a scare either by going out and then not coming home at the time she said she would or maybe she faints from not having eaten enough? totally okay if you don’t want to or if you want to use this as a prompt for something else, mos has just been one of your fic series that i think about pretty consistently even two-ish years later.

anyway have a great day and hope you’re doing well jadey <3 love u

I love you! me writing this actually did feel like a longshot but not cos I didn’t love it and not cos I don’t love u, I hope you enjoy it!! been so long since I wrote this !!🩵 fem! 4k words

cw suicidal thoughts/suicidal ideation

It’s cold tonight. 

You blow on your fingers, feeling them warm, stiffness lanced for precious few seconds. You didn’t mean to walk so far from the house, not while the wind is racing like this. The corner shop just seemed to move around while you weren’t looking. You should’ve asked Sirius to go with you, he has a better sense of direction, even if he would’ve complained the whole time about the shit weather. 

Remus would’ve come and not complained, but he was sleeping at the time and waking him felt cruel. James would’ve come, racing around in Lily’s car, but then he would’ve followed you back into the house insisting on making you some supper or a cuppa or something, and what you’d wanted was to be alone. A bar of chocolate wouldn’t hurt either. 

Stupid travelling corner shop, you think to yourself. Stupid me for fucking losing it. Should’ve just stayed home. Can’t even walk to the shop. 

You take a deep breath. You give the streets a wretched, embarrassed glare and flop down onto the nearest bench. Fuck’s sake. Lost and freezing to death. 

If Sirius were here, if he heard what you were thinking, he’d frown at you with that dark pinch to his eyes and tell you to Stop it, now. 

He’s maybe half of the reason you’re out of the house tonight. Maybe all of it. It’s all complicated and horrible and everyone thinks it’s a bad idea but the thing is that Sirius himself isn’t complicated, he isn’t horrible. He’s kind to you in funny ways, and when you’re together Sirius makes you feel like you’re someone worth being kind too, which doesn’t happen often. 

Your self annoyance fades to something more familiar soon enough. Everything goes quiet, leaving you there with your heart, quick and slow beating, can’t seem to choose, and your cold feet. Your socks feel too tight. 

Your teeth start to chatter. You can’t sit here forever. 

(But wouldn’t it be better? If you stayed? Caught cold?) 

If you get poorly from the cold, you’ll feel miserable from the moment you wake up. You’ll be ill at work, which will make work worse. You’ll have to stay in your room so you don’t get one of the boys sick, and that really would ruin your week. Nothing means anything if you don’t get to see your best friends. 

You gather yourself up and turn toward the street you’d just walked down, determined to retrace your steps. 

In the distance, a familiar shape is jogging toward you. 

“Y/N?” James shouts, sounding as though all the breath in the world has been sucked from his lungs. He doesn’t stop jogging until he gets a few feet from you, where he bends to catch his breath. “Fucking hell!” His head snaps up. “Fuck, shortcake, are you alright?” 

You close the distance. “I’m fine.” 

“Are you?” He forces himself to stand, breathing hard as he grabs you by the wrist. “Are you okay? You scared me so badly.” 

You grab his arm back. “I’m really fine, I’m fine, what’s wrong?” 

“You’re what’s wrong, you aren’t home!” James swallows a lump. “You left a note, you’d be home by seven. It’s nearly ten. Remus rang me in a fit ‘cos he didn’t know where you’d gone, we thought–” James gives you an imploring look, though it’s so so sorry at the same time, you feel your stomach twist into a hard knot. “We thought you were having a bad night.” 

“James.” Embarrassment makes you soft-toned. “I’m really sorry I scared you, but I got lost, that’s all.” You don’t really like to lie, only James seems to need to hear it. “I’m glad you found me. I was worried I wouldn’t get home.” 

James gives a breathy laugh. “Oh, good.” 

You’re pulled into a hug. 

“Sorry,” you say. 

“No, it’s okay.” He rubs your back with force. It feels more for him than you, though you don’t exactly mind it. You can pretend as much as you want that you don’t like it when the boys give you affection, but they know it’s not true, and they know it’s alright to give it to you most days. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine as long as you’re fine.” 

“Fine,” you say. 

He pulls away. “Oh, god. Alright, let’s go back to the house. It’s freezing, you’re not wearing a proper coat?” 

“I didn’t plan on being out long.” 

“No?” 

He takes you by the shoulder to encourage you back the way you came. “Just wanted some chocolate,” you say. 

“I’ll get you some.” 

You both know it doesn’t add up. James doesn’t make you say much else, relieved you’re alright, and you fester in the guilt of worrying him so harshly. 

“Where are your glasses?” you ask. 

“I forgot them in the car.” 

“Where is the car?” 

“Remus thought you might’ve gone to the library, you were supposed to take that Sky-Fi back.” 

“Sci-fi.” 

“Right, the space books. He took it to see if you were walking home, I said I’d come this way, and Sirius…” James grimaces. “Not sure where he went. He was already out by the time I got to the house.” 

“How are we gonna find him?” 

“He’ll come back eventually.” 

You stick close to James’ side, dodging crisped up leaves and following him down the dropped kerb and finally onto a familiar road. “Guess I’ve lived here so long, I should’ve known the way,” you say. 

“It’s alright.” 

You bite your cheek for a second. “I’m really sorry, James, I– I didn’t– is it really ten?” 

“…Aren’t you cold?” he asks softly. 

“I didn’t think about it.” 

“I wish you would.” He pokes his tongue against his cheek. “I want to know if you’re having a bad night. It’s alright if you were. If you need more time, more help, it’s okay.” 

“It’s not like that… not all of it. I was walking to the shops, I swear. Just feel so,” —your voice slips into a colour of shame you despise— “weird sometimes. I’m sorry I made you worry. I don’t know why I keep doing this.” 

“Is this a common occurrence?” 

“Not the walk, just. Just this. Making you worry. I didn’t mean to make everybody worry.” 

“Well, I am worried. When you disappear for a couple more hours than you say you will, it’s scary.” James gives you a shrug. “I love you, I’m gonna wonder where you are.” 

“But–”

“I worry about Sirius when he goes to the pub until who knows when, worry about Lils when she does too many hours at work. I worry about Remus every day, his eyes are worse than mine ‘cos all he does is read,” he says with a laugh. “It’s fine.” 

“I worry about you too,” you say. 

“About what?” he asks, stricken. 

“Remus told me you can pop your knee out from your kneecap when you weight lift. I know you think it’s fun and stuff, but that’s scary.” 

“I’m getting fit!” He rolls his eyes. “Lily likes my abs.” 

“Well I liked you when you were soft.” 

James cackles at your poor fake-flirting. “I’ve never been soft, take that back! You know being captain made me solid as a rock.” 

“James?” a voice calls. 

You look up at the same time. Sirius is sitting on the wall in front of the house smoking; he takes a harsh, quick drag and stabs it out so hard that ash sullies his fingers as he stands. 

“Oh,” he says, blowing the smoke from his mouth quickly, his breath a ragged thing as he bounds across the road to hug you. “Sorry.”

You don’t get what he’s sorry for. “It’s okay.” 

He smells so strongly of smoke it’s like he’s blowing it under your nose, but he’s not so sharp to the touch. You falter at being touched kindly, feeling tension in his back as you curl an arm around him. 

Sirius digs his face into your neck. 

“Hey?” you ask quietly. 

He steps back suddenly, an accusing fist held between your two abdomens. “Where have you been?” he asks, and there’s the sharpness to match his smell, scowl turning his grey-blue eyes to pitch, lashes in a furious tangle. “You can’t do that. You can’t just disappear for hours.” 

“I’m sorry–”

“It’s not okay.”

“She said she’s sorry,” James interjects, “maybe let’s leave it?” 

“Being sorry doesn’t erase the last two hours of us panicking, though, does it?” 

“She got lost–”

“James, it’s okay, it’s–” You shake your head. “Maybe you should go inside to warm up? You’re not wearing a coat either.” 

“I was in a rush.” James gives Sirius a warning look. “I’ll make you a cup of tea. Five minutes and I’m coming back out.” 

James trudges up the garden path to the house. You twist your hands together, staring into Sirius’ face, wanting to see every bit of his anger, keeping tabs on all of it so as not to be surprised. You should’ve known he’d run out of patience with you eventually. He’s had to deal with your awful moods more than anyone else. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Do you realise how scary it is to worry you’ve hurt yourself?” Sirius asks starkly. 

You flinch. “It doesn’t exactly feel great for me, either.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Still, he softens. You feel like you’ve cheated. “I don’t understand. You got lost? How far away from the house were you?” 

“I don’t know, I was trying to go to Del’s.” 

“You’re not being honest with me, or any of us. It’s not fair. My heart is like a fucking racehorse,” he says, pressing his hand to his chest, fingertips smudgy with ash, “’cos all I’ve thought tonight is that you’d gone off and jumped off of a bridge or something. I know you wouldn’t.” He lets his hand fall. He quietens. It is almost apologetic, how he slows. “I know you wouldn’t. I knew you’d come home. But please don’t make me think about it.”

He’s gone pale in the cold, his hair in twists and tucked haphazard behind his ears. In his thick bomber jacket and his jeans, he could’ve just hopped of the bike, windswept as he is, but it’s the mark of worried hands having pushed his hair back repetitively rather than the weather, though the longer you stand there in the wind, the more tangled it becomes. “I dont get why you’re so determined to be alone,” he says. 

You don’t want to talk about it. When do you ever? More than ever, you’d like to stalk past him and slam your bedroom door, let him know you’re fine by yourself and seething, let him stay ignorant to you as you squirm in a bed you’ve come to hate. How often do you lay there wishing you could be alone forever? It’s not fair to anyone. It doesn’t make sense. They all love you and you feel sorry for them, ‘cos you tricked them, ‘cos you’re nothing worth thinking about for long. 

Sirius won’t stop frowning at you. It makes the drowning feeling worse. 

“I’m sorry,” you say again, hoping this time it’ll stick. “I don’t know what happened, I just wasn’t thinking. I don’t feel very well.” 

“I know.” He scoffs to himself. You relax at the hint of self-deprecation. “It’s not your fault. I’m fucking furious with you but I know you can’t help it.” 

“Sorry.” 

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. For saying you’d jumped off a bridge, that’s horrible, but you really fucking worry me sometimes and I’m so relieved that you’re okay that it’s making me horrible.” 

“You’re not horrible.” 

“I’m mean.” 

“You’re not.”

“No, I am. You’re the only person who doesn’t see it. Or at least doesn’t say it.” Sirius rubs his face, scraping a stray hair from his nose. “Sorry for shouting. Here,” —he holds out his arm— “let’s have a proper one.” 

He hugs you nicely, no force to it, less lingering smoke. The scratch of his cheek catches yours, his hand at the bottom of your back, your jacket and shirt rising with every sweep of his touch. You press your closed eye to his hair. 

“Why didn’t you come and sit with me or– we could’ve talked. Could’ve just led in bed, doesn’t matter, I would’ve gone to the shop with you.” He squeezes you, pressing his nose to your shoulder. “I can be morbid. We can be two miserable layabouts together.” 

“I didn’t…” You cringe. “Sirius, it’s not on purpose, I swear. I didn’t do it to make you worry.” 

“I know that, Jesus.”

“Sorry.” 

“It’s fine. I’m just glad you’re home.” 

You pull apart as a car turns onto the street. That’ll be Remus. Another for your troupe of worry. 

“What do you think, is he mad at me too?” you ask. 

“Remus?” Sirius gives you another half hug. “‘Course not.” 

And true to form, Remus climbs out of the car with a fond smile. “Hey, where have you been?” His hair ruffles in the wind, scars turned palest purple in the cold. “You need to learn how to tell time.” 

You let him hug you. “Sorry.” 

“That’s alright, let’s go inside though. Have some tea. Did you eat much today?” 

You ignore the question. “Tea,” you say. 

“Yeah.” 

Remus ushers you down the path to the house, Sirius on your other side like bodyguards. 

“Thanks for, uh, looking for me.” 

Remus takes you by the forearm. “We’ll always look for you. But next time, wake me up first.” 

You nod gratefully. “Uh, okay. Thank you.” 

“Stop saying thanks. It’s alright, Y/N. It’s fine.” 

That’s what you’ve all said, but it doesn’t make it true. 

—

James goes home, though he doesn’t want to. “I can stay,” he says over the rim of his mug, half-pleading, wanting you to ask him to. “We can have a sleepover.” 

You insist that you’re really fine, he has work tomorrow, it’s late. When he doesn’t move, you say, “I feel bad enough that you were out looking for me in the cold.” 

Your voice is pathetic and scratchy and he can tell you’re going to cry, they all can, so he doesn’t push it anymore than that. He goes home, and you go to bed, and Remus follows you up a little bit later with a glass of juice and some thick, buttered slices of teacake. 

“You okay?” he asks, climbing into bed next to you where you’re laying down. 

“Fine.” 

“Didn’t eat much today?” 

“No.” 

“Have the juice, at least.” 

You take the glass. 

Between your sorry sips, Remus picks at one of the slices of cake, steals looks at you, though he doesn’t try to hide what he’s doing. 

“Sorry about today. Didn’t mean to worry you.” 

“You can stop saying sorry.” Remus lets his head tip from one side to another. “I can hear it in your voice that you don’t want to say it. Not that I don’t believe that you’re really, actually sorry. But you keep repeating it because you’re worried I want you to do that, and I don’t.” 

“It’s what I should say.” 

“Well, you’ve said it.” Remus turns to you, all bookish and rakish at once, lovely but tired, and he must be giving you a similar appraisal. “I wanted to be your friend the second I first talked to you. It wasn’t guilt.” He shakes his head. Wasn’t ’cos they’d played that prank on you with the shoe-eating goo, spied on you crying in a school hallway, overwhelmed. “I just liked you, and that was without any sort of knowledge of what you’re like. Now that I know you, I couldn’t be rid of you. Truly. I love you, you know that?” He smiles gently. “Even when you need time and you disappear. Please… don’t really go anywhere though, will you?” 

“I won’t.” You decided a long time ago that ending your life wasn’t in the cards. There are terrifying moments, numb ones, blink-and-it’s over ones, where you feel like it’s the only option you have. But it ends eventually, or it sinks into a background to be forgotten until the next time it aches. 

“Are you eating properly?” he asks. 

“Remus–” You shake your head as he brings a hand to your forehead, like he might stroke your hair. “You don’t have to do this.” 

“You don’t like answering, that’s all.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“I’ve made you talk much more than you would’ve liked to, tonight.”

“I like talking to you. To all of you.” You rest your head on his thigh. “You really are my favourite people in the world, Remus. I wouldn’t… wouldn't give you up.” 

“Good,” he says, stroking your forehead just a few times. “‘Cos we can’t be without you.” 

Sirius finds you collapsing in on one another a little later and rounds the bed to lay on your other side. He doesn’t bother sitting as Remus did, pulling the blankets up and slipping in beside you without worrying about what parts of you are touching parts of him, nor the slip of your back where your shirt’s riding up, nor how warm it is under the quilt. He grabs the end of your t-shirt and pulls it flat over your stomach, before his hand spreads out there, and you realise half-heartedly that he’s hugging you from behind. The room is barely seeable. Remus is nearly sleeping. Your tea cake went uneaten, left stodgy and dark on the nightstand. 

“This okay?” Sirius asks. 

“Yeah.” 

He burrows nearer, rubbing his nose against the back of your neck, then taking a long breath of you. 

“Are you mad?” you ask. 

“Not anymore.” 

You can’t believe that any of them could love you so much as to look for you. That James would want to stay the night, and that he’d let you turn him away. If you had any energy left in you tonight you would’ve done the same to Remus, and then Sirius. James won’t be happy when he finds out they’d slept in the bed with you and left him out, but he’ll forgive it eventually. None of them should care so much about you, what’s special about you? What’s even really good? What’s worth it? 

Sirius breathes behind you. He doesn’t seem scared to touch you, not worried to lay as close to you as your bodies will allow. His heat sinks into you. 

“Know any poems?” he asks, letting you shift into his back as he pushes an arm beneath you, curling, really holding you to him, a spoon of a hug. 

“What kind did you want to hear?” 

Sirius doesn’t answer. You hold still as his hand begins looping over your stomach. 

“I can’t remember anything right.” 

“Can you guess at one for me?” he asks. 

You stare at Remus’ falling chest. You’re lucky to have good friends. 

“I read one a few days ago, a couple of times, it was only a few lines.” You wait. Sirius doesn’t say anything, so you start to relay the poem slowly, stringing the words together as they come. “The world was a… nautilus shell... And the world was a grain of sand.” Your voice is odd, but the lines come to you regardless. “The world was a honeycomb… And the world was a strip of tender bark.” 

Sirius lets his lips warm your neck, asking softly, more touch than sound, “That was the whole poem?” 

You take his hand where it’s against you. “That’s it.” 

He nods. 

The world was a nautilus shell. And the world was a grain of sand. The world was a honeycomb. And the world was a strip of tender bark. You run through the poem again, three times, tripping over strip and tender and bark as Sirius’ breath warms your nape. 

“Please don’t do that again,” he says. 

“I didn’t mean to–” You force yourself to stay still. “I would never do something like that to scare you.” 

“Nobody in this room or out of it believes that you went on your walk tonight to scare them.” His nose tips down your neck. His hand spreads wider over your stomach. It feels so weird, so warm and rigid. It’s the best touch you’ve ever been given, and it doesn’t matter because you’re so ashamed of yourself —you went on your stupid little walk with at least some bad intent, and your friends noticed because they love you when they shouldn’t bother. This is a stain now, something you’ll remember. “But I can’t take it. Do you get that? I can’t take it. James found you two hours ago and I still feel like I don’t know where you are.” 

“Didn’t mean to.” 

“I know, love.” He actually does kiss your neck then, quiet smack of a real kiss. “I know. I know.” His forehead presses to your shoulder as he settles in. “You’re okay. I’m not mad.” 

“Me neither,” Remus croaks. 

You let yourself relax enough to feel tired. Warmth from either side of you threatens to bowl you over. 

“How are you feeling now?” Sirius asks. 

“Fine.” Always fine. They deserve better honesty. “I didn’t want to hurt myself. Jus’… I needed to move, like, go, and I hate this part. I don’t think it should matter that I’m not– that I don’t feel well.” 

“Don’t get upset,” Sirius says quietly. 

“I’m not.” You sound tight. “When I want to be somewhere, it doesn’t make sense that it matters. In the moment, I don’t remember that you…” 

“Love you?” Sirius asks. 

“I know why you were worried, I promise. I don’t live in a bubble. I know I’m selfish.” 

“Not selfish.” 

“It was, though.” 

“You’re thinking about it like we have a problem with what you did, and it’s my fault because I got so mad, but it’s not really that you did it.” His hand curls shy of your breastbone. “I was mad, but– darling,” —you squeeze your eyes shut— “you’re not on trial. You don’t have to prove your way out of this, all we need to know is if you’re alright now.” 

“Not really.” 

Remus gives a half-sleeping mumble. 

Sirius sits up in bed to look at both of you. “We love you. We,” —he gestures between you and Remus emphatically— “aren’t going to stop. No matter how many walks you go on, how many scares you give me.” He frowns at you sympathetically. “We’re not getting any further, are we?” 

“Sorry.” 

“I’m sorry.” He grimaces, dark around the eyes. “I’m a right prick and I’ve made a right mess of everything.” 

“It’s okay,” you whisper, chancing a touch, terrified you’ll be reprimanded for it but knowing, as you know he loves you, that you’re allowed. The tips of your fingers touch his collarbone. Sharp thing. 

He pulls a jib, lips all up and thinned like a smirk gone wrong. “Love you.” 

You must’ve petrified him. He’s never so open with his feelings, even when it’s half-joking like this. 

“I love you, too.” 

He makes another face. Good enough, it says. 

“Make me hot chocolate?” you whisper. 

“Mm, come on.” He pulls you from the bed by your wrists. “Don’t complain when it’s gritty. I’m not skilled as Remus.” 

“Quite right,” Remus mumbles. 

You hug him quickly before you leave. 

[azullumi]

Hello hello hello, I'm here to ask for like headcanons or an imagine (or whatever, idk, can you tell I've never requested a fic in my entire life) about Luka slowly realizing he actually has feelings for someone? Like genuine ones? I'm not super duper into Alien Stage but I imagine him being super fake (and manipulative lol) especially when it comes to dating. Like, I don't even think he would get into a relationship if he doesn't get something out of it, but what if he, y'know, slowly starts to realize he actually likes the person he's with? Like how would he deal with that and stuff 🫣

GOLDEN BOY, BROKEN GLASS, MAY THE SUN SHINE ON YOU !!

premise— it’s hard to know, to realize, that he has fallen in love, not when the genuine concept of it has been slowly eradicated and painted into something twisted and cruel by the hands of these aliens; alternatively, what he’s like slowly falling in love and coming to terms with it. content tags and warnings — pairing: luka (w/ gender-neutral reader) | kind of established relationship, not an alternative universe, slight angst with fluff, i fucking hate you heperu (heperu is luka’s guardian alien) | wc: 0.7k ; headcanons

"jellyfish"— i was listening to sad music so now this came out as sad

The ‘love’ LUKA had received from Heperu was the only love he had known and so, he views the world around him in the same lens, carving his heart out of the same rotten wood that was used to create his being. What can he do in the face of something so tender, so sharp, so gentle, like needles stabbing into his hands but caressing him sweetly all the same?

Was love meant to be as draining as this? Was it meant to tire and wear out his bones? Was it meant to make his heart clench, thorns ripping at his throat? Was it meant to make him reach his hand out for you, to let his touch linger across your skin, to always seek the feeling of your fingers intertwined with his? It’s a little strange, the odd ‘pain’ in his chest blurring into an unfamiliar feeling of comfort and warmth. He’s not one to run away at the face of such unusual feelings, but maybe he’ll turn away from it, to dismiss it as nothing (it’s not what Heperu taught him).

When did his eyes start to follow you everywhere you go? When did he begin to wish to chase the shooting stars, despite the constricting feeling on his throat, just so he could have the chance to see you, bare and flawed underneath the same skies that had forsaken him, that had abandoned you? He never had seen the problem of hurting others or being hurt as long as it is meant for him, for his own good, but when he sees twist in your expression, the hollow in your eyes, the tremble of your lips, he’s suddenly bitter and thorned. He tries to be kind, in ways that he knows of, in ways that he has seen, experienced, and learned.

To be seen as nothing but manipulative and cunning with his princely and charming demeanor, to be seen as a blank slate, to be seen only on the surface of his sweet smiles that never seem to reach his eyes. But it’s better to be misunderstood than to have you see the wretched and tangled strands that is sewn to create the fabric of his existence, to be viewed under the same limelight he is being put beneath than to have you notice the bleakness of color in his golden eyes that rivals the sun—except his light never exists, only when he gazes at you does it ever shine.

It’s hard to understand him either—not when he cannot understand himself also. He wishes to take away all of your pain, all of your problems and worries, to have you rely on him and only on him, to view the world in your eyes, to cup your cheeks in his hands and press his lips against yours (he has heard of the act of kissing, a strange way to convey and pour one’s desire, adoration, and love to another). He’ll lie down on the grass with you and watch the stars, he’ll listen to your songs and music, he’ll let you put those red flowers found in the Anakt Garden on his hair.

Maybe he does and say such things in the name of ‘control’, ‘possession’, ‘obsession’, or anything that can be used to label whatever reason he has just so he could see that pretty shade that adorns your cheeks, the smile that etches across your lips, the sound that bubbles out of your throat, the eyes that glimmer when you look at him. Maybe it’s just those feeble things that make him feel humane, that makes him break away from the shackles that binds him to the image of ‘Luka, the star’, that makes him realize that he does adore you.

(Whatever this fragile bond you share with him, built on weak foundations of the love he has known and the love you have shared, fragile and fleeting like glass teetering on the edge, he’ll seize it, he’ll shape it, and he’ll make it unbreakable—he’ll make it real, he’ll make it his.)

He likes to believe that he deserves the kind of love he has yet to know of, out of the clutches of Heperu and into the warmth of your own. To hold it into his hands, tightly, unrelenting, never letting go—contorting into control as long as it is his.

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[girlwiththoughts13]

No place for a Dragon

Aemond Targaryen x F!reader

Warnings: Targ-cest/ smut!

Word count: 1k

~~~~~

The cold winds and bitter snow that dust over your skin feels far more harsh against the heat your body naturally emits. The frigid temperatures of Winterfell is no place for a dragon. The thought of remaining here until the ends of your days is more frightening than the prospect of marriage. For the lord stark is a kind and honorable man, that rarity alone makes your dreadful thoughts gently fade.

Despite this union being an arranged one-all to strengthen the north as a ally for your mother Rhaenrya- Cregan Stark had done his best the last 2 sennights of your residence in the foreboding halls to quail your concerns of a loveless marriage. He vowed to aways be faithful, and in time, come to love you as deeply as a man loves a woman.

There was no doubt you would preform your duties and give the wolf of the north your companionship, your body, and your name, but your heart was not as compliant.

It's not that you didn't find him attractive or kind or all the things a lady would hope for in a future husband; however your heart simply did not beat, at his more than adequate attributes.

How you wished to rip put your own heart, tear it asunder and remold it to fit the lord stark. He may speak true, as the years come love will grow.

In the main Hall of the keep you clutch onto the furs wrapped around your shoulders and await to meet the kinslayer himself. It has been long since you set your eyes upon your uncle. It seems he is still as brazen as ever, showing up to a house that went against Aegon's claim and alone at that. You wondered what was crossing through his mind. Did he think to take on the soldiers on his own? Even vhagar would not be able to defeat thousands of angry northern men.

Regardless of the trap you suspected, if able, capturing the second son of the whore Queen would be a feat for your side.

Lord stark stood beside you, jaw set and hand tightened around his sword. You could feel his eyes move to the side of your face, no doubt blaming you for the arrival of the man with the largest dragon in the known world.

Continuing to stare straight you decide to break the thick silence. "Will you turn me in to save your house?" The worry has set in your thoughts since the circling of the monstrous beast was spotted. Aemond surely is not here to discuss the notion of peace.

"Do you think so low of me?" You finally meet his gaze and find nothing short of offense, Starks were no oath breakers, to be accused by his betrothed of all people, made him believe he was not doing enough for you or the war efforts.

Before you could answer, the large wooden doors creaked open snapping your stare to the approaching men.

Four men surrounded the dragon prince as they walked, ensuring he did not try to assassinate there liege lord or their princess.

When the men came to a halt your betrothed stepped forward shielding you from view.

"I'd say I admire your boldness but I believe it's just stupidity that has lead you to my lands" Cregan spoke with clear distain and although his back was to you, you know his face is just as thunderous.

"I had to see for myself if the rumors were true, my dear niece being sold off. Tell me Lord Stark has she spread her legs for you yet? If she's anything like her mother then I suppose that answers that." Aemond speaks with a cruel tone and a smirk that never falters splayed across his face. The allegations against you and your mother, wretches a small gasp from your lips.

"How dare you, come here, dishonor Lord Stark and spew vile insults toward my mother the Queen and her daughter? I could have your head for that, send it to your bitch of a mother" The sudden sound of your voice and the threat against his mother struck a nerve if the hard-set in his eye was anything to go by.

"Nyke gōntan daor māzigon kesīr naejot vīlībagon nyke jorrāelagon naejot ȳdragon lēda ao mērī" I did not come here to fight I need to speak with you, alone. His switch to your mother tongue was a obvious slight to Cregan, but you had not time to dwell on that, not when he was asking the impossible of you.

You did not give him the satisfaction of answering him in your native language. "Do you think I'd go anywhere with you alone? So that you may slit my throat or worse take me to the red keep as a hostage of the usurpers?"

"Give me one reason not to string you up? Or send you to the Dragon Queen?" Cregan obviously had picked up on Aemond's intentions and had begun to reach his limits of his presence.

The sinister smile returned on Aemond's face, making your blood run cold, knowing his hand was about to be revealed. "You're right. You could kill me right now or keep me as a prisoner, but not before Vhager burns this entire castle to the ground. I am prepared to meet my maker, are you Lord Stark?"

The Lord of Winterfell goes to rebuttal such a threat but Aemond continues. "Or, niece, we could have civil conversation, after which I promise to return you to your pup."

You step around Cregan, prompting him to reach his hand out to stop you from advancing. He gives you a pointed look, one you return.

You place your hand atop his to soothe his worries. You lean up to his ear and he angles his face down to meet yours. "I'll be okay, your house shouldn't suffer over a mere denial of conversation" The whisper of your voice reaches him and only him. You pull away to show your resolve leaning up once more to press a firm kiss on his cheek. Squeezing his arm as you pass.

Reaching Aemond he holds out his own arm to you, one you ignore. He lets out a chuckle and gives his head a light shake.

As you walk Aemond tells you of a cottage he happened upon, a near by place he had left Vhagar awaiting his return. Although you hate the idea of leaving the safety of Winterfell grounds, Aemond will not budge to a private audience in your quarters, therefore you walk silently beside him.

You stop walking when you both reach the door of the quaint cottage. Vhagar a little off to the side puffing out hot air, that reaches you from where you stand. He looks back at you with amusement. "Scared niece?"

Donning a smirk of your own you proceed onward aware of the mistake you were making and finding you did not care at all.

"Ohh.. Fuck!" The moans run out of your open mouth as your slammed up and down on Aemond's cock in rapid motions. The echo of your skins clapping together Is heard throughout the small space and should any one happen to find themselves taking a stroll near the grounds would surely hear the raptures of your pure pleasure.

Aemond latches onto your bouncing tit, suckling at your nipple and bringing a hand to knead the other. His free hand that rested upon your lower back, reaches up to take a strong hold on the back of your head, yanking the sliver tresses back from where you hidden your head in the crook of his neck.

He moves his feet to root them to the ground, to meet your thrust, your rhythm restrained by the small chair you ride him on.

"Does your pup still believe you a maiden?" His thrust growing harsher at the mention of your intended. "Does he know I've ruined you? Gotten deep inside this tight cunt and imprinted my name on the mouth of your womb?" It is a wonder he speaks as if not strained from supporting your weight atop him and the excursion of fucking up into you.

There is no desire within you to answer. You wish to forget of the realities of the outside world and be here and now. Feeling his warm skin on yours creating fire that stokes you completely alight. This will be the last time you lay together the war of fire and blood rearing its rotten head. You realize that was the reason for this. Showing up and demanding an audience with you. Risking his life for one more night with his princess, his niece, his love.

You place one small palm on his mouth to stop more vulgarness from spewing out. "Just shut up and fuck me harder, unless the dragon would like to yield to the wolf?" Aemond lets out a growl and winds his arms around you, standing to his full height with you in his arms. He manages to stay inside you as he walks you to the near by table. When he sets you down he pushes down on your stomach to lay your back flat against it,

The way he was fucking you earlier has nothing on the way he pounded into you now, practically embedding your skin in the oak of the table. Aemond has one hand on your hip and the other comes up to wrap tightly around your throat cutting off your air immediately. Your hand grabs his wrist but you make no attempt to free yourself from his grasp. Despite the circumstances there is no fear in your body, instead you find hot arousal, one that makes your already wet cunt gush more liquid at the base of his cock.

"My, my, look at this, what a sight" You glance up at him, his eye trained directly on the place where his cock disappears within you.

His deft fingers circle up to your clit and that is your undoing, your legs shake from around his waist and your back arches up, head thrown back, a loud moan tearing through you.

Aemond lifts you up to him, from the gap you made when your back raised off the table. Your head falls on his shoulder, limp from being throughly sated. Gone are the precise thrusts, replaced by quick hard shoves inside you, desperate to reach his peak. Once more he tugs your head back and kisses you deeply passionately, It remind you of when you were children, ignored by your elders and seeking love in each other. Kisses hidden beneath the blanket of darkness.

Aemond's stills and groans quietly as his seed fills you to the very end of you and there is a small part of you that hopes it takes root, so that you may have a piece of him always, even when he is gone.

"I love you" You both whisper, low as if you will be strike down by all the gods if heard.

Mayhap's you have already been scorned by their fury.

[belovaballerina]

To be alive at all is to have scars

House of the Dragon: Rhaenyra + fem!reader (platonic) 

Rating: Teen 

WC: 1.3 k 

Prompt: Cathartic Venting for @sweetspicybingo (Hurt/Comfort Bingo Collection)

Warnings: Heavy on the angst, mention of death, reader is a Strong, but no physical description is giving, hurt/comfort

Summary: You help your Queen process her emotions after Lucerys’s death

The afternoon's blistering heat had faded into the balmy night, with the moon shining bright behind the swirling mists of fog. You dipped the sponge into the warm water before lifting Rhaenyra’s arm and gently scrubbing her skin. Moments earlier, she reeked of dragon, the pungent scent of smoldering embers, and scorched meat undercut with a faint hint of sulfur. As she marinated in the piping hot water bubbling with jasmine oil, the putrid smell began to disappear slowly. You took care to clean under her nails, scrubbing away the dirt and grime until they sparkled like shimmering glass. While the water could wash away the muck, it did nothing to soothe her melancholy. Nothing could replace the children she had lost.

For over a sennight, she took to the skies, hoping to find remnants of Luke’s remains. Many worried in her absence, with Prince Daemon itching for vengeance. You did not fault him; it was his nature to take charge and make their enemies pay. You worried for your Queen as she journeyed with only her dragon for company. However, Syrax was a formidable companion.

Apart from Elinda, you were the closest handmaid to the Targaryen Queen. Your long-deceased father, Lyonel Strong, had requested you be placed in her service when you were both on the cusp of womanhood. You long held the secret of her trysts with your older brother, Harwin, for you understood Laenor had extended his blessing in the regard. While it was not an ideal situation, you were pleasantly surprised how the three made such an odd relationship work despite the consequences it bore. Rhaenyra loved those three boys with all of her heart. You supposed part of her heart was ripped away when she heard of Luke’s death.

“May I attend to your hair now, Your Grace?” you asked, raising to your feet.

“Please,” she murmured; her once amethyst eyes that sparkled with life were now dulled. Illustrious gems that had lost their luster, a stark contrast to the vibrant, lively woman she used to be. A broken princess turned into a broken queen. Mayhaps the Targaryens paid a heavy price to sit upon the Iron Throne.

You knelt behind her head, fingers carefully undoing her intricate braid and loosening the strands of matted hair. Then, lifting the ivory brush, you began to untangle her mane, taking care with each stroke of the bristles. Your fingers expertly worked the oil through her hair before lifting a jug filled to the brim with water. She tilted her head back, allowing you to rinse her hair clean. As you continued your work, a glimmer of her former self emerged. But you knew, deep down, that while she may look like herself again, the scars of her loss would never truly fade. Ripped edges that would always remain jagged.

You heard the whisperings of her discovering Arrax’s severed wing and clothing worn by the young Prince Lucerys on his cursed journey to Storm’s End. It was a genuinely wretched thing to have no body to burn. The Gods were cruel, you thought. Rhaenyra continued to simmer in the water until it turned as cold as the weather in the North. You took great care in helping her from the stone tub and drying off her damp skin before draping a crimson robe around her.

Her shoulders slumped as she stared at her reflection in the looking glass. Defeat hung heavy on her sullen face. Gaunt eyes begging for relief, a respite from the tragedy that marred her life. Your heart ached for her, so you gently rested your hand on her shoulder to provide her a modicum of comfort. An ounce of kindness would go a long way. Mayhaps, more should be extended to her and to Aegon; that is where peace might be found. Her hands snaked around yours, holding tightly as if afraid to slip away.

“Do you find me to be a terrible person?” she whispered, her voice cracking and quivering.

Your eyes widened.  “Of course not, Your Grace!”

“Please, speak truthfully and address me as Rhaenyra,” she requested. Her eyes pleaded with yours. She needed a friend.

You let go of her before kneeling in front of her and drawing both her hands into your own. Your thumb stroked gently over the scar left by Alicent Hightower years ago. Undoubtedly, the scars on Rhaenyra’s heart outnumber the ones on her body. “I have never once thought such, Rhaenyra.”

Her lower lip quivered as her strong facade cracked and crumbled to dust. “I had only wished to fulfill my inheritance and serve the realm. I never wished for this. I should have never sent Luke alone.” Tears dribbled down her flushed cheeks. Plump, watery, opaque pearls splattered onto the stone beneath her chair.

“You could not know this would happen.”

She squeezed your hands as the tears poured freely down her face. “I do not want this burden if this is the cost.” Her voice was heavy and thick as she admitted her truth. A truth she dared not speak aloud, but it felt healing to let them fall from her lips. “I would trade my crown for the lives of my children.” A soft wail spilled from her the moment she admitted those sentiments.

Motherhood had petrified her; it had driven her mother into an early, bloody grave, and yet the moment she held Jacerys in her arms, you had watched her slowly embrace it. Jace healed a deep wound inside her, and no soul in the realm could doubt her love for all her children. She would throw herself in the cruel barbs and sharp words hurled in thoughts of their heritage, letting each one slice her deep to protect them from hearing such squander. However, she would not be able to protect them forever but would do everything in her power to continue.

Her hand slipped to her belly as thick, hot tears continued to pour down her ruddy cheeks. A son and a daughter torn from her womb, now left to the mercy of the Gods. Her gasps for air made your belly twist uncomfortably, but you said naught, simply allowed her to weep freely and without judgment. She was only human, after all. Even Targaryens, with their dragons and otherworldly appearances, were still flesh and blood. You lifted her hands, pressing soft kisses to her fingers, free from the rings she usually wore. Admitting such beliefs out loud took courage and strength, and you felt grateful that she trusted you with such feelings.

“I believe you will make a fine queen, Rhaenyra. The realm is long overdue for one. I hold hope that a peaceful resolve might be reached, as foolish as that may sound.”

A small smile turned across her lips. “I do not think you sound foolish.”

“Then I am not foolish, and you are not a terrible person. You were named King Viserys’s heir; fealty was sworn to you,” you reminded her. Her shoulders straightened as the tears began to dry on her face.

“Thank you for allowing me to unburden. You have been by my side for many years. There are times I look upon you, and I see Harwin, I see my boys. You are my family.”

Your heart fluttered.

“I feel the same, Rhaenyra. When the Stranger claimed my father and brother, I made a promise that I would do what I could to protect you and the boys. I would do the same for little Aegon and Viserys. We may not share a drop of blood, yet I feel as if we are bonded in such a way,” you whispered.

Her hand gently cupped your face, thumb stroking across your cheek. “Allow me to hug you, my dearest.”

You melted in her arms, holding her as tightly as she embraced you. Even the strongest of persons were not immune to the tragedies of life. But what does not break one simply makes one stronger. She would rise like a dragon from the embers, ready to burst into fire and claim her birthright. More scars would be wrought, and more tears would be shed. Yet she would be the finest queen Westeros had ever seen.

[all-with-angel]

Please, be cruel!

Summary: He had hoped you would be cruel and maybe in a way, you were. But then why does he still love you? Why does he still bleed for you? Why do the flowers growing in his chest only bloom for you, when your heart beats for another?

Pairing/s: One-sided!Hanahaki!Gojo Satoru x gn!reader, Nanami Kento x gn!reader

Content. Unrequited love, angst/no comfort, Hanahaki disease, no happy ending (for satoru)

W.C. 1.2k words || Masterlist

Satoru could trace the exact moment it all started—how his heart became a wretched thing, beating not with excitement but with a desperate, hollow ache. Butterflies in his stomach turn into parasites gnawing at him– reminding him of his failure to let go. 

It had been a harmless crush at first, the kind that made him linger in doorways just to hear your voice. The kind that made him buy an extra snack because he "accidentally" got the wrong one and, well, might as well give it to you, right? The kind that made him lean a little too close when you spoke, just to catch the way your eyes reflected the light.

But he was the one who noticed first. Of course he was. He knew everything about you, every little twitch of your lips, every breath of your laughter. And the way you looked at Nanami—it was so obvious. Satoru told himself it was fine. He told himself it was better this way.

So the first time he coughed up the petals, Satoru died a little more inside. Because at that point he knew, he truly did love you. But he chose to push that thought down, no, he couldn’t love you. Because you were in love with Nanami, and you were happy. That fact, the undeniable truth that you were happy with someone else made him cough more petals into his sink, gripping the porcelain until it cracked.

Because even if he loved you, cherished you above everything, he wanted you to be happy. With or without him.

After his coughing fit, he glared at the petals scattered all over his sink. He cursed to himself as he stuck his tongue out to get rid of another petal in his mouth. It was pretty, a petal of your favorite flower, stained lightly with some blue liquid that matched the blue of his eyes. He took a breath in, slow and heavy as he steeled himself and got rid of the petals, washing them down his sink.

No.

No, no, no.

He was not going to let this ridiculous infatuation turn into something fatal. So he did what Gojo Satoru did best.

He ruined it.

He scowled at you, scoffing whenever you spoke and making fun of you to no end. He became sharp, cruel in ways that could be passed off as jokes, little barbs meant to wound, meant to change the way you looked at him. If you hated him, it would be easier. If you couldn’t stand him, then maybe his chest wouldn’t feel so tight every time you smiled.

“Oi, idiot, you could’ve hit that curse harder. If I wasn’t there, you’d be dead!”

“You call that a technique? Ha, even my grandpa could exorcise a curse better than that– And he’s dead!”

“Ugh, you’re sooooo annoying, why are you even here?”

You blinked at him, hurt flashing across your face before you laughed, rubbing the back of your neck. "Jeez, what’s with you today? You’re worse than usual." No anger. No bitterness. No hate.

He was a master at being insufferable, pushing you, poking you, needling at every flaw, every mistake, anything to make you hate him. Because hate was simple. Hate was easy. At least it was supposed to be. Because when it came to you, it was the hardest thing he could ever do, because he loved you. And loving you was easy.

No matter what he did, no matter what he said, you still smiled at him. You rolled your eyes and snickered, maybe softly sigh and shake your head as Satoru watched the move of your lips and each rise and fall of your chest as you breathed. How could you? How could you breathe so naturally, so beautifully, when he himself couldn’t? How could you laugh at him as his heart and lungs were being crushed with the unforgiving amount of love he had for you, how could you smile at him while prickled vines stabbed at his heart? The heart that beat for you?

Please, just be cruel to him.

He needed you to be cruel. But you were kind. You were kind, and that’s why it hurt. 

That's why he loved you.

The petals filled his mouth every night, his body rejecting this love he refused to let go of. Vines and thorns had him in an iron grip, but maybe it was him holding on so tight. But he didn’t want to hold on, so he got meaner. It never worked.

"Don’t you get tired of following Nanami around like a lost puppy?" he sneered. "It’s pathetic."

You frowned, lips pressing together. He thought, finally, finally, but then you just sighed, soft and tired. "You don’t have to be such a jerk, Satoru."

You still said his name like it meant something. Like it was something soft, something kind. Like he was kind, like he hasn't been bullying you and putting you down for god knows how long.

More petals. More coughing. More nights staring at the ceiling, wishing he could be anyone but himself—anyone who didn't love like this, with everything in him, all-consuming and unwanted.

The only reason he isn’t in a hospital room because of this stupid disease was because of his RCT. He thought that maybe, maybe if he stopped using RCT to heal himself after every night of coughing up the same flowers that you loved, maybe you would worry for him. Maybe you would feel sorry, maybe look at him and decide to lie, tell him you love him so the flowers in his lungs would cease. Lie, because he knows it will never be the truth.

And yet, if those words ever did fall from your lips, even if it was a lie born out of pity, he would cherish it for the rest of his life.

Even as he grew crueler, colder and annoying, he still watched you.

Still traced the curve of your handwriting when you left notes on the bulletin board. Still memorized the way you hummed under your breath when you thought no one was listening. Still turned to look whenever you entered a room, even when he swore he wouldn’t.

Still hoped—stupidly, desperately hoped—that one day you’d look at him the way they looked at Nanami.

But you never did. Even now, as he grew to be what he was ‘destined’ to be, the strongest, untouchable, a god– It never stopped.

The petals still came, curling against his palm, a quiet, bitter reminder that no matter how invincible he was, there were some things he could never conquer.

So he grinned.

He teased you about Nanami, about the way you two looked at each other, about how you two should just get married already. And when you two finally did, when you stood before him, smiling, laughing, a ring glinting on your finger with your favorite gemstone neatly placed in the middle–

He smiled back. Because that was all he could do.

He was the strongest and he begged, even now, as he watched you cry from joy as Nanami recited his vows with a loving smile, that you would be cruel.

He realized at that moment that you were. That you were the most evil, conniving and wicked person he had ever met. Because you had made him fall in love with you, without ever teaching him how to let go.

Oh, you were so, so cruel.

[7s3ven]

POPULAR. luke (pjo)

( master list )

IN WHICH… Y/N is tired of being bullied her whole life so she makes a deal with Luke. As long as she does his bidding, he’ll make her popular.

“Beggin' on her knees to be popular. That's her dream, to be popular. Kill anyone to be popular, sell her soul to be popular.”

Warnings : toxic! luke + y/n (but they’re lowkey iconic together), gore, death, manipulation if you squint, dark themes, y/n + luke are both pretty messed up, pretty gruesome near the end, not proof read

A/N : Me when I wanna write toxic one shots to express my feelings but I've been in toxic relationships and writing fluff is how I comfort myself :c

—

Years ago, the young Y/N would’ve scoffed in her face. Maybe even spat at her if she was feeling bratty enough. Why make a deal with Luke? It was like selling your soul to the devil.

Camp Half-Blood loved Luke, adored him even. But under all that courage and glory was a monster. Y/N had seen it first hand when he turned his head for a split second during a duel, his eyes going dark and his lips curling into a cruel sneer.

Nobody except Y/N ever noticed that hidden darkness behind his soft kindness. It wasn’t her fault she made that wretched deal. He approached her first, staring so longingly into her eyes and speaking with a voice so charming that she hung off every word.

The first time he talked to her was when she was eating breakfast, isolated from the rest of her chattering siblings. Ares was her father, which explained all her retrained anger towards the world. She was the lowest of the bunch, never socialising with anyone and avoiding all group activities to the best of her ability.

She was skilled with a spear but did anybody notice? No one did. Except Luke. In a way, he was her saviour in this eat or be eaten world. Y/N was a tough cookie to crack but getting her head shoved into toilets every day could wear down anybody.

Luke wasn’t usually one to take an interest in girls. He had plenty fawning over him for his attention but none of them could catch his eye like Y/N. There was something about her precise aim with the blade of her spear and the way she gulped down her ice cold water without a second thought. Call it creepy, but Luke found solitude in secretly watching Y/N train.

“Y/N.” Was the first thing Luke had ever said to her. She looked up in surprise and Clarisse’s face turned sour at the sight of the Hermes boy. Her beady eyes narrowed as his hand brushed against Y/N’s shoulder.

“You’re pretty good with a spear.” He quietly whispered in Y/N’s ear so none of the other Ares kids could hear him. “If you ever need a sparring partner, I’m right here.”

Y/N lips parted in shock as she watched him slink off towards his own table. Her siblings stared at her in curiosity before turning back do their food, scoffing at her.

Every minute, Y/N would steal small glances at Luke. And every time, he caught her and gave her a knowing smirk. She looked down at her plate after being caught for the fifth time, her cheeks flushing red and turning hot. She no longer felt hungry.

Y/N stood up, scraping the rest of her food into the fire. She felt a presence behind her but she paid no mind to it until they spoke it.

“So, did you think about my offer?” Of course it was Luke. Y/N flinched, almost dropping the porcelain plate into the fire to join her discarded meal.

“Why me?” She asked, her voice nothing but a quiet whisper that barely reached Luke’s ears.

“Why not you?” He replied, cheekily tilting his head.

Y/N could come up with many reasons to that question. She always took Luke as someone who carefully picked who he interacted with, especially when it came to girls.

“May’s prettier.” She said, nodding over to the bright brown-haired girl tucked in the middle of the Aphrodite table.

“Yeah, she’s pretty but you’re prettier.”

“Vivian’s smarter.”

Luke glanced at the Athena girl with not much interest, shrugging. “Not my type.” Vivian’s was everybody type with her sharp-witted mouth and perfectly cut bob.

“Why are you talking to me, Luke?” After a while, Y/N cut straight to the chase. She furrowed her brows in confusion, a little uneasy with how close Luke was and how girls were glancing over at her.

“I’ve seen you fight.” Luke continued to avoid her questions, much to her annoyance. “Like I said, I’d be happy to be your sparring partner. Today, five pm. Does that work for you?”

Y/N stared at him, hesitating for a moment before she slowly nodded. “Yeah… I’ll see you then.” She briefly smiled before rushing off, dumping her plate somewhere else.

Luke wasn’t expecting much when he showed up at the arena, holding his newly sharpened sword. He figured that if Y/N didn’t end up coming then he could at least get some solo practice in.

But no, she was sitting on a bench inside the arena, fiddling with her spear. She lifted her head, her eyes locking with Luke’s.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you’d actually show up.” He dropped his sword in front of her, grinning.

Y/N shrugged. “It… seemed rude not to.” She muttered, looking down at the ground around.

“I’ll be honest, Y/N. I didn’t just want to spar with you. I’ve come to make you a deal. I’ve noticed that a particular someone keeps shoving your head into a toilet.” Luke smirked when he saw Y/N stiffen. He crouched down in front of her, “What if I told you… that I could make it all go away? Just like that.”

He snapped his fingers.

“I can make you popular, Y/N. So popular that no one, not even Clarisse, will mess with you again.”

Y/N gave Luke that same narrowed glare that Clarisse often sent his way. “What’s the catch?” She asked, causing Luke to chuckle.

“Smart. The catch isn’t that big. All you have to do is whatever I tell you to.”

Y/N’s eyebrows raised slightly as she finally made eye contact with Luke again. He charmingly smiled at her. She thickly gulped, weighing out all her options in her head. She could reject his offer and be the victim of relentless bullying… or she could accept and never get hit by Clarisse again.

Luke frowned at her hesitation. “The choice is your’s.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered to look at everything but him. She slowly nodded. “Okay.” She whispered. “Okay. I’ll do it. Deal.”

It started off small. Steal someone from Clarisse, easy enough. Y/N was almost as cunning as Hermes himself, which slightly impressed Luke. He gave her a nod of approval after she dropped Clarisse’s beloved spear in front of him. As promised, he stopped the bullying, but in a way Y/N never expected.

After yet another failed game of capture the flag, Y/N was walking towards the large crowd of demigods when Luke abruptly picked her up and kissed her. Dating or even being around Luke Castellan was guaranteed to make you popular and Y/N had somehow been roped into it without her knowledge.

Her tasks weren’t too difficult until Luke told her to do the unthinkable. To pick a target and violently murder them as a warning to the camp that bad things were coming.

“Luke… you know I can’t.” She muttered as she hid behind the Hermes cabin with him. She was clutching onto his arm, begging him to give her another task. Luke stared down at her in annoyance.

He rolled his eyes, slightly sneering. “Come on. It’s easy. I’ll even show you.” Y/N peered at him through her lashes, looking like a deer in headlights. But she couldn’t say no. She could never say no to Luke when he had his lips pressed so firmly against her’s and when his fingers traced delicate circles around her waist as he lifted her shirt.

After that short conversation, Y/N’s nights consisted of sneaking out to meet Luke. He taught her how to wield an ax, how to knock someone out, and even explained how to dismember a body. Clearly, he had studied these dark topics.

Y/N lay on the forest floor, staring up at the stars. Luke was nearby, his arm lazily slung around her waist and pulling her closer towards him.

“We have to be careful.” He whispered in her ear, tucking a strand of her hair away. Y/N knew that if Luke went down, she’d be forced with him and vice versa. He pressed a light kiss to her neck, inhaling the smell of her floral perfume.

Luke had a twisted obsession with the idea of murder. It thrilled him. The vivid image in his mind of blood splattered across the floor and limbs bent at awkward angles made his stomach churn but... it was exciting.

"Luke... what are we doing with our lives?" Y/N muttered, turning to face him. When had everything gone downhill? When did they suddenly turn into borderline murders and sadists? Perhaps Luke was always like this and he infected Y/N with his disease. But if she was willing to do anything to become popular, even drive a knife through someone's heart, then it just showed Luke that she might be as abnormal as him. “Princess,” Luke’s voice was barely a whisper as he handed her a cigarette. He often kept them hidden under his mattress, only taking them out when he needed to destress. He lit the tip for her and watched as she slowly took a drag, blowing out a mouthful of smoke.

The pair stared down at the body in front of them. They weren’t dead, merely knocked out. Outside, the wind was relentless. It smashed against the wooden walls of the abandoned cabin, as if warning Y/N and Luke to stop whatever madness they were about to commit.

BORN IN GRIEF,

“Do you ever think it could have been different if the gods gave a fuck about us?” Y/N asked, tilting her head to the side. She took another drawl from the cigarette before passing it over to Luke. “Would we be less… messed up if they actually cared?”

Luke shrugged. “Maybe. But this is who we are, we can’t change that.”

RAISED IN HATE,

Y/N would never admit it out loud but she and Luke were sick. Sick for even thinking of doing this and suddenly, Y/N’s stomach lurched. A tiny morsel of her personal morals held her back from approaching the body but she was also curious. How long would it take until the demigod before them realised their doom?

HELPLESS TO DEFY THEIR FATE.

They stirred but their eyes never fluttered open. Luke and Y/N exchanged a look before he gestured her forward. She held the wooden handle of the ax tightly, dragging it along the floor as she stepped towards the unconscious body.

Y/N was unusually calm when she lifted the ax, the sharp blade glinting in the moonlight. Suddenly, the demigod awoke with a desperate gasp. They scrambled back at the sight of Y/N.

LET THEM RUN,

“Please, don’t… what have I ever done to you? Don’t kill me! I haven’t even completed a quest or been claimed yet!” The demigod clasped their hands together, begging for sweet mercy. Y/N merely gazed at them, wide-eyed and unmoving.

“I’m afraid she won’t listen to you.” Luke made his presence known. The demigod’s eyes flickered over to him and they let out another gasp. They couldn’t beloved that Luke, the son of Hermes, the heartthrob of Camp Half-Blood was sitting idly on the sidelines while his companion was staring at them like they were an experiment. Simply a hypothesis that needed to be tested.

“She works for me. She’d kill her best friend if I told her to.” Luke gestured for Y/N to continue. The ax was raised above her head, ready to pierce the heart. Y/N swiftly swung the blade down. It buried itself in the demigod’s chest and a drowned-out scream slipped past their lips.

LET THEM LIVE,

Y/N’s eyes shook as she stared at the body in what could only be described as desperation. Desperation to land another sick blow.

Y/N lost count of how many times she raised the ax up and swung it down. All she could think about was the euphoria and giddiness rushing to her head. Blood stained her skin but she didn’t stop until the demigod was nothing but a mangled corpse, unable to be identified just by looking at their gruesome face.

Thunder crashed and lightning flickered. Rain poured down, the gods’ way of expressing their grave disappointment.

BUT DO NOT FORGET WHAT WE CANNOT FORGIVE.

Luke blew out another cloud of smoke, gazing at Y/N with his own twisted version of love. “Red looks good on you.” He uttered, spinning her around like she was in a beautiful ball gown and he was her date to prom.

Y/N laughed, the thrill of killing taking over. Luke’s lips curved into a smile. He had never heard the sound of her laugher before. And he was already intoxicated. Her lips tasted like smoke and tangy metal and he pulled her closer.

THEY ARE NOT ONE OF US, NOT OUR KIND.

PJO TAG LIST : @lostinhisworld @julielightwood @outerbanks-stuff @jennapancake @csifandom @evrybodydies1 @kkrenae @s0ulsniper @annispamz @justanotherkpopstanlol @soraya-09 @simpforeveyone @papichulo120627 @corpsebridenightamare @lilacspider @prettylilsimp @urmomsbananabread @ur-lacol-dsylexic @hottiewifeyyyy @kamiliora @be-bap @finnickodaddy @th0tblckgrl @shoyofroyoyoyo @uniquely-her @imafrkinsimp @syraxesrevenge @ahh-chickens @dracoslovergirl @midnightstar-90 @8812-342 @liv1104 @krkiiz @arialikestea @ch16rles @lizziesliz @maryclx01 @lukecastellandefender @yuminako @coryoskywalker @julielightwood @crybabysbakery @jsbaby @liviessun @p3pperm1nttea @angie-esc @purplerose291 @prettylilsimp @10ava01 @froggiesstalks @happy-jj @czennieszn @gisellesprettylies @loveyava @csifandom @luvvfromme @mashiromochi @kamiliora @yorksyree @mqg125 @jamesmackreideswife @niktwazny303

[ne-videl]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐡

♡

yandere archon Zhongli x mean fem reader

Morax turned your new life into hell and you despise him for that.

MDNI, sub then dom then sub Zhongli, yandere, unhealthy relationship, forced marriage, kidnapping, just very very unhappy and abused reader, sexual violence, slight violence from reader, nsfw?? or just heavily suggestive, poor english!!! please tell me if I forgot anything ><

word count: ~2k

a/n: hiii everyone! welcome to my first post!! as a fellow yandere x reader enjoyer I decided to share some of my own stuff here. (it took a while bc translating any of my work is hell)

I hate violent and domineering yanderes so at the end geo grandpa gets what he deserved for being toxic ^^

I think Zhongli was a menace in his youth and you can't change my mind.

basically we just turn mean and cruel yandere morax into pathetic yandere morax

bon appètit.

you push your fingers deeper, harder, making his knees tremble and his back arch.

Zhongli exhales noisily, pressing his heated face against the cold wall.

you squeezed his throat with your long, musical fingers: the lack of oxygen made his heart beat even faster.

"why...?" he whispered with a hoarse moan, turning an intoxicated, misty gaze on you.

"for you being alive."

____*:･ﾟ✧

your new life was good, even better than the previous one – you thought. kind and affectionate parents, friends, little shop in a little village. little people doing their little things.

when you realized you were in the game, your new body was about three years old. "Liyue" fell from your mother's lips, and that was enough for you to understand.

"what a strange Liyue they have here... still in it's cradle, perhaps." – little you thought, concentrated on sorting out bright and shiny stones, sitting on the porch of your modest house.

over the years, little girls turn into beautiful women: with pink cheeks, delicate skin and lips with the color of fresh peach tree fruits.

when you, bright and beautiful you, working in the shop of your dear parents, met a man with amber eyes, you were sixteen.

even at the first glance you recognized your deity. beaming, you greeted him from behind the counter. the only answer for you was silence and his heavy gaze.

chrysanthemums silently looked at you with their curious heads, standing in a vase on an old table top.

when Morax came for the second time, you realized that he was here for you. all that remained was to silently say goodbye to mom and dad, cheerful girls at the neighborhood and to kind elders of your tiny village: you will never see them all again. while he was leading you through the corridors of his cold palace, clutching your little hand until it hurt, you were saying goodbye to your old life. It was impossible to even think about who you were before: it was as if she didn't exist anymore at all.

you wanted to cry.

from that day on, you began to hate chrysanthemums.

____*:･ﾟ✧

day 345765. your 948th anniversary is approaching.

life is akin to hell.

warrior god knew nothing about love. you've already lost count of the nights you've had to perform "marital duty", waking up with back pain and counting bloody red hickeys on your delicate skin.

your husband's stamina could only be matched by his insatiability.

you examine your neck, covered with bitemarks, with the gaze of a pathologist looking at a corpse before vivisection.

what a vile, gut-wretching sight.

over the years, the personality of geo archon's spouse has suppressed the personality of the one you used to be. and the attachment of a girl who spends the night playing videogame towards her favorite character no longer existed at all.

only hatred remained. blind, caustic, it alone forced you to get up in the morning, waiting for never coming end of this nightmare.

someday you will make him regret that he was even born into the world.

he wasn't the character you loved: not Zhongli, not the funeral parlor consultant. only person you knew now was Rex Lapis, lord of geo.

he alone was capable of destroying your pride: tearing off all the sparkling jewels from you, depriving you of the shine of false power with which you methodically surrounded yourself with decades.

it was making you angry, irritated to the point of trembling in your hands: it made the inferiority complex tear your chest with it's disgusting little claws and wail plaintively. he is the master, and you are the property.

you aren't trembling under your husband's steady gaze. you didn't like being alone with him, but on every night you spent together, your posture was stiff, like an unbending bamboo shoot. haughtily raised chin and burning eyes. burning not with passion, no. with disgust.

"I..."

I belong to you. the words you've said at least hundreds of times by now.

"I hate you. I despise you with every little piece of my soul."

Morax greedily bites into your lips, and you feel your skin cracking under his sharp fangs, while hot hands painfully squeeze your shoulder under the silk hanfu.

painful. disgusting.

he takes you, as he did on many nights before: cruelly and vulgarly.

and you scream, you grin at his impassive face: you promise your husband that someday you will kill him, will wring his neck. that you will hate him for the rest of your endless life. you desperately tear the skin of his broad back with your blunt nails, growling and whining like a hunted, beaten dog.

Rex Lapis licked the blood off a fresh bite on your skin.

pulling the maid by the hair, who dared to chatter right in your ear early in the morning about how romantic it all was, was quite in the spirit of the "noble spouse", known for her more than bad, bilious temper.

"nights and nights long, oh, what a passion! what a burning, beautiful love!"

you are so lucky, madam.

girl is sobbing, with her head pressed against the wall. you hiss, venomously and viciously, tightening your grip on strands of her hair with tenacious, elegant fingers.

"stupid bitch. romantic, huh? you think I enjoy it? what, want to take my place?" – frightened maid runs out of her mistress's luxurious bedroom in tears.

you were jealous of that innocent girl. a girl who was able to cry when after being raped. who could see something beautiful in trivial things. who probably had a loving husband and family. that pathetic maid was better than you, an icy cold shell of a human driven only by hatred and a thirst for revenge.

you pursed your lips in disgust.

you developed a habit of despising everything that was better than you.

____*:･ﾟ✧

you always loved music, and over time you became very fond of playing it on your own. it helped to keep your mind in order.

whether it's a guqin with silk strings or an elegant erhu, or, a more exotic one, a lacquered piano brought especially for you from Fontaine – over time you have mastered every available musical instrument perfectly.

it was a good way to keep yourself busy, to not think of useless things. you've had more than enough time in a couple thousand years to master all this.

thin fingers drum on the keys: furiously, with malice, while the piano obediently gives out note after note.

Morax loved listening to you play, especially erhu. his delicate dragon hearing gravitated towards graceful, gentle melodies. even in this matter, your opinions did not agree: you, his spouse, loved to play music so that the maids, shuddering, thought why their mistress was furious once again.

you had beautiful hands, as befits a great musician; and with those beautiful hands you were concentrated on running your fingers through your husband's long hair.

the tips of the strands shimmer with amber in your delicate hands.

you never took the initiative or showed affection, and Morax, although genuinely surprised by such a sudden request, gladly complied. it was nice to feel the gentle touch of your thin fingers, occasionally touching the scalp and sending shivers down his back. low, guttural rumble came from his chest as he closed his eyes in euphoric bliss.

you put the jade comb aside.

"indeed, what a beautiful hair." – you drawled indifferently, noticing the hot blush on his neck, which burned even more after you pulled harder.

indeed, beautiful. how nice it would be to hit his head on an expensive countertop, wrapping it around your fist. how he would react? you would really like to see tears and fear in his bright eyes.

"beauuutiful..." – you hissed with a caustic sneer at the very ear of the lord of geo, pulling especially hard.

your husband's uncharacteristically high-pitched moan was your answer.

____*:･ﾟ✧

with each millennium spent together, your spouse has become softer. calmer, more respectful towards you. and even if you still noticed the possessive twinkle in his amber eyes, it was incomparable to the fire of poisonous passion that burned in them once.

at least now you were allowed to manage your own time. how generous of him, to end your imprisonment within the walls of the palace – you thought with caustic sarcasm, picking up another glaze lily for a bouquet.

now you even had friends – if that's what you could call the adepti and other loyal companions of Morax. all of them, of course, sympathized with your situation, but never made any attempts to help. they didn't interfere – no one ever did.

the sunset was blazing bright orange – or scarlet, or pink – didn't matter. you frowned, looking into nowhere.

Guizhong plopped a large bouquet of glaze lilies into your hands, snatching you out of your gloomy thoughts, but immediately running away in embarrassment.

"and why?" – you felt the urge to roll your eyes, but pulled yourself out of the annoying habit. goddess of dust, although considered you friends and did not hide the fact that she liked you, the wife of Morax, alone with you trembled like an autumn leaf in the wind.

piercing, cold eyes slid to embarrassed goddess, and you tried to give her a smile: the best you were still capable of, if were capable at all. so that it doesn't look like a facial muscle spasm.

"thank you. they're pretty." – goddess of dust smiled back: bright and sunny. in your gaze, for a second, shifted a non malicious envy, with which elders who have lived a long, harsh lives look at children. you yourself forgot how to smile like that a long time ago.

yes, perhaps you were really a little jealous of Guizhong. of the fact that she did not meet Morax as a young and cruel deity. the lady of the Guili Assembly knew him as wise and merciful, her faithful ally and reliable support. you didn't blame her for that, but you still couldn't help a slight tremor in your hands at the sight of your husband having a pleasant conversation with his friends.

well, after another millennia, Rex Lapis has come to love having pleasant conversations with you too.

"lovely flowers." – Morax patted you on your shoulder, smiling tenderly, but you, however, did not consider it necessary to respond in kind.

"Guizhong gave it to me." – you mumbled dryly.

"I see. do you like her?" – geo archon leaned closer to you, affection shining in his amber eyes.

"I don't know." – you closed your cold eyes, without taking your tired gaze from the bouquet.

Morax kissed the top of your head, and you twisted your face in disgust.

____*:･ﾟ✧

war of the archons died down with great noise, bringing destruction and devastation. having lost many, Morax took his place among the Seven.

and even Guizhong, sweet and kind Guizhong, fell victim to this massacre. although, of course, for the wife of the geo archon her death and the deaths of many others were not as much a blow as for himself.

slender fingers pluck the strings of the erhu, playing an elegant, long-drawn melody.

"[name]. I know you hate me, but still-" Rex Lapis looked at his wife with deep, sick affection and sadness in his amber eyes, like a beaten puppy, – "but still, please..."

you lift your eyelids, giving him a cold, indifferent look, and put down the instrument.

"you do not worth pity." – you say dryly, pursing your lips, – "at least not mine."

Morax rests his head on your shoulder, desperately inhaling your scent, as if afraid that you will disappear.

"please. just this once. help me just once, I beg you." – you feel the hot moisture staining the silk of your hanfu.

your beautiful hand rests on the top of his head, and you hear a noisy intake of breath, and his fingers tightly grip your forearm in a desperate embrace.

your little god is so pathetic. how disgusting.

see, how simple everything turns out to be? beg, even better if you cry, and maybe I'll feel a little sorry for you.

but you both knew that you would never allow him the luxury of your pity.

your tenacious fingers grabbed his hair in a firm grip, and you lift his head so that your husband looks into your eyes. into your cold, mocking eyes.

the only thing you desired to see in your former tormentor's gaze was fear, but even in that matter he disappointed you. Morax was looking at you with the same sick love that you had never been able to get used to over the last millennium.

you were waiting for fear, hatred, anything, but not this.

you huffed, relaxing your grip. your husband's arms wrapped around your waist, and he rested his head on your shoulder once again.

"you can be cruel. you can shout at me or hate me. you can do whatever you want with me, just please, please... don't go away."

there was no answer for him.

____*:･ﾟ✧

warm midday sun illuminated the domain in the Aocang mountain. fluffy clouds floated overhead while you sipped fragrant herbal tea, entertaining yourself with conversations with the Guardian of the Clouds.

"Zhongli, huh? how sweet. well, why don't you invite him to have tea with us?" – you giggled venomously, enjoying the intense gaze of the adepti. – "I will be more than glad to see him once again."

guilt will always follow geo archon, you will make sure of this.

you will be glad to see his sadness again, to hear the regret in his voice, and maybe, maybe even laugh a little when you'll see the same pathetic obsession in his eyes.

because it doesn't matter if it's Morax or Zhongli, he will always come back to you.

geo archon will always desire, and you will always despise.

always. forever.

thanks to everyone who (for strange reason 🤨🤨) finished reading this!!! honestly I was so scared to post it and my english is probably awful uuuh

maybe I'll post something else but it'll sure take a while bc as a said before, translating any of my stuff takes a shit ton of time

bye!!

[lace-tf]

Current brainworms: TFP Megatron x Starscream thoughts of the "dead dove, do not eat" variety.

They’re very fun to turn around in the head, aren’t they? :D In TFP in particular, Megatron’s abuse has shaped Starscream so thoroughly… I liked how the team didn’t shy away from showing it on screen—I felt like it fleshed both of them out well, adding a lot of sympathy / nuance to Starscream’s treacherous behaviour while simultaneously enforcing the idea that, as charismatic as he may be sometimes, Megatron is a brute and someone the audience should be rooting against (at least in my POV).

I really enjoyed the cycle of abuse in Prime’s narrative as well—Megatron becoming warped by the violent oppression he endured as a gladiator in the pits of Kaon, and then going on to anchor himself in that pain and direct it outward, staining the Decepticon cause… Maybe it’s just because I’m Asian and it resonates with my cultural history, but I loved the intergenerational ripples—the way it took just one group of “people in power” to leave a nasty scar on ages to come—and the way war / revolution leaves very lasting damage, not just on the body, but on the mind, spirit, and society.

(Even the Autobots, the ‘good guys,’ were twisted by the conflict and developed unhealthy, cruel, or propagandistically idealised mindsets as a result, but that’s a whole other topic, so I digress AHA)

I often wonder what kind of person Starscream could have been without Megatron having a stranglehold over his life. Although I felt Season 2 had a lot of flaws and many of the new writers (since the lineup between the seasons are different) didn’t give Starscream the same grace as the S1 team, his S2 proclivity for seeking allies now that he was flying solo did stand out to me as a fun detail.

He spends so much time trying to find anyone to work with or stand by his side (autobot, decepticon, neutral, even human—doesn’t matter), to the extent he clones himself just to have company… And yet, I don’t think he even knows he wants it, because he’s been in a hostile and abusive environment for the past 4 million years. I imagine being in Megatron’s direct employ caused him to suppress rumination, suppress any desires that don’t lend to tactical success, and suppress the idea that he’s a victim in the first place—the idea Megatron is indomitably above him, always has been, and always will be—just to stay sane.

Because there’s no point in dwelling on problems he can’t fix—least of all frivolous and emotional ones! What he should be doing is focusing all his energy into chasing that bag, at all times, forever (even though I don’t think he knows what ‘that bag’ is anymore).

I really feel like he could’ve been forged an open and earnest person, full of drive—to impress, to succeed, to grow—and maybe that’s why he made such a good target. It’s always the eager ones who are mouldable (which calls to mind Smokescreen getting taken in by propaganda; could Starscream have been similar in the past?), so in the end, the war could have honed his pure-hearted ambition into a blade.

If your brainworms take a more erotic angle, I definitely believe the canon can support the idea that Megatron’s mistreatment of Starscream extends to sexual abuse. It’s a headcanon I share (and it lends to why my understanding of KOSS is the way it is—Starscream could feel more comfortable with dubious consent, because it’s all he knows at this point). I often think about the scene in s01e19 “Rock Bottom” where Megatron says he “[takes] a certain delight in following [Starscream’s] string of failures”—it definitely made me like. Oh. You see him as your concubine who keeps trying to poison you for inheritance. Sure SS is also an accomplished officer, and he keeps you on your toes, but he’s mostly there for your pleasure and to be an example of what happens when someone crosses you for the other troops, huh Megatron? 😭

They have a wonderfully complex and wretched relationship, and I love how—especially for Starscream—their shared history colours their dynamics with other characters too.

(And if you’re interested in dead dove Megatron / Starscream beyond just TFP, I highly recommend the IDW ’05 comic Spotlight: Megatron! It’s one of the best depictions of abuse from the abuser’s POV I’ve seen / read in any medium—it did not pull any punches, and getting to peek inside Megatron’s head to witness his warped, egocentric view of Starscream and the relationship they have was like… well, watching planes crash in slow-motion LMAO Chilling and incorrigible but I couldn’t look away…)

[eclipse-msoul]

𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 : 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

Dick Grayson X Sadistic reader

It was raining today - intense yet drizzling down in drops over the building and the walls. Each droplet collided with the water and collapsed over the block.

Sounds of humming could be heard away from beyond the wall. The scene skipped to the common room, hidden between the many rooms of the college.

A woman dressed in shades of light blue and red , had her hair trailing down.

You rested on top of a man - cheeks flushed yet a smirk wide on top of your lips.

You hummed as he let out a small ache. His breath deepened. “ Y…Y/n-” He yelped, his voice deep with his fingers trailing to the back of her neck, slipping past your head and close to your cheek.

You shifted smoothly and changed your position. He let out a moan, as you bent down whispering near his ear , your hand hovering and gripping over his front hair. Your finger tips caressed his ear and you whispered. “ Dick." He stirred with the growl wretching out.

"Be a good boy for me.”

His brown char eyes reflected yours. You looked like the goddess of spring under his eyes. It was like all of earth's beauty had gone to you. Those lovely bright eyes - he never saw that colour looking so lovely like when it reflected from yours.

Your pink blooming lips bit over each other and you smirked. Yeah, this was yours.

Dick looked at you with hungry eyes - eyes begging to be fed. You felt that you had been cruel for far enough and decided what needed to be done. Your lips pulled over his lips and your teeth came down.

He let out a scream.

When you pulled away, blood poured out, his fingers came over and smeared it all over your face. He huffed and pulled yours over to him, your lips caressed over each other.

You tasted like sweet strawberry, wrapped and dripping in honey. A taste so sweet yet so torturing. He couldn't hold himself back. He pulled out, you let out a breath before your lips collided again.

When he finally pulled back , you had melted in his taste. Your head was spinning under daze and you felt like you had lost every ounce of strength in your body.

Both of you heard a bell ring causing you to straighten up. You brushed over the sweat and stood clean before Turning over to your man, who looked like he had tasted euphoria itself.

You gave him a wink.

“ Make sure to clean yourself, okay?” You said before leaving. The door closed behind you with a huge bang. He got up and sat up.

Letting out a tsk sound, he traced over the wound you marked over his skin. He reminisced about it already. “ She's gotten better at this...”

Dick wished time could move slower.

I'm Back Babyyyyyy- he he~

My exam finally finished! And I'm free! The fics are underway, especially the requests. Thank you all for your patience and love. This week was hard and my motivation died. I manifested it. So tadaa

Enjoy, and be sure to give me some kind of thoughts. Love you all and byeeee 🪿🩷

Tag list : @animegoddess15

[macsimagines]

Hi, it's the anon with the yanderes with regrets headcanons back again! I'd love to read some more like it (yanderes breaking their darlings, deliberately or not, and not liking the consequences), for Izana and Hakkai, maybe? Again, thank you so much <3

bruh got you!! i feel like i went really dark here idk

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI, OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, KIDNAPPING, PHYSICAL ABUSE, SUICIDE MENTION, MURDER, ISOLATION AND TORTURE, MIND BREAK

YANDERE!Izana Kurokawa

"If you didn't fucking fight so much I wouldn't have to do this." The words rang in his head over and over again. The ones he spat at you when he decided that this was a fitting punishment.

Isolation. Locked in a cold dark room with no one and nothing for well over a month. He gave you two days to think about your behavior and you spit in his face. After breaking your leg he figured another week should do the trick.

When he comes back though you don't even move to look at him. The silent treatment is nothing short of childish and he lets you know as such as you lie on the floor staring at the ceiling. "Grow the fuck up, Y/N. Or you're going to rot in here."

Finally a month later, he returns. And you haven't moved. Not from your spot on the floor and you look wretched. Emaciated and pasty your leg healing in a mangled manner. You're practically dead.

"I-fuck. Something's wrong." Kakucho, the only person he trusted to guard you said, "She stopped making noises weeks ago. I can't even force her to eat-" "Then let her starve-," "SHE IS."

His second in commands tone makes Izana wants to throw him off the roof but something in your cold dead empty eyes stops him. He didn't want you to leave but something in your unblinking gaze tells him you already have...

YANDERE!Hakkai Shiba

He'd imagined the moment he took you home to be so different than what it actually was. Months of planning and weeks of trying to find his courage to finally confess his undying love. And all you could do was scream.

"Get away from me!" No please, "You're a monster! A freak!" God, I can't take this, "How did you even get into my house!?" I love you so much, "What did you do to my boyfriend!?"

Hakkai had hoped when he finally took you to the place where you belong, his home by his side, that you'd understand that he was the one you were meant to love. Not that usurper he had saved you from.

But all the tears and screaming and scorn was breaking his heart. The never ending rage and disgust in your eyes is tearing him apart from the inside out. And as the days turn to weeks and to months with no change he feels himself breaking.

"H-haven't I been good to you? Wasn't I kind? I-I try so hard for us," He whimpers on his knees before you, begging like a devout follower to an unloving god, "Pl-please! Just tell me what you need! What can I do to make you love me!?"

Your cold gaze meets his, contempt flickering in the twitches of your eyes, "You can die."

And with that you leave him to grovel and cry by himself while you go to the other room, to wallow in your own sorrows. And Hakkai tries to piece what's left of his broken heart.

He'll grant your wish darling. He just needs to make sure that you both go together. The world is a cruel dark place, and no one loves you as much as him. If he's not here to protect you then he must do the merciful thing that you've asked him.

You'll both die.

[ink-bunny2]

I want a (non-canon compliant) Narinder whose gentle.

I want a Narinder who was once a kitten, newly crowned immortal, under Shamura’s careful mentorship. Who grew up the hard way, who learned you have to be rough, loud, mean, manipulative, and maniacal, you have to be bloody and violent and cruel, in order to survive in this world. In order to survive against Leshy and Heket’s brutality and Kallamar’s back-handed cunning. He learned from a family cruel and cold that love was a fool’s game, that sentiment was insignificant, that caring was weakness. So he scoffed at caring for anybody at all and learned how to break and toy with people as if they were dolls, made only for his own consumption and desire. That’s what his siblings told him, that’s what Shamura told him, that’s what his subjects and the fight to survive told him.

But he never saw his toys fit for anything more than the most necessary use, he never let them come any closer than professional arms-reach business, and he made sure to throw them away the second they were no longer strictly necessary. And he hated the cruelty of his siblings. He hated how they treated him, he hated how they made him fight for his fair share. And then he kept rebelling against the doctrine of the Old Faith. He would take the cruel, old, traditional rules of how one was supposed to act, and he would take them more as loose suggestions than anything severely concrete that you had to live by. He would start making up his own rules, or ignoring other rules that he simply didn’t like or deemed “inconvenient.”

He quickly became the black sheep of the “family.”

And then the Gods of The Old Faith betrayed him. And everything he was ever taught became a horrible lie. Everything became unjust. Everything turned into a false, corrupted kingdom that had to be torn down, that he could fix, that he could replace with something better. He tore it all down, violently lashing out against the family he had trusted, the family he had followed to the end of the road at his own expense, tearing them apart with his own two hands, because the scars he bore over the years became far too fucking loud to bear. Because everything had been a lie all along. Everything had been wrong, this whole damn time.

And they killed him for it. He screamed so loud about their lies that they simply had to smother the sound. They murdered their own brother—if he was ever a real “brother” to them at all, or nothing more than another religious heir to a crooked throne.

He was a God turned exiled heretic.

So he’d make his own fucking kingdom instead. He would undo everything, and start anew, following the doctrine he always knew was better. What he thought was superior. But problem is, it’s not that easy to shake off the entirety of one’s religious upbringing overnight. He was still clinging on. He would scream and shout about the incongruities and arrogance of The Old Faith all damn day—but then he’d keep Aym and Baal, a gift from his old mentor and oldest sibling, close to his side. He would call them fools and tyrants and wretched liars, but he’d remember the Darkwood flowers with a fondness, yearning to stand in his brother’s flower fields again someday. He would stay in the Lamb’s cult, when he could easily become a constant dissenter and leave like any other follower, when he could attack them, maybe even kill them, at any given moment. He doesn’t. He stays. He clings on to the fondness. He never fully let go of that old sentimental feeling.

I want a Narinder who doesn’t understand what love looks like, because the closest thing he’d ever known to true, honest love growing up was the scraps he’d receive from a withdrawn and uncertain Shamura. Those rare moments where Shamura was kind, warm, gentle, full of love, when he’d listen to the lullabies and the poems that they would weave to put him to sleep, when he’d be wrapped up in the blankets of their webs and their nests. When they would give him gifts.

When they gave him their final gift.

He doesn’t understand love. He was trained to view it as weakness. He still feels deeply, severely insecure about showing said weakness, he doesn’t want to face the severe and violent consequences of welcoming it. There’s a part in him deep down that understands devotion, that already internally understands what real trust, respect, loyalty, and integrity looks like. But it’s buried deep, under layers upon layers of indoctrination, manipulation, fear, insecurity, doubt, ungodly amounts of pain, and rage. He has enough of a natural moral compass to be able to tell when someone’s entire belief system is flawed or fucked up, and he has enough justice in him to want to tear the entire damn world apart from the ground up. Even if it’s just in the name of avenging the kitten in him that was forced to die all those centuries ago.

He isn’t aware of it. He doesn’t understand what’s going on inside of him. He’s never even taken an introspective glance at himself and why he feels everything that he does, he’s never even asked himself why everything hurts so much beyond the simple “my siblings betrayed me, therefore they all must die as they killed me” surface level. Frankly he’s too scared to look, so he pushed it all away and easily leans on the grinning, devilish, mean mask he always depended on before.

Then I want a Lamb that’s everything he ever needed. Literally, yes, as the vessel prophesied to save him, but also emotionally.

The Lamb had everything taken away from them by The Old Faith. They were killed and thrown away to Narinder’s feet like a broken toy. They want to destroy the doctrine of the Old Faith, they want to rip the world apart from the ground up and completely start anew. They share Narinder’s moral core, his drive for justice, his drive for revenge.

But they also learn, through their own cult, how to rule with love and mercy. They save and spare each follower individually, they marry their own followers, they cook for them, clean for them, house them, decorate for them, they love their followers. They learn that there is value and strength in utilizing the “sentiment and care” that the Bishops deemed as weakness. Literally: one of the best and most overpowered mechanics of the game is building your friendship level with your followers. You can’t live without them. You are their servant as much as they are one to you.

And when Narinder demonstrates his upbringing at its fullest by betraying Lamb and throwing them away like they were nothing more than a toy—The Lamb spares him, too.

I want to express to you how much that means, especially to him. I mean, hell, Narinder wasn’t spared by his own family. But instead, this tool, now proven Almighty God, gave him a level of grace that he wasn’t even allowed to fathom before. There couldn’t be a stronger, faster way to take a wake-up-sledgehammer to someone’s childhood manipulation. The Lamb was sent to destroy every last trace of the Old Faith, and I don’t think Narinder ever considered the extent of what that entailed.

He’d been lied to his entire childhood, being told that heart was weakness, that kindness would be his downfall, that sentiment was heresy. And yet here was a God besting him and every other deity/bishop in the land, and still cleaning up their servants’ shit with a broom. And I like to think that Narinder would undergo a massive change during his time in the cult.

He’d start off hostile and vicious and mean, because he’s still convinced that the Lamb betrayed him and “betrayal” is kind of a very emotionally heated topic for the guy right now. Even if the Lamb actually did the opposite of what his siblings did to him. He’s also terrified, confused, lost, and he certainly doesn’t trust any of the flowery, overly friendly mortals getting all touchy-feely with him.

But maybe he starts to show a little more wistfulness and nostalgia through his side-quests, maybe he’s trying to gauge how trustworthy the Lamb is by asking them to bring him special items from his childhood, and when they follow suit, he dips his toe in the water and shows just a little bit more of his heart, a tiny, itty bitty fragment. And then they don’t hurt him for it. They treat him with the same kindness they give to all of their followers.

And over time, he starts to see that the Lamb’s dominion is one of safety. All of their safety had been violently torn from them in the hunt for the last lamb, so now they do everything in their power to make their cult a home. And they welcome Narinder into that home, and Narinder is safe, and he’s loved, and he’s taken care of, and he’s respected, and he becomes one with the community. The Lamb is able to rule like this and still keep their power. And actually, their power is tripled by their bond with their people! Their kindness literally becomes a strength, and Narinder has never seen anything like it before, but they pull it off! In fact, the Lamb literally defied and beat Narinder into the ground because they weren’t willing to give up their home and their people.

I think he’d come to see The Lamb very differently over time. He’d go from seeing them only as an insignificant weapon for someone else’s use (possibly projecting a lot onto them), to bring in total awe of them, to learning that they’re trustworthy and safe, to seeing them as an equal.

I think they’d be two halves of the same whole. They understand each other in ways that no one else ever will. They’re the Gods of Death, past and future, they belong to the same power. They sit on this throne together. They teach each other everything they ever needed. They’re immortals together. Lamb once served Narinder in total devotion, then Narinder served Lamb in total devotion, and now they’re equals in every conceivable way. They have literally trusted each other with their lives. They were forged in very similar religious trauma and bloodshed, they were there at each other’s darkest time, working as a team. They’re vengeance-bonded. They saved each other. They spared each other, gave the other a second chance. They made each other better. Bonded in blood, divine vows, death, and resurrection. They are THE POWER TEAM.

As their bond grows, Narinder would end up letting his repressed soft side shine through. I can see him allowing himself to be kind for the first time, learning to recognize that not only is it safe for him to care here, it’s fully embraced and encouraged. The Lamb will punish him if he’s too mean to one of their followers. He can be gentle here, he can let his guard down and unwind. So he does, and he becomes a whole new cat. The Lamb eventually trusts him with leadership positions in the cult, until they’re ruling side by side, as they should. Narinder moves on from any desperate reach for power, because he’s secure enough in himself to know he doesn’t need to fight for it anymore. He would fight and die for Lamb as much as they would fight and die for him. They’ve given him true sanctuary, true family. True devotion.

[justsomeonewow]

Tough Love

[William(Dollface's father)]

Ever since I was a boy my own mother vowed

I must find the way to power through a noble brow

I married once for love, then my sences came

I must marry for the stature of my wife's name

Onto marriage number two, I knew what I had to do

And my poor wife divorced me and took most of the kid custody

Solved problem number one, now to problem number two

Hee doe-eyed little girl with innocent point of view

Would I ship her off to school? No! I told her if she stayed

That she'd have to earn her keep and so she became the maid

[Milena(Dollface's stepsister)]

She was lazy

She was crazy

She was talking to the mice

[William]

She was hopelessly naive, so she had to pay the price

I moved her to the attic out of sight and out of mind

I could have thrown her out, but I'm benevolent and kind

[Milena]

Father, your heart's too big for you

[William]

I knew what I had to do

After all, difficult children will take advantage of your good nature

So you lock them up from away the key

There's one on every family tree

[Milena]

Ungrateful

Hateful

Vile too, the things she put you through

[William]

Break their spirit so they obey

Now they'll do anything you say

Maybe you'd call it cruel but others would call it love

Tough love

I ask you, is it a crime to strive for perfection in all things?

[Elson]

Oh no, they're so cute when they're little but

Then they grow up and just ruin everything

I never wanted children, life was better on my own

All the screaming, nagging chilled me to the bone

But then one day I came across a pretty woman

She worked all day, so I kept it all for me

But someone dug it up, now three kids held the power

So I borrowed oldest one locked her up and hid her in her own room

Years went by, oh, the sacrifice

And against my better judgment, I fed her once or twice

Teenagers now I know I wild eat their young

But that's messy

Manipulation's easily more fun

A little guilt, a lot of force of course you have to lie

Remind them that without you, they'd shrivel up and die

They only have themselves to blame

If you'd been there, you'd do the same

So work them hard till they fall in line

There's one way and it's only mine

[Jackson(Hoppy's father)]

The children are lazy

[William]

Spoiled too

[All]

But we know what to do

Govern them with a heart of stone

Lock them up, so they're all alone

Maybe you'd call it cruel but

Others would call it love, tough love

[Elson]

Ugh, her own so much wanted privacy and

She runs away, the first change she gets

[Jackson]

These wretched brats think the

World owes them something, but it doesn't

Far and wide I ruled the tortures with a heavy hand

But there was more, I had in mind a greater plan

I never cared to share, so the queen would have to fall

But the youngest child blocked the way to me and came out resisting our savior

She was skinny, she was dumb

And grotesquelly optimistic

She need structure in her life

She wasn't realistic

I give her chores and took away the things that she'd enjoy

But then I cought her singing songs with birds and then a girl

Love? Was I just sit by and wait?

For her to take my crown? No

She had sealed her fate

She had to go, and so she did and you know what

They say, selling your victim everyday keeps your enemies away

Don't be fooled by their tender smile

[All]

Give an inch and they'll run a mile

Our idea for a happy home

Is one where we live all alone

[Elson]

Dark

[William]

Depressing

[Jackson]

Desolate

[All]

Now let's all drink to that

[Milena]

Call us wicked call us mean

[William]

Cruel and everything in between

[Elson]

You could say it's unjust

[Jackson]

Turning their dreams to dust

[All]

This is what we call love, tough love!

Oh well- what do you think Ayuda and Angie?

@shortmomma1993

[bittersweet-innocence]

The Duke

CW: platonic yandere, mentions of death, light angst

WC: 3,614

Gender Neutral Reader

You were trying to be nice. You were making an effort, but his flat tone and cold stare just made any hope you had die like a fire in the rain. The cake wasn’t perfect, in fact it was sloppy and probably didn’t taste very great despite your best efforts, but it was the thought that counted, right.

“I don’t see how this is any concern of yours. Honestly, what are you doing?” He said flatly. He was annoyed. You tried to keep your smile, but you felt your eye twitch as you shifted you weight from foot to foot. Your patience with him and his cold shoulder was wearing thin.

Two years of marriage and you had nothing to show for it. No heir to show, not even a smidge of happiness. Just misery on both sides.

“It’s called being kind.” You say, your voice flatter than you meant. This wasn’t going to turn out well. “You could at least spend your birthday with someone rather than being cooped up in your estate like a hermit.”

You push the cake forward insistently as your eyes narrow. “Even if you don’t want to spend it with me, just take the damned cake.”

You saw him bristle and you wanted to take your words back. He was touchy enough as is, but you should have refrained from calling him a hermit. For someone so miserable, he never liked to he called out on it.

“I don’t care for celebrations.” He said, his tone harsher than necessary. “Besides, everyone would see it as insulting to my wife to celebrate this day when I can’t.”

You held back a sigh. You sympathized with him for his wife, you really did, but he always seemed to say these things that truly made no sense. In his despair, she had become a lame excuse he fell back on.

Either way, you went along with his nonsense. “Who says you can’t. Would your wife want you to live your life as a miserable wretch?” You sighed, pressing you lips into a thin line. “I apologize. That was rude.”

You swallowed your pride and temper and prayed to the gods for a little more patience. “Look, I am sorry that she died and I’m sorry that you were forced to marry me and I am sorry that you are so depressed and miserable, but that is not my fault.” You said. “And I would appreciate it if you would stop aiming you anger at me. So take the cake so I can leave.”

“Your apology is worthless to me.” He said quickly, keeping his arms crossed over his chest. He hesitated for a moment like he wanted to end the conversation there, but the venom continued to spill. “You don’t understand what it’s like. Everything I did for two years, I did in service of her memory. So don’t tell me how to live. I will not apologize for mourning her.”

“I am not asking you to apologize for mourning. I am simply saying that if she loved you as dearly as you love her, she would despise the hollow shell you have become.” You shoot back. You’re being cruel. Your mind whispered to you. You were pouring whiskey onto a festering wound, but you were angry and tired of this. The emperor made him marry you, deciding it was necessary for him to be married. That was not your problem, you had married because it was your duty, all you wanted as for him to meet you halfway.

You sighed and shook your head when he doesn’t so much as twitch. “Fine. Take the cake, don’t take the cake, I don’t care.” You said, setting the cake platter down on the ground between you.

“Maybe some animals will enjoy it. I will be returning to my estate. Have a good day, sir.” You said. You tried; you couldn’t say that you didn’t try.

You turned and left, walking down the cobblestone path out of his estate, grumbling under your breath. You could try all you liked, but unless he tried too, this was going nowhere.

Two years and he hadn’t even asked to conjoin your estates or for you to move in. You didn’t ask either, even if he said yes, it would be a stiflingly stiff house. Unless he made an attempt at anything beyond being depressed, this marriage was headed for divorce. You couldn’t inact it yourself and you wouldn’t dare even if you had the power. A divorce would tarnish your reputation much more than it would his, though you doubted he cared.

However, the moment your back turned and you walked down the path, regal and elegant even in your anger, he bent down and picked up the platter. He stared down at it with a furrowed brow. How long had it been since he received a personal gesture like this?

The cake wasn’t made very well. The layers of frosting were uneven and the writing was sloppy. It even leaned slightly. This was no bakery made cake, no self respecting baker would have sold such a creation and he doubted any of your personal cooks or servants would have dared to present such a thing to you.

Did that mean you baked it? You were a horrible baker, you were lucky you were not born of common blood and had more worth than being a village wife. He swallowed. It was a sweet gesture. He took it inside with him.

You decided to take the long way home to calm your temper, trekking on a dirt path that cut through the woods. You tried to push the duke from your mind as you walked. The woods were quiet, the only breaking noise being birds chirping from their nests and leaves crunching beneath your shoes.

As you walked home, you enjoyed the crisp air and tranquility as you pushed the conversation with him out of your mind. As you approached your estate, you heard more familiar sounds. The distant neighs of stable horses and servants washing clothes and maids gossiping and tittering in excitement over the nearing All Hallows’ Eve. You had no doubt they were all excited for the festival and costumes.

You returned their greetings as they saw you and walked to your room. You wanted nothing more than to change out of your stuffy clothes. Admittedly, you had dressed up for the duke, more out of necessity rather than personal preference, but either way, you wanted out of the suffocating corset beneath your clothes.

(You cursed the emperor for passing the new law for proper clothes. Corsets necessary for both men and women, ridiculous!)

You closed the door behind you, hands going to the buttons of your clothes. You had undone the first button when someone cleared their throat. You jumped and spun around.

Standing awkwardly in the doorway to your balcony, the duke stood awkwardly. You gaped for a moment.

“…Could you come with me?” He asked softly. He looked like an awkward teen and you felt like one.

“Mr. Ashdown? Did you follow me to my estate? Why are you here?” You asked as you opened your door again. You may be wedded, but it still felt inappropriate to be alone in your room with a man. His face twitched for a moment, he never cared when you referred by his last name before, but he didn’t seem to like it now.

“Come with you where? I don’t really have time for a wild goose chase today.” You said, feeling mildly perturbed. Did he climb up the terrace? How did he get in? The maids would have told you if they knew he was here.

“I… I am trying to apologize for my behaviour, but I also need to see if this is truly worth my efforts.” He said slowly, not meeting your gaze. You hesitated, after two years when you were near ready to give up, now he was ready to try?

“Oh, for the love of— fine.” You said, pinching the ridge of your nose. Out of all his odd behaviours you beared witness to, this one was the oddest. But you had to meet him halfway. “Let’s just make this quick, please.”

Without another word, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you over to your balcony. Did he truly climb up?! Did he expect you to do the same?!

The duke seemed to have the same train of thought as he stopped for a moment. He glanced back at you and you resisted the urge to not say something snide when he slowly ran his gaze over you. You almost wanted to throw yourself off the balcony for the judgement his gaze created.

Instead, he turned and dragged you through your estate. He led you out through the back doors out into the gardens. A part of you questioned how he knew your estate so well despite only coming over once. He seemed to know every turn and hall and room.

You dismissed your thoughts. He was an odd man by nature. He led you through the gardens, ignoring the surprised stares of your servants following you. He led you through the gardens and back into the woods.

For a long while, he dragged you through the woods in silence. His hurried pace made animals run to their burrows, familiar with the sounds of a man on a hunt. Hunting for what however, you hadn’t a clue.

After a while, he finally spoke. “Do you want me to be happy? Do you truly want me to be happy?” He asked, not looking back at you.

You clicked your tongue in irritation. Did he truly doubt that after all the attempts you had made to make his days a little better? “I would prefer it if you were. It would make your life easier and hopefully our interactions less vexing.” You sighed. “What is even going on? Where are we going?”

The duke opened his mouth to answer, but closed it before any sound escaped. He didn’t answer your question.

After walking a bit further, you spotted something between the trees. As you drew closer, the sight became clearer. It was fallen ruins, golden light filtering through the cracks and holes. He dragged you closer to it. This was what he was looking for.

“I’ve never been here before.” You murmured to yourself as you stare, brows furrowed. You turn your gaze back to him. “Where are we. Why are we here?”

Again, your questions were left unanswered and ignored. He dragged you up to the crumbling steps into the ruins and dragged you inside. You marvelled over the ruins as he dragged you in.

Decaying archways and moss clinging to cobblestone. Faded paint and sun filtering in from above through the cracks and crevices in the ceiling. It was hauntingly beautiful. You gaped as you glanced around.

“This place is magnificent.” You whisper softly.

He only hummed in response, distracted as he looked around. His head jerked over to an open doorway and dragged you over.

You quickly stumbled after him, tripping on the cracks on the floor and fallen stone. You gasped softly as he pulled you into the room.

This room is just as beautiful as the first. Torn tapestries, cracked marble, what was left of a golden throne. The gold was tarnished and the dents where jewels had once been embedded were left empty.

You were beginning to suspect that this was one of the old kingdoms, lost to time or to new lands to rule. You had never thought one may lay so close to you estate. How many times had you ventured the woods without finding this.

However, it still raised the question, why were you brought here and how did the duke know if its presence?

He finally released your arm and walked over to the alcove of a fallen statue. A old god of mythology. He barely glanced at the statue laying on the ground as he stepped over it.

He leaned down and dug around in the growing lush of nature sinking its roots into the stone. He grabbed something you couldn’t see and pulled harshly on it.

Then he turned back to you, staring down  at what he held. It looked to be some kind of potato, roots still attached. He looked slightly nervous as he swallowed and held it out to you.

You raised a brow, turning your attention away from the cracked face of a god. “Is this why you brought me out here? To give me a potato?” You asked. You felt silly and incredulous at the offer, but you took it anyway. He only stared at you.

“Are you feeling alright?” You finally asked after a period of silence. Your brow raised further as concern crossed over your face. “You’re not acting quite well. Please don’t tell me you’ve gone around the bend. This marriage is on the rocks already, I don’t wish to send you to an asylum.”

The duke seemed to take your concern in stride. He offered a brief, quiet laugh to brush aside your concern. He took a deep breath.

“I am the duke of this land. And yet, I have never had anyone love me for who I am and not what this title gives me. Not my parents, not my half siblings, not the court, not even the emperor. But you have shown a kindness towards me that I am not accustomed to.” He said. “You have shown me kindness that only one other has shown me. I know it’s odd, I know it’s silly, but I need to know my efforts won’t go to waste. Do you want me to be happy?”

You nodded slowly, unsure of where this was going or how to take his behaviour.

“Then eat it.” He said simply, his posture relaxing. “You have the gift of making me remember what it felt like to be loved when my wife was still alive. She was the only one who loved me for me.”

“When we were kids, we found this and to mark our love, we both ate a potato. I do warn you, it is a rancid thing to taste.” He said. He stared intently at you. “If you can give me a personal gesture and eat a potato for me, I can try.”

“So this is a sort of initiation for becoming truly wedded in your eyes?” You said uncertainly. You really didn’t want to eat the potato, but you would if he tried. Anything to save this failing marriage.

“If you want to view it like that.” He said simply. His gaze was blank and unblinking, a bit like an owl late at night.

“O-okay…” you said slowly. You hesitated for a moment, but you finally raised the potato up to your lips. The potato was hard and and bitter on your tongue as you bit into it.

He saw the very moment the taste hit your tongue and for a moment, he saw his wife. He saw Lily, hair as white as snow and growing long to her ankles. He saw her violet eyes squeeze shut and her face screwed up. He remembered laughing at her expression before he too faced the harsh taste.

He blinked and Lily was gone and you stood in her stead. Your face was pinched and you chewed slowly before swallowing the potato down. You tried to hide the shudder that wracked down your spine.

“Unique flavour.” You said, clearing your throat as the mushy insides coated the inside.

“Like I said, it’s rancid.” He said as he stepped closer. He took the potato and bit into it like it was a shiny, red apple. His eye twitched as he chewed and swallowed much quicker than you did. Then he threw the half eaten potato back into the alcove.

“Are you truly going to make good on your promise?” You asked, staring up at him. He hummed and nodded.

“You ate the potato. I don’t want us to be strangers anymore. I want to love you like I love my wife.” He said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. What an odd man you had been wedded to.

“That was really all it took?” You sighed. “I would deeply enjoy being in a loving marriage, but don’t rush yourself. Our kingdoms weren’t built in a day and love does not bud overnight.”

“I will keep that in mind.” He replied, smiling slightly. It was barely a smile, just the corners of his lips twitching up, but it made you happy.

You nodded. “Alright. Let’s get along then, we may be wedded, but I would prefer there be no rumours of us having our way in the woods.”

His smile grew slightly and he nodded, leading you back out of the ruins, much more relaxed than when he had rushed you inside. You looked back at the ruins.

“How did you even know this laid here? I’ve never come across such a treasure in all my years. Beautiful ruins lost to nature…” you murmured, trying not to trip over your feet as you walked backward, trying to take in every last detail of the dirty stone.

“As I already said, my wife and I found it when we were young. We loved coming out here to get away and just be together.” He said. He glanced back at the ruins, a true smile on his lips. A sweet, fond smile. “If our parents had permitted so, we would have been wedded here.”

“I can understand why you both loved it, it’s a beautiful sight.” You said softly, observing his soft expression. “If… If I may be so bold, may I ask about your wife? I wish to know more.”

“You may be so bold. She… Her name was Lily. She was the most beautiful woman in the world to me.” He said wistfully, walking on a set path even as his gaze grew distant. You quickly followed after him. “We got married young, when we were kids really. Everyone thought we were crazy, but our love for each other never wavered. She was there for me when no one else was, and she was my best friend.”

“She sounds like a lovely woman.” You commented, turning your gaze to the canopy of leaves above, packed in together by the close trees. Sunlight dappled through the small spot where leaves did not overlap and birds tweeted, happily singing their songs.

The duke followed your gaze up to the trees. “She loved the birds. All kinds. Common sparrows, crows, peacocks, chickens.” He let out a soft noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “She fed them whenever she could and after a while, she couldn’t walk outside without them flocking to her.”

“I am truly sorry she was taken so early in life. It is a senseless tragedy.” You said quietly, unsure if your words would bring back his coldness. He had claimed that he would give the marriage, the relationship, a try, but you couldn’t help to be cautious. “You should have been able to live a long life with her. I curse the gods for reaping her life, they did not need her as much as you did.”

The duke nodded in acceptance as he listened to your words. “I hated the gods for taking her. I still hate them.” He paused for a moment, eyes flickering over to you. You didn’t object his words. If he hated the gods, it was within his right, you were no nun or priest or disciple of the gods.

Once you don’t refute his words, he looks back to the trees, but his eyes darken despite the sunlight shining down. “Sometimes I wonder if they punished her for loving me, since everyone else was too greedy to see anything besides my name.”

You hummed, mulling over his words with a thoughtful expression. “I wouldn’t be surprised. The gods themselves are nothing more than greedy bastards who cannot stand anyone being loved more than they are.”

You shook your head with a sigh, trying to find the positive side of this situation if there was one to be found.

“Well, I suppose she’ll be waiting for you when your time comes, with a halo and great wings. She’ll be the most beautiful angel in the sky.” You finally say.

He nodded. “I suppose.” He said. “I wish to hold her one more time, but I believe your words earlier were true. Cruel, but also awakening. Lily wouldn’t want me to despair over her.”

“Thank you for showing that to me.” He smiled at you, that sweet, fond smile. “Sometimes life is cruel. But it’s people like you that make it so beautiful. In some way, you remind me of her.”

You smile and a soft giggle escaped you. “You flatter me with your kind words, I do not measure.” You say. “But either way, I hope our relationship can grow, I hope our love can bloom like a red rose.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek as you come back to the edge of your gardens. He tilted his head. Then he leaned forward and pressed an equally soft kiss to your own cheek. This isn’t a passionate, lustful kiss. This is a gentle, tender kiss.

He smiled sweetly at you, his eyes focused solely on you. You had found him in his self made out of despair and dragged him out of it and into the bright sun.

“I look forward to it.”