#JAMES COLLECT YOUR MAN. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 2 months ago

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Love Again

Charles Leclerc x widow!Reader

Summary: you never thought you would be able to let someone else into your heart after your husband passed away, but when a bucket list your husband left you to fulfill inadvertently leads you straight into Charles’ path, you learn exactly what it means to love again

Warnings: death of significant other

The funeral is everything you expected it to be and nothing like you imagined. The church is suffocatingly full, every pew occupied, and the walls themselves seem to press in on you.

You sit in the front row, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, knuckles white against the black fabric of your dress. You haven’t said a word since you walked into the church, since you caught sight of the casket at the front, draped in a flag. You can’t speak because if you open your mouth, you’re certain you’ll break apart.

You focus on the details instead. The way the flowers — lilies, his favorite — are arranged with too much precision. The way the air smells faintly of old wood and incense. The way the murmur of the crowd sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Your head is spinning, but your body is still, a statue carved out of grief and shock.

You hear the scrape of a chair being moved and look up just in time to see the man taking the pulpit. You recognize him, vaguely, as someone from the organization — Doctors Without Borders. He was there when it happened. He was there with him.

He clears his throat, glances down at a piece of paper in his hand, then up at the crowd. “I’m not sure I have the right words for this,” he begins, his voice low and trembling just enough to be noticeable. “But I’ll try.”

You hate him a little for that — for having to try. You don’t want him to try. You want him to fail, to stumble over his words, to not be able to get them out. But he doesn’t. He takes a deep breath and continues.

“James was ... the best of us. You all know that. He was selfless, tireless. He didn’t just want to save lives — he did it. Every day. In the most dangerous places, under the most terrifying conditions. He was a healer in the truest sense of the word.” The man’s voice catches for a second, but he pushes through it. “And he was my friend.”

You flinch at that, a sharp pain slicing through your chest.

“He saved us that day,” the man says. “He saved all of us.”

The church is so quiet now, you could hear a pin drop. You can’t take your eyes off the man at the pulpit. You want him to stop talking. You want him to stop telling you things you can’t bear to hear. But he doesn’t stop.

“We were in the middle of the compound when the shelling started. It came out of nowhere. One minute we were patching up a kid who’d been hit by shrapnel, and the next, the whole world was exploding around us. We were trapped. There was no way out.” The man’s voice lowers, almost like he’s talking to himself now. “But James ... James didn’t hesitate. He ran toward the blast, toward the fire. He pulled people out, dragged them to safety.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and you swipe it away angrily.

“He was hit by the last shell,” the man continues, his voice trembling now. “He was trying to get one of the nurses out. She was trapped under some debris. He managed to free her, but then the shell hit, and ...” The man’s voice falters, and he closes his eyes for a moment. “He didn’t make it.”

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, a ripple of shock that moves through the room like a wave. You feel it crash over you, pulling you under. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but sit there and listen as the man finishes his eulogy.

“He died a hero,” the man says, his voice breaking. “He died saving lives, the way he always wanted to. And I ... I don’t know how to make sense of it. I don’t know how to make it okay.”

He steps back from the pulpit, his head bowed, and there’s a moment of silence so thick, it’s suffocating. You feel like you’re drowning, like the walls of the church are closing in on you. You need to get out, but you can’t move. You’re frozen in place, trapped in your grief.

Finally, you manage to take a breath, and it feels like your lungs are on fire. You get to your feet, unsteady, and start to make your way down the aisle. You can feel the eyes of everyone in the church on you, but you don’t care. You need to get out. You need air.

You push through the heavy wooden doors and stumble out into the daylight, gasping for breath like you’ve been underwater for hours. The sky is too blue, the sun too bright. Everything is too much.

You lean against the wall of the church, pressing your forehead to the cool stone, trying to steady yourself. But the tears come anyway, hard and fast, and you can’t stop them. You don’t even try.

You don’t know how long you stand there, sobbing into the wall, but eventually, you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is — your husband’s best friend.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, hesitant.

You don’t respond. You can’t. You just keep crying.

“I ... I’m so sorry,” he says. He steps closer, and you can feel the warmth of his presence beside you. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say,” you manage to choke out, your voice raw.

He’s silent for a moment, and then he takes a deep breath. “James ... he gave me something. To give to you. In case ... in case something happened.”

You turn to look at him, your vision blurred by tears. He’s holding an envelope, white and plain, with your name on it in James’ handwriting. Your heart stutters in your chest.

“He asked me to give it to you,” he says, holding the envelope out to you. “But only when you’re ready.”

You stare at the envelope like it’s a bomb about to go off. You don’t want to take it. You don’t want to know what’s inside. But you reach for it anyway, your hand shaking.

“Take your time,” he says softly. “There’s no rush.”

You nod, clutching the envelope to your chest like it’s a lifeline. You can’t bring yourself to open it, not yet. You don’t even know if you ever will.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He nods, his eyes full of sympathy and something else — something you can’t quite place. “I’m here if you need anything,” he says. “Anything at all.”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to speak. He lingers for a moment, like he wants to say something more, but then he just gives you a small, sad smile and walks away.

You watch him go, the envelope still clutched tightly in your hand, and you feel the weight of it like a stone in your chest. You know that whatever’s inside is going to change everything, and you’re not sure you’re ready for that.

But you don’t have a choice.

***

The envelope sits in the top drawer of your nightstand, hidden beneath an old notebook and a stack of receipts you keep meaning to throw away. It’s been there for over a year, untouched.

Some days, you forget about it entirely, letting the routine of work and lonely dinners numb the ache in your chest. But most days, it lingers in the back of your mind, a quiet hum of guilt and grief that you can’t quite shake.

You know you’re supposed to open it — James left it for you, after all. But every time you reach for the drawer, your hand hovers just above the handle, frozen. Because what if the letter makes it worse? What if the words on the paper bring everything crashing back down on you, when you’ve spent so long trying to build yourself back up?

So you leave it. Days turn into weeks, and then months, until a whole year has passed. Friends have stopped asking how you’re doing, their well-meaning calls and texts fading away into awkward silence. You don’t blame them. It’s not like you’ve been much of a person to be around.

But today, for some reason, you can’t ignore it any longer.

It’s raining outside, the kind of steady drizzle that makes the world feel smaller, quieter. You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the drawer like it’s going to open itself. The house is still, too still, and the sound of the rain against the window only amplifies the silence.

Your hand trembles as you pull the drawer open. The envelope is right where you left it, the edges slightly yellowed now, but the ink still bold and clear: your name, in James’ handwriting. Seeing it sends a pang through your chest, like someone’s reached inside and squeezed your heart.

You sit there for a long time, just holding it. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s just paper. But it feels heavier than anything you’ve ever held.

“Just open it,” you whisper to yourself, but the words feel hollow, like they belong to someone else.

Finally, with a shaky breath, you tear the seal.

Inside, there’s a folded letter. Beneath it, another piece of paper — something thicker. You hesitate, then unfold the letter first. The handwriting is familiar, the slant of the letters uniquely his. You read it slowly, your eyes scanning the words with a mix of dread and longing.

My love,

If you’re reading this, then I’m not there with you. And I’m so, so sorry for that.

I wish I could tell you how much I wanted to come home. How much I needed to come home to you. But I know that wherever I am now, I’m still with you in some way. I have to believe that. Otherwise, I think I’d lose my mind.

This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you to be strong, to keep living your life. And you will. I know you will. But it’s okay to fall apart first. It’s okay to break, to cry, to scream at the universe for being so damn unfair. I would.

There are so many things I wish we could’ve done together, so many things we talked about but never got the chance to do. So I’m leaving you with something. A list. It’s not a list of things you have to do — it’s a list of things I wish we could’ve experienced together. But more than that, it’s a list of things I want you to experience. For both of us.

The first one’s a bit selfish. But the last one ... that one’s for you.

I love you more than words can ever say. And if there’s any way for me to still be with you, to still be a part of your life, then I hope this is it.

Yours always,

Jamie

By the time you finish reading, tears blur your vision, dripping silently onto the letter. You wipe at your face, but the tears just keep coming. His words cut through you, raw and tender, like a wound that’s never fully healed.

You sit there for what feels like hours, the rain outside matching the rhythm of your sobs. It’s only after you’ve cried yourself out that you remember the second piece of paper, still folded in the envelope.

With a shaky breath, you unfold it.

It’s a bucket list. Five items, written in James’ scrawled handwriting. Your heart clenches as you read them, one by one.

1. Go to an F1 race. You know how much I wanted to see one in person. Do this for me. I want you to feel the rush, the excitement. It’s something I never got to experience, and I want you to feel it for both of us.

2. Visit that little café in Paris we always talked about. The one by the Seine with the red awning. We were supposed to go there on our honeymoon, remember? Have a coffee, eat too many croissants. Just sit there and watch the world go by.

3. Take a road trip with no destination in mind. Just drive. Don’t plan anything. Turn down random roads, get lost, stay in tiny motels, and eat at diners where they don’t know your name. I always wanted to do that with you.

4. Dance in the rain. We talked about doing it, but we never did. Just let go and do it. Don’t care if people are watching. Don’t worry about looking silly. Just feel the rain and think of me.

5. Find love again. I know this one is hard, and I know you might not want to think about it right now. But promise me that one day, when you’re ready, you’ll open your heart again. It doesn’t have to be soon. It doesn’t have to be anyone like me. But don’t close yourself off to it. You deserve that kind of happiness.

You sit there, staring at the list, your chest tight and your hands trembling. It’s so ... James. The way he could be both lighthearted and deeply thoughtful, the way he always wanted you to live fully, even if he couldn’t anymore.

But how can you? How can you even think about doing these things without him?

You read the list again, and this time it feels different. Less like a burden, and more like a challenge. A promise, almost. To live. To try.

But the last item — that’s the one that breaks you. Find love again. The words echo in your mind, and you can barely breathe through the weight of them. It feels impossible, inconceivable. And yet, it’s the one thing James wanted most for you.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts. You quickly wipe your eyes, folding the letter and the list back into the envelope before shoving it into the drawer again. You stand up, trying to compose yourself.

When you open the door, you find his best friend, the one who gave you the letter in the first place, standing there. His expression softens the moment he sees your face.

“You finally opened it,” he says gently.

You nod, unable to speak for a moment.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him. “I’ve been wondering when you would.”

“I ... I couldn’t,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Not until today.”

He sits down on the couch, and you join him, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable.

“What did he say?” He asks softly.

You hand him the list, unable to find the words yourself. He reads it, a small smile tugging at his lips as he reaches the last item.

“That’s James,” he says, shaking his head. “Always thinking about everyone else.”

You laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob. “How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to just ... live my life without him?”

“You’re not,” he says, his voice gentle. “You’re supposed to live your life with him. By doing these things, you’re keeping him with you.”

You stare at the list again, your heart aching. “But the last one ...”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then, quietly, he asks, “Do you think he’d want you to be alone forever?”

You shake your head, tears spilling over again. “No. But I don’t know how to ... move on.”

“You don’t have to move on,” he says. “You just have to keep moving. One step at a time.”

You nod, even though it feels impossible. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe this list isn’t just about James’ dreams. Maybe it’s about helping you find your way back to yourself.

“I guess I’d better start with number one,” you say, your voice shaky but determined.

He smiles, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe — just maybe — you can do this.

***

The roar of engines echoes through the air as you step out of the taxi, your heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. The circuit sprawls out before you, a sea of red, blue, and green flags waving in the hands of thousands of fans, all buzzing with excitement. You clutch your ticket tightly, the edges crumpled from your nervous grip.

It took everything in you to get here. The flight, the hotel, the whole ordeal of buying a ticket from some sketchy reseller online — all of it felt like a test of your resolve.

But this is for James. You repeat that to yourself like a mantra. He would’ve loved this, you think, as you look up at the towering grandstands. The hum of the engines, the electricity in the air, the sheer intensity of it all — it’s exactly the kind of thing he would have dragged you to, his enthusiasm infectious.

But now, you’re here alone. And that thought twists in your chest, a painful reminder of why you’re doing this in the first place.

You make your way to the entrance, the ticket clenched in your hand. The queue moves quickly, fans eager to get to their seats, their conversations a mix of English, French, Italian, and other languages you can’t quite place.

You try to blend in, keep your head down, and avoid drawing attention to yourself. Just scan the ticket and get inside. That’s all you have to do.

When it’s finally your turn, you hand your ticket to the attendant, offering a small, nervous smile. He takes it without much thought, scanning the barcode with the device strapped to his wrist. But instead of the usual beep, there’s nothing — just a blank screen.

The attendant frowns, tries again. Still nothing.

“Uh, let me just check something,” he says, his tone suddenly cautious.

You feel a cold knot forming in your stomach. “Is there a problem?”

He doesn’t answer right away, fiddling with the scanner, trying different angles. The queue behind you is growing restless, and you can feel eyes on your back. Finally, he looks up at you, sympathy in his eyes.

“I’m really sorry,” he says quietly, “but this ticket isn’t valid.”

You blink, not understanding. “What do you mean? I bought it online ...”

“It’s a fake,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You must’ve been scammed. It happens sometimes with resellers.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You feel the color drain from your face, your mind reeling. Fake. Scammed. The ticket crumples in your hand as you step aside, trying to make sense of it. How could this happen? You did everything right — or at least, you thought you did.

“But ... I paid a lot for this,” you stammer, the reality of it sinking in. “I-I don’t understand.”

“I’m really sorry,” the attendant repeats, glancing over your shoulder at the impatient crowd behind you. “There’s nothing I can do. You’ll have to contact whoever you bought it from.”

You nod numbly, stepping away from the gate. The world around you seems to blur, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. You feel like you’re suffocating, your chest tight with a mixture of humiliation and despair. This was supposed to be the first thing you did for James, and you can’t even get that right.

You don’t know where you’re going, just that you need to get away from the entrance, away from the people. Your legs carry you to the far side of the parking lot, where the crowds thin out and the noise dulls to a low hum. You lean against a concrete pillar, your breath coming in shaky gasps.

It’s too much. The weight of it all — the grief, the loneliness, the pressure you’ve put on yourself to make this trip meaningful — it’s crushing you. You slide down to sit on the curb, burying your face in your hands as tears spill over.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words meant for James, though you know he can’t hear you. “I’m so sorry ...”

You’re so caught up in your tears that you don’t notice the figure approaching until he’s right in front of you. When you finally look up, your vision is blurry from the tears, but you can make out the silhouette of a man standing there, watching you with concern etched on his face.

“Hey, are you okay?” His voice is soft, with a lilting accent you can’t quite place, but it’s gentle enough to cut through the fog of your despair.

You quickly wipe at your eyes, trying to compose yourself, but it’s a losing battle. “I’m fine,” you manage to choke out, though it’s clear to both of you that you’re anything but.

He doesn’t move, just crouches down in front of you, his brow furrowed. “You don’t look fine. What happened?”

You shake your head, embarrassed by the whole situation. “It’s stupid ... I just — I bought a ticket, and it’s fake, and I ... I just don’t know what to do.”

The words tumble out between hiccups and sniffles, and you feel ridiculous for crying in front of a stranger. But he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, his expression grows even more sympathetic.

“That’s not stupid at all,” he says gently. “You came all this way for the race, didn’t you?”

You nod, biting your lip to keep from crying again. “Yeah. But now I can’t even get in. I feel like such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” he reassures you, his tone firm but kind. “People get scammed all the time. It’s not your fault.”

You look up at him then, really look at him. He’s young, probably around your age, with messy brown hair and striking green eyes that seem to radiate warmth. He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans, nothing that would make him stand out in a crowd, but there’s something about him — maybe the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only person in the world that matters right now — that makes you feel a little less alone.

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not really a fan. It’s just ... something I had to do.”

He tilts his head, curiosity in his eyes. “For someone else?”

You nod again, fresh tears welling up. “My husband. He ... he passed away, and this was on a list of things he wanted me to do. I thought ... I thought I could at least get this right.”

The man’s expression softens even more, if that’s possible. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just sits there with you, letting the weight of your words settle between you.

“I’m really sorry,” he says finally, and you can tell he means it. “That must be so hard.”

You shrug, wiping at your face again. “It is. But I wanted to do it anyway. For him.”

He nods, and then, after a brief pause, he says, “What if I told you I could help?”

You look at him, confusion and hope warring in your chest. “What do you mean?”

He smiles, and it’s a kind, genuine smile that makes you feel like maybe things aren’t as hopeless as they seem. “I might be able to get you into the race. If you’re okay with that.”

Your heart skips a beat, a flicker of hope sparking to life. “How? Are you some kind of VIP or something?”

He laughs, a soft, melodic sound that eases some of the tension in your chest. “Something like that. Just trust me, okay?”

You don’t know why, but you do. Maybe it’s because he’s the first person who’s really listened to you in a long time, or maybe it’s because you’re so desperate to make this work. Either way, you nod.

“Okay,” you say, your voice a little stronger now.

He pulls out his phone and dials a number, glancing back at you as he waits for the call to connect. “This might take a minute,” he says with a reassuring smile.

You watch him, your heart pounding as you wonder just who this man is and how he plans to help you. But as you sit there, your tears drying and the noise of the race humming in the background, you can’t help but feel a glimmer of something you haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

***

Charles doesn’t leave your side while he waits for the call to go through, his green eyes focused on you as if making sure you’re still okay. The sincerity in his gaze is almost unnerving, and for a brief moment, you forget about the pitiful mess you’ve become, losing yourself in the quiet strength he radiates.

Whoever he is, it’s clear he’s not just a fan — there’s something about him that feels different, like he’s used to handling situations like this with a calm confidence that most people can only fake.

He speaks briefly into the phone, in a language you don’t understand, and within minutes — faster than you would’ve thought possible — a Ferrari team member rushes toward you both, holding a shiny red VIP pass. The emblem glints in the sunlight, and as he hands it over to Charles, your brain starts to catch up. Your eyes flicker between the pass, the Ferrari logo, and Charles, who’s now holding the pass out to you with that same reassuring smile.

“Here,” he says gently, placing the pass into your trembling hand. “This will get you into the paddock, and pretty much anywhere else you want to go.”

You stare at the pass, then at him, the realization dawning on you slowly. Ferrari. VIP. Charles. It suddenly clicks into place, and you feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment. He’s not just a concerned fan. He’s someone important.

You swallow hard, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Who ... who are you?”

He chuckles, but it’s soft, not mocking, more like he finds the situation endearing. “I’m Charles. Charles Leclerc. I drive for Ferrari.”

Your mouth opens, then closes, the words you want to say sticking in your throat. You’re mortified that you didn’t recognize him, that you didn’t put it together sooner. You’ve heard the name before, of course — who hasn’t? But you’ve never been into F1, and you hadn’t expected to meet someone famous today.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, looking down at your feet. “I didn’t realize ...”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Charles interrupts, waving off your apology. “You’ve had a rough day. The last thing you need to worry about is recognizing some racing driver.”

“But I should’ve known ...” you begin, but he cuts you off again, this time with a playful smile.

“Now, why would you know that? You already told me you’re not a fan,” he teases lightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And I’d much rather be remembered as the guy who helped you out than as that Ferrari driver you didn’t recognize.”

You can’t help but laugh, albeit weakly. His charm is disarming, and it’s hard to feel embarrassed when he’s making it so clear that he doesn’t care about your mistake.

“Thank you,” you say, meaning it. “For all of this. I don’t know how to repay you.”

Charles shakes his head, his expression turning serious again. “You don’t need to repay me. Just enjoy the day. Experience everything to the fullest — in honor of your husband.”

You blink at him, the mention of James sending a fresh wave of emotion through you. But instead of the sharp pain you’ve grown accustomed to, it’s more of a gentle ache this time, softened by the kindness of the stranger-turned-friend standing before you.

“I know what it’s like to lose people you love,” Charles continues, his voice low and sincere. “And I know how important it is to keep their memory alive by doing things they would’ve loved. It’s not easy, but ... it’s worth it.”

You don’t know what to say to that. The depth of his words, the understanding in his eyes — it’s like he’s speaking directly to the part of you that’s been hurting the most. And suddenly, you feel a connection to him that goes beyond the superficial. He gets it. He understands.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “Really, thank you.”

He nods, his gaze holding yours for a long moment before he stands, offering you his hand. “Come on. Let me show you around.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. His grip is warm and steady, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. You let him lead you through the bustling parking lot, your heart still pounding but now for a different reason.

There’s something surreal about walking next to Charles Leclerc, knowing he’s one of the biggest names in the sport and yet treating you like you’re the important one.

As you approach the entrance to the paddock, the atmosphere shifts. It’s a different world in here, a world of precision, speed, and power. Team members rush about, focused and intense, the hum of engines a constant background noise. But as you pass by, more than a few heads turn, eyes widening as they take in the sight of you walking with Charles. He doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care.

“Here we are,” he says as you reach the Ferrari hospitality area, gesturing to the sleek red building with the prancing horse logo proudly displayed. “You’re my guest today, so feel free to make yourself at home. The team will take good care of you.”

You look up at the building, feeling a little overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to say. This is ... it’s too much.”

“It’s not too much,” Charles insists, his tone gentle but firm. “It’s exactly what you deserve today. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stops you. He’s serious. He really wants this for you, and the sincerity in his voice makes it clear that this isn’t just about being nice. It’s about giving you something good in a time when good things have been hard to come by.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice soft. “I’ll try.”

Charles smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay. “That’s all I ask.”

He leads you inside, where the air is cool and the decor is modern and sleek, all polished surfaces and red accents. A few team members glance your way, but Charles waves them off, his focus entirely on you.

“I have to get prepped for the race,” he says, stopping just inside the entrance. “But I’ll come see you afterward, okay?”

You blink, taken aback by his offer. “You don’t have to do that,” you stutter. “You’ve already done more than enough. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

Charles just shakes his head, that same determined look in his eyes. “I want to. Besides, I’ll probably be in a better mood if I know you’re here cheering me on.”

The thought of actually cheering for him, of being invested in the race, is a foreign one. But the way he says it, so casual and confident, makes it seem almost natural.

“I don’t really know much about racing,” you admit, feeling a little silly.

He grins. “Don’t worry, you’ll pick it up quickly. And if you have any questions, there’ll be plenty of people around who can help. Just relax and enjoy it.”

You nod, still feeling a little out of your depth but also oddly comforted by his words. He makes it sound so simple, so easy, like all you have to do is show up and everything else will fall into place.

“Okay,” you agree. “I’ll try my best.”

“That’s all I can ask for,” Charles says, his smile widening. “I’ll see you after the race.”

He gives you a small wave before turning and heading off, his stride confident and unhurried. You watch him go, still trying to process everything that’s happened in the last hour.

It’s almost too much to take in — the ticket fiasco, meeting Charles, the VIP pass, and now being his personal guest for the day. It feels like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life, one filled with glamor and excitement, so different from the quiet, grief-stricken world you’ve been living in.

But as you take a deep breath and look around at the world Charles has invited you into, you can’t help but feel a spark of something you haven’t felt in a long time — hope. Maybe, just maybe, today will be a good day.

***

You sit in the Ferrari hospitality suite, watching the festivities from a distance. The energy in the room is electric, everyone buzzing with excitement over Charles’ win.

His face is plastered on every screen, grinning as he holds up the trophy, spraying champagne with the other drivers on the podium. The cheers echo in your ears, but there’s a strange numbness in your chest, a disconnect between the celebration and what you’re feeling.

You’re happy for him, of course you are. But the fact that Charles just won a race feels surreal, like something out of a dream. And you’re not sure where you fit in the dream — or if you fit in at all.

The hospitality suite is more crowded now, filled with people congratulating one another, toasting with glasses of champagne and sparkling water. The clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter fill the air, making the room feel smaller, more enclosed.

You keep to the side, clutching your phone and fiddling with the VIP pass Charles gave you earlier. The weight of it around your neck is a constant reminder that this isn’t your world.

The minutes tick by, each one stretching longer than the last. You tell yourself it’s okay to leave, that Charles won’t mind if you slip out quietly. After all, he’s got plenty of people to celebrate with. People who belong here, who know him well, who are part of his world. You’re just a stranger he happened to help.

But something keeps you in your seat, a small flicker of hope that he might actually come back. It’s silly, really — he’s a race winner, he should be out there celebrating, soaking in the victory. Still, you find yourself glancing at the door every few minutes, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he’ll keep his promise.

Nearly an hour and a half after the race ends, just as you’re convincing yourself to leave, you spot him. Charles enters the suite, now changed into a Ferrari branded polo, hair damp from what you assume was a quick shower. He’s scanning the room, and when his eyes land on you, they light up in recognition.

Your breath catches in your throat as he makes his way over, weaving through the crowd with a purposeful stride. He looks different out of the car, more relaxed, though there’s a tiredness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Hey,” he says, slightly breathless when he finally reaches you. “Sorry it took me so long. There were media duties, and then a debrief with the team after the podium ceremony.”

You blink up at him, stunned that he actually came. “You — You came back.”

“Of course I did,” he replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I told you I would.”

You shake your head, still in disbelief. “But you should be out there celebrating. You just won a race, Charles. You didn’t have to come just to see me.”

Charles waves away your concerns, his smile widening. “I came because I wanted to. Celebrations can wait.”

There’s a sincerity in his tone that takes you off guard. He’s not just saying it to be polite or to make you feel better. He actually means it. You search his eyes for a sign that he’s just being nice, but all you find is that same genuine warmth that he’s shown you from the start.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” you murmur, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from anything.”

“You’re not keeping me from anything,” Charles reassures you, his voice gentle. “I’m glad you stayed.”

You nod, still feeling a little out of place, but his words soothe some of your anxiety. “Congratulations, by the way. I’m really happy for you.”

“Thank you,” he says, and there’s a softness in his expression that makes your heart skip a beat. “It was a good race.”

There’s a brief silence, the noise of the room fading into the background as you stand there, just the two of you. You’re not sure what to say next, the weight of the moment making it hard to think straight. But Charles doesn’t seem to mind the quiet, his presence calm and unhurried.

After a few moments, Charles clears his throat, his voice hesitant. “Are you staying nearby?”

The question catches you off guard, and you blink up at him, not quite sure where he’s going with this. “Um, yes, I’m staying at a hotel downtown.”

His eyes brighten at that, and he gives you a small, almost shy smile. “I’m staying in the same area. There’s a great restaurant nearby. Would you like to join me for dinner?”

You’re taken aback by the offer, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to respond. Dinner? With Charles Leclerc? It feels like too much, like something you shouldn’t accept. You don’t want to intrude on his life any more than you already have.

“Charles, you don’t have to spend time with me,” you start, shaking your head. “You’ve already done so much-”

He interrupts you gently, his voice firm but kind. “I want to spend time with you.”

The way he says it, so straightforward and sincere, leaves no room for doubt. He’s not asking out of obligation or pity — he genuinely wants your company. And the thought of having dinner with him, of spending more time with someone who actually seems to care, is suddenly more appealing than anything else.

“Okay,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “I’d like that.”

His smile widens, and you can see the relief in his eyes. “Great. Let’s get out of here, then.”

You follow him as he leads the way out of the suite, the noise of the celebrations fading behind you. The cool evening air greets you as you step outside, the sky painted in hues of orange and pink as the sun sets. Charles is quiet as he walks beside you, his presence comforting in its steadiness.

As you reach the paddock parking lot, you spot the familiar red of a Ferrari, and you can’t help but smile at the sight. It’s fitting, in a way, like everything about this day is part of some surreal, unexpected adventure.

Charles opens the passenger door for you, waiting until you’re settled before rounding the car to get in himself. The engine purrs to life with a smooth growl, and you feel a thrill of excitement as he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the open road.

You glance over at him, taking in the relaxed set of his shoulders, the easy way he handles the car. It’s strange how comfortable you feel with him already, like you’ve known him for longer than just a few hours. Maybe it’s the way he’s treated you from the start — with kindness and understanding — or maybe it’s just the way he carries himself, with a quiet confidence that makes you feel safe.

As you drive through the city, the lights of downtown reflecting off the car’s polished surface, you can’t help but wonder what this evening will bring. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this way — hopeful, curious, maybe even a little excited. And as Charles navigates the streets with practiced ease, you start to think that maybe, just maybe, you’re finally ready to start living again.

***

The restaurant is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. Tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, it’s all exposed brick, warm lighting, and rustic charm. The kind of place that feels both intimate and alive with history, where every detail seems to whisper stories of countless other dinners, other nights, other lives.

You follow Charles to a corner table, noticing the way the candlelight flickers across his features, softening the angles of his face. There’s a natural ease about him, a kind of unspoken confidence that makes you feel a little more at home in this unfamiliar setting. He holds out a chair for you, and as you sit down, you can’t help but feel like you’ve stepped into a scene from someone else’s life.

“This place is incredible,” you say, glancing around at the cozy surroundings. “How did you find it?”

Charles smiles, settling into the chair across from you. “It’s one of my favorites. A friend introduced me to it a few years ago. I come here whenever I’m in town.”

You nod, taking in the atmosphere, the scent of fresh bread and herbs mingling with the low hum of conversation. It’s the kind of place that feels special, even if you didn’t know anything about it.

The waiter appears to take your order, and before you know it, the table is filled with plates of beautifully arranged dishes, each one more enticing than the last. Charles gestures for you to start, and you pick up your fork, feeling a little more at ease with each bite.

“This is amazing,” you say between mouthfuls, savoring the flavors. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like this.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Charles replies, watching you with a soft smile. “It’s one of the things I miss most when I’m traveling — good, simple food.”

There’s a comfortable silence as you both enjoy the meal, the clinking of silverware and the quiet murmur of the other diners providing a gentle backdrop. You’re grateful for the peace, for the way Charles doesn’t push you to talk, doesn’t ask any questions that feel too invasive.

But as the meal draws to a close, you sense a shift in the atmosphere. Charles seems to be choosing his words carefully, his expression thoughtful as he looks across the table at you.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he begins, his tone gentle, “but ... would you like to talk about your husband?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you can answer it. It’s been so long since anyone asked, since anyone cared enough to ask, and you’re not sure if you’re ready to go back to that place, to open up the wound that’s still so raw.

But there’s something in Charles’ eyes, a quiet understanding, that makes you feel like it’s okay to share this part of yourself with him. Like maybe he can handle it, even if you’re not sure you can.

“He was on a mission in ... well, it doesn’t really matter where. There was an attack — one of those random, senseless things that happen in places like that. He was helping a patient when it happened. They said he died a hero, but ... it doesn’t feel like that to me. It just feels like he’s gone.”

The tears that you’ve been holding back all evening finally spill over, and you don’t even try to stop them. You’re tired of pretending to be strong, tired of keeping it all inside. And somehow, with Charles sitting there, listening so intently, it feels okay to let it out.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t even begin to imagine what that must be like.”

You wipe at your eyes, trying to pull yourself together. “It’s been over a year, but ... it still feels like it was yesterday, you know? Like I’m still waiting for him to walk through the door, to tell me it was all some terrible mistake.”

Charles reaches across the table, his hand covering yours in a gesture that’s as comforting as it is unexpected. “You don’t have to go through this alone,” he says softly. “And you don’t have to rush through it either. Grief doesn’t have a timeline.”

His words are like a balm, soothing some of the raw ache that’s been sitting in your chest. You nod, unable to speak, afraid that if you do, the tears will start again and won’t stop.

There’s a brief silence, and then you continue, feeling the need to explain, to make him understand. “He left me a letter ... and a list. A bucket list, of things he wanted us to do together, but he didn’t get the chance. He asked me to do them for him, to ... to live the life he didn’t get to.”

Charles leans forward slightly, his eyes locked on yours. “What’s on the list?”

You hesitate for a moment, but then you reach into your purse, pulling out the folded piece of paper that’s become a permanent fixture in your life. You unfold it carefully, smoothing out the creases before passing it across the table to him.

He takes the list from you, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment before he begins to read. You watch his face as he scans the items, his expression shifting from curiosity to something deeper, something almost reverent.

He’s quiet for a long time, and you wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s judging you for carrying out such a personal task, for holding on to a life that’s no longer yours.

But when he looks up at you again, there’s no judgment in his eyes — only empathy, and maybe even a touch of admiration.

“Have you done any of these yet?” He asks, his voice soft.

You nod your head. “I’ve only just started. The first item was to go to an F1 race ... that’s why I’m here.”

Charles’ gaze softens even more, and he nods slowly, as if understanding the weight of what you’ve shared. “And Paris?” He asks, his tone careful.

You can’t help but laugh a little, despite the heaviness in your chest. “Paris ... I mean, who doesn’t want to go to Paris? But I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to tick that one off the list.”

Charles is quiet for a moment, then he hesitates, as if he’s debating something in his mind. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and tentative. “You know ... the summer break has officially started. I don’t have another race for a month, and I don’t have anything I have to do for over two weeks.”

You blink at him, not quite understanding where he’s going with this. “Okay ...”

“I’ve always loved Paris,” he says, his gaze steady on yours. “And ... I know we’ve only just met, but I would love to help you tick off the second item on your list.”

You stare at him, your mind reeling from what he’s suggesting. Go to Paris? With him? It’s crazy — it’s absolutely insane. You don’t know him, not really, and the idea of going on such a personal trip with someone you’ve just met feels like stepping into a world that doesn’t belong to you.

But there’s something in the way he’s looking at you, something in his voice, that makes you think that maybe, just maybe, it’s not as crazy as it seems. Maybe it’s exactly what you need.

“Are you serious?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles nods, his expression earnest. “Sometimes the best things in life are crazy and spontaneous. And ... I know it’s a lot to ask, but I really would love to help you with this. I want to be there for you.”

You feel a lump forming in your throat, a mix of emotions swirling inside you — fear, excitement, uncertainty, and something else you can’t quite name. It’s terrifying, the idea of letting someone new into your life, of opening yourself up to the possibility of connection, of loss.

But at the same time, it feels like a lifeline, like a chance to finally start living again.

“I ... I don’t know,” you stammer, unsure of how to respond. “It just seems so ...”

“Crazy?” Charles finishes for you, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah,” you admit, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Crazy.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you with those steady, kind eyes. “Maybe it is. But sometimes the craziest things turn out to be the most important.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest as you weigh the decision. It would be so easy to say no, to stay in your safe, controlled world where nothing ever changes. But where has that gotten you? Nowhere.

And then, almost without realizing it, you find yourself nodding, your voice small but determined. “Okay.”

Charles’ eyes light up with something close to relief, and he smiles at you — a genuine, warm smile that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this is the right choice.

“Okay?” He repeats, as if needing to hear it again.

“Okay,” you say again, a little more certain this time. “Let’s go to Paris.”

You both sit there for a moment, the reality of what you’ve just agreed to sinking in. It feels like the beginning of something — something that scares you as much as it excites you.

Charles reaches across the table, gently taking your hand in his. “Thank you,” he says, his voice sincere.

You look at him, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not alone in this.

***

You’re still reeling from the decision when the check arrives at the table. Charles grabs it before you can reach for your purse, waving away your protests with an easy smile.

“Trust me,” he says, his tone light but firm, “this one’s on me.”

You thank him, still half-convinced that this is all some surreal dream you’ll wake up from any minute. As you step outside, the cool evening air brushes against your skin, grounding you in the reality of what just happened.

You’re going to Paris. With Charles Leclerc. You glance at him, wondering how he can be so calm when your world has just been flipped upside down.

“Okay, so ... what’s the plan?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady as your mind races with all the logistics you need to sort out.

He turns to you with that relaxed smile, as if planning a spontaneous trip to Paris is the most natural thing in the world. “Plan? We drive back to the hotel, grab our things, and head to the airport.”

“The airport?” You blink at him, thrown by the suddenness of it all. “I haven’t even booked a flight yet. Or a hotel. Or anything.”

Charles chuckles softly, shaking his head. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. I’ve got it covered.”

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that you can’t possibly let him do this, but he cuts you off before you can say a word.

“Really,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s no trouble at all. I’m an F1 driver, remember? I’ve got more than enough resources, and I want to do this for you.”

You stare at him, at the easy confidence in his tone, at the sincerity in his eyes. You know he means it, but it still feels like too much. “Charles, I ... I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“You’re not.” He steps closer, his expression softening. “This is something I want to do. For you. For your husband. Please, let me help you.”

There’s a quiet intensity in his voice that makes it impossible to argue. You nod slowly, feeling a mix of gratitude and disbelief. “Okay ... thank you. I just — I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he assures you. “Just pack your things and meet me back here in a few minutes. We’ll take care of the rest.”

And just like that, you find yourself heading back to your hotel, your heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. You pack quickly, throwing your essentials into your suitcase with trembling hands. The reality of what’s happening starts to sink in, and for a moment, you’re overwhelmed by the sheer craziness of it all.

You pause, standing in the middle of the room with your half-packed suitcase, wondering if you’re really doing this. Paris. With a man you’ve just met. It’s all too surreal, too spontaneous, too-

There’s a knock on your door, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You open it to find Charles standing there, his expression calm and reassuring.

“Ready?” He asks, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

You take a deep breath, nodding. “Yeah ... I think so.”

“Good.” He smiles, and somehow, that simple gesture is enough to steady you. “Let’s go.”

You follow him downstairs, your heart racing as he drives you both back to his hotel. He parks the car, and you watch as he disappears inside, returning a few minutes later with a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“That’s it?” You ask, surprised at how little he’s carrying.

He nods, tossing the bag into the back seat. “The team will pack up the rest of my stuff and have it sent home later.”

You don’t have time to process the implications of that before he’s back in the driver’s seat, navigating the streets with the kind of ease that comes from years of traveling. You try to keep up with the conversation, but your mind keeps drifting to what lies ahead, to the sheer audacity of what you’re about to do.

It’s only when you pull up to a private airstrip that the full reality of the situation hits you. You step out of the car, staring in awe at the sleek, chartered jet waiting on the tarmac. The sight of it leaves you breathless, the sheer scale of what Charles is doing for you almost too much to comprehend.

“Charles ...” you begin, your voice catching in your throat.

He turns to you, his expression soft. “Yes?”

“This is ... I mean, I don’t know what to say. This is more than I could have ever imagined. Are you sure-”

“I’m sure.” His tone leaves no room for doubt, and he reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “Come on. We’ve got a flight to catch.”

He leads you up the steps, and before you know it, you’re inside the luxurious cabin, sinking into a plush leather seat. Everything about the jet screams opulence — the polished wood accents, the soft ambient lighting, the quiet hum of the engines in the background. It’s the kind of luxury you’ve only ever seen in movies, and you can’t quite believe that it’s real, that you’re really here.

Charles takes the seat across from you, his expression relaxed as he buckles his seatbelt. “Comfortable?”

You nod, still too stunned to form a coherent response. He smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, and you realize that this kind of thing must be second nature to him. For you, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. For him, it’s just another day in the life of an F1 driver.

“Just sit back and relax,” he says, as if sensing your thoughts. “We’ll be in Paris before you know it.”

The flight itself is smooth and uneventful, the hours passing in a blur of disbelief and quiet conversation. Charles keeps things light, sharing stories from his racing career, and you find yourself relaxing more with each passing minute. It’s easy to forget about your worries when you’re with him, easy to get lost in the charm of his stories and the warmth of his smile.

Before you know it, the plane begins its descent, and the lights of Paris come into view below, twinkling like a sea of stars. The sight of the city leaves you breathless, the sheer beauty of it almost too much to take in. You press your face to the window, unable to tear your eyes away from the breathtaking panorama of the City of Light.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Charles’ voice is soft, and when you turn to look at him, there’s a wistfulness in his eyes that tugs at your heart.

“Yes,” you whisper, feeling a surge of emotion welling up inside you. “It’s ... it’s perfect.”

The plane touches down smoothly, and within minutes, you’re whisked away in a sleek black car, driving through the streets of Paris as the city comes alive around you. The streets are bustling with life, the cafes and bistros glowing with warm light, the air filled with the sound of laughter and music.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined and more, and you can’t believe you’re really here, experiencing it all with Charles by your side.

The car pulls up in front of an exclusive, centrally located hotel, and you step out onto the cobblestone street, your heart pounding in your chest. The hotel is grand, its facade illuminated by golden lights, and as you step inside, you’re greeted by a world of elegance and sophistication.

You barely have time to take it all in before you’re being led to a two-bedroom suite with the most stunning views of the Eiffel Tower you’ve ever seen. You stand by the window, staring out at the iconic landmark as it sparkles against the night sky, the reality of your situation hitting you all over again.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles steps up beside you, his gaze focused on the view outside. “Believe it,” he says softly, his tone filled with quiet conviction. “You’re here. We’re here. And tomorrow, we’ll start checking off that list.”

You turn to look at him, your eyes filled with gratitude and something else — something you’re not quite ready to name. “Thank you. For everything. I don’t even know how to begin to thank you.”

He smiles, a warm, genuine smile that lights up his face. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad I can be here for you.”

You feel a surge of emotion welling up inside you, and before you can stop yourself, you reach out and pull him into a hug. It’s a long, lingering embrace, filled with all the gratitude, all the emotion you can’t put into words. Charles holds you close, his arms wrapped around you in a way that makes you feel safe, comforted, understood.

When you finally pull back, there are tears in your eyes, but they’re tears of relief, of something like hope. “Good night, Charles,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

“Good night,” he replies, his voice just as soft. “Sleep well. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

You watch as he heads to his own room, and then you turn back to the window, staring out at the glittering Eiffel Tower. It feels like a dream, but for the first time in a long time, it’s a dream you’re ready to embrace.

***

The sun is already high in the sky when you finally open your eyes, the weight of the past few days still pressing down on you like a heavy blanket. The exhaustion is bone-deep, the kind that makes every movement feel like wading through thick syrup.

You stretch out in the luxurious hotel bed, the cool sheets tangling around your legs as you blink against the soft light filtering through the curtains. Paris. You’re in Paris. The thought slips through your mind, almost unreal, as if you might wake up any second to find yourself back in the monotony of the past year.

You sit up slowly, taking in the spacious room with its elegant furniture and the faint sounds of the city outside. It’s almost noon, you realize, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. Just as you’re about to contemplate the day ahead, there’s a gentle knock on the door connecting your room to Charles’. You almost forgot about him for a second — almost.

“Good morning,” you call out, your voice still thick with sleep.

The door opens, and Charles steps in, a smile lighting up his face as he sees you. “Good afternoon, you mean,” he teases lightly, leaning against the doorframe. “I was beginning to think you might sleep through the whole day.”

You rub your eyes, shaking your head as you try to fully wake up. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

He nods, his expression softening. “No rush. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

It’s that statement that hits you more than it should. All the time in the world. You used to believe that too. You push the thought away quickly, not wanting to drown in it.

“What’s the plan?” You ask, forcing yourself to focus on the present, on this strange, wonderful day that’s somehow yours.

Charles grins, his eyes sparking with something mischievous. “How do you feel about lunch at a little café by the Seine?”

Your heart skips a beat. The café. The red awning. It’s what your husband wanted, what he wrote down on that list. You swallow, trying to keep your emotions in check. “That sounds perfect.”

Charles seems to sense the shift in your mood, his smile softening into something more understanding. He doesn’t push, just nods and steps back, giving you space to get ready. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

When he’s gone, you take a deep breath and head to the bathroom, the reality of where you are and what you’re doing starting to sink in. You can’t help but think of the letter, the list. Of the man who should be here with you instead of buried under the earth. You splash cold water on your face, trying to shake off the melancholy that clings to you like a second skin.

By the time you join Charles downstairs, you’ve managed to put on a smile, though it feels fragile, like it might shatter at any moment. He greets you with a warm, reassuring look, his eyes scanning your face as if to check that you’re really okay. You nod, and he leads you outside, where a car is waiting.

The ride to the café is quiet, filled with the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sound of the city. Charles doesn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter, and you’re grateful for that. Instead, he lets you stare out the window, watching as the streets of Paris unfold before you like a storybook.

When the car finally pulls up in front of the café, your heart clenches. There it is, just like your husband described it: the small tables lined up outside, the red awning casting a warm glow over everything, the view of the Seine just beyond. It’s almost too much. You hesitate, feeling a lump in your throat, but Charles is already out of the car, holding the door open for you.

“You okay?” He asks quietly, his gaze steady on yours.

You nod, though you’re not sure if you believe it. “Yeah. Just ... it’s exactly like he said.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, just offers his arm in a gentle, old-fashioned gesture. You take it, letting him lead you to a table by the water. The waiter greets you with a smile, and Charles orders for both of you without hesitation — coffee and croissants, just like on the list.

The sun reflects off the Seine, making the water shimmer like it’s made of liquid gold. You sip your coffee slowly, savoring the rich taste, though your thoughts are a million miles away. You can almost see your husband sitting across from you, that goofy grin on his face as he tries to explain something in broken French to the waiter. You smile at the memory, even as it twists something painful deep inside you.

Charles doesn’t interrupt your thoughts, just lets you have this moment. You’re grateful for that. The croissants arrive, warm and flaky, and you find yourself laughing softly as you break off a piece, thinking of how your husband always complained that they never made them right back home. Here, though ... here they’re perfect.

“This was his favorite place,” you say suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “He talked about it all the time. Said it was the best spot in Paris, hands down.”

Charles listens, his eyes never leaving your face. “He had good taste.”

You smile, though it wobbles a bit. “He did.”

There’s a pause, a comfortable one, where you both just sit there, watching the world go by. It’s everything your husband wanted, everything he put on that list. And yet, it feels different — like you’re living a dream that isn’t entirely yours.

After a while, Charles speaks up, his tone gentle. “Have you thought about what you want to do next?”

You blink, pulling yourself out of your thoughts. “Next?”

“With the list,” he clarifies, his eyes searching yours. “I mean, you don’t have to ... but if you want to keep going, I’d like to help.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Charles holds up a hand, cutting you off before you can start. “I know what you’re going to say,” he continues, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And I’m telling you right now, you’re not bothering me. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.”

You look at him, really look at him, and see nothing but sincerity in his eyes. It’s overwhelming, this kindness he’s showing you, this willingness to be a part of something so deeply personal. You don’t know what to say, how to express the jumble of emotions swirling inside you.

“Charles, I-” You falter, trying to find the right words. “This isn’t your responsibility. You’ve already done so much ...”

He shakes his head, cutting you off again. “It’s not about responsibility. It’s about doing something that feels right. And this — being here with you, helping you through this — it feels right.”

The tears well up before you can stop them, spilling over as you look away, embarrassed by how easily they come. Charles doesn’t say anything, just reaches across the table to take your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice breaking on the words.

He squeezes your hand gently. “You don’t have to thank me.”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t want you to feel obligated ...”

“I don’t,” he assures you, his voice firm but kind. “I promise you, I don’t.”

You nod, blinking away the last of your tears. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He echoes, a hint of a smile in his voice.

You smile back, a real one this time. “Okay.”

There’s a quiet moment where everything feels ... settled, like a weight has been lifted from your chest. It’s not gone — not by a long shot — but it’s lighter, more manageable. You can breathe a little easier, see a little clearer.

Charles leans back in his chair, his eyes twinkling with that familiar mischief. “So, what do you say we finish this coffee, eat a few more croissants than is probably advisable, and then figure out what our next adventure is?”

You laugh, a real laugh that surprises you with its brightness. “I think I’d like that.”

And so you do just that. You sit there with Charles, sipping coffee and eating too many croissants, watching the world go by as the sun moves slowly across the sky. It’s peaceful, almost idyllic, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a flicker of something that might be happiness.

As the afternoon stretches into evening, Charles brings up the rest of the list again, but this time, you don’t try to wave him off. Instead, you find yourself talking about it, really talking, and it feels good to share it with someone who actually seems to care.

You tell him about the road trip with no destination in mind, about the other things your husband wanted you to experience. It’s bittersweet, but there’s a warmth to it too, a sense of connection that you didn’t expect to find.

“We’ll enjoy a few more days in Paris,” Charles says, his voice steady and reassuring, “and then we’ll hit the road. No plans, no deadlines. Just ... see where it takes us.”

You look at him, feeling that same pull, that same inexplicable draw that’s been there since the moment you met him. It’s crazy, all of this — crazy and spontaneous and completely out of your comfort zone. But maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what you need.

“Let’s do it,” you say, your voice stronger than you expected. “Let’s do the road trip.”

Charles’ smile broadens. “Perfect. We’ll make it an adventure.”

***

The morning sun filters through the curtains of your hotel room, casting a golden glow that seems to soften the world around you. You stretch in bed, feeling a lightness in your chest that you haven’t felt in a long time. There’s a sense of anticipation humming through your veins as you get ready, knowing that today marks the beginning of a new adventure.

When you step into the lobby, Charles is already there, leaning casually against a pillar, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans. He grins when he sees you, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Ready to go?” He asks, his voice warm.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach.

Charles nods, gesturing for you to follow him. “Come on, then.”

You step outside, and your breath catches in your throat. Parked at the curb is a sleek black Ferrari, its curves gleaming under the morning light. You glance at Charles in surprise, your eyebrows shooting up.

“Where did you get this?” You ask, your voice tinged with disbelief.

He chuckles, shrugging nonchalantly. “Let’s just say I know a guy.”

You shake your head, a laugh bubbling up despite yourself. “Of course you do.”

Charles opens the trunk, helping you load your bags inside. There’s a thrill in the air, a sense of freedom that you haven’t felt in ages. Once everything is packed, he opens the passenger door for you with a small bow, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Your chariot awaits,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but the gesture makes your heart warm. You slide into the car, sinking into the plush leather seat as Charles walks around to the driver’s side.

“Ready?” He asks, his hand resting on the gear shift.

You glance over at him, meeting his gaze. There’s something reassuring in his eyes, something that makes you feel like, for the first time in a long time, everything might just be okay.

“Ready,” you say, and with that, he starts the engine, the car roaring to life.

The two of you set off, the city of Paris fading in the rearview mirror as the open road stretches out before you. There’s no set destination, no strict itinerary — just miles of road and the promise of wherever the day might take you.

For the first hour, you drive in comfortable silence, the hum of the engine and the wind rushing past your ears. You watch as the landscape changes, the bustling city giving way to rolling fields and quaint villages. The farther you go, the more the tension in your chest eases.

Eventually, Charles turns to you with a grin. “Pick a direction. Left or right?”

You blink, looking at the fork in the road ahead. “You’re letting me decide?”

“Of course,” he replies. “This is your adventure, after all.”

You hesitate for a moment, then point to the right. “Right.”

Charles nods and turns the wheel, the Ferrari smoothly gliding down the chosen path. “Right it is.”

The day passes in a blur of laughter and easy conversation. You turn down random roads, sometimes doubling back when you realize you’re hopelessly lost, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no rush, no pressure to be anywhere but right here, right now.

You stop at a tiny roadside café for lunch, the kind of place where the menu is handwritten on a chalkboard, and the waitress knows the regulars by name. The food is simple but delicious, and you can’t help but savor every bite, feeling more alive than you have in months.

After lunch, you continue driving, the hours slipping away as you explore hidden corners of the French countryside. You pass through small towns where time seems to have stood still, with cobblestone streets and old stone houses that look like something out of a fairytale.

As evening approaches, you start to feel the weight of the day settling in your bones. You glance over at Charles, who looks just as content as you feel, his hand relaxed on the steering wheel.

“Should we start looking for a place to stay?” You ask, your voice soft.

He nods, glancing at a sign by the side of the road. “There’s a small inn a few miles ahead. We can try there.”

You hum in agreement, the idea of a cozy inn sounding perfect after a day on the road. The Ferrari winds its way through narrow streets until you arrive at the inn, a charming, ivy-covered building that looks like it’s been plucked straight out of a storybook.

Charles parks the car, and the two of you head inside. The lobby is quaint, with old wooden beams and a stone fireplace crackling in the corner. The innkeeper, a kindly older woman with a warm smile, greets you as you approach the front desk.

“Bonsoir,” she says in a lilting accent. “How can I help you?”

Charles steps forward, his voice polite as ever. “Bonsoir. We were hoping to get a room for the night.”

The innkeeper’s smile falters slightly, and she glances at the reservation book. “Ah, I’m afraid we are nearly full tonight. There is only one room left, and it has only one bed. I’m sorry.”

Your heart sinks, and you glance at Charles, unsure what to do. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable, but you also don’t relish the idea of finding another place so late in the evening.

Charles, however, seems unfazed. He turns to you with a reassuring smile. “It’s up to you. We can stay or keep looking.”

You bite your lip, weighing your options. The day has been long, and you’re both exhausted. Finally, you nod. “Let’s stay.”

The innkeeper hands Charles the key, and he leads you upstairs to the room. It’s cozy, with a low ceiling and a large, comfortable-looking bed dominating the space. There’s a small window overlooking the garden, where the last rays of sunlight are casting everything in a golden hue.

You drop your bags by the door, glancing at the bed. It’s big enough for two, but the thought of sharing it with Charles makes your heart flutter nervously.

Charles seems to pick up on your hesitation. “I can sleep on the floor,” he offers, his tone gentle. “It’s no trouble.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not making you sleep on the floor.”

He hesitates for a moment, then nods, his expression softening. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

You both get ready for bed, the atmosphere between you growing more relaxed. When you finally climb under the covers, you can feel the warmth radiating from Charles’ side of the bed, a comforting presence in the quiet room.

For a while, you both lie there in silence, the only sound the faint rustling of the sheets as you try to find a comfortable position. Despite your earlier nerves, you find yourself inching closer to him, drawn by the sense of safety he brings.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, your voice barely audible in the darkness.

“Goodnight,” he replies, his voice soft.

You close your eyes, letting out a slow breath. And then, almost without thinking, you shift closer, until your head is resting on his shoulder, your body curled against his side.

Charles tenses for a moment, and you almost pull away, but then his arm wraps around you, holding you gently. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he holds you is enough. It’s not romantic or suggestive — just a simple, comforting embrace that makes you feel less alone.

You relax into his warmth, feeling a sense of peace wash over you that you haven’t felt in what feels like forever. The road trip, the bucket list, everything fades into the background as you allow yourself to just be in this moment.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in the safety of Charles’ arms, you can’t help but think that maybe — just maybe — you’re starting to heal.

***

The morning sun filters through the curtains, casting a golden hue over the small inn room. You stir slightly, the warmth of the shared bed coaxing you into a slow wakefulness. Charles is still beside you, his breath even, his face relaxed in sleep. It’s almost surreal how peaceful this moment feels, as if the world outside has paused just for the two of you.

You turn onto your side, propping yourself up on an elbow, and watch him for a moment. The lines of worry that usually crease his brow are gone, replaced by a serenity that makes him seem younger, almost boyish. You wonder how he manages to carry so much weight on his shoulders and still offer you comfort, still make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

The faint clatter of dishes from downstairs pulls you out of your thoughts. You slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him just yet. The cool wooden floor sends a shiver up your spine as you pad over to the small window. The view outside is a picturesque scene of rolling hills and a cobblestone street winding through the tiny village. It’s the kind of place that feels untouched by time, where life moves at a slower, more deliberate pace.

A soft knock on the door startles you. You glance back at Charles, who stirs but doesn’t wake. Quietly, you open the door to find the innkeeper, a woman in her late fifties with a kind face and a warm smile.

“Good morning,” she whispers. “Breakfast is ready whenever you and your friend are.”

You nod, offering her a smile in return. “Thank you. We’ll be down soon.”

She leaves you with a slight nod, and you close the door softly behind her. Turning back to the bed, you see Charles is awake now, blinking away sleep. He stretches lazily, his eyes finding yours, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Good morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” you reply, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “The innkeeper says breakfast is ready.”

He nods, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “I’ll be down in a minute. You go ahead.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then you nod and head downstairs. The small dining area is cozy, with a fireplace crackling softly in one corner. The smell of freshly baked bread and brewed coffee fills the air, making your stomach rumble in anticipation. You take a seat at one of the wooden tables, the innkeeper greeting you with a pot of coffee.

“Is it just the two of you?” She asks, pouring you a cup.

“Yes, just us,” you say, taking a grateful sip. The warmth of the coffee spreads through you, waking you up fully.

“Such a lovely young man,” she comments, a twinkle in her eye. “You’re lucky to have someone like him.”

You smile at that, unsure how to respond. Are you lucky? It feels strange to think of Charles in that way when the loss of your husband is still so fresh, still so raw. But you can’t deny that Charles has brought something into your life that you didn’t know you needed — comfort, companionship, and maybe even a little bit of hope.

Charles appears a few minutes later, his hair slightly tousled from sleep, but he looks more awake now. He greets the innkeeper with a polite nod before taking the seat across from you.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks, reaching for a piece of the fresh bread.

“I did,” you admit. “And you?”

“Better than I have in a while,” he says, and there’s a sincerity in his tone that makes you believe him.

The innkeeper returns with plates of food — scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, fresh fruit, and more of the bread you’ve already sampled. It’s simple, but it’s the kind of breakfast that warms you from the inside out, reminding you of the comforts of home.

As you both eat in companionable silence, Charles looks up at you, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Have you ever been to Monaco?”

You pause, caught off guard by the question. “No, I haven’t. I’ve heard it’s beautiful, though.”

“It is,” he agrees, a smile playing on his lips. “Would you like to go?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Of course I would, but realistically, I know I probably never will. Life has a way of getting in the way of things like that.”

Charles’ smile widens, his eyes glinting with mischief. “That’s not true at all, actually.”

You raise an eyebrow, not sure where he’s going with this. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because my mother is expecting us for dinner tonight,” he says casually, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You stare at him, unsure if you heard him correctly. “Wait, what?”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying your reaction. “You heard me. We’re going to Monaco. My mother has been asking about you, actually.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to find the words. “Charles, I ... I don’t know what to say. That’s ... that’s incredibly sweet, but I don’t want to impose. And we haven’t exactly been planning on going to Monaco.”

“You’re not imposing,” Charles insists, reaching across the table to take your hand. “She’s already expecting us, and it would make her really happy to meet you.”

You look down at his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch seep into your skin. There’s something about the way he says it, so earnest and sincere, that makes it hard to say no.

“Are you sure?” You ask, your voice soft.

“Absolutely,” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “Let’s make the most of this adventure, okay?”

You take a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay. Let’s go to Monaco.”

The drive to Monaco is nothing short of breathtaking. The Ferrari roars to life as Charles maneuvers it expertly along the winding coastal roads, the Mediterranean Sea sparkling to your right. The windows are down, and the wind whips through your hair, carrying with it the scent of saltwater and the promise of something new.

Charles hums along to the music playing softly through the speakers, glancing over at you every so often with a contented smile. There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes your heart flutter, and you find yourself smiling back, unable to resist the infectious energy that seems to surround him.

When you finally cross the border into Monaco, it feels like stepping into another world. The city is a blend of old-world charm and modern luxury, with grand buildings perched on cliffs overlooking the sea and sleek yachts bobbing in the harbor. The streets are bustling with life, but there’s an air of sophistication and elegance that sets it apart from anywhere else you’ve been.

Charles navigates the narrow streets with ease, eventually pulling up in front of an apartment building that exudes quiet elegance. He cuts the engine and turns to you with a smile. “We’re here.”

You take a deep breath, your nerves suddenly kicking in. “I’m nervous,” you admit.

Charles reaches over and takes your hand, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “You have nothing to be nervous about. She’s going to love you.”

You nod, trying to calm the butterflies in your stomach as you step out of the car. Charles comes around to your side, taking your hand once more as he leads you up the steps to the building. The door opens with a soft creak, and you find yourself in a beautifully decorated foyer, the scent of fresh flowers filling the air.

Charles leads you down a hallway, stopping in front of a door with a gold number plate. He looks at you, a reassuring smile on his face, before knocking softly.

The door opens almost immediately, and there stands a woman who can only be Pascale. She’s petite, with kind eyes and a warm smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. Her face lights up when she sees Charles, and she immediately pulls him into a hug.

“Charles, mon chéri,” she says, her voice filled with affection.

Charles hugs her back, and you can see the love between them in the way they hold each other, the way they speak without words. When they finally pull apart, Pascale turns her attention to you, her smile softening even more.

“And you must be Y/N,” she says, stepping forward to embrace you as well. Her hug is warm and comforting, the kind of hug that only a mother could give.

You hug her back, feeling a wave of emotion wash over you. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this kind of maternal warmth, and it brings tears to your eyes. But they’re good tears, the kind that remind you that maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to heal.

“It’s so lovely to finally meet you,” Pascale says, pulling back to look at you. “Charles has told me so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” you reply with a small smile, trying to compose yourself.

Pascale laughs softly, a musical sound that fills the hallway. “Only the best.”

Charles takes your hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Shall we?”

Pascale nods, stepping back to allow you both inside. As you step into the warm, inviting space, you can’t help but feel a sense of belonging. For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

***

Pascale’s apartment is cozy, filled with warm lighting and the comforting smell of something delicious simmering in the kitchen. You’re still standing by the door when she pulls you into a tight hug, her embrace firm yet gentle, and in that moment, you feel a wave of unexpected comfort.

“Welcome, mon ange,” Pascale murmurs in your ear, her voice soft and motherly, the kind you haven't felt in so long. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

You blink back the tears that suddenly prick at your eyes. There’s a part of you that’s still surprised to be here, in Monaco, of all places, with Charles — let alone meeting his mother. “Thank you,” you manage to say, feeling a little overwhelmed by her warmth.

Charles gives you an encouraging smile as he slips out of his shoes, motioning for you to do the same. “Come on,” he says lightly, “I told Maman we’d help with dinner.”

You glance at Pascale, who’s already moving toward the kitchen. “Oh, I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Nonsense,” Pascale calls over her shoulder. “You’re our guest, and in this house, guests are family.”

Charles nudges you playfully. “She means it. Better get in there before she tries to do everything herself.”

You follow them into the kitchen, trying to shake off the nerves that have settled in your stomach. The space is as welcoming as the rest of the apartment, filled with the sounds of something sizzling on the stove and the scent of fresh herbs. Pascale is already at work, her hands moving deftly as she chops vegetables with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

Charles rolls up his sleeves and grabs a cutting board, handing you one as well. “Here,” he says with a grin, “let’s show Maman what we’ve got.”

You’re not much of a cook, but there’s something about the way Charles and Pascale move around the kitchen that makes you feel at ease. Before long, the three of you are working together, chopping and stirring and laughing as Pascale regales you with stories from Charles’ childhood.

“He was always getting into trouble,” she says with a fond smile, passing you a bowl of something that smells divine. “Climbing trees, chasing after the neighborhood cats ...”

“Maman,” Charles groans, but he’s grinning, his eyes sparkling with that same mischievous glint you’ve seen more than once.

You chuckle, picturing a younger Charles, wild and full of energy. It’s easy to see where he gets his charm — Pascale is a force of nature, and the love she has for her son is palpable in every word, every look she sends his way.

As dinner comes together, you find yourself opening up to Pascale in a way you didn’t expect. She asks about your life, your past, and though it’s hard to talk about your husband, something about her gentle demeanor makes it easier.

“I’m sorry,” you say at one point, when the conversation dips into quieter territory. “I didn’t mean to bring the mood down.”

Pascale shakes her head, her eyes full of understanding. “You didn’t, dear. It’s important to talk about the people we’ve loved and lost. It keeps them with us.”

Her words resonate with you, and for a moment, you just stand there, letting the warmth of the kitchen and the comfort of their presence wash over you.

“Your husband,” Pascale says after a beat, her voice soft. “He sounds like he was a wonderful man.”

“He was,” you whisper, your throat tightening with emotion. “He really was.”

Pascale reaches out, covering your hand with hers. “And you,” she says gently, “are an incredible woman.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just nod, swallowing back the tears that threaten to spill over. Charles catches your eye from across the kitchen, giving you a small, encouraging smile, and you feel a surge of gratitude for him — for bringing you here, for making you feel like you’re not alone.

Dinner is a simple affair, but it’s one of the best meals you’ve had in a long time. The conversation flows easily, and for a while, it feels like you’re part of something you’ve been missing for so long — a family.

At some point during the evening, you and Pascale find yourselves alone at the table. Charles has stepped out to take a call, leaving you with Pascale, who has been watching you with a thoughtful expression.

“You know,” she begins, her voice gentle, “when Charles told me about you, I could see how much he cares. He’s a good boy, my Charles, but he doesn’t let people in easily.”

You feel your cheeks warm under her scrutiny. “He’s been ... incredibly kind to me,” you say softly. “I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

Pascale nods, as if she already knows. “He’s been through a lot, just like you. Losing his father, and then Jules ... it changed him.”

There’s a sadness in her eyes, and you realize that, like you, she’s carrying her own grief. “I’m sorry,” you say, the words feeling inadequate. “I didn’t mean to bring up-”

“Don’t apologize,” Pascale interrupts, reaching across the table to take your hand. “It’s good to talk about these things, to remember. Charles ... he doesn’t talk about it much, but I know it’s there, always.”

You nod, understanding all too well. The weight of loss is something that never truly goes away; it just becomes a part of you.

“I see a lot of his father in him,” Pascale continues, her voice wistful. “That determination, that drive to be the best. But it’s more than that. He’s got a good heart, my Charles. He cares deeply, even if he doesn’t always show it.”

You smile, thinking of the way Charles has been with you — patient, understanding, always knowing just what to say to make you feel better. “He does,” you agree. “He’s ... he’s been more than I could have ever asked for.”

Pascale’s gaze softens, and for a moment, she just looks at you, as if she’s seeing something she’s been hoping to find. “I’m glad he has you,” she says finally. “I think you’re good for each other.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that, so you just nod, feeling a strange mix of emotions swirling inside you. It’s too soon to think about what all of this means, but there’s a part of you that can’t help but wonder where this is going — what it could become.

Before you can dwell on it too much, Charles returns, his usual easygoing demeanor back in place. “Everything okay?” He asks, glancing between you and Pascale.

“Perfect,” Pascale replies with a smile, but there’s something in her eyes that makes you think she knows more than she’s letting on.

The rest of the evening passes in a comfortable blur, with more stories and laughter, and by the time you’re getting ready to leave, you feel like you’ve known Pascale for much longer than just a few hours.

As you’re putting on your coat, Pascale pulls Charles aside, and you see her lean in close, whispering something to him. He nods, his expression serious, and when he glances back at you, there’s something unreadable in his eyes.

“What did she say?” You ask when you’re finally alone with Charles, walking back to the car.

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just that she likes you,” he says simply. “A lot.”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest at his words, but there’s also a flicker of something else — something that feels a lot like hope.

“She’s wonderful,” you say honestly. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Charles stops walking, turning to face you. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says softly. “I’m just glad you came.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You’re an incredible person, you know that?”

You blink, taken aback by the intensity in his gaze. “I’m just trying to get by,” you admit quietly.

He nods, his hand lingering on your cheek for just a moment longer. “Aren’t we all?”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you just give him a small smile, hoping he understands.

You reach the car, and Charles opens the door for you, his hand resting lightly on your back as you slide inside. There’s something different in the air between you, something unspoken but undeniably there, and as you drive away from Pascale’s apartment, you can’t help but wonder what it all means.

What you do know, though, is that you’re not alone anymore — not really. Charles is here, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

***

The drive from Pascale’s apartment to Charles’ place is filled with comfortable silence, punctuated by the occasional hum of the engine and the soft tunes playing on the car’s stereo. You find yourself stealing glances at Charles every now and then, noticing how relaxed he seems, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, the other is lightly to the rhythm of the music. His calmness was contagious, and you lean back in your seat, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

When the car finally pulls into an underground parking garage, Charles cuts the engine and turns to you with a soft smile. “Ready to meet Leo?” He asks, his tone almost teasing.

“Leo?” You echo, raising an eyebrow.

“My dog,” Charles clarifies, his smile growing. “He’s ... enthusiastic, to say the least.”

You laugh lightly. “I think I can handle enthusiastic.”

Charles leads you to the elevator, and a few moments later, you are stepping into a sleek, modern apartment. It is tastefully decorated, with large windows that offer a stunning view of the city. Before you could take in all the details, a high-pitched bark echoes through the space, and a small beige dachshund comes skidding around the corner, his tiny legs moving at lightning speed as he raced toward Charles.

“Leo!” Charles greets the dog with a wide grin, crouching down to scoop him up. The dachshund wiggles excitedly in his arms, his tail wagging furiously. “This is Y/N,” Charles introduces, turning Leo’s attention to you. “Be nice.”

You kneel down, and Leo wasted no time leaping from Charles’ arms to yours, showering your face with a flurry of enthusiastic licks. You can’t help but laugh as you try to fend off the affectionate assault, gently rubbing the little dog’s back.

“He’s adorable,” you say, looking up at Charles with a wide smile. But when your eyes meet his, you noticed the way he was watching you — softly, intently, as if seeing you in a new light. It was the kind of look you hadn’t seen since ... since James. The thought hits you with a sudden pang, but there is no sadness in it. Just a quiet, tender acknowledgment of the past and the present.

Charles seems to catch himself, clearing his throat as he straightens up. “I’m glad you like him,” he says, his voice a touch quieter now. “He’s been good company.”

You stand, Leo still wriggling happily in your arms. “I can see why.”

Charles smiles again, that same gentle warmth in his eyes. “Come on, let me show you to your room. I had one of the guest rooms made up for you.”

You follow him down a short hallway, the soft pads of Leo’s paws following close behind. Charles pushes open a door, revealing a cozy, well-appointed room with a large bed, a dresser, and a window that looks out over the city skyline. Your bags are neatly placed at the foot of the bed.

“I hope it’s comfortable enough,” Charles says, glancing around the room as if assessing it himself.

“It’s perfect,” you assure him, setting Leo down on the floor. The little dog immediately hops onto the bed, circling a few times before settling into a comfortable spot.

Charles chuckles. “Looks like you’ve already got company.”

You smile, sitting on the edge of the bed and giving Leo another affectionate pat. “He’s a good boy.”

There’s a pause, comfortable and full of unspoken things. Charles lingers by the door, as if he wants to say something but is weighing his words.

“If you need anything,” he finally says, “my room’s just down the hall. Don’t hesitate to knock.”

You nod, appreciating the offer more than you could put into words. “Thank you, Charles. For everything.”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, it seems like he might say something more. But instead, he simply nods, giving you a small, almost bashful smile before stepping back into the hallway.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, his voice warm and sincere.

“Goodnight, Charles.”

As the door closes behind him, you’re left alone in the quiet room, Leo’s soft breathing the only sound. You sit there for a moment, letting everything that had happened over the past few days wash over you. The unexpected kindness of a stranger who is becoming so much more, the gentle way he helped you navigate the grief that still lingered like a shadow ... and the way he looked at you, as if he saw something in you that you’d almost forgotten was there.

With a deep breath, you lie back on the bed, Leo curling up beside you. The city lights twinkle through the window, casting a soft glow across the room. You stare up at the ceiling, feeling a sense of peace that had eluded you for so long. Maybe, just maybe, you are beginning to heal.

And as you drift off to sleep, you find yourself thinking of the days to come, and the possibility of something new and beautiful growing from the ashes of what you’d lost.

***

The next morning, Charles is practically buzzing with excitement as he leads you out of his apartment and towards the harbor. His hand is warm and sure around yours, and you can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

The sky is a brilliant shade of blue, the kind of color that seems to only exist in this part of the world, with the sun glinting off the water and the scent of salt in the air. The harbor is alive with activity, the gentle hum of boats rocking in the marina, the occasional laughter of tourists, and the distant sounds of a city going about its day.

“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” Charles says, his voice light and cheerful. “It’s a bit of a hidden gem. The tourists don’t usually find it, but the locals love it.”

You laugh softly, looking up at him as you walk side by side. “Sounds perfect. I’m always up for good food.”

Charles grins at that, his eyes twinkling with a boyish charm. “Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”

The walk is leisurely, and as you near the harbor, you notice how Charles slows his pace, as if wanting to savor every moment. The way he talks about Monaco, you can tell how much he loves it here, how much this place means to him. It’s like seeing the city through his eyes, and you find yourself appreciating the little details more — the old stone buildings, the narrow streets, the way the sunlight reflects off the water.

The brunch spot is tucked away, a small, unassuming place with a few tables outside, shaded by a striped awning. The smell of fresh coffee and baked goods wafts through the air, and you immediately feel at home. Charles greets the owner like an old friend, exchanging a few words in rapid French before leading you to a cozy table by the window.

You sit down, and Charles orders for the both of you — pastries, fresh fruit, eggs cooked just the way you like them, and, of course, coffee.

As you sip your coffee and nibble on a flaky croissant, you take in the surroundings. The café is quaint and charming, with wooden tables and mismatched chairs, the kind of place where you could easily spend hours just watching the world go by. It’s clear that Charles has a deep connection to this place, and you feel honored that he’s sharing it with you.

“This place,” you say, setting your coffee cup down, “it’s perfect.”

Charles smiles softly, his gaze lingering on your face. “I knew you’d like it.”

For a while, the two of you talk about everything and nothing — his childhood in Monaco, your favorite books, the little things that make life sweet. There’s a comfort in the conversation, a sense of ease that comes from being with someone who understands you, who doesn’t need you to be anything other than yourself.

After brunch, Charles suggests a walk along the harbor. The day is warm, the sun high in the sky, and as you walk, you can feel the tension of the past few days begin to melt away. The conversation flows easily, laughter coming more often than not, and you realize how much you’ve missed this — missed feeling alive, missed the simple pleasure of being in the moment.

But as the afternoon wears on, the sky begins to darken. You glance up, noticing the heavy clouds gathering overhead, and before you can say anything, the first raindrop falls.

Charles looks up at the sky, a grin spreading across his face. “Looks like we’re in for a bit of rain.”

You laugh, holding out your hand as the raindrops begin to fall faster, harder. “A bit? This looks like a full-on storm.”

The rain comes quickly, turning from a light drizzle to a steady downpour in a matter of moments. The tourists around you scatter, seeking shelter under awnings and in shops, but Charles doesn’t move. Instead, he looks at you, his expression playful, his eyes daring.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand again, this time with more urgency. “Let’s do something crazy.”

You’re about to ask what he means, but then you see the look in his eyes, and you know. You know exactly what he’s thinking.

Without another word, he pulls you into the open, right into the middle of the empty street. The rain is cold against your skin, soaking through your clothes in seconds, but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything in this moment except the feeling of the rain on your face, the sound of Charles’ laughter, the way he spins you around like you’re in the middle of some grand ballroom instead of a rain-soaked street.

You let go. You let go of all the sadness, all the pain, all the fear. You let go and dance, not caring if you look silly, not caring if anyone is watching. It’s just you and Charles and the rain.

For the first time in a long time, you feel free.

And then, without even thinking, you lean in, and Charles is there, meeting you halfway. His lips are warm and soft against yours, a stark contrast to the cold rain, and you can feel the gentle pressure of his hands on your waist, holding you close, grounding you in this moment.

The kiss is slow, tender, as if Charles is trying to convey everything he’s feeling without saying a word. There’s a sense of rightness in it, like this is where you’re supposed to be, like this is what you’ve been missing.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, the rain still pouring down around you, but neither of you seems to care. You look up at Charles, his hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down his face, and you can’t help but smile.

“I’ve never danced in the rain before,” you say, your voice barely audible over the sound of the downpour.

Charles grins, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “Neither have I. But I’m glad my first time was with you.”

You laugh softly, leaning your forehead against his. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

He chuckles, his arms tightening around you. “Maybe a little. But sometimes the best things in life are a little crazy.”

You close your eyes, letting the moment wash over you, feeling the weight of the past few weeks slowly lifting off your shoulders. For the first time since you lost James, you feel like you’re truly living again. And it’s because of Charles.

The rain shows no signs of stopping, but you don’t care. You could stand here forever, in this moment, with Charles’s arms around you and the rain falling like a blessing from the sky.

But eventually, the cold starts to seep into your bones, and Charles pulls back, his hands still on your waist, his eyes searching yours.

“Let’s get out of the rain,” he says softly. “We don’t want to catch a cold.”

You nod, reluctantly stepping out of his embrace, and together you make your way back towards the apartment, the rain still falling around you, but your heart feeling lighter than it has in months.

As you walk, Charles slips his hand into yours again, and you glance over at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. You’re not sure what’s happening between you and Charles, but for the first time, you’re not afraid of it. You’re not afraid to see where this might go.

When you reach the apartment, you’re both soaked to the bone, your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin, but you’re laughing, unable to stop the joy bubbling up inside you.

Charles unlocks the door and ushers you inside, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I think we might need to dry off a bit.”

You laugh, nodding in agreement as you look around the familiar space. Leo is waiting by the door, his tail wagging furiously as he barks excitedly, clearly not pleased that you both got caught in the rain without him.

Charles crouches down, rubbing Leo behind the ears. “Hey, baby. We didn’t mean to leave you out of the fun.”

Leo licks Charles’s face enthusiastically before trotting over to you, looking up with big, expectant eyes. You can’t help but smile as you reach down to pet him, feeling a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the rain.

Charles stands, his eyes soft as he watches you with Leo. “Let’s get you some dry clothes,” he says gently, leading you down the hall.

You follow him, feeling a sense of peace settle over you. There’s something about being here, with Charles, that feels right. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And as Charles hands you a towel and one of his oversized shirts, you realize that maybe you’re finally ready to start letting go of the past and embracing whatever the future holds. With Charles by your side, it feels like anything is possible.

As you dry off and change into the warm, comfortable clothes Charles gave you, you can’t help but smile at the thought. Maybe this isn’t just about ticking off items on a bucket list. Maybe it’s about finding yourself again. And maybe, just maybe, it’s about finding something more.

***

You fall asleep that night, still feeling the warmth of Charles’ arms wrapped around you as he whispered a soft goodnight. His gentle kiss, tentative yet filled with an unspoken promise, lingers on your lips even as you drift into slumber.

But in your dreams, the world shifts.

You find yourself standing in a place both familiar and strange — a field of golden wheat, the sun setting in the distance, casting a warm, orange glow across the horizon. The sky is endless, blending into shades of pink and purple, as if the heavens themselves were painted with the softest brushstrokes.

And there he is. James.

He’s standing a few feet away, his back to you, hands in his pockets, the way he always used to stand when he was deep in thought. The wind rustles the wheat around him, and for a moment, you just watch him, your heart aching with the longing that never really goes away.

“James ...” Your voice is soft, trembling, almost afraid that speaking his name will shatter the dream.

He turns slowly, his familiar smile, that same one that used to make you feel like everything would be okay, spreads across his face. He’s exactly as you remember him — tousled brown hair, slightly crooked nose from that time he tried to impress you by skiing down a slope far too steep, and those eyes, those deep, warm eyes that always seemed to understand you better than you understood yourself.

“Hey, you,” he says, his voice carrying the same teasing lilt that always made you laugh, no matter how bad your day had been.

You move towards him, your feet sinking into the soft earth, but it feels as though the distance between you never changes. The closer you try to get, the farther he seems. “I miss you,” you say, and your voice cracks under the weight of the words. “I miss you so much, Jamie.”

“I know,” he says, and his voice is soft, understanding. “I miss you too, but I’m here now.”

You finally reach him, your fingers itching to touch him, to feel his warmth, but there’s a hesitance within you, a fear that touching him will break the fragile illusion. “I’m scared,” you confess, the tears that have been gathering in your eyes finally spilling over. “I’m scared of moving on, of letting go … of forgetting you.”

James takes a step closer, and suddenly, he’s right in front of you. You can feel his warmth now, the comforting presence that had always been your anchor. He lifts a hand, wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb, just like he used to.

“You won’t forget me,” he says gently, his voice a soothing balm to your wounded heart. “You carry me with you, always. I’m a part of you, just like you’re a part of me.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, memorizing the feel of him, the sound of his voice. “But it feels like I’m betraying you … with Charles.”

James chuckles softly, a sound that vibrates through you, filling you with a warmth that you hadn’t felt in so long. “Charles Leclerc, huh?” He steps back slightly, enough to meet your gaze fully. “Never knew you had a thing for fast cars and dangerous men.”

You can’t help but smile through your tears. “He’s … different. He’s kind, and patient, and he makes me feel … alive again.”

“That’s good, Y/N,” James says, his tone earnest, as if he’s trying to make you understand something crucial. “That’s what I want for you. I don’t want you to be stuck in the past, living with a ghost. I want you to live, to be happy, to love again.”

“But you-”

“I’ll always be with you,” he interrupts gently. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here,” he says, pressing a hand over your heart. “But you need to let yourself be happy. You need to let yourself find love, even if it’s not with me.”

A sob escapes your lips, and you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to stifle the sound, but James pulls you into his arms, holding you close. “It’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s okay to love someone else. I want you to. You deserve that.”

You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the scent that’s so uniquely him — earthy and warm, like freshly cut grass on a summer’s day. “I don’t know if I can,” you whisper. “It feels like losing you all over again.”

“You’re not losing me,” he reassures, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “You’re gaining something beautiful. And if you’re worried about my approval ...” He grins, that mischievous glint in his eye that you always loved. “I mean, he’s no Max Verstappen, but Charles Leclerc? I guess he’s almost good enough for you.”

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, even as tears continue to fall. It’s absurd, really, this moment, this conversation, but it’s exactly what you needed.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” you murmur, shaking your head with a small smile.

James shrugs, a carefree gesture that was so him. “What can I say? I always had a soft spot for Max. But Charles … he’s got potential. Just … give him a chance, okay? For me?”

You nod, even though the idea terrifies you. “I’ll try,” you whisper. “For you.”

James smiles, a sad, but proud smile, and he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, the same way he used to when he wanted to comfort you without words. “That’s all I ask. And Y/N ... don’t wait too long, okay? Life is too short for that.”

“I won’t,” you promise, even though your heart is heavy with the thought of truly moving on.

James takes a step back, his form beginning to fade into the golden light of the sunset. “I love you, Y/N. I always will. But it’s time for you to live again.”

“Goodbye, Jamie,” you say, your voice trembling as he becomes more and more ethereal, like a shadow dissolving in the light. “I love you.”

He smiles one last time, his figure almost completely faded now. “And I love you. Always.”

The dream fades, and you’re left standing in that field of golden wheat alone, the sun sinking below the horizon, casting the world into twilight. But there’s a peace in your heart that you haven’t felt in a long time, a quiet acceptance that maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to start letting go.

When you wake, your cheeks are damp with tears, but there’s a soft smile on your lips. You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, replaying the dream in your mind, feeling the weight of James’ words settle in your heart.

You know what he said is true. You know it’s what he would want. And you know, deep down, that it’s time to start allowing yourself to heal, to open up, and to let someone else in.

And as you think of Charles, of his patience, his kindness, his quiet understanding, you can’t help but feel a tiny spark of hope flickering in your chest — a hope that maybe, just maybe, you can find love again.

***

The morning light filtered through the curtains of Charles’ dining room, casting a soft, golden hue over the room. You sit at the table, trying to focus on the breakfast in front of you — a selection of pastries, fresh fruit, and coffee that Charles had lovingly laid out. Yet, the thoughts swirling in your mind make it hard to concentrate. Charles sits across from you, his eyes occasionally flicking up to meet yours, a small, contented smile playing on his lips.

The memories of the past few days are almost surreal: the unexpected road trip, the rain-soaked dance that ended with your first kiss, and the way Charles held you afterward, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. It’s been a whirlwind, but a beautiful one. And yet, as you take a sip of coffee, reality nudges its way back into your thoughts.

“I ... I should probably head back home soon,” you say, your voice hesitant, as if saying the words might make them less real. “I need to get back to work.”

The air in the room shifts. Charles’ smile fades just a little, replaced by a look of understanding, tinged with something you can’t quite place. Sadness? Disappointment? He sets down his coffee cup, his fingers playing with the handle as if it could offer him some guidance on what to say next.

“Of course,” he replies, his tone gentle, though you can hear the effort it takes to keep it light. “You have responsibilities, a life back home ...”

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches a moment into something heavier, more significant. The silence is thick, filled with the unspoken truth that neither of you wants to confront: this bubble of time you’ve been living in, where only the two of you exist, is about to burst.

“I like you,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out faster than you can stop them. They hang in the air, raw and vulnerable.

Charles looks up, his eyes locking onto yours. “I like you too,” he says, his voice low, steady, and filled with something that makes your heart skip a beat.

You both sit there for a moment, staring at each other, the weight of your mutual confession settling between you like a third presence at the table. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“I want to see where this goes,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly as you try to gather your thoughts. “But I don’t know how ... I mean, you’re always traveling for the races, and I-”

“Come with me,” Charles interrupts, his voice firm, almost urgent. “To the next race. And the one after that. I don’t want this to be just a beautiful memory. I want you there with me, every step of the way.”

His words hit you like a wave, washing over the fears and doubts that had been quietly gnawing at the back of your mind. The idea of uprooting your life, of stepping into his world, is daunting — but the thought of not being with him is even more unbearable.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts. “Are you sure?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to get in the way, or make things complicated.”

Charles leans forward, his hand reaching out to cover yours. His touch is warm, grounding. “You wouldn’t be in the way. I want this. I want you. And if it gets complicated, then we’ll figure it out together.”

The sincerity in his eyes is almost overwhelming. You’ve spent so long guarding your heart, protecting yourself from the pain of losing someone again, that the idea of opening up to love, to Charles, feels both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Two and a half weeks,” he continues, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s when the next race is. Come with me. We’ll have more time to figure this out, whatever this is.”

You nod slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Okay,” you say, your voice firming up with the decision. “I’ll come with you.”

A bright, relieved smile breaks across Charles’ face, and in that moment, you know you’ve made the right choice. Whatever happens, you’ll face it together. The thought is both comforting and thrilling.

Charles stands up, pulling you gently to your feet. “I think we should seal this decision properly,” he says, his tone light, teasing.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep the mood from becoming too serious. “And how do you propose we do that?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he steps closer, his hands coming to rest on your hips as he leans in, capturing your lips with his in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s different from the kiss you shared in the rain — this one is slower, more deliberate, filled with the promise of everything that could be. You melt into him, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders as you kiss him back, letting yourself get lost in the moment.

When you finally pull away, breathless and a little dizzy, Charles rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a contented smile on his lips. “I’m really glad you’re coming with me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of emotion.

“So am I,” you whisper back, your heart swelling with a mixture of hope and anticipation.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. And as you stand there in Charles’ arms, the future doesn’t seem so scary anymore. In fact, it looks pretty damn wonderful.

***

18 Months Later

The cemetery is quiet, a solemn stillness that wraps around you and Charles as you walk down the winding path lined with weathered tombstones and ancient trees. The sky above is a muted gray, the kind that seems to reflect the heavy emotions you’ve been carrying with you.

Your hand is tightly clasped in Charles’, his grip firm and reassuring, but you can feel the slight tremor in his fingers. He’s nervous, though he tries to hide it behind a small, gentle smile.

You haven’t been here since the funeral, since that awful day when you laid James to rest. The thought of returning to this place has always felt too overwhelming, like reopening a wound that never fully healed. But now, over a year and a half later, you’re here again, and this time, you’re not alone.

You lead Charles to the spot where James is buried. It’s a modest grave, marked by a simple headstone that bears his name, his dates, and a short inscription that never fails to bring tears to your eyes: Beloved husband, healer of hearts, taken too soon.

Charles lets go of your hand as you kneel in front of the grave, gently brushing away the few leaves that have settled on the stone. You trace James’ name with your fingers, the cold granite grounding you in a way that words never could. Charles stands a few steps behind you, giving you space, but his presence is a comforting anchor in this sea of grief.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, silent and lost in memories, before you finally speak. “Hi, James,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come back. I-I brought someone with me. I think you’d like him.” You swallow the lump in your throat, tears slipping down your cheeks. “His name is Charles. He’s ... he’s very special to me. You’d probably think he’s not good enough for me, but you were always a little biased.”

A small, bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you glance back at Charles, who’s watching you with a mixture of love and concern. “Would you ... would you mind giving us a moment?” Charles asks softly, stepping forward. “I — I’d like to talk to James, if that’s okay.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the request, but the earnestness in his eyes makes you nod. “Of course,” you murmur, rising to your feet. You lean in to kiss Charles on the cheek, squeezing his hand one last time before stepping away, giving him the privacy he’s asked for.

Charles waits until you’ve moved a respectful distance away, then turns his attention to the grave. He takes a deep breath, crouching down so he’s at eye level with the headstone. He feels awkward, talking to a man he’s never met, a man who was such a huge part of your life. But he knows this is important, that he needs to do this — for you, for James, and for himself.

“Hi, James,” Charles starts, his voice low and unsure. “I-I hope you don’t mind me talking to you like this. I’ve heard so much about you, and I know how much you mean to her.” He pauses, running a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for loving her the way you did, for making her so happy. She deserves that, you know? She deserves all the happiness in the world.”

Charles’ throat tightens, and he has to blink back the tears threatening to spill over. He hadn’t expected this to be so hard, hadn’t expected to feel this intense connection to a man he never knew. “I’m ... I’m going to propose to her,” he finally says, his voice shaking. “And I wanted to ask for your permission, if that’s okay. I know I can’t replace you, and I wouldn’t want to. You’ll always be a part of her, and I’ll never try to take that away.”

He swallows hard, his heart pounding in his chest. “But I love her, James. I love her so much, and I promise I’ll take care of her. I’ll do everything I can to make her happy, to make sure she feels loved every single day. I know she still loves you, and I’m okay with that. There’s more than enough room in her heart for both of us.”

Charles reaches out, placing a hand on the cool stone of the headstone, as if trying to make a connection with the man resting beneath it. “We’ve been talking about her moving to Monaco with me soon,” he continues, his voice steadying. “And I promise you, she’ll have free reign of my private jet to visit you whenever she wants. I’ll make sure she never feels like she has to choose between us.”

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “I hope that’s okay with you, James. I hope ... I hope you’re at peace, wherever you are. And I hope you know that I’m going to love her with everything I have. I’ll do my best to make her as happy as you did. Thank you for that.”

Charles stays there for a moment longer, his hand still resting on the gravestone, before he finally stands. He wipes at his eyes, surprised to find them wet with tears, and glances over at you. You’re watching him, a mix of curiosity and love in your gaze, and he gives you a small, reassuring smile.

You walk back over to him, slipping your hand into his, and he squeezes it gently. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I ... I don’t know what you said, but thank you.”

Charles just nods, pulling you into a hug, holding you close as you both stand there in the quiet cemetery, the weight of your shared love and loss settling around you. It’s not an easy moment, but it’s one that feels right, like a necessary step forward in the journey you’ve been on together.

As you stand there in Charles’ arms, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. You know that James would have approved, that he would have wanted you to find happiness again, to find love again. And now, with Charles by your side, you finally feel like you can do that.

Eventually, you both turn to leave, hand in hand, walking back down the path toward the cemetery gates. As you reach the car, you glance back one last time at James’ grave, a soft smile on your lips. “Goodbye, Jamie,” you whisper. “Thank you for everything. I love you.”

Charles opens the car door for you, and as you slide into the passenger seat, you feel a sense of closure, of new beginnings. It’s not about moving on, you realize, but about moving forward — carrying the love you’ve known with you into whatever comes next.

And as Charles drives away from the cemetery, his hand resting on your thigh, you know that whatever comes next, you won’t be facing it alone.

***

The reception hall is filled with soft, warm light, the kind that makes everyone look beautiful and the world seem perfect for just a moment. The clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter create a background hum that feels almost comforting in its familiarity.

You stand at the edge of the room, looking out at the faces of friends and family, people who have watched you navigate the hardest years of your life and who are now here to celebrate this new chapter.

Charles is beside you, his hand resting gently on the small of your back, a touch so natural that it feels like it's always been there. When he smiles at you, there's a quiet understanding in his eyes, a love that has grown deep and steady, rooted in the soil of shared grief and the careful, tentative steps toward healing.

You know he can feel your nervousness — he’s always been able to read you so well — but there’s no rush, no pressure. Just his presence, anchoring you as you take a deep breath and step forward to the microphone.

The room gradually quiets as people realize you’re about to speak. The lump in your throat feels almost too big to swallow, and for a moment, you think you might not be able to get the words out. But then you feel Charles’ hand squeeze yours, a silent encouragement that you can do this, and suddenly, it’s easier to find your voice.

“Thank you,” you begin, and your voice wavers a little, but it’s steady enough. “Thank you all for being here today. I know that every bride says this, but it really does mean the world to us that you’re here to share this day with us.”

You glance at Charles, who is watching you with that same soft look he had when you first met Leo. His eyes are full of pride and love, and it gives you the strength to continue.

“Most of you know that today isn’t just about celebrating the love that Charles and I share, but it’s also about honoring the past that brought us here,” you say, and you can see some people nodding, their smiles tinged with understanding. “A few years ago, I lost my husband, James. He was an incredible man — kind, compassionate, and so full of life. And when he passed, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move on, let alone find love again.”

Your voice catches, and you have to pause to take another breath. The room is silent now, everyone hanging on your words.

“James left me a letter,” you say, and there’s a faint murmur as people who don’t know the story lean in, intrigued. “In that letter, he left me a bucket list of things he wanted me to experience, things he wished we could have done together but that he wanted me to do in his memory.”

You reach into your pocket and pull out the now well-worn piece of paper, carefully unfolding it as you speak. “The last item on that list was to find love again.”

A few people gasp quietly, and you can see some wiping their eyes, moved by the weight of those words. You feel your own tears threatening to fall, but you blink them back, determined to finish what you’ve started.

“For a long time, I didn’t think I could,” you admit, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t think it was possible to let someone else into my heart after losing James. But then, I met Charles.”

You turn to look at him, and he smiles at you, a smile that is both gentle and reassuring. “Charles showed me that it’s okay to love again, that my heart is big enough to hold all the memories I have of James while still making room for new ones with him. He’s been patient, understanding, and so, so kind. And I know that James would have loved him just as much as I do.”

Charles’ eyes glisten with unshed tears, and when he squeezes your hand again, it’s not just to comfort you — it’s a shared moment of recognition, of understanding that this journey has been just as profound for him as it has been for you.

“I know that some people say you can only have one great love in a lifetime,” you continue, your voice growing steadier with each word. “But I think I’ve been incredibly lucky, because I’ve had two.”

The room is filled with the sound of sniffles and soft murmurs of agreement. You can see your family, who has been there through it all, nodding and smiling through their tears.

“So today, as we celebrate this new beginning, I want to take a moment to honor the man who brought us here. James, wherever you are, thank you. Thank you for loving me enough to let me go, for knowing that I needed to find happiness again. I know you’re here with us, in spirit, and I hope you’re proud.”

You pause, your heart heavy but full. “And to Charles, my Charlie … thank you for being brave enough to love me, even when it wasn’t easy. Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to hold on to the past while embracing the future. I promise to love you with all of my heart, forever and always.”

The room is silent for a long moment after you finish speaking, and then the applause begins — soft at first, then growing louder as people rise to their feet, clapping not just for you and Charles, but for the love that has brought you both here, and for the man who made it all possible.

Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, pressing a kiss to your temple as the applause swells around you. “I love you,” he whispers, and you can hear the emotion in his voice. “Thank you for sharing that with everyone. It was perfect.”

“I love you too,” you whisper back, your voice thick with tears. “And thank you, Charlie. For everything.”

The rest of the night is a blur of laughter, dancing, and celebration. But the memory of your speech, of standing up in front of everyone and sharing your heart so openly, will stay with you forever. And as you and Charles step onto the dance floor for your first dance as husband and wife, you feel a sense of peace, knowing that James is watching over you both, smiling as you take this next step forward together.

The music begins to play, a soft, romantic melody that wraps around you like a warm embrace. Charles pulls you closer, his arms around your waist as you sway together, and for the first time in a long time, you feel complete. It’s not that the pain of losing James has disappeared — it never will — but it has softened, and in its place, there is a new kind of love, one that is just as strong, just as true.

As you dance, you rest your head against Charles’ chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The guests fade into the background, and it’s just the two of you, moving together in perfect harmony. You know that this moment, this dance, is the beginning of a new chapter, one that you never imagined you would have, but one that you are so grateful for.

When the song ends, Charles lifts your chin with his finger, his eyes searching yours. “You okay?” He asks softly, his voice filled with concern.

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Instead, you press your lips to his in a tender kiss, one that says everything you can’t put into words. Charles holds you close, and as you pull back, you see the tears in his eyes, a mirror of your own.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and Charles smiles, his thumb brushing away the tear that slips down your cheek.

“No, thank you,” he says, his voice full of love and admiration. “For letting me be a part of this, for trusting me with your heart. I promise, I’ll take care of it.”

And as you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you know that you’ve found what James wanted for you all along — someone who will love you just as deeply, just as fiercely, as he did. Someone who will walk with you through the good times and the bad, who will hold your hand and guide you through the darkest days, and who will celebrate the bright ones with joy and laughter.

You’ve found love again, just like James wanted, and it feels like coming home.

***

You park the car under the shade of a sprawling oak tree, the leaves rustling softly in the breeze. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you step out, Charles following behind, holding Jacques in his arms.

The baby is cooing, tiny hands grabbing at Charles’ shirt as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. You pause for a moment, breathing in the cool air, trying to gather the courage to walk towards the familiar grave that you’ve avoided for so long.

Charles adjusts Jacques in his arms, the baby’s chubby legs kicking slightly as he looks around, taking in the new surroundings with wide eyes. You glance at Charles, and he gives you a small, encouraging nod. But this time, there’s no pressure. He’s letting you take the lead, letting you go at your own pace.

The last time you were here, you and Charles had just gotten engaged. The memory of Charles standing by James’ grave, asking for his blessing, is still vivid in your mind. And now, two years later, everything has changed. You’re married to Charles, and you have a beautiful baby boy. But standing here, in front of the man you once loved with all your heart, the weight of everything comes crashing down.

You take a deep breath and start walking towards the grave. The headstone is simple, elegant, just the way James would have wanted it. Fresh flowers have been placed there recently — probably by James’ parents, who visit regularly. A pang of guilt twists in your chest. You should have come sooner.

When you reach the grave, you kneel down, brushing your fingers lightly over the engraved letters of his name. The silence is thick, filled with everything you want to say but can’t find the words for. Charles stays a few steps back, giving you space, though you can feel his presence like a warm anchor, grounding you.

“Hi, Jamie,” you finally whisper, your voice trembling. “It’s ... it’s been a while, I know. I’m sorry for not visiting sooner.”

The words catch in your throat, and you have to pause, blinking back tears. You thought you were prepared for this, but being here, with so much time having passed, it’s harder than you imagined.

“I wanted to come sooner, but ... everything just got so overwhelming,” you continue, your voice breaking. “I’ve missed you so much. And I know you’re watching over us, but I needed to feel like I could do this ... like I could come back here and tell you everything.”

You glance back at Charles, who is now sitting on the grass with Jacques in his lap. The baby is looking up at the sky, oblivious to the somber mood, a tiny smile playing on his lips. When you turn back to the grave, the tears you've been holding back finally spill over.

“I want you to meet someone,” you say softly. You reach back, signaling Charles to bring Jacques over. Charles carefully lifts Jacques, walking over to you, and gently hands him to you. The baby gurgles, his small hand wrapping around your finger instinctively. You hold Jacques close, your tears falling onto his soft hair.

“This is Jacques,” you whisper, looking down at your son. “He’s named after you and Jules. Charles and I wanted to honor you both in some way.”

The name had been something you and Charles had discussed at length. When you found out you were pregnant, there was no hesitation in your minds who you wanted to name your son after. It felt like the right thing to do, like a way to keep a part of James alive in your new life.

“He’s ... he’s so beautiful, James,” you continue, your voice trembling with emotion. “I wish you were here to see him grow up. To be a part of his life. But I promise, I’ll tell him all about you. About how amazing you were, and how much you loved helping others. He’ll know his name carries a legacy.”

Jacques wiggles in your arms, and you press a soft kiss to his forehead. The tears continue to fall, but now they’re mixed with a sense of bittersweet acceptance. You look up at the sky, the clouds shifting lazily, and you wonder if James is watching, if he’s smiling down at you.

You glance at Charles, who is watching you with those soft eyes that seem to hold all the love in the world. He’s been so patient, so understanding, and in this moment, you realize how incredibly lucky you are to have found love again. It’s not something you ever thought would be possible, but here you are, standing between the past and the future, with a heart big enough to hold them both.

“Charles has been amazing,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’d like him, James. He’s so kind, and he understands ... he understands everything I’ve been through. He’s been so good to me, and to Jacques. I think you’d be happy to know that we found each other.”

Charles steps closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. The warmth of his body against yours is comforting, a reminder that you’re not alone in this. Jacques babbles, his tiny fingers reaching up to touch Charles’ face, and Charles chuckles softly, nuzzling his nose against Jacques' cheek.

You close your eyes, leaning back into Charles, letting yourself feel the full weight of the moment. The grief, the love, the hope — all of it swirling inside you like a storm that’s finally starting to calm.

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I always will. But I’ve learned that it’s okay to move forward. To let myself be happy again. And I think ... I think you’d want that for me.”

The wind picks up slightly, rustling the leaves in the trees, and for a brief moment, you swear you can feel James’ presence — like a gentle touch on your shoulder, a whisper in your ear, telling you that it’s okay. That he’s at peace, and he wants you to be too.

You turn slightly, pressing a kiss to Charles’ cheek, then look back at the grave, feeling a sense of closure that you didn’t think was possible.

“We’ll be back to visit,” you promise, your voice steadying. “I won’t wait so long next time. And Jacques will grow up knowing who you were, what you meant to us. He’ll know his name is special.”

Charles squeezes your hand, and you nod, letting him know you’re ready to go. You stand, brushing off your pants, and take one last look at James’ grave. The flowers sway gently in the breeze, and you feel a strange sense of peace settle over you. It’s not goodbye — it’s more of a “see you later.”

As you walk back to the car, Charles keeps his arm around your waist, holding you close. Jacques is still babbling happily, completely unaware of the emotional weight of the visit. But that’s okay — he’ll understand when he’s older. For now, you’re just grateful to have this moment, to feel like you’re honoring both the past and the future.

When you reach the car, you carefully buckle Jacques into his car seat, making sure he’s secure before you get in. Charles closes the door behind you, and as he starts the engine, you glance back at the grave, giving a small nod as if to say, “Thank you.”

As the car pulls away, you lean your head against the window, watching the trees blur past. Charles reaches over, taking your hand in his, and you smile softly, squeezing his hand in return.

It’s a long drive back home, but you don’t mind. You have everything you need right here with you. And as you close your eyes, letting the gentle motion of the car lull you into a peaceful state, you realize that this is what James wanted for you — to find love again, to be happy, to live your life to the fullest.

And you will. For him, for Jacques, for Charles, and for yourself.

2K notes · View notes

amethystarachnid · 2 months ago

Text

BET

⤷ JAMES B. “BUCKY” BARNES

ᯓ★ Pairing: James B. “Bucky” Barnes x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, angst and fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: not requested but taken from MARVEL bingo

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 10k (damn this surprises me too)

ᯓ★ Summary: When Bucky Barnes suddenly starts talking to you you don't think much of it and when he asks you out on a date you couldn't be happier, Bucky truly is everything you could ever want in a man, a man that really loves you...At least that's what you thought until you discovered that it was real all just a bet.

ᯓ★ TW(s): mentions of virginity and virginity loss, small mentions of a smut scene

ᯓ★ AU: college au

ᯓ★ Request: not requested

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests closed)

ᯓ★ Masterlist

ᯓ★ If you are a Charles Xavier fan click on this link!

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language and this isn’t proof read

The music is loud, pulsing through the walls of the frat house as Bucky sits slouched on a couch, one arm draped lazily over the back. The night is already wearing on him, but he knows he’s going to be here until Sam and Steve call it a night, which—based on the collection of red solo cups by their feet—might be a while.

They’re all trading stories from the semester, voices buzzing with that blend of laughter and cheap beer. Sam is in the middle of recounting his latest dare when he nudges Bucky’s arm, catching his attention.

“Bet you couldn’t last a month with someone like her,” Sam says, nodding toward the corner of the room.

Bucky glances up, following Sam’s gaze until he spots you. You’re perched near the bookshelf, alone and fidgeting with your drink as you flip through a book someone left behind. He’s seen you around campus before, usually with your nose buried in a novel or surrounded by a pile of textbooks. There’s something unassuming about you, something quiet and untouchable. His friends know he’s more the type to go for a party girl—someone loud, someone who doesn’t ask too many questions.

“What, the bookworm?” Bucky scoffs, raising an eyebrow. But his friends don’t let up, and soon Steve and Sam are egging him on.

“You’re always chasing the same type,” Steve chimes in. “What are you afraid of, that she’d actually challenge you?”

Bucky laughs, rolling his eyes. He knows he should shut it down, but their teasing digs at him, scratching at that competitive edge that’s always lurking just beneath his smirk.

“All right,” Bucky finally says, shrugging. “I’ll do it. One month.”

His friends exchange knowing grins, slapping him on the back. But as soon as the words leave his mouth, Bucky feels a strange knot settle low in his stomach—a feeling he’s not used to. He brushes it off. It’s just a game, a challenge. It’s not like he’s actually going to care.

The next day, you’re tucked into your usual corner in the library, surrounded by a fortress of books. You barely notice him when he walks up, leaning against the edge of the table with a casual confidence that doesn’t match the usual quiet of the space.

“Mind if I join you?” His voice is smooth, low enough that you almost have to lean in to hear him clearly.

You glance up, surprised to see Bucky Barnes standing there, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You’ve seen him around campus—he’s hard to miss with that leather jacket and effortlessly messy hair, the type of guy who always has someone laughing beside him.

“Sure,” you murmur, unsure of what else to say as you move your books aside, offering him a seat. You’re used to people mostly ignoring you here. It’s your refuge, your sanctuary. So when he sits across from you, stretching out as if he belongs there, it feels jarringly out of place.

“You look like you’re buried in work,” he observes, nodding at the mountain of papers in front of you. “What’s got you so busy?”

You hesitate, but something in his easygoing manner convinces you to answer. “Just…assignments. Trying to keep up with everything.” You give him a small smile, your guard still up but feeling oddly curious.

“What’s your major?” he asks, and the question catches you off guard. Most people don’t bother to ask; they assume or don’t care enough to wonder. He listens as you talk about your studies, nodding, asking small questions. Before you know it, you’re telling him more than you intended, falling into an easy rhythm that surprises you.

It becomes a pattern. Over the next few weeks, he finds reasons to run into you—at the coffee shop, in the library, even in the quad between classes. Each time, he stays a little longer, asks a little more, his eyes holding yours with that subtle intensity he wears so well. At first, you’re wary, cautious of his attention. But Bucky is good, easing his way in like he has all the time in the world, his jokes and questions slowly weaving a thread of trust between you two.

And Bucky? He’s surprised at how much he finds himself drawn to you. Each time you laugh, he catches himself watching, feeling something strange and warm unfurl in his chest. There’s a gentleness in you, a quiet intelligence, that keeps him coming back even as he reminds himself this isn’t supposed to mean anything.

But the longer he spends time with you, the more he feels the weight of what he agreed to, creeping up on him every time he catches your smile, every time you look at him like he’s someone worth knowing.

He tells himself it’s just part of the bet. But deep down, he knows he’s starting to cross a line he never meant to touch.

It’s been a few weeks since Bucky started spending time with you, and against every reminder he gives himself, he’s found himself looking forward to it more than he wants to admit. He tells himself it’s harmless—he’s just getting to know you, just finding ways to pass the time. But he knows he’s lying, especially when he starts finding excuses to see you outside of the library or when he catches himself glancing at his phone, hoping for a text from you.

One night, back at the frat house, he’s lounging with Sam and Steve again, half-listening to their conversation when Sam nudges him.

“So, Barnes. How’s it going with the bookworm?” Sam asks with a knowing smirk. Bucky rolls his eyes, trying to brush it off, but Sam isn’t so easily deterred. “Don’t tell me you’re catching feelings.”

Bucky scoffs, forcing a laugh to keep the truth buried. “It’s going fine. Like I said, a month’s no problem.”

Sam exchanges a glance with Steve, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Let’s make this interesting then. If you really want to win this thing, you’ve got to take it further.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “Further?” He has a bad feeling about where this is going.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Come on, Buck. You’ve been hanging out with her, sure, but we’re talking about actually making her fall for you. Ask her out, and, you know—” He raises an eyebrow meaningfully.

“Sleep with her,” Sam adds bluntly, laughing. “Seal the deal, and there’s two hundred bucks in it for you.”

Bucky hesitates, that uncomfortable knot tightening in his stomach again. He tells himself it’s just a stupid bet. He’s done things like this before—gotten close to people just to prove he could, had plenty of meaningless hookups that never meant a thing. He’s Bucky Barnes, the guy who doesn’t do commitment or complications. But for some reason, picturing it with you makes him feel…off.

“Fine,” he says after a beat, his voice steady, betraying nothing of the uncertainty he’s trying to ignore. “Two hundred bucks. Done.”

The next day, he texts you, his fingers hovering over the keys a little too long before he finally sends, Hey, you free Friday? Let me take you out somewhere nice.

When you see his message, your heart skips a beat. It’s been a while since anyone has asked you on an actual date, and even longer since you’ve felt genuinely excited about someone. Bucky’s been different from the start—warm, attentive, and surprisingly easy to talk to. You’ve caught yourself looking forward to his company, replaying the moments he laughs at one of your jokes or leans in close enough for you to catch a hint of his cologne.

After a second, you type back, Yeah, I’d love to! You add a smiley face, feeling almost giddy as you press send.

The days leading up to Friday drag by, each one marked with bursts of nerves and anticipation. You spend a little more time getting ready than usual, finally deciding on a simple but pretty dress that makes you feel confident. When Bucky picks you up, his usual leather jacket replaced with a dark button-up, you feel a thrill of excitement. He looks genuinely happy to see you, his eyes scanning over you appreciatively as he gives you a lopsided grin.

“You look amazing,” he says, his gaze warm. There’s something softer in his eyes, something that makes you blush.

“Thanks,” you mumble, smiling as you walk beside him. He leads you to a small Italian place tucked away from campus, the kind of cozy, dimly lit restaurant you wouldn’t have expected him to know about. The conversation flows easily between you two, laughter spilling out as you talk about classes, hometowns, and childhood memories.

The night feels magical, almost surreal, and you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s something real here. Every time his hand brushes against yours, a spark shoots up your spine. And when he reaches across the table, fingers lightly grazing your wrist as he laughs at something you said, your heart flutters in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

After dinner, he suggests taking a walk, and soon you’re strolling through the quiet streets, the chill of the night air making you shiver just slightly. Without a word, Bucky slips his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. It feels so natural, like you belong there.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date this nice,” you admit, smiling up at him, your voice soft.

He chuckles, though it sounds slightly strained. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I guess I’ve just never…met anyone like you before.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced with that charming grin. He steps closer, his arm slipping from your shoulders, and you hold your breath as he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

“You’re pretty amazing, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice low.

You feel like the world has stopped, your heart pounding in your chest. This is the moment you’ve been dreaming of, the moment where everything finally falls into place.

But for Bucky, something sharp and painful twists inside him. He can feel the weight of what he’s doing pressing down on him, can see the way your eyes look at him with such unguarded trust, and it’s enough to make his stomach turn. He’s never felt guilty over a stupid bet before, but right now, the idea of hurting you feels unbearable.

“Hey,” he says softly, his hand still on your cheek. “You trust me, right?”

Your eyes widen, and you nod slowly, too caught up in the moment to notice the tension in his gaze. “Yeah,” you whisper, a small smile forming on your lips.

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours as he takes a steadying breath. “Good,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. Because if he’s going to go through with this, he tells himself he has to believe that none of it matters—that he won’t let himself care. But even as he kisses you, his lips soft and warm against yours, he knows he’s lying to himself.

The days after that first date drift into a series of moments that feel surreal, almost like they’re happening to someone else. You find yourself checking your phone at odd times, waiting for his texts, smiling down at your screen whenever his name lights up. Bucky is a part of your routine now, and it feels strange, thrilling even, like there’s this magnetic force that draws you to him despite every bit of caution you try to hold onto.

Every time you’re with him, the outside world fades. He makes you laugh with stories about his friends, leaning in close, his voice warm and low as if he’s sharing some secret just for you. You catch yourself stealing glances when he’s not looking—at the way his jaw clenches when he’s lost in thought or how his eyes soften when he looks at you, a mix of curiosity and something you can’t quite name.

It’s after one of your study sessions at the library that Bucky invites you over to his dorm room for the first time. He tells you he’s got some old movies you’ve probably never seen, and, honestly, he’s right—you’d never pictured Bucky as the type to own black-and-white classics, but that’s exactly what he has, a surprisingly large collection lined up on a low shelf near his TV. He insists you pick one, and soon you’re sitting side by side on his couch, your legs tucked up beneath you, feeling almost shy in the soft glow of the screen.

The movie starts, but his arm stretches along the back of the couch, barely brushing your shoulders. The faintest touch sends electricity through you, but you stay quiet, not wanting to ruin the moment. Then, halfway through the movie, he shifts, glancing at you.

“You can get closer, you know,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with something mischievous yet gentle.

Your heart flutters as you scoot closer, until you’re tucked into his side, his arm draped around you in a way that feels possessive yet comforting. He smells faintly like cedar and something distinctly him, a scent that’s becoming familiar. Before you know it, your head is resting on his shoulder, his hand absently tracing patterns on your arm, and you feel like you could stay there forever.

Time slips by in a collection of small, perfect moments. There are more dates—little coffee shops tucked away from campus, a bookstore where he buys you a copy of a novel you mentioned in passing, a late-night diner where you both end up after laughing so hard that you can’t breathe. You never expected him to be so attentive, so eager to listen to your stories and learn every detail about your life. He even surprises you with your favorite snack on study nights, tossing it to you with a grin before leaning in close to steal a bite for himself.

One evening, after a long day of classes and a surprise text from Bucky inviting you over, you find yourself curled up on his couch once again. This time, he’s stretched out beside you, one arm tucked under his head while the other rests around your shoulders. His fingers brush against your arm absently, and you can’t help but notice how natural this feels. It’s terrifying, too, the way he seems to melt into your life so effortlessly, as if he’s always been there.

You glance up at him, catching him mid-laugh as he recounts an embarrassing story about Sam, who apparently tried to show off on a skateboard and ended up with a sprained ankle.

“You’re terrible,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder, though you’re laughing too.

“Oh, come on. It was hilarious,” he insists, grinning down at you. He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a second, and your laughter fades as something shifts between you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smile. “I just…can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to reply. But then he leans down, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. The kiss deepens slowly, each touch feeling like a promise, and you lose yourself in the warmth of his embrace, forgetting every doubt, every insecurity that ever kept you guarded.

As the weeks pass, you find yourself falling harder than you ever expected. Bucky seems to find every crack in your armor, every scar and hidden fear, and instead of pulling away, he draws closer, listening to your stories and letting you into his own in ways that leave you breathless. He’s there to listen on your tough days, wrapping his arms around you and murmuring words of reassurance. He’s there on your good days, too, laughing with you, pressing kisses to your forehead as if he can’t believe his luck.

One night, you’re back on his couch, cuddled up under a thick blanket as a storm rages outside, the rain tapping against the windows. You’re nestled against him, his arm holding you close, and he’s quiet, his fingers tracing patterns along your shoulder absentmindedly.

“Bucky?” you ask, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Hmm?” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to yours, his eyes soft and warm in the dim light.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “For everything.”

He frowns slightly, shifting so he can look at you fully. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Being with you…it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest, and he kisses you again, slow and soft, like he’s savoring every second. It’s moments like this that make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re finally safe with someone, that this is something real.

But for Bucky, each moment with you is a double-edged sword. He’s never felt this way before—this calm, this…connected. Every time you laugh at one of his jokes or lean against him, trusting and unguarded, he feels that awful twist of guilt, the memory of that stupid bet lurking in the back of his mind.

He’s supposed to ask for more. That’s what Sam and Steve were expecting, weren’t they? They wanted him to win the bet, to seal the deal and prove he could pull this off. But every time he thinks about going further, about pushing this relationship into a place where he can’t turn back, he feels that nagging ache, that quiet, gnawing feeling that he’s crossing a line he can’t uncross.

He knows he needs to tell you. He needs to come clean, but every time he opens his mouth, the words get stuck in his throat. You look at him with those bright, trusting eyes, and he can’t bring himself to shatter the way you see him. So he holds his silence, hoping that somehow, he can bury the truth forever, that maybe you’ll never have to know.

One evening, as you’re lying together on his couch, you let out a contented sigh, resting your head on his chest as his hand traces lazy patterns along your back.

“Bucky?” you whisper, your voice soft.

He glances down at you, his fingers pausing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, then take a steadying breath. “I…I think I’m falling for you.”

The words hang in the air, vulnerable and open, and for a second, his face goes still, his eyes widening just slightly. Then, his expression softens, and he tightens his arms around you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. But as he kisses you, the warmth of his touch hiding the flicker of guilt behind his eyes, a single thought haunts him.

She deserves the truth.

That night, Bucky barely sleeps, lying awake with the knowledge that he’s in far too deep to ever come out of this unscathed. Every soft breath you take beside him reminds him of how much he’s risking by staying silent. He knows he has to tell you, but he’s terrified—terrified that this fragile, beautiful thing you’ve built together will shatter, that you’ll look at him with betrayal instead of trust.

In the morning, he makes a decision. He’ll find a way to tell you, he promises himself, but he wants one more day, one more memory before he risks everything. Just one last perfect day where he can pretend that none of it was ever a lie.

So he takes you out, leading you down to the pier just as the sun begins to set, casting the sky in hues of pink and gold. You laugh, leaning into him, and he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, watching the waves lap against the shore.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice soft. “It is.”

But as he stands there, holding you close, he knows that the beauty of this moment is fleeting, that the truth waiting in his chest is too big to ignore. And tonight, when he finally gathers the courage to tell you, he knows there’s a chance he’ll lose you forever. But for now, he lets himself savor this last quiet moment, memorizing the feeling of you in his arms, the warmth of your laughter as it fills the air.

For now, he holds onto the hope that maybe, somehow, you’ll understand.

The sunset fades, leaving the world painted in muted purples and blues, but neither of you seem ready to break away from each other. Bucky holds you close, feeling the steady rhythm of your breath against his chest as if it’s his own. He knows he should say something—that he needs to say something—but the words seem so impossible now, tangled up in his chest. The truth would ruin this moment, shatter whatever he’s built with you. And so, he tells himself it can wait just a little longer.

As the evening slips into night, Bucky leads you back to his dorm room, his hand intertwined with yours. You can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers wrap around yours as if he never wants to let go. The air feels charged, every touch electric, each shared glance simmering with something that feels fragile and exhilarating. Neither of you says much, as though speaking would break the quiet spell between you.

Once you’re inside, Bucky hesitates. He turns to you, his expression vulnerable, softer than you’ve ever seen it. "You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand.

“I want to,” you say, the words escaping before you can even think. There’s no hesitation in your voice, only a gentle certainty that makes his chest tighten. The way you look at him, so open and trusting, makes his heart ache with a mix of guilt and longing.

Bucky’s eyes search yours, lingering for a moment that stretches into forever. He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before his fingers trail down to your jaw, cradling your face as if you’re something fragile and precious. Slowly, he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s softer than any before. It’s unhurried, tender, as if he’s savoring every second.

The kiss deepens, and you can feel yourself melting into him, your heart pounding so hard you think it might burst. His hands move to your waist, steady and grounding, and he pulls you closer until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the strength of him, the warmth radiating through his clothes, and it makes your head spin.

Before long, you find yourselves tangled together on his bed, the world outside fading into nothingness. Each kiss is deeper than the last, each touch laced with a longing neither of you can deny. There’s a gentleness to Bucky’s movements, a quiet patience as he explores the curve of your shoulder, the softness of your waist, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. He’s slow and careful, constantly looking at you as if to make sure this is what you want.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, his voice rough with barely-contained emotion.

You nod, feeling breathless but certain. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

His eyes darken, filled with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time, his hands skimming over your skin with a reverence that leaves you feeling cherished. You lose track of time, surrendering to the way he makes you feel—safe, wanted, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

When you finally fall back against the bed, your bodies wrapped around each other, you’re exhausted yet filled with a warmth that feels all-encompassing. The reality of what just happened settles in, but instead of feeling nervous, you feel at peace, secure in the quiet intimacy that has grown between you.

Bucky shifts beside you, pulling you closer until your head rests against his chest, his arm draped protectively around your shoulders. The steady thump of his heartbeat lulls you into a peaceful daze, and you feel his fingers trace small circles on your back, soothing and grounding.

You’re both quiet for a long time, the silence comfortable as you bask in each other’s presence. Eventually, though, you feel a need to tell him something you’ve been holding back, something you hadn’t planned on revealing but that feels right to share in this moment.

“Bucky,” you begin softly, lifting your head to look at him. He gazes down at you, his eyes warm and attentive, as if you’re the only thing he sees. “I…I want you to know that this was my first time.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, you’re afraid he’ll pull away, that he’ll think you were too inexperienced or that you should have told him sooner. But he doesn’t flinch or hesitate. His hand moves up to gently cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin.

“Your first?” he echoes, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and something that sounds almost like reverence.

You nod, feeling your cheeks heat as you look down, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah…I wanted it to be with someone who made me feel safe. Someone I trusted.”

Bucky’s chest rises and falls slowly as he takes this in, his expression softening. He seems almost humbled, like he’s just been given something rare and delicate. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting his own against yours.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze, as if he’s holding back a hundred things he wants to say but can’t find the words for.

You smile, the last traces of your nervousness melting away. “Thank you, Bucky…for making it so special.”

He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you like he’s afraid to let you go. “I’d do anything to make you feel special,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

You nestle into his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling safe and cherished in a way you never have before. And as you lie there, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be truly, deeply in love.

But as you fall asleep in his arms, Bucky lies awake, his heart heavy with the weight of everything he’s kept from you. He knows he should be content, that he should just let himself savor this night and the closeness you’ve shared. But the memory of that stupid, careless bet gnaws at him, a dark cloud looming over everything.

He runs a hand through his hair, staring up at the ceiling, feeling torn between the desire to protect you from the truth and the fear that he’s already crossed a line he can’t uncross. The realization that you trusted him enough to give him something so deeply personal makes the weight of his lie even heavier, almost unbearable. He swallows hard, tightening his hold on you as he resolves to tell you the truth—soon, somehow, even if it means risking everything.

But tonight, he lets himself stay silent. He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of your hair, the warmth of your body against his, and allows himself to believe, if only for a moment, that this can last.

The morning sunlight filters softly through the blinds, casting warm, golden patterns across the bed. You stir beside him, your movements gentle as you wake up, and Bucky watches you with a quiet awe, his heart racing as he takes in the peaceful expression on your face. For a moment, it feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

You blink up at him, your face lighting up with a sleepy smile that makes his chest tighten.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your voice soft and a little shy, as if the night is still too fresh, too beautiful to fully believe.

He grins, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Morning,” he replies, his voice low and warm. His fingers trail down to your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and you squeeze back, a shared moment of silent understanding passing between you.

The morning stretches on in a gentle haze of quiet touches and soft words. Bucky makes you coffee, insisting you stay curled up under his blanket while he brings it over to you, and you laugh, watching him with a mix of affection and disbelief. This side of him—the playful, thoughtful side—is something you never expected to see, and it makes you fall for him even harder.

You’re both lounging on his bed, your legs tangled together, talking in low voices about everything and nothing. He tells you stories about his childhood, tales about him and Steve getting into trouble, and you share your own memories, laughing as he reacts with wide eyes and exaggerated shock.

It feels so real, so natural, that you almost forget about everything outside this room, about the possibility that this could be something fleeting. You feel like you’ve found a place that’s safe, a person who makes you feel more like yourself than you ever have before.

But in the quiet moments, when you catch him staring at you with that far-off look, you wonder if there’s something he’s not telling you, a hesitation lurking behind his gaze. You don’t press, not wanting to shatter the peace between you. But part of you wonders if you’re seeing a glimpse of something deeper, something you’re not yet ready to confront.

As you leave his dorm room later that morning, he kisses you softly, lingering as if he’s trying to memorize the taste of your lips, the feel of your hand in his. There’s an unspoken promise in his touch, a silent assurance that this isn’t the end.

Later that afternoon, you make your way back to the frat house, humming softly as you climb the steps to Bucky's door. You left your notebook there, a little blue book you’re pretty sure you’ll need for your upcoming assignment. You barely slept last night, too caught up in the warmth of his touch, the memory of his whispered words that lingered long after you left his dorm this morning. You’re nervous, too; you feel so much for him that it scares you.

As you approach his room, laughter drifts out into the hallway, low voices filtering through the partially open door. You recognize Bucky’s laugh, the familiar sound stirring warmth in your chest, but the laughter feels different, carefree and loud. And then you hear a familiar voice—Sam’s—cutting through, low and joking.

"Guess she fell for it pretty hard, huh?" Sam’s voice sounds amused, lighthearted, as if he’s talking about something trivial.

You freeze, your hand hovering inches from the door. Something about his tone makes you hesitate, a strange, unsettling feeling creeping into your chest.

"Come on, Bucky," Sam presses, “don’t act all innocent now. I saw you this morning, looking like you just won the lottery.” You can hear the grin in his voice, a laugh bubbling beneath it. “So? How was it?”

Bucky laughs, the sound uncomfortable, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, his voice casual, light. “It was… good.”

You feel a stab in your chest, a faint panic that tells you to leave, to walk away before you hear any more. But your feet don’t move, and you find yourself listening, every word driving another splinter into your heart.

Steve’s voice joins in, chuckling. “Well, you earned it, man. She had no clue, huh?”

“No clue,” Bucky murmurs, his voice softer now, almost unreadable. You can picture him there, maybe rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when he’s nervous. But the words are there, undeniable.

Sam laughs again, louder this time. “And hey, bet’s a bet,” he says, and then there’s a pause before you hear the unmistakable rustling of bills being exchanged. “Two hundred dollars, as promised. Can’t say you didn’t earn it, though—you even managed to get her into bed. Didn’t think you had it in you, but here we are!”

Your vision blurs, the words echoing in your mind, distorting into something raw and jagged. Every affectionate touch, every gentle kiss, every whispered promise from the past few weeks twists into something ugly, something unrecognizable. You feel sick, the image of Bucky’s earnest smile, his soft words about wanting to make you feel special, tainted beyond repair. Everything you felt for him, the trust you’d handed him so freely, crumbles beneath the weight of their laughter.

Slowly, you turn and leave, gripping the strap of your bag tightly as you make your way out of the frat house. You don’t let yourself cry, not yet, not when you still feel the echo of his betrayal throbbing in your chest, too raw, too painful to acknowledge fully.

Hours later, you’re back in your dorm room, your heart aching as you sit in silence, the truth settling over you in waves. Part of you wants to believe it was a misunderstanding, that maybe there’s an explanation you’re missing. But the memory of their laughter, the casual way Sam handed him that money, makes the truth impossible to ignore.

A knock on your door interrupts your thoughts, and your heart skips a beat as you hear Bucky’s voice calling your name softly from the hallway. It’s just him now, his voice hesitant, almost as if he senses that something’s wrong. You take a steadying breath, steeling yourself before you answer the door.

When you open it, Bucky’s eyes light up, and he steps forward, a soft smile on his face as he reaches for your hand. “Hey, you,” he murmurs, his voice warm. But when he sees the look on your face, he pauses, his smile fading. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, you can’t bring yourself to speak. You can only look at him, trying to reconcile the gentle, caring person you thought you knew with the man who took a bet to seduce you. You pull your hand away from his, ignoring the confusion in his gaze as he watches you.

“Were you even going to tell me?” Your voice comes out quieter than you intended, a dull ache threading through every word. “Or were you just going to take the money and pretend it never happened?”

Bucky blinks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Tell you what? I—I don’t understand.”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, and you look away, wrapping your arms around yourself as if it’ll keep you from falling apart. “Don’t play dumb, Bucky. I heard you. I was at the frat house earlier, and I heard everything.”

He freezes, his face going pale, and you see the truth in his eyes, clear as day. He opens his mouth, stumbling over his words. “Y/N, I—I didn’t… I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

The admission twists the knife deeper, and you feel yourself trembling as you look back at him, tears stinging your eyes. “So, it’s true, then? All of it? This whole… this whole thing was just for some stupid bet?”

He reaches for you, his expression desperate, his hands hovering just inches from your arms. “Y/N, please. Just let me explain. It wasn’t like that, I swear. It started that way, but then… then it became real. I fell for you, okay? Everything we did, everything we shared—it was real.”

You shake your head, pulling away from him, the anger and betrayal simmering beneath the surface. “Real? You think that makes this okay? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your voice breaks, and a tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. “I trusted you, Bucky. I thought… I thought you cared about me.”

His face crumples, and he takes a step closer, his hand reaching out as if to wipe away the tear on your cheek. “I do care about you. More than anything, Y/N. That’s why I wanted to tell you, I just—”

“Wanted to tell me?” you interrupt, your voice shaking. “When, Bucky? After you cashed in your winnings? After I found out on my own?”

The silence stretches between you, heavy and unbearable, and Bucky’s shoulders sag as he looks away, guilt etched deeply into his face.

“Do you even realize how humiliating this is?” you continue, your voice a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “I trusted you with something… something I’d never given anyone. And the whole time, it was just part of a game to you.”

His eyes snap back to yours, filled with anguish, his voice barely a whisper. “It was never just a game, not after the first night. I swear, Y/N, I was going to tell you everything. I just… I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You didn’t want to lose me?” you repeat, laughing bitterly. “You lost me the moment you made that bet. You had no right to… to play with me like that, to make me believe that any of it was real.”

He looks at you, his blue eyes full of desperation, his voice breaking. “Y/N, please. I know I messed up. I know I hurt you, but I need you to believe me when I say I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Just stop,” you whisper, the weight of it all crashing over you. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to make me feel sorry for you when you’re the one who lied.”

Bucky’s face falls, and he drops his gaze, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I know. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But please, just… give me a chance to make it right.”

Your heart aches, torn between the memories of every gentle touch, every whispered word, and the undeniable truth of his betrayal. Part of you wants to believe him, wants to believe that somewhere in all of this, there was something real. But the pain is too deep, the wound too fresh, and you don’t know if you can ever look at him the same way again.

“I can’t do this,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I can’t just forget what you did. You hurt me, Bucky. And right now, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

He flinches, as if your words physically hurt him, and he nods slowly, a look of resignation in his eyes. “I understand. I’ll… I’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as he takes a step back, his gaze lingering on you one last time before he turns and walks toward the door. Just as he reaches it, he pauses, his hand resting on the doorknob as he glances back at you, his voice soft, broken.

“For what it’s worth, Y/N… I love you. I know I don’t deserve to say that, but it’s the truth.”

You don’t reply, staring at him with tear-filled eyes as he finally steps out of your dorm, the door closing softly behind him. The silence that follows is deafening, and you sink to the floor, the weight of everything crashing down as you realize that the person you thought you loved never truly existed.

The days blur together in a haze of heartbreak and emptiness. You go through the motions, attending classes, completing assignments, and showing up to study groups, but it all feels mechanical, like you’re on autopilot. It’s as if something inside you has shut down, leaving only an echo of who you were before you met him, before he became the center of your world.

It doesn’t take long for your friends to notice the change. They ask if you’re okay, if something happened, if maybe you just need a break. But you give them the same answer each time—a nod, a small smile, and an assurance that you’re just tired. It’s easier than explaining the mess of emotions tangled inside you, the hurt that seems too big to fit into words.

Late at night, lying alone in your dorm room, you can still feel the warmth of his arms around you, the softness of his voice in the quiet hours when he’d whisper promises you thought would last forever. The memory feels cruel now, tainted by the knowledge that it was all built on a lie. And yet, despite everything, you miss him. You hate yourself for it, but you miss the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel safe, special, as if you were the only person in the world who mattered.

Bucky isn’t doing any better. In fact, he’s a mess. Days have passed, but the guilt, the emptiness—it lingers, gnawing at him, refusing to let him move on. He can barely sleep, haunted by the look in your eyes, the betrayal, the hurt he put there. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you, hears the way your voice cracked when you told him you didn’t know who he was anymore. And the worst part is, he doesn’t blame you. He knows he did this, that he ruined everything, and now he has to live with the consequences.

Sam and Steve notice almost immediately. Bucky, the confident, charming guy they’d known for years, looks hollow, as if he’s carrying a weight he can’t shake. He barely speaks, keeps to himself, and they rarely see him at the frat house anymore. Instead, he spends most of his time shut up in his dorm, a shadow of the person he used to be.

One evening, as the sun dips below the horizon, Sam and Steve exchange a glance, silently agreeing that they need to intervene. They knock on his door, and when he doesn’t answer, Sam pushes it open, finding him lying on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Hey, man,” Sam says, stepping inside. Steve follows, closing the door behind them as they both approach Bucky’s bed.

Bucky doesn’t react right away, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. But eventually, he sits up, running a hand through his hair, looking exhausted and defeated.

“What’s up, guys?” he mumbles, though his voice lacks any real curiosity.

“We should be asking you that,” Steve says, his tone softer than usual. “You haven’t been yourself lately. Ever since things ended with Y/N, it’s like… you’re a completely different person.”

At the sound of your name, Bucky’s face falls, and he lets out a long, shaky breath. “Yeah,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “That’s because I am.”

Sam frowns, studying Bucky’s expression, the guilt etched into every line of his face. “Look, man, we didn’t mean for things to get this serious. But if you cared about her, really cared… why didn’t you just tell her the truth from the start?”

Bucky shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the bed so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I don’t know,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I was scared, I guess. I knew I’d screwed up, and every time I tried to tell her, I just… couldn’t. I thought I could fix things, somehow, make it up to her without her ever finding out.” He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Stupid, right?”

Steve sighs, sitting beside him on the bed. “Not stupid, just… a mistake. A big one, yeah, but you’re not the first guy to mess up. You’re just… Bucky, this isn’t like you. I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”

Bucky looks away, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s because I’ve never felt this way before. Not like this. I love her, Steve. And I threw it all away over some stupid bet that meant nothing. I hurt her in ways I can’t even fix.”

Sam places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “So what are you gonna do about it? You can’t just sit here, wallowing. If she meant that much to you, then maybe you owe it to her—and to yourself—to try and make it right.”

Bucky laughs, but it’s empty, hollow. “And how am I supposed to do that, Sam? She told me herself she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t trust me. I don’t deserve another chance.”

Steve exchanges a look with Sam, and then he says, “Maybe. But you can’t just give up without trying. If you really love her, Bucky, you have to prove it. Show her that you’re not just the guy who hurt her, that you’re willing to fight for her. And if she doesn’t take you back… at least you’ll know you tried.”

Bucky sighs, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stares at the floor. “I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me. I don’t even know if I deserve it.”

Sam crosses his arms, his expression softening. “Look, man, I get that you’re hurting. But don’t you think she’s hurting, too? She’s probably out there feeling just as broken, wondering if anything between you was ever real.”

Bucky swallows hard, his chest tightening at the thought. He knows you’re hurting, knows you trusted him with something precious, something he didn’t deserve. And knowing that he’s the reason for your pain… it’s a feeling he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Over the next few days, Bucky wrestles with himself, caught between the fear of making things worse and the desire to show you that he’s truly sorry, that he wants to be the man you thought he was. He writes and rewrites texts he never sends, shows up outside your dorm but never works up the courage to knock. He’s terrified, but he can’t ignore the way his heart aches for you, the empty, gnawing feeling that only seems to grow with each passing day.

Finally, he decides to try one last time. He doesn’t know if you’ll listen, doesn’t know if you’ll even give him a chance. But he has to try—to give you the truth, no matter how painful it might be.

And so, as the evening sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over campus, Bucky finds himself standing outside your dorm, his heart pounding as he gathers the courage to knock. He knows this is his last chance, that this is the moment that will decide everything. And he only hopes, as he takes a deep breath and raises his hand to the door, that you’ll give him the chance to show you that he’s not the man who hurt you—that he’s ready to fight for you, no matter what it takes.

The knock on your door is soft, almost hesitant, but it’s enough to pull you from your thoughts. You’ve been lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to find the strength to move forward, to somehow patch yourself up after everything that happened. When you open the door, you see him standing there, his eyes filled with an uncertainty that’s almost heartbreaking. He’s gripping a small notebook in his hands—your notebook, the one you left in his room—and his gaze is fixed on you with a desperation you’ve never seen before.

“Hi,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t reply right away, the sight of him dredging up the familiar ache in your chest. Part of you wants to slam the door and hide, to keep yourself safe from any more hurt. But you don’t. Instead, you meet his gaze, forcing yourself to remain steady.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice guarded.

He shifts on his feet, glancing down at the notebook before offering it to you. “I, uh… you left this. Thought you might need it.”

You take it from him, feeling the familiar weight of it in your hands. “Thanks.”

A heavy silence hangs between you, one that neither of you seems willing to break. Bucky swallows, his face creased with an anxious, uncertain look that makes him seem vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Can we… can we talk?” he asks, his voice almost pleading. “Please. I know I don’t deserve it, but I just need to say a few things. If you don’t want to listen, I’ll understand, and I’ll leave you alone. I just… I need you to know the truth.”

You hesitate, but finally, you nod, stepping back to let him into your room. He steps inside, closing the door softly behind him, and takes a seat in the small chair by your desk while you remain standing, arms crossed protectively over your chest.

For a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze heavy with regret. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“I know you have every right to hate me,” he starts, his voice barely steady. “I know I messed up in ways I can’t even fix. And I know… I know what I did was horrible. I just—” He swallows, his throat tight. “I just need you to know that it wasn’t all a lie. When we started this… when we first got close, I didn’t expect any of this to happen. I didn’t think I’d feel the way I did.”

You look down, his words stirring a fresh wave of pain in your chest. “But it was a bet, Bucky,” you murmur, your voice trembling. “You… you did all of that just to win some money. To you, it was just a game.”

He flinches, guilt flashing in his eyes, and he nods. “I know. I won’t make excuses for it—I was stupid, and I hurt you. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about the bet. It stopped being a game. And I started… I started caring about you, more than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you force yourself to keep your voice steady. “Then why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair again, his expression tortured. “Because I was scared. I was terrified that you’d look at me the way you’re looking at me now, that I’d lose you. I know that doesn’t make it better, but it’s the truth. I tried to find the right time, tried to find the right words, but I kept putting it off, thinking maybe… maybe I could make it up to you before you ever found out.” He looks down, his voice breaking. “But that was stupid. I should’ve just been honest with you from the start.”

You take a shaky breath, feeling the full weight of everything he’s saying. Part of you wants to believe him, wants to forgive him, but the wound he left is still fresh, still raw. “I trusted you, Bucky,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I thought… I thought what we had was real.”

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with a desperate sincerity that takes you off guard. “It was real. For me, it was real. And I know that doesn’t change anything, but I need you to know that. I never meant to hurt you, and I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you if you’ll let me.”

You study him for a long moment, searching his face, trying to find some indication of sincerity, something to show that he’s truly sorry. And when you see the remorse in his eyes, the sadness that mirrors your own, you feel something in your chest soften, just slightly.

“Bucky,” you begin softly, forcing yourself to stay strong, “I can’t just go back to how things were. I can’t pretend this didn’t happen. You hurt me more than anyone ever has, and it’s going to take time for me to get past that.”

He nods, his expression resigned, but he doesn’t look away. “I understand. And I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. I just… I just want the chance to prove to you that I’m more than the guy who hurt you. Even if we can’t go back, I want to be there for you, even if it’s just as a friend.”

You let his words sink in, feeling a flicker of hope amidst the ache in your heart. Part of you still longs for what you had, for the closeness you shared, but you know that you can’t rush back into it. If Bucky truly wants a second chance, he’ll have to earn it, piece by piece, day by day.

“Maybe…” You hesitate, feeling vulnerable but determined. “Maybe we can start as friends. Just… friends. No promises, no expectations. If you’re willing to do that, to rebuild things from the ground up… then maybe, someday, I’ll be able to trust you again.”

Relief floods his face, and he nods, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll take that. Anything you’re willing to give, I’ll take it. I’ll prove to you that I can be better. I’ll prove that I’m worth your trust.”

You give him a tentative smile, and for the first time in days, you feel a flicker of hope. It’s small and fragile, but it’s enough to remind you that maybe healing is possible.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky becomes a constant but careful presence in your life. He shows up when you need help with an assignment, offers a listening ear when you need to vent about a long day, and joins you for coffee on campus, keeping the conversation light and easy. He respects your boundaries, never pushing for more, never expecting anything beyond friendship. You’re surprised at how attentive he is, how willing he is to wait, to prove that he’s serious about making things right.

Slowly, the walls around your heart begin to crack. You start to feel comfortable with him again, to let your guard down, if only a little. You catch him glancing at you sometimes, a soft, almost wistful look in his eyes, as if he’s seeing something precious he thought he’d lost forever. It’s in these moments that you remember why you fell for him in the first place, why his smile used to make your heart race, why his touch felt like home.

One day, as you’re both sitting on a bench by the campus pond, he turns to you, a hesitant smile on his face. “I know we’re just friends right now, and I’m okay with that. But I want you to know that I’m grateful for every moment I get to spend with you, even if it’s just like this.”

You feel a warmth spread through you, a sense of peace you haven’t felt in a long time. “Thank you, Bucky,” you say softly. “For not giving up. For being patient with me.”

He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before resting his hand on yours, his touch warm and steady. “I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’ll prove to you that I’m here for you, no matter what.”

And as you look into his eyes, you feel a flicker of something you thought was lost—a tentative, fragile hope that maybe things could be different this time. That he could truly be the person he’s trying to be, the person you wanted him to be all along. And though you know there’s a long road ahead, you’re finally willing to take that first step with him, trusting that maybe, this time, he won’t let you down.

The night is alive with music and laughter as you step into the crowded frat house. It’s your first time back here since everything happened, and you can’t deny the nervous flutter in your stomach as you take in the familiar scene. But tonight feels different—Bucky is by your side, watching you with a gentle smile as he guides you through the chaos of people, his hand warm and steady on your arm.

Over the past few weeks, things between you and Bucky have been slowly mending. He’s proven himself time and time again, showing up when it mattered, respecting your boundaries, and never pressuring you for more than you were willing to give. He’s become someone you can lean on, someone who’s earned back your trust bit by bit. And, to your own surprise, you feel something new blossoming between you—something deeper, stronger, and more genuine than before.

When you reach the main room, you spot Sam and Steve near the keg, both of them giving you a thumbs-up as soon as they see you with Bucky. You laugh, rolling your eyes, but Bucky just grins, shrugging as if to say, They’re harmless.

“Glad you came tonight,” he says, leaning closer so you can hear him over the noise. “I was worried you might skip.”

You shrug, glancing up at him. “Well, I figured it was about time I faced the frat house again.”

He chuckles, a warm, rich sound that sends a spark of something familiar through you. It’s the same feeling you used to get when you first met, when you were just getting to know him, before anything got complicated. Only now, it feels even better—because you’re finally on solid ground with him, without secrets or lies standing between you.

As the night goes on, you find yourself enjoying the party, laughing with friends, and even dancing a bit. Bucky stays close, his presence a comforting, steady anchor amidst the noise and chaos. He’s attentive, offering you drinks and glancing over every so often to make sure you’re comfortable. And every time you catch his gaze, you feel your heart race just a little faster.

At one point, as you’re talking with a friend, you feel Bucky’s hand gently touch your arm, and he leans in close, his voice soft and intimate against your ear. “Want to get some air?”

You nod, letting him lead you through the throngs of people until you step out onto the back porch. The cool night air is a welcome relief from the warmth inside, and you breathe deeply, taking in the quiet calm of the evening. Bucky leans against the railing, watching you with a soft, almost nervous smile, his hands tucked into his pockets.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” he begins, his voice low and steady, as if he’s thought about this moment a thousand times. “I know we’ve been rebuilding things, and I know you wanted to take it slow. But, Y/N… being with you these past few weeks, even just as friends, has been everything to me. And I can’t stop thinking about you. About us.”

Your heart stirs at his words, and you feel a warmth spread through you, a sense of longing that’s been building quietly since the day he asked for a second chance.

“Bucky,” you say softly, stepping a little closer. “I… I feel the same. It’s been hard, letting go of the past. But I think—no, I know—I’ve forgiven you. You’ve shown me who you really are, and… I like that person.”

His eyes brighten at your words, and he reaches out, his hand brushing your cheek as his thumb strokes gently across your skin. He leans closer, his gaze searching your face as if to make sure you’re truly ready for this.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, his voice barely audible in the quiet night air.

You feel your heart skip a beat, and you give him a small, almost shy nod, your pulse racing as he leans in, closing the distance between you. The moment his lips meet yours, it’s like the world melts away, leaving only the warmth of his touch, the softness of his mouth against yours. It’s gentle at first, tentative, as if he’s afraid of breaking the spell. But as you respond, his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you a little closer, deepening the kiss with a quiet, aching intensity.

When you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, both of you catching your breath, sharing a smile that’s equal parts relief and joy.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice full of warmth, “I promise, I’m not going to mess this up again. I want this with you—for real, no games.”

You smile, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “Good, because you’re stuck with me now.”

He laughs, pulling you into a tight hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder, feeling a happiness you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re finally ready to move forward with him, to start fresh, knowing that this time, it’s real.

maybe I should've made it more angsty? I love angst, request angst people! lol

2K notes · View notes

sunnami · 7 months ago

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❝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

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moonyflesh · 6 months ago

Text

What if Wolverine took you to a hockey game?

WARNINGS: (not much). no smut- just a playful set of imagines/headcannons — very fluffy and ‘lovey-dovey’ (small kisses and cursing).

CHARACTERS: James “Logan” Howlett (‘Wolverine’) - (MARVEL/X-MEN)

🍺 .*.. 🏒

- At first you thought he was joking.

- i mean- can you imagine trying to squeeze his massive frame into one of those tiny, plastic stadium chairs?

- sure you know nothing about the “Calgary Flames”, but supporting the beast either way is entertaining enough as it is—

- (^) literally the worst person to sit around. he’s loud, obnoxious, (big), and curses like there’s no tomorrow.

- “fuckin- can you fuckin’ believe these pieces ‘uh shit? i totally could’ve fuckin’ made that fuckin’ shot. buncha’ bullshit ifya ask me.”

- he’s definitely big on stadium snacks. constantly has to get up and get more food (and beer).

- (^) the bar would 100% have to draw a limit on the amount of beer they can physically sell him.

- probably walks you through the basic rules of ice hockey, and/or the different players, and the fan-favorites.

- little forehead or cheek kisses when he needs to run to go to the bathroom or grab more food.

- one of his arms is slung around your shoulders at all times.

- throughout the game, he’s constantly glancing over at you- reading your facial expressions. are you enjoying yourself? do you know what’s happening? is this entertaining for you, too?

- definitely likes to show you (and your jersey) off.

- (^) forced you to wear a Flames jersey (that’s much to large on you) and is proud of you for “pickin’ the right fuckin’ team”— so what? at least you get his undivided attention.

- puts you on his shoulders so you both have a better chance of getting on the big screen.

- (^) and if you do? jesus, it makes his whole month. the second that camera pans to you two he’s already tongue-deep into your mouth, grinning like an idiot as you try to push him away from embarrassment.

- you totally go to the photo booth and take the most grainy, out-of-focus pictures known to man together in some shitty ice rink backdrop, (to which he insists you look beautiful- and sticks the entirety of the photo into his wallet).

- buys you a shitload of merch, including one of the collectible hockey pucks.

- claims to know some of the players personally (he’s never met any of them outside of the rink).

- distinctly shouts out each player’s first and last names when cheering them on.

- boos the other team, and their fans with zero shame whatsoever.

- the drive home depends on the outcome of the game.

- (^) The Flames lose? he’s not even mad- he’s just disappointed that that was all his team could manage for your first game. he promises to take you to more, though.

- (^) and if they win? he’s already discussing the ticket prices for the next game (if you’re willing to go with him again); excited grins tossed your way here and there as he makes sure you’re paying attention.

@trenchcoathunnybee08 this is dedicated to you! Sorry it took so long to finally get out (in some ways, it’s still a WIP). 🫶🏼

((if any of you would like to be added to my taglist, let me know through my inbox.))

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buckets-and-trees · 4 months ago

Note

Mob Bucky respects your own financial independence, but he also made sure you have access to his black card and use it when you need it. He doesn't care what you spend the money on, especially since the notification he gets those very rare times that you use his money is to buy something most practical or for your shared apartment.

However, he does not expect to see a notification for the purchase of some sex toys 😏

CHOCOLATE

Collection: DEVOUR Characters/Pairings: Mob Boss!James Buchanan Barnes x Female!Chef!Reader Word Count: 5.6k Timeline: Takes place 1-2 weeks after mint, 2-3 weeks after heat.

Content & Warnings: EXPLICIT SMUT - vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal intercourse, creampie, food play, breeding kink. Feelings, so many feelings.

Author Notes: Surprise! At some points during the 2200 Followers Celebration poll, Devour Bucky and Chef were actually winning, so here's something I started months and months ago and brought out to finish for them. It's not quite everything from your ask, Eva, but I hope it's a satisfying scenario all the same...

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You had known the exact moment your fiancé – mob boss, venture capitalist, or philanthropist depending on who you asked and what they knew – got the notification of your purchase.

James Buchanan Barnes had given you a black card weeks ago, before the engagement, but you hadn’t used it until this week. Bucky had gone to Chicago for business (and you were sure he was there for business as well), and instead of staying home and pining away for him, you decided to treat yourself. The notification must have pinged his phone during a meeting, because exactly 47 minutes later, your own phone lit up with his name.

"What's this Cartier expense I see?" his voice a dangerous mix of amusement and curiosity.

You swallowed hard, fingering the velvet box in your lap. "Just a little shopping therapy while you're away. Nothing to worry about."

"Mmm," he hummed, unconvinced. "And here I thought I was the one who was supposed to shower you with gifts."

"Well," you said, "maybe I wanted to surprise you for once."

There was a pause, and you could almost see him leaning back in his chair, a predatory smile spreading across his face. "I suppose I am a little surprised you finally used the card. But how about a challenge?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Why don’t you see if you can shock me with a purchase?”

“Challenge accepted. What do I get?”

He chuckled. “You already know I’ll give you the world.”

Butterflies surged in your stomach. This man.

“You’re back Saturday afternoon?” you confirmed.

“Yes,” he growled. “There’s a round of golf I can’t seem to move or negotiate.”

You sighed softly. “It’s only three more days.”

“I like that you miss me.”

You huffed but couldn’t deny it.

“I’m missing you, too,” he said.

“James…” you breathed.

“Did you get the gift I sent?”

“I did.” A stunning, six-foot mirror with an ornate, gold-gilded frame had been delivered that morning to your apartment and placed in your bedroom.

“I was taken with how beautiful it was and you were my first thought.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “I love you,” you said.

“I love you, too. I have to go. We’ll talk later.”

When you woke up Friday morning, you knew exactly how to shock him with the black card.

Or at least tease him.

The high-end, ridiculously expensive lingerie boutique you never thought you would enter in your lifetime - Boudoir.

The response to that expense notification was immediate, and you smirked when you read the text that came through.

JAMES: You have my interest piqued.

You thought for a moment, then typed out a reply.

YOU: Thought maybe I’d see if I can shock you and send some photos of what I got later tonight.

Three dots appeared straight away, and then

JAMES: Forget photos, I’ll fly out tonight straight away after my meeting with Levinson and come straight to you.

Your breath caught in your throat, heart swelling with adoration, anticipation, and maybe just a touch of nerves. You looked up the latest flights out of Chicago, and couldn’t help feeling a little forlorn. Even though the restaurant head chef life meant late nights for work, it would still be an ungodly hour when he landed.

YOU: I’ll try to stay up, but promise to wake me up if I’m asleep?

Again, you didn't have to wait long for his reply.

JAMES: I promise. Nothing could keep me from you tonight.

A shiver ran down your spine at his words. You glanced at the clock - it was barely noon. The hours until his arrival stretched before you, filled with anticipation and nervous energy. You busied yourself with things before work, trying to focus on anything other than the ticking clock and the bag from Boudoir sitting in your closet.

At Devour your mind was engaged fully in your craft and working with your team.

But once you returned home after the Friday night dinner service, you found yourself pacing the apartment, unable to settle. Should you put on the lingerie now? Wait until you heard from him? You compromised by showering and doing your hair and makeup, then slipping into a silky robe.

Just as you were debating whether to pour yourself a glass of wine to calm your nerves, your phone pinged.

JAMES: Landed. On my way to you.

Far earlier than you expected him, but a good thing, too.

Your heart raced as you read his message. You quickly made your way to the bedroom, retrieving the Boudoir bag from the closet with trembling hands. The delicate lace and silk felt cool against your skin as you slipped into the lingerie, adjusting the straps and garters with care. You stood before the new mirror James had sent, admiring how the deep, rich color complemented your skin tone. The set hugged your curves in all the right places. Standing before the mirror James had gifted you, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of confidence.

A text alert broke your reverie.

JAMES: Five minutes.

You took a deep breath, smoothing your hands over the silky fabric once more before draping the robe back over your shoulders. You dimmed the lights in the bedroom and lit a few candles, creating a soft, inviting ambiance.

The sound of a key in the lock made your pulse quicken. You perched on the edge of the bed, listening as Bucky’s footsteps approached.

The bedroom door opened slowly, and he stepped inside, his eyes immediately locking onto yours. His gaze was intense, a mix of hunger and adoration that made your breath catch in your throat. Would you ever get used to the way he looked at you?

"Well," he said, his voice low and gravelly, "this is certainly a welcome home."

You stood, your fingers toying with the tie of your robe. "I thought you might appreciate a little preview of my shopping spree."

He set a golden box on your dresser and then moved closer, his steps deliberate and predatory. He reached out, running his fingers along the edge of your robe. "May I?"

You nodded, your heart racing as he slowly undid the tie and pushed the silky fabric off your shoulders. The robe pooled at your feet, leaving you standing before him in the exquisite lingerie.

Bucky inhaled sharply, his eyes roaming over every inch of you. "Beautiful.” His hands settled on your waist, pulling you flush against him. "Show me how much you missed me," he growled.

You leaned into him, tilting your head up to meet his intense gaze. "I thought you were going to show me how much you missed me," you teased, running your hands up his chest and over his shoulders.

He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Oh, I intend to," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "But first, I want to savor this moment. You've outdone yourself."

His hands roamed over the delicate lace and silk, tracing the curves of your body with a reverence that made your breath hitch. You could feel the heat of his skin through his shirt, the barely contained power in his muscles as he held you close.

“I thought you wouldn’t be here until much, much later,” you said, breathing in the scent of him, cologne mingled with his natural musk. “The flights I saw had landings after midnight.”

He snorted. “My private jet provides service according to my schedule, not anyone else’s.”

“Oh,” was your soft and surprised reaction, realizing you should not be at all surprised to learn he owned a private jet.

"Turn around, love," he commanded softly. "Let me see all of you."

You complied, slowly spinning to face the mirror. He stood behind you, his eyes meeting yours in the reflection. His hands skimmed down your sides, fingertips tracing the lace edges of your lingerie. You shivered at his touch, watching as his expression darkened with desire.

"Do you see how stunning you are?" he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck. "How every curve, every line of your body is a work of art?"

You leaned back against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him. "I see how you look at me," you whispered. "That's what makes me feel beautiful."

You watched in the mirror as his lips trailed up your neck, his stubble scratching deliciously against your skin. Your breath quickened as one of his hands splayed across your stomach, pulling you back against him.

He growled low in his throat, his arms tightening around you. "You still have no idea what you do to me," he said, his voice rough with need. His fingers traced the edge of the lace at your hip.

You turned in his arms, reaching up to cup his face. "Then show me," you challenged, your eyes locked on his.

Impossibly, his eyes darkened even more at your words, a predatory smile curving his lips. In one fluid motion, he lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His lips crashed against yours in a searing kiss as he carried you to the bed, laying you down with surprising gentleness.

"You want me to show you?" he growled, hovering over you. His fingers traced the delicate straps of your lingerie, sending shivers across your skin. "I'll show you exactly what you do to me."

He began a torturous exploration of your body, his lips and hands mapping every inch of you. The exquisite lingerie became both a barrier and a tantalizing tease as Bucky lavished attention on the exposed skin while skimming over the lace and silk. You arched into his touch, desperate for more.

"James," you breathed, your fingers threading through his hair. "Please…"

He chuckled against your skin, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through you. "Patience, love. I've been dreaming of you all week."

His talented fingers deftly unclasped the delicate hooks of your bra, slowly peeling the lace away to reveal your skin beneath. You gasped as the cool air hit your heated flesh, arching into his touch as he palmed your breasts.

"Beautiful," he murmured, lowering his head to trail kisses along your collarbone. "So fucking beautiful."

You tugged at his shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against yours. "Too many clothes," you panted, fumbling with the buttons.

Bucky chuckled, sitting back on his heels to shrug off his jacket and unbutton his shirt. Your eyes roamed hungrily over his sculpted torso as more of his skin was revealed. The dim candlelight cast shadows that accentuated every plane and angle of his muscular form.

"Like what you see?" he teased, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"Always," you breathed, reaching up to run your hands over his chest and shoulders.

He caught your wrists gently, pinning them above your head as he leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

You melted into his kiss, your body arching up to meet his as he pressed you into the mattress. The weight of him, the heat of his skin against yours, was intoxicating. You tugged at his grip on your wrists, desperate to touch him, but he held firm.

"Ah ah," he murmured against your lips. "I'm not done admiring my gift yet."

His free hand skimmed down your side, fingers dancing along the edge of your panties. You whimpered, hips bucking involuntarily as he teased you.

"James, please," you gasped, breaking away from the kiss.

He chuckled, a dark, velvety sound that sent shivers down your spine. "So impatient," he tsked, nipping at your lower lip. "But I suppose I have kept you waiting all week, haven't I?"

In one fluid motion, he released your wrists and moved down your body. His lips and tongue traced a burning path along your skin, pausing to lavish attention on your breasts before continuing lower.

With deft movements, he removed the rest of your lingerie, his eyes dark with hunger as he drank in the sight of you. You reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in your eagerness. Bucky chuckled, gently moving your hands aside to finish undressing himself.

Finally skin to skin, you both sighed at the contact. Bucky's weight settled over you, comforting and electrifying all at once. His lips found yours again as he entered you slowly, savoring every inch. You gasped against his mouth, your body arching to take him deeper.

"God, I've missed you," Bucky growled, his forehead pressed against yours as he stilled for a moment.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him closer. "Show me," you breathed, nails raking down his back.

That was all the encouragement he needed. Bucky began to move, setting a rhythm that had you clinging to him, gasping his name. His lips found your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there as his hips drove into yours.

You lost yourself in the sensations - the slide of his skin against yours, the delicious friction where your bodies joined, the heat of his breath on your neck. Your hands roamed his broad back, feeling the flex and ripple of his muscles as he moved above you.

"James," you moaned, feeling the familiar tension building low in your belly. "I'm close."

Bucky slowed his movements, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Not yet," he murmured, his voice husky with desire. "I'm not done with you."

With a low growl, he suddenly withdrew, leaving you gasping at the loss. Before you could protest, his strong hands grasped your hips and flipped you onto your stomach.

His palms glided down your sides, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine. You shivered at his touch, anticipation building as he gently urged your hips upward.

"On your knees for me, beautiful," he commanded softly, his palms smoothing over the swell of your backside.

You complied eagerly, pushing yourself up onto all fours. The cool air of the room kissed your heated skin, making you hyper-aware of every sensation. Bucky's hands continued their journey, kneading the flesh of your thighs and hips with intent appreciation.

You felt the bed shift as he positioned himself behind you, the heat of his body radiating against your back. His fingers tangled in your hair, gently tugging your head back. His lips brushed against your ear as he spoke.

"You're a vision like this," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "So perfect for me."

You whimpered, pressing back against him, desperate for more contact. Bucky chuckled, the sound vibrating through your body. Slowly, torturously, he dragged the tip of his length along your folds, teasing your clit with the blunt head of his cock.

You gasped at the sensation, your fingers curling into the sheets. "James, please," you whimpered, pushing back against him.

He groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. "So eager for me," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. "Tell me what you want."

"You," you breathed, looking back over your shoulder to meet his intense gaze. "I want you, James. Please."

With a low growl, he pushed into you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. You both moaned at the sensation, savoring the feeling of being joined once again. Bucky stilled for a moment, his forehead resting against your back as he struggled to maintain control.

"God, you feel amazing," he groaned, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades. "So tight, so wet, so warm and perfect for me."

He began to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm that had you gasping with each thrust. Your fingers clutched at the sheets, desperate for something to anchor you as waves of pleasure washed over you. Bucky's hands roamed your body, caressing and squeezing, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

"Look,” he said, and turned your head to take in the sight of you two in the mirror.

You locked your eyes on his through the reflection. “Need you to see how gorgeous you are when you come apart for me.”

You keened for him as he pulled you back on his cock with a particularly demanding thrust.

“When I breed you.”

You gasped.

He groaned and curled his body down over your back.

Because you also clenched powerfully around his cock.

“Mmm, you like that,” he murmured right into your ear, then licked the shell of it. “Want to be bred,” he continued, pace unyielding as he split you open with his cock. “Not as much as I want to fill you up with my seed,” another thrust, “until you’re growing with my child,” another thrust, “no question who you belong to,” thrust, “that you’re claimed,” thrust, “that you’re mine.”

You were utterly breathless for a moment, and he registered that, too, just as he registers every movement, every reaction.

He continued to thrust slowly in and out of your leaking cunt, but he noticed you were no longer fluid and pliant, but that you had tensed up. He stopped. “What’s going on in your beautiful head?”

You bit your lip, and your head dropped down, turning away from his direct gaze in the mirror.

He pulled out and laid on his side next to you.

“Talk to me,” he said, and you weren’t sure if this tone was commanding or pleading, but it was certainly serious.

You sat up, folded your hands in your lap and took a deep breath. As steadily as you could, you said, “You knew my measurements and had sent a perfect wardrobe of intimates to me withing twenty-four hours of our first encounter.”

He nodded, his lips quirking up at the corner.

“So, I assume you also know I have an IUD, and that you that knew before you fucked me in the kitchen that first night at the restaurant.”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“I’m nowhere near ready to think about children.”

He leaned up on one elbow and reached for your hands, smoothing his thumb back and forth over your knuckles. “We have as much time to think about that as you want.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Your eyes searched his. You could see he wasn’t merely trying to tell you what you wanted to hear - he never had.

“I look forward to children with you one day, but I’m in no rush. When I imagined settling down with a wife,” he continued, “I didn’t think it would be for another five or six years, but once I found you, there was no question that I wanted you.”

"I want that future with you too, just... not quite yet."

Bucky sat up, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs stroked your cheeks gently as he looked into your eyes. "I'm sorry if I scared you," he said, his voice low and sincere. "Sometimes I get carried away in the moment. You inspire that in me. But I never want you to feel uncomfortable or trapped.”

You felt a wave of relief wash over you, your body relaxing as you processed his words. "I'm sorry," you murmured, leaning into his touch. "I didn't mean to kill the mood."

Bucky shook his head, pulling you closer. "Don't apologize. Communication is important, especially about something like this." His fingers traced soothing patterns on your skin.

You nodded, feeling a surge of warmth and affection for this man who could be so commanding and intense one moment, and so tender and understanding the next. "I love you," you said softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

Bucky responded eagerly, his arms wrapping around you as he deepened the kiss. When you finally parted, both slightly breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. "I love you too," he murmured. "More than I ever thought possible."

His hands began to roam your body again, easily reigniting the need in both of your for each other.

You broke off the kiss briefly, "Just so we're clearly communicating, breeding kink? Yes. Children yet? No."

"Noted," he laughed, and returned to devouring your lips.

Bucky shifted his position from sitting to kneeling, settling back on his heels, then with one fluid motion he turned you and pulled you into his lap with your thighs falling on either side of his into a wide, kneeling position. He lifted your hips, then lined up his cock with your entrance, and brought you down again on his length. He guided your hips until you were impaled all the way down. The new angle sent sparks of pleasure through your body, drawing a low moan from your lips.

He banded his left arm around your torso, and his right hand smoothed up your sternum, between your breasts, coming to rest in a secure hold on your shoulder. You closed your eyes, focusing on nothing but the feel of him inside you, behind you, right at your back, every inch of your bodies pressed together. Your left hand traced over his forearm, then tangled with his fingers around your waist, your other hand moving back to anchor yourself on his hip. He pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then began thrusting. Each thrust seemed to push a deep moan out of you for him, and you didn’t hold back.

"Open your eyes," he commanded softly, his breath hot against your ear. "Look at us."

You obeyed, your gaze meeting his in the reflection of the mirror. The sight before you was breathtaking. Bucky sat tall and powerful behind you, his muscular thighs flexed as he supported your weight. Your body was on full display, skin flushed and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. His thick arm across your stomach, holding you close against his chest.

"Do you see how beautiful you are?" he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck. "How perfectly you fit with me?"

You watched in the mirror as one of his hands slowly trailed up your body, cupping your breast and teasing the sensitive peak. Your back arched at his touch, pressing you further onto his cock.

Bucky groaned, his hips bucking upwards involuntarily. "That's it," he breathed, his voice rough with desire. "Feel me inside you."

Entranced by his words and the intoxicating view in the mirror, you began to move. You rolled your hips, grinding down onto him in a slow, sensual rhythm. Bucky's hands guided your movements, his fingers digging into your flesh as he helped you ride him.

You watched in fascination as your bodies moved together, mesmerized by the play of muscles beneath Bucky's skin and the way your own body responded to his touch. The sight of him disappearing inside you with each downward motion was almost too much to bear.

"James," you gasped, your head falling back onto his shoulder as the pleasure built. "Oh god, James..."

“No,” he growled, and his hand went up to your neck, taking you by the throat, not aggressive, but commanding, making it clear that he wanted you to keep looking in the mirror. “I won’t let you fucking miss this.”

It occurred to you then that this handsome, audacious bastard, the fiancé who you’d given your heart to, knew exactly what he wanted when he sent you this mirror and had it placed in the exact spot in front of you now.

He wanted this.

He wanted to see this and have you see this. The debauchery and the devotion while the two of you were intimate together.

Your eyes locked with his in the mirror, the intensity of his gaze pushing you even closer to the brink. You watched as his free hand slid down your body, fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. The dual stimulation of his cock inside you and his fingers on your most sensitive area becoming more frantic. Bucky's grip on your hips tightened, guiding you into a faster pace.

"That's it, love," he growled, his voice low and husky in your ear. "Let go for me. I want to see you come undone."

His words, combined with the intense sensations and the erotic sight in the mirror, and touch pushed you over the edge. You cried out, your body tensing and shaking as waves of pleasure washed over you. Bucky held you tightly against him, his hips still moving as he worked you through your orgasm.

"Beautiful," he murmured, pressing kisses along your shoulder and neck. "So fucking beautiful."

As the aftershocks subsided, Bucky gently turned you in his lap so you were facing him. His hands cupped your face, drawing you in for a deep, passionate kiss. You could feel him still hard inside you, and you rocked your hips, drawing a groan from his lips.

"Your turn," you whispered, nipping at his lower lip.

With a growl, Bucky flipped you onto your back, hovering over you with a predatory gleam in his eyes. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle as he began to thrust into you with renewed vigor.

You gasped at the deeper penetration, your hands clutching at his back as he sunk into you. The room filled with the sounds of your moans, heavy breaths, and the slap of skin on skin.

You reached up, pulling him down for a passionate kiss while he worked up to a relentless pace. He drove into you with powerful thrusts, each one pushing the air from your lungs. Your other leg wrapped around his waist, urging him deeper as you felt another orgasm building.

"James," you panted, your nails raking down his back, "I'm so close again."

He growled, his hips snapping against yours with increased fervor. "My good girl, I’ll always give you what you need."

His hand snaked between your bodies, fingers finding your oversensitive clit. The added stimulation was almost too much, pushing you right to the edge. You cried out, your body arching off the bed as your second orgasm crashed over you.

Bucky's rhythm faltered as your walls clenched around him. With a deep groan, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his body shuddering as he found his own release. You felt the warmth of his seed spilling inside you, prolonging your own pleasure.

For a moment, you both lay there, panting and trembling in the aftermath. Bucky's weight was comforting on top of you, grounding you as you floated in post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed soft kisses to your neck and shoulder, murmuring words of love and praise against your skin.

Eventually, he rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as your breathing slowly returned to normal. You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent and feeling utterly content.

"I love you," you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone.

Bucky's hand stroked up and down your back, his touch soothing and gentle. "I love you too," he replied, his voice deep and warm. "More than I thought possible."

You hummed in agreement, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. The room was quiet save for the sound of your breathing and the faint flicker of the candles.

After a few moments, Bucky spoke again, his voice soft. "I meant what I said earlier. About children, about our future. We have all the time in the world."

You lifted your head to meet his gaze, seeing nothing but sincerity in his eyes. "I know," you said, leaning in to kiss him gently. "Thank you for understanding."

He smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Always. We're partners in this, in everything."

You lay in comfortable silence again for a while, basking in the afterglow and each other's presence. Bucky's fingers idly traced patterns on your skin, sending pleasant shivers down your spine.

"I missed this," you said softly, breaking the silence. "Having you here, holding me." Everything with him was still relatively so new, but it felt like this was exactly how it always should be.

He hummed in agreement, tightening his arms around you. "Me too. Those nights in Chicago felt endless without you."

You tilted your head up to look at him, a small smile playing on your lips. "Well, you're home now. And you brought me another present, didn’t you?”

“Oh, you noticed that golden box I brought in with me, did you?”

“Yes, can I have it, please?” you asked sweetly, your curiosity thrumming more with each second now that you had remembered it.

He chuckled at your eagerness, pressing a kiss to your forehead before reluctantly disentangling himself from your embrace. "Alright, love. Your wish is my command."

You watched appreciatively as he padded across the room, admiring the play of muscles beneath his skin. He retrieved the golden box from the dresser and returned to the bed, settling beside you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Close your eyes," he instructed softly, and you complied, feeling a thrill of anticipation.

You heard the rustle of paper and the soft click of a box opening. A moment later, an intoxicating aroma filled the air - rich, complex, with notes of cocoa, vanilla, and something tantalizingly exotic.

"Open," Bucky murmured.

Parting your lips, you allowed him to place a morsel of chocolate in your mouth.

The chocolate melted slowly on your tongue, releasing layers of flavor that made you moan softly in delight. Rich, dark cocoa mingled with hints of caramel and a subtle spiciness that lingered pleasantly. As the last of it dissolved, you opened your eyes to find Bucky watching you intently, his gaze dark with renewed desire.

"Good?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

You nodded, licking your lips. "Incredible. What is it?"

He smiled, holding up an elegantly crafted golden box. "Amedei Porcelana. Some of the rarest and most expensive chocolate in the world. I had it flown in from Tuscany."

Your eyes widened. "James, that must have cost a fortune."

He shrugged, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "What's the point of having money if I can't spoil my beautiful fiancée?" His fingers traced along your jawline. "Besides, watching you enjoy it is worth every penny."

You felt a blush creeping up your cheeks at his words and the intensity of his gaze. Bucky leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, sensual kiss. The lingering taste of chocolate on your tongue mingled with his unique flavor, creating an intoxicating blend. His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss.

When you finally parted, both slightly breathless, Bucky rested his forehead against yours. "I think I might enjoy that chocolate even more when I taste it on your lips," he murmured, his voice low and husky.

You smiled, reaching for the box. "Well, we have plenty more to sample. Maybe we should conduct a thorough taste test?"

Bucky's eyes darkened with desire, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "I like the way you think, chef."

He took the box from your hands, selecting another piece of chocolate. This time, instead of feeding it to you, he placed it between his teeth, raising an eyebrow in challenge. You leaned in, capturing the other half of the chocolate with your lips, your mouths meeting in a sweet, decadent kiss.

As the night wore on, you continued your playful exploration, alternating between savoring the exquisite chocolate and indulging in each other. Bucky trailed pieces along your skin, following the path with his lips and tongue. You reciprocated, drawing patterns on his sculpted chest and abs with melted chocolate before licking it clean.

The room filled with soft sighs, quiet laughter, and murmured words of affection as you rediscovered each other's bodies. The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow over your intertwined forms, creating an intimate cocoon that seemed to exist outside of time.

As dawn approached, you lay tangled together, satiated and drowsy. Bucky's fingers traced lazy patterns on your back as you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

"I could get used to welcomes like this," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You hummed contentedly, nuzzling closer. "Maybe I should send you away more often if this is how you come back to me."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Don't you dare. I much prefer having you by my side every day."

You smiled, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. "Me too," you admitted softly. "Though I have to say, absence does make the heart grow fonder."

"And apparently inspires some very creative shopping," he teased, his hand skimming down your side to rest on your hip.

You laughed, a warm, carefree sound that filled the room. "Well, I had to make sure you'd remember me while you were away."

"Impossible," Bucky murmured, his voice taking on a more serious tone. His fingers traced the curve of your cheek, his touch feather-light but ardent. "You're etched into every part of me now, love."

The intensity of his gaze made your breath catch in your throat. Even after hours of intimacy, he still had the power to make your heart race with just a look. You leaned in, capturing his lips in a tender kiss that spoke volumes of your shared feelings.

As you parted, you noticed the first rays of dawn peeking in through the curtains of your window. You settled your head against his shoulder, and only just registered the press of his lips in a kiss to your forehead before you dropped off to sleep in his arms in the morning light, thoroughly exhausted and thoroughly in love with this man.

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Read more in the DEVOUR collection...

Some of this was content I cut from the final chapter of the original 4-parts of the series (heat) that once I got to the end of that chapter felt like it didn't fit anymore, but it was stuff I couldn't throw away, so I just kept it, knowing it would have a place at some point in their story later, so I'm glad I finally got to share it with you!

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #mob au #bucky barnes fanfic #female reader #devour au #aspen wrote something #2200 followers celebration #askpen #kink: breeding #kink: food play

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lessi-lover · 1 month ago

Text

tied to you II a.putellas x reader

you thought you'd left alexia behind, but it turns out she was holding the strings more than you ever knew.

warnings: light smut, silk ties, dub-con, sub!reader, dom!alexia, power play, past toxic relationships, toxic alexia, choking, slight breath play, biting, hair pulling, edging.

tied to you II a.putellas x reader

travesura, venir!" you looked up from the large stack of wine cases at the shout of your name, your manager's voice cutting through the loud chatter coming from the bar.

grabbing a tray, you began to collect empty glasses that had found the top of the counter, the bar had been unusually busy for a sunday night and it seemed more and more people just kept flowing through, the rush seemingly endless.

the name trouble suited you almost too perfectly. you had attracted the attention of almost too many people who visited the bar and the nights that seemed to follow after those conversations with hopeless bar goers were ones that your manager was almost too aware of.

"need something?" you smiled, leaning on the door of the back room as your manager continued to lift box after box onto the high shelves, ones you had been told to lift, but you could never reach anyway.

"sí, puedes traerme un par de botellas de ese nuevo cabernet?" the man asked without looking back, but you could tell that the usual flex in his brow was strained as he concentrated on counting. "nos estamos quedando cortos y creo que la multitud de esta noche lo agradecerá."

james didn’t glance back and that was just fine with you. there weren't any feelings here. his gruffness was something you’d gotten used to over the course of the few last years. you owed him much more than you could ever give. though you weren’t sure that he saw it that way.

the man had been there when you'd made the move over from england, couldn't speak a word of spanish and could barely afford to keep your flat for a month. he'd taught you most of what you know and you spoke to each other in a mix of spanish and english.

he'd offered you a job as a bartender that you had no choice but to accept and had let you work in his bar, which was enough work to keep you running in a foreign country.

"por supuesto. also if you were wondering, your amiga from last week is sitting out back. looking very solitaria..." you teased, laughing at the way the man's face flushed and he immediately raised his hands to push you out the room.

james never had a smile on his face, he was just a local just barely keeping his business afloat. so it was rare that somebody, let alone you, was able to make the old guy crack a smile.

as grumpy as he could be, james never let anyone disrespect you. it wasn't uncommon that men at the bar would become a little too friendly at times as they drank more and more.

so it also wasn't anything new that old, lonely men would come onto you when you clearly weren't interested, but james always steps in and shows them out.

james knew about the other job thought. he never brought it up, but you could tell he was aware that you were off most nights during the week because of it.

your choice to be an exotic dance was one that he couldn't get you out of. james understood that the money was too good for you to pass up, and a little extra money never hurt anybody.

the look he gave you sometimes when you clocked off at night was pained, like he wanted to say something but decided against it. he didn’t judge, didn’t ask you questions, but he made sure nobody in the bar made your jobs collide. you'd come to realise that maybe that was his way of looking out for you.

the looks from past customers of yours that came into the bar didn't make you uncomfortable anymore, it came with the job and if you wanted to continue living solely, it was the price you had to pay.

besides, you really were into women anyway.

you finished wiping down the last sticky table as the bar started to clear out for the night. the crowd had finally thinned, leaving behind only a few regulars that were desperately nursing their drinks and talking to anybody who had the guilt to stick around. the shift was almost over, but you had another job waiting for you.

you briefly glanced at the clock as discreetly as you could, packing away the last of the washed dishes. looking down in relief you put your tag to sign out with just enough time to make it for your appointment.

“saliendo?” james asked, still not looking up from the boxes he was stacking. his voice sounded surprised, but there was something in it that told you that he knew where you were going. “yeah,” you muttered, grabbing your bag from behind the counter.

“got something lined up.” james didn’t need the details. he never did. he just nodded, eyes directed to the floor as you walked toward the door. "bye, james."

the cool air hit you hard as you stepped outside, the sound of the bar fading behind you. you pulled your jacket tighter around your figure, a familiar tightness settling in your stomach as you glanced at your phone.

the text was already there, glowing on your phone. an older man named rick, hotel off the main strip, room 204. your stomach tightened, but you kept walking. it was just another night, just another client. you really needed this money.

rick was just another man, another person's eyes you’d let blend into the blur of all the others. by the time you would wake up tomorrow, he would be a forgotten memory. just like the rest.

it was a routine now, a practiced charade and you had learned well not to let it get to you because it always seemed to hurt you less.

james.

your thoughts strayed to him more often than you cared to admit. he never told you off for it, but the concern in his eyes always made you wonder if he wanted, which was enough to tell you that he cared.

your little 'side job' was certainly carving into you now, but maybe it was better this way, -better that james didn’t say anything to you.

letting it slip through the cracks of what was meant to be a professional relationship, because if he did pry and the question was asked, you knew you couldn't hide behind the truth anymore.

but it was better this way, wasn’t it?

better that james never brought it up. better to keep the two worlds separate, let him believe you were just the friendly bartender, who had everything coming up and could handle herself. as long as he didn’t ask, you didn’t have to admit anything, which wasn't one you could easily walk away from.

you’d met plenty of men in this line of work. they were all the same. men who felt trapped in their boring marriages, chasing a grand escape for just one night a week. most of them weren’t looking for anything more than a distraction, a fleeting dream to make them forget their lives back home.

they craved attention, validation, someone to make them feel like they mattered, and as long as their egos were large, you could have them wrapped around your finger.

after a year of this work, you’d become an expert. faking interest, or even pleasure. it was just part of the game and you were always the willing one to play. to be honest, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel any sympathy for them, you didn't care. as long as the cash was there, you let them believe whatever they wanted.

if they needed to feel like the centre of attention, you were more than happy to help out, so long as you got paid at the end of the night that's all that mattered truly.

most people your age couldn’t even imagine making even half as much as you had in such a short time. sure it wasn’t glamorous, having to put on a show for strangers five nights a week but the money was good. and that was what mattered. the fleeting discomfort was a small riff in the financial freedom you had.

"estas aqui," he said with a crooked smile that barely reached his eyes. he stepped aside to let you in, his gaze lingering a little too long on you as you brushed past him.

you didn’t miss the way his eyes trailed over you, like he was already imagining the things he wanted to do. "i wouldn't miss a call." you said, your voice low as you placed your bag on the small table next to the bed.

you glanced around the room, the typical hotel setup: a large bed with perfectly tucked sheets, the smell of air freshener trying to mask whatever had happened before you had got here.

rick was still hovering awkwardly by the door, clearly nervous. he wasn’t new to this, but that didn’t stop the awkwardness that came with each meeting.

it was awkward because you both knew this was wrong. he had a wife, and you were sure she wasn't aware of his little weekly 'escapades'. he walked over to the minibar, fumbling with a cheap bottle of whiskey.

"drink?"

"no. no, thank you." you replied as politely as you could, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. your mind had switched into autopilot, the routine you’d perfected over the months taking over. it was better that you stayed sober, it was never safe to drink on a job like this.

besides the less time you spent dancing around, the less time you had to spend with him. rick poured himself a glass and took a large swig of the glass, clearly trying to calm his nerves. he sat down on the chair opposite the bed, avoiding eye contact for a moment before finally speaking.

"you, y-you look even better than i remembered. tan hermosa."you smiled, the same practiced one you’d given a dozen men before him. "thanks, rick." there was an awkward pause, the silence thickening as he tried to figure out what to say to you next. this part was always the same.

they always wanted to talk, to feel like they weren’t just paying for something purely emotionless. they wanted the connection, but you weren't the type to give it away for free. he just wanted to fill the silence with something before he got what he came here for.

"why don’t you… por qué no vienes aquí??" rick's voice was calm now, the anticipation of what he was paying for clear in his eyes as he waved you over, his hands already reaching out toward you.

you stood, keeping your movements smooth, detached. just another night, just another client. his touch scratchy against your skin, the stale smell of his cologne. it was all part of the job.

you let him pull you onto his lap, his hands tentative at first, then more confident as they slipped around your waist. "realmente eres algo, aren’t you?" he murmured to himself, you weren't sure if he intended to say it so loud as his fingers traced the line of your arm.

you felt a shiver run down your spine, but not the kind you think he was hoping for.

he wasn’t the worst client you’d had, just another man who didn’t know what he wanted but needed to feel like he did. his breath was hot against your neck as he leaned in, his hands fumbling at the buttons of his shirt.

you closed your eyes, letting your mind drift away from the situation, away from him. your head blurred as you slipped away, your body moving without letting your mind stay present.

your mind was elsewhere. the room suddenly felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in. you needed to escape, if only for a moment. you felt the air claw up your sides and enter your throat, cutting away your breath as the nails scraped the edge.

"mind if i use the bathroom?" you asked, your voice firm, already stepping toward the door at the back of the room without waiting for his answer.

"uh, sí," rick mumbled, still distracted as he let go of his hold on you. He stood up and started sorting the money. you didn’t need to see how much it was, just the sound of the notes being pulled out of the wallet was enough to comfort you.

the money. you needed it. this was what you were here for and you just had to get through this, let rick have his fun with you and you can pay off the deposit.

just as you were about to leave the bathroom, a sudden knock echoed from the hotel room door. your body tensed. rick hadn’t mentioned expecting anyone, and a part of you hoped he wasn’t the type to have a wife show up unannounced.

you pressed your ear against the bathroom door, trying to make out more of the voices. rick was stammering, trying to explain himself, but it wasn’t until you caught the low, familiar voice of the woman at the door that your heart dropped through your chest.

"you really should’ve known better, estúpido." she said, her tone calm but deadly. that voice. it was one you’d never forgotten, one that still haunted your thoughts at the oddest times.

your ex. alexia.

your pulse quickened. how the hell did she end up here? "no es lo que parece!" you heard rick stammer, but the rising pitch in his voice betrayed him.

"no es lo que parece!" the woman spat, her voice dripping with venom and you could feel her glare from the other side of the hotel room. “escuchar, i don’t want any trouble-" he tried to explain, but she cut his excuses off. "just go. take your money and leave."

what the fuck were you meant to do now. you're in a skimpy outfit meant for somebody else's eyes and the one woman you'd hope to never see again is standing on the other side of the door.

your heart stopped the second you stepped out of the bathroom. there she was, lounging on the edge of the bed as if she belonged there, her legs casually crossed, the same cocky grin plastered on her face that you’d tried so hard to forget. "miss me, amor?"

alexia.

the name alone made your chest tighten. your ex. the woman who’d somehow always had a way of spinning your head round, leaving you reeling no matter how hard you’d tried to move on.

"cat got your tongue?" you blinked, your mind struggling to catch up with the shock of seeing her here of all places.

“what, - what are you doing here?”

she just laughed, that same low, throaty sound that used to make you weak in the knees. “what, no hello? no long time, no see? you wound me, bebe.” you stared at her, throat dry, trying to process the feelings crashing over you.

it had been months since you’d last seen each other. hard months of trying to convince yourself that you were over her, that you didn’t need her in your life anymore.

but there she was, sitting in front of you like nothing had changed. like you hadn't left her for good, left a written note and bolted from her apartment. like she hadn’t torn you apart every time she drifted in and out of your life, leaving you to pick up the pieces every time she left.

“how did you even-” you started, but she cut you off with a wave of her hand. “rick? oh, i sent him on his way,” she said, her grin widening as she gestured toward the door.

“paid him off. he won’t be bothering you anymore.” your stomach twisted. “alexia you can't do that. this is my life to live, not yours." her eyes softened, just for a second, before the grin returned. “but you’re mine, and you know it.”

there was that possessiveness that you had tried so hard to escape. jealousy does read it's truest colours.

the thing that had always pulled you in, even when you knew better. even when you knew it would only lead to more heartbreak. you swallowed hard, trying to keep your body steady. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to just show up and-”

“and what?” she interrupted, standing up now, crossing the room in a few quick strides until she was standing right in front of you, her taller form towering over you so close that you could feel her breath fan your face as she stared down. “and remind you how good we were together?”

“we weren’t good together,” you whispered, but even as you said the words, you weren’t sure if you believed them. not entirely. the blonde smiled, leaning in closer, her lips just a breath away from yours. “do you want to rethink that one for me?”

and for a moment, just a split second, you were so tempted. tempted to fall back into her, to let her take you over like she always did. but then you remembered all the times she’d left. all the times she’d broken you down and left you wondering what you’d done wrong.

you stepped back, putting some distance between you. “you can’t just walk back into my life whenever you feel like it, alexia. i’m not- i’m not your plaything." she raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into a small smile as she leans in closer, her breath ghosting over your skin.

“can’t i?” your heart pounds in your chest, and you hate how easily she still obviously affects you. breaking up with her was supposed to give you clarity, allow you to make your own choices, but you always wound back in her arms one way or another.

“you know, it’s cute how you think you can just.. run away from me. but that’s not how this works as much as you thought it would. eres mía tanto como yo soy tuya." her hand lightly brushing the skin of your neck, gripping down hard, before softening again.

that was always her way of showing up; mess with your feelings and play with your mind in a way that no one else ever could.

“i’m working, alexia,” you say, your voice barely steady as you try to keep control of the situation. “you can’t just come in here and send away clients like it’s nothing. i built this up. it’s not another thing for you to destroy.”

her grin falters, but only for a second. the familiar flicker of defiance flashes in her eyes, as though she’s debating whether to take you seriously or not. “you call this work? tonto.” she scoffs, her eyes dark and challenging.

“baby, you're worth so much more than anything those men could ever give you.”she takes another step closer, her fingers brushing against the sleeve of your jacket, the gesture soft but charged.

"and i'm not here to destroy you, it hurts that you think that, amor." you flinch at the patronizing tone, your heart thudding as you stand your ground. “i think that’s all you ever do, alexia.”

her eyes narrow, the playful mask slipping as a hint of something more dangerous creeps into her expression. “i’m not the one who walked away, remember? you did that. you left. you destroyed what we had. not me."

“because you were toxic.” you snap, surprising yourself with the sharpness in your voice. the words hang heavy between you for a moment. “whatever we had is done alexia." you stammer out, trying to step back. but before you can finish, alexia catches your wrist in her grip, her large hands wrapping firmly around it.

her brown eyes flash with anger, darkening as she steps closer. “i never agreed to that,” she says, her voice low and dangerous. "the letter you wrote me never asked me, it's not fair for you to decide that for us, amor."

without thinking, you twist away and attempt to run past her, grabbing your bag. but alexia is an athlete and her reflexes are quicker. her hands catch you before you can reach the door and she pulls your back into her chest.

you gasp as her hand wraps tightly around you throat, cutting off your air and she presses her mouth to your ear. “where do you think you’re going, pretty girl?”

“you can’t just run away from me. you're mine. don't let yourself forget it.” she whispers in your ear, her hands leaving red marks on your neck as you wince from her grip.

you try to loosen her hands, shuffling your feet in a desperate attempt to make her let go, but her grip remains unwavering. “let me go, alexia, please.” you plead, her hand wrapping around you hair as she pulls your neck to rest on her shoulder.

"alexia you're crazy. let me go. you can't keep me here." you cry, tears falling onto your dress. her laughter is unsettling, sending a chill down your spine that feels dissimilar from the one you felt an hour ago.

“oh, but i can. you’re not going anywhere, sweet girl. not until i say so.” she presses her lips against your neck, softly kissing the skin before roughly biting down.

“you like this, don’t you? deep down, you know you do.” she drags you over to the bed, gently lowering you and it's now that you realised she's going to tie down as the soft silk wraps around your wrists and she once again lets her hands grip your throat.

"i missed you, amor, missed every inch of you." she smiles down at you, her hands combining through your hair as you move your head away from her touch. she slides down your dress and it bunches at your hips.

her cold rings made you shiver as they slid against your chest, her eyes locking with your own as she kissed the corner of your mouth.

"you can't resist me forever, my love." alexia whispered, her blonde hair falling onto your skin. "i know what you want, what your body craves. and I'm going to give it to you."

you hold in a whimper as she slides off your heels, her mouth making contact with you ankles and you hear her chuckle at how desperate you're trying not to sound. she kisses up your thighs, her hand coming underneath your waist to gently take the dress off.

"so beautiful, amor." you try to resist, every part of you flinching as your skin makes contact. alexia begins sliding her lips down your stomach, torturously slow as she cups your breasts over the black lace, her thumbs teasing, but she is sensitive to your sounds.

any attempt to deny how her touch made you feel was shut down by the way her lips felt against your skin. she takes off your bra with her teeth, grazing your skin as she takes it down your body.

her tongue slides over your nipple, earning herself a muffled moan as you try not to let her see how much it affects you. her mouth was hot as she threw the rest of the lace over her head without turning, her hips grounding into your own as she stopped you from moving.

"don't fight it. i know your body better than you." you couldn't disagree, her hands felt familiar and every touch was purposeful because she knew exactly how to break you down and she was using it to her advantage.

her hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head to the side to give herself access to your neck. "fuck. don't stop, ale." she pressed harsh kisses to the skin, her other hand travelling down your stomach, tickling the skin lightly only to slide into your folds.

your eyes fluttered closed as her lips smashed roughly against your own, her tongue exploring your mouth as you felt your head spin in circles. she had you exactly where she wanted you, dazed in a haze of your own pleasure.

once again you were reminded how possessive alexia could be. she wasn't marking you for her enjoyment, she was marking you as territory. your stomach flipped as she gripped the side of your neck again, the blonde biting your bottom lip as she pulled away.

"please." you breathed out as continues to tease you, whining as suddenly her fingers left and wiped against your stomach. "admit it. admit that you need me and i'll see about that pleasure you want so bad, mocosa." her teeth grazing your ear as you went silent, "admit it." she smiled, caressing your face softly.

alexia's eyes darkened as she studied your movements, your body sprawled out on the bed, your wrists securely fastened unable to get free. you had been a brat today, been a brat since you had left, pushing alexia's buttons in all the wrong ways since the moment she had read your note.

your body squirmed beneath the scratchy feel of the sheets, hips bucking slightly as her hands ghosted your skin. comforting but not where you wanted to be touched.

"come on, alexia." you whined, frowning as she completely removed her body from yours, only leaning over to see your reaction.

she knew exactly how to handle you. of course she did, she always knew. the blonde slapped your cheek and you gasped at the impact, cheeks flushing red in embarrassment at how easily she could unravel you.

alexia leaned, lips brushing against your cheek. "oh? does that turn you on?" your cheeks flushed further, biting your lip between your teeth to stop yourself from gasping. she didn't respond to your reaction, but the way she smiled in response spoke volumes.

"hm, you're not very patient, are you?"

your eyes rolled back as her fingers slipped into your folds once again, her other hand forcing your legs open as you tried to close them. "ale please. don't do this. just let me have this." you begged, your eyes pleading with the blonde to let you off this once.

"begging is not a good look for you, amor. i prefer it when you give me what i want." she murmured, her voice thick with desire. your eyes snapped open, glaring up at alexia, as she only smiled back condescendingly.

"whatever the fuck you want," you spat out, voice strained. ignoring your words, alexia slid her hand down, teasing the sensitive flesh with her fingertips. your body responded instinctively, hips bucking in an attempt to escape the touch.

alexia's laughter was dark and seductive as she held you down, her thumb circling your clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm. "you're such a fucking tease, you know that?" you gritted out, glaring up at her.

her response was to grab your hips and yank you back where she wanted you, her teeth sinking gently into the soft skin of your hip.

"maybe begging is a good look for you." she whispered against your ear, her voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. your breath hitched, but you remained silent as alexia looked to you in challenge.

alexia knew you were close, she could feel the tension from your body, the way your muscles tightened and released. "you should know me well enough by now." she murmured, her voice sweetly spoken but it belied the firmness of her touch, "i'm going to edge you for how much of a brat you were tonight."

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #woso #woso community #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso fanfics

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badnewswhatsleft · 2 months ago

Text

rock sound #312 (nov 2024)

transcript below cut:

ROCK SOUND 25 ICON

FALL OUT BOY

A BAND THAT CAPTURED THE HEARTS, MINDS AND HEADPHONES OF A GENERATION OF KIDS WORLDWIDE, FALL OUT BOY UNDOUBTEDLY CHANGED THE LANDSCAPE OF THE ALTERNATIVE SCENE FOREVER, NEVER AFRAID TO EXPERIMENT, TAKE CHANCES AND MAKE BOLD CHOICES AS THEY PUSHED FORWARD. FOLLOWING A SUMMER SPENT EXPLORING THE 'DAYS OF FALL OUT PAST', PATRICK STUMP AND PETE WENTZ REFLECT ON THEIR PATH FROM POP PUNK, HARDCORE MISFITS TO ALL-CONQUERING, STADIUM-FILLING SONGWRITERS AS THEY ACCEPT THEIR ROCK SOUND 25 ICON AWARD.

WORDS JAMES WILSON-TAYLOR

PHOTOS ELLIOTT INGHAM

Let's begin with your most recent performance which was at When We Were Young festival in Las Vegas. It was such a special weekend, how are you reflecting on that moment?

PATRICK: It's wild, because the band, I think, is going on 23 years now, which really came as a surprise to me. I know it's this thing that old people always say, 'Man, it really goes by so fast', but then it happens to you and you're just taken aback. There were so many times throughout the weekend, every 10 minutes, where I'd turn around and see somebody and be like, 'Holy shit, I haven't seen you in 18 years', or something crazy like that. It was hard not to have a good time. When I was going up to perform with Motion City Soundtrack, which was an exciting thing in itself, I turn around and Bayside is there. And I haven't seen Bayside since we toured with them. God, I don't remember when that was, you know? So there was so much of that. You couldn't help but have a good time.

PETE: I mean, that's an insane festival, right? When they announce it, it looks fake every time. The lineup looks like some kid drew it on their folder at school. For our band, the thing that's a little weird, I think, is that by deciding to change between every album, and then we had the three year break which caused another big time jump, I think that it would be hard for us to focus on one album for that show. We're a band where our fans will debate the best record. So it was amazing that we were able to look backwards and try to build this show that would go through all the eras - nod to Taylor obviously on that one. But it's also an insane idea to take a show that should really be put on for one weekend in a theatre and then try to take it around the world at festivals. The whole time on stage for this particular show production, I'm just like 'Is this thing going to go on time?' Because if the whole thing is working totally flawlessly, it just barely works, you know what I mean? So I give a lot of credit to our crew for doing that, because it's not really a rock show. I know we play rock music and it's a rock festival, but the show itself is not really a rock production, and our crew does a very good job of bending that to fit within the medium.

That show allows you to nod to the past but without falling fully into nostalgia. You are still pushing the band into newer places within it.

PATRICK: That's always been a central thing. We're a weird band, because a lot of bands I know went through a period of rejecting their past, and frankly, I encounter this thing a lot, where people have expected that we stopped interacting with older material. But we always maintained a connection with a lot of the older music. We still close with 'Saturday'. So for us, it was never about letting go of the past. It was about bringing that along with you wherever you go. I'm still the same weird little guy that likes too much music to really pin down. It's just that I've carried that with me through all the different things that I've done and that the band has done. So for us, in terms of going forward and playing new stuff, that's always the thing that's important to me; that there should be new stuff to propel it. I never wanted to be an artist that just gave up on new music and went out and played the hits and collected the check and moved on. It's all got to be creative. That's why I do it. I want to make new music. That's always why I do it. So something like When We Were Young is kind of odd really. It's an odd fit for that, because it's nostalgic, which is not really my vibe all that much. But I found a lot of nostalgia in it. I found a lot of value in looking back and going 'Wow, this was really cool. It was amazing that we did this, that we all did this'. That scene of bands, we're all old now, but it has taken off into such a moment culturally that people can point to.

Let's jump all the way back to the first ever Fall Out Boy show. There is very little evidence of it available online but what are your memories of that performance?

PATRICK: So the very first Fall Out Boy show was at DePaul University in a fancy looking dining hall. I actually applied to DePaul, but I never went there because the band went on tour. I think there were only two or three other bands. One was a band called Stillwell, who were kind of a math rock emo band, and then this heavier, more metallic band. And then we were there, and we had a guitar player, John Flamandan, who I have not seen since that show. He was only in the band for a week or two, and we were still figuring ourselves out. We had three songs and I had never sung before in front of people. I did a talent show at school one time when I was a kid and theatre kind of stuff where you would sing, but it was more in that context. And I was also a kid too. This was the first time ever that I'm the singer for a band and I was fucking terrified. We had a drummer named Ben Rose, really great guy. I haven't seen Ben in a million years, either, but we were still figuring ourselves out. The other thing is that all of us, with me being the exception, were in other bands, and all of our other bands were better than Fall Out Boy was. We were very sloppy and didn't know what we were doing, and so I don't think any of us really took it seriously. But there was a thing that was really funny about it, where even though we kind of thought we sucked, and even though we weren't really focusing on it, we had a lot of fun with each other. We enjoyed trying this other thing, because we were hardcore kids, and we were not the pop punk kids and the pop punk bands in town, that was like 'the thing', and we were not really welcome in that. There was a fun in trying to figure out how to make melodic and pop music when we really didn't have any history with that. It was very obvious that we didn't know what we were doing at the beginning.

So when did it begin to feel like things were finally clicking? When did you find your roles and what you wanted the band to be?

PETE: In regards to the music, I liked Fall Out boy, way before I probably should have. I remember playing the early demos and it giving me a feeling that I hadn't felt with any of the other bands that I had been in. Now, looking back on it, I might have been a tad early on that. Then as far as the roles, I think that they've been carving themselves out over time. We've always allowed ourselves to gravitate to our strengths. Between me and Patrick, we'd probably make one great, atypical rock artist if we were one person. Because our strengths are things that the other doesn't love as much. But I think that what has happened more is it's less of a fight now and there's more trust. We have a trust with each other. There's things that Patrick will play for me or explain to me, and I don't even really need him to explain it, because I trust him. I may not totally understand it, but I trust him as an artist. On the other side of that, it's also very nice to have someone who can veto your idea, you know what I mean? It's nice to have those kind of checks and balances.

PATRICK: I had been in this band called Patterson, and all three of the other guys sang in kind of a gravelly, Hot Water Music vibe. I was not intending to be a singer, but I would try and sing backups and, it wasn't a criticism, but there was this vibe that, while I could do the gravelly thing, my voice was coming through and it didn't fit. It was too pretty and that became a thing I was kind of embarrassed of. So when Fall Out Boy started, I was actively trying to disguise that and mute it and hide behind affectation. Pete would really push me to stretch my vowels because that was in vogue in pop punk at the time. There were all these different ways that we were trying to suppress me, musically, because we were just trying to figure out how to do the things that the bands we liked did. But that wasn't really us, you know? It's really funny, because 'Take This To Your Grave' was recorded in three sections, about six months apart. Over the course of that time, I can hear us figuring it out. I think a really defining moment for me was 'Saturday', because I am not brave, I am not a bold person, and I do not put myself out there. When I was showing the band 'Saturday', we were jamming on the bit after the second chorus, and I was mumbling around, just mucking my way through it, and I did the falsetto thing. I didn't think anyone could hear me over us bashing around in Joe's parents house in this tiny little room. But Pete stopped, and he goes, 'Do that again'. I was so terrified of doing that in front of these guys, because you gotta remember, I was incredibly shy, but also a drummer. I'd never sung in front of anyone before, and now I'm singing in a band and I'm certainly not going to take chances. So I thought the falsetto thing was really not going to happen, but when I did it, there was this really funny thing. Somehow that song clicked, and it opened up this door for us where we do something different than everybody else. We were aiming to be a pop punk or hardcore band, but we found this thing that felt more natural to me.

As you embarked on Warped Tour, simultaneously you were finding this huge level of pop and mainstream success. How was it navigating and finding your way through those two very different spaces?

PATRICK: I used to work at a used record store and what shows up is all the records after their success. So I got really acquainted and really comfortable with and prepared for the idea of musical failure. I just wanted to do it because I enjoyed doing it. But in terms of planning one's life, I was certain that I would, at most, get to put out a record and then have to go to school when it didn't work out. My parents were very cautious. I said to them after 'Take This To Your Grave' came out that I'm gonna see where this goes, because I didn't expect to be on a label and get to tour. I'm gonna give it a semester, and then it will almost certainly fail, and then after it fails, I'll go to school. And then it didn't fail. Warped Tour was very crazy too, I was talking about this at When We Were Young with My Chem. Both of us were these little shit bands that no one cared about when we booked the tour. Then we got to the tour, and all these people were showing up for us, way more than we expected, way more than Warped Tour expected. So Warped Tour was putting both of us on these little side stages, and the stages would collapse because people were so excited. It was this moment that came out of nowhere all of a sudden. Then we go to Island Records, and I had another conversation with my parents, because every band that I had known up to that point, even the biggest bands in town, they would have their big indie record and then they would go to the major label and drop off the face of the planet forever. So I was certain that was going to happen. I told them again, I'm going to put out this record, and then I'll go to school when this fails.

PETE: I think that if you really wanted someone to feel like an alien, you would put them on TRL while they were on Warped Tour. You know what I mean? Because it is just bananas. On our bus, the air conditioning didn't work, so we were basically blowing out heat in the summer, but we were just so happy to be on a bus and so happy to be playing shows. You go from that to, two days later, stepping off the bus to brush your teeth and there's a line of people wanting to watch you brush your teeth. In some ways, it was super cool that it was happening with My Chemical Romance too because it didn't feel as random, right? It feels more meant to be. It feels like something is happening. To be on Warped Tour at that time - and if you weren't there, it would be probably hard to imagine, because it's like if Cirque Du Soleil had none of the acrobatics and ran on Monster energy drink. It was a traveling circus, but for it to reach critical mass while we were there, in some ways, was great, because you're not just sitting at home. In between touring, I would come home and I'd be sitting in my bedroom at my parents house. I would think about mortality and the edge of the whole thing and all these existential thoughts you feel when you're by yourself. But on Warped Tour, you go to the signing, you play laser tag, you go to the radio station. So in some ways, it's like you're in this little boot camp, and you don't really even think about anything too much. I guess it was a little bit of a blur.

Pete, when you introduced 'Bang The Doldrums' at When We Were Young, you encouraged the crowd to 'keep making weird shit'. That could almost be a mantra for the band as a whole. Your weirder moments are the ones that made you. Even a song like 'Dance Dance' has a rhythm section you never would have expected to hear on a rock track at that time.

PETE: You know, I just watched 'Joker 2' and I loved it. I do understand why people wouldn't because it subverts the whole thing. It subverts everything about the first one. That's something I've always really loved, when I watch artists who could keep making the same thing, and instead they make something that's challenging to them or challenging to their audience. Sometimes you miss, sometimes you do a big thing and you miss, and we've definitely done that. But I gotta say, all the things that I've really loved about art and music, and that has enriched my life, is when people take chances. You don't get the invention of anything new without that. To not make weird stuff would feel odd, and I personally would much rather lose and miss doing our own thing. To play it safe and cut yourself off around the edges and sand it down and then miss also, those are the worst misses, because you didn't even go big as yourself. This is where we connect with each other, we connect by our flaws and the little weird neuroses that we have. I rarely look at something and go 'Wow, that safe little idea really moved me'. I guess it happens, but I think about this with something like 'Joker 2' where this director was given the keys and you can just do anything. I think a lot of times somebody would just make an expected follow up but some people turn right when they're supposed to turn left. That's always been interesting on an artistic level, but at the same time, I think you're more likely to miss big when you do that.

PATRICK: Going into 'From Under The Cork Tree', I had this sense that this is my only shot. It has already outperformed what I expected. I don't want to be locked into doing the same thing forever, because I know me. I know I'm not Mr. Pop Punk, that's just one of many things I like. So I would be so bummed if for the rest of my life, I had to impersonate myself from when I was 17 and have to live in that forever. So I consciously wanted to put a lot of weird stuff on that record because I thought it was probably my only moment. 'Sugar, We're Goin Down' was a fairly straight ahead pop punk song but even that was weird for us, because it was slow. I remember being really scared about how slow it was, because it's almost mosh tempo for the whole song, which was not anything we had done up to that point. But in every direction, in every song, I was actively trying to push the boundaries as much as I could. 'Dance, Dance' was one of those ones where I was seeing what I can get away with, because I might never get this chance again. We were on tour with a friend's band, and I remember playing the record for them. I remember specifically playing 'Our Lawyer…' that opens the record, which has that 6/8 time feel, and they kind of look at me, like 'What?'. Then I played 'Dance, Dance', and they're like, 'Hey man, you know, whatever works for you. It's been nice knowing you'. But I just knew that, on the off chance that I ended up still being a musician in my 40s, I wanted to still love the music that we made. I didn't want to ever resent it. It's ironic because people say that bands sell out when they don't make the same thing over and over again. But wait a second. Say that again. Think about that.

That attitude seemed to carry directly into 'Infinity On High'. If you may never end up doing this again then let's make sure we bring in the orchestra while we still can...

PATRICK: That was literally something that I did say to myself this might be the last time, the likelihood is we're going to fail because that's what happens, so this might be the last time that I ever get a chance to have somebody pay for an orchestra and a choir. I always think of The Who when they did 'A Quick One, While He's Away' and there's a part where they go 'cello, cello', because they couldn't afford real cellos, they couldn't afford players. That's what I thought would happen for me in life. So I went in and thought, let's do it all. Let's throw everything at the wall, because there's no chance that it's going to happen again. So many things came together on that record, but I didn't expect it. 'Arms Race' was a very weird song, and I was shocked when management went along with it and had kind of decided that would be the single. I was in disbelief. It did not feel like a single but it worked for us. It was a pretty big song and then 'Thnks Fr Th Mmrs' was easily the big hit off that record. So then we have two hit songs off of an album that I didn't even know would come out at that point. But again, it was very much just about taking the risks and seeing what the hell happened.

As you went on hiatus for a few years, you worked on a number of other creative projects. How did those end up influencing your approach to the band when you returned?

PETE: On the areas of the band where I led, I wanted to be a better leader. When you're younger and you're fighting for your ideas, I don't think that I was the greatest listener. I just wanted to be a better cog in the machine. When you're in a band originally, no one gives you the little band handbook and says 'these are the things you should do', you know? I just wanted to be a better version of who I was in the band.

PATRICK: There's a combination of things. 'Soul Punk' is a weird record. I love that record but I kind of resent that record for so many things. It's my solo record, but it's also not very me in a lot of ways. I had started with a very odd little art rock record, and then I had some personal tragedies happen. My EP that I put out far out sold expectations so then all of a sudden, Island Records goes, 'Oh, we think this could actually be something we want singles for'. I think we had all expected that I would be putting out a smaller indie record but then all of a sudden they were like 'oh, you could be a pop star'. So then I have to retrofit this art rock record into pop star hit music, and also channel personal tragedy through it. I hadn't ever really been a front man - I'd been a singer, but I hadn't really been a front man, and I hadn't really written lyrics, certainly not introspective, personal lyrics. So that whole record is so strange and muted to me. So I went from that album, which also failed so fucking hard - I should have gone to school after that one. But Pete had reached out to me just as a friend, and said 'I know you're in your own thing right now, and I know that you're not the kind of person that is going to be in my fantasy football league, so I'm not going to see you unless we make music. But you're my buddy, and that kind of bums me out that I don't see you at all, so I guess we have to make music'. I thought that was a fairly convincing pitch. It's true, that was what we do when we hang out - we make music. So we reconvene, and going into it, I had all these lessons that really made me understand Pete better, because Pete is the natural front end person. So many of our arguments and frustrations and the things that we didn't see eye to eye on, I grew to understand having now been in the position of the point man that had to make all the decisions for my solo thing. It really flipped my understanding of why he said the things he would say, or why he did things he would do. I remember early on thinking he was so pushy, but then, in retrospect, you realise he was doing it for a reason. There's so many little things that really changed for me doing 'Soul Punk' that were not musical but were more about how you run a band and how you run a business, that made me understand and respect him a lot more.

What are memories of that initial return and, specifically, that tiny first show back at the Metro venue in Chicago?

PETE: Those first shows were definitely magical because I really wasn't sure that we would be on a stage again together. I don't have as many memories of some of our other first things. We were just talking about Warped Tour, I don't have many memories of those because it is almost wasted on you when it's a blur and there's so many things happening. But with this, I really wanted to not take it for granted and wanted to take in all the moments and have snapshots in our own heads of that show. I did a lot of other art during the time when we were off, everybody did, but there's a magic between the four of us and it was nice to know that it was real. When we got on that stage again at the Metro for the first time, there was something that's just a little different. I can't really put my finger on it, but it makes that art that we were making separately different than all the other stuff.

Musically, as you moved forward, everything sounded much bigger, almost ready for arenas and stadiums. Was that a conscious decision on your part?

PETE: Patrick felt like he was bursting with these ideas. It felt like these had been lying in wait, and they were big, and they were out there, and whether he'd saved them for those records, I don't really know. That's what it felt like to me. With 'Save Rock And Roll', we knew we had basically one shot. There were really three options; you'll have this other period in your career, no one will care or this will be the torch that burns the whole thing down. So we wanted to have it be at least on our terms. Then I think with 'American Beauty...' it was slightly different, because we made that record as fast as we could. We were in a pop sphere. Is there a way for a band to be competitive with DJs and rappers in terms of response time? Are we able to be on the scene and have it happen as quickly? I think it kind of made us insane a little bit. With 'American Beauty…', we really realised that we were not going to walk that same path in pop culture and that we would need to 'Trojan horse' our way into the conversation in some way. So we thought these songs could be played in stadiums, that these songs could be end titles. What are other avenues? Because radio didn't want this right now, so what are other avenues to make it to that conversation? Maybe this is just in my head but I thought 'Uma Thurman' could be a sister song to 'Dance, Dance' or maybe even 'Arms Race' where it is weird but it has pop elements to it.

PATRICK: I had a feeling on 'Save Rock And Roll' that it was kind of disjointed. It was a lot of good songs, but they were all over the place. So when we went into 'American Beauty…', I really wanted to make something cohesive. I do think that record is very coherent and very succinct - you either like it or you don't, and that's pretty much it all the way through. By the time we got to 'MANIA', I had done all this production and I'd started to get into scoring. The band had done so many things and taken so many weird chances that I just felt free to do whatever. At that point, no one's going to disown me if I try something really strange so let's see what happens. 'Young And Menace' was a big part of that experiment. People hate that song, and that's okay. It was meant to be challenging, it's obviously not supposed to be a pop song. It's an abrasive song, it should not have been a single. However, I do think that record should have been more like that. Towards the end of the production, there was this scramble of like, 'Oh, fuck, we have no pop music on this and we need to have singles' and things like that. That took over that record and became the last minute push. I think the last half of that record was recorded in the span of two weeks towards the end of the recording to try and pad it with more pop related songs. I look at that record and think it should have all been 'Young And Menace'. That should have been our 'Kid A' or something. It should have really challenged people.

But we have spoken before about how 'Folie à Deux' found its audience much later. It does feel like something similar is already beginning to happen with 'MANIA'...

PETE: I agree with you, and I think that's a great question, because I always thought like that. There's things that you're not there for, but you wish you were there. I always thought about it when we put out 'MANIA', because I don't know if it's for everyone, but this is your moment where you could change the course of history, you know, this could be your next 'Folie à Deux', which is bizarre because they're completely different records. But it also seems, and I think I have this with films and bands and stuff as well, that while one thing ascends, you see people grab onto the thing that other people wouldn't know, right? It's like me talking about 'Joker 2' - why not talk about the first one? That's the one that everybody likes. Maybe it's contrarian, I don't really know. I just purely like it. I'm sure that's what people say about 'Folie à Deux' and 'MANIA' as well. But there's something in the ascent where people begin to diverge, you are able to separate them and go 'Well, maybe this one's just for me and people like me. I like these other ones that other people talk about, but this one speaks to me'. I think over time, as they separate, the more people are able to say that. And then I can say this, because Patrick does music, I think that sometimes he's early on ideas, and time catches up with it a little bit as well. The ideas, and the guest on the record, they all make a little bit more sense as time goes on.

'MANIA' is almost the first of your albums designed for the streaming era. Everything is so different so people could almost pick and choose their own playlist.

PETE: Of course, you can curate it yourself. That's a great point. I think that the other point that you just made me think of is this was the first time where we realised, well, there's not really gatekeepers. The song will raise its hand, just like exactly what you're saying. So we should have probably just had 'The Last Of The Real Ones' be an early single, because that song was the one that people reacted to. But I think that there was still the old way of thinking in terms of picking the song that we think has the best chance, or whatever. But since then, we've just allowed the songs to dictate what path they take. I think that that's brilliant. If I'd had a chance to do that, curate my own record and pick the Metallica songs or whatever,that would be fantastic. So it was truly a learning experience in the way you release art to me.

PATRICK: After 'MANIA', I realised Fall Out Boy can't be the place for me to try everything. It's just not. We've been around for too long. We've been doing things for too long. It can't be my place to throw everything at the wall. There's too much that I've learned from scoring and from production now to put it all into it. So the scoring thing really became even more necessary. I needed it, emotionally. I needed a place to do everything, to have tubas and learn how to write jazz and how to write for the first trumpet. So then going into 'So Much (For) Stardust', it had the effect of making me more excited about rock music again, because I didn't feel the weight of all of this musical experimentation so I could just enjoy writing a rock song. It's funny, because I think it really grew into that towards the end of writing the record. I'd bet you, if we waited another month, it would probably be all more rock, because I had a rediscovered interest in it.

It's interesting you talk about the enjoyment of rock music again because that joy comes through on 'So Much (For) Stardust' in a major way, particularly on something like the title track. When the four of you all hit those closing harmonies together, especially live, that's a moment where everything feels fully cohesive and together and you can really enjoy yourselves. There's still experimental moments on the album but you guys are in a very confident and comfortable space right now and it definitely shows in the music.

PATRICK: Yeah, I think that's a great point. When you talk about experimentation too and comfort, that's really the thing isn't it? This is always a thing that bugged me, because I never liked to jam when I was a kid. I really wanted to learn the part, memorise it and play it. Miles Davis was a side man for 20 years before he started doing his thing. You need to learn the shit out of your music theory and your instrument - you need to learn all the rules before you break them. I always had that mindset. But at this point, we as a band have worked with each other so much that now we can fuck around musically in ways that we didn't used to be able to and it's really exciting. There's just so much I notice now. There are ways that we all play that are really hard to describe. I think if you were to pull any one of the four of us out of it, I would really miss it. I would really miss that. It is this kind of alchemy of the way everyone works together. It's confidence, it's also comfort. It's like there's a home to it that I feel works so well. It's how I'm able to sing the way I sing, or it's how Andy's able to play the way he plays. There's something to it. We unlock stuff for each other.

Before we close, we must mention the other big live moment you had this year. You had played at Download Festival before but taking the headline slot, especially given the history of Donington, must have felt extra special.

PETE: It felt insane. We always have a little bit of nerves about Download, wondering are we heavy enough? To the credit of the fans and the other bands playing, we have always felt so welcomed when we're there. There's very few times where you can look back on a time when... so, if I was a professional baseball player, and I'm throwing a ball against the wall in my parents garage as a kid, I could draw a direct link from the feeling of wanting to do that. I remember watching Metallica videos at Donington and thinking 'I want to be in Metallica at Donington'. That's not exactly how it turned out, but in some ways there is that direct link. On just a personal level, my family came over and got to see the festival. They were wearing the boots and we were in the mud. All this stuff that I would describe to them sounds insane when you tell your family in America - 'It's raining, but people love it'. For them to get to experience that was super special for me as well. We played the biggest production we've ever had and to get to do that there, the whole thing really made my summer.

PATRICK: There's not really words for it. It feels so improbable and so unlikely. Something hit me this last year, this last tour, where I would get out on stage and I'd be like, 'Wait, fucking seriously? People still want to see us and want to hear us?' It feels so strange and surreal. I go home and I'm just some schlubby Dad and I have to take out the compost and I have to remember to run the dishwasher. I live this not very exciting life, and then I get out there at Download and it's all these people. Because I'm naturally kind of shy, for years, I would look down when I played because I was so stressed about what was happening. Confidence and all these have given me a different posture so when I go out there, I can really see it, and it really hits you. Download, like you said, we've done before, but there's something very different about where I am now as a person. So I can really be there. And when you walk out on that stage, it is astounding. It forces you to play better and work harder, because these people waited for us. The show is the audience and your interaction with it. In the same way that the band has this alchemy to it, we can't play a show like that without that audience.

#sir the ''schlubby dad'' in question is getting on stage and GROWLING. people are dying and creaming and dying and cr #time capsule #read the charts #fall out boy #patrick stump #pete wentz #joe trohman #andy hurley

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fairytaleendingss · 2 months ago

Text

Room For One More?

Chapter 1

Summary: After a sudden eviction from your home, your friend Mary puts you in contact with her high school friends, James, Sirius and Remus who just so happen to be in need of a roommate. However, living with a group of boys you’ve never met before proves to be more complicated than you expected; especially when they’re all so attractive.

CW: None I don’t think.

Pairing: Poly!Marauders x fem!reader

——

To say that life had been crazy lately would be putting it lightly. You had only just moved to the city six months ago, in pursuit of a career you were still yet to achieve, got landed with an office job that you were only barely qualified for, and the eviction notice on the door of your shitty downtown apartment was just the icing on the cake.

For a good few days it seemed like your world was caving in around you as you tried to collect yourself and figure out the next steps. In a city like London, real estate was scarce, not to mention expensive, and you were still working to pay off your student loans.

It was only two days before you were set to be kicked out when your new friend, Mary stepped in and saved the day.

You met Mary at your new office job and she’d been somewhat of a saving grace from the beginning.

She had been a splash of colour in a sea of black suits and beige blouses. She’d been quick to introduce herself, inviting you to join her for lunch on your first day, during which she caught you up on all the ins and outs of office politics. The two of you had become fast friends, something you were extremely grateful for.

And you found yourself even more grateful for her, as her car pulled into the driveway of the apartment building you were about to call your new home.

“How do you know these guys again?” You asked, glancing up at the red brick structure through the passenger window.

“We all went to high school together,” She explained. “I know them really well, trust me they’re great guys.”

You believed her. She’d never given you a reason not to. But still, moving into a household with three strange men that you’ve never met, is bound to be daunting nonetheless.

“And you’re 100% sure they’re okay with me moving in? I mean, they don’t even know me!”

She only giggled. “Don’t be silly! They’re completely on board. They’ve been looking for a new roommate since their other friend Peter moved out a month ago to get a place with his girlfriend, Sybil. They were just about to put up an ad on Craigslist, for heavens sake. Trust me, you’re doing them a favour. If I love you, they’ll love you too.”

You nodded at her but your heart still hummed unsurely in your chest. You took a deep breath. It was now or never.

After a treacherous journey up the narrow staircase with boxes in hand, you arrived at the door to the apartment. Mary was behind you, lugging a suitcase full of your clothes. You wished, for a moment that her friends at least lived in a building that had an elevator. You erased that thought from your mind a moment later, when you remembered that these people were doing you a massive favour. Besides, you were hardly in a position to complain.

Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door. When it swung open you had to make a conscious effort to pick your jaw up off the floor.

Standing in front of you was the most attractive man you’ve ever seen. He was fair and lean with long strands of dark hair fanning his face. He was chiseled in a way that made him look delicate, almost doll-like but he also had tattoos lining his arms and chest, which you could see poking out from beneath his white t-shirt. He was leaning against the doorframe, effortlessly cool, looking down at you with a flirtatious smirk on his face.

“Hey there gorgeous. You must be the new roommate. I’m Sirius.”

You peered up at him in shock, not quite sure how to respond to this man who had the face of a Greek God. And did he just call you gorgeous? You weren’t sure what you were expecting but this definitely wasn’t it.

“Um, hi,” you stumbled awkwardly. Your hands felt clammy even just looking at this guy, how the hell are you supposed to live with him? “I’m y/n.”

His grin only widened “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

“Ugh, stop flirting with her Sirius! And move out of the way, this stuff we’re carrying is heavy you know.”

You’d almost forgotten Mary was there until she’s stepping forward, shoving past Sirius who was blocking the doorway, and entering the apartment.

“Sorry hun, just trying to make conversation,” Sirius teased, stepping aside gently to let you in.

The place was bigger than you expected. Not huge but definitely comfortable, and better decorated. The picture you’d created in your imagination could only be described as a “bro cave” with bean bags on the floor and minimal furnishings. However, you were pleasantly surprised to see that the place is rather nice and homey, with comfortable leather furniture and a few framed artworks on the walls.

“Well, welcome home,” Sirius said, following you into the living room. “I can’t take any credit for the interior design, unfortunately. That was all Remus. Speaking of, I’ll go get him. I’m sure he’ll be happy to meet you.”

Sirius padded off down the hall, making his way to one of the rooms and banging heavily on the door.

“Remus! The new roommate is here! Don’t be rude and come and meet her!”

The boy that emerged was equally as attractive as Sirius. He was taller than the first boy, with a mop of sandy hair and dark, piercing eyes. He wasn’t as effortlessly cool as Sirius, he was more lanky and hunched in posture, but he had a sort of nerdy charm about him that was very endearing. He was dressed in a thick woollen jumper and his hair was mattered. He blinked up at Sirius, like he hadn’t quite caught up with the situation yet.

“What’s going on?”

Sirius just rolled his eyes. “Our new roommate is here! Come and say hello!”

He peered out of the doorway. Looking in either direction before his eyes landed on you. Not quite sure what to do with yourself, you sent him an awkward wave.

“Hi,”

“Hi,” he replied in return, with a tight lipped smile. Then he turned back to Sirius.

“Could you go away now please? I was having a nap.”

“Fine. Sorry.”

There door was abruptly slammed in his face.

You stood in the living room, holding a box to your chest awkwardly, and you couldn’t help but feel slightly uncomfortable about the interaction. Sirius could apparently tell, and was quick to jump to your aid.

“Don’t worry about him,” he said dismissively. “He’s just in a mood. He’s a med student and all the studying is driving him wild at the moment. He’ll come good after he gets a bit of sleep. Now, how about I show you to your room?”

He directed you down the hallway to a door at the end. Inside, you could already see Mary hanging up your clothes in the wardrobe.

“So this is you,” Sirius muttered, gesturing to the space like a magician revealing his assistant had not, in fact, been sawed in half. Then he sent you another flirtatious smile, something you were quickly learning was a signature of his.

“I’ll leave you girls to it but just shout if there’s anything you need. Although, if you want someone to help carry boxes, I’d recommend waiting until James gets home later on. He’s the athletic one of the three of us. And let me tell you those stairs are a killer.”

You chuckled, a genuine smile overtaking your face for the first time in this whole experience.

“Thanks Sirius. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” he drawled, giving you a wink.

Mary rolled her eyes. “Okay Sirius. Thank you but you can go now. We have a lot of unpacking to do here.”

Once Sirius had departed, you and Mary got to work on unpacking your things. Luckily for you, Peter had left behind a bed frame and a few pieces of furniture in his move, a saving grace considering most of your stuff had come with the previous apartment. You still had a mattress strapped to the roof of Mary’s car that needed bringing in, but like Sirius had said, Mary insisted that you wait for the mysterious James to return from work to help you carry any of the heavier items inside (With the way the others talked about him, you could only imagine he must be a superhero). Instead you busied yourself with unpacking your random assortment of trinkets collected over the years.

“So how are you feeling about the place?” Mary pried, unpacking a few shoe boxes into the bottom of the closet.

“It seems alright,” you admitted. “To be honest, I was a little nervous going into this but Sirius seems nice. I think he and I will get along.”

Mary smiled. “Oh good! I knew you’d like it. And just wait until you get to know the other boys better too. You’ll fit right in! I’m sure of it.”

You have her an anxious smile. “I really hope you’re right.”

—

It was a few hours later, when the sound of the door clicking open caught your attention.

“Honey! I’m home!” A playful voice boomed down the doorway.

You slowly emerged from your room to greet your final roommate. The guy was visibly buff and wearing a mud-covered jersey. He had matted tuft of thick dark curls and round glasses that balanced on the edge of his nose.

You couldn’t help but admire him as he kicked his shoes off.

“Hi. I’m y/n. I’m your new roommate.”

He looked up curiously before his expression morphed into a dazzlingly charming smile. He began to approach you and you held out a hand for him to shake. He bypassed the gesture all together, instead choosing to engulf you in a bone-crushing hug.

You were caught a little off-guard at first but tentatively hugged him back, heat rising in your cheeks as you felt the muscles of his biceps flex against you.

Pull yourself together!! You thought.

As he pulled away, he looked down at you, a few stray curls falling in front of his eyes. He smiled widely, reminding you somewhat of a playful puppy.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you!” He exclaimed. “Mary’s told me so much about you.”

You couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your own face as you looked up at him. You really liked James, you decided.

“How have you been settling in so far?” He continued.

“Pretty well, I suppose. I’ve done most of my unpacking now.”

He nodded. “That’s good. Well if you need help with anything, let me know. I’d be happy to assist.”

You grimaced. “Actually there is one thing you might be able to help me with?”

He raised a brow expectantly.

“How do you feel about mattress transportation?”

—

Manoeuvring a queen sized mattress up three floors of narrow stairs proved to be a challenging task. But somehow, between the two of you, you managed it.

By the time James actually wrestled the mattress on your bed-frame, you were just about ready to collapse on top of it.

Mary, unfortunately, had found the whole display hilarious, especially the moment where you’d lost your grip and send the mattress sliding down the stairs back to the first floor. So instead of offering to help, she’d taken the opportunity to film the entire ordeal on her phone. You expected it would be gracing social media by the end of the evening.

“Well, I’d say that’s a job well done!” James exclaimed as he finally dropped the material onto the bed-frame.

You chuckled. “Yeah! I mean it only took an hour and a half.”

James smiled and checked the watch on his wrist.

“It’s getting late and I really should shower. But how about we order pizza afterwards. We could have dinner and get to know each other a little better.”

“I’d like that.”

“Great! Mary, darling, you’re invited too of course.”

The girl looked between the two of you, smiling playfully. Then she shot you a look.

“Thanks for the offer Jamie but I actually have some stuff I need to get done back at home. You guys enjoy though.”

She sent you a wink as she went and your eyes widened.

“I’m going to go wash off, but there’s a take out menu on the fridge,” James said. “Pick out whatever you want. My shout.”

—

A short while later you found yourself sat on the loveseat, a plate of pizza in your lap while Sirius and James sat side by side on the couch, bickering about the most recent episode of the Bachelor. You couldn’t help but laugh as you watched on.

They argued in a way that was firm but affectionate. You could tell that they were particularly close and had clearly known each other a long time.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” Sirius exclaimed, waving his piece of pizza in the air for emphasis. “Jennifer was such a bitch! She totally deserved to be sent home.”

James gasped in mock offence. “No way! He should’ve kept her. They had a special connection.”

“Are you kidding?” Sirius blurted. “All she did was talk about herself. She barely even gave him the time of day.”

“I disagree! She was playing hard to get. Girls only do that when they like someone!” James stated matter-of-factly. You couldn’t contain your snort at the comment.

Sirius turned to you then, a smirk adorning his gorgeous face. “Well, lucky for us, we now have a girl here to settle agreements such as these. What do you think, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes affectionately at the nickname. “If I’m being honest, I have to agree with Sirius. Jennifer was kind of a bitch.”

Sirius cheered and James held a hand to his chest dramatically.

“Well you’re both wrong,” James joked. “We must have been watching two different shows.”

Sirius scoffed. “Nah, mate. You just have a terrible radar when it comes to girls. I mean, you’ve been chasing the same girl since you were fifteen and she’s still shown you no interest.”

Your eyebrows raised at that one. “Wait what? I feel like I’ve missed a chapter here.“

“She’s just a friend.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Yeah, a friend you’ve been in love with since third form.”

James sighed.

“There’s this girl, Lily, in our friend group,” he began to explain, looking rather bashful. “And I’ve kind of been into her for a while but she always turns me down.”

You grimaced, clicking your tongue in sympathy. “That sucks. But hey, If she’s managed to keep your interest for all these years then she must really be special. I’d love to meet her sometime.”

James smiled gently. “I’m sure you will soon. She and Mary are quite close.”

Sirius face lit up suddenly at that. “Actually guys, that reminds me. The band is playing a gig on Saturday and everyone’s coming. You should join us y/n!”

“Hold on, since when are you in a band?” You queried. “I thought you were a bartender.”

Sirius chuckled. “I’m a bit of both! Bartender by night and lead singer of ‘Snakes and Lions’ by… well also by night I guess.”

“Basically, he plays in a band on the weekends,” James clarified.

“Yeah, and soon, we’ll be world famous!”

“Well I’d love to come and see you play,” you uttered.

“Great, it’s a date then.”

“What’s a date?”

You all looked up to see that Remus had finally emerged from his room. He looked tired and a little disheveled. Although you supposed that was the only way you’d had a chance to see him so far.

“Rem, mate! Come join us! We got Italian sausage just for you!”

Sirius gestured to one of the pizza boxes on the table and Remus nodded, grabbing a plate to fill.

“We were just telling y/n about Sirius’ gig this weekend.”

Remus looked up at you for a moment, his tired eyes unreadable. Then he straightened himself up and came to stand before you awkwardly.

“You’re um… you’re in my seat.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh! I’m sorry.”

You shot up from the spot, feeling rather mortified by the interaction.

“It’s okay, you can come sit here!” James stated, sliding further towards the armrest of the sofa and patting the spot in between himself and Sirius.

You sat down tentatively, but Sirius threw an arm around your shoulder which helped a bit in easing the nerves.

You found yourself glancing over at Remus. He seemed quiet as he munched on his pizza. You couldn’t help but feel a tinge of frustration towards him. He’d been nothing but rude to you since you arrived and you had no clue why.

“So tell us, y/n. What brought you to London?”

Your thoughts were cut short by Sirius’ question.

“Well, I just finished my degree not too long ago and I decided I needed a change, I suppose. London has a lot of good opportunities.”

“What did you study?” James asked, leaning his head in his hand as he looked down at you.

“Literature actually. I want to be a writer.”

Sirius brows shot up. “Really? That’s great. You should talk about that with Remus. He loves books.”

“Hmm?” The boy looked up then, as if having been lost in his own world, before brought back by the sound of his name.

“Y/n studied literature at university.”

He glanced over at you, only looking mildly interested. “Oh, that’s good.”

Then he turned his wrist glancing down at the watch that he wore. “It’s getting late. If you all don’t mind, I think I will finish dinner in my room. I have a lot of work to do.”

You frowned at that. Had you done something to upset him? Why was he so eager to get away from you?

“Alright mate. We’ll see you in the morning,” James muttered, oblivious to the issue.

Remus nodded at him before getting up slowly and sauntering back into his room.

James continued munching on his pizza happily but Sirius clearly noticed the way you tensed at the boy’s exit. He leaned in closely, speaking in a low tone so only you could hear.

“Sorry about him. He really isn’t like this usually. I’ll have a talk with him.”

You sighed. “No no, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

You really didn’t want to be a point of contention between these boys.

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble-“

“No it’s fine,” you shook your head. “Actually, I’m feeling a little tired as well. I might turn in for the evening.”

James looked over at you with gentle eyes. “Okay. Sleep well.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, jumping up from the couch. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Once you got to your room, you lay back heavily against the door, sighing. You considered the events of the day. There had been few hiccups but you decided then and there that you’d do whatever you could to move past them.

You got along well with James and Sirius seemed friendly. It was just Remus who was yet to warm up to you.

As you got ready for bed, your mind ran over the interactions that you’d had so far and wondered what might be the root of his frustrations.

Maybe things will be different tomorrow, you thought, as you settled in for the night.

#marauders #james potter x reader #remus lupin x reader #sirius black x reader #poly!marauders x reader #marauders au

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ddejavvu · 1 year ago

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Hi, i hope youre doing well ☺️

Could i request another part to animagus cat reader where reader cuddles with Remus during winter instead of Sirius because its cold and he runs warmer?? Like he'll be in the common room reading in an arm chair while reader catnaps on his lap while being pet and Sirius tells him to stop stealing his gf and James is jealous/whiny that he doesnt get to have cat snuggles.

part 1 / part 2

Despite the two blankets layered in an inviting nest on Sirius's lap, Remus is the warmest person in the room. The fire crackes on its logs, offering scorching heat, but what you seek is gentle warmth, and you've found it between Remus's sweater and his undershirt. You're splayed over his chest much like a baby would be, your paws stretched out against his shoulders and your head pressed face-first into his chest. His sweater is tight enough that it holds you in place, and you don't have to worry about falling. It means that you're able to fully relax, and Sirius can hear your rampant purring from where he sits on the couch with a sour scowl on his face.

"If you just wore warmer clothes, you wouldn't be pissy right now," Remus muses, not bothering to grace the man with a glance away from his novel, "She only likes me 'cause my sweater is warm."

That's not entirely true. While Remus does tend to dress for comfort, and Sirius for style, Remus runs naturally hotter than your boyfriend. You don't have the heart to tell him that, though, so you mewl in agreement to Remus's statement.

"Sweaters are dumb," Sirius spits, and no one bothers to mention that he has a small collection of them for the snowy days on the grounds, "I look better in leather."

"Your loss," Remus shrugs, and to add insult to injury, reaches up to scratch a spot behind your ears that only makes your purring louder.

"This is bullshit," Sirius finally huffs, breaking his facade of gloomy indifference, "Prongs, get over here."

James, all too eager to help out his friend and soak up affection to boot, has no problem tipping over sideways to lay in Sirius's lap.

But the man lifts James's head out of his lap by his curls, "No, no, no, not James. Prongs."

"You want me to-?" James asks, but doesn't dare finish, because the prospect of transforming right in the common room sends a shiver of mischief down his spine that he'd be a fool to question, "On it."

"Yeah. Yeah, yeah," Sirius nods, sneering haughtily at Remus, "You're not the only one that's good for a cuddle, Moony. Look at this," He gushes, as James begins his transformation, skin giving way to tight, short fur and enormous antlers that nearly grate against the stone walls around you.

"Oh, he's a perfect fit." Remus nods resignedly, content to continue rubbing at your ears rather than chastise his friends for trying to fit a stag on a loveseat, "Yeah, that'll work nicely- ooh, careful Sirius, almost got stabbed there."

Sirius dodges a prong off of James's antlers, taking them in his hands and holding James's head steady as the oversized buck folds his knobbly knees into Sirius's lap. The back two can't make it, but James fits them clumsily onto the cushion, maintaining his balance out of dramatic willpower rather than the laws of physics.

You decide once they settle that they're no longer in need of your attention, so you turn your head back towards Remus and burrow your face back into his warm chest. You feel it shake with mirth beneath you, presumably at an overdramatized reaction from the two boys opposite you, but you can't bring yourself to care; sleep is at the forefront of your brain in this form.

"Yeah, get real cozy!" Sirius insists, calling so that you can hear him through Remus's thick sweater and beneath the weight of his hand on your ears, "Whatever! We're cozy over here, too, 'never been more comfortable- ah! Prongs, watch the hooves!"

#sirius black x reader #sirius black imagine #sirius black scenario #sirius black oneshot #sirius black one-shot #sirius black one shot #sirius black headcanon #sirius black headcanons #sirius black hc #sirius black hcs #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fanfic #sirius black fic #sirius black blurb #sirius black drabble #sirius black dialogue #sirius black fluff #sirius black x reader fanfiction

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socksracoon10 · 11 months ago

Note

Hi love here I come with my first spontaneous idea 🩷

Reader is the Commodore's sister but sick of the ways of society. When Jack saves Elisabeth, reader is the one who persuaded James not to kill Jack and also the one he happens to threat in order to escape. She’s somehow drawn to the Captain and later gives Will the keys to the cell to set him free. Jacks thoughts circle around her, too and they reunite when she swings last minute from the Dauntless over to the Interceptor to join the pirates making way❣️

Curious of The Seas

A/N: Literally fell in love with your ask oh my god, couldn't stop thinking about it before I began writing!! Thank you so much for this request! Pairings: Jack Sparrow x F!Reader, Will Turner x F!Reader (Platonic), James Norrington x F!Reader (siblings)

"Don't slouch, stand straight," Commodore Norrington hissed at you. You glared at your brother, curving your lips downward. You hated how strict and loyal he was to the British Crown and how he enforced his rules onto you, despite being his "precious baby sister."

Your brother didn't hate you, but he sure did a good job of making you hate him. He was pacing his quarters back and forth, rehearsing what he would say to Miss Elizabeth Swann upon meeting her. You rolled your eyes at the pathetic scene, realizing that if your brother were to marry Miss Swann you were next on the list for the most eligible bachelorette in Port Royal. Your body cringed at the thought and you wriggled your back to shake off the eerie feeling crawling down your spine and focused on trying to ease your brother at the moment.

"James, there is no point in stressing over something as simple as this. Tell her you are in love with-" You began but frowned when he interjected,

"Love? Don't be ridiculous!"

"So, you're not in love with her?" You inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"No, no, I very much am in love with her. But it is not proper for a man such as myself to say trivial things to the daughter of the Governor!" Your brother reasoned and you sighed in an exasperated tone, shifting your gaze out the window.

Elizabeth had stared at you with a quizzical look on her face when your brother and you had first approached her. You both shared the same expression of disdain for the situation. It was very clear to see that she was indifferent to your brother and surely was the very last man that she had any interest for. You, on the other hand, dearly loved your brother and wanted to save him from any heartache that she would cause him. You chewed your lip nervously, watching them exchange a few words of greetings before walking away. The commodore glanced over his shoulder, mouthing a few warnings to reign your behavior in for the biggest moment of his life before stalking away.

Huffing in annoyance, you picked the ends of your dress up and marched past the Governor who was just about to start a conversation with you. He awkwardly shut his mouth and watched you walk away to stand on the other corner of the pillar where your brother and Elizabeth stood. He leaned backward to get a good look at you, sending you another glare before returning his full attention to the woman in front of him with a nervous smile. You sighed, gazing out to the sea. Your brother had taken you once beyond Port Royal when you were a little girl and he swore it was something he very much regretted; all you could ever do since then was talk about sailing the seas. You desired to travel across the world, collect artifacts, and live a free life. Your brother scoffed at your desires, stating that he would rather die than see his little sister galloping around like a pirate of all creatures.

As you gazed out into the horizons with a look of yearning, you heard the loudest splash from below. Peering over the edges of the wall, you frowned at the ripples that seemed to bloom near the rocks and you instantly pulled back from your position and walked around to notice your brother screaming Elizabeth's name.

"What did you do?" You exclaimed, resting a hand on his shoulder. He pulled away from your grasp, beginning to take his coat off but you grabbed hold of him,

"The rocks, James! She's lucky that she didn't hit them on her way down! Come, we can reach her at the docks!" You urged him, yanking his arm. He seemed instilled with distraught, at a loss for words, "She must've jumped by your mere presence!"

Your brother sent you a nasty scowl and the playful smirk on your lips faded away instantaneously. You knew this was no joking matter; the poor woman could've died on her way down and she was to be betrothed to him anyway. As your brother scampered off with the rest of the guards, you found your feet rooted to the ground as you stared up at the sky. Something was amiss. The clouds darkened and circled about gravely, and the sea no longer held its silky blue blanket to comfort you. Before you could try and comprehend what must've occurred, you felt an urgent tug around your arms and you sharply turned to find yourself facing the Governor.

"Come now, my dear, you mustn't dawdle around when my daughter's life is in danger!" He exclaimed and you frowned at his words, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at him. Even if you wanted to help Elizabeth, there was surely no way you could swim into the waters with this puffy dress around you. You followed him down to the docks, pushing past the British officers to find yourself facing Elizabeth coughing up heaps of water from her lungs and then... a pirate.

With all the rifles surrounding him, you nearly thought they were aimed at your brother who stood in the way. You could only make out half his face, oblivious to the ensuing conversation that your brother was currently engaged in. You peeked around the Commodore's shoulder, carefully eyeing the strange man in your presence when his eyes flickered over to you for a sharp second before returning to your brother. Your breath hitched at the moment, taking in his disheveled and wet appearance as your brother remained as the shield between the man and you.

"He's a pirate," Your brother growled, his jaw clenching as he barked orders for his arrest. He ignored your gaping stare as he continued, "Sparrow, I assume?"

"Jack Sparrow?" You interjected, your mouth practically on the floor as you stared at him. The corner of the pirate's lips curved into a small smirk,

"It's Captain Jack Sparrow, love," He smiled with a wink. You smiled back before your brother forcefully shoved you behind him once again. He made a mental note to have a discussion with you about your behavior as soon as you returned home. He took the pirate's belongings and derided him for his lack of proper weapons, but it bothered him so deeply that you were so enchanted by the man. It irked him to think that his sister would fall foolish to a PIRATE of all people. He forcefully grabbed onto Jack's arm and began dragging him off before you cut him off,

"James! James!" You cried out, and your brother halted in his tracks and sent you a menacing scowl.

"Not another word from you, (Y/N)." He hissed, and you scoffed before pulling your skirt up ever so slightly to march up to your brother,

"This man, pirate or not, has just saved your betrothed's life! I suggest you at least show some mercy upon him!"

"One good deed is not enough to redeem a man's life of wickedness," Your brother corrected you as Jack was being handcuffed by a Redcoat.

"Though it seems enough to condemn him," Jack added, and you offered him a sympathetic look before turning to your brother with pleading eyes.

"Brother, please. I beg of you, consider an alternative for this man." You prodded him, as your eyes fell onto Elizabeth who smiled softly at your words.

"Please do so," Jack muttered, before dragging his bound hands around your neck. You gasped in response, tugging at the chains as your brother panicked.

"No one shoots!" The Commodore bellowed, holding his hands in the air, "Let go of my sister."

"Only if you return my belongings," Jack taunted with a haughty grin. He leaned closer to lowly utter into your ears, "You must be regretting your kindness, do you not?"

"I don't, but it seems that you'll regret it," You whispered, as you watched the guards hand in his belongings in a bundle. Jack nudged your back with his knee ever so lightly to grab hold of his things and you begrudgingly did so, before sharply turning around to face him.

"Now if you'll do me the pleasure... my, I don't think I know your name..." He said with a sly smirk. You frowned at him,

"It's Miss Norrington to you," You spat, placing his hat on. As you placed his sword, belt, and other personnel around him, you could feel his intense stare burning deep into you. If it was of lust or attraction, you did not know and at the moment did not necessarily care. Your mind was fixated on other things, and your brother was seething in rage as he watched Jack give him a look regarding your body against his that made him want to hurl. To think his sister was so close to a gruesome pirate! It was preposterous!

As you tied the last remaining string of his belt around him, you looked up at him with disgust. Not only was he a pirate, but this would be the talk of the town, and your brother's and your reputation would be spoiled. Your brother could easily regain his good fortune, but you were never as lucky. You hated the way the women would gossip and to think it was all spoiled over one man you decided to be too merciful with because your curiosity could not be controlled made you ready to commit arson.

"Is this how you repay me?" You hissed and the pirate smirked at your words,

"I saved your friend's life, and now you save me. Besides, you did after all wish for me to live. Now, suffer those consequences. When shall a beautiful lady such as yourself realize to never mess with a pirate?" He chuckled, before harshly turning you around with his gun aimed at your head. Your brother flinched at the sudden movement, making sure you were alright.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you will always remember this as the day you almost caught Jack Sparrow," The pirate's voice boomed from behind you and the very next second you found yourself thrust upon your brother and Elizabeth. As Jack Sparrow hurriedly began his escape, he did not fail to include a personal message from his heart, "Thank you very much, Miss Norrington. I shall not ever forget such kindness!"

And you weren't ready to forget him, either. It would be for another reason. As the night raged on with a surge of pirates infiltrating Port Royal, you felt a growing desire to do something about it. Your brother had joined the Governor for his safety and left you at home to be tended to by the maids. Upon realizing that the front door would burst open regardless of the circumstances, you quietly slipped out the window in your nightly attire and made your way to the blacksmith's quarters where you knew for a fact that your good friend Will Smith would be. Will and you had grown as siblings; he was there for you more than your brother had been. He had anticipated your arrival anyway but found himself in jeopardy when his ears gathered the news that Elizabeth Swann had been abducted by the pirates. He was pacing around when you arrived and he quickly latched onto your shoulders,

"They've taken Elizabeth! I tried my best but-" Will began but you silenced him, bringing a hand to his mouth.

"I know what you must be going through. But there is not enough time. I heard you helped imprison Jack Sparrow." You whispered and he nodded his head, eyes wide as he tried to make the best of the situation, "Come, I have the key with me, we can both interrogate him and seek his help." Your hand fell to his own and led him towards the streets.

"Wait a minute," Will stopped you, and with a glance over your shoulder you already knew what he was about to say. He was going to prevent you from going. "(Y/N), I know you've always wished to escape Port Royal, but I cannot bring harm to you once you step foot onto the waters."

"Will," You chastised him, "I am no longer a little girl. I am very capable of handling my own matters."

"You are inexperienced, that's all I can say." Will rebuked your claim and you gasped at his words, before furrowing your brows,

"So are you!"

"Ah, but I shall be bringing Sparrow with me to help find Elizabeth."

"Oh, don't be so dull! I can help Sparrow and you as well. Do not prevent me from doing so! If it is out of fear that a pirate may do something towards a woman of my status, I assure you that no such thing will occur! If he dares to even look at me, I shall see to it that his eyes are gouged out by his blade!" You reasoned and Will took a step backwards, his lips parting in shock at your words. You had the spirit of a pirate in you that was for sure, and that was exactly what he feared.

"I cannot let you join. Your brother is... already facing loss," He replied in an awkward tone, considering how much he cared about Elizabeth, "He would be devasted to find you gone as well. Just stay put for now. I'm sure there shall be something more exciting for you in Port Royal."

You muttered a few unladylike curses under your breath and reluctantly offered him the key to the jail cell, "At least tell Sparrow that I was... delighted by his presence."

Will raised a suspicious eyebrow at your remark, unsure of how to respond. He nodded his head and then left you alone, as you brought your hands over your arms as your mind wandered towards the sea once again.

To say that Jack Sparrow was surprised by Will's statement regarding you would be an understatement. He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that you so willingly offered him the key to his escape, considering how he had humiliated your brother and especially you in front of everyone at the docks earlier in the day. He chewed his lip, his eyes dilating at the thought of you. The way you stared at him in defiance, your temples rising and falling with the way you clenched your jaw. Of course, who could forget the sensation of your fingers pressed up against him as you fastened his belt? As much of the ladies' man that Jack was, there was something different about you. You weren't like Giselle or Scarlet, complaining about superficial things or just merely trying to get into his pants. He could tell there was this curious spirit fighting to break free when he first laid eyes on you. The way you cautiously peered over your brother's shoulder had made him... well, he certainly wouldn't say his heart skipped a beat. He wasn't a silly little boy. He was a man! A grown man, a pirate! CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow, mind you. And yet here he was, trying to justify to himself that what he felt for you was nothing more than just infatuation that would surely pass on.

But it didn't. It never did. While of course, his thoughts about stealing The Interceptor were his priority, he just couldn't stand still without his mind fleeting over to the very image of you, dressed in that regal bright blue gown and your hair all curled and pinned to form the most exquisite portrait of a woman he'd ever seen in his life. He smirked to himself at the thought of you, wondering what you must be doing at Port Royal at the moment. What if your brother had you married off to someone else? What if you were to live the rest of your life as a boring wife to an equally boring officer? He shook his head, wriggling himself free from those imaginative concoctions. He was a pirate, damn it. He had better things to think about than just a woman he had seen days ago.

"You've got to be kidding me," Your brother grumbled as he pushed past you. You had boarded The Interceptor with him, not because you had wanted to - even though you took every chance out on the sea with gratefulness - but because your brother was so worried about the possibility of your abduction that he wished you were beside him at all times. Including those incredibly still moments of him gazing out into the sea. To him, he seemed to have an air of control, all the world's burdens upon his shoulder. This was his duty. When you gazed out into the sea, however, it was a plethora of possibilities. The unmarked territories you could claim, the desire for you to seek out treasure from all corners. You could be free. And no one would stop you. Save your brother, but that was something he'd always do anyway. Your attention focused on The Dauntless a couple hundred meters away as you noticed flocks of the British crew on small boats were paddling towards the ship you were in. Your brother gazed through his telescope and snarled at the sight, hesitantly passing the device for you to see as well. From afar, you saw Will Turner and... Jack Sparrow? The pirate? Both of them were flapping their arms around trying to make use of the mast. You guffawed at the sight, laughing at them. You turned to face your brother who quickly reminded you with his gaze about your behavior and you swallowed the amusement away as fast as you could.

The two ships - The Dauntless and The Interceptor - were locked horns now and your brother ordered you to come with him to board The Dauntless and put an end to Sparrow's madness. You reluctantly agreed, your eyes scanning around to see any sight of the familiar pirate you had so longed to see.

"Search every cabin, every hull," Your brother barked, before turning back to you, "And you stay close to me. Do not go wandering about like a fool like you always do."

You glowered at him, electing not to anger him any further as you stood on the deck. You watched him disappear among the surge of officers onto The Dauntless. You sighed, pacing back and forth when you noticed two men swing over to The Interceptor. It was Will and Jack.

Eyes widening in surprise, you tried to call attention to the situation but your cries fell on deaf ears. You stomped your foot and watched Jack cut off the rope ties, one by one. His gaze was fixed downwards until he looked up momentarily, and there you stood. He stood there for a few more seconds, completely surprised by your presence. Deep down, as much as he hated to admit it, he feared that he would never see you again.

"What are you doing? Cut the rope!" Will cried out in confusion before he followed Jack's eyes to you. Jack looked upwards at the rope still connecting the two boats before turning back to you,

"Jump, Miss Norrington!" He instructed, and you stepped forward, holding onto a long piece of rope. Upon hearing your name, your brother rushed out of the Captain's Quarters, pushing past his men.

"(Y/N)!" He yelled, his eyes daring you to make another move. Realizing that this was the only opportunity to acquire what you had spent so long yearning for; the deep blue seas, the adventure, and the whimsical treasures, you sent him one final glance before running off the deck of The Dauntless and swinging onto The Interceptor. With the final rope now gone, and the ship sailing forward at full speed your brother looked at you as if you were dead to him.

When The Dauntless was far behind and there seemed to be no danger at the present moment, you walked towards your friend Will and the pirate beside him. Will seemed elated that you were there, and he hugged you so warmly that you nearly forgot that he was not related to you by blood. Releasing you from his arms, he sheepishly stepped aside as Jack Sparrow stepped forward.

"Miss Norrington, it is a pleasure to have you on board with us. I almost feared you might not have the guts to swing over," He teased, his hand graciously wrapping around your own as he kissed your fingers with such gentleness that it surprised you. You cracked half a smile at him, narrowing your eyes, before responding,

"You may call me (Y/N), and please, I never turn down an opportunity for adventure."

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punkshort · 6 months ago

Text

Roommates | 8. forever

Pairing: pornstar!joel x f!reader

Chapter Summary: Tommy and Maria get married.

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, idiots in love, alcohol and food consumption, sexual tension, flirting, a wedding!

WC: 7.6K

Series Masterlist

"Oh, goddamnit," you muttered under your breath, pausing in your rush across the hot parking lot to tug your dress out from underneath your heel. You crouched down for a moment to examine the dress to make sure it wasn't damaged before you stood back up, this time bunching all the extra material in your fist before trotting as quickly as you could to the entrance of the restaurant.

"Slow down, you ain't missin' anythin', they haven't even sat down yet," Joel said, startling you from his post on a bench next to an ashtray.

"Oh, hey," you said breathlessly, then looked him up and down. "Were you smoking?"

He shook his head and stood up, dusting off his grey dress pants in the process. "Just gettin' some air. Tryin' to cut back."

"Good for you," you said, then nodded towards the door. "Ready? I need to get out of this heat."

"After you."

You thought for sure you would be in for Maria's wrath when you hit traffic and ended up being almost fifteen minutes late for the rehearsal dinner, but mercifully, Joel was right. The group was in the reserved banquet room but hardly anyone had sat down yet. Instead, people were mingling and laughing in small groups as the waitstaff filled up waters and placed open bottles of wine across the tables.

As you scanned around and looked for a seat, your eyes landed on someone familiar and a wide smile stretched across your face.

"Mrs. Miller!"

Joel and Tommy's mother beamed when she heard your voice and quickly abandoned the people she was talking to in favor of pulling you into a hug.

"Oh, honey, how are you?"

"Good! Late, but good," you laughed when she released you from her death grip. She kept her hands firmly planted on your shoulders and gave you a once over.

"Love that dress, my goodness. Doesn't she look beautiful in this dress, Joel?" she asked mischievously. You felt your cheeks warm and you looked down at the floor while Joel just rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Mama," he replied flatly.

"You'll sit with us, right, dear?" she asked.

"Of course," you said with a nod.

"Good, I want you to meet the man I've been seeing," she replied before wrapping her thin fingers around your arm to lead you to her table, which, of course, was shared with Tommy and Maria.

James seemed nice and he got along well with both Joel and Tommy, from what you could tell. Before he retired, he worked in construction, just like their own father before he passed away, and he seemed absolutely smitten with their mom. His arm was around the back of her chair or holding her hand the entire dinner and you could tell Mrs. Miller was adoring every second of it.

"Are you still seeing that lawyer, dear?" she asked right when dessert was placed in front of you. You felt your chest tighten as you stared down at your tiramisu and you focused on the skills you learned in therapy whenever you felt this type of feeling crop up. Take a few deep breaths, collect the data, put things in perspective. Just as you were about to answer, you felt Joel's hand on your knee and he cleared his throat.

"No, Mama. Didn't work out."

He must have given her a look when your gaze was still fixed on your plate because there was an awkward silence before she spoke again.

"No matter. Plenty of fish in the sea. Maybe you'll meet someone tomorrow at the wedding."

You forced yourself to meet her eye and smiled. "Yeah, maybe," you replied weakly. Joel's fingers tensed around your knee for half a second before he slowly pulled his hand away to pick up his fork. When she began to talk softly to James, you took the opportunity to shoot Joel a grateful smile, which he returned with a wink.

"Thank you," you whispered. "I could have handled it but... thank you."

"Welcome," he replied just as quietly. "And I know you coulda, but you don't gotta do everythin' by yourself."

Joel began to eat his dessert while you sat there, immobilized. For some reason, hearing him say those words knocked you on your ass for a moment. You were always the type to take on too much and rarely ask for help, another trait that contributed to your anxiety. The only thing that pulled you out of it was Tommy's voice aimed in your general direction. He was giving instructions to the wedding venue from the restaurant so you all knew where to go after dinner to do one quick walkthrough before the big day, so you nodded along and finally picked up your own fork.

"You wanna follow my truck?" Joel asked once dinner disbanded and everyone slowly filtered into the parking lot. You shook your head and pulled your keys out of your purse.

"No, I think I know where it is. It's not far from the hotel."

He nodded and glanced over his shoulder, checking on his mother. "You get settled in okay?"

You gave him a curious look. "In the hotel? Yeah."

The wedding wasn't too far away from home but most of the wedding party elected to stay in the hotel where the reception was being held so they wouldn't have to worry about getting a ride after drinking.

He nodded again and swiped his palm over his mouth. "Which room?"

You laughed and playfully shoved his shoulder, making him grin and stumble a bit over the asphalt. "What?" he asked innocently, but he didn't sell it. You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop smiling as you unlocked your car and opened your door, tossing your purse onto the passenger seat. As you were about to bunch up your dress and get into the car, Joel cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow, indicating he was still waiting for an answer.

"409," you said with a sigh. His tongue clicked against his teeth and he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"418. Right across the hall."

"What a coincidence." Propping one arm on your hip and the other on the roof of your car, you tapped your fingers on the hard plastic, waiting for him to say something else. His eyes drifted up and down your body before meeting your gaze once again, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. People streamed past you to their cars, heels clicking on the blacktop and soft chuckles floating in the air, but you kept your eyes pinned on each other, silently daring the other to say something more.

Against all odds, or maybe it was always inevitable, your relationship managed to mostly repair itself over the past few weeks. It was nice to have Joel back in your life again in any capacity he was willing to offer, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore your feelings for him. The morning you woke up on Tommy and Maria's couch with Joel's arms wrapped around you, holding you against his broad chest with his face buried in your hair felt like a literal wake up call. As you laid there listening to his deep, steady breaths, you tried to think back to a time when you fell asleep in his arms without sex preceding it, but you came up empty.

It felt really fucking nice, so you had closed your eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible. You felt like yourself again. You spent months in therapy wondering where that feeling went when all along the answer was right there.

"See you at the country club," he finally said before tearing himself away and forcing his feet to move in the direction of his truck.

"Yep," you said softly, watching him longingly as he made his way through the cars until he disappeared from view. You took a deep breath and looked around the parking lot when your gaze unexpectedly met the deep brown eyes of Mrs. Miller, watching you from the passenger seat of James's SUV.

You felt something happen in that moment. Something unspoken passed between you through the glass and you had never felt more seen. Woman to woman, she held your gaze and you swallowed the lump in your throat, knowing your expression was betraying you by that point, but what could you do?

James pulled out of the parking spot and you blinked, snapping yourself out of your stupor. When the car passed, you could see the knowing look in her eye, one that told you you weren't fooling anyone, and then they were gone.

The event coordinator, Michelle, was a tiny little thing who also happened to be very bossy. She probably did at least one wedding a weekend the entire summer for god knows how many years, so she knew her shit, but considering the entire wedding party had just come from dinner with copious amounts of alcohol, her patience was wearing thin. She was barking orders at the first bridesmaid and groomsman at the front of the line while the four of you stood in the back snickering to yourselves.

"Goddamn, she ain't messin' around," Tommy said quietly with a grin.

"A woman after Maria's heart," you replied over your shoulder.

"I've never felt more calm in my life," Maria chuckled softly. "There's no way this isn't going off without a hitch."

On the actual day, it would just be you and Joel at the end of the line, but Tommy and Maria wanted to observe during the rehearsal.

Michelle was making her way down the rows of bridesmaids and groomsmen, instructing each set how to stand, where their hands should be, and what their cue was to start walking.

"Slow!" she barked after a pair began walking. You saw the bridesmaid's shoulders flinch and you had to hide your grin by biting your lip and looking down at your feet.

When she got to you and Joel, you straightened up. Suddenly it felt like you were back in high school and the vice principal was about to chew you out for skipping class.

"Closer together, please," she told you, waving her perfectly manicured, blood red fingertips at the two of you. Immediately, you stepped to the side and apparently so did Joel because you bumped into each other.

"Okay, not that close," she scolded. You had to hold yourself back from kicking a foot at Maria when you heard her snickering.

Michelle took you by the shoulders and placed you exactly where she wanted, then did the same to Joel, leaving just a few inches between you. You could feel his fingers impatiently twitching at his side and you got the feeling Michelle made him nervous, too.

"Okay, crook your elbow, like this," she told him, yanking his arm up and bending it before she flattened his palm against his stomach. "Great. Don't move. Maid of honor, loop your arm through, place your fingers here, hold your bouquet at your bellybutton. Both of you, straighten your spines and begin a slow walk once they make it to the first set of chairs. Any questions?"

You both quickly shook your heads and you looped your arm through Joel's, just as she instructed, and pretended to hold a bouquet at your waist with your other hand.

When you saw your cue, you both began to walk, praying you were going slowly enough. You heard her voice begin talking to Tommy and Maria, asking if they had any questions or if anything was missed, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

"Fuck, she's scary."

You giggled and glanced up at him. He was staring straight ahead but he had a little amused smirk tugging across his face and you could see that damn dimple creasing his cheek. You tried not to think about how close you were to him, how long it had been since that night on the couch, or how comfortable it felt to touch him again, and instead focused on where you were supposed to stand once you got to the altar.

Joel dropped his arm and you went your separate ways, taking your places at the front of the bridal party, and waited for the next instructions. Tommy and Maria came down the aisle talking with Michelle and motioning towards the chairs while you all waited. You let your gaze drift over to the men and you caught Joel already looking your way. You gave him a little smile and you watched him swallow before taking a deep breath, dragging his eyes away from you.

Michelle's commanding voice cut through the air and you snapped your head back in her direction. She was explaining the bullet points of the ceremony to everybody while she pushed Tommy and Maria up on the altar between you and Joel.

"Next, the officiant will say you may kiss the bride, you two will kiss-"

Tommy took that moment to wrap his arm around Maria's waist and bend her backwards before planting a wet, sloppy kiss on her lips, causing the entire wedding party to break into fits of whooping and laughter. Michelle clapped her hands sharply and the noise instantly ceased. Tommy picked Maria back up, who was pressing her palms against her cheeks with a huge smile, and he shrugged.

"Sorry, thought we were rehearsin'."

She cleared her throat and raised a thin eyebrow at him before she continued, explaining the music would start and Tommy was to lead Maria down the aisle, which he did without goofing around.

"You two," she said, motioning towards you and Joel. You both stepped forward and stood where Tommy and Maria were just standing. "Same as before, hold onto his arm, keep your bouquet at your bellybutton, and don't begin walking until the bride and groom walk down the entire aisle, got it?"

You both nodded stiffly and, once Tommy and Maria reached the end, you started to walk. Michelle began to instruct the next couple and Joel picked up the pace a little once he knew she wasn't looking.

"You're gonna get us in trouble," you teased.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

You gasped and gave him a little hip check and then you heard Michelle calling after you to stop fooling around.

Joel chuckled as you felt your face flush with an embarrassing smile. A few months prior, a comment like that might have sent you spiraling into a pit of self despair just for simply being reminded of the camping trip, but that day you managed to let it roll off your shoulders.

You joined Tommy and Maria and watched as the rest of the bridal party practiced leaving the altar. Joel casually stretched his arm behind you, leaning on a railing so he could say something to Tommy behind you and Maria, but when they finished up and Tommy began talking with his groomsmen, Joel kept his arm on the railing. The fabric from his button down was brushing ever so slightly against the skin of your back, exposed by your dress. Your jaw was tight from the effort it took to not react when his thumb skimmed over your spine, sending tingles across your skin.

"Did I tell you this dress looks nice on you?"

His voice was warm and deep against your ear and it took everything you had not to lean back into his shoulder, it was so hypnotizing.

"Your mom kind of did that for you," you reminded him quietly, keeping your eyes on the rest of the wedding party as they began to cluster around Tommy and Maria, laughing at some story Tommy was telling them about his tux fitting.

"Well, it does. This's your color," he said lowly and you could practically feel his eyes dragging over your soft curves being hugged by the delicate material.

"Thank you," you replied a little breathier than you would have liked. You tilted your chin to risk a glance at him, finding yourself immediately getting lost in his eyes. You searched his face, trying to read him, trying to figure out what he was thinking but you kept getting hung up on all the little details about him that you loved. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the patchiness in his beard, the little scar across the bridge of his nose.

Fuck, he was perfect. How did you ever let yourself take it for granted?

"What're you thinkin' 'bout?" he asked softly. Apparently he had been doing the same thing to you: trying to read your expression, see inside your head.

You swallowed and gave your head a little shake.

"How fucking stupid I was."

His eyebrows twitched up in surprise, his lips parted and you were certain he was about to say or ask something else when Tommy stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled so loud, the whole wedding party groaned and covered their ears.

"C'mon, let's all have one more drink back in our room, place is fuckin' huge," he announced, causing a ripple of laughter amongst the small group.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

Maria and another bridesmaid hooked their arms through yours, pulling you away from Joel and through the venue towards the parking lot, laughing and babbling suggestions for their hair the following day. You glanced once over your shoulder and caught his eye, clocking the tortured look he gave you. Even from a distance you could see the longing, the curiosity to learn what you meant, and the absolute frustration at having the opportunity ripped away.

Joel tapped lightly on your door the next morning but figured out pretty quickly he was too late. You had already left with the other bridesmaids and Maria to get ready at the country club, leaving Tommy and the groomsmen to get ready in the honeymoon suite at the hotel.

He tried to get you alone for just five fucking minutes the night before but the group was too small and it was impossible to tear you away without being obvious. He could tell you wanted to talk, too. He saw it in the way he caught your eye more than once in that measly little hour spent in Tommy's hotel room. Then he got caught in a painful conversation with another groomsman about golf and suddenly, you were nowhere to be found.

He excused himself and hurried back to his room, hoping to catch up with you, but it was no use. He hovered around your door, fingers carding anxiously through his hair, wondering if he should knock, debating over and over in his mind whether or not invading your space would scare you off until he heard an elevator chime and the doors slide open and he slipped into his room in a panic.

He should have just fucking knocked.

The next time he would see you would be at the ceremony. He wouldn't be able to talk to you til the reception, well after pictures and dinner and speeches were done.

It was going to be a very long day.

You up? We got breakfast here, get your ass going

Joel rolled his eyes as he continued to gather his things after his shower, wishing more than anything that you had just texted him instead of Tommy.

Be there in 10

He draped his tux over his shoulder, two fingers hooked through the hanger, and carried a small bag of toiletries in his other hand as he shuffled out the door, stealing one last glance at your room as he went.

He rode the elevator up to the top floor and stepped out, already hearing the men laughing and glasses clinking with the steady thumping of a deep bass line through the walls. Knowing he would have to be loud for them to hear, he made a fist and pounded on the wood, rattling the door in its frame. It swung open and Nick, the groomsman who monopolized his time last night talking about fucking golf, stood on the other side.

"Joel, mornin'. Come on in, got some catchin' up to do. We're already two drinks deep." Nick stepped aside with a friendly smile and allowed Joel to enter.

"Two drinks? Shit, might wanna slow down, gonna be a long fuckin' day at that rate."

Nick laughed and let the heavy door close, then patted him on the shoulder as he headed over to the little kitchen area. "We all put our shit in the spare room. Go ahead and I'll get you somethin' to drink. Got some food here, too."

"Alright," Joel replied, his eyes drifting around the living room as he walked towards the bedrooms. Tommy caught his eye and raised both arms in the air.

"I'm gettin' married!" he shouted excitedly. Joel grinned and kept walking.

He would have to be patient. As much as he couldn't get you off his mind, he had to be present for his brother. This was going to be one of the happiest days of his life and Joel would be damned if he messed that up for him.

Nick slid a glass of champagne in Joel's hand after he emerged from the spare room and he quirked an eyebrow.

"Pacin' ourselves," Nick explained with a shrug.

Joel nodded and took a sip, the flute looking comically small in his grip, before setting it down and forcing himself to join in the festivities. And he was doing a pretty good job at pushing you from his mind for once until a few hours later. All the men had gotten dressed and a hairdresser Maria hired was going around fixing loose pieces of hair on everyone when Tommy's phone pinged. He picked it up and a huge smile spread across his face.

"It's Maria."

He turned the screen around to show a picture she took. It was of the room where the girls were getting ready, a candid shot of bridesmaids in the background getting their makeup done or sipping on champagne. The main focus of the picture was Maria's left hand extended in front of her, her engagement ring sparkling in the light, but Joel hardly noticed the diamond when you were in the corner of the shot talking to another bridesmaid with a dazzling smile that always made him weak in the knees. You looked so fucking beautiful and you didn't even have your makeup done yet.

He wasn't the only one who noticed you, unfortunately.

"Hey, what's the deal with Maria's maid of honor?" Nick asked Tommy. "She's pretty and seems like fun."

If Joel had even a moment to think, he might have caught the way Tommy immediately looked in his direction, conflicted and unsure what to say. But it didn't matter because Joel set Nick straight instead.

"She's unavailable."

Nick swiveled to look at Joel. "Oh, damn. Figured as much."

Joel nodded and cleared his throat, trying to avoid the very obvious look his brother was giving him, and took a long sip of whiskey.

Once Nick wandered away, Tommy instantly sidled up to Joel and he knew he was in for it.

"Unavailable?" he repeated under his breath. "Got somethin' you wanna share?"

Joel shrugged, trying to look casual but he knew Tommy saw right through him. "It's the truth. She ain't interested in seein' anyone."

"Hm," Tommy said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, loving the way his brother was squirming under his questioning. "How'd you find that out?"

"She told me."

"Told you."

"Yep."

"And under what circumstances did she... tell you?"

Joel frowned and finally dragged his gaze to meet Tommy's. "We're just friends now."

"Didn't exactly answer my question."

Joel scoffed. "Don't you got shit to worry 'bout, like vows or somethin'?"

Tommy shook his head. "Nah, got that all locked down. Would much rather hear 'bout your friend."

He groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Ain't nothin' to tell, I promise. Nothin's goin' on."

"Well, weddings are romantic. Drinkin'... dancin'... beautiful venue... dim lights. Might stir up some old feelin's."

Joel nodded and looked at his watch with a sigh. "Limo'll be here soon."

Tommy bit his cheek, wishing Joel would open up a bit more, but decided not to push it.

"Oughta wrangle everyone up. Almost show time."

"They're here!" a bridesmaid squealed when she saw the limo pull up to the front doors and the men slowly piling out, one by one.

"Well, guess he didn't get cold feet," Maria joked next to you as she fumbled with her earrings, but judging by the way her fingers shook, she was nervous.

You stood up to fuss with her hair, making sure the flowers that were carefully weaved in were still firmly in place.

"You look absolutely stunning," you told her warmly with a smile through the mirror. She took a deep breath and finally dropped her hands in her lap.

"Thank you. For everything. I know you got your own shit going on -"

"Nuh-uh, none of that. Today's not about me. It's about you and Tommy and I'm delighted you chose me to stand next to you today."

She smiled and reached behind her to squeeze your hand, which was curled around her shoulder. Tears welled up in her eyes and she nodded. Just one quick, definitive nod signaling the topic was closed, then stood up and brushed her hands over her dress.

"Well, let's go do this," she said, her voice wavering just a bit. The rest of the girls heard and cheered excitedly before scurrying around to check final touches on their makeup before filing out the door, where Michelle stood waiting.

"Ladies, the groomsmen just got in position and the groom is heading to the altar now. Maria, your father is waiting for you in the office. We'll hide you in there in case there's any late arrivals that might sneak a peek."

Once you all filed down to the foyer, you hung back to give Maria one last hug before she was whisked away into a small office where her father stood waiting with misty eyes.

When the door closed behind her, you gripped your pink and purple bouquet in one hand and gathered up the skirt of your peachy dress in the other and lightly jogged to catch up with the rest of the bridal party. When you turned the corner, everyone was finding their partner and whispering excitedly amongst themselves while Michelle walked around, making small adjustments to posture and checking everyone's teeth.

Joel turned around when he heard your heels clicking on the tile floor and couldn't stop his smile from spreading when he laid eyes on you.

"Sorry, just wanted to give her a quick hug," you said to him quietly as you took your place by his side. You were busy fixing your dress and batting pieces of hair out of your face so you didn't notice the way he was gazing down at you, temporarily spellbound.

"No problem," he finally managed to say, then caught Michelle making her way towards him so he quickly jut out his elbow for you to loop your hand through. After Michelle adjusted the placement of your bouquet and moved on, you finally glanced over, taking him in for the first time. He looked so fucking good, it was criminal. All the groomsmen were wearing the same tux, and all of them hand white button downs open at the collar with no tie, but Joel looked the best, by far.

Your mouth opened to tell him so, but at the last second you chickened out.

"Did you guys have a good morning?" you asked instead.

His eyes roamed leisurely over your face and the longer he took to answer, the faster your heart raced under his scrutiny.

"Yeah, it was alright," he finally said. Somewhere in the back of your mind you heard music begin to play and the first pair of the bridal party began to walk. "Wanted to catch you before you left this mornin' but you must've got an early start."

"Oh?"

He nodded slowly, eyes still trailing over you, admiring how beautiful you looked. He knew he was being obvious but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Did you need something?" you asked, swallowing the lump in your throat. You knew you should have been paying attention, that you would miss your cue if you didn't, but you couldn't look away from his heated gaze.

"No, just..." he trailed off and took a deep breath, eyes momentarily fluttering closed before he reopened them. "You look really pretty."

Blood rushed to your cheeks and you smiled.

"T-thank you, you-"

"Best man, maid of honor, let's go!" Michelle whispered angrily, snapping you both out of your daze. Forcing a smile on your faces, you waited for your cue and began to walk up the aisle.

Aside from Maria, you two were the last to enter. The altar looked stunning. Not a single flower was out of place. The white rose petals the flower girl had scattered were evenly distributed along the deep red carpet that was laid over the grass to mark your way. You passed by rows and rows of friends and family, their faces lit up with excitement while the photographers bounced around in your peripheral vision, snapping pictures as you went.

When you reached the end of the aisle, Joel dropped your arm and you stepped apart, each taking your rightful place, just as you practiced.

The music changed and the doors opened, finally revealing Maria and her father. You glanced over at Tommy so you could see his reaction but your gaze locked with Joel, instead. His face softened and he shot you a secretive wink before dragging his attention to the bride.

The ceremony was beautiful. The sun was shining but it wasn't too hot. Both of them remembered the vows they wrote, bringing out the occasional laugh or tear from the guests. It made your heart swell to see your best friend so unbelievably happy. And when Tommy dipped Maria backwards for a dramatic first kiss, even Michelle cracked a smile from her place in the back.

After the ceremony, the wedding party was whisked away to take pictures while the guests enjoyed a cocktail hour back at the hotel ballroom. If you weren't in the pictures, you spent most of your time with the rest of the bridesmaids and occasionally stealing glances in Joel's direction when he wasn't looking. Shit, you hadn't even drank anything since you had a mimosa earlier that morning and you still couldn't keep your mind off him.

It didn't help matters when, at one point, the photographer asked for a picture of just you and Joel. Under the warmth from the sun, he had began to sweat a little. You could see it from the way the exposed patch of chest glistened and when you got closer to pose for the picture, his natural scent mixed with the hotel soap he must have used that morning filled your nostrils, making it difficult to focus.

"You got your speech all ready?" he asked once the photographer moved on.

"I think so. You?"

He nodded. "Ready as I'll ever be."

"We should probably do a couple shots first, loosen up," you joked, nervously twisting your hands together in front of you.

His face lit up and he unbuttoned his jacket. "Here," he said, handing you a small flask with his name engraved on it. "Gift from Tommy."

"Nice. All I got was this necklace," you said sarcastically with a laugh and a point to your neck before unscrewing the flask and taking a sip. The whiskey burned on the way down and you felt the warmth bloom in your stomach, your muscles instantly relaxing.

"Thank you," you told him, handing him the flask. His fingers brushed against yours briefly, sending sparks down your spine, and you quickly tugged your hand back, averting your gaze. "Oh, looks like your mom's up next. Might wanna head over."

He sighed and readjusted his jacket after pocketing the flask. "Duty calls, I reckon."

You nodded and pursed your lips, rocking back and forth on your heels. Why were you acting so weird? It was just Joel. But as you watched him stroll across the perfectly manicured lawn, you knew why.

After dinner and all the festivities were over, you were going to find the courage to finally tell him how you felt.

And you couldn't be more nervous.

It felt like dinner took forever. Michelle drilled into your head that your speeches would come after dinner and before the cake cutting, so naturally the entire time you were eating, you were a nervous wreck. Fortunately you were too nervous to even drink anything else past the small sip you had from Joel's flask, your stomach twisting in knots the longer it took for each table to get served. Tommy and Maria disappeared after they ate to greet each table and be back in their seats by the time dinner was finished, so you sat picking at your food with your heart hammering in your chest, scrolling the notes app on your phone, reviewing your speech.

"Nervous?"

You jumped at the sound of Joel's voice, who had somehow slid over to take Maria's chair without you noticing.

"That obvious?"

He shrugged and leaned back, surveying the ballroom.

"Your foot's tappin' so fast it's shakin' the damn table."

You giggled and dropped your face into your hands with a groan. He chuckled and took a sip from his glass of champagne, then paused when his eyes landed on an older woman at a nearby table looking in your direction.

"Who's that sittin' next to Maria's folks?"

You popped your head up and looked, then your face broke out with a wide grin. "That's my mom," you told him without taking your eyes off her, giving her a little wave. Joel looked back and forth between the two of you.

"You look alike, shoulda guessed."

"You think?" you asked, then your smile slipped when your mom pointed in Joel's direction and gave you a face before fanning herself with her open hand. You clenched your teeth and slashed your fingers in front of your throat, trying to tell her to knock it off, but she just laughed.

"Pretend you didn't see that."

"See what?" he replied innocently before giving your mom a charming smile and wave.

"Joel!" you exclaimed, smacking him in the leg. "Stop flirting with my mother!"

He threw his head back and laughed at that, his shoulders bobbing up and down and his hand clutching his stomach and just seeing him so happy and carefree made you smile and laugh, as well. Once he regained his composure he straightened up in his chair, his cheeks tinted pink and his eyes bright as he looked at you.

"Don't worry, baby, don't wanna make you jealous."

Your jaw dropped in shock and your brow furrowed but your heart fluttered excitedly in your chest at the term baby coming from his lips again. Before you even had a chance to formulate a response, he cleared his throat. "I'm just kiddin'. Tryin' to take your mind off the speech. Did it work?"

Did it work? This man had you spinning around in circles and he didn't even see it.

"Yes," you mumbled, mind still reeling. Baby, baby, baby.

"Good, 'cause we're up," he said, his eyes drifting over your shoulder, spotting the newlyweds heading your way. He stood and vacated the chair so Maria could sit back down.

You took a deep, shaky breath when the DJ cut the music and made the announcement that the speeches were to begin, and the whole ballroom fell silent, turning in their chairs to get a better look at the long table where you sat up front.

Joel went first, which initially you were relieved, but then about thirty seconds into his speech you realized you wish you could have just gone and gotten it over with because you could hardly focus on anything he was even saying. You faintly remembered him talking about growing up with Tommy and telling some embarrassing story that made everybody laugh but then ended up getting the guests teary eyed when he turned it around at the end, using the story as a sweet example of how Joel always looked out for him and he was now passing that torch onto Maria.

After a polite round of applause, Joel sat down and all eyes turned to you. The DJ told everybody your name, announcing you were the maid of honor, before walking over to hand you the microphone. You cleared your throat before standing on shaky legs and forcing a nervous smile for the room.

"Good evening," you began, then repeated your name. "I have not only the pleasure of being Maria's maid of honor, but also her best friend."

You stole a glance in her direction and you felt your nerves begin to subside when you saw the look in her eye and the warm smile stretched across her face.

With a deep breath, you confidently launched into your speech. You began by telling the guests how you met, how you bonded over one particularly painful meeting at work and afterwards got sushi together for lunch. Ordering the same dish by happenstance cemented your relationship and from then on you saw each other through countless breakups, illnesses, birthdays and even some vacations. After telling the room a silly story about a road trip the two of you took one year with no destination or goal in mind other than to have fun and live in the moment with the promise to stay close forever, you paused and looked down at Maria next to you.

"And then she met Tommy," you said, eyes drifting in his direction. "I knew from the day she came home and told me about him that he was different."

Tommy smiled and wrapped an arm around Maria's shoulders.

"I don't think I've ever seen two people more perfect for one another," you continued, turning your attention back to the room. "At the center of everything, they're best friends. They accept each other, faults and all." Tears began to well up in your eyes, trying not to draw comparisons to your own life as you pushed through. "And that's how I knew early on we would end up here today."

You looked back over at the newlyweds, Maria leaning into Tommy's shoulder, pure happiness radiating from them both as they gazed at one another.

Then you locked eyes with Joel and your throat went dry.

He was looking at you, hanging on your every word, and the expression on his face told you he must have been thinking the same thing as you. Unable to tear yourself away from the emotion behind his eyes, you continued your speech for the room, but it felt like you were talking directly to him.

"When two people love each other fiercely, when they're willing to do whatever it takes to make things work, when they learn to open their hearts and make sacrifices for the sake of that other person, their partner, their love... I believe that is what makes a relationship last." You dragged your eyes away from Joel and looked at Tommy and Maria once again. "And you've both proven time and time again you're more than capable of doing that for one another."

Maria swiped a tear from the corner of her eye and you picked up your glass, watching as the rest of the room did the same.

"I'd like to wrap up with this quote I found online, so I can't take credit," you said with a ripple of soft laughter echoing through the ballroom. "'Love is a friendship that has caught fire. So may your love burn bright for years to come'. Here's to my best friend and her new best friend."

After the room collectively toasted to the new couple and rewarded you with a round of applause, you slumped down in your seat with a sigh of relief. Maria tugged your shoulders, pulling you in for a hug that squeezed all the air from your lungs, whispering her thanks in your ear, then Tommy followed up with the same and a kiss on your cheek.

You tossed back the rest of your champagne and immediately looked around for a server to ask for more. Now that your nerves were finally at ease, you wanted to enjoy the rest of the party and relax, temporarily pushing the conversation you planned to have with Joel from your mind.

Tommy and Maria stood to go cut the cake, diverting the guests's attention so you could slip away to the bar with your empty glass. As you were leaning up against the bar, waiting for the bartender to refill your glass, you felt a familiar presence sidle up next to you. When Joel brushed his palm against your lower back, you had to suppress the shiver that tried to make it's way down your spine.

"Can I get one of those?" he asked the bartender when she returned with your drink. She nodded and placed a cocktail napkin on the bar before disappearing.

Joel's shoulder nudged against yours and he tilted his face towards you. "Nice speech."

You smiled and continued to stare down at the tiny bubbles rising and popping in your drink. "Thanks. Yours was good, too."

"Here you go," the bartender said, placing an identical glass next to yours. Joel nodded his thanks and lifted it up, raising it between your bodies for a toast. You obliged, gently clinking your flutes together before taking a small sip and turning around to look out over the ballroom. Across the way, Tommy and Maria were posing with their cake while photographers and guests took pictures.

"I liked that quote. 'Bout friendship that turns to love," he said nonchalantly. You bit your lower lip and tried to tamp down the rise of emotion in your chest, your nerves in desperate need of some rest.

"Yeah, I thought it was fitting."

Your eyes flickered to his, those deep brown eyes you'd had the pleasure of seeing in every shade, then to his mouth, his soft looking lips so inviting, you wondered what they tasted like in that very moment. Probably champagne, but you were willing to bet you would get a hint of chocolate from the wedding favors that were placed at every seat because you knew him well enough to know he couldn't resist sweets.

"You ever have that?" he asked, and you thought you could hear a little tremor to his voice. "Friendship that turns into love?"

Your heart hammered wildly in your chest as you took a shaky sip from your champagne, eyes now pinned on the newlyweds but you were hardly absorbing a thing that was happening. Your mind was racing with the implication behind his loaded question and you could hardly remember your own name.

Taking a deep breath, you answered him.

"Once," you said softly, then slowly turned your head, gazing up at his side profile while he appeared to be taking in the party, but you could see his pulse thrumming fast in his neck, his tanned skin twitching with every nervous beat of his heart. "You?"

He hummed and finally tilted his head in your direction, eyes drifting up and down your face, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Yeah. Once."

You felt yourself practically melt under his gaze, your muscles going lax, your body being pulled like a magnet towards him. Was it too late? Did you miss your chance? Or was it possible something was still there, something that could be salvaged? Joel murmured your name, his hand rising from his side, and you had a feeling you were about to get your answer when a familiar voice shattered the moment.

"Joel! C'mon, take pictures with my phone while I dance with your brother. James can't see in this lighting, he won't get it right."

As Mrs. Miller got closer, she noticed you next to him for the first time and it was impossible to miss the look of regret on her face when she realized she interrupted your conversation.

"Oh, nevermind, I'll find someone else," she said, clutching her phone to her chest, eyes sliding back and forth between you both. You cleared your throat and stepped away with a smile.

"No, you go on. I have to find my mom and say hi."

Before he had a chance to stop you, you slipped away, weaving through the crowd until you disappeared from view.

"I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to intrude."

Joel shrugged and tossed back the rest of his champagne. "It's alright, Ma. Go dance with Tommy, I got it," he said, holding a hand out for her phone. Hesitantly, she placed it in his palm, then reassuringly rubbed her hand up and down his arm.

"Will you save me a dance for later?"

Joel gave her a pained smile and nodded. "'Course, Mama."

She pressed her lips into a thin line, easily picking up on her eldest son's dismay once you left. Right when they were about to reach the dance floor, she stopped and cupped Joel's face with both hands, looking up at him with an adoring smile.

"It's all gonna work out, honey. I promise."

Joel almost feigned confusion, almost put up his walls so to protect his feelings. But in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he sighed and nodded.

"I hope so."

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ellecdc · 5 months ago

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pls tell me u will write a part 2 for not alone?🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

took me a while to get this to feel cohesive (also couldn't decide for the longest time what I wanted the outcome to be for a few people so that took a while to figure out) and I'm still not 100% sure it reads cohesively but I hope you all like it <3

poly!marauders x fem!reader who they are 'worried' about...whatever that means [2.2k words]

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

CW: hostage situation, attempted overtaking of camp, brief and hardly noticeable implied suggestion of SA, death of minor and unnamed character, blood, injury, Sirius being an arrogant son of a bitch even when his life is at risk

You have quickly come to realise why the boys chose this location to set up camp since agreeing to stay with them.

It was in a rural, secluded area with a small population prior to the End Of The World As You Knew It which left it almost next to empty now, but it was still in walking distance of a small town with various shops that they could pilfer when they began running low on supplies.

There was a creek about half a kilometre behind the barn that they could use to collect drinking water and also to bathe and wash their clothes.

And need to bathe and wash your clothes did you ever.

So, whilst “keeping an eye on the encampment” (which was really just a polite translation of none of the boys trusting you enough with their safety to bring you along on a run into town), you opted to head down to the creek to clean up.

The water was freezing, but you breathed through the pain in your toes and fingers as you waded into the water, reminding yourself that feeling pain meant you were alive - that you were still here.

You used to fear pain - before - but now you almost craved it; now you found comfort in the discomfort, knowing that it meant you had survived another day.

Soon enough your body acclimated to the cool, running water and you submerged yourself into the deepest part to let the steady flow wash away the layers of grime, dirt, and sweat that you were likely covered in.

There was a time in your life you probably would have felt rather horrified that three very attractive men had seen you in such a state - but it seemed that there was no room for vanity or ego in an apocalypse.

Once you were cold enough that you were sure you had squiggle lines surrounding your being like an old cartoon character, you used a rock to scrub at your clothes, feeling (though cold) quite peaceful as you listened to the trickling water and various birds singing around you.

You laid your soaked clothes on a boulder in the sun to dry and pulled on a second set of clothes - or rather, your only other set of clothes. You wondered for a moment if you should have more - how many sets of clothes should one have in an apocalypse? You couldn’t bear the thought of having to carry around a third change of clothes, so came to the conclusion that you were fine with just the two.

You were interrupted in your musings when you heard your name being shouted.

“James?” You called back, hastily finishing tying your shoes before grabbing your gun.

But it was Sirius you saw first, sprinting through the bushes and staring at you with a mixture of dread and outrage.

“Is everything okay?” You asked him as he stalked towards you.

“Where the fuck were you?!” He barked instead of answering, looking like he was just itching to grab you roughly by your shoulders.

“I- what? I was here? What happened? Is everything okay?” You continued, not moving your eyes from the fuming man in front of you as you heard James and Remus step through the bushes Sirius had just come bursting through.

“No, everything is not okay; the fuck were you thinking just taking off and not saying anything!?” He berated you.

“Pads.” Remus warned carefully; slightly breathless from chasing the long-haired man over to you.

“You’re a fucking piece of work.” Sirius spat with finality before turning and shouldering his way past Remus and James, disappearing through the bushes on his way towards the barn.

“Was the trip not successful?” You asked quietly once you could no longer hear Sirius storming away.

“No… it was.” James offered cautiously.

“He was just… worried about you, dove.” Remus placated.

You shot him an unimpressed glare. “He was worried about me, not about me.” You muttered back, shoving your gun back into your bag and running your fingers through your wet hair that was leaving damp patches on your shirt. “If you guys don’t want me here, just say so, but if you’re going to keep me around you’re going to have to start trusting me.”

“We do trust you.” James argued, causing you to scoff derisively as you slung your bag over your shoulder.

“Not enough to join anyone on excursions! And not enough to take a night-watch shift alone; but sure, add taking a fucking bath to the list of things you definitely trust me to do.”

You didn’t wait for a response before you were stalking back to the barn, leaving your clothes behind to dry for the rest of the afternoon.

You were just about to push through the slightly open door (none too gently, either, mind you) when you heard Sirius’ voice.

“There’s no one else; I’m alone.”

Ice cold dread seeped into your bones as you held your breath in wait for a response.

“Are ya now?” A cocky voice taunted. “This seems like quite the setup for one bloke.”

You crept along the edge of the barn until you found a hole you could peek through.

Sirius was kneeling with his hands up in surrender whilst three men stood before him - one man loomed over him and the other two formed a blockade between him and the barn door as well as the stairs to the loft.

“What can I say?” Sirius countered. “I’m quite the bloke.”

The man currently interrogating Sirius was apparently not interested in his haughty quips and slammed the butt of his rifle into Sirius’ jaw, causing him to fall over.

You quickly looked over your shoulder, ears straining to see if you could hear Remus or James following you back, and you prayed to a God that you weren’t even sure you believed in anymore that they had decided to stay at the creek to give the two of you a chance to cool down.

You crept back along the side of the building slowly before pulling yourself up the ladder to the hay hood that Remus had put up as an emergency exit.

You could kiss that brilliant, brilliant man right on the mouth for it now.

You crouched low and snuck over to look beyond the edge of the loft; the man with the rifle was the only one with a firearm from what you could see, the other two men holding only a crowbar and machete.

You silently opened your rucksack, pulled your gun out and put a knife between your teeth as you edged closer to the beams so you were effectively standing directly atop of the man currently looming over top of Sirius.

“I’m not gonna ask you again, where the fuck are the others?” He spat at him.

“We heard the lot of you arguing - we could just finish you off and go looking for them, if that’s what you prefer.” One of the cronies added tauntingly.

“You’d be looking for an awful long time.” Sirius grunted as he spat blood out from his mouth. “Seeing as I’m alone.”

“Stop fucking lying.” The interrogator barked as he landed a kick to Sirius’ ribs. “Pretentious or not, one bloke doesn’t need four sleeping bags.”

“How do you know I, hmph, didn’t find it like this?” Sirius choked out as he rolled onto his back where he spotted you in the rafters.

You brought your finger to your lips, and Sirius let his head roll back towards the guy so as to not alert him to your presence.

You watched as one of the guys - the one with the machete - started poking around the makeshift kitchen area, and the other moved towards the door to keep watch.

Taking the split attention of the group to your advantage, you waited for Sirius to look back up at you before you jumped from the rafters.

Sirius rolled out of the way just before you landed on the interrogator, the two of you crashing to the ground - though you were the only one prepared for the impact - causing the rifle to slip out of his grasp which you kicked towards Sirius.

You slipped the knife from between your teeth and held it against the interrogators throat and pointed your gun at the machete wielding man, firing a shot which hit him in the right shoulder.

The man with the crowbar who had been stationed near the door made for you when Sirius shot the rifle, the bullet grazing the man's thigh and bringing him to his knees.

Your ears rang when an elbow met your temple right before a fist connected with your mouth as the interrogator forced you off of him.

“Is this why you were lying?” The man spat as he stood above you. “Trying to keep this thing all to yourse-”

Sirius shot the rifle again, silencing the interrogator for good as he fell to the ground with a thud.

Apparently, the machete wielding man didn’t deign to wait around and see how things played out after you’d shot him in the shoulder and had fucked back off from whence he came, so you and Sirius pointed your firearms at the last man still standing (or… you know, breathing at least) who seemed to have the sense to raise his hands in surrender.

Remus and James appeared at the barn door, then - both winded from clearly having run at the sound of shots being fired - to find the two of you holding the remaining captor captive.

“Nice of you to come by, boys.” Sirius joked as he lowered the rifle with a pained groan now that Remus and James each had a weapon pointed at the attempted usurper.

“What the fuck just happened?” Remus barked as he took in the body on the ground and the state of each of you at the same time James murmured “we thought you were firing at each other”.

“Oh, take a wild guess.” Sirius muttered bitterly, hissing in pain as he lowered himself into a chair.

“How many were you?” Remus barked at the man, sounding so unlike himself that it actually made you flinch.

“Fo-four, four of us and a 12 year-old. Us…three and then a woman and the child stayed back.” He responded quickly.

“From around here?” James continued.

“No…passing through.”

Remus looked up from him to share a look with Sirius; a well practiced silent conversation passing between the two of them.

“Keep fucking moving then.” Remus gruffed as he grabbed the bloke by the collar of his shirt and threw him out the door.

Your - for all intents and purposes - home fell eerily silent then, save the sound of your attempted assailant’s leg dragging along the gravel road as he stumbled away from the barn.

“You alright?” Remus asked finally as he let out a breath.

“Fine, moons. Never better.” Sirius muttered.

You were too busy watching the blood pooling around the interrogators body to realise your companions were waiting for your response.

You looked up at the lingering silence to see all of their eyes on you.

“M’fine.” You offered.

James hummed in acknowledgement, though you could sense disbelief in his tone. “Rem and I will get rid of him, okay? Please try not to get into any more altercations whilst we’re gone?” He tried to joke, but there was a lingering anxiety in his voice as he and Remus began wrapping the body up in a blue tarp.

“Do not go to sleep until we’re back; either of you.” Remus added before muttering something under his breath about concussions and how someone not concussed ought to be on watch in case they come back, except “they” was replaced with “those” and then some Welsh word that you were sure was simply very unflattering.

Once they had left, you and Sirius sat in silence as you both grappled with what had just happened, and alternatively, what had just almost happened.

You weren’t sure what you might have looked like - though the metallic taste of your teeth let you know that you at the very least had a busted lip - but Sirius’ jaw where the rifle had hit him was already turning a purple colour, his chin was scraped and bleeding from hitting the concrete flooring, and he had a protective hand placed over the ribs that were kicked.

You wordlessly placed a bowl of water in front of Sirius before moving to your seat with your own bowl to clean the blood from your persons.

You could feel his eyes trained on you as you wiped away blood that was staining your face; likely equal parts your own and someone else's.

“Don’t go down to the river alone… please.” You heard him say quietly suddenly, feeling your eyes roll to the back of your head as you let your two arms fall from their tasks.

“Are you still on this? Haven’t I proven my trustworthiness yet? Honestly, I-”

“It’s not safe.” Sirius interrupted; a strange look crossing his face as his brows furrowed at you. “It’s not safe.” He repeated, quieter this time.

He stood abruptly then; abandoning his bowl of water and grabbing a pack of cigarettes before disappearing around the side of the barn for a smoke.

Oh.

So apparently he had been worried about you, not about you.

And though you really wanted to feel embarrassed that they had picked anything like that out for you, you also couldn’t help but notice that a new jumper, trousers, and some knickers had been folded and placed on your sleeping bag for you.

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inkdrinkerworld · 5 months ago

Text

High Hopes 3

part one part two

cw: reader comes from a very tense and abusive home, verbal abuse, allusion to physical abuse, bad sibling relationships, fluff, angst, Remus is a sweetheart and the best almost bf ever

wc: 7.5k

Remus: On a scale of one to ten, how mad would you be if I said I found out your birthday passed and got you a gift?

You read the text as you’re exiting your class building and frown. Your birthday passed just after the new year, and you hadn’t told Remus because you hadn’t even been in the country.

In lieu of an answer, you call him. Remus picks up on the second ring.

“What did you get me?” He laughs down the line and you feel your stomach twist into knots.

“Hello to you too, princess.” Since the Summer weekend sleepover thing (you’d still not decided what to call it), Remus had decided that was your new nickname and as much as you pretended to hate it, you loved it more than the others.

“Hi Remus,” you breathe, eyes on the street as you cross and begin the walk back to your apartment. “What did you get me?”

You can just tell he’s shaking his head. “It’s a present, why would I spoil that surprise?”

“Because I’m impatient?” You rebut quickly. The walk back to your apartment is short, but the lingering winter makes it feel never ending.

It also doesn’t help that you’d chosen style over cosiness- you’re in a long sleeved baby blue dress and a pair of boots that barely lick past your ankles.

“I’m at your apartment, dove. I’ll give it to you when you get here.”

Your eyes widen at the same time your heart constricts. “Remus, I’ve got like ten minutes left on my walk back!”

As easily as he suggests anything to you, “Do you want me to come get you? It’s minus four right now.”

“No, that wouldn’t make any sense,” you hear his car start. “Remus Lupin, I’m serious, I’m like one street away.”

“So I’ll cut your walk short,” The engine roars across the line. “It’s cold, baby.” The fondness in his voice and his sparsely given ‘baby’ is what makes you stop.

“Fine,” you try to sound much grumpier than you are and fail. “I’m at the coffee shop on the left.”

Ten seconds later, Remus is there; his grey car collecting droplets of fine snow.

“Hi,” you say as you slide in the passenger seat, your hands rubbing together making Remus frown.

“And you wanted to finish the walk.” He flicks on the heating as he turns and goes back where he came.

“How did you find out about my birthday?” You ask, fiddling with your bag to get out your water bottle.

“Marlene mentioned that you wouldn’t be able to spend it with her this year and I asked when it was.”

You hum, “It’s a little inconvenient having your birthday just after the new year,” Remus looks at you funny. “I like winter, don’t get me wrong, but a spring birthday would’ve been ideal. Like maybe in March.”

He rolls his eyes, pulling into your parking lot.

“How do you know when mine is?” He asks, helping you out of the car and then grabbing a bag out of the backseat.

“Sirius and James talk a lot. Your gift is currently in transit.”

Remus’ eyes shoot up, “When have you been hanging out with those two?” The ‘without me’ is implied and you look at him with a sly smile.

“Jealous, Remus?”

He tuts, figuring you out immediately. “You’re not winding me up, princess.” He holds the door open for you as you walk in and Remus sighs as he gets a whiff of your newest perfume.

The couple of times he’s been to see you since the start of the semester, you’ve been wearing this intoxicatingly creamy vanilla perfume that has just a touch of something spicy to it that has been driving him mad.

“Why would I be winding you up?” You toe off your boots and then look at him. “I’m gonna take the fastest shower known to man, but there’s food in the fridge and cookies in a Tupperware somewhere on the counter.”

Remus shakes his head, setting his shoes beside yours. “I’ll wait for you, take your time.”

You’re out of the bathroom in twenty minutes, in a matching jewel blue set of loungewear and a pair of socks.

Your hair is tied back exposing a tiny tattoo behind your ear that Remus wants desperately to kiss. He’s on his laptop when you get out, typing away at what you assume is his book.

Remus doesn’t go here, he’s got a fancy writing degree already and he’s got an editing gig that he tries playing off as no big deal- but it is.

He’s on ‘vacation’ though- meaning, he’s been on sick leave for the last four days so he can spend your first week back at school with you. Not that you know he’s been using his sick days for you.

“Is roti okay? My mama dropped off some this morning.” Remus has yet to meet the old woman, but the fondness that overtakes your tone lets him know she’s at least half as lovely as you.

“It’s perfect, dove. What do you want to look at?” He sets about finding your newest psychological thriller- Hannibal- and then makes his way into the kitchen to help you.

“How was your day? I forgot to ask.” You mumble as you crack the ice into glasses before Remus pours some soda into them.

“It was alright, got a couple more pages done of the book and then got high with Sirius.”

You smile, a quiet smile that Remus thinks is going to stop his heart. “How was your classes?”

You groan, “Long, boring and even longer.” He chuckles, leaving you to bring the glasses while he brings both plates to the living room.

Remus sits in the corner of the sofa, he isn’t as slick as he thinks he is for sitting with a clearer view of the front door than you have.

You appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.

“Can I open the gift first?” Remus watches you with a rapt curiosity. He thinks you’re akin to a kid on Christmas- eyes bright, and hands shaking as you practically bounce in your seat.

“Yeah baby,” he can’t help the sticky affection that slowly coats his words- an affection that only grows and spreads like warm honey.

Remus watches you carefully tear the wrapping paper off the gift, his lips quirked just so as he watches your jaw drop.

“You didn’t,” you murmur, shock and disbelief in your voice as you pull the wooden box out of the wrapping paper.

“Open it,” the box in your lap is walnut colored, carved with spirals, flowers and dots and divots. The carvings are coloured in bright reds, oranges, yellows and some pinks.

The lock resembles an ancient rusted clasp lock and as you unlatch it and reveal rows and stairs of chains.

“Remus,” your voice is all clogged up and your bottom lip trembles and Remus wonders if he’s overdone it.

“Yeah?” Your fingers trail along the crystal chips on the chains and you find your heart has cracked open.

“This is the loveliest gift I’ve ever gotten,” the words are whispered into the air, your dinners cold as you take in every single chain in the box. “They’re for my glasses, yeah?”

“They are, pretty girl.”

Silently, you close the box and put it to the side. “Thank you,” you blink and your tears tumble down your cheeks. His hands reach to wipe your cheeks gently.

“You’re welcome.” You climb into his lap, Remus’ hands hold your hips.

“You know you’re the first person since Marlene to get me something thoughtful?”

Remus knows it’s meant to be a flippant comment, but his heart breaks for you.

“Dove,” your heart clenches. “You’re breaking my heart.” His hands move up to cup your cheeks.

“I don’t mean to,” you say softly, shrugging one shoulder but Remus sees past the nonchalance you’re trying to exude. He doesn’t understand how someone as lovely as you has been treated so weirdly.

He gives you an out though because he doesn’t want to push and push and push, “C’mon princess. Eat your dinner.” You take it and your plate as you press play.

Remus notices you don’t move out of his lap but only smiles when you turn and start eating.

“You’re staying the night?” You ask after you’ve both finished your dinner.

Remus inhales, “What time is your first class tomorrow?”

You pull away from him a little, “Eleven,” you have a hopeful look on your face that makes his answer easy.

“Yeah I’ll stay the night.”

You smile so big Remus thinks his heart stops.

Then you get serious, “Wait, how do you feel about sharing the bed?” You ask the question softly, and Remus frowns.

“I’ve shared the bed with you before, dove.”

You shake your head, “I have a um,” you stumble for the words. Remus smiles.

“A stuffy?” He asks quietly and you nod, nibbling away on your bottom lip.

“Yeah a little yellow duckie,” Remus’ smile only widens.

“That’s sweet, dove.”

“You don’t think it’s silly?” He shakes his head.

“How come I didn’t see it when we were at the other house?” He asks, his thumbs caressing your thighs.

“I put him back in my suitcase, and I felt really bad about it too. I left it unzipped a little,” Remus kisses your temple as he chuckles.

“You’re the sweetest fucking thing in the world.”

Changing the conversation, “Do you want chai?”

Remus’ eyebrows shoot up, “You have chai or do you need to make it?”

You shake your head, a tired smile that’s a little teasing, “Jamie dropped it off for me when he came to see Lils.”

Remus’ eyebrows shoot up even farther, “Jamie?”

You giggle, “Yeah, s’what you guys call him.”

Remus is a little indignant, “Jamie?” He repeats and you laugh even more.

“Are you jealous, Remus?”

Your hand reaches to the nape of his neck, twisting the sandy brown hair there as he deliberates.

“Of James getting a nickname?” He asks and you nod, letting your fingers scratch his scalp a little. “No dove,” Remus fights the shiver that threatens to climb his back. “I’m not even a little jealous,”

He leans into you, your noses bumping. “Why not?” Your breaths mingle as you lean even closer to Remus.

“Because,” his hand cups your neck, his thumbs punching your chin upwards. Your chest heaves, “You’re already breathless and I haven’t even kissed you yet, princess.”

“Please.”

Remus smirks, wicked and impish. “No,” you whine and Remus almost rethinks his answer. “Go heat up your chai, pretty girl.”

“You’re no fun,” you hop off his lap and head to the kitchen all the while Remus chuckles, his head against the back of the cushions as he watches you flit about the kitchen.

The next time Remus sees you it’s after possibly one of the worst days of your life in a long time. Everything had gone wrong and there’d been a pit in your stomach all the way to your apartment.

Just as you were about to walk in, your phone rang and without looking, you answered it.

“Why does that boy keep going to your apartment?”

You pull the phone from your ear and curse softly when you see, ‘Devil’s Right Hand,’ displayed on the screen.

“What?” You really don’t have the energy today.

Your father doesn’t seem to care though, “The boy. The one with the grey car.”

As if you’re ten and not a grown ass woman, “Because we’re friends.”

Simple, succinct and it would’ve been sufficient for any other regular parent.

Your dad is anything but.

“And he doesn’t leave till the morning? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

The ‘yes’ in your brain wants so badly to slide off your tongue. You manage to bite it back.

“I don’t understand the problem. I’m an adult, I can do as I please. You don’t even pay for the apartment, Mama does.”

You hear the low simmering anger in your father’s tone. “Your grandmother gives you too much leeway.”

You roll your eyes, “I’m not in the mood for a fight, was that all you wanted to know?”

“Girl, watch your tone, it’s not a long drive to your place.”

You shiver at the threat. “Can I go please? I have coursework to do and I’ve got exams to prep for later this week.”

“Oh sure, coursework. Come home this weekend, your grandparents are at the house on Sunday.”

Your body sags as you hang up the phone, the backs of your eyes burn with exhaustion.

With a sigh, you unlock the door and get into your apartment.

You don’t even bother to change or sit still, instead you just jump straight into your work; hours pass before your phone rings again.

This time, it’s Remus.

“Hey,” he doesn’t like your tone, or the way you sigh the word.

“Hi dove, I’m outside.”

You’re relieved when you see him. He looks warm and cosy. His hair looks pillow soft and his sweater is a faded yellow one against the brown of his corduroy jeans.

“I brought snacks,” he says, jingling a plastic bag in his hand.

You don’t smile quite as big as you normally would’ve and Remus frowns. “Long day?” He asks as he steps in, kissing your forehead when you nod.

“Yeah, I’m just finishing up my coursework and we can have dinner.”

Remus waits for you, busying himself with plating up dinner- leftover Chinese food from yesterday.

“C’mon baby,” he murmurs, rubbing your back as he sets both plates on the coffee table and starts the tv. “Have some food and then get back to it if you like, but I need you to eat.”

You look to argue, but he’s not commanding you. He’s not demanding anything from you, he’s nudging you to look after yourself.

For a moment, you get stuck in just looking at him and your mind whirs. Remus is unlike anyone else in your life- he doesn’t take, he doesn’t shout and make threats, he doesn’t force you into a box or anything of the sort.

Instead, he gives you room and watches you, watches you be yourself and encourages you to be yourself. It makes you emotional for a minute, the back of your throat burning as you come to the realisation.

“Coming,” you whisper, Remus’ eyes track your movements, and he smiles a little when you sit right up beside him, your forearms brushing.

Dinner is quiet, little conversation here and there because Remus can tell you’re exhausted.

In that sense, he washes up the dishes while you shower and he tidies up the living room before double checking your door is locked.

He’s pouring hot water over the tea bags when you come out of your room, dressed in the softest look pyjamas he’s ever seen.

“Oh you look cosy, princess.” You go bashful under the lovestruck tone to his words, walking into the arms he has open.

One hand goes to the base of your neck, holding firm as his other hand squeezes around your back.

“Tired?” He whispers into your hair and you hum.

“I can have a cuppa though, not that tired.”

You barely make it halfway through your cup before your eyes are closing and your head is lolling onto Remus’ shoulder.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, setting his cup down and sliding his hands under your thighs and around your back. “S’okay dove,” he coos as you stir, your nose brushed up to his neck as he walks to your bedroom.

“Stay,” you mumble as he sets you down and Remus smiles.

“M’right here dovey, not going a place.”

Remus wakes up to you moving around in bed, your legs kicking and your body thrashing.

“Hey,” he croaks, voice cracking from sleep. “Dovey,” he mumbles, his hand rubbing your arm. “Baby wake up.”

His nose brushes your cheek, hands shaking your shoulder a bit as your tossing worsens.

“Wake up dove,” he whispers, stroking your neck.

“Remus?” Your voice shakes, eyes open wide as you try to get your bearings.

“It’s me baby, I’m right here.” Your heart is racing as you sit up, Remus following suit.

“Sorry,” you whimper, brushing your cheeks as you feel tears fall. Remus flicks on your lamp and his eyebrows thread together.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” He tucks you into his side. “Wanna talk to me about it?”

His hand creeps under your shirt, his knuckles dragging up and down your spine.

“Was just a dream,” you whisper, not quite sounding yourself. “A bad dream.”

Remus nods, “Yeah, it was just a dream, pretty girl. Your pulse is pounding though, babe.” He can feel the harsh beat of it against the knuckles on your back.

You shut your eyes, reliving the scenes in the dream vividly.

“It’s a recurring thing,” you start, letting yourself be comforted by Remus’ hand on your back and the faint scent of his citrus soap. “I’m little again and my dad is blue mad, breaking glass and screaming in my face.”

You take a shuddering breath and Remus tries his best not to react with his body.

“I was about ten or eleven I think, by that time our relationship wasn’t salvageable. I can’t even remember what he was so upset about but I always seemed like the perfect target. ‘Specially when I started telling him off for being mean to my mum.”

“Baby this was real?” You nod, Remus lets himself for a moment, imagine little you stopping grown adults from arguing and he feels his chest tighten at the thought.

“He tried coming at me and mum with a piece of the glass. It was just a mess. The fight only stopped because our neighbours came to get me.”

He feels your tears wet his shirt, but he doesn’t care. Not when you’ve started shaking again.

“You’re alright baby,” his words sound like a promise whispered into your hairline. “You don’t have to go back to that, I swear you don’t.”

“I think the reason I had a nightmare was because he called earlier. Said to come home on Sunday and that he knew you were staying over.”

Remus can’t stop himself from stiffening then. He hates the frustration and defeat in your voice.

“Do you want me to come with you on Sunday?” The offer is as easy as the breath he inhales.

You look up at him, eyelashes wet and stuck together, lips and cheeks swollen from crying.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Remus smiles- a sad smile.

“You didn’t ask,” he kisses your nose. “Think about it okay? I won’t be offended if you say no, pretty girl.”

You nod and tuck yourself back into him.

“Do you think you can go back to sleep or do you wanna watch something?”

You think for a long time, “Will you hold me till I fall asleep?”

God his heart really is breaking. Who could hurt you?

“Till you wake up, dove.”

Remus wakes up before you do, his arms still wrapped around you, and you’re more on his chest than on the bed.

His mind wakes faster than his body, racing with thoughts of little you and the things you’ve lived. He finds that you hide it well. The hurt, the pain, the everything. One look at you wouldn’t reveal that, all anyone would see is a rich girl living with her parents and doing whatever she pleases; but under the surface?

You’re so like everyone else, but so singular that it stops his breath a little.

You don’t have class today, so he decides quite quickly that he’s letting you sleep in. The only thing you have to do is finish the last bit of your coursework and then Remus thinks a day doing your favourite things- shopping for books and having tea- is in order.

He also wants to start breakfast, you’d mentioned a couple nights ago that you’d been craving blueberries and he’d had a hankering for pancakes.

Remus tries moving out from under you but your fist closes around his shirt and he stays put.

Breakfast can wait a bit.

“Remmy?” You wake shortly after, the sunlight peeking through the curtains tickling your eyes.

“Yes, dove?” His hand is stroking your arm, his blunt fingernails dragging slowly makes it hard for you to open your eyes.

“Time is it?” You stretch as he reaches for his phone.

“Just gone past ten,” you settle right back into his chest with a sigh.

“Can you wake me up again at eleven?” You ask at the same time Remus asks,

“Do you wanna go out for breakfast?”

You hum, “What’re we having?”

A yawn tears apart his answer, “Blueberry pancakes? Or bagels? Either or, I don’t mind.”

“Are you making pancakes?” He can already tell where the question is headed.

“Yes, do you have everything for them?” You nod then you shake your head.

“Except the blueberries.”

Remus pulls you and the covers a little closer. “Want me to go in to the grocery and get them?” You shake your head.

“I’ll settle for whatever fruit I’ve got in the house.” Remus tuts.

“Would you prefer blueberries?” He asks, his fingers dancing across the nape of your neck.

“Yeah,” that’s all he needed to hear.

“I’ll make you some tea and head out,” Remus isn’t allowed to slide out from under you, your thigh on his hip pins him down.

“You don’t have to,” you say bashfully, an intense guilt that’s completely unnecessary creeps into your voice and Remus has to slide his hands to your neck and push your chin up under your jaw.

“You’re not inconveniencing me, pretty girl. I’m getting them, coming back here and making pancakes and then we’re going either to the beach or the bookstore.”

You shake your head as best as you can with Remus holding your jaw. “You don’t have to do all of this just because I had a bad dream.”

He tuts, “I want to take care of you. I’ll just be fifteen minutes.”

You nod, accepting your defeat in the argument.

In the time Remus is gone, you find yourself going through photo albums and reminiscing on the days when things were a lot easier.

You stop on a picture of you and your grandmother and you sigh. Grabbing your phone, you dial her number.

“Hello, Mama?” Your voice wavers as you speak.

“Yes, Bebo?” You smile at the sound of her voice. Instantly, you feel like you’re being swaddled in her arms and like your troubles are eased. Your home name falling from her mouth with such familiarity also makes your chest ache.

“I’m having trouble,” you say honestly. “I don’t know how to forgive anymore.”

She sighs, you can hear shuffling in the back and things knocking about and then you hear your grandmother’s voice. “Bebo, you don’t have to forgive everybody.” She says, and you sniffle. “Not everyone needs that, or deserves that.” When you don’t answer she worries. You and your grandmother have an insanely close relationship, summers were spent in her back garden and on the beach near her house. She knows you as well as you can know any person.

“Do you want me to come over? I can bring you lunch.” You take a minute to consider and know in your heart of hearts that she would be on her way if you said yes.

“No,” you take the conversation to a different direction quickly. “Are you coming over on Sunday? Dad said.”

You can hear the smile in her voice, “Yeah, I miss my grandkids, Bebo.”

You’d seen her just three days ago but it feels like a month ago. “I miss you too, Mama. Would it be weird if I brought someone for dinner?”

She gasps, always one for a good bit of gossip. “Like a boyfriend? Bebo, I’ve been waiting for this!” She sounds so excited that the image of her smiling wide behind her glasses warms your heart.

“You don’t think dad will make it a thing?”

She puffs out air, “Your dad would make the sun coming out a thing if he wanted to. I need you to not live your life according to him, Bebo. He’s my son, but he’s a little shit and he doesn’t rule you or anyone else.”

You sigh, chest shaking under the weight of your withheld thoughts.

“Is that why you don’t want me coming over? Your boyfriend is over?” You giggle, feeling weirdly like she’s right beside you as you tuck your phone between your cheek and shoulder.

“He went to get blueberries because I wanted pancakes, and he’s not my boyfriend, Mama.” She scoffs, you smile.

“But you like him and he’s nice?”

“Super nice, like tooth rotting nice. And he’s really gentle and calm too.”

You can see your grandmother’s smile, and find yourself doing the same. Even more so when you hear the knock on your door.

“You deserve nice, gentle and calm, Bebo. I’m sorry I couldn’t have kept you kids for longer.”

“Mama,” you gasp the words as you look through the peephole and find Remus standing there with the groceries. “You did and are doing enough. You’re not in charge of his actions, he is.”

Remus’ eyes narrow as he sees your glassy eyes as he steps into the apartment.

“I know Bebo, I know.”

“I gotta go, but I’ll call you to let you know if I’m coming okay? If I am, would you bring,” she cuts you off.

“Of course I’ll bring you coconut fudge Bebo, I’ll make it on Saturday so it doesn’t get stale.”

Remus starts about the kitchen, but you can tell he’s intrigued about the conversation- or at the least, who you’re on the phone with.

“Thanks Mama, I love you.” You see a little smile break out of his face even as he faces away from you to measure the flour.

“I love you too Bebo, go enjoy your boyfriend.” You laugh scandalously and hear her chuckle before you hang up.

“How’s your grandma?” Remus asks as you come into the kitchen and sit on the counter near him.

“She’s good. I called her to talk about the nightmare but I kept getting too sad so we just talked about other stuff.” You swing your feet as you watch Remus mix the wet and dry ingredients.

“Is she also going to dinner on Sunday?” He poses it conversationally, because it is but he also wants a feel for who’s there at these dinners.

You nod, stealing a blueberry from the carton. “She’s always there. I think she comes because she knows if she’s there my dad will be in check for the whole night;” you smile when you eat the blueberry and find it’s sweet. “She’s pretty scary when she needs to be.”

“I don’t doubt that, dove. You’re the same way, can tell there’s a little fire behind all that niceness.”

You roll your eyes, “Whatever you say Lupin,” Remus sets your griddle on and oils it as it heats up. “Would you really want to come on Sunday?”

He pours three pancakes on, “Unless I have to do something strange, then yes I want to come.”

“If I told you that there was an initiation process that everyone’s super anal about, that would be a deal breaker?” Remus looks at you wide eyed and then notices your poorly hidden smile.

“You’re a menace.” He says as he flips the pancakes, another raucous laugh bubbling out of you.

“On occasion.” Remus stacks three for you and reaches for the syrup in the cupboard above your head. “But Mama, my granny, will probably badger you about your ‘intentions’ and whatever else.”

You thank Remus for the pancakes with a kiss on his cheek. “Eat,” he says, cutting your pancakes for you, making you smile. “I can handle badgering. But I should warn you, I don’t hide anger well.”

You wave off his concern. “Oh he won’t be out of line, Mama keeps him in check. And I just ignore him anyways.” Remus doesn’t like the way you shrug like your dad being a prick is no big deal, but he decides you’ve shared enough for the day.

You don’t start eating till he makes his own stack and switches off the stove and that makes him smile a little.

“Do you have a preference for the beach or the bookstore?” He asks in between bites of breakfast.

You think for a moment, “Can we go to the bookstore? There’s a couple books I want to check on.”

Remus nods, not really caring where you go, just that you do something you like.

You decide against Remus joining you, not sure if you’re ready for him to see the circus that is your family.

Your Mama is on the front porch, sipping what you know is coffee as you get out your car.

You send Remus a text, Made it. I’ll let you know how it goes.

His response is immediate, My offer to come get you is always on the table, princess

“Where’s your boyfriend?”She asks, standing to hug you.

“Told him that it might be too much, didn’t want to scare him off.” You try to sound as chipper as possible, but your grandmother knows you.

“He’s not in control of you anymore, Bebo. You can’t give it to him.”

You nod, diverting the conversation. “How’d the fudge turn out?”

You have a couple bricks with her and your older brother in the garden out back before they’re ready to serve dinner.

There’s a quiet stillness that covers the remaining winter, the coffee and coconut milk fudge just enough to make it seem like the tranquillity could last forever.

“Mama said you have a boyfriend?” your older brother asks, protectiveness and amusement in his tone as you look up at him wide eyed and shocked.

“I told her he’s not my boyfriend. Not yet.”

“She really wants him to be. He made her pancakes and he spent the night.” You tut at your grandmother’s gossiping.

Your brother smiles, “I’d like to meet him sometime, you look happy again.” You just nod, scared that you might say something that gives away how much you really really like Remus.

“Dinner’s ready,” your mum comes out on the porch, giving all three of you a soft smile before going back in.

Dinner is great until the round-the-table questions get to you. You’d avoided it for a couple courses, but it appears your luck is out.

“How was your coursework?” Your dad says it like it was an actual lie, you don’t miss the vile amusement in his tone, like he’s waiting to catch you in a lie.

“Lots of reading, but I think I got above 85 which is great considering this professor is known for failing students for less than 75.”

Your dad isn’t satisfied. “What was it about?”

You stiffen in your chair, you don’t like the implication that you’re lying. “Capital punishment, recidivism and how the two coincide.”

Your mum can tell your dad is still not pleased, so can your grandmother and she sets him right with a look.

“Do you need her professors to start running their coursework topics through you? Are you going to call the school next because you disbelieve everything?”

The table is tense as your grandmother and your dad have a stare off- not that she’s at all concerned about him.

Your younger siblings feed off your dad’s energy, their own question hot and ready and aimed at anyone with answers.

“How is it fair that she moved out?” And “Why does Mama pay for her apartment and not just tell her to move back home? It’s silly how much she’ll do for attention.” Or “Maybe if she just came home dad wouldn’t be so upset?” You can’t even get a word in, stunned silent as you realise this is how they see you.

It’s when your younger brother and sister say, “You always make it about you, you’re Mama’s favourite and that pisses us off. Dad doesn’t like you because you think you’re better than us, and it would all be better if you just made a clear decision- do you want to be in the family or not?”, that your breath quickens at their words, your heartbeat roaring in your ears.

The part that hurts is that they’re too young to know all the things that have happened, they don’t get why it’s so hard for you to sit here even on bi-weekly Sunday dinners and play nice with your dad.

Your food suddenly loses taste when your dad sends an evil smile your way, your stomach rolling.

They don’t understand that you’ve taken their beatings, that you’ve suffered horrid treatment just so they wouldn’t have to.

“Either way, we don’t care. I think we’d be better off without you if I’m honest. All you do is mope and complain, you wouldn’t even have half the shit you do if it wasn’t for dad. He’s not the monster you make him out to be.”

Your older brother cut them glares, “Enough! You don’t speak for this entire table, find somewhere else to be.” They scamper off, your brother doesn’t even give your dad the time of day, he looks at you immediately.

“Go take a walk, Bebo.” He’s the only one of them that likes you, the only out of three siblings that actually knows you, that knows what this is doing to you and you’re grateful for it.

Mama sparks into heavy, brash Urdu, all of it aimed at your father who more than deserves it- these are his spawn.

You try to think through your feelings, try to sort them into neat and tidy boxes but it just winds you.

You can't take deep breaths, they’re all shallow and sharp. Your chest aches, a concave feeling to it as you worry about the sharpness of your breath. It only worsens your ability, your breathing even shallower and you can’t seem to stop the cycle.

You reach for your phone, pulling up a breathing video and trying your best to follow it, your breathing evening the longer you follow along.

When you can inhale fully, you call Remus. You need him.

He picks up on the second ring, “Hi, dovey. Everything okay?”

“I think I should’ve let you come.” Your voice sounds ragged, like you need to cry and Remus’ skin prickles. He wishes he was there too.

“Need me to come up there?” You debate it, you really do, and maybe if you didn’t feel like such a shitty person right now you would’ve said ‘no,’ but you need Remus and his sound mind and advice.

“It’s a thirty minute drive.” you say, hearing things rustling in the back and Remus moves the phone from his mouth as he calls to someone.

“I’m heading out, text me if you need anything.” Then the phone is closer. “Just had to tell Siri and Jamie. I’m on my way, princess.”

“Drive safely, Remmy.” you sound so sad, Remus wishes he could just apparate to you now.

“I’ll see you soon, baby. Stay somewhere safe, yeah.”

Tears gather in your eyes at how easily Remus could tell that you were frightened, that you’re in need of some place soft to land. God, you can’t wait for him to be here.

The front door opens, your older brother coming out on the porch with a heavy sigh.

“You have to tell them Bebo,” he says softly and you shake your head.

“Why? So they can think I’m just lying to make him look bad. I’m okay with this arrangement.”

Your brother takes a seat on the porch swing and pats a spot next to him.

“Are you actually?” You inhale, thinking it over for a brief moment.

“It hurts, of course it does. But I used to be mean too, this is them being mean back.”

Your brother rolls his eyes, “It’s not like they’re ten. They’re sixteen and they’re horrid.” You take your spot next quickly- like if you chance a slow moment the tears will come.

“But just to me. You get to be the best sibling they have, while I’m the problem black sheep sibling who can’t help but be macabre.”

“You’re not macabre. You know you’re not. You just lived some dark shit to spare them and it’s time to stop. They can handle it.” You wish you could do it, it might make things easier, but you’re scared.

“Maybe next time, it’s too charged in there now.” You sigh, head touching the back of the swing. “Do you think I’ll ever have their love?” The tears stream down your cheeks anyway as you think about the idea, as you hear their words rattle around your head.

Your brother sighs hard, not sure if your siblings would ever wake up from your dad’s spell. Instead of saying anything, he guides your head to his shoulder. “Take a nap, Bebo.”

“Remus is coming soon. Would you wake me when he gets here?”

“‘Course, Bebo.”

Your grandmother comes out right after you fall asleep, touching your sticky cheek with a weathered hand.

“They’ll break her, you know. They’ll break her spirit and she won’t hold back anymore.” She sounds sad, like she can see it happening already.

“Mama, she won’t break.” your brother says, reaching for her but she bats him away.

“She’s not like you. You brush it off, she can’t. It weighs her heart. Every time she leaves here she looks so sad, so heavy and cracked. I can’t see her crack again, do you remember it?”

Tears fall down her cheeks, but she doesn’t try to wipe them, she just stares at your sleeping form.

Your brother sighs, leaning on her shoulder as she sits on his other side. “I remember,” he says quietly, the memories of you being withdrawn dancing behind his eyes. “Her boyfriend is coming here.”

“Really?” She asks and your brother nods.

“She told me to wake her up when he gets here.”

Mama smiles, “I’m glad she called him.”

Remus arrives about forty minutes later, your brother sitting beside you about to shake your shoulder when Remus steps out of the car and shakes his head.

“Let her sleep a little,” your brother’s confused by his request.

“She asked me to wake you when you get here.”

Remus smiles despite his anger. He’d stewed all the way to your dad’s house, wondering if you’d be hurt, if you’d not find a quiet place and the argument would keep going.

He didn’t know what he was walking into, and finding you asleep is much more welcome than the sadder visions of his brain.

“Would you tell me what it’s all about? Or what sparked it all today?”

Remus sits on the floor near the foot of the swing, his hand holding onto your ankle as he looks to your brother.

It’s clear to him, your brother, that Remus cares about you. His eyes haven’t strayed from you for more than thirty seconds, always coming back to rove over your face like he’s making sure you’re still there and still okay.

Your brother hesitates- he’s never spoken about this with someone outside of the family. “They have warped perceptions of her; our younger brother and sister. They think she’s ungrateful and just doesn’t come home to get dad riled up- she doesn’t come home because they don’t know what she’s done so they didn’t have to get the dad we got.”

Remus frowns harder, his thumb rubbing a circle on your ankle.

“And she doesn’t want to tell them?” There’s no judgement in his tone, just curiosity.

Your brother shakes his head. “She doesn’t think they’d believe her at this point. I’m always trying to talk her into it, but I think it runs a bit too deep to dredge up just like that.”

Remus nods, eyes fixated on you as you sleep. “Will she want to tell them goodbye?”

Your brother smiles, “If you leave without meeting our grandma, I think she’ll never forgive you for leaving without her ice cream.”

Remus laughs, nodding as he stands.

“You should wake her up first, I’ll go tell Mama you’re here.” Remus waits till your brother walks off into the house to sit beside you.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep, but sometime later you feel Remus’ hand on your cheek, thumb a little calloused as it rubs at the apple.

Only he wakes you up this gently.

“Princess, wake up. Miss your face.”

“Hey,” your eyes peel open slowly, a little smile spreading on your face.

Remus’ smile is small, but not forced. He could never do that with you looking up at him- especially with your sleepy eyes.

“Was the drive okay?”

He chuckles, it’s belated that you notice you’re alone with him on your front porch. Your brother’s car is still parked outside and so is your grandmother’s.

“Yeah it was, pretty girl.”

Remus kisses your forehead, his hand holding your face even though it’s a little sticky with your dried tears.

“Your brother went to get Mama.” He says softly, letting you twist your body so you were leaning into him. Your entire front body was pressing against his ribs.

“I’m so tired, Remmy.” Your voice cracks as you speak, Remus can’t bear it. He hates it that you’re this sad.

“I know baby,” his words are whispered into your hairline, his hand moving to cup the back of your head as he feels the quiet tears soak his shirt. “We don’t have to stay here any longer than you want to.”

You sniffle and nod, letting Remus pull you further into his lap so he can hold you.

“This is Mama,” you hear your brother’s voice and the light steps of your grandmother and then feel Remus lean forward. You assume he wanted you off his lap, but his hand anchors your hip to his as he shakes the older woman’s hand.

“Remus.” He introduces himself and she smiles.

“You’re handsome,” you laugh when you catch Remus’ cheeks flushing. “I have your ice cream here, Bebo. He won’t come out, locked himself away in his office.”

You shrug, “Doesn’t matter. I’m ready to go.” Remus nods, taking the tub of ice cream for you, letting you climb off his lap before standing.

“Give me two minutes, baby.” You kiss his jaw as you go, the car keys in your hand.

“She’ll be okay right?”

Your brother smiles at Remus, Mama frowns.

“She’s a fighter.” He says but Mama shakes her head.

“She might not have any more fight left in her.”

Remus knows what she means to say. He remembers how Sirius had been, the brave faces and attitude to hide how sad he was. He looks at the car and spots you with your head against the glass.

“Just be patient with her.” Mama says and Remus nods. “She’ll tell you everything soon enough. She looks at you like you individually hung the stars.”

Remus blushes again, not really knowing what to say.

Your older brother pats his shoulder and goes inside, “I think I’ll head out too.” He goes to his car, but not before stopping at Remus’ and giving you a kiss to your forehead.

Remus frowns, “Does everyone disperse after they fight like this?” He asks your grandmother, not wanting to push but trying to understand.

“Bebo can’t take more of this, you’ll see. I set him straight, he leaves her alone for months and then starts over. It’s like a cat and a mouse- always prodding and slapping and poking until the mouse has had enough.”

“And the mouse does what when they’ve had enough?”

Mama smiles, like she’s holding out just a sliver of hope that it will happen. “Revolt.”

Remus gives her a hug and makes his way to the car.

As soon as he opens the door, you smile. Tired lines all over your face as your eyes barely open.

“Wanna stay over?” You ask, cheek smushed to your shoulder as you look at Remus.

“How abouts you come over to mine? I’ve got fluffy blankets,” Remus kisses that spot where your forearm and upper arm meet. “Oatmeal raisin and chocolate chip cookies,” a kiss to your shoulder, right on the beauty mark. “And I’ve got all your favourites on dvd.”

The last kiss is right on the corner of your mouth, chaste and sweet and it makes you smile even more.

“Sirius and James won’t mind?”

Remus rolls his eyes, “They’ve gone on their own lover’s retreats today.” Wrong, Remus kicked them out the second he’d hung the phone with you.

“Okay, but can we stop by my place to get my stuffy?”

Remus chuckles, “Course we can, dovey. That way we’ll both have clothes at each other’s place.”

You tut, clipping on your seatbelt as Remus turns over the engine. “You’re not getting your sweater back, Remus.”

He only rolls his eyes as he pulls out of your dad’s yard, tipping his chin to the ice cream tub. “Will that be okay on the drive?”

You nod, “Yeah, we can have some with the cookies tonight.”

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