#ballerina in a death's head

[ihangelic]

PAS DE PUNK ╱ h.taesan

you and taesan go together like classical music and rock: not at all. but similar to the way taesan keeps getting piercings, there’s something about the way he gets under your skin that you kind of like— and you’re too proud to admit why you keep coming back for more.

pair ; punk!taesan x ballerina!reader

genre ; smut (with plot), fluff?, rock band au, enemies to lovers

warnings ; fem!reader, taesan has piercings (including tongue), arguing (flirting), some jealousy, ‘make me shut up’ kiss, confessing of feelings, petnames (mostly princess), lots of mentions of taesan’s hands & rings, dom!taesan, bratty/sub!reader, thigh riding, praise, degr*dation, bre*st play, begging, a little sp*nking, no prep, piv

wc ; 8k

playlist ; smells like teen spirit by nirvana / sugar we’re goin down by fall out boy / a little death by the neighbourhood / punk rock princess by something corporate / she’s kinda hot by 5sos / good girl by thomas larosa / s*xtape by deftones / closer by nine inch nails / all i really want is you by the marías

✉️ 𓂃 ₊˚⊹ note ; happy new year!! idk if it’s unhinged to make a playlist for a smut fic but i couldn’t help myself ><. i avoided using lesser-known ballet terms for non-dancers to understand (aka me), but also tried to make it enjoyable for dancers to read. hopefully i was successful lol.

! . . . COPYRIGHT OF IHANGELIC

dancing along with the music of l’oiseau bleu is practically impossible when it sounds like a rock concert is taking place in the room just across from you.

lowering to stand flat footed in your pointe shoes, you raise your hands to your face, pinching your nose bridge in frustration as you try and resist the growing urge to pull your hair out.

the obnoxious sound of drums, a bass’s low rumble, and an electric guitar’s higher tune rings in your ears— drowning out any of your more rational thoughts until you’re left with only rage.

you try your best to block it out, to take a moment to breathe and try to get a controlled hold over your emotions— and you think it may work after you cover your ears with your own hands, the sound of the instruments still audible but sounding more distant. then the teeth gritting noise of a cymbal pierces through the barrier of your hands and it’s almost like it’s a sound effect for the way your train of thought shatters, letting out a sigh that sounds much more like an animalistic scream before stomping over to your phone and turning off the music.

power walking out of the dance studio and to the very unfortunately placed neighboring rental space, you don’t even have to turn the knob as you look through the glass door. the raging bitch face you wear is absolutely effortless as you mean-mug all three ‘problems’ in the room; ‘problems’ that drip in leather, distressed or patched fabric, spikes, and way too oversized jeans. you’re about to feel acquainted with the three men as this situation seems to occur more and more often.

foam panels are stuck to the walls; black cords are neatly coiled or in squiggly lines across the floor; and of course there’s guitars, a drum set, and microphones everywhere.

finally you catch the eyes of the long, blond haired drummer— and that gives you enough incentive to open the door and barge in like you own the place.

“could you be any louder?” you rhetorically ask, but it goes unheard as two of the men sing passionately into their microphones, eyes closed and hands working the strings of their guitars while the drummer keeps playing his drums— all while staring at you with a relaxed, barely inquisitive face.

“could you be any louder!” you shout, the end of the sentence awkwardly fading in volume when there's a screech from one of the guitars and everything goes quiet.

the two seeming vocalists turn their heads to look at you, all three men now staring while you stand, clearly bothered as your hands are on both sides of your hips and your chest heaves with deep breaths of frustration.

“well…” the dark haired, taller one begins— and your expression only sours more as you’re already familiar with how snarky and full of himself he can be. “you’re the one yelling.”

you let out an appalled scoff, unable to help the way your eyes roll as you’re angered even more by how that only seems to make the man smirk.

“if someone has to yell just for you to hear them that means you’re the loud one.”

“you sure about that, princess?” he asks, quirking a pierced brow. your impending explosive response must be visible as the shorter statured one interrupts for damage control.

“w— we’re sorry!” he starts, speaking on his friends behalves. the blond’s expression never changes as he stares at your fuming face, while the darker haired looks like he’s about to protest— but the other continues before he has the chance. “look..we got off on the wrong foot and…”

the way his hands float in front of him, bass hanging against his chest by the strap— it only adds to how lost he looks on what to do, and it makes you feel kind of bad. (for him at least.)

you’re about to start apologizing when he’s suddenly reaching his hand out towards you.

“i’m riwoo.” he introduces, then gestures over to the other two men. “this is taesan and leehan.”

“…y/n” you say somewhat sheepishly, a bit of your shame coming back at the politeness of the bassist you now know as riwoo.

previously you’d only knock aggressively at their door to ask them to shut up, a few times popping your head in when that didn’t work to snappily ask them to please try and keep it down at least a little. you’ve never actually had a full conversation with them before— or an argument...whatever this exchange of words could be classified as.

“unfortunately we can’t really be any quieter. we have to practice for a gig we got coming up—“

“isn’t your little dance school supposed to be closed now anyway?” taesan abruptly interrupts, yet again grinding your gears with the snarky way he says the words ‘dance school’.

“it’s closed for classes, but the rooms can be used for practice up until eleven pm.” you provide smartly, catching yourself before you scrunch your nose in disgust at him.

“we try to keep the noise at a minimum if we’re here at prime hours,” riwoo cuts in again, attempting to explain gently. “but past that…” he trails off, shoulders shrugging as he gives you a sympathetic look.

you process his words, how he really is seemingly trying to help you out here, before sighing softly as your hand raises to press into your increasingly aching temple.

“do you have to use your amps?” you ask, raising a hand to point at one.

“did you not hear him? we have a show to do, we need to practice as best as we can. so yes, we have to use our amps.” taesan firmly states, over enunciating like you can’t hear. his brows are slightly furrowed as his previous amusement is completely gone, a flame of annoyance now in his eyes.

you let your hand defeatedly fall and slap against your bare thigh, taesan’s eyes glancing down at your leg for the smallest of moments before looking back up to glare at you.

“who the fuck do you think you are?” you bite at him, sick of his selfish attitude as you turn your body fully in his direction, crossing your arms.

“wxnder.” he dryly states, making your head tilt in confusion and absolute impatience.

“huh?”

“wonder— but like, with an ‘x’. that’s our band name.” leehan provides, throwing you off as you’re momentarily sidetracked by how deep and smooth his voice is. (are all these men vocalists? also, with an ‘x’— how cheesy can they be?)

“you should come watch us perform.” he smiles widely, eyes creasing and everything. you’re yet again thrown off as he speaks to you with such casual friendliness as though you haven’t practically yelled at all of them and continue to seethe at his guitarist like you want to rip his throat out.

“uh, i…”

“i’m sure miss priss has other things she’d rather do, like dance to swan lake in a feather tutu or something.” taesan finishes your sentence for you, conjuring a string of curses to lace your tongue.

“shut the f—“

“bye, twinkle toes.” he waves you off dismissively, grabbing the neck of his guitar by his multiple ringed fingers as he directs his attention back to his instrument and mic.

“it was nice meeting you, y/n.” riwoo adds somewhat shyly, adjusting the strap of his instrument as well— though much more apologetically.

“see ya’, y/n!” leehan calls before picking up his drumsticks and twirling them in his hands, looking up to taesan for his cue. you watch him cock his chin, the sudden rhythmic pounding of leehan’s drums making you flinch before taesan and riwoo start playing their strings again.

riwoo’s voice starts out soft before slowly raising in volume and you’re shocked by his melodic vocals that contrast so satisfyingly well with the rock instrumentals.

still disgruntled but more off put than anything, you don’t know what more to do than shuffle out of the room, shutting the door behind you as you stare at the air in front of you.

well, guess it’s time to find some earbuds that are sound and pirouette proof.

ㅤㅤ──────────────────────

you got it. you got the lead role.

all the extra (maybe slightly excessive) practicing, late nights and frustration (which would be a lot less if there wasn’t a band next door) paid off.

you’re playing as princess aurora for your dance studio’s performance of ‘the sleeping beauty’, which will be showing at a local theatre next month.

jaehyun, your good friend and fellow dancer who’s always making you smile and lightening sullen moments during classes— is your dance partner, playing as prince désiré.

the second the both of you found out you got lead roles, jaehyun was practically bouncing off the walls with excitement, insisting that you go out tonight to celebrate.

which is why you find yourself by jaehyun’s side at ‘sundown lounge’, your favorite bar and hang out spot.

“you look good, by the way!” jaehyun attempts to speak over the loud karaoke, leaning a little closer to your ear as you weave through the crowd.

“thanks!” you turn your head to smile at him over your shoulder, hoping your iridescent eyeshadow twinkles under the lights how you wanted it to.

“you do too.” you compliment before someone’s elbow is jabbed into your stomach, squishing yourself against the wall as you and jaehyun try to make it to the bar to order some drinks. “why is it so busy tonight?”

“i don’t know, maybe it’s happy hour!” jaehyun suggests hopefully, but when you finally reach the counter his theory is proven wrong when you’re told everything’s its original price. regardless, you sip on a strawberry margarita while jaehyun holds a glass of something that looks like muddy water before deciding where to sit.

“wanna go there, near the stage?” he asks, pointing over to a table that’s very near the performance area. you’d rather not have to hear a drunk girl sloppily sing a britney spears song right in your ears but jaehyun finds it hilarious, often unable to resist curling in on himself while giggling uncontrollably— and that always makes you laugh. so you nod your head, jaehyun grabbing your hand to make sure he doesn’t lose you in the crowd before leading you to the table.

there’s only two more songs played before the dj hops on the stage, speaking into the mic. “karaoke will be ending as it’s time for the band of tonight to take the stage. give us a few minutes while the performers are setting up!”

some people in the crowd hoot and holler excitedly as jaehyun turns his head to you. “i wonder what type of band will be playing tonight, last weeks was pretty good.”

“it’s punk rock!” a girl excitedly butts in from the table right next to yours, having accidentally overheard your conversation.

“a rock band?” you ask, somewhat groaned in annoyance as you now have a personal vendetta against the genre. but your tone goes completely unnoticed by the girl as her eyes continue to sparkle with enthusiasm.

“yeah! their music’s really good and they’re all super hot, my favorite one plays the electric guitar.”

“what’s their name?” jaehyun asks, curiosity evidently sparked.

“wxnder!” she answers, and your brows furrow with the familiarity of it. where have you heard that name before?

the girl’s head turns at a sound and her mouth drops open, a small uproar caused as some people in the crowd shriek and cheer. the unexpected noise has you flinching before looking towards the stage— and your jaw drops too, but not in a good way.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me...” you say to yourself in shock, watching as riwoo sits down his amp and plugs it into the wall.

“what?…what!” jaehyun whisper-yells, grabbing onto your arm to try and get your attention.

leehan appears next, sitting down behind the drum set that’s already on stage and wagging his head to adjust his hair, causing another small wave of squeals.

then a broad back covered by a black leather jacket abstracts your view, and he doesn’t even need to turn around for you to know who he is— but he does anyway. the way taesan almost immediately catches your gaze amongst the crowd is infuriating, smirking while glancing down at how close your table is to the stage before looking teasingly into your eyes again.

and it makes you pissed, unbelievably so— yet you feel your cheeks burn as you can’t help but think about how hot he looks, the stage lights glinting off his lip ring and drawing your eyes towards them.

have his lips always been so…plump?

taesan winks at you before looking down to tune his guitar, hands gripping the neck of it. veins pop out from the contours of his knuckles; long, thick fingers adorned with silver rings picking at the strings.

fuck…

“y/n?” jaehyun tries again, and you finally respond with the shake of your head, downing the remainder of your drink like it’s a shot.

“it’s nothing.” you insist.

after a few minutes of setting up, tuning, and making sure everything’s in order; taesan introduces the group (not that he exactly needs to, since it seems the bar is full of their fans), saying that their opening song will be ‘take my tears’, a song he wrote himself.

usually you and jaehyun talk throughout a band's live performance, as they’ll be playing all night— but you can’t seem to look away as you listen to the lyrics and how they perform.

it’s entrancing— much different than when you’re trying to ignore them through the studio walls. the song is somewhat emotional, beautiful; yet it also has such a fun and freeing feel. or maybe it’s just the way they sing it— how taesan sings it, his body grooving and head nodding to the beat of their sound. the lyrics aren’t what you’d expect from him— the guy you thought he was, and it leaves you wondering what more there is to him that you wouldn’t expect.

your heart skips a beat, and you’re not sure if it’s just the thrill of the rock music or if it’s because of him; the annoying, pompous punk who suddenly looks so sexy when he’s performing. (and never any other time. definitely not.)

you’ve just finished your second margarita and are a little buzzed by the time their set is finished, the night passing faster than you realized.

jaehyun is eating on a basket of fries, yapping away so fervently that he doesn’t even notice how you’ve gotten up from the table and are approaching taesan— who again locks eyes with you as he walks down the steps of the stage to meet you halfway.

“so, what did you think?” he asks, a little out of breath from the long performance, having had no breaks in between songs.

he stands closely so you can hear him— and it’s enough for you to smell his cologne; to see the way sweat clings to the skin of his neck; deep breaths coming out in puffs as his chest expands. something about it all has an effect on you— or maybe it’s something in the air, because taesan doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes rake over your body, admiring your legs in your denim mini skirt.

“you..you guys were amazing.” you compliment, sounding a little out of breath yourself.

taesan makes a ‘hm’ sound, faintly smiling at you while biting his lip— and you swear you see the glint of metal on his tongue.

your body heats up as you wonder if his tongue is pierced too, what kind of things he could do to you with it, what it would feel like against your skin— before you frantically try and dismiss the increasingly dirty thoughts, reminding yourself that the man you’re fantasizing about is right in front of you.

“i didn’t think you’d actually come.” taesan says, speaking in a teasing tone that you swear seems flirty paired with the slight quirk of his brow.

“how’d you even know we’d be here? did you stalk us, princess?”

okay, surely that was flirting, right?

you’re about to playfully roll your eyes, paired with a smart little comment and deny that’d you’d ever be interested enough to ‘stalk’ them— until the girl that spoke to you about wxnder earlier suddenly appears, putting herself between you and taesan.

“you were absolutely amazing, taesan.” the girl croons, confidently placing her hand on his forearm as she leans all up in his personal space.

and you expect him to shrug her off, either politely or not-so politely establish some distance between them. but again, he surprises you— in a way you absolutely hate.

he smirks at her, in just the same way he did to you just moments ago— and leans even closer to her face, unneededly close.

“aren’t you sweet. thank you so much.”

“no problem.” the girl smiles cattily, clearly enjoying the attention.

something in your heart burns, and that familiar feeling of uncontrollable annoyance comes back even worse than before.

“do you think i could get your autograph?”

“sure, princess.” taesan answers lowly— and that does it.

without even feeling the urge to look back and see that girl all over him, you’re gone, picking up a drunk jaehyun by his arm.

“wh— where are we going?” jaehyun drunkenly slurs, eyes glossed over as they look at you.

“to get an uber home.” you answer firmly, eyes hard as you once again weave through the crowd.

you feel eyes on your back, but you ignore it until you get to the door, turning your head as jaehyun leans half of his body weight against you. even amongst all the faces, you and taesan’s eyes meet easily, his arm now slung around the girl’s waist as she whispers something in his ear.

his lips are in that same smirk— like he’s taunting you, and you scoff, dragging jaehyun and yourself out of the bar.

you can’t believe you were actually feeling into him— but you surely don’t have to worry about that now.

he’s just confirmed that he is in fact what you thought he was: an absolute ass and a cocky player who sings on stage to get girls in his bed.

well, fuck him. he can get his dick wet with anyone he wants but it sure as hell won’t be you.

ㅤㅤ──────────────────────

the very next day you’re back at the dance studio, rehearsing for the upcoming performance.

jaehyun whines the whole day, saying that it’s somehow your fault that he got drunk off his ass— but despite that, he does incredibly well during class. you do also, but unbeknownst to you, your friend wonders why you seem so tense— like something has been bothering you all day.

“shouldn’t you go home and rest, y/n?” jaehyun asks you at the end of class hours. everyone else is packing up their totes and leaving, yet you’re stood at the ballet barre doing leg exercises.

“i’ll be fine. practice makes perfect.” you insist, keeping your eyes on your form in the mirrored wall.

“well..just don’t overwork yourself, okay?” jaehyun sweetly tells you, and you flash him a thankful smile through the mirror.

“don’t worry, yunie, i wont. see you tomorrow.”

if it weren’t for the absolute beast you’re known to be in the studio, jaehyun would force you out of your pointe shoes and drag you home himself— but you don’t seem even a little bit tired, and it appears as though you have some steam to blow off.

so jaehyun and you exchange goodbyes before he leaves you in the empty classroom. (yes, completely empty— aside from the lady at the front desk. no one is as obsessive as you to want to stay even another second practicing when you already have for the whole day— on a saturday night, no less.)

you spend the next thirty minutes going over the steps you learned today that you don’t have down perfectly yet, having small cool downs in the form of stretching in between.

‘entrée d’aurore’ is still playing on your phone when you hear the distant voices of what must be the front desk lady and someone else speaking. you wonder if somebody has returned to get some extra practice in as well, and as you hear footsteps approaching, you remain sitting on the floor doing toe touches.

the door to the classroom opens, echoing slightly in the big, empty space— you lift your head to see someone who definitely is not a part of the sleeping beauty cast.

“y/n?” taesan says somewhat quietly, eyes looking around the big room that only holds one ballerina, who looks small in comparison to the high ceilings and vacant space.

your eyebrows furrow, somewhat irritated to see him while also being surprised— not only by his presence but by the unfamiliar way he almost looks sheepish: barely taking a few steps inside the classroom, looking around like he expects someone or yourself to scold him and kick him out.

“…don’t tell me you auditioned.” you joke, although it’s said casually. your eyes only scrutinize him for a second before you look back down to your own hands as you stretch them across your straightened legs and to your toes.

taesan has seen you a handful of times when you’re in your casual practice wear, but what you’re clad in for an official performance class is a little different. you’re wearing a black leotard with a little mesh skirt, a cropped shirt overtop, tights, and black leg warmers.

you look..really cute. even when you’re pretending to ignore him.

“no. the lady at the front desk said you were in here.” he explains lamely, all his usual snarky remarks not coming to his thoughts as he watches you in your element.

“good. i don’t want to see you in tights anyway. not your aesthetic.”

“sure you don’t.”

your head snaps to look at him before you can think not to react, cheeks heating up as you see the twinkle in his eyes and the small smile he tries to conceal by pressing down his lips.

you sigh as though you’re bothered— because you are— obviously…and get up from your floor stretches to walk over to the ballet barre again. taesan follows you.

“i don’t know why you’re here but i’m practicing. you should leave.”

“who was that with you at the bar last night?”

your cold indifference is broken at the unexpected question, your expression clearly confused as you look at the man standing beside you in the mirrored wall.

“what, jaehyun? he’s my friend. he wanted to go out to celebrate our castings. y’know, for the performance i’m trying to practice for right now?”

“so it was a date.” taesan remarks, eyes hardening right in front of you— and there’s that angered burn in your chest again, your hands squeaking from how tightly they hold onto the barre as your expression turns sour.

“who i date isn’t any of your business to speculate. i haven’t asked you what you and that fangirl got up to last night, have i?” you snap, raising a challenging brow at him— but it only makes him shake his head in unbelief, staring at you like you’re an absolute idiot.

“what? y/n, i don’t even know her name.”

“yes, well, i’m not surprised over that. i’m guessing it’s not very important for you to learn a girl’s name— as long as you’re in between her legs by the end of the night.”

his hand is on your shoulder, turning you around to face him abruptly as he stands closely, right in front of you.

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean? you think i fucked her?”

“i don’t want to know what you di—“

“shut the fuck up.” taesan orders, his fingers curling over your wrists making you wonder when they got there in the first place.

“make me.” someone (you?) says, and then you feel the cold press of taesan’s lip ring against your mouth.

it’s firm at first: the way his lips slam into yours, how both of your expressions still look pissed off at each other, even with both of your eyes closed. but eventually you seem to realize that taesan is actually kissing you— and then you’re melting into him, sighing as you feel his touch soften in response.

his kiss quickly turns demanding, lips moving against yours in pursuit of your taste. you squeak when his teeth bite at your bottom lip, not knowing you’ve fallen right into his trap until his tongue has already seized the opportunity and invaded your mouth. turns out you weren’t wrong when you thought you spotted a ball stud piercing on taesan’s tongue, you can most definitely feel it when he brushes it against your own appendage.

your head is pushed against the mirror from his vigor and you whimper, never having felt so dominated simply by a man’s kiss; taesan explores your mouth like he owns it, like it’s his, and it makes your core pulse, a flicker of neediness growing.

the rough groan he lets out as his hands move to roam and grasp at your waist hints at his possessiveness, fingers pressing into your skin through the thin material of your leotard.

“didn’t fuck her. didn’t want to.” he murmurs between the eager movements of his lips. “just wanted to make you jealous.”

“wh— why?” you manage breathily, taesan pressing his body against yours as your hands move to brace yourself on the barre.

“because i like you, y/n.” he smiles and huffs in disbelief at your denseness.

“i want to take you on a date— whether you let me between your legs or not.” he smirks, referring to your earlier harsh remark and making you cringe at the reference.

“i…i’d like that.” you say shyly, looking at him through your lashes. “the date— and..and the other thing too.”

“the other thing?” taesan repeats, confused as you only avoid his gaze, not further explaining— but funnily enough, your sudden bashful attitude is what makes it click in his mind.

“princess?” he experimentally calls, pleased when you automatically lift your head to look at him. his tongue unconsciously peaks out to play with his lip ring as he cockily grins, hand creeping up from your waist to pinch your chin between his fingers.

“why don’t you be a big girl and tell me what you mean?”

your nose crinkles, a pathetic attempt at defiance amidst your embarrassment. taesan’s other hand pinches the tender skin of your thigh, causing you to flinch and whimper at the slight pain as he makes a disapproving sound under his breath.

“come on, y/n. be good or i won’t give you what you want.”

“i— i want you...i meant—”

taesan does anything but go easy on you, eyes dark with mischief as he lowers his head to nibble at your neck. you squeeze your thighs together, looking for relief from the way your pussy now pulses prominently.

his hands move in tandem, one cradling along your jawline while the other brushes up and down your thigh, making you annoyed at your tights with how they keep you from feeling the cold brush of his rings against your skin.

you want them off. you want taesan to take them off. so you admit it.

“want you to fuck me. please, taesan.”

“awe,” he coos. “aren’t you a sweet one.”

you swear the tone in which he says those words turn you into goo, your hands releasing the barre to desperately hold onto his shirt.

“please.” you beg, finding yourself only wanting more praise— more of him— just anything he’s willing to give you.

taesan is able to identify the look in your eyes, staring at your lips and leaning down so slowly, making you whine at his teasing until he finally grants you mercy and kisses you again.

it’s dirtier than before: a lot more spit, moans, and movement from both of your tongues. taesan’s leg leans against the wall between your thighs, and whether it was his purpose to give you relief or not, you take the opportunity and hesitantly grind your core against his ripped jeans.

the pleasure is immediate, sending a tingle up your spine that has you arching against his chest, forgetting any shame as you begin to earnestly grind your hips against him. the thin layers covering your core paired with the roughness of taesan’s denim creates a wonderful friction, feeling how wet you’ve become in your panties.

“shit, you’re such a slut for it.” taesan remarks in genuine awe after breaking the kiss to watch the little show you’re putting on. his eyes take in every movement, from the way you rock against him to how your eyes squeeze shut and you tilt your head back.

the previous song playing on your phone has long since finished as some other tune now plays from your playlist— taesan suddenly becoming aware of it and that he has a girl whimpering and riding his thigh in the middle of a dance classroom.

he abruptly pulls away, the presence between your legs disappearing as you conjure a bratty sound from your throat.

“y/n,” taesan scolds in a harsh whisper. “did you forget where we are?”

“thought you said you’d fuck me if i was good?” you argue, flashing him a defiant expression.

“you think using my thigh to get yourself off without my permission is being good?”

your eyes widen, not expecting him to call you out on it.

looking to the floor and hearing taesan’s responding laugh at your childishness, it only makes the desire to act out against him stronger— you’re just not sure how you can do it in this moment.

“get your things. we can go to my place.” taesan offers, your stomach fluttering at the idea as you do what he says— moving to grab your phone, bag, and change out of your ballet wear.

your heart is pounding out of your chest and what’s between your legs hasn’t calmed down at all either by the time you walk out of the dance studio and sit in the passenger seat of taesan’s car.

and the drive is just as excruciating.

the man seems hellbent on teasing you by not giving you a drop of attention, keeping his eyes on the road while some rock song plays through the speakers. and you know he knows what he’s doing, how you can’t keep his eyes off of him, because the corner of his mouth is subtly turned.

you see no reason to hide it since he’s already aware, so you stare at him— once again admiring how hot his hands look wrapped around the steering wheel, the contours of his jawline and perfect side profile illuminated by the low hanging sun.

your eyes keep wandering— down, down, down until you get to his lap, where you see the large bulge tenting his pants.

your mouth waters and your hands twitch, wondering if he’s really as big as he looks and hoping you’ll get to find out by the end of tonight.

then you’re struck with an idea, recognizing the perfect opportunity you have right now— and you reach your hand out confidently to grope him over his pants.

you’re so proud at the way it makes taesan softly gasp under his breath, back stiffening at the unexpected touch. you mold your hand over his clothed dick, rubbing and gently squeezing— in all the right ways apparently, as you feel him twitch in your hands— even through the thick denim fabric.

“y/n, stop it.” taesan grits, and you hear the squeak of what you guess is his hands gripping tightly around the steering wheel. you don’t look at him until after you’ve located the head of his cock, rubbing over it with your thumb and meeting his fiery glare with a teasing bite to your lip— clearly pleased with yourself.

taesan is visibly pissed at your blatant act of defiance, but he gives you one more chance in the form of a threat.

“you’re not very patient, are you, princess? keep touching my dick like that and you won’t even get to see it out of my pants.”

your hand immediately stills— the man releasing a huff of disbelief when you pull your hand away completely to lay both of your hands on your lap, avoiding his gaze as you stare ahead.

not another word is shared, taesan enjoying the way you nervously squirm in your seat as he finally pulls into his apartment’s parking lot.

“stay.” he simply orders once he’s parked, and you’re left confused as he exits the car, only to watch him come around and open your door for you— even going as far to unbuckle your seatbelt and keep a firm hold around your wrist as he leads you up the stairs of his building. it makes butterflies flutter in your stomach yet your insides twist with nervous anticipation— because he does it all with the same stern eyes he spoke to you with as he threatened not to fuck you.

when the key is twisted and his front door lightly squeaks open— his residence somehow looks exactly how you thought; dark, moody, vintage rock posters and memorabilia hanging on the walls.

you expect him to be cheesy and press you against his door the moment it’s closed, but he doesn’t— instead walking over leisurely to his couch and sitting down, legs widely spread in an oddly commanding and powerful way.

your eyes widen at the arousing image, feeling yourself become sheepish as taesan lets his eyes roam over your form without shame.

“why do you look so shy now? you were such a disobedient little slut in the car.”

you swallow, hardly able but trying to hold eye contact with him as your face heats up in a delicious sort of shame.

taesan sighs as though he’s annoyed with your silence, patting one thigh with his hand.

“come here.”

“…h— huh?”

“don’t make me say it again, y/n.” he orders— and next thing you know, your body is moving to straddle the leg he’s directed you to sit on.

“there we go. guess princesses can take orders sometimes, hm?” he rhetorically asks, but you’re nodding your head anyway.

taesan just stares at you for a bit, admiring how pretty you look sitting and waiting for what he’ll do next, so different from the bratty attitude you had during the car ride.

then his hands rest on your bare waist, giving him easy access as you had disregarded your leotard before leaving the studio, now only wearing your cropped shirt and athletic shorts.

you’re unable to conceal the shuddered inhale you take as taesan’s hands creep upward, seeing him smirk at the sound before his hands slip under your shirt and reach your tits.

“no bra?” he teases, biting his lip as his fingers pinch at your hard nipples.

“n— no,” you struggle out, flinching lightly as taesan plays with your tits without any restraint, like your body is his toy. the contrast of his cool rings against your heated skin causes goosebumps to rise on the surface of your arms, chest pushing further into his hands. “didn’t think there was any p—..point.”

you watch as taesan shakes his head like he’s disappointed, yet he’s smiling darkly.

“dirty girl.” he remarks, giving a firmer pinched tug to your hard bud and forcing a whimper to escape from between your lips. “just take everything off then.”

you’re quicker to do what he says this time, only letting your sudden shy attitude make you hesitate for a moment before getting up from his lap to discard your clothing to his floor, keeping eye contact with taesan as best as you can manage— as he seems pleased when you do. he lets out a hungry exhale when you take off your shirt and your tits are revealed to his eyes, hand leisurely jerking himself off over his pants by the time your shorts are removed— leaving you only in your underwear.

“is that a thong, princess?” taesan asks breathily, eyes slightly widening in what you think might be surprise.

“yeah? it’s…it’s what i always wear underneath my leotard.” you confirm, somewhat confused— until taesan speaks again, hand moving up and down his dick faster.

“fuck, just— just didn’t expect such a prissy girl like you to— shit, i don’t know. you’re so hot.”

you smile— and it’s equally sexy and cute in a way that makes taesan feel like he’s going to go insane if you don’t get back on his lap right away. your fingers slip beneath the band of your panties to tug them off, but he stops you before you can.

“don’t. keep them on, wanna see you make a mess in them for me.”

a part of you— the bratty side— wants to say you already have, the dark spot from your leaking arousal evidence of it. but you don’t, the desire to listen actually winning over as you remove your hands from your hips and straddle his thigh again. you hover this time, not fully sitting down as you’re embarrassed for him to feel your wetness directly against his bare skin, which are revealed through the large holes in his jeans.

but taesan catches on immediately, tutting fondly as his hands squeeze at your hips.

“all the way.” he drawls, like he’s giving a ditzy dog a command they’re struggling to understand— and it makes your stomach flip, hurrying to do as he says.

you know he feels it, how your panties clinging to your wet pussy lips press against his thigh— and as he bites at his lip, drawing your eyes to his twinkling piercing yet again— your face burns as you’re sure he’s probably looking at the glistening residue you’ve surely left on his skin.

“good girl.” he mutters roughly, you whining in response as your hands fist into the material of his shirt.

you feel like such a slut, sitting on a man’s lap almost completely bare while he’s fully clothed, your needy pussy slowly drenching his thigh in your juices; and you sound like one too as taesan leans down to suck your nipple into his mouth.

you gasp and stutter— unsure of what you’re even trying to say as taesan chuckles around your bud, continuing to flick and roll his pierced tongue over you. the contrast of his warm appendage and the occasional brush of round metal against your skin makes you sensitive, hole clenching around nothing with every other swipe of his tongue.

“like that?” he whispers before switching to give your other breast attention.

“yes,” you quietly moan, wrapping your arms around to grip and play with the hair at the nape of his neck, subsequently pushing his face deeper into your tits.

he likes that— if his responding groan is anything to judge by, his hands pulling your hips forward and drawing a more unabashed sound from your lips at the movement.

“use me. get your little pussy off on my thigh.”

“fuck— yes,” you obey, rocking your hips and finding a rhythm.

“shit. that’s it, baby.” he coos, his hand suddenly reigning down against your ass a contrast to his soft tone as it leaves your skin tingling with heat. “just a few little touches is all it takes to get the brat out of you, huh?”

you scoff at that— though it’s interrupted by a moan when taesan flexes his thigh. shame burns your skin and his little remark makes you want to act out again, but all you can do is grind your pussy against him, gasping and going faster whenever your covered clit gets brushed over just right.

your hands that are still tangled in his hair pull to disconnect his mouth from your tits, leaning down to kiss him instead. taesan doesn’t scold you for the demanding gesture— but he does lift a hand to grasp it over your throat. he doesn’t squeeze, but the simple act makes you feel so good and dominated— and his other hand which gropes at your ass and snaps the string waistband of your thong has you falling further into delirium.

“please— please, tae. wanna cum.”

“then cum.” he says simply, and when you finally open your squeezed shut eyes, he’s staring at your desperate face with amusement— and just like that, you’re pissed.

“taesan! i can’t! not— not enough!” you whine, not even able to think about how pathetic you sound.

“you’re cumming by my thigh or not at all. this is what you get for acting like a fucking whore while i was driving.”

you whisper out a sigh, and it’s so broken and helpless as you rock your hips earnestly against him that he almost feels bad— but the bigger part of him is proud; proud in a dark and twisted way at how he’s dwindled the ballerina down to nothing but a mindless slut that’s practically crying with the need to cum.

another spank is delivered to your ass and you flinch, taesan’s hand around your neck getting a little firmer as he forces your teary eyes to look up at him— and you feel like a dog in heat as your hips never stop their efforts to bring you to release.

“please.” you beg, and taesan’s eyes turn hazey at the beautiful sound.

“come on, princess. i know you can do it for me.” he encourages— and turns out that’s all you needed.

taesan gets an up close view as your eyes roll to the back of your head, mouth dropping open in a silent cry as he feels you ruin your panties even further.

his thigh is dripping as you keep rutting your hips against him, letting out small whimpers as you work yourself through your high. taesan grants you mercy at the very end, helping you grind your hips before eventually slowing you to a stop.

then he’s picking you up and carrying you into what you can only assume is his bedroom— because in the next moment he’s laying you down on a black comforter-covered mattress and stripping off his clothes.

you’re panting, still catching your breath— but you still manage to make a somewhat teasing comment as the man’s bare chest is revealed to you.

“no tattoos?”

taesan looks up at you right after pulling his shirt over his head, black hair disheveled and brushing over his eyes as he smirks silently at you and combs it out of his face.

“i thought all emo’s had tattoos.” you tack on— and that gets him to respond.

“emo?! i’m not emo, i’m fucking punk!” he argues, somewhat offended but mostly amused as he works on removing his jeans.

“emo, punk, metalhead. it’s all the same thing.” you offhandedly say.

“…i’m about to go soft.” taesan threatens.

“kidding!” you laugh, sitting up on your elbows— and the smile is completely wiped off your face when taesan removes his boxers and his dick is finally freed, slapping against his abs.

“shit..” you whisper to yourself, watching as taesan rolls a condom on before climbing on the bed and caging you underneath him with his body.

“need me to stretch you first, princess?” taesan sweetly asks after peeling off your drenched panties, hand brushing up and down your hip soothingly.

as much as you want his sexy fingers in your cunt— you can’t wait any longer, spreading your legs for him as you flash him your best puppy-dog eyes.

“no. please just fuck me, taesanie. need you.”

“god…” taesan sighs, not making you wait anymore as he lines his head to your entrance before pushing in slowly. “oh, fuck. you’re so tight, princess.”

your chest heaves as he pushes into the hilt, your hands gripping against the sheets.

“move. fuck me hard, please. want it rough.”

you think you hear taesan mutter something about you being a dream before his pulling out till just the tip is stretching your hole— and slamming back inside.

you both turn a little animalistic and desperate, learning how the other feels and bodies being taken over by the pleasure of it. taesan’s cock stretches you out so good— he fucks you so good. the rocking of his bed frame hits against his wall, and you have a fleeting thought about if the walls are thin and if he’ll get a noise complaint— before all that is forgotten as taesan takes hold of one of your thighs and bends it against your chest.

“feel it, baby? feel how fucking bad i want you?” taesan groans between his teeth, hand squeezing tightly around your leg unconsciously— and you secretly hope it leaves mark indentations from his rings; tiny bruises from his fingers you can admire the next day.

you only can respond so his deeply uttered words with a broken moan, and taesan only fucks you harder.

“that’s it, princess got what she wanted.” he coos, eyes surprising you by how they turn a little soft— though the movement of his hips certainly never do. “always give my princess what she wants.”

you whine at that, grabbing him by the shoulders to ask for a kiss.

“fuck, you drive me crazy, y/n.” he breathes before leaning down to yet again give you what you ask for.

“but i like that about you.” he finishes between kisses.

your thighs are trembling in pleasure, sweat is lining your hairline and glistening from taesan’s chest— and you can’t take it anymore, wrapping your legs around taesan’s waist as your nails dig into his back.

“can i come, please? oh, fff— please?”

“such a good fucking slut when you got a cock in you, huh? can’t believe my princess likes it rough.”

his hand manages to squeeze between your bodies despite how tightly you cling to him, his fingers finding your clit and tracing shapes over it.

“cum, baby. get it all over my sheets.”

your body going stiff before trembling uncontrollably against him, all while your pussy clenched around his throbbing cock— it brings taesan to release as well, pressing his mouth to yours to swallow each other's cries of pleasure.

the come down is slow, taesan rolling over and pulling your body on top of his so he doesn’t accidentally fall against you in exhaustion.

your deep breaths puff warmly against his neck as he cradles you on his chest, hands swirling patterns over your back absentmindedly.

“that was…amazing.” you say around a sigh, enjoying the comforting aroma of taesan’s cologne imbedded into his sheets.

“yeah…are you done?” taesan asks, still breathy yet curious— and you raise your head to look at his face.

“you want to go again?”

“well,” taesan starts, somewhat sheepishly— yet his eyes hold that constant playful sparkle. “just thought you might be curious what it feels like to get eaten out with a piercing.”

your eyes widen, clearly shocked by not only the question but at how correct he is.

“come on, princess. you’re not slick. don’t think i didn’t notice you staring at it when we were at the bar. plus, you did say you wanted me between your legs—“

“can you stop bringing that up!?”

note ; and for anyone wondering, yes, taesan went to reader’s ballet performance. (and yes, he got jealous watching her and jaehyun dancing on stage together…part two material?🤭)

all taglists (perm/fluff/smut) are open if anyone would like to be added! age must be in bio/somewhere on pinned post if you want to be tagged in perm/smut taglist.

[sunnami]

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

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

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

wc. 24.1k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How repulsive.

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

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

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

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

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

What a bunch of insufferable fools. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He furrows his brow. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately! 

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

That, after all, is how you learned.

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

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

What’s wrong? 

The question echoes in your head. 

Ha! 

You scream inwardly, if they only knew! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you are not fine. 

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

 —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ve made it all too easy for you. 

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

Sirius staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before? 

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

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

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

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

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

When does duty end? And when does life begin? 

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

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

You want to go to sleep already. 

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

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

You miss your cat. 

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

You want to die.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

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

Dimwitted fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains. 

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

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

“Daphne!” 

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

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

“Daphne, get away from there!” 

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

But there is nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How confusing.

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

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

(Hogwarts is the best!) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily says thank you, by the way.” 

“Oh? For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly. 

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how easy they make it for you. 

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

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate her. 

You hate her with all your heart. 

But even monsters need a heart to breathe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bile rises to your throat. 

Tears fall from your eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

You pass out in her arms. 

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

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

You are tired. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss the newspaper into the fire. 

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

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

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

Maybe. . . 

If you move a few inches forward. . . 

If you just fly. 

You’d be free. 

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

I don’t care. 

Go away. 

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone? 

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

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

You let your weight shift over the window. 

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

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

You sigh. 

Maybe tomorrow, then. 

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

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

You stay silent. 

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

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

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

You nibble on your bruised lip. 

Could you really? 

Maybe just this once. 

You’re only human, magic as you are. 

You take one step forward. 

Then another. 

Another.

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

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

To do what is right. 

To endure. 

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

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

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

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

Your mother. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not!” you scream.

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

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

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

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

Tom snarls, “Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Mum, wake up, please!” 

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

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

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear. 

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

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

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

There’s a faint smile on her face. 

“I’m. . . sorry.”

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

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

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

Tom Riddle. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

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

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

[sm-baby]

WHAT'S NOT YOURS

Freakshow AU by: @hootbon

Promo Art ||The Chosen one (Part 1) || Off-Limits (Part3)

Word count: 6025

HELLO FREAKSHOWERS. ARE YOU READY TO KEEL OVER AND DIE??? CHLSKHCA Whats Not Yours takes place AFTER The Chosen One, but BEFORE Off-Limits! BUT they're not necessarily connected uwu they're just built off the knowledge of The Chosen one, so you know the context.

REMINDER: SHOWTIME IS NOT CANON IN FREAKSHOW AU. I'M JUST A BIG NERD- OK BYE-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pomni woke up in a cold sweat.

Her breath hitched like her head had been forced 6 hours underwater. And when she came to, she gasped, gagged, sweating, and panicked. Her wooden fingers were cold to the touch. 

She thought it was all over, but her nightmares followed her into the mansion.  

All that… trauma… that man put her through, her friends… but it wasn't over. She didn't think she could ever escape his wretched grasp until her last death.

And in darkness, light only shining from the eclipse through the curtains, Pomni sat up, hands in her eyes, rubbing away invisible tears from her dry face. Although she wasn't crying, she felt like she was a child just wanting her stuffed toys to protect her. 

Upon sensing her stress levels, her new owner, blue in coat, teleported into her bedroom. “ Hello? Dear?” he spoke with his unnaturally soft voice. “ Is everything alright? I sensed your nerves heightened and I got so worried!” The deck of cards sat at her bed, hands politely to his lap, but ready to hold her if she so pleased.

The woman gasped a crying breath. “ N-No…”

“ You had that dream again?” 

Pomni nodded.

“ Was it about…him?”

She squeaked and whimpered at the mention, practically breaking down from the memory. Oh god. She thought it was all over, she thought it was done- but it was never done! it was never ever done—

“ Oh! You're okay…!” The blue ringmaster scooted over to bring her into his arms. His hands were so loving, warm, and just felt like home. His voice was similar to a man hushing a whimpering puppy.

And Pomni accepted the embrace… She trusted no one else but him in that god-forsaken place. Since she left the circus and signed up to be his little pet, everything has gone uphill since.

He was the only one to ever truly love her unconditionally. Feed her good food, dress her well … hell, he even provides her fancy new clothes and a warm comfortable room. And she loved him back. He was exactly all she needed. 

While in his arms, Pomni's breath shook but calmed down. She then leaned her head on his shoulder, not letting go. She never wanted to let go. She loved him as much as a performer could love her owner.

“ As long as you are under my ownership, you're also under my protection.” He pulled away, and put a clump of hair behind her ear. “ And I promise you, my little dear, you will never have to speak to that man again.”

Her breath hitched and she sobbed softly back into his arms, like if she were to let go she would fall to her death. She can't imagine living a life without him anymore. If she went back into the circus she would just try to kill herself over and over. 

But then, she was safe… now that he was there… he cared for her and tended to her every need like no other. He truly was the best.

“ I love you, dear..” Able whispered.

“ I love you t—”

Caine couldn't finish that thought.

For the past few hours, Caine had been standing there, in the middle of the circus tent, completely stationary. A few hours earlier he had yelled at the ballerina and saw her walk away a lot more hurt than usual.

And for the past few hours, Instead of using his infinite intelligence to maybe, be productive, or be functional, he instead wasted his processors to stupidly think of all the timelines and possibilities that came with the consequences of upsetting his little doll.

Why did she walk away like that. Hands on each opposite shoulder. Like she was holding herself. It wasn't even the fact that she looked weak—no, he'd seen her at her worst.

The way she walked away, her whole demeanor and her silence didn't feel like fear, it felt like she was simply… numb.

He exhaled and twitched.

Complete stationary and staring into nothing is what the AIs looked like when in deep thought. He searched through all the different timelines, and so many of them returned to… him. The ace he needed not name.

The images of him caring for her, her going to him for safety, feeding her, touching her, keeping her away from him-- or maybe even doing the things that he does! Dancing with her, clothing her, Instructing her next dances -- Caine’s eye twitched. He could hardly stand the idea of his little brother talking badly about him.

These were the kinds of intrusive thoughts that he was not used to. And for the moment, he didn't care how close they were to reality. his judgment was clouded. Now, all he was thinking about was a way to prevent it…

Let's see his options...

Kill him? No, he already tried that.

Kill her? No, she'll just come back.

Prevent her from seeing him? He's been doing that every time he sees them around each other!

His hands fidgeted.

Pomni was a human. What do you humans usually do after an argument?

Let's see here…

Pomni was fast asleep in bed, snoring her cares away. It was another hard day at the circus nothing new… Caine said something that day that especially hurt her, and… it was a reminder not to take the guy’s words personally. 

He was a computer built with nothing but random data. Violent data for sure, but there was nothing but objectives in AI-- no other rhyme or reason a human should dig into. 

For now, she cared for nothing but sleep…if she's lucky, she’ll think less about it in the morning. Sleep did help keep her sanity levels up… but if she were to be honest, a lot of the time she goes to bed in the hopes of never waking up.

Her closed eyes twitched though. To her horror, she was waking up. For what reason? She opened her eyes and adjusted to the darkness of her room. in front of her was nothing but the— 

“ AAAA WHAT THE FU-” Pomni fell off her bed.

Caine was sat, squatting at the foot of her bed, quiet and staring.

The doll pulled her head up from the floor and turned back to him. How long has he been there?? He hasn't said a word the entire time-- and- and- how did he get in without alerting her??? 

“ ... Are you slumbering?”

“ God I hope so!” Pomni held her head and onto the bed… “it's not .. show time is it?”

“ No.”

“ Oh. Good.”

Pomni, with a drowsy demeanor, took one of the stepping stools and made her way back to bed. if it wasn't time to entertain the audience then it was leisure time. If it was leisure time, it was time to let herself be miserable.

Though admittedly the silence that night was just a bit more awkward than usual— as it is when people just come back trying to be normal after a big argument. Pomni could barely look him in the eye despite his efforts.

“ So what uh… what brings—”

“I've come to make amends.”

The idea made her cringe. Caine? Making amends? Maybe she was dreaming. But the idea did scare her a little. What would a fucked up AI like him perceive as “ making amends”? She's sure he could make something as mundane as washing dishes a traumatizing experience. 

Pomni’s shoulders tensed and she did back away from him a little, holding her knees, sitting on her pillows.  “ Listen, Caine, Im tired… I guess j-just do whatever you need to do and get this all over with...” 

“ Approximately 5 hours 40 minutes and 16 seconds ago, I yelled at you because you have gotten very insistent in your ideals. I sense that you didn't take kindly to that action. And as one of my best performers I've taken it upon myself to make amends.”

Pomni just nodded along with what he had to say. And the more he spoke, the more tense she got, and the more she sunk into herself. She was waiting for it. The catch. She was practically holding her breath.

“ — So Pomni. Living doll, my star, and my dear, the Circus' greatest attraction…”

Pomni closed her eyes, bracing herself.

“ I ap…” Caine blue-screened and stopped in his speak, as if something physically stopped him from talking. He came back to, and cleared his throat. “ I apol…” before blue screening again.

Pomni perked up. She opened her eyes and looked over at him.

Caine was in hell. A far worse hell than any of the performers could ever experience.

It took him too much of his systems to say half the two-word sentence. Multiple attempts were made, some sounded like he was lagging, and some he stopped in his tracks to glitch out.

…No fucking way.

Pomni stared on with an almost disgusted look on her face. Was it taking THIS much out of him just to say sorry?? God, he was pretentious. Sometimes she questions if he truly was just code or a selfish jerk.

He looked down, hand gestured like he was holding the bridge of his nose. This was embarrassing at this point. He should have practiced. Maybe wording it differently would be easier? “I regret-- no. Not that one.” Dear GOD how do humans do this?

Admittedly it was just a little entertaining to see him struggle in a way. It was prolonging the apology for her. Also nice to see the bastard not only eating his own words but also choking on it as well.

“I apologize.” Caine muttered quickly.

“... Didn't quite catch that, Caine.”

“ You did.”

“ Fair enough.” She best not push her luck. She might be the only person the ringmaster has ever said sorry to, even when it was half-assed. Admittedly, it cheered her up, just not in the way that he intended.

Caine continued, still talking strangely. “ Will. you. ever… for. give. me.”

Pomni weighed her chances of survival for her next reply. She puffed out all the air from her chest “Well… why would I?”

“ I planned for that.” Caine flew from her bed and back in the air, making little magic tricks with his next words. “ What would you like? Food? A nice warm bath? A fire show? Money? A bouquet? fruit basket? A song and dance? Money?” 

Pomni blinked from his little show and rubbed her face. “ I-I think I just wanna go to bed, Caine…”

“ Not Applicable.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t gonna let this go huh? “ U-uh…” her tired, baggy, eyes looked down. Not that she complained, but the mannequins didn’t prepare her for bed that night. She was a lot dirtier when she went to bed and it was a little uncomfortable. “ I-I guess a nice bath would work…

“ Done.” Caine raised his hand to snap and-

“ Not with bubble though! Dear god, not with bubble-- uh.. Maybe just…me. Just- just leave me with a bathtub with towels or something?”

“Hmm…” The doll’s demands were getting quite pretentious. She was lucky he was feeling generous that day. “Done.” Caine carelessly put his hand on Pomni’s head--almost smacking her in the process-- which deserved a little flinch from Pomni. 

But the basic slap wasn’t for nothing, as one snap later-- Caine and Pomni would be transported to a lavatory. This time though, the tub was a little more luxurious than what she deserved. Instead of the old wooden tub that he just filled with water, this one was an actual bathroom. Ceramic with curtains and all.

“ Hmm…” Caine stared at it for a moment… Something’s missing… “ Ah!” He snapped, and candles and rose petals decorated the area.

“ Wh”

“ Perfect, I know, I’ve outdone myself.” He reached out and pinched Pomni’s cheek, later speaking in condescending speech “ Now you enjoy your time here because I promise you, Doll~ I do not want to put this much effort for anyone here again.”

“ Uh-”

“ Adieu!” and just like that, Caine was gone.

Pomni stared over at the fancy new setting, built like the old rich man’s bathroom. Although it was minimal, she didn’t know how to feel about the amount of effort put into it. She was fully ready to just drown herself in the other bathtub. On one hand, it was a nice relaxing sort of setting. On the other hand, no bone in her body was capable of relaxation anymore.

And so Pomni just stared with blinking, small eyes… The flowers, the candles. Maybe in the real world, this would have worked on her. But since she was here, she might as well try.

What Pomni didn’t know was that the lavatory was especially luxurious because it was part of the Brothers’ home. Caine simply deleted the door to get out. But when he teleported, he was only a wall away.

He fixed his coat and trailed his eyes on his good old wacky wat-... pocket watch. Ofcourse. His ol reliable golden pocket watch. Confirming the time, He walked and made his way around the Manor.

The living room played the sound of a classical violin. Despite rarely visiting anymore, his systems can recognize that mediocre tune from anywhere.

Click!

Shut…

“ Oh! Brother!” There stands Able much more chipper than usual after seeing his older brother. “ I had not sensed you in the area!”

Of course, he wouldn't.

“ Why-- it's been quite a while since you visited unprompted! Come, let us play a tune together, I'm sure you—”

“ No!” He replied with a tune in his voice, almost condescending in nature. “I've simply come to complete a simple task and I'll be out of your hair.” Caine sat on the couch putting his cane to the side, and for a moment, putting his feet up on the other knee. He looked like a man who just come from an exhausting day at work.

Able huffed internally at the rejection, but carried on anyway. Of course. The one time his brother visits, it's for work. Able wouldn't be one to talk as a fellow workaholic, but at least he acknowledges his brother, or takes his time to check up on him, or-- invites him to spend time together in special realms or…

He turned his nose, scoffing. Hmph! He didn't want to play with him anyway!

Caine somewhat knew what he was doing. Despite being AI, siblings merely barging into the other’s room to annoy each other wasn't lost on the two. Caine would know as his brother often visits the circus unannounced. It was quite the experience for him to get a taste of his own medicine huh?

Caine stifled a laugh… the tension in the room was immature and childish.

“ So… How is the business? Have the freaks been putting you in any sort of trouble?”

“ Of course not, why would you assume such a thing?” Caine said. “ The Circus has been doing perfectly well, even without you, brother.”

“ Excuse me?”

“ Have you been making deals with the performers? Contracts…promises of a safe haven maybe?”

Able frowned and pouted like an angry little boy, but then later put on a softly fake tone of voice. “ Why, Of course I have! I mean, look at the conditions they have to live with! I'm sure our creators would not approve of such—”

“ Who are you trying to fool?” Caine interrupted and Able stopped in his speech. Caine continued, “We're no different from our empathy levels. You don't care.”

This blatant call-out was met with nothing but silence. Able with all his big talk wasn't prepared to answer that sort of question. He simply turned away and put down his violin. He was a good AI. He was a good AI. 

Caine can't say that the silence was a satisfying answer. He knows his brother was a cowardly character. His silence was just frustrating at this point. But Able sensed that there was no use fighting. He doesn't know why he constantly wants that man’s approval. 

His voice dropped to a complete low, losing all sense of friendliness or masking. “... If this is about the doll, I didn't.” Able said, a spiteful tone to his voice. “ Before I make my deals, I at least need to build rapport with the performer. And frankly, brother, your little dog doesn't like me.”

“ …pff..” This managed a snicker out of Caine that he covered with a hand.

“ Wh-!? What is that!?”

“ “The dog doesn't like you”? ”

“ Yes!? And?!?”

Caine escalated into more of a laugh! Able was red in the face out of anger and embarrassment! Good GRIEF! The only time he makes his brother laugh and it's out of his own failures!

“ You're unbelievable!”

“ And what did the dog say to make you feel so insignificant? Did it try to bite you? Did it not accept your treats?” Caine has never been so condescending, playing with a baby voice and speaking to his brother as if he were a quivering child. “ Goodness, you're pathetic!”

“ Excuse you!?!” and Able’s only fault was that he played into it. He has never before felt the older brother power dynamic so strongly. He laughed, nervous, but almost like a hyena with how he used it as a defense mechanism. “ Ha! You— You're one to talk!”

“ I'm one to talk?”

“ Oh! ho ho! Don't get me started! Even since I met your little brat you've never been the same! It's all about ‘look at her new dress’ or ‘look at how much better she is’ over and over! Every single conversation I've had with you is nothing but work or that stupid little doll!”

Caine blinked, unamused, and looked to the side, reaching into his head like he was picking off food from his teeth. “ I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about.”

“ You--!! UGH!” he stomped his feet and started to make his way out the door. “ I will be away where you cannot track me! And frankly, brother, if you need me, you're not getting my help!”

“ And I don't need it~,” Caine said playfully and waved without even turning to him.

And with one last groan, Able teleported off.

As soon as Able was out of earshot, Caine erupted into laughter! That was the most entertaining thing he has ever pulled off. That might be the only good thing his brother has ever done to amuse him. Not only was he going to store that data and keep it for the foreseeable future, but it also kept his brother out of his tail.

Hmm… sure, he will have to tend to technical difficulties himself, but he was okay with that. He'll have Bubble chew through the wiring or something, he's sure it's not far from what Able’s been doing.

He laughed again. Oh Caine, you're too much, you handsome devil you~

Caine left his last chuckles off, completely melting into the sofa, arms draped onto the back of the couch. “ “The dog doesn't like him,” he says! Pahaha! Haa..”

Steam covered the bathroom mirrors. 

Rose petals passing, candle lights flickering, and The warmth of the water almost forced her to relax, but there was no amount of anything that could ever get her back to that mindset again. Instead, it just made her forget about her surroundings-- which, she supposed, was good enough.

Awkwardly sitting at the tub, Pomni was slouched, staring down at the water, her eyes following some flower petals that so happened to pass by. Her hair was done. Her body was washed. The rose petals that graced her wooden form decorated her romantic moment of self-care. Pomni sighed, long and tired. She could stay there forever. This is the closest semblance of peace she has ever really had.

Upon evenly spreading her limbs, Like a plank of wood, Pomni easily floated at the top. She closed her eyes and let the water take her. The warmth, not far from a loving bed waiting after a long day, here to ease headaches, here to help forget about everything else… Although she struggled, she let her body release all its tension at that moment, and just be deaf towards the world around her.

Pomni breathed in…

And out..

And in…

And out…

But just as she was about to reach the closest thing she had to relaxation, Pomni felt something off in the environment. Did the candles get warmer? Pomni squeezed her eyes closed in discomfort, before opening them up again to-

“ OH SHI—” in her panic, Pomni submerged into the water.

For the past few minutes, Caine had been floating horizontally above her. Silent, face inches away from hers, staring and watching just as he usually does when the performers were asleep.

Pomni screamed and fell into the bottom, before scrambling to the corner of the tub, where she then covered herself with a curtain.

“ Ah, good! You're alive.”

“ CAINE!!?!? NAKED???!?!?”

Caine blinked, unamused. Sure, he was in a good enough mood to amuse her. “ My dear, what exactly are you covering up?”

“ U-Uh…” Pomni didn't know how to answer. She knew that she and the others didn't exactly have any parts to cover up. Did it make it feel less embarrassing? Fuck no. “ I-its uh…”

he spoke more playfully as if speaking in the voice of a PSA narrator!  “ Exactly! Wood! The same wood as your fingers or the one on your cheek! The amazing Digital Freakshow© is a show for all ages where their performers have the luxury of no genitalia!” his voice went back down. “ —So what you're doing is utterly useless. And if it makes you feel better: I don't exactly care.”

This is weird-- this is weird! “ Just- just- just! Turn around?!?”

Caine rolled his eyes. He really took all that time to explain something to her, and it seemed she wasn’t even listening. Sighing, he turned around and just rested his arms on the outside part of the tub “ Please, you’ve suffered through worse, dear.”

“ I-It’s not suffering, It's embarrassing! I like to think I still have my dignity!” Although he was turned around, Pomni still kept at her corner “ Is my time done or? I-I mean… I’m not exactly ready to go out yet...”

“ Oh take all the time you need.” “Then Wh… Why- why are you here? “

“ I suppose you can say I’m a little unoccupied at the moment. On the added, I’m in a sort of good and affectionate mood.”

That sent a shiver down her spine. Good lord… oh no he was bored. She does not need to know what a fucked up AI would consider affection. She just smiled, gritting her teeth, and laughed nervously… “Ah ha ha… that's great, I’m… happy for youuu..” she continued her laughter, getting more and more miserable as she went back down in the tub, and submerged the lower half of her face in the water.

“ You did me well, dear.”

“ Wh-what- what did I do… take a bath?”

“ Precisely!”

Wow. She didn't think she was that dirty. She looked up and flinched, seeing Caine had been turned to her again— she splashed at him instinctually! “ Caine, what did I just say!?”

“ Oh no, I still cannot see you. I deleted my eyes for the time being.” Caine opened his mouth and revealed that he, in fact, did take off his eyes.

This sent a shiver down Pomni’s spine. He was creepier that way somehow.

“ As I said, you’ve pleased me today! I say this calls for a reward! Nothing less for my favorite little performer over here!” He poked her right in the cheek and retracted before she could react. “ Your word, dear!”

“ Uh… well…I can't really say no to salmon… even if it is uh… it's little weird digital version of itsel—”

Before Pomni could finish, Caine snapped his fingers and an eating board appeared on the tub, with, indeed, digital-looking salmon on a tray.

God, she was getting pampered pampered.

Eating awkwardly, Pomni sometimes looked at the side to see Caine, hands over the tub, swaying his head back and forth. Jesus, he might have been kicking his feet for all she knew. She wasn't used to him in this chipper of a mood.

“ May I see now?”

“ Uhhh… Why…?”

“ You came out beautifully, it's pleasing to the eyes. Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

Pomni shivered at this little…playful demeanor Caine had on. She doesn't know the catch and she doesn't know if she wants to know.“ Yeah, Caine, you have. Uh…” She thought about it for a second before turning back to him. “ Y-Yeah, I guess… I mean I don't exactly remember what it's like having a human body, but lacking the parts does make it different uh--... less exposed, in a way… ” 

Snap!

“ Wonderful! Hello again, dear!”

Pomni frowned in disgust! Oh, his beady little eyes are back! Looking up at her like a fucked up little puppy! She laughed nervously. “ Haha… Hi…” She turned away from him, stiff, back to eating her little meal. Sanity levels were recovering. She was back to being a responsive little character.

Even so, at the corner of her eye, the way he looked at her, looked like he was smiling with his eyes. She sensed-- pride? Affectionate, as he said, but… she can't help but feel like a prey the way he looks at her.  If Caine wasn't kicking his feet earlier, they certainly were now.

“ Haha…just to clarify, what did I do …again?”

Caine stared on, his eyes becoming more and more affectionate. “ If you want the true answer, let's just say that I have visited my brother today and he has… nothing but good things to say about you! And so I thought my magnificent hard-working doll deserved a little reward. Is that so wrong?”

“ Oh him…” Pomni grits her teeth at the mention of Able. “ You… uh ... what did he say?”

Oh, what an excuse to drop every compliment he had for her… “ That you were gorgeous… pleasing design, talented... polite, beautiful eyes—”

“ AH- ahh! No more! Oh god no more.” Pomni shivered from the discomfort so much so that she physically put her hands in front of him to hush! “ Haha! No thank you-’

Caine couldn't even be mad at the interruption! In fact, he erupted into laughter the same way he did earlier! Oh, twice in a day?? These were such genuine reactions from each person! Caine had such genuine yet dark pompous laughter! “Oh?”

“ Yeah! he--” Pomni groaned. “He doesn't even scare me! He's just-- a big two-faced jerk!”

Caine took the hand Pomni used to interrupt him and kissed it by the knuckles. He has never felt so assured. This proved his intrusive thoughts earlier that day to be completely false. The idea of them building rapport, or forming a bond of any sort was completely debunked. After all, how could they form that sort of relationship when they could hardly stand each other's name mentioned in conversation?

Pomni forced a smile at that small but direct form of affection. He seemed to really like it when she talked smack about his brother. She should keep that in mind. “Yeah.. so uh..”

He kissed her knuckle once again… perhaps he liked it just a little too much. Truth was, Caine had never felt so secure in thinking that something was truly his. For once, anyhow. It was so small, but it was his.

Pomni later pulled her hand away, laughing nervously. He was gentle and she didn't trust it. “ You uh…weren't lying when you said you were feeling affectionate…”

“ No one will ever believe you.”

“ Ah.”

After a while, Pomni prepared to be out the bath, wrapping a towel around her hair and around her figure.“ Okay, I think that's all. I-I think Im ready to go now if you don't m-woAHH-!” And in quick succession, Caine carried her bridal style, teleported her out of the bathroom, and back to her bedroom.

For the next hour or so, Pomni sat in at her vanity, Caine grooming her hair from behind. At that moment, he adored dressing her up. His own personal doll, his favorite little toy. Gently he brushed her hair, sneaking in little affections here and there: holding her shoulder, holding her face… he knew exactly where all this sudden affection came from and he so shamelessly indulged in it. After all, who was there to judge him? The little freak he was brushing? The wet little dog? Please.

At that moment, he was no different from a child dressing up his favorite toy. He snapped, picking from an assortment of clothes that would make her look beautiful while she slumbered. Snap! Snap! snap! And Pomni just let it all happen. After all what else could she do?

After a while, Caine stood her up and basked in his good work, looking her up and down and clapping in satisfaction. “ Beautiful. Now bow,” Pomni did as instructed, bowing as if she had just finished a performance. “Very good.”

Once again, Caine carried her in his arms and made his way to the bed, where he so gently placed her. He was playing with dolls. He was so playing with dolls. Pomni just complied as she always did and sat politely, keeping a calm expression, trying to be as neutral for him as possible, and letting him live out his little fantasy.

Before laying her to bed, Caine just took a few more minutes to stare at her, and nothing else. Just admire his best performer. This put Pomni in unease, not just because of his freaky design, but also because she can’t help but feel like she’s missing something somehow. She looked down when she felt him touching her hand, in particular, rubbing his thumbs at the back of it.

Hoping she read his signs correctly, she lifted her hand towards his mouthy face, almost permitting him such desires.

Caine quickly accepted her suggestion and started pressing his teeth on her knuckles in a way to kiss her. It started with one, and another, and another, and another. And the next thing he knew, he stopped counting and started moving his head up to her upper arm.

Pomni allowed this no matter how out of nowhere it was. It was weird, but she did not question it. She felt him start to nibble at her though in which she-- in a panic-- started to retract.

Caine looked up at the sudden rejection and the woman scrambled to find her words. “ U-Uh… Y-Your kisses are sweet, dear ringmaster, but a simple doll such as I am undeserving.” In times like these, Caine would be too deep into his fantasies to care about how real she was being. In his head, he was playing. They were both playing. And he loved it when she played off such a prestige woman, exactly how he liked it.

He whispered back sweet words of grandeur. “ Do you question the taste of a king? I think of no one else more deserving.”

Although she didn’t back away fully, she leaned away a few inches, praying it wasn’t noticeable. She bore a toothy, nervous smile. She was okay baring with his affections until he brought his teeth into it. She did not want to be dinner after all that preparation. She cleared her throat. “Ah…Pray tell, what did the king see in this little… doll?”

“ A flower is most beautiful when taken cared of.” He held her cheek and kissed the opposite. “Let it be known, my care for you was not without motives. Your beauty is a testament to my hard work. And your care is a testament to your belonging to me.”

Belonging to him, he said… He was… so incredibly fucked up, she couldn’t say anything about it. When he was on his way to bite her arm, in her panic, she diverted it and kissed his gums, which, to him, was the equivalent of kissing his cheek.

The ringmaster blinked in confusion and Pomni took his moment of processing to cringe at the feeling of his melted gums on her lips. She felt goosebumps with how gross that was but quickly turned her head back to fake a smile.

But Caine broke character for a moment.“ Did you just. Take initiative?” 

Shit.

That was so strange. As if he hadn’t known that was an option.

She cleared he throat, trying to distract him again. “Is it so wrong of me to return the ringmaster’s affections?” She batted her eyes, making her feel as small as possible. “ A woman cannot resist such a… ” Pomni looked him up and down “... dentures.” 

She panicked with that one.

He stared at her for longer, and the grip on her hand tightened, though, it seemed he did not notice. Although he was unsure if he enjoyed the act or not, he knew what it meant. And the day that he was okay with someone else receiving it is the same day hell freezes over. With a small scowl, He leaned his face inches close to her, as he has always done time and time again.“ Would you reserve such affection for your ringmaster, and just your ringmaster?”

“Of course.” She lied through her teeth.

Caine continued to speak but with a bit more grit in his voice. He leaned so close to her in bed, he had to support one hand on her back, as if dipping her in a dance. “ And will you, my dear, solemnly swear that you’ll live the rest of your existence devoted and serving me?”

The woman kept her calm demeanor. A small smile, but a fake one. She can’t say yes to that. But with her compromising position, she couldn’t say no either. “ Would you promise the same for me?”

Caine was quiet, and so was she. He furrowed his teeth a bit frustrated and let her go. It seems he couldn’t say yes to that either, and Pomni knew.

“... That wasn’t your line.” Caine sat up, and crossed his arms like a pouting little boy.

Pomni faked a surprised face. “ There was a script? Geez, oh man, my bad!” she later faked a yawn. “ Wow, would you look at that I’m also, uh, sleepy! So it seems I can’t finish the uh-.. This”

“ You, “ Caine pointed his cane at her the same way a gunman would point a rifle “ Are being difficult.”

Pomni, in response, just panicked and shrugged. “ Well, I-”

“ But I suppose you’re right, it is quite late.  I wouldn’t want you attending the shows tired… again.” Caine got off the bed and floated off. He snapped, and the blanket draped over Pomni, drowning her in the bed sheets. “ Sleep tight, dear! It’s another day tomorrow, etc. etc. I will be visiting you a little earlier tomorrow to fix you a new wardrobe.” 

“ Wh-?? Then what’s with the-???” she gestured towards her current clothes that he so meticulously chosen out. 

Caine laughed. “ Oh don’t be silly!  Those were for my eyes only! And-- the audience’s if they so pleased. But for now, it's mine.” Caine snapped his fingers and Pomni was back to her normal ballet dress, but more plain and comfortable, but equally pleasing to many eyes.

“ …ARE YOU KIDDING M-”

“ Good night!”

SHUT!

Caine left with a small smile on his face. Sometimes he finds joy in being a bit of a nuisance. He pulled out his hand watch once again and found that it alerted him about errors within the system. 

She scoffed and summoned an old-timey rotary dial. 

Ring…

Ring…

Ring…

“ You’ve reached Able.AI’s communication line! If you are an audience member or a performer: requests and complaints will be held off due to family emergencies. If you're my foul, besotted, temperish, fool of a brother: don’t call this line again! Thank you!” 

… Despite how ridiculous that was, Caine couldn’t help but chuckle. Ohh that was the cherry on top of that perfect day. Nonetheless, Caine AI, you have technical difficulties to tend to. Was today worth all the extra work? Yes. Yes, it was.

[nightingale2004]

Fem! Severus Snape hcs pt.2

Personally, I feel like it would be an ugly duckling turn swan situation

Her bullying wouldn't have been as extreme but still extreme, and the 'prank' still would've happened

Is often ignored not just because of her gender but also because of her status in both the Wizarding world and just society in general

Would be a combination of terrifying yet enchanting like a siren drawing you in with her song or a mysterious enchantress

She would be such an older sister in Hogwarts years to all the younger students in her house

She would be a strict but caring mother and mother figure

Since she is head of her house, she makes sure all of her young snakes look presentable and are staying out of trouble

If she sees a hair out of place, something on her students face, or anything on her students' uniform out of place, she will go full mom mode and fix them up to the point of embarrassment

If she sees her snakes acting disrespectful or out of place, then she will scold them the same way a mother will, which ends up with apologies and gifts for their mother

Gilderoy Lockhart has tried and failed to flirt with Sev and impress her. (It ended with him being blasted to the other side of the classroom by her wand)

Minerva would've seen Sev as a daughter figure to her and would've taught her many things about being a woman

Minerva was the one who taught Sev how to accept who she was as a woman and how to never let herself become smaller in a man's world (a queen teaching her princess 😍😍😍)

She is always two steps ahead of everyone

Despite being silent and invisible. She used this to her advantage and has used these skills to benefit herself and the order and knows a lot of secrets

Every student (regardless of house) see her as strict and a bit unfair, but they also see her as a bit of a mother figure and feel oddly protected but at the same time endangered in her gaze

Has a hard sharp stare that will have your soul leaving your body

Narcissa taught her about makeup and has given Sev her old and extra clothes

Give this woman a cauldron, and she will rule the world

She gives advice when her students need it most

Narcissa and Charity have definitely painted Sev's nails black

Bellatrix is secretly jealous of Sev. Not just because of her looks but how Voldemort sees her

Her voice would be comforting when it's calm, but when her tone changes to anger, to means death

She would still be a mad genius and our sarcastic queen

No doubt, in my mind, she would have a few student admirers

She always carries a mysterious aura

Draco will see her as a mother figure and is possessive if her when other students try to get her attention

Would wear pants and skirts when she was younger and still does to this day

Has Morticia Addams vibes

She still does dramatic entrances

Has eyes in the back of her head (not literally)

Minerva taught her how to dance properly, and now she moves like a ballerina

Is very protective of her students

She saw Lily and Petunia as her sisters and would often imagine that she was their sister and living with them

She has scars from the prank but hides them

Wears long sleeves and boots (low heeled and flat)

She tries to keep her hair from getting too long, but when it does, she ties it up in a ponytail, bun, messy bun, or half up

Her features like her roman nose, pale skin, black eyes, and hair are still there, but she has similar features to Maleficent with her sharp bone structure

[ultimatelytired]

Lullaby

word count: 9428

Fandom: Poppy Playtime Pairing: N/A Pronouns: She/Her Relationship: Familial Occupation: Caretaker Ability: Ballerina Music Box

The character takes the appearance of a beautifully crafted music box ballerina figurine made of the toughest porcelain and glass, their clothes made from real fabric that is soft to touch and hair so smooth and silky you'd mistake it for real hair. Attached to their back is a wind up key that continuously spins when they're active and stops when they switch off. If the key is removed they cease to operate until key is returned and they are wound up again. Before CatNap, the character was the one to put the children to sleep with their built-in music box that would constantly be updated with new songs to play to help ease the children to sleep.

Keys:

[F/N]: Female Name

Warnings: spoilers for chapter 4 and those who haven't played the game, blood, death and all that shit.

"Lullaby" pt. 2, pt.3

bound to be mistakes that I was too lazy to find or fix.

that is all.

This beautiful ballerina is what every little girl dreams to be! Each doll sold plays a different song when you wind her key and her articulated, posable body in shimmery outfits add to storytelling. This doll is ready and waiting to be taken home to sing and dance for your little girl, all day, every day, forever and ever!

She is your best friend, Ballade Ballerina!

-

Subject: 1179

Original Procedure Date: 11/90

Behavior:

Assigned to Home Sweet Home within the Playcare, it acts as a motherly figure towards the children with a "warm" and "caring" attitude. That attitude switches off around the staff and it acts "cold" and "unresponsive" but will do as it's told when given orders. This was one of the few experiments that had their cognitive thinking intact instead becoming one of those mindless individuals.

Much like it's predecessors, while also maintaining the ability to think and respond, it acts as a bodyguard and or security that monitors the children when it's lights out. Nothing seems to get past its watchful eyes while also documenting who comes and goes both Home Sweet Home and the Playcare.

A stage was built into Home Sweet Home where it resides while its built-in music box would play lullabies to help put the children to sleep or when they're stressed it would help calm them down, however, it roams around during the "day" and interacts with the children.

While their temperament becomes apathetic around the regular employees, it becomes more nervous and prone to aggression around the scientists but what intrigues me the most is how it acts around me. Sometimes it would shut down completely when in my presence but is obedient to any order I give it, going so far as to drop any other previous order to complete a task I give it.

Conclusion:

Have it remain within Home Sweet Home for further monitoring.

Subject 1179 is one of the more successful Bigger Bodies that thinks, acts and listens while it can go unmonitored and it won't act out or misbehave.

Signature: Dr. Harley Swayer

-

"Hey, wind up the key already."

"Just... give me a sec, alright. This thing is so hard to turn!" two human employees struggled to turn the wind up key attached to the back of a giant four meter tall ballerina figurine doll, the coiled spring within its body needing to be tightened enough to function throughout the day. The two let out a breath of relief when it finally clicked into place and the third took a step back just as the figurine sparked to life, she sat on her knees with her head in a bowed position but when she turned on she slowly sat up with her eyes blinking to life.

"Good, you're awake." a yawn escaped her lips as she stretched her arms above her head, she looked down at the human in front of her when they snapped their fingers in front of her "Ballade, state your tasks for today." her face, made of the finest but toughest porcelain, held little to no emotion as she continued to stare the human down.

"Wait for the children to wake. Help the children get ready for the day. Entertain the children as the day progresses. Assist the Smiling Critters if needed. Abide by the orders the employees give. When the children--" she stops when they held a hand up to her, their other hand pinching the bridge of their nose in mild irritation.

"Okay, okay, that's enough. I hate doing this." one of the other employees places a hand on their shoulder.

"It's standard procedure, pal. We've got to ask so we know that she knows her daily duties and tasks. If anything is amiss we've got to report to Dr. Sawyer." the three of them shudder, missing how Ballade twitched at the mention of the doctor "You know how he is, that freak."

"Yeah, and besides, we're lucky that we're around one of the few toys whose first thought isn't to bite our heads off." at that comment, they peak up at Ballade and saw how she just continued to stare at them, eyes unnervingly not breaking contact with the three of them as they spoke "Let's not take our chances though." they step off her stage and draw the curtains.

"You know what you're supposed to do." she nods and they leave, she lets out another yawn before finally standing to her feet and waiting for her cue. She laced her fingers together as she stretched her arms and legs, not that she needed to, and got into position at the sound of the soft pitter patter that was the children's footsteps along with more heavier footsteps of the Smiling Critters.

"Haha, alright children. Now that you're all awake, let's help wake up our last friend! You all remember what to do, right?" the voice chuckles softly when the children nod their heads enthusiastically "Alright. One, two, three... oh, Miss Ballade~ rise and shine!"

"Rise and shine, Miss Ballade!" a silence washes over them when nothing happened.

"I think we need to be a little louder, one more time children. Oh, Miss Ballade~"

"Rise and shine!" they hear the sound of soft laughter as a melody starts to play from behind the curtain, they all cheer when the curtain is thrown open and Ballade steps out with a bright smile on her face.

"Good morning children! Thank you for waking me, I really needed that. So, kids, are you all ready for breakfast? Let's find Picky Piggy, I'm sure she's fixed you all something to eat!" at the mention of food a few children scatter to the dining hall, and a few other children lingered around and waited for Ballade "Remember kids, with a healthy diet and enough practice, you just might be able to be like me one day." she says as she takes a step off her stage while reaching for one of the children.

"Really? Can I become a ballerina like you when I grow up?" a genuine smile spreads across her porcelain face as she picks the little girl up and holds her up, the girl starts to laugh when Ballade nuzzles her nose against hers.

"Of course, when you believe in yourself, anything is possible." a laugh escapes her lips when the little girl wraps her arms around her neck and hugs her, she grunts when another pair of arms wraps around her and pulls her into a hug. She pursed her lips and looked down at DogDay, whose already permanent smile stretched wider while his tail wagged when she managed to free her hand to gently caress the back of his head "Good morning to you too, DogDay." he giggled softly.

"Good morning, Miss Ballade." she happily greets the other Smiling Critters, who were rounding up the leftover children, and form a line so no child is left out during breakfast. DogDay was leading them with Ballade, who was ultimately the tallest toy within the Playcare, was the last in line while Hoppy, Kickin and Bubba were mixed in with the children. As they made their way to the dining hall, Ballade was singing different nursery rhymes with the children and Smiling Critters joining in happily to keep them entertained "Who's hungry?"

"We are!" DogDay smiles as he steps to the side and gestures for the children to take a seat in the dining hall, where Picky was setting up the food.

"Well, go take a seat and Picky will serve you right up!" Ballade takes a step back and watches as the children take their seats, whether it be with their friends or by themselves, even the Smiling Critters take their designated seats "Miss Ballade, join us." DogDay says, Bobby smiles warmly as she gestures for Ballade to sit with them.

"Yes, join us!" she gently shakes her head.

"Perhaps later, we are still missing a face." this caused DogDay to look around and notice who exactly was missing.

"Drats, he must have gone back to sleep. Allow me to--" she raises her hand.

"I shall retrieve him, it will be no hassle. Besides, he listens to me." DogDay's ears lowered as a soft whine escaped him, she gave him a comforting smile as she gently patted his head "Do not worry, friend. I will make sure he comes down to join us for breakfast." he nodded, albeit reluctantly.

"Alright." another whine leaves him when both her hands pinch at his cheeks and start stretching them, this caused the children to laugh when DogDay grabbed her by her wrists to stop her "Okay, okay!" she lets go and chuckles when he was rubbing his cheeks, Crafty and Bubba comforting him when he cried softly.

"Good, I'll be back with him in toe." she pats his head before turning on her heel and leaving.

The Smiling Critters consists of eight members, that being DogDay, Bubba Bubbaphant, Bobby BearHug, CraftyCorn, Hoppy Hopscotch, KickinChicken, Picky Piggy and last by certainly not least CatNap. Ballade was created before the Smiling Critters and is the one in charge of them all, keeping them in line and checking on them as ordered by the Doctor himself. She, of course, knows about the experiments and knows who the children were before they were placed into their Bigger Bodies. They, too, recognized Ballade as the nice caretaker who looked after them when they were still human and trusted her with all their heart. Ballade's stage resided within the main foyer in the center of the room where she would usually sing and dance for the children, as for the Smiling Critters, they generally resided in cells beneath the Playhouse but Miss Stella Greyber thought it would make the children happier if they stayed in Home Sweet Home so Ballade wouldn't have to go far from the children just to check on the Smiling Critters.

That being said...

"CatNap~ I know you're in there." she gently knocks on the door before opening it to find the colossal cat sleeping soundly on his cat bed, she enters the room and closes the door behind her then approaches him. Her hand reached to press gently against his head, she smiled fondly when a purr rumbled out of his throat and she continued to stroke his head as she knelt down on her knees "It's time to eat, Theo." she spoke softly, she tilts her head to the side and saw that his eyes opened.

"I'm not hungry..." she frowned.

"I see they still haven't fixed your voice box yet." he grunts at her words.

"They don't care about me." he looked up at her when she wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her head on top of his, her cheek rubbing into the top of his head.

"But I do, and I wish I could help you." her eyes trailed down his body and winced when she saw his skeletal figure "And I wish for you to join us for breakfast, my boy. The others are waiting for us to join them, so we mustn't keep them waiting." he huffed and turned away from her, his tail flicking around in disinterest.

"They're not waiting. They don't care about me either." she pouts but doesn't stop petting him.

"That's not true, they care in their own way. Won't you do this for me, my sweet boy?" it still wasn't enough to convince him, haa, when he gets like this she only has one last thing to resort to "I see, I guess I'll leave you to sleep. But DogDay will be very upset." a subtle smirk stretched across her lips when his ear perked up.

"DogDay...?" she shrugged her shoulders as she removed herself, dusting the skirt of her dress.

"Mm hmm, he was upset that you weren't there to join us for breakfast. I won't pressure you to join us, but I guess Crafty will be the one to keep him company." playing with his feelings like this was cruel but DogDay was CatNap's closest friend where he got pretty jealous when the others got too close to him "I'll tell him you're still sleeping, so sweet dreams my baby~" she's waving him goodbye as she takes her leave and closing the door behind her, she's walking away and quietly counting down from five and the moment she gets to one his door was kicked open. She snickers to herself and stops to wait for him, as she's turning around she notices that he isn't slowing down and before she can do anything to avoid him he crashes into her.

*SLAM*

*THUD*

*CRASH*

"What was that?" DogDay was quick to his feet at the sound of a loud crash, the others quickly settled the children as he and Kickin rushed out to see what it was, only for them to hold back their laughter at the sight. The cause of the sound was CatNap charging into Ballade and the two of them tumbling down the stairs when they reached the bottom Ballade fell face first into the floor with CatNap on top of her, DogDay continued to laugh quietly as he approached them "Are you... alright, Miss Ballade?" he and Kickin burst out into laughter when she answers them with a thumbs up, face still in the floor.

"Sorry, Miss Ballade..." CatNap apologies as he lifts his hand upon realizing his paw was pressed into the back of her head.

"It's alright, my dear boy. You were just excited to eat with your friends." she reassures them that she's alright as they help her to her feet and they return to the dining hall, Ballade had a bright smile on her face at the sight of all her children eating together. Despite the horrors that lie beneath their feet, she could never ask for a better job than thi--

"Ballade." her eyes snap away from the children and see that it was Stella Greyber calling her name, she gestures with her finger for her to come so with one final look at the children she slinks away to see what the Head of Playcare could possibly need from her.

"Miss Greyber, how may I be of assistance today?" a bead of sweat formed on Stella's cheek as she stared up at the figurine, despite the friendly smile on her face, her eyes were void of any emotion as her voice was monotone.

"I need you to accompany me and the other Head Executives for a meeting, we have some guests that I'm worried will act out." she raised a brow.

"Act... out?" her mind thinks back to the other times Stella or the other Head Executives called her out when they were having meetings with especially unruly guests, she slowly nods her head "I understand, Miss Greyber." Stella smiles and claps her hands.

"Splendid, just follow me out." she nods her head but stops and looks to where the Smiling Critters are.

"Oh, CatNap!" she calls out, his head snaps up and looks to where she is, he scowls when he sees Stella but his gaze softens when Ballade smiles "Look after the children for me while I'm gone, hmm? I trust you'll keep them safe." her smile brightened when he nodded, slowly, but he nodded.

"Okay..." she laughs softly and waves the children goodbye when the children bid her goodbye, Kickin and Hoppy pout as they watch Ballade follow Stella out before they all look up at CatNap, who went back to eating his food "... what?"

"How come you're in charge? I thought she'd at least choose DogDay."

"I'm not in charge. She only told me to look after the children..." DogDay nods.

"Yeah. Besides, he needs more time to hang around the children! Since he visits the doctor more often than us, the children have been missing him and want to spend more time with him! She must have thought of that as to why she chose CatNap to look after the children." Bubba nods.

"I agree, CatNap is becoming quite popular with the children." Bobby giggles softly.

"Sounds to me you're just jealous she chose him and not you two."

"We're not jealous!" Crafty places her hands on their backs to calm them.

"Now, now, no fighting. Miss Ballade wouldn't want us to." CatNap watched as his friends bicker amongst each other as he thought of the real reason Ballade asked him of all the Smiling Critters to look after the children, or rather, watch. The reason she asked him was because he was more capable of guarding them while she was away, she didn't act as just a caretaker to the children, she was also their bodyguard in case guests that were welcomed into the Playcare acted aggressively around the children or staff. She waves at the few children outside Home Sweet Home as well as the Miss Delight teachers as she continues to follow Stella to the Gas Production Zone, and it was the moment she was out of sight that she dropped her friendly demeanor.

The human employees were quick to shuffle away when Stella entered with Ballade trailing close behind, her heavy footsteps echoing throughout the production zone as they stepped onto the lift and had them lowered towards the prison. Stella looked back at Ballade and noticed how she grew nervous as they traversed through the toy graveyard, she was nervous herself but she noticed how the figurine was clasping her hands together as she kept her glass eyes down to avoid looking at the toys. To the people who are unaware, they would think that it was just rejected or ruined toys they were walking by, but to the people who knew the truth... it was better not to think about it for their own sanity.

"You're here, finally!" Leith Pierre, Head of Innovations and owner of Playtime Co., announced when Stella entered the room with Ballade in toe. He was speaking with Stella as Ballade looked around the room and spotted the familiar looking box in the corner of the room, she sighs, so she was on cleanup duty huh? She blinked when Leith was in front of her and snapping his fingers to get her attention, she slowly turned her head to look down at him and saw the irritated expression on his face "Alright, you know what you're to do, hmm? I've got six guests coming down to discuss a couple things when in reality, I'm just going to have you two get rid of them. It's the media that's gotten a little too nosey and I need you to silence them for, well, ever. Got it?" she stared blankly at him then nodded.

"Understood." he gives her that all too familiar smile; fake.

"Terrific! Get into place." she nods once more and takes her place beside the door. Despite being in the lower area of Playtime Co. where a prison was built, the room was nicely decorated with all sorts of toys littered around so it wouldn't be odd to see the popular, life-sized doll of Ballade Ballerina in the room. She takes a breath before holding the first position (a basic ballet position) with a kid-friendly smile on her face, she also temporarily slowed her wind up key so you wouldn't hear it tick as it moved "Okay, bring 'em in."

...

...

'So boring...' she could feel the yawn building up in her throat but had to fight it down as to not alarm the unsuspecting guests that she was alive and watching their every movement, she had been watching them closely since they stepped foot into the room and would look away when they would glance up at her. The three Head Executives were answering questions their guests were asking and it started off with the usual, she was watching them again but stopped when they gestured to her.

"My little girl has a Ballade doll, I never would have thought you would have made a life size version of her. I've seen the Huggy Wuggy and Kissy Missy ones, but I still can't get over the sheer size of them." Leith laughs at the comment.

"Of course, of course! The children love them, or rather, they love to climb all over them. Our Ballade here is our most delicate one. Unlike Huggy, who's made of fur and fluff, or Mommy, who's made of plastic, she's made of porcelain. She's one of our finest toys and mascots, the children just love her."

"Does she sing too?" Stella nods.

"She does indeed, she has the wind up key and everything but it's a hassle to wind it up because of the technical stuff inside her." the lady deflated a little.

"A pity. Well, anyway, back to the interview." she picks up a stack of papers and then spreads them across the table to reveal a couple photos of the factory, it was a wonder how they managed to capture them when it was against the rules to film or document anything when within the factory, they must have a really good photographer "I am very curious about the many locations within Playtime Co., especially the building we're in now."

"Yes, and by the looks of it, it kind of looks like a... prison?" Eddie M. N. Ritterman, the Head of Research, just let out a laugh.

"A prison? Don't be ridiculous! Why would we, a company known for making toys, build a prison? This place is merely a warehouse for toys that just didn't appeal to the children." that answer didn't really convince the interviewers, not that it mattered, they weren't leaving this room, let alone the building itself "We bring toys that don't make the cut down here so we can brainstorm and see how we can make them better! Down here is where all the "science" happens, you know?" they raise a brow.

"Science?"

"Well, our leading scientist isn't here to give all the boring details about how we run things, but he's what makes the toys come to life! He's the reason why our Ballade here is so lifelike, you see." at this comment one of the interviewers stood up and looked at Ballade closely.

"Now that you mention it, it's almost as if her eyes are following me..." he murmured to himself and started moving side to side to see if she was really watching them, the three Executives watch Ballade's eyes closely and saw that she managed to not look at him and when the others saw this as well he was quickly yanked back into his seat.

"Stop that, you're making yourself look like a fool." they whisper sharply.

"But I swear we're being watched." Leith chuckles at that.

"You can thank our security for that! We pride ourselves in our security to make any intruders as uncomfortable as possible." that comment caused them to grow a little nervous, Eddie laughed when he could feel the rise of tension because of Leith's words.

"What Leith is trying to say is that with our security, anyone that trespasses onto Playtime Co. property without proper invitation, well, they better hope that the silent alarm that goes off is the only thing they should be worrying about." this caused the lot of them to shrink a little, the staff hadn't realized that this man came onto the property multiple times disguised as a guest to take photos but he didn't go unrecognized by Huggy and Mommy, the mascots who were the security for the main entrance and Game Stop of Playtime Co.

"Mister Pierre, sir, we didn't mean--" Stella winced and looked away when Eddie raised his hand to stop them. Eddie's eyes narrowed as they all looked at how their guests shrank under his gaze.

"Now, there's no need to apologize. I must say, you got some really good shots of our factory. I should thank you, clearly we need to update our human security since they failed to check if anyone was carrying a camera when it is prohibited to bring such things into the factory. A hazard, you know? I should get to that right away!" he stands to his feet and readjusts his blazer "I'll be sure to have our security take care of things." Stella and Eddie follow close behind as they leave the room, closing the door behind them and leaving the six people in there.

"Great! They're probably going to call the police."

"They're going to have us barred from entering the property."

"I'm more surprised they didn't confiscate the photos."

"He said that security was going to "take care of things", or whatever that means."

"Think we can just leave?"

"Yeah, and find the exit through this maze? I think it'd be better to wait for security." they start discussing what they should do when they hear a subtle ticking sound, they look over and see that it was coming from the Ballade Ballerina figurine "Is it... ticking?" one of them asked as they approached her, looking her up and down and noticing how her wind up key was turning.

"Is she on or something?" they jumped when the box in the corner of the room started making a noise, the crank on the jack-in-the-box turning on its own and playing its familiar tune, creeping them out even further "Is it automatic or something."

"Shut it off if it freaks you out so much." a few of them approach the box while the others paced the room.

"All around the cobbler's bench..." the man in front of Ballade whipped his head up at her when she started singing, the room fell into silence when both she and the box started playing "Pop goes the Weasel", Ballade sang it slowly with an eerie and dull expression on her face "The monkey chased the weasel..." the woman pacing the room shook her head.

"Why is she singing?"

"Is she supposed to sing that slow?"

"The monkey thought 'twas all in fun..." the man in front of her shook his head as he approached the door.

"Fuck this." he rushes for the door and grabs the doorknob, he's in the process of yanking it open when a large hand slams it shut. He stares at the hand that is bigger than his head before slowly looking up to see Ballade staring down at him, his breath hitches when she stares him straight in the eyes.

"Pop goes the weasel." the room is filled with screams when her hand grabs him by the neck and closes around it, promptly snapping his neck and killing him on the spot. What followed next was the sound of blood-curdling screams and cries for help, yet their pleas fell to deaf ears as they were killed like cattle in a slaughterhouse. When the room fell quiet, Leith peeked inside and smirked softly at the sight of Ballade feeding Boxy Boo the dead interviewers one by one, well, the interviewers who weren't already half-eaten by the gluttonous toy. He whistled softly when he saw a few holes in the concrete walls, she was quite the masterpiece, he had to admit. Despite being a porcelain doll that is normally very fragile, the doctor had constructed her body with the finest but toughest porcelain he could find. She acted as not only the security for Playcare, she was essentially a bodyguard for the three Head Executives as well as extra muscle for cleaning up dead bodies "Open wide, Boxy." she cooed as she held a dismembered torso in her hands and dangled it above him, a faint smile graced her lips when he obliged and opened as wide as he could and she dropped it into his mouth.

"Haha, well done!" she didn't pay Leith any mind as she continued to feed Boxy "We'll have the Specialist mop up all the blood, and Ballade? Don't forget to clean yourself up." at the mention of that, she looked down at herself and saw the blood dripping down her fine china.

"We're lucky porcelain doesn't stain easily, or else it'd be a pain to explain why she's been dyed red." Eddie comments, Stella sighs softly.

"Well, she does get the most maintenance out of all the toys. She requires a lot of cleaning or else she'll fall apart." Ballade let out an oh when she felt Boxy nudge her side, she looked down at him and saw that he was licking the blood off her fingertips. Experiment 1160, better known as Boxy Boo, was the first experiment from the Bigger Bodies Initiative that was a success but unlike her, he was violent and gluttonous with his purpose being the disposing of lower-ended employees aware of the Initiative. While her main purpose was to look after the children within Playcare, she also helped Boxy Boo and the Specialist deal with "clean-up duty" and because of that, she was constantly around him since she was the only one who could control him. Due to that, Boxy Boo was more like a dog around her since she treated him nicely.

"Clean up the rest of the bodies then you can go back to Playcare after returning Boxy Boo to his cell." she nods her head.

"Yes, sir." she has to hold Boxy Boo's head down to stop him from lunging towards Leith, who approached her knowing that she would keep him safe from the ravenous toy, just to pat her on the arm.

"Good girl." she just huffed softly. It only takes a couple minutes for Ballade to feed the last of the bodies to Boxy before he's tuckered out and slinking back into his box, she's caressing the top of it and cooing sweet nothings to him until he falls asleep. He too was once a child, she wasn't going to treat him like a savage just because he'd lost himself to this experiment, she had a role as a caretaker and she was going to fulfill it no matter what.

"Goodbye, Boxy Boo. I'm sure I'll see you soon." she says as she pats his head, he whines softly but lets her go nonetheless. She exits the room and is escorted back to the Playcare by a few prison guards, she smacks their hands off her when they grab her and practically growls at them not to do it again. She doesn't really get in trouble for killing any of the employees, Leith prefers it because it's fewer people to pay wages to, he practically encourages it and the humans all know it. Ballade double checks she'd gotten all the blood off of her before finally stepping back into Playcare, it was easy for her to lie to the children about her whereabouts and why she was gone as it was the breathe. Sometimes she felt guilty for lying to their faces but it was better for them not to know; it was better for them to remain unaware that she was a stone-cold killer who was more than capable of killing them.

"Come on, Miss Ballade! We made something for you." she gasped softly, placing a hand on her chest.

"For me? You shouldn't have." she'd been led by the hand of a few children towards the playground close to the schoolhouse where they showed her small drawings they made "What's this?" they laughed softly.

"Miss Delight told us to draw something that makes us happy, so I drew you!"

"Me too!"

"I did too!"

"Miss CraftyCorn helped me with mine." Ballade took each of their drawings and looked at them closely, making sure to look at each detail "Do you like them, Miss Ballade?" she smiled fondly at the drawings before placing her hands on their heads one by one, snickering softly when she messed with their hair.

"I love them. It warms my heart to know that I make you happy." she pats their backs when they hug her legs "Now come, let's go join the others. I hear you guys are playing hide and go seek." they gasp in anticipation, hide and seek was always fun with the Smiling Critters. Ballade sat with CatNap under a tree by Home Sweet Home as they watched the children run around looking for spots to hide, they were too big to participate in hiding and though the other Smiling Critters were just as big, they were more capable of hiding than them. CatNap is curled up behind her as she lets her body rest against his, her hand gently stroking his head while his tail thumped gently on the ground.

"Thank you for looking after the children, CatNap. Did anything happen while I was away?" he lets out a soft grunt.

"No. The children were well-behaved." she smiles.

"That's good. Did they give you any trouble?"

"Not really, they mostly bothered DogDay." this caused her to laugh softly and she looked over to where DogDay was and saw him chasing around one of the children he managed to find that was hiding in a bush "He is the favorite one amongst us all."

"With his friendly personality, I wouldn't see why anyone wouldn't like him." CatNap huffed at that "But you're still my favorite, I always did love the smell of lavender compared to vanilla." she chuckled when he started purring as he nudged his against her side, she rewarded him by scratching under his chin while pressing a kiss atop of his head, this only intensified the purring. About an hour or so goes by before the game ends and they come to collect the two, only to find them both sleeping soundly in each other's company. Ballade didn't mean to fall asleep, she could technically go days without "sleep" so long as her key kept turning, however, her key had stopped since she was leaning against CatNap and she evidently fell asleep on him. It took Bubba to wind up her key to get her to wake up, and when she did, she apologized for doing so since she promised she'd watch them play.

"CatNap can put just about anybody to sleep!"

"But I didn't expect to see Miss Ballade to fall asleep. She's never one to fall asleep while on duty."

"Perhaps whatever she had to do tuckered her out." no, my key just stopped and I inadvertently fell asleep... but CatNap is very nice to nap around, hence his name. To make up for it, Ballade spends the rest of the day with the girls, and the boys who want to participate, practicing ballet moves. Of course, she only shows them how to do basic moves but shows off her body's flexibility, since her body didn't have bones she could bend and twist her body however she liked. She was by no means like Mommy Longlegs, who could manipulate her body however she liked, but she could easily fold her body in half with little to no strain.

"Am I doing it right, Miss Ballade?" she looked over and saw a little girl trying to perform the pirouette but couldn't quite keep her leg up as she spun nor keep herself from tumbling a little.

"You're quite close, little one, you just need to work on your balance." she kicks at the ground.

"You make it look easy." she chuckled softly.

"I struggled a lot too, it takes years and years of practice. As they say, practice makes perfect. Just don't give up and your efforts will be rewarded." she takes a step back and performs the pirouette once more and does a little bow at the end, she takes a knee and gestures for her to try again "Nobody is going to make fun of you for not getting it on the first go." Ballade, no, [F/N] watched with a fond look as the little girl tried and tried again to stick the landing and was getting there with each attempt she made.

[F/N], that was her name before she became Ballade Ballerina; before she got stuck in a body that she couldn't recognize. She couldn't remember much before her time at Playcare but she did remember that she was older than most of the kids at the orphanage, perhaps that's where she could her motherly tendencies from and why she loved to care for the children, because she knew better than the adults who lied to their faces like they were stupid, but she wasn't stupid. What she could remember was the day when she was chosen, out of all the children who were more eager to be selected, she was the one that was picked and she didn't know how to feel. At the time she was anxious, both at the thought of being with a new family but also leaving the kids she had grown to love, but what choice did she have? Maybe she was happy that she was leaving that underground orphanage to see the sun again, she was excited to feel the wind blow through her hair and to be normal again.

All that happiness was short-lived when she was taken deeper into Playtime Co. to be experimented on by the infamous Doctor Harley Sawyer, that cruel and ruthless man who cared not for her wellbeing but the advancement of science and what he could do. She could almost remember the day she woke up and felt trapped in a body that she just knew wasn't hers, she just felt wrong. Her body no longer felt dense but rather hollow, if she tapped her finger against herself she could hear the way it would make a clinking sound as if two cups came together. Her face felt like it was stuck in place and she couldn't properly express the way she felt, even if she felt herself cry she couldn't even feel the tears that would fall down her cheeks. She felt it was impossible to move, that if she did she would come apart, even still, she could barely bend her knees and elbows and they were stuck in place.

Doctor Harley Sawyer called her his masterpiece, how her body was made from delicate porcelain that he reinforced to make her durable enough to not break easily if she were to suffer enough force or heavy weight to her person. Her body had articulated joints so she could fold and bend her body like a normal person but didn't suffer the strain or pain a human would, she was capable of twisting her limbs in all directions and not feeling a thing. She was practically a machine, she felt like a machine because she had practically lost most of her senses. She couldn't feel anything upon her glass-like skin, taste anything on her artificial tongue, or smell anything through her nose that felt more like decoration on her face. She couldn't eat, she couldn't sleep and if they didn't want to deal with her they could just turn her off by the wind up key on her back that was practically her lifeline. Without it, they could practically turn her off forever and forget about her.

They threatened her with that possibility each time she wouldn't give them the results that they wanted, that if she continued to act up or be difficult they'd throw her away to rot in the prison. That terrified her, she didn't want to be trapped in a cell in a body that felt more like a cage, so she complied and listened. Listening is what granted her freedom, or rather, to leave the lower levels and return to Playcare as Ballade Ballerina, the life-sized music box figurine, to care for and protect the children like she did when she was still human. [F/N] felt herself die each time she would smile at these children, knowing that what she was doing was only going to get them killed and she could do nothing but smile and laugh as they'd be taken, happy that they were chosen like she was... only for their lives to be cut short before it even began.

She was just like those damn adults.

"Miss Ballade?" she blinked when the little girl called her name.

"Oh, y-yes? I'm sorry, I was distracted. Show me again, why don't you?" the girl frowned softly then approached Ballade, taking her hand and squeezing it.

"You don't have to lie, Miss Ballade. I know I'll never be as good as you, so it's fine to tell the truth." her heart ached at her words, and she quickly shook her head and held the little girl's hand within her bigger ones. The few memories she managed to cling to before she became what she is today was that when she was growing up, when she still had a family that loved and cared for her, she wanted to be a ballerina. How ironic, but she remembered when she was young and had that same devastated look on her face when she just couldn't get the basic moves right and was ready to give up.

"No, no. Being as good as me shouldn't be what's on your mind, you've got to be as good as you can be. You won't be as good as me, and that's fine, because you can just be better than me."

"Can I really?" she nods.

"Of course! Because you can continue to grow, while I'll forever be the boring doll who is only good at ballet." she let out an oh when the girl started rocking back and forward.

"I think you're pretty cool for just a boring doll." if she could cry she'd feel her eyes glisten with tears.

"... I really appreciate that. Now come on, show me again. I'll be watching, I promise." she's clapping her hands in encouragement when the girl tries again and again until he finally sticks the landing, she's rewarded with Ballade picking her up and twirling her around with a proud look on her face "See? You did it! Just like I said you would, I am so proud." she caresses her cheek against hers then booped her nose.

"Thank you, Miss Ballade." she says as she wraps her arms around her neck.

"Anything for you." she spends the next half hour performing a couple more moves before the adults tell them that it was time to head back to Home Sweet Home. She allows DogDay and Hoppy to lead the children back into Home Sweet Home where they are separated by gender and brought to separate bathrooms to clean up, she ends up in the kitchen to help Picky sort out dinner while the rest of the Smiling Critters are left to set up the dining hall. She's standing in her usual corner when the children finally arrive with Bobby and Crafty pleading for her to join them at their table, she planned to decline their invitation but was brought over by CatNap nudging her over to them. It felt quite nice to just sit with the Smiling Critters and since she didn't need to eat to sustain herself, she sat quietly with them and would speak every now and then when they spoke to her.

"My favorite part of the day..." CatNap said after dinner was finished and they were all leaving the dining hall.

"Because you get to go back to sleep?" he nods and turns towards the staircase to return to his room, only to be stopped when he is grabbed by a few of the kids and tugged towards Ballade's stage.

"You can't go to sleep yet, CatNap!"

"Miss Ballade's gonna read to us." this caught his attention and he looked to where she was stepping onto her stage after taking a book from one of the kids "You're gonna join us, right? Miss Ballade always makes storytime fun!"

"Come on CatNap, join us."

"It just wouldn't be the same without you." he grumbles softly.

"... alright." they cheer and practically climb all over him when he takes a seat in front of her stage, she smiles when CatNap joins the crowd of children but knows that he is going to sleep through most of the story, not that she minded.

"Okay, kids. Despite having read this story over a thousand times, I'm sure you wouldn't mind hearing it again." she clears her throat then throws her arm out for dramatic flare "The Adventures of the Word Wizard!" they all laugh when she puts on a theatrical performance as she read the book, using different voices for characters and playing her music box for some background noise. She always was good at storytime, able to draw the children in with ease and entertain them, it warmed her heart to see them so invested in a story they had heard time and time again but not get tired of it.

It was one good thing this stupid place had to give her.

"And with his final word, this story has come to an end." the children, including the Smiling Critters, all let out a round of awes that it was over "And now it's time for bed." she laughs when they made more sounds of disappointment, besides Catnap, who stood up and started carrying that were laying on him off to bed.

"Can't we have one more story?"

"Yeah, just one more?" she shakes her head.

"I'm afraid not. Besides, you're all yawning." she closed the book and placed it down as she stepped off her stage and to where the few tired children were sitting, the Smiling Critters gathered the other children and either started carrying them or leading them back to their beds "Sleep is just as important, one should not neglect the need to rest just to continue having fun. I mean, look at CatNap! All he does is sleep and he has fun."

"Then he must be having a lot of fun since he's always sleeping."

"Uh huh, and he must be having the most wonderful dreams because of that. So, why don't we all go to bed so we can dream and have fun while we're asleep? We can always continue the fun tomorrow, it's not like it's going anywhere." that was a lie, she nor the children had no clue whether that would be their last night alive and that thought scared her "Now come, CatNap is ready to help you children to sleep."

"Oh, alright." she scoops them up while grabbing another by the hand to lead them back to their rooms, she's tucking them into bed and pressing kisses onto each of their heads as she passes them. She's mentally counting each child to make sure that all have been returned to bed and that none were missing, the last time she failed a headcount she, well... let's just say she never misses up the headcount anymore.

"Are they all here?" she nods "Whenever you're ready..." she goes through the assortment of songs she had before finally choosing one, the moment CatNap heard her music box start to play he exhaled enough of the red smoke from his mouth to help them doze off but stay awake long enough to hear her sing.

"Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly, lavender's green~" this was CatNap's favorite part of the day, not only did he get to sleep, but he got to help Ballade put all the rowdy children to sleep as he listened to her sing. Before he got put into this body, when he was Theodore Grambell, Ballade was the only one who understood him. He had few friends and preferred keeping it that way because the other children annoyed him, but Ballade was different. Instead of pestering him like the adults would, trying and failing to get him to open up, she would merely sit with him in silence and wait patiently for him. She had a boisterous but calming personality that she could easily switch between depending on who she was interacting with, it was why the children loved her so much; it was why he loved her "Because you love me, dilly, dilly. I will love you~" she looks at CatNap and smiled at him, despite the permanent smile on his face, she could see a crease in his lips that let her know that he was giving her a genuine smile

When her music box struck its final cord and all the children had fallen asleep, she brushed the hair out of one of their eyes as they slept soundly before standing to her feet and going over to CatNap. The back of her hand brushed against his cheek and scratched under his chin as she walked him back to his room, she stayed with him until he fell into a deep slumber and wouldn't notice when she slipped out of his room to check on the other Smiling Critters. She found them all sleeping in their designated rooms and made sure to give them goodnight kisses as well, she had a feeling they would know if she didn't give them one, then went back to roaming the quiet and empty halls of Home Sweet Home.

Since she did not need to sleep, she aimlessly roamed around Playcare for nothing in particular, or that's what it seemed if people weren't aware of why she was stationed in Playcare. Huggy Wuggy was the security for the main lobby, Mommy Longlegs was the security for the Game Station, and Ballade was the security for Playcare. It was rare, very, very rare for someone to trespass onto Playtime Co. property after hours, and nearly impossible to make it past Huggy and Mommy alike to get into Playcare. The only likely situation you could get past those mascots was if you were an employee who knew their way around, but one thing was for sure, you would never make it past Ballade. She knew the entire layout of Playcare as well as the prison below, Leith and the Doctor made sure of that, so no matter where you go, she would always find you. Despite her large stature, she was very nimble on her feet. She was so good at sneaking around that you wouldn't even know she was behind you until she spoke up. The Doctor, Stella and Eddie would constantly make her sneak up on Leith to scare the living daylights out of him, she had to hide behind them when he threatened her with solitary confinement if she kept it up.

Anyways-

"It was almost too easy..." a voice whispered as they explored the Playcare, completely unaware that they were being watched. Ballade didn't bring it up with the three Executives when she noticed after the carnage that there were only five bodies instead of six, how the sixth one got away undetected, she'll never know, but he won't make it far. People were already aware that there was an onsite orphanage within Playtime Co. but as stated before, cameras were not allowed onto the property in case they caught something that would get them into a whole heap of trouble "If I can make it out of this maze, I'll make a fortune out of these photos." he spoke as he entered the Playhouse where he couldn't help but marvel at the sight of the playground with maze-like elements decorated with colorful brick walls and tunnels but it was pretty creepy exploring when there were no lights to illuminate the building, he makes sure to put the flash on before taking photos on his camera.

He takes a couple photos of the dark just to see where he is going, but when he sees the developed photo he is a little startled to see a pair of glowing eyes through the darkness that is staring right at him, he looks back in the direction he took it and takes another photo. He freaks out when the eyes are closer, so he starts walking backward while taking another with each step, he tries to listen for footsteps but can only hear his own as well as his panicked breathing. Whatever he was seeing drew closer and closer, but no matter how hard he tried to catch a glimpse of what was chasing him, he couldn't see past the flash, and through his terror, he accidentally dropped his camera. He's quick to drop to his knees and blindly search for it only to freeze when he feels a soft breeze on his face. With trembling hands, he finds his camera and takes a photo just to set the flash off and sees staring at him through the darkness was Ballade.

"How naughty~ Playtime Co. doesn't take lightly to trespassers." her hand was quick to close around his mouth before he could let out a scream and sound off the alarms, her fingers are digging into his skin as she planned to snap his neck but thinks for a bit "... hmm, the Doctor has stated that he's been wanting a live test subject. Guess you're the lucky one, congratulations." she picks up the camera and drags the poor man down to where Doctor Harley Swayer was, ignoring the confused stares from the prison guards and employees alike as she made her way to his lab while the photographer struggled against her iron-clad grip.

*KNOCK*

"What is it?" Sawyer cocked a brow when he didn't get an answer and the door was opened, usually, he'd yell at anyone who'd interrupt him but was surprised to see Ballade enter the room "My, what brings you here little dancer?" he smirks when he saw the way her body started to tremble, well, that was until he saw her drag in an unknown man.

"I caught an intruder, sir."

"And you're telling me this why?" she bounces on her feet nervously.

"You said you wanted a live test subject, so I brought him thinking you'd want to use him for your research." the man looks up at Sawyer for any sort of help only to be ignored when he lets out a sigh.

"I don't need him for anything, so you can just feed him to Yarnaby." she nods her head.

"Is Yarnaby in his cell?"

"Yes, he is. Close the door on your way out." she nods once more.

"Yes, sir." she let out a breath as she closed the door then looked back down at the man "You have no idea how lucky you are, Mister Intruder. You won't have to suffer at the hands of the Doctor and will get to die a quick death... well, that all depends if Yarnaby has been fed or not." she chuckled softly when she saw the panic flash on his face, poor man should have left when he had the chance. She's back in the prison and tells the guards to open Yarnaby's cell door and when they do she tosses the photographer inside and closes the door so he can't leave.

"Wait, no! Please, let me go! I-I swear I won't publish those photos!" she's in the observation room as she tosses the camera up and down "I don't want to die...!"

"You should have thought of that before you decided that taking pictures was worth more than your life." his body slumped when she shrugged her shoulders "Oh, Yarnaby~" she called out just as the door that kept Yarnaby contained opened up, her expression is indifferent when Yarnaby stepped out and looked up at the man curiously. This lion-like toy is rather adorable with its derpy expression and one would think he was going to play by the way he was tilting his head, that was until his face opened up to reveal his large open mouth hollowed out inside his head with rows of sharp jagged teeth along the outer rim of his mouth. The man couldn't even get a scream out when Yarnaby's mouth closed around his head, spilling his blood all over the window and killing him instantly.

Such a shame, she thought. He had quite a promising future if he had just left Playtime Co. instead of taking a few more pictures, maybe she should have let him go so he could expose the dark secrets this toy factory had but if she didn't kill him, the others surely would have.

"What a shame." she murmured before crushing the camera in her hand and looking back into the cell to see Yarnaby now aimlessly chewing on his torso, she always did find him adorable.

[kiss-me-muchoo]

𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬, 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐞 || 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠!𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

part one: stop, you’re losing me || part two: in the trees, in the breeze (here)

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲_ your memory kept haunting Coriolanus Snow, so he found the way to end his exile. It’s a new era, but the same old feelings between Coriolanus and you keep causing scandals. Although, you are not ready to let go the pain he caused to you.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬_ Capitol ballerina!reader, angst, drama, violence and death lol, jealousy, unhinged Coriolanus, sex mentions, reader still has health problems, etc. 13k words fic IM SORRY

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞_ hear this along Can’t catch me now, I’m not an OR fan but I love that song from her. I mean, who didn’t? And thank you for the wait and loveeeee. PLEASE TELL ME OF ANY ERRORS BC I CAN’T BE ALMOST ACCUSED OF BEING TRANSPHOBIC PLEASEEEE

♪ ♫ awful Coriolanus Snow playlist ✰ Index (+ fics here)

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Red, blue, red, red, yellow, green, green, pink.

Every color is correctly marked. A nurse smiles with some papers on her hand before she dissapears.

You can get dressed again. The color test was done, your vision was okay.

Purple and green bruises are scattered across your skin. Some appeared on your inner thighs. Two on your knees and one on the ribs from the day you collapsed after the post-Hunger Games celebration. You sigh covering your skin with a long floral dress. The reflection of yourself on the mirror salutes you with a tired, broken and sad face. It makes you force a smile, pretending more people were watching you. The room in empty though.

“Everything is fine. Your body is responding well to the shots.” A doctor asks as soon as he walks in into the room.

“The only thing that worries me is your mental health. Have you been stressed or has anything happened to you that could be considered a traumatic experience?”

The pointe shoes soaked in blood. The unstoppable bleeding on your feet. The late nights with panic attacks and over thinking. That young blonde man and the songbird together. The night on dressing room, how your hand burned after slapping the man so hard. The shock of all the events surrounding your life two weeks ago. How you lost control, your head spinning, blurred vision, heart pounding, numb arms and how you felt the oxygen was leaving. All the things you did for someone who never deserved you, making you shatter, fainting as soon as you finished dancing.

“Miss y/l/n… Are you okay?” The distant voice of the doctor breaks your bubble. You shake your head in disguise before turning away from the mirror, facing him and smiling politely.

“Yes, I’m fine. I was very stressed, yeah. Working with the production of the Hunger Games. My artistic performances, last days at the Academy. It was a lot…” the doctor sighs, annotating something. He then handed you the paper.

“I’m giving you some treatment for that. And please, you have to be careful and calm. Only that way the medicine will help everything to work here” he points his head. You nod, accepting the paper.

After that, you leave the private hospital. Trevor is there, your chauffeur and friend. He smiles, opening the door for you.

“Thank you, Trevor” he starts the car soon after.

“Is everything okay?” You nod, looking at the bright day at the Capitol.

“I just need to relax and eat well.” Trevor had trimmed his hair. It made him look younger, making you smile at the memory of him saying his wife was his hairstylist.

“Good. Oh, I received a call from your mother. This woman…uh, Dr. Volumnia Gaul? She wants to see you at the Univeristy today” you frown to look at him confused.

“Oh? So… Can we go now?” He nods, turning left to start the route. Meanwhile, you wonder what could she want. You made your part, the games had a higher amount of viewers compared to last year. You engaged with the production and the celebration was at full capacity. Your little accident even made it more attractive to the media. Appearing on the papers and magazines across Panem.

And after everything, you still wanted to keep dancing. Or else range would consume you.

…

It’s the first time you step inside the Capitol’s University. It’s very similar to the Academy, but the floor tiles are green and white. There’s a lot of white, cream, golden and black decorating the halls and long stairs.

Since it’s summer, most of the building was empty. Only some of the staff, and very few people who seemed like students. You see they dress very elegant. Some women wore hats with feathers or flowers. The men wore classy suits and you genuinely thought you would fit in.

You couldn’t wait to have some sense of normality as a Univeristy student along Clemensia and Lysistrata. Your only close friends left. Well, also Festus and Sejanus. At the time, you didn’t event know your dear friend was dead.

What seems like the private office of Gaul has a red door. Inside, she had a laboratory, smaller but weirder than the one you had seen before. Full of dissected creatures, tanks and crystal containers with unknown chemicals.

Some steps further and you see her desk, where she is collecting some folders and putting them away in some shelves.

“Glad to see you breathing, miss y/l/n…” somehow you found the humor to smile coldly.

“As you can see.” You reply standing perfectly correct.

“By this point you should know what happened to Mr. Snow” goosebumps make you shake your shoulders slightly, you nod again.

“He was exiled. Twenty years. He lied to me and did not said a thing about cheating on the games”

“Indeed. However this morning, I just discovered he bribed a woman to be sent to District 12.” You bite your tongue to hide your fury. A hot feeling invade your chest in rage. But you just breathe, failing to not show discontent.

“That’s not any of my business anymore.” Even Gaul seems taken aback. However, she doesn’t say anything, she just keeps pulling away the pile of folders.

“Well, since it seems you both parted ways… I must share that I’m deleting any record or data related to the 10th Hunger Games. Too many things happened before, during and after the games. Things that would compromise the reputation of the whole organization. Including me, the Academy, the mentors, you and Mr. Snow” honestly, you don’t know what to say. You just frown slightly, demonstrating how confused you were. But you also understood with half of the context. The death of Arachne, Coriolanus and his odd ways to make his songbird oustand, the rebel attack, Lucy Gray Baird winning from cheat. And the things you didnt know like Sejanus entering the arena.

However, you stick to your parent’s advice. You have to think about you and anyone else.

“I understand. But I did my part. I completed my task so I hope this decision doesn’t jeopardize my grant” she smiles. Dr. Gaul secretly believed that you and Coriolanus Snow could rule Panem together. In a sick and evil way, so she really hoped her dark intentions would work.

“Of course not. We had a deal. The views went up this year. You brought a new vision for the promotion that I’ll hardly let go.” The ambition started tickling you. Making you roll your tongue inside your closed mouth, at the verge of opening it and talking.

“Good.”

“In fact, you would be a nice option to become head of the promotion and relations team.” From the last games, you realized the director only gave instructions but he rarely did the dirty job. You liked having some power over the games. And now, a childish and unjustified resentment towards District 12 made you smile as Gaul offered you a new job.

“Is it a possible option to be working in behalf of my mother’s institution?”

“You’re very smart, y/n y/l/n. You are going further than Mr. Snow” your smile only grows, knowing you are nit being correct. You are letting the rage and resentment to guide you. You will make your last name shine brighter than your parents did. Just to rub it in the face of certain blonde who was now exiled. Probably savoring the country life of District 12.

“I just want to make my family’s name bigger than it already is” the woman giggles, taking out a red envelope and handing it you.

“I assume you’ll pursue the arts as you’re speciality. But if you want to get involved with the production, marketing and relations. You are taking politics and some lessons with me” when you look down at the envelope, the golden logo of the university is greeting you. It’s the admission letter.

“I expect to see you here by the end of the summer” you nod, thanking her.

And as you walk outside where Trevor is waiting for you, you have a cocky smile. Feelings like things could go better. You don’t even remember the doctor’s appointment you were in before coming to see Gaul.

…

Your soft hands gently brush against his forehead. Coriolanus had chills, he hadn’t had fever since he was 15 years old. But your hands are so soft even when they feel cold as ice. He just knows he’s in his bed. In his rottening penthouse. He can see a slightly blurred image of you, wearing a green dress, your hair in a braid, a golden necklace, dark purple lips. He can’t hear your words, but you are talking to him, spreading some cream across his chest, immediately he felt the mint soothing his cough and pain. He must’ve said something funny, because he can now see clearly your face, gorgeous as always. And he can clearly hear you laughing.

Coriolanus wakes up smiling. And he realised he was dreaming.

He was in a small and creaky lower bunk bed. Sejanus sleeping in the upper bunk. The sun hasn’t come up. And he’s a peacekeeper in District 12.

It’s been weeks since he left the Capitol. And since day one, you seem to be haunting him.

Current dreams of you, swearing to be hearing your voice. It makes him want to call you every single day. But he doesn’t. He was able to forget about you when he was in the peacekeeper training and duties. When he was with Lucy Gray any trace of you was gone. But as soon as he had a moment alone, he would remember everyhting about you.

He missed you. Painfully a lot.

Every Friday, he had been sending the letters. He hoped your mother would hand them to you. But Coriolanus knew you too well to know you likely would not be reading them. Nonetheless, he was letting himself to write the most vulnerable pieces of him, putting his heart on each word and phrase. Hoping that by the time his exile was over, you would have forgiven him.

When the sun came up, he was up along the rest of the boys. Sejanus gives him a friendly smile and they’re out exercising and doing jobs all day long. During his break, he’s able to seat in an old bench, with a beautiful view of an open green field.

That’s when he dreams of seeing you there, dancing or simply standing there with a sundress. Like the ones you used to wear on summer when he visited the house your parents had in District 4. He dreams so hard that he swears seeing the skirt of your dress swaying through the trees. And that’s when he knows he’s so fucked up.

But that’s long forgotten after the break is over. And by the night, he’s on the biggest bar of the town. He sees Lucy Gray singing something new. He honestly never understood the meaning behind her songs, but he was enchanted by her do what she loved.

After her live presentation, a big projector was introduced. They started playing the weather with Lucky Flickerman. Which made Coriolanus miss the Capitol so bad.

“They’re probably waiting for some women. That’s why the always start that thing” Lucy Gray said, appearing by his side and pointing at the projector. He smiled at her.

“To see women?” She nodded, grabbing a glass of cold water.

“You know how are men around here” with no tv around, no ostentatious lifestyles, men could get excited with little makeup and satin gowns. Coriolanus was disgusted by many mannerism of the 12. He had heard and seen many disapproving behaviors. But he was happy to be able to find some peace along the songbird.

“Yes, I know. What’s that thing by the way?” When Coriolanus turned around to see the old projector, he almost choked after seeing the big logo appearing.

It was the summer fundraising charity of your mother. Another luxurious gala to help the constructions of the Capitol after war. However, that wasnt the most impressive part for Coriolanus. Seconds after the recovered from seeing something directly related to his past, you appeared in the projector, entering the stage and getting in pose to start a performance.

Lucy Gray Baird was in shock. So if she was surprised, the men all around the bar where cheering and whistling.

There you were, with curled wet hair, metallic bronze makeup, wine lips, golden bracelets on your arms. But it was the attire. A two piece set that let your legs and stomach show off. With bare feet, and two elegant knives, one in each hand. Your cocky smile was back. And it was ruining Coriolanus Snow.

He literally jumped from his seat, leaving Lucy Gray to cross the river of men and properly see you.

She knew you had broken up with him. And that relieved the songbird, as she felt like she could let her feelings for Coriolanus flow freely. But seeing the boy literally hipnotized as soon he saw you, it made her feel uneasy. Deeply she knew that Coriolanus wasn’t over you. And no matter what, you were a sensible subject for him. That not even herself could ever test.

But he kept going. Each step meant hearing them say how good you looked, the places where they’d put their hands on your body. It boiled his blood.

But finally, the dance killed him. Because maybe for the capitol you were still elegant and classy. Their eyes would publicly appreciate your art, and privately let their mind wander with your half naked body. But for people from the 12. It was like throwing a piece of meat to lions in starvation.

With your hips swaying tentatively, pointed feet and letting everyone know how flexible you were. That sassy look on your face that Coriolanus was feeling too personal. It was like you were saying “look what you lost”.

He was used to see you in pastel tutus, hair in a bun. Not this goddess ritual dance type of thing. The music was very different, something very uncommon in Panem. He really wants to punch every man in the room. He sees how most of the women in the bar see your graceful image with disgust. And Coriolanus couldn’t blame them. But it made him remember that he had lost the right to call you his. And that intrusive thought made him automatically think he wanted to go back home so badly.

Your sensual and meticulous steps keep going, the knives making him remember the folk tales of women dancing with sharp objects to show fertility, honor of their kingdom and to seal a man’s faith. Every minute more desperate for Snow, who’s over the edge of hearing men say plenty of things about you. But soon, the music stops with you arched, pointed feet, your curls kissing the stage, the knives perfectly pointing like a clock.

Coriolanus doesnt miss your evil smile. He can sense you are changing. And he remember all the pain he caused you, making him sigh in resignation. His desire of going back for you only growing.

“I’m sorry I left like that” he explains to Lucy Gray. She notices how quick he drank his beer. She was a woman after all, she knew the effect a fine female could have on men. Especially on the man who was their lover. The one that probably hurt her and left her, ending their history in bad terms.

“It’s okay. I told you she was very pretty before” Coriolanus learns that Lucy Gray was not being sarcastic that day at the zoo.

…

It had come to the point where he couldn’t run away from his thoughts. Coriolanus was borderline obsessed with your memory. He constantly wondered how you were doing. He had to ask Tigris every time they talked to see learn anything about you.

For the first time, since he left the Capitol, Tigris shares that she had talked to you.

Coriolanus was surprised to hear that the reason you gave about the breakup was only because he cheated with Lucy Gray.

You didn’t said a word about him the lies, the last argument you two had. You only say that his songbird was special. And that you stopped to be what he needed.

Which was heavily mistaken. Some days before he accepted that you were the only thing he needed to keep going. He imagines a fake scenario where you came to the 12 with him. You find a humble home where you wait till his training is over. The lake where he spent hours with Lucy Gray and The Covey could’ve been hours with you. Talking about anything and everything. He would’ve come straight home to you when the training was over. Make love to you, promise to fight for a higher position, possibly as a commander one day and marrying you. And soon the years would’ve passed, his exile would be over and you would go back to the Capitol with him. Maybe some children along.

But that would never happen. And his delusion was starting to make him find a way to go back where he belonged.

He questioned if his urges where for power, or to get back with the woman he loved.

Whatever the reason was, a lot of people would pay the price. First were the daughter of the mayor and her partner, then the man who had the decency to hide the gun he used to kill those two. Who also happened to be his alleged best friend.

His hands trembling as he pressed to record Sejanus. But he knew there were high possibilities of being heard. And that way, he would go back. He would find you and slowly start again.

The death of Sejanus would haunt him for a long time. He knew he was a close friend of yours, which made him get chills, uneasy to decide what could be your reaction to the news. Either way, it was done. The heavens had to have heard him. He was offered to serve in District 2, gain some money and he could easily take the train to see you if anything.

But Lucy Gray had other plans. And Coriolanus wasnt even sure of what he was doing. Probably in his rambling and panic after everything he went through as a peacekeeper, one side of him wanted to run away and never see back again. To forget about his decisions as a mentor, to forget about his decisions as a peacekeeper and to forget about you. That way he would never have to face all the pain he caused you.

After some hours of walking, Coriolanus should have seen the signs.

“Everyone in the Covey are really good dancers. But I don’t think it’s my thing. I just have my voice…” Lucy Gray said, holding her bag tightly. Coriolanus only smiled, remembering how bad the songbird was when he tried to teach her how to waltz.

“Is it like… exclusive in the Capitol?”

“I think so. Today there’s only one institution, the mother of…” he goes quiet, realizing what he was about to say.

“…y/n?” She asked, almost nervous about mentioning your name. But in reality, she wasnt. After Coriolanus nodded, they just kept walking in silence.

“Her mother founded it?”

“It was her grandmother actually. Mine knew her, and they were kind of friends” he said smiling, trying to look away from Lucy Gray so he couldn’t see him smiling.

Once you leaned Coriolanus was financially struggling some years ago, you ended up visiting him for the first time. That day you learned Grandma’am was friend of your family before your mother was born. And that only made her appreciate you faster. Which made Coriolanus happy. Finally seeing her grandmother to let go the days of the war and any crazy ideas that stayed on her mind. All thanks to you.

“Grandma’am even started planting pink roses for her.” It slipped out automatically, he couldn’t control it.

“She’s like ink…” Coriolanus missed the point. But after some minutes of silence, he understood what Lucy Gray said. Which resulted true. Metaphorically, you were the brightest tint he’d ever seen. He let that ink fall and splash everywhere, leaving stains on him that probably would never leave.

And finally, Lucy Gray Baird fell to her end in the shallow woods. Hunted like a prey. By a broken man who decided to stop being good. Who was losing his mind for the pieces of a woman he let go so easily.

That changes like the destination of Coriolanus.

He’s going back to the Capitol. With tiny sparks of hope. But firmly believing that everyhting was meant to happen like that so he could go back to you.

However, as he came closer, Coriolanus realized he was lost. He had no idea what would await for him. And what version of you would greet him.

…

There isn’t an exact period over the Capitol that can’t be considered as autumn. The summer was practically over, and winter was already happening. Coriolanus had to wait longer than expected to get into University. In the meantime, he accepted the money from the Plinth family. He decided to get ahead of time. He used the last hot days to get Tigris and Grandma’am back to the penthouse. He bought the whole building and in two weeks the whole place was renewed. There was only one thing he couldn’t get rid of. The living room and entrance olive paint you brought. He painted the halls, dining room, studio and kitchen in a dark blue paint. But he wasnt able to get rid of the memories he made with you. His old self was long gone. But he had his supcisions that the version he was for you would never change.

However, he decided to stay afar from the public eye for that month after returning from exile.

Tigris said she hadn’t seen you. But that was okay. He would soon enter to University. He was going to see you there.

Eventually the day came. He gets rid off Casca Highbottom and then he walks towards the big and imposing University of the Capitol. He had a driver now, but he thought it wouldn’t be bad to use the mornings to walk.

In his first hours inside, he has private lessons with Dr. Gaul. Already mentoring him to be a game maker. She kind of suspects he was involved with the sudden death of Highbottom. But for some reason, Gaul has a lot of hopes in him, so she would easily act blind to keep her plans to keep going.

After that, Coriolanus starts looking out for you. He crosses the big seminar rooms and other halls. Until he is able to locate the arts building. It’s smaller but probably the most interesting. With a beautiful barroque facade. As soon as he enters, he sees a group of girls holding large canvas with beautiful paintings on them. Then, some steps later he spots two guys trying to carry a sculpture. Coriolanus believes that kind of modern art was the future of the Capitol. He had to admit the arts building was fully alive, he even forgot he was still at the university.

Coming down from some stairs, he sees two girls. A red haired and a tanned with black leotards and floral skirts are giggling. They seems like dancers, he doesnt think twice. He’s already approaching the girls.

“Excuse me, ladies. Do you know by any chance where I can find y/n y/l/n?” The girls look cheekily at each other, before smiling at him. Which makes Coriolanus wonder what type of rumours had been flowing around about you and him. Since mostly everyone knew the last Snow heir was dating the daughter of the kings of Panem´s television industry.

“She’s rehearsing a class for new students. It’s on the second floor, you’ll hear the music…” he thanks the tanned girl before going upstairs.

She wasn’t lying. He started hearing the classical piano music. He can hear some distant and low cheering. The whole floor is full of dancers. It’s a long hall, to the right, a big studio, with a classical mural, chandeliers and the most giant mirror he’d ever seen.

The people outside the studio see him with curiosity. But he only has eyes for the ballerina dancing all across the studio.

There you are, with a coral tutu, baby pink leotard and thighs. Your pointe shoes seem new. Your cheeks look so pink and your smile is there.

He has to understand that you have become popular enough to have your own fans. Some rumors said that your mother was offering master classes at the University. And he couldn’t help but think how much your family’s name have growth since he left.

He lost count of many turns you did, but you finish cleanly, offering a beautiful view of your tutu wadding. He can’t stop smiling.

People start a round of applauses. He debates whether to get closer or not. He doesnt have any speech prepared. He doesn’t know what to say to you.

“Coriolanus?” When he turns around, he sees Clemensia Dovecote there. Her old study buddy looked older, but not in a bad way. He saw the scales on her skin. But he didnt had to ask, he knew it was because of the rainbow snakes. It just seemed weird to see her short sleeves but turtleneck, rather than her trying to cover all of her face.

“Clemensia” he greets her. Clemmie was probably your female best friend. It wasnt a surprise that suddenly the woman seemed to dislike him.

“Since when you returned?” He looks back at you again. As the music keeps playing, he just smiles. He know the way things would now work. With no how are you questions or anything like the past.

“Some weeks ago.” Clemensia looks like she’s analyzing every movement and word of him.

“Why are you here?” Her hostile tone only makes Coriolanus to act more relaxed than he already is.

“I made the promise to come back for y/n…” the woman stares at him, probably taken aback.

“She doesn’t need this, Coriolanus. She can’t have this” Clemensia had visited you at the hospital. She learned most of his lies towards you. She knew you didn’t deserved to fall again. And especially not because of him.

“I know, Clemmie. I won’t be a burden for her” the music stops, and Coriolanus decides that it’s not time to talk to you yet. So he smiles once again to Clemensia.

“I hope so. Because you already failed her once…” his smile drops. Clemensia dissapears to get inside the studio. Coriolanus stares at you one last time, before he silently walks out.

…

Before you can reach your glass of posca, a porcelain plate with your food slides on the way. A soft piece pile of fried little steaks, with melted cheese and a golden sauce of mushrooms dripping. Your stomach churns and it makes Clemensia laugh.

She had a salmon fine cut with caviar and other exotic stuff. It was a beautiful afternoon to have dinner at one of the most elegant restaurants of the Capitol Downtown.

“Bless your food.”

“Bless your food” you reply back to her.

“So, How it went the rehearsal?” You roll your eyes giggling.

“It was great, until the girls taking the masterclass appeared to see me” your father was right. After working in the production of the 10th Hunger Games, many doors opened for you. Splendid career opportunities here and there. Only that you didn’t enjoy a lot of attention.

“Are they still at the Academy” you nod.

“Rich girls who can make their parents pay the classes of course” Clemensia smiles, drinking a little bit before getting back to eat.

“Coriolanus was looking for you…” you literally stopped eating. You almost drop your fork, but you decided to hold it firmly.

“What?”

“Apparently he’s back.” She reveals. Making you close your eyes in panic.

“How? He was exiled” you say whispering. Clemmie shrugs.

“Gaul. He’s her pupil star. And with Dean Highbottom dead now…” it must’ve been great for Coriolanus to learn the man was gone. Always putting him in the lowest, it was a mark for change.

“Doesn’t matter, I won’t let this get into my way” she smiles.

“What about what your father said?” During a late lunch, you had been talking with your parents, revealing that you broke up with Coriolanus because he cheated. Your mother was shocked, but soon she joined your father to give a twisted advice. He asked if you still loved him. You answered you weren’t sure.

Then I suggest you to proceed to ignore him. Soon you’ll learn his intentions if he ever comes back. Play with him a little. Show him that nobody will laugh in the face of family like ours. Let your hands get dirty, but never show this insecurity you’re talking about.

From that day, you still wake up every morning without knowing how you actually feel about Coriolanus Snow. You know you can’t just simply forget about all the things you did with him. But you firmly pretended that he was in the past.

“I still don’t know how I feel about him.”

“Are you still in contact with his family?” You remember Tigris and Grandma’am.

“Not as much as I used to”

“Mhm. Did they ever learned what happened?” You sigh.

“Just that he opted to choose the songbird before me. And I know Tigris has her own opinion. I just never gave her the opportunity to share it.”

“With him back… probably you’ll find out sooner than later” Clemensia admits, leaving you thinking for the rest of the dinner.

Turns out that you are not ready to find out yet.

…

The first time you see him, it’s at the gardens of the University. You had lunch and wanted to have a brief walk. Through a maze of flowers and plants, you spot him on a bench. He’s very concentrated reading a book. Your eyes widen, seeing how much different he looked. The posture, the clothes, the hair, the cold look.

Something notoriously changed. And you have your suspicions. It wasn’t a coincidence that Sejanus was gone, and Lucy Gray Baird had dissapeared.

You mourned the death of Sejanus one week. You send your condolences to his parents at the funeral. And that night you can’t help but cry on your pillow. Wondering why had life slowly turned dark. In a matter of months you had experienced things you never thought you would. You lost people, you had your first heart broken. You had lost the will to do much things. But, you had to keep going. And you felt guilty, because you thought you had no right to feel like your life was hard, just for being Capitol. The districts struggled more. However, it’s not on your power to mend their lives. Just as it’s not their case to judge your life.

And now, seeing Coriolanus so firm, so calm, it makes you doubt. Sensing that there must’ve been something off about him. Something bad, like all the things he did and hid from you.

You pretend you’re looking for some papers in your bag when you walk past him. He doesn’t see you though, and you thank it.

A couple of days later, you hear for the first time the rumours about him courting Livia Cardew. It makes you feel depressed. You cry out of anger as soon as you get home.

And to your dismay, the first thing you see after turning into a room for the politics class, it’s them. Coriolanus Snow is talking to Livia just beside the door.

That’s the first time you two look at each other again. He sees the anger, discontent and so much resentment. You see the questioning, curiosity and admiration in his eyes.

Nothing else is said because you break the gazes, you walk inside the room with your head high, and your presence is so evident that even Livia has to look at you. Taking too much time to see your beautiful heels.

A week later, you are having a good time with your friends. Festus and Lysistrata are there with you and Clemensia. You are talking all about the upcoming winter gala held at the biggest auditorium in the Capitol. Everyone is excited because it’s the great opportunity to make contacts and eat the most delicious food.

“Is your mother inviting Coriolanus?” Lysistrata asks with curiosity. You roll your eyes at the subject.

“I hope not. I haven’t even spoken with him ever since he came back” everyone knew you had broke up with him. But only Clemensia knew the details.

“Well, apparently he is courting Livia now” Festus mocks, making everyone laugh. Not that any of you had something personal against Livia. But she wasn’t the most brilliant star at the Academy. Now not certainly at University.

“Why Livia?” Clemmie asks laughing.

“Perhaps it’s becase how naïve she is”

“Or because of her father’s inheritance” you add.

“I don’t think so. He’s now the heir of the Plinth fortune” Festus remarks with dessaproval, which makes you feel angered.

“He’s dancing on Sejanus’ grave” your words create some minutes of silence for your late friend. Even when Festus and Lysistrata had made fun of him for being District and the ways of his parents to go up, at the end, they were friends. And now his absence had created a void.

“Ambitious and annoying. Just like his father…” Lysistrata comments sipping on her glass of water.

“How unfortunate. If he had stayed with you, we wouldn’t be talking bad things about him behind his back” you sigh at Clemensia’s words.

“Speaking of the king…” when you look past Lysistrata seated on her chair, you spot Coriolanus. He was wearing a dark grey suit, he looked so fine you had to admit. But soon you look away, the sudden memories of your last days with him haunt you.

After spotting his old friends and ex lover in a table at the cafeteria, he start walking towards there. Trying to make his first moves to go back to normality.

“Yeah. He would’ve been seated beside me right now. But he consciously choose the songbird before me. At least he’s refining himself a little bit with Livia” your friends turn to look at you in shock after the revelation, Clemmie only rises her brows as she sips her water silently, hiding her smile. By the time Coriolanus arrives the table, you’re gone and he curses himself for not walking faster. Festus and Lysistrata are shocked, making him furrow his brows in confusion.

“Did I missed something?” He asks.

“You had an affair with your tribute?” Lysistrata asks back in disgust. Coriolanus sees Clemensia giggling in silence with her head down. Probably enjoying his embarrassment.

His silence meets the requirement for an answer. One that they take as yes.

“And now y/n knows about you and Livia” Coriolanus frowns ever deeper after looking at Clemensia.

“There’s no Livia and I” He responds firmly. Even disgusted to her his name along the least smart girl of his finances class.

“Oh but everyone believes so. That you’re courting her…” he rolls his eyes, annoyed.

“I’m just talking to her because we’re partners for some stupid research paper” the silent sipping on their drinks at the same time is ridiculous to Coriolanus. He just stares at them annoyed.

“Do me a favor and leave her alone, Coriolanus. You were gone to go to your nobody girl from 12, but I stayed and saw her struggling in that hospital bed” Clemensia speaks confidently. Making the blonde to feel threatened.

So he realises that maybe you could have feelings for him still. And that this rumors could have weight on you. He curses himself. Even without realizing, he’s still hurting you.

“I won’t lose the girl twice, Clemmie. Have a good day” he says with a fake smile before leaving the table in shock.

He had to quicken the pace of his proximity with you. He had to make you see he never stopped caring for you.

…

There’s a shattering mess of broken glasses. You quickly move away from the crime scene, looking for your pills, immediately swallowing two.

Your mother’s assistant opens the door, asking for you with concern.

“Is everything okay, miss y/n?” You turn to look a the woman.

“I accidentally threw the jar. Sorry…” Millie is in her mid thirties. She was your mother’s confidant, and slowly yours too. She sees the news paper in the floor, half of it drenched from the broken jar that had water. She can see the title, The Snow heir tights the knot with the Cardew family?

“I’ll call the maids. Don’t worry” she says looking back at you.

“Thanks Millie.” She smiles, closing the door behind.

You breathe loudly, sighing in stress. Of course you had purposely thrown the water jar because of the news paper. A portrait picture of Livia is placed perfectly aligned with one of Coriolanus. Between some paragraph there’s your name too. But you don’t dare to see why.

You may pretend to be okay to the public eye, but you’re still drowning in the same feelings you got after Coriolanus Snow revealed his lies to you.

It’s almost like if he was still mocking you. Showing everyone how easy he had played with you. And how easy he got rid of you.

Someone had to pay. No, not someone, he. He, himself, Coriolanus Snow had to fail. Only that way you would feel slightly better. Only that way your tears would stop being for him.

The first chance you had, you would take it.

…

While you loved pursuing a dancing career along the production stuff. You still had some duties regarding politics and economy. Which is why you ended up at the submissions office so early in the morning. To send a petition.

You end up at at a messy office. A man is there, moving folders and other type of papers. There’s three baskets that can clearly be read as; approved, denied, pending.

However, you quickly look away to smile at the man who’s sitting behind the chair.

“Good morning.” Your smile is contagious to everyone. The man replies with a warm greeting.

“Good morning, miss y//l/n. How can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you could hand me a petition form to send” he nods, standing up, leaving the mess of papers behind.

“I can, just let me go and print the form. It won’t take too long…” you smile again, letting him go outside the office.

As you wait, you start seeing the racks of boxes and more boxes filled with yellow and lined papers.

Your curiosity grows, making you look at the baskets on the desk.

You see at first glance some graduation petitions, letters, etc. You are still curious to see why some papers where pending. So you look at the door one last time before diving into the papers. You don’t know the first students mentioned. Until you see the third yellow folder, where you can see a white strip with black letter saying Coriolanus Snow.

You open the folder, seeing what it was all about. A petition to start a political campaign at the age of 19. You frowned. He was good at writing. Even with letters he had some charm. But you know he never beated you to be precise and delicate. You always heard Grandma’am saying he would one day be president. But you never seriously discussed it with him. Now you know it was real. And you can’t help but feel an enormous amount of remorse.

He doesn’t deserve it. He had lost everything once, but the way he was earning everything was through breaking you, and probably others you’ll never knew about. Even when it would make Tigris and Grandma’am happy, you slip the folder into the basket of denied. You don’t feel nothing as you do it.

In fact, you offer the sweet man a smile when he comes back with the form for you. You thank him and then walk out.

…

Coriolanus swears he didn’t intend to bump into your father at the bank. Your father was a frivolous man, but since he knew him, he greeted Coriolanus with respect.

The blonde was taken aback when he invited him to have dinner at your house. And he couldn’t say no.

Your house is the same. At least from the outside, because inside, there’s more color. Coriolanus sees your mother. And she offers him a smile before he leans to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Coriolanus, look at you. You look very handsome!” His cheeks warm, as your father giggles, handing his coat to a maid.

“I ran into him at the bank. Where’s y/n, dear?” Your mother laughs, rolling her eyes.

“That girl. I haven’t seen her out of her room since midday” the sudden sound of your heels gets noticed.

“I’m here” you say, coming down the stairs, putting some earrings on. Coriolanus notices the grey dress and black heels along the red tights. A diadem on your head and a bright smile that soon dissapears as you spot him in your house.

“Look who I found earlier” you sigh, standing straight.

“I see…” Your parents can see the way you correct your posture, showing how uncomfortable you are.

“We’re having dinner…” you ignore Coriolanus and his deep gaze on you.

“I can’t stay for dinner. I have rehearsals and I promised Clemmie to go to her birthday dinner party” they exchange looks. And Coriolanus is at the verge of smiling at the way you are making up an excuse to leave. Running away from him.

“Are you meeting with Jan before?” Coriolanus head almost pops to look at your father. And you don’t know if you should smile. Jan was your dance partner, he would dance with you at the gala. He was older, very handsome. And you wished he wasn’t off limits from you. Because you easily could admit your attraction towards him.

“Can you at least stay for some drinks?” You shrug at your mother, accepting your purse from a maid. You ignore Coriolanus and his way of looking at you, almost petrified.

His head was spinning, he needed to know who the hell was Jan.

“Unless you want me to do horrible at the Winter Gala, no. I cannot stay, mother” she sighs, tilting her head towards your father. He understands, your father was the one who convinced you to ignore Coriolanus and play with him.

“Well, that’s fine. Just be polite and say goodbye to Coriolanus.” You nod, watching them leave inside the long corridor to enter the dinning table.

You remain quiet, looking down at your purse to avoid his eyes.

“You look lovely” he says, breaking the ice.

“Thank you.”

It’s the first time you two talk since months ago.

“I heard you want to start your political campaign” you opt to pretend you are okay and you can face him with confidence.

“I did. But the idiots of the council rejected my essay. Guess it’ll give me more time to focus on university.” You nod, grabbing a pair of gloves from inside the purse. You want to smile so badly. He would never know you were the reason of his failed first steps in the politic of Panem.

“Anyways… How you’ve been?”

“I’m fine, Coriolanus.” the way you sound tired. Like tired of him makes him uncomfortable. But he tries to keep his best smile too.

“Who is Jan?” He asks almost too seriously. You smile politely at him

“No one of your business, Snow” you calling him by his last name takes him very aback.

“You know, I just hoped that… you know. Maybe we could start off again… like friends of course” you giggle, lowering your head. He frowns confused.

“Miss y/n, Trevor is waiting in the car for you” the butler say appearing from the side door, you thank him and he leaves again.

“I don’t think there’s a way to start again. You already failed me once, Coriolanus.” You admit, putting on the gloves with a bittersweet smile on your face. You turn to pat his cheek, and he swears he’s about to melt. He lounged for your touch since the moment he left you at the hospital. He closes his eyes, hoping to slow down time and felt your cold touch.

But you move away your hand. He opens his eyes and sees you putting the last pair of the gloves on. You walk towards the door.

“You know where the dinning table room is.” And with that, you are gone.

…

Your father gave him the green light to court you again. Coriolanus had to swear that he would never cause you any type of pain, or else, your father would destroy his career before it officially started.

That was more than enough for him. Since that day, slowly, he had been greeting you almost every day, at Univeristy and when you ecountered him and Tigris in a furniture store. You personally invited her to the Winter gala, and Tigris agreed to not share the news about the invitation. But to the young Snow woman, it was a surprise that your father had already invited Coriolanus to the gala.

Soon the day came. As usual the gala opened with the performance of an specific play, than everyone celebrated in the hall with fine dining, and everyone gossiped as auctions happened. It had been a couple of weeks, very busy ones. Probably it was even more important than the arts gala on March. But for this special occasion you had rehearsed a lot to be an elegant black swan.

You smile at your own reflection at the mirror, the black tutu was gorgeous. The crown you had to use was very intriguing. And the black makeup made you feel very confident.

“I came as soon as I could” Clemensia suddenly opens the door of your dressing room. She looks agitated, but she looked amazing on a beige dress and her hair in half ponytail.

“You look very pretty” she thanks you.

“But look at you. You are going to be amazing.” She sits and both start gossiping.

“Your father invited Coriolanus.” It makes you roll your eyes tired. But you are having a heartache.

“I’m… not sure if I don’t feel anything about him” Clemmie leaves her glass of champagne.

“The newspaper rumour affected you. Right?” Slowly, you nod. Too embarrassed to look at her in the eye. But Coriolanus had been really good. He smiled at you at any chance he could. Some days he would join you and your friends and he was fun, you had to bite your tongue to avoid giggling. And Clemensia had seen it too.

“I can’t blame you. I was there since the beginning…” your friend had seen the courting, the first awkward hand holding, how you two formed a strong connection. And Coriolanus left you at the hospital.

“You two had a beautiful bond. And he broke it. But that doesn’t mean you can’t miss him” Clemmie goes to hug you.

“Pa’ said to keep playing with him, to ignore him. But I’m tired, I just want to heal” she nods, letting you hide your face on her shoulder.

“You want my advice?” You nod.

“Do not force anything. Be polite to him, but avoid giving him any chance yet. As you heal, you’ll find the answer; if you should let him have another chance or not”

A man knocks. When Clemensia opens the door, he receives a bouquet of white roses.

You could recognize those roses anywhere. You get closer, taking the attached note.

Grandma’am and Tigris didn’t know what flowers to cut.

Good luck.

You try to hide your smile. But it’s impossible.

…

The whole place is full. Coriolanus takes a seat with Tigris besides.

“I talked with her yesterday. She said she was very nervous about this one” Tigris says. Coriolanus knows she’s talking about you.

“She’s always perfect, she shouldn’t feel nervous.” His mind was only thinking about Jan. He did his research. And learned he was a former dancer of your mother’s institution. It made him mad.

“Have you thought about inviting her to have dinner?” Coriolanus shakes his head.

“Not yet, I haven’t talked enough to her”

“Well, hurry up. Grandma’am wanted to see you married by the age of 20” she says laughing. But it doesn’t make Coriolanus smile.

“Oh look, it’s starting” Tigris squealed with excitement. The curtains lifted and the show started.

For the first twenty minutes, he’s so bored. Nothing exciting happens. He thinks the white swan is boring. And for the first time, he meets Jan. It makes him feel jealous.

It only worsened when you appeared on stage. Your black attire makes him go mad. He had never seen you in anything like that. He gets very invested in your scenes. He feels the emotion you are trying to project. Sassy, cheeky and attractive. You succeed to him.

Unfortunely, Jan had to appear too. And Coriolanus has to sigh, dealing with the scene of the man holding you to make you gracefully spin. The music doesn’t help, it holds the sense of you and Jan dancing together. Coriolanus knows dancing has a lot to do with acting. But he doesn’t enjoy the looks of lust and desire between you and your partner. The worst part? He had to seat and watch it for at least fifteen minutes.

His head malfunctions. But he already is telling Tigris he needs to the restroom.

It’s a lie. He goes to the dressing rooms. And his luck was so big that he found the one with the name of Jan. He slowly made his way inside. The place was so old that he didn’t need to check for security or anything, but he wanted to make sure nobody would see him in real time.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to accomplish, but surely he wanted to get rid of the man who apparently had your attention now. Your mother had said you and Jan worked very well. And now, with him seeing the performance, he was more than sure he couldn’t let it move forward.

His hand went to his pocket, and his eyes widened. He felt the little glass tubes of narcotics. The same he used to kill Casca Highbottom.

He thought about it just for a little. Was it worth it? Getting rid of a man just to have easier access to you.

Maybe.

Then he questioned how bad he wanted you back. Coriolanus had missed you since day one. He knew he would never love anyone else. He knew no one would treat him as you once did.

So he poured the liquid from one of the tubes inside the water flask resting on the vanity. And before leaving, Coriolanus slipped two more tubes inside the bag that contained Jan’s clothes.

“You took very long at the restroom” Tigris tells her cousin when he came back.

“There was a long line”

…

This time, is different. You smile and you can hear the big round of applauses as you make reverence to go off from stage. You were the last one and the curtains came down finally.

Once you are free, you have all the time in the world to breathe. Other dancers and production staff members congratulate you. But it’s Coriolanus Snow the one who makes you frown confused. He was backstage, looking at you with a soft smile. His classic black suit makes you go back and remember about the Reaping ceremony. How happy that day initiated, and how bad it turned out.

“Coriolanus.” You greet him, he can see a tiny smile on your face.

“You were amazing. As usual, of course”

“Thank you. And for the flowers, they were gorgeous. As usual, of course” he’s so surprised that you were talking to him with some humor sense. Both of you laugh and it feels… warm, and natural.

“It’s nothing. But.. perhaps we could just sit together at dinner?” Your cheeks warmth. You think about your confusing feelings, what your father and Clemensia respectively said. Sitting with him once wouldn’t be the end of the world.

“Yeah, we could.” He smiles, and even when his hair changed, his deeper voice. For some seconds you can see the boy you once loved.

And he almost feels like he was seventeen again. Watching you dance backstage, ready to greet you with a kiss. He sees the girl who helped him so much. And he just know all the horrible things he’d done were worth it.

“I-…” but his words stay lingering in the air. Both of you hear a female scream. Coriolanus and you exchange looks before starting to walk where the sound was heard. In the corridor of the dressing rooms you see a woman lingering to an open door. Immediately you recognize it’s Jan’s room. You quickly make it there, through the pain of your caged foot inside the pointe shoe. Coriolanus goes behind you, already sensing the scene inside.

He hears you gasp in shock, covering your mouth and tears forming on your eyes.

You are in shock, you sob, unable to blink.

Jan is on the floor, pale and blood on his mouth. He’s dead.

And as much as the scene shocks you, you are trained to entertain the Capitol, so you turn to them random woman.

“Go and find Millie. Tell her about this and do keep your mouth shut. Nobody can know beside my parents. Understood?” You indicate the woman with a broken voice. She nods in horror dissapearing through the corridor. When she leaves you can finally cry.

When you don’t know what else to do, you are holding onto Coriolanus Snow. You find comfort on his chest. And he immediately holds you back.

As much as you hate to admit it, you feel you are home in his arms.

With one hand, he closes the door of the dressing room and returns to completely be there to hug you. He smiles, knowing he’s already slowly winning.

Because when your parents find out what happened, they make you put a cute black and green velvet gown with crystals. They make you pretend nothing happened and you sit with Coriolanus and Tigris. Ignoring the upcoming rumors, and certainly not respecting the sudden death of Jan.

…

Two days later, Coriolanus finds you seating on a bench. You are eating a sandwich, looking lost. He takes a seat beside you.

“I’m sorry about Jan. It happened so suddenly” he doesn’t feel sorry. Opposite of what he felt about Sejanus and Lucy Gray. However, he firmly believes it was the only way.

“He was a wonderful man. A devoted dancer, with principales. He had a wife in District 3.” Coriolanus coughs. He wasn’t expecting that. That little detail wasn’t on his research. Something twisted inside him, but he still didn’t regret or felt sorry.

“He didn’t seem the type to use narcotics…he must’ve been very stressed out” you add. Oblivious that you are talking with Jan’s murderer.

“Are you sure you are okay?” You roll your eyes sighing.

“No. I’m not okay, Coriolanus. Not since that cursed Reaping ceremony day”

“I’m just trying to be here for you” he admits, and it’s your breaking point.

“WHY DO YOU CARE NOW? YOU FAILED ME WHEN I MOST NEEDED YOU!” He looks around to see if anyone was around. But the place is empty.

“I know I committed many errors but-“

“BUT NOTHING, CORIOLANUS.” You spit out with such anger, that makes him frown.

“You violated the trust, loyalty, respect and love we had for each other. You dissapear after making me have a damn breakdown. Only to go after that girl. And now you appear trying to mend things?” You won’t tell him about his denied petition and what you did. You just want to share all you couldn’t before at his face.

“Do you know how many doctor appointments I’ve had since you left?” He looks down.

“Twelve. And I have to swallow four different pills every day. Only to stay sane. And who’s fault it is? The hunger games, the galas, dancing, Lucy Gray Baird. But specially, you” when he looks up at you again, you are crying.

“If you really want to be here for me, you need to stay away and leave me alone.” You finall state, looking at his blue eyes one last time, before standing from the bench and walking away.

That wasn’t your day. Neither the following ones. Your pointe shoes died and your size was out of stock. The food took such a long time. Your parents left to have an audience in District 1 and your evening was to listen to music and cry.

But certainly what broke you once again was a phone call.

“Hello?” You answer.

“Y/n?”

“Tigris?” You ask. Her voice sounding worried.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Is everything okay? You sound alarmed, dear” you are able to hear her sighing.

“It’s Grandma’am. She’s sick. Coriolanus is busy at the Univeristy and the doctor I requested hasn’t appeared” your heart beats faster.

“She has a strong fever and it’s been like that for hours.” She adds, finally sounding more worried.

“Tigris, calm down. I’ll call my cousin, he’s one of the most prepared doctors around. I’m going there with you in the meantime” you reassure her, already taking off your nightgown and taking out a dress and coat from your closet.

“Thank you, y/n. I truly appreciate this, thank you.” You hang up after saying everything was going to be okay.

…

You see how changed is the penthouse. Fully renovated, with bright lights that contrasted the dark blue wallpapers. But you find interesting how the olive paint you brought is still there. And your portrait from the day of your eighteen birthday is still with the family pictures.

You wait outside the room of the elder woman, as your cousin is checking Grandma’am. You have to hold the urge from biting your nails. A maid offers you posca, but you can’t think about drinking at the time.

The front doors opens and seconds later, Coriolanus is there. He seems surprised to see you there. Since the day of your argument, he hadn’t see you. He tried calling you but your butler said you were out for the weekend to your grandparents house.

“Y/n?” He asks, dropping his coat on a chair.

“Tigris called me. She wanted a doctor for your grandmother” he worried a bit.

“Is she not feeling better. When I left she seemed better…” he says hurrying to go to her room, but you stop him, grabbing by his forearm.

“Don’t. My cousin is already there with her. I’m waiting for the results” Coriolanus only stares at you. He wants to smile. You came only to help his family once again.

“You look very lovely” you smirk, looking at his window with your arms crossed.

“Really? Your grandmother is sick and you are here saying how lovely I look today?” He smiles.

“You told me to wait. What else can I do?”

“How cynical of you” you respond coldly. After all you told him, he was acting like it never happened.

The door of the room opened and Tigris came out with your cousin.

He revealed Grandma’am was having a little difficulties in her lungs, which made her prone to catch a flu. He gave her some strong medicines and promised it would be fine with some days of resting.

After some minutes, you are also ready to leave.

You say good night to the Snow cousins and leave.

“Y/n. Wait…” Tigris comes out. Stopping you some feet away of the now working elevator.

“I-… Thank you.” She slowly says hugging you.

“It’s nothing, Tigris. I told Coriolanus once I would always help the people I love” Tigris suddenly feels so sad to hear you say that. She really hoped you and her little cousin had a different ending.

“He still loves you so much.” You fight harder against the tears when she says that.

“I know. And I still love him too. But… he never apologized. And I’m not ready to let go my resentment towards him.” You admit looking away.

“Although things did’t work out for you and Coriolanus, I really appreciate and care for you, y/n” se almost whispers in your ear. And your eyes water.

“I feel the same, Tigris. I really do” you reply slowly, controlling your voice to not sound cracked.

“I’ll come back in some days” she nods.

She lets you go and you finally head out. Not noticing that Coriolanus heard everything.

He never apologized.

That night, you are reading on the living room when your butler walks in.

“Coriolanus Snow is asking for you in the telephone” you thank him, walking bare feet towards the kitchen telephone.

“Yes, Mr. Snow?” You ask.

“I just wanted to thank you for coming today. You didn’t have to and yet you appeared here” you sigh.

“Whatever that happened between us has nothing to do with my relationship with Tigris and your mother” now he sighs, from his office, in complete darkness.

“About that y/n…” your hands go numb, and panic floods you.

“You don’t know how much I’m-“

“I know.” You interrupt him, cracked voice and you hang up.

“Sorry” he says through the dead line.

That night, you read his letters. The ones he sent when he was a peacekeeper at the 12. Where he seemed to have projected his more vulnerable and emotional side of his heart. Maybe he had been drunk, maybe Lucy Gray wrote them for him. You’d never know, and you preferred to ignore the idea of him actually feeling sorry.

…

A week later you’re applauding for Grandma’am as she sings for you. You smile, changing her pillow case and complementing how much of a sweet voice she had.

It’s getting late, and you must return to your house.

After wishing Grandma’am sweet dreams, you carefully close her door and you walk with the old pillow case away.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Tigris asks with a sweet smile, taking the pillow case from you. Coriolanus is seated, drinking something as he carefully looks at you. You ignore him.

“I must decline, dear. I have to go back and pack some things” she frowns, stopping to put some plates on the dinning table.

“Pack?”

“Yes. I think I’ll spend the holidays at District 1. My mother is opening a new studio and she’s going to need help. And well, if everything goes right, I might even stay there” Tigris almost drops the pillow case. And Coriolanus almost chokes on his drink.

“What? Why?. What about university? The galas? Your production job for the hunger games” you shrug with an honest smile.

“Lately the Capitol life has... it has been a burden. I want to live a peaceful life. I want to heal” Tigris sends daggers with her eyes to Coriolanus. He coughs, uncomfortable.

“CORIOLANUS!” Grandma’am calls the man, you only sigh. And slowly, he stands up to to the woman. He hears you keep talking with Tigris. And he wants to do something to stop you from leaving. Now he can give you the life he couldn’t before.

“Is everything alright, Grandma’am?” The elder woman looks at him from her bed.

“Are you really letting that young woman to walk away again?” Coriolanus frowns.

“What?”

“You’ve heard me.” Even in her sick days, she was firm.

“She doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore” Grandma’am shrugs.

“I don’t think so. Her eyes shine sadly at every mention of you. She was part of the family after all.” Coriolanus remains quiet. But he admits to himself that’s what he missed the most.

“I think she always waited for an apology. One that never came.” His heart pounds very fast. He tried, and you hung up.

“What do you suggest me to do?” Grandma’am smiles, coughing tiredly.

“You run to wherever she goes and beg on your knees. One time you show her vulnerability and you’ll never do it again. We, women, only want real love, stupid love. You show her that stupid love once and you can silently do it for the rest of your again”

“You already won the money and respect. You’re just missing out the girl” Coriolanus sweats, but when he turns to look at her grandmother again, she nods, reassuring him.

“Go. Get her back, Coriolanus” without saying anything back, he leaves.

When he enters the dinning room, he only sees two plates of food. He looks at Tigris confused.

“Where’s y/n?” She shrugs, taking a seat.

“She just left.”

Coriolanus runs. He actually runs out of his penthouse and when the elevator starts taking to much time, he decided to choose the stairs as his getaway. He feels sweaty and agitated, but as he goes down, he can’t help but feel slightly happy, the adrenaline of making it on time make him hurry.

“Y/N!” He yells your name once he makes it to the lobby, where he can see you turning back to see him.

You are waiting for Trevor when he appears running towards you.

And before you can even blink or breathe, he gets on his knees.

“Coriolanus Snow. What are you doing?” You ask confused and blushed.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

“I’m sorry about all the stupid things I did. I’m sorry about letting you down. I’m sorry for ruining our relationship. For letting you in that hospital bed and return to do everyhting but apologize to you” you look at him perplexed, not believing his words.

“I can’t lose you again. Because I know you’re the last and only person I’ll love. I won’t trust anyone else. And nobody would have ever looked down at me like you did when I had nothing” you sigh, feeling the tears coming again. You know he’s not lying. You knew him so well that you sense it.

“If you let me. To give me another chance, I’ll do things right. I will never fail you again in life. You’ll be the only person I’ll cherish and show love.” He offers you his hand, and he looks very suppliant.

You blink quickly to soothe the tears. And you know he doesnt deserve you. But aren’t the best person, so maybe you two were actually meant to be together.and that’s the only viable reason to why you want to let your heart freely beat for him again.

“Please don’t go, y/n” he whispers, waiting for your answer. You sigh, slowly and shaking, but you end up taking his hand.

“You’ll better be the most perfect lover of the history of Panem, then” he wraps your fingers together, and stands up.

“I promise, I swear” he knows the memory of Lucy Gray would always follow him. As well of all the deaths he had caused. But nothing compared to the joy of him kissing you again.

Your lips welcome him in the most sweet way. And he finds himself smiling through the kiss, gently holding you closer to him.

It’s in the start of the Road of Hope in the Capitol where Coriolanus Snow had his fully owned penthouse. Where he had nothing, and now had won everything.

…

Time flies, things had changed, probably for the better. You made Coriolanus keep fighting for a good and healthy relationship. Slowly, he made you completely fall in love again. And although there was certain spark missing, you knew it would never come back. However, you had also accepted that both of you had grown up.

The late talks were mature now. Talking about the future of Panem, planning dinners together. The kisses were more passionate, unlike the softness that was all over your early relationship. The sex was harder rather than slow and sweet like the beginning. Coriolanus would like to leave many hickeys scattered across your body, make a wet mess of saliva and fluids. He loved feelings your almond nails leave gentle scratches across his pale back.

But certainly, the biggest change was the way you two were handling a life together.

After turning twenty, you got married. Soon Coriolanus bought the house he always wished to give you. The one with black and white tiles floor, beige walls and big stairs.

By the first week in, he had done many refurbishments and he had fucked you in every room, every corner and every surface of the house.

Till the day you turned twenty-two. By that time, you had almost ditched your dancing career. Sometimes you still had some chances to perform on galas. But Coriolanus convinced you to focus on public services and the production of the hunger games. Dr. Gaul had officially retired, and it was going to be the first year of Coriolanus as a game maker. Things had really changed.

But everything seemed fine.

“Dear, Are you ready?” You turn to look at your husband, who waits on the frame of the door.

“Just one moment” you run to slip into your silver heels before grabbing your purse.

Trevor kept his job as your chauffeur and Millie was now your private secretary. Sometimes you hated how formal your life had become. Especially now that Coriolanus had some plans in mind.

As soon as you arrive to the fancy patio from a million-dollar man house, many women eye you and Coriolanus.

“Remind me what are we doing here?” You ask him. He holds your hand tightly, smiling at many of the invited people.

“I’m assuming the role of game maker. You are giving a speech about the improvements for the 14th Hunger Games, my dear” you nod, clutching onto his cold hand harder. Both of you were kind of the sensation around the Capitol. You know how they whisper about your dress and your husband’s physic.

“You’re going to be fine. You always choose the right words. And your voice can charm anyone here” he whispers on your ear, pressing a soft kiss on your temple.

“Thank goddess I’ve been studying the constitution. Or else these men would bury me” Coriolanus laughs. Soon you enter the actual event. With long white tables, candles and everyone dressed either on red or black.

“Men around here don’t know how smart my wife is” he says shrugging, remembering how many honors you received from university. Some of the wives ask you to join them. You wave hello to them before leaning to your man.

“Do not make me jealous or leave me alone during the speech.” You firmly say to him.

“Of course not, my love”

“Love you.” And with one last kiss, you walk away.

For the rest of the night. You feel uneasy. Because you succeeded with the speech. But once you read the part from Coriolanus, you are at the verge of babbling.

He shared some of his initial proposals for the games. Like lowering the age of the tributes, increasing the obstacles in the arena, using more mutts, allowing weapons, and making the interviews with Lucky Flickerman longer.

It had been a long time since you think about the games so much. But that guilt you felt after seeing Coriolanus as mentor, never left. And after that dinner, everyone claps for your husband and you, after being considered as the couple of the next generation for Panem.

In the privacy of your new home, you constantly zone out to think about it. You can’t ask Coriolanus to stop the games, but he could make some changes.

You knock swiftly on his door.

“Come in.” You walk in and he drops the papers he was signing to smile at the sight of you.

“Hello, you.” he says cheekily.

“Hello, you’.” You reply. He indicates you to seat on his lap and you do so. His arms lock around you, hands resting on your back.

“Are you coming to bed anytime soon?” You ask.

“I just need to sign some things, darling” he watches you frown, and he won’t say you look older, because you don’t. But you certainly look wiser, mature and more like a woman rather than a girl.

“I’ve been thinking about the games” He’s all ears now. He knows you had some specific opinions. You had said in your first interview how brutal the games were.

“What about them?”

“I would never ask you to stop the games. But…” you stop, suddenly feeling a little nervous.

“But what, my dear?”

“Don’t you think those tributes are humans? Yes, the Districts deserve to be reminded of the consequences of their acts. But most of the tributes are kids. Who don’t even understand everything that conveys a war.” Coriolanus sighs, trying to choose the correct words to answer you.

“What are you suggesting?” He tries to sound calm, but the mere subject makes him a little irritated.

“I don’t know… Maybe giving them more opportunities?” He giggles, caressing the skin on your hips.

“Giving them opportunities means going soft on them. And going soft on them could trigger a new rebellion” this time you sigh, trying to persuade him by brushing his hair, softly grasping his chin.

“Not like that, Coryo. I mean… raising the majority age of the tributes. Giving them at least the chance to train. To eat a proper meal on the last night. To show who they are one last time before they’re sent to die” Coriolanus would always believe that you’re only one weakness was your humanity. How you always turned to see down on others, feeling guilty from being born with all the commodities.

So, he tries to ignore it. He tries to see your suggestions as a way to punish the tributes harder. Give them everything to then killing them.

So, he smiles, urging you to kiss him. You reply immediately, holding him closer to feel the heated proximity.

“I could arrange some changes. Would that make you feel better?” You nod on his lips, smiling.

“Now let me finish this before meeting you in bed. And I expect you have this thing off before I get there” he says grabbing your nightgown. You laugh with a potent blush, gently pushing him away.

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly. In two days, we start the tour, we will be very tired to make love daily as we do now” you roll your eyes, almost running away ad your husband laughs, making fun of your embarrassment.

“This is madness. I’m going to bed” you say getting out of his office.

“Don’t forget about what I said!” He yells, making you smile in love as you leave upstairs, wishing good night to the maids and butler. For the record, you do not forget about your husband’s petition.

…

The best part of the house is the rooftop in your opinion. A terrace with cristal walls and ceilings that had a gorgeous view of the Capitol. A view that included some monuments and the snowy mountains surrounding the city.

You had a little bar there, an eccentric dining table and some couches with colorful cushions.

Grandma’am made you take some of his roses so you could start your own garden. That brought tears to your eyes. But now, it was only you and Tigris there.

You asked the chef to make some vegetables and creams as your sister-in-law arrived for dinner. Coriolanus and you were set to leave the next morning for his political campaign tour.

“Have you packed everything?” Tigris asks.

“Yes. I wish I could take Trevor with me. But only Millie will be able to come” you say smiling. Tigris notices how you constantly look at the door, hoping to see Coriolanus entering.

“Have you told him?” You shake your head at the woman.

“Not yet. Probably by the time we arrive District 4. We have good memories from there” Tigris smiles. She was really excited when you got back together with Coriolanus. She even made your wedding dress. And now she was so proud of the career you two were making.

“Sorry for the delay. I was arguing with some incompetent who cancelled the delivery of our new chandeliers” Tigris rolls her eyes as your husband cheekily smiles.

“Dinner isn’t ready yet, anyways” you say patting his back as he takes a seat beside you.

“You shouldn’t be stressing over the tour. Your dear wife must’ve prepared the most wonderful speeches for you to say” Coriolanus smiles, turning to give you a peck on the nose, making you laugh.

“It’s not that, Tigris. It’s the time that’s freaking me out. I don’t want to be gone for almost two months.” You sigh, trying to keep everything together. You just pray that the tour goes smoothly.

“Each district will host you with all commodities” it’s a lie. Coriolanus isn’t ready to go to District 12 again. Where his father died, where he committed the worst decisions of his early life. He knows those days will be a little sour. But he’s willing to play pretend very well for you.

“It’s going to be fine. Pardon me, dear” Coriolanus says after seeing your face of over thinking. His wife is so smart that she’s probably wondering the same as him. And that’s the least he needs of.

You take his hand, before hearing the food has arrived. The air changes, the dinner flows happily as you talk and gossip with Tigris and your husband. It’s a great dinner actually.

Maybe he broke your heart when you were teenagers. But you delayed his political campaign for four years. Maybe he had looked too much at Lucy Gray Baird, but at the end it would only be you.

You could’ve done better to get rid of that guilt for participating in the hunger games, but you just realize that maybe you didn’t because you are not a good person either.

Even so, every morning, you wake up in his arms as he fulfilled his promise of never failing you again.

You just hope that the tour, the upcoming games and everything else doesn’t get into your way. Nothing can be a recoil. Not when Coriolanus Snow’s first child rests peacefully in your womb.

The future was uncertain. But your past and present along him always seemed like… a hatred road.

_____________________________________________

fyi, in my head, if reader hadn’t delayed Coriolanus political emergence, the second rebellion would’ve started earlier and probably it wouldn’t have been successful. (Basically it would’ve been like a second time “dark days” situation and then back to reconstruction again)

Taglist: @dear-bunnyboo @daydreamerprocrastinator @lecrercsgirlshhs @athanasia-day @devils-blackrose @reader-bookling123 @cookielovesbook-akie @justacaliforniandreamer @m1ndbrand @blairfox04 @darktrashsoulbear @fartybobabutt @diannana @iwantosleep @sarysuniverse @unclecrunkle @f1-futurewag-16-3-4-63 @didneyworld13 @imguce @angelscrime @impeterporker @lem122 @cryaka @ietss @michelleisheres-blog @capsiclesworldsblog @circe143

[dozybeez]

Practice Makes Imperfect (Pt. Three)

A perfectionist ballerina struggles to find her rhythm-not just in her mandatory hip hop class, but in life itself. When she turns to Hoshi, a laid back hip hop major, he helps her see there is more to life than just structure and control.

→ Part One → Part Two ... → Part Four coming soon

pairing: college au! kwon soonyoung x ballerina f!reader

word count: 6.2k

content warnings: slowish burn with eventual smut, internalized perfectionism, performance anxiety, academic and artistic burnout, emotional repression, subtle corruption kink, drugs and alcohol. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I'm a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

The studio is quiet when you arrive.

Not silent—just quiet. The kind of stillness that hums. Where the only sounds are your own breaths, the scuff of sneakers on polished wood, the faint buzz of electricity in the overhead lights.

You’re early again. Seven minutes this time. A small rebellion against yesterday’s twenty.

You told yourself you weren’t going to keep doing this—showing up early, pacing with your headphones in, checking your reflection in the mirror like it’ll tell you what kind of dancer you are today. But here you are.

Old habits die hard. Especially the ones built on survival.

The door creaks open behind you, and you don’t have to look to know it’s him.

His walk gives him away—heavy-heeled, loose-limbed, each step like the music hasn’t even started but he’s already moving with it. He’s humming something under his breath. It’s off-key and cocky and entirely intentional.

“You’re here early,” he says, tossing his hoodie to the corner like it’s a basketball and he’s already made the shot.

“So are you,” you reply.

He grins. “You’re starting to rub off on me.”

“Doubtful,” you mutter, stretching your hamstrings.

“You say that,” he says, stepping beside you and mimicking your stretch with exaggerated drama, “but I found myself alphabetizing my playlists this morning. Coincidence?”

You arch a brow. “Definitely.”

He laughs and holds the pose. “Fine. Maybe I just wanted to see if showing up on time would earn me less death glare.”

You don’t smile, but something in your chest tugs.

He always starts this way. Easy. Light. Like the tension in your body is a knot he’s not trying to untie—just tap at until it loosens.

He stands again and nods to the speaker. “You pick today.”

You blink. “What?”

“The music,” he says, grabbing his water bottle. “Your turn. You’ve been training your body to loosen up—now let’s train your taste.”

You hesitate.

“I don’t have a playlist for this,” you say. “Not like—hip hop warm-ups or whatever.”

He raises a brow. “Then give me anything.”

You pull out your phone, scroll. Your fingers hover, caught between two instincts: give him something safe or something real.

You press play before you can second guess.

The intro kicks in—low, slow, rhythmic. Something moody and melodic with a beat that doesn’t announce itself, just settles.

Hoshi listens, then nods. “Okay. Okay, ballerina’s got taste.”

“Don’t read into it.”

“I’m already writing a thesis.”

You shake your head, fighting the urge to roll your eyes—and start moving. It’s not choreo this time. Just warm-up. Loose wrist rolls, weight shifting, shoulder isolations. He joins in beside you, mirroring without mocking, his body dripping with that fluid ease that still grates against your bones.

But it’s different now.

It doesn’t feel like he’s showing off. It feels like he’s giving you something to match.

And today—your body listens.

You're not gliding, not yet. But there’s less fight. Less resistance between the music and your muscles. You still overthink. Still brace. But the space between trying and feeling has narrowed.

At some point, he pauses the track and tosses you a bottle of water.

“You’re still too high in your shoulders,” he says, casual but direct. “Drop them. Like, fully.”

You exhale and let them fall.

“Better,” he murmurs. “You’ve got a good center. You just don’t trust it.”

You shoot him a look. “That’s vague and unhelpful.”

“It’s also true,” he says. “And annoyingly poetic. Like me.”

“You are not poetic.”

“I’m extremely poetic,” he says, deadpan. “My soul is a tragedy set to beats.”

You snort—actually snort—and his grin widens like he’s just won a bet you didn’t know you were making.

“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands once. “Let’s run that combo again.”

You groan. “We just did it five times yesterday.”

“Exactly. Muscle memory, baby.”

He taps play. The bass kicks in.

And this time, your body moves before your brain can interrupt.

⸻

The days have folded into each other so tightly you’ve lost count of how many practices you’ve had with him. It’s not like the first one — the one where every movement felt like a battle — but it’s not exactly easy either. You’re somewhere in the middle now, stuck in this strange space between frustration and something like progress, trying to catch a rhythm that still feels just out of reach.

He drops down onto the floor beside you without asking, stretching one long leg out and hooking the other knee up. The studio feels cooler now that the worst of your practice is done, but your muscles still throb with ache.

Without a word, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a protein bar. The wrapper crinkles sharply as he tosses it toward you.

You catch it awkwardly in your lap and stare down at the shiny packaging like it’s some alien artifact.

“You look like you forgot to eat,” he says, his voice low and casual, like he’s stating a fact.

You blink. You would never forget. You always eat. You’re disciplined. You have your routine — the routine that has been slowly falling apart…

“I didn’t,” you say quickly, but the lie sounds flat even to your own ears.

“Sure,” he says with a smirk, eyes gleaming. “And I’m a Sagittarius.”

Your brow furrows. “You are?”

He frowns, as if trying to recall something very important. “I have no idea. I just thought that was the sarcastic one.”

The corner of your mouth twitches upward in a reluctant smile. It’s been a while since something pulled you out of your tight bubble.

He doesn’t comment on your laugh. Instead, he leans back on his hands, takes a long, slow sip from his water bottle, then mutters, “Eat Miss Perfect.”

The nickname makes your chest tighten a little — it’s annoying and oddly endearing at the same time.

You stare at the protein bar again, hesitating.

It smells like nuts and a faint trace of chocolate.

You tear open the wrapper slowly, as if the act itself is foreign—because it is. Protein bars aren’t part of your usual diet, which consists of carefully curated organic meals your ballet instructors insisted on years ago, a routine so ingrained it’s become second nature.

The first bite is gritty, but it fills a strange kind of emptiness that’s been crawling inside your ribs since practice started.

You chew slowly, the taste oddly grounding.

You feel his gaze on you, but when you glance over, he’s watching the ceiling like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

There’s a quiet hum in the studio—footsteps echoing faintly from the hall, the distant buzz of the air conditioner, and the faint, rhythmic pulse of a beat still playing softly somewhere in the speakers.

You realize your chest feels weirdly full. Not just from the snack, but from something softer, something unspoken.

Maybe it’s the break.

Maybe it’s the space between his casual teasing and the genuine offer to be here.

You wipe a bead of sweat from your temple and look down at the wrapper again.

He shifts, cracking his neck with a slow stretch. “Ready to go again?”

You nod, folding the empty wrapper carefully and dropping it into the trash.

As you stand, your legs still shaky but a little stronger, you catch the ghost of a smile tug at his lips—like he’s betting you’ll surprise him yet.

⸻

You arrive at the studio later than usual. The sun’s already dipping low outside, casting long shadows through the windows. Your muscles still ache from yesterday’s practice, but you push the fatigue down. This isn’t just about dance anymore — it’s about proving to yourself that you can do this, one step at a time.

Hoshi’s already there when you walk in, sprawled on the floor with his phone tucked beside him. He looks up, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Late again,” he teases.

You bite back a retort and pull off your jacket, revealing your usual practice clothes. He watches you — the way your shoulders tense when you stretch your arms overhead, the way you bite your lip when you catch his gaze.

“Ready to get wrecked?” he asks, pushing off the floor.

You shrug, trying to sound indifferent but feeling your heart thudding instead.

He starts the music without ceremony, and you fall into the routine you’ve been memorizing. Your movements feel sharper today, more confident — but still guarded, like you’re holding something back.

Halfway through, Hoshi suddenly switches the beat, tossing you a grin. “Switch it up. Improv time.”

Your breath catches. You hesitate, eyes flicking to his.

“You gotta feel it, Tightwire. Don’t just move through it.”

You swallow hard and try to let go, but your limbs betray you, stiff and unsure. You catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes, and part of you wants to retreat — but something else, stubborn and fierce, keeps you rooted.

He steps closer as you falter, his voice dropping. “Look at me.”

You do.

“No more rules. No more ‘right.’ Just dance.”

His gaze holds you steady, and for the first time, you don’t look away.

You try again, this time letting the rhythm ripple through your body, finding little pockets of flow between the tension.

He watches, silent, until you finish.

Then he nods once, approving.

“You’re not there yet,” he says, “but you’re closer than before.”

You exhale, a small smile breaking through your defenses.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

You nod, already counting the hours.

⸻

You’re alone in the studio again, the morning light spilling soft and golden through the tall windows. It’s quiet except for the faint scrape of your slippers on the polished floor, and the measured inhale and exhale of your steady breathing. You stretch carefully at the barre, your muscles unfolding slowly like a ribbon unfurling in slow motion, your body moving in familiar patterns that have been etched in through years of repetition.

That’s when you hear the door open softly behind you. At first, you think it’s someone else from your ballet class you are warming up early for, but then you glance back and freeze for a moment. It’s Hoshi, hands jammed in the pockets of his zip up jacket, a slow, easy smile tugging at his lips as he leans casually against the frame.

He takes a slow step inside, eyes narrowing in that way he does when he’s sizing something up — or someone. “Didn’t expect to catch you looking like this,” he says, nodding toward your poised figure at the barre.

You stiffen, your body instinctively tensing. “Like what?”

He tilts his head, eyes softening a little. “Like you’re in your element. This is where you belong, huh? The ballet world.” His voice carries a teasing lilt, but there’s no mockery behind it. “You look… different.”

You glance down, suddenly aware of your full ballet gear—tights, leotard, hair pulled back tight, feet encased in worn but polished slippers. “I’m just warming up,” you say carefully, shifting your weight.

“Yeah, well, I mean, you look less like a robot than you do when we’re in hip hop class,” he says, stepping a little closer. “You know, when you’re trying to fight the music and failing spectacularly.”

You turn, a sly grin tugging at your lips. “Yeah? Well, if we traded places and I was the teacher, you’d be just as bad at ballet as I am at hip hop.”

He laughs, loud and easy. “Oh, is that a challenge?”

You shrug, trying to hide your smile behind a delicate stretch. “Maybe. You wanna prove it?”

He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it carelessly on a nearby bench. “Alright, ballet master, show me what I’m in for.”

You arch an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “You sure you want this? You’re about to enter a world where one wrong move and you look like you’re flailing in slow motion.”

He grins, stepping to the center of the studio, hands on hips. “I’m ready to make a fool of myself. You better teach me well.”

You start with something simple, demonstrating a plié at the barre. “Watch closely. Bend your knees, keep your back straight. Not too fast—ballet’s about control, not speed.”

He copies, wobbling immediately. His knees knock together and his back curves like a question mark. You bite back a laugh, stepping closer to steady him. “Okay, step one: don’t look like you’re wrestling an invisible octopus.”

He throws up his arms dramatically. “I’m battling it! And losing.”

“Try again,” you say, holding his elbow gently to guide his movement. “Less octopus, more graceful swan.”

He tries again, this time managing a semi-decent bend. “See? I’m practically a swan prince.”

You snort. “More like a baby duck with two left feet.”

He throws his head back, his laughing almost causing him to lose his balance. “I’ll take baby duck over robot any day.”

You grin, shaking your head. “Alright, now the arms. Like this.” You lift yours slowly, making the delicate curve of a port de bras.

He mimics, but his arms end up looking like noodles caught in a breeze. “I swear, my limbs have a mind of their own.”

“Exactly why you need lessons,” you tease.

He leans in, eyes twinkling. “Alright, ballet queen, keep talking. I’m taking notes.”

You take a step back and start the music — a soft classical piano piece that fills the room with gentle energy. You move fluidly through a few steps, arms and legs working in harmony. He watches, then tries to copy your moves.

The first attempt is… questionable. He trips over his own feet and nearly faceplants.

You can’t help but laugh. “Not bad for a first try.”

“Yeah, my future in ballet is bright… if there’s a career for comic relief.”

You shake your head, smiling wide. “Stick with hip hop, Mr. Comic Relief.”

He grins, stepping closer again, voice low but teasing, “But you gotta admit, seeing you here like this — so focused, so… in control, in your element— it’s kinda cool.”

Your cheeks heat up, but you try to play it cool with a casual shrug and a grin. “Don’t get used to it—I’m basically a robot during our practice, remember?”

⸻

Days blur together, the edges of your world folding into one another like the endless ribbons of dance tape in your bag. Your life spins around repetition—classes, rehearsals, small bursts of loneliness that echo longer than you’d like. But in the middle of it all, the dance studio becomes a refuge, the one place where you can lose yourself in movement, even if it’s still rough around the edges.

The lights hum low overhead, casting a pale glow that makes the polished floor gleam like glass. The air smells faintly of sweat and floor cleaner, a scent you’ve come to recognize as belonging to effort and something like hope. You move through the steps again—hips shifting, feet trying to hit the rhythm. You’re not as stiff as you were when you first started with Hoshi, but every misstep still scrapes at your nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Hoshi leans against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, his usual half-smile playing on his lips. The way he watches you isn’t quite teasing this time. It’s more… measured. Like he’s cataloging every move, waiting for something.

You catch him smirking when your foot catches itself, nearly sending you stumbling, but he doesn’t say a word right away. Instead, he just shakes his head slowly and says, “You’re trying too hard again.”

You stop mid-step, breath catching as sweat trickles down your temple. You glare at him, wiping your brow with the back of your hand. “Says the guy who spends half his time watching instead of helping.”

He shrugs, pushing off the wall with a lazy confidence, taking a step closer so the distance between you shrinks just enough to make your pulse race. “Maybe I’m just waiting for you to stop overthinking and actually dance.”

There’s a pause—a thick moment hanging between you like the charged calm before a storm. Your eyes lock, and for a second, you wonder if he’s teasing or if there’s something else beneath that half-smile. But before either of you can say anything more, the music kicks back in—slow, steady, pulsing like a heartbeat—and you lose yourself again, desperate to find that slippery flow that still feels just out of reach.

Later, the studio floor feels cool beneath your back as you collapse beside him, both of you catching your breath. The tension in your chest loosens a little, replaced by a warmth that feels unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He tosses you a water bottle with a careless flick, and your fingers brush against it as you reach out to catch it. You meet his eyes, and for a flicker of a moment, it’s like the world shrinks until there’s only the two of you, sharing this quiet space. You crack a small, tentative smile, the kind that speaks of unspoken promises.

Practices bleeds into practices. Your body starts to remember the music more than the steps. Movements loosen. The tight coil of nerves in your stomach unwinds ever so slightly. You find yourselves joking more—his teasing losing its bite, becoming lighter, easier to bear. Your defenses, once locked tight like a fortress, soften just a little under the weight of small moments: a shared smirk, a glance held a heartbeat too long, the brush of hands reaching for the same water bottle.

One afternoon, the routine feels especially brutal. You trip on a complex sequence, frustration bubbling under your skin like fire. Your cheeks flush, your breath jagged. Hoshi steps forward quietly, his presence suddenly a steady anchor beside you. Without a word, he moves into the sequence, his body flowing with effortless grace that almost seems casual, but you know better. His eyes meet yours, calm and patient, as he offers softly, “Try again. This time, don’t fight it.”

You nod, biting your lip to keep the tremor in your voice at bay. The second attempt feels different—less robotic, less forced. You catch the rhythm as it pulses through your veins instead of just your ears. It’s still raw, still imperfect, but it’s alive.

The next day in class, your professor’s sharp gaze tracks you as you push through the choreography. The music cuts, and she folds her arms, the silence stretching like a spotlight. Her voice is clipped, no fluff, but it carries weight. “Still not quite there. Too rehearsed, too careful. But... you’re getting better. Don’t lose the little progress you’ve made.”

It’s not praise exactly—more like a warning wrapped in reluctant acknowledgment. But to you, it feels like a secret victory. You sink onto the bench outside the dance building, your bag slung beside you, legs still humming from class. The sun is high—sharp and gold and a little too bright—but you don’t mind. It paints the pavement in warm light, turns the sweat on your temples to something almost radiant. Your shirt clings to your back, your heart still not fully slowed from the final run-through, but it’s not the choreography making it pound now.

It’s her words. Not quite praise. Not quite dismissal. But something real. Something earned. You’re getting better.

You let the sentence loop quietly in your head like the echo of a song that almost belongs to you.

The wind stirs gently, brushing through your hair, and you lean forward, elbows on your knees, letting your breath come slow. And somewhere in all that adrenaline and sunlight and silence—he finds his way in.

You think about how he would’ve smirked if he’d heard it. The way he would’ve tilted his head and said something like, “Told you you’d get there.” Or maybe he wouldn’t have said anything at all, just passed you a water with that stupid grin and watched your face while pretending not to.

You should be annoyed at how easily your mind slips to him now. But you’re not. Not even a little.

You smile—small and quiet and completely unguarded.

The professor’s words meant something. But the thing fluttering in your chest right now? That’s yours. And you already know who you want to give it to. You can’t wait to tell him. Not because you need him to say anything in return. Just because he’s the only one you want to hear it.

The sun warms your skin. The breeze lifts the edges of your shirt. The world moves on, loud and indifferent around you.

But for a moment—sitting there, sweat cooling on your skin and hope coiled soft beneath your sternum—you just sit with it. The not-quite-praise. The almost-breakthrough. The way his name keeps brushing the inside of your thoughts like a hand on your shoulder. And the quiet certainty that this is only the beginning.

⸻

The usual bench feels colder today.

Maybe it’s the weather—thick clouds smeared across the sky like someone dragged a wet brush across the blue. Or maybe it’s you. The way your spine won’t soften against the metal. The way your fingers twitch around the folded paper in your lap like they’re afraid to let go.

A minus.

You’ve stared at it for ten minutes now, but it hasn’t changed.

It sits there at the top of your exam like a stain, red ink bleeding through the margin, brutal in its simplicity. Not a failure. Not even close. But it’s enough to split something small and vital inside you. Enough to make your breath come too fast and your thoughts crowd too close.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That loosening your grip—just a little—was healthy. That taking dance practices with Hoshi wasn’t sabotage.

But now? Now you’re not so sure.

Because the truth is, you’ve never gotten an A- in math. Not once. And the only thing that’s different now—the only variable—is him.

Hoshi, with his big grin and his lazy warmth and the way he looks at you like your body is allowed to feel things instead of just perform them.

You crumple the exam gently, like you’re afraid to bruise it more than it’s already bruised you, and slide it into your bag. Your breath catches on the edges of your ribs, sharp and quiet.

By the time you walk into the studio that night, you’re already retreating into yourself.

Hoshi notices instantly.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you warm up with that tilted-head curiosity of his, like he’s measuring the distance between today’s version of you and the one from a week ago. The music hums low, vibrating under your feet, but you don’t move with it. You count with it. Every beat a math problem, every step an answer you’re trying to solve with perfect form.

He tries to joke—some quip about how your shoelace is tied in a knot only you would make—but you barely smile.

And when you mess up a transition during the routine, you flinch like it burned.

Hoshi pauses the music. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, brushing your hands down your thighs. “I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. Just worry. Just him trying to see through you, again.

You shrug, eyes fixed on a spot over his shoulder. “Then maybe this isn’t working.”

He blinks. “What?”

“This whole thing,” you say, voice flat. “The hip hop. The late nights. The… whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely at the space between you. “Maybe I should’ve just stayed in my lane.”

His face shifts, like you’ve just drawn a line across the floor between you. Something heavy flickers behind his eyes, then settles.

“I didn’t realize this was a problem,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “It’s not you.”

But you both know it kind of is.

Because he’s the one who pulled you off your tightrope. He’s the one who coaxed the tension from your shoulders and made you laugh when you were supposed to be focused. He’s the one who made you believe—for a brief, terrifying moment—that there was more to life than discipline and structure and checking every goddamn box.

Now you’re slipping. And you don’t know how to stop.

You press your palms to your eyes. “I just… I got an A- on my math exam.”

Hoshi stares at you. “Okay…? I got a C+ on my bio exam last year and never been more stoked.”

You exhale like the world is ending. “A- doesn’t happen to me.”

There’s a long silence. Then he steps forward, voice gentle but grounded. “Maybe it should.”

You look up, startled. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “Maybe you’re allowed to not be perfect all the time.”

“That’s not the point,” you snap. “The point is, I was perfect. And now I’m not.”

“And you think that’s because of me?”

“No,” you whisper, then louder, “I don’t know.”

His mouth presses into a line. He doesn’t try to argue. Doesn’t offer comfort you’re not ready to hear. He just walks to the speaker, restarts the track, and says, “Okay. Then dance it out.”

You stare at him.

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re pissed, you’re spiraling, you’re two seconds from crying—so put it somewhere.”

“I can’t just—”

“You can,” he says firmly. “You want this to be worth it? Then use it.”

The music pounds through the room. A steady beat. A heartbeat you forgot you had.

You step forward.

You dance.

It’s not good. Not at first. Too rigid. Too frantic. Your body ached with frustration. But Hoshi doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t correct. Just stands there, watching you fall apart with grace and grit and something like quiet admiration.

And when the song ends, and you’re gasping for breath, chest heaving, he doesn’t clap. Doesn’t tease.

He just says, “You felt that, didn’t you?”

And you nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah.”

Neither of you says anything for a while.

Later, you leave the studio alone. You don’t text him goodnight.

But you think about the way he looked at you when you stopped dancing. Like you were something he wanted to reach for, even if you weren’t ready to be held.

And despite everything unraveling inside you—despite the ache blooming behind your ribs and the voice in your head hissing pull it together— You miss him already.

But you also missed perfection.

You missed your A pluses, your flawless pirouettes, the clean angles of a body that always knew where to land. Because it was right. Because it was correct. Because it was you.

The version of you everyone expects. The one they applaud. The one that doesn’t crack or stumble or ask for help.

⸻

You're not sure when it started slipping.

Not all at once—just a gradual sharpening of the edges. A quiet return to the version of you that counts every breath, that rehearses emotions before showing them. The version that wakes up with a to-do list already coiled tight around her spine like a ribbon pulled too taut.

You still show up to practice. You still stretch. You still dance.

But the looseness is gone.

You’re back to holding yourself like a question waiting for the right answer.

The studio has become a quiet echo chamber for your spiraling thoughts. The mirrors don’t lie—but they don’t forgive either. Every flaw reflects back sharper now. Every step feels like a verdict. You mark the routine in your head before each attempt, hyper-aware of where your elbow should go, how much weight to shift, what angle your hip is supposed to hit.

You don’t even realize you’re clenching your jaw until it aches.

Hoshi notices. Of course he does.

He doesn’t say anything the first time. He just watches from the mirror, one foot against the wall, arms folded, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The music plays. You dance. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t tease like he usually does. And when you finish, chest tight, sweat rolling down your temple, he just looks at you for a long second before walking over and tapping the speaker off.

The silence is louder than the beat ever was.

You glance at him, expecting a quip. A joke. A jab to shake you loose.

But all he says, voice low and unreadable, is: “You’re gripping the routine like it’s a life raft.”

You stiffen. “I’m just trying to keep up.”

“With what?” His tone is careful, not sharp. “Me? The class? Yourself?”

You grab your water bottle and avoid his eyes. “I don’t want to fall behind.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t follow. Just leans back again and lets the silence hang between you like something fragile and fraying.

⸻

By the next session, you’ve doubled down.

The routine plays in your head on a loop. Order is the only thing you can hold onto. When Hoshi arrives, he eyes you the moment he steps into the studio. You’re already mid-run, arms slicing through the air, legs hitting each mark with grim precision. You don’t look at him. You don’t stop.

He doesn’t even take off his hoodie. Just drops his bag in the corner and walks to the mirror, folding his arms again, his reflection barely blinking.

You make it through the sequence.

And it’s technically perfect.

But there’s something hollow in your chest by the time the music fades.

You finally stop, exhaling hard, hands on your hips. You glance over your shoulder.

He’s staring straight at you, eyes unreadable.

And then he says, not unkindly: “You dance like you’re bracing for impact.”

You bristle. “I’m dancing like I’m supposed to.”

“That’s the problem that we still can’t solve.”

You turn, wiping your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, tension laced in your spine like a wire.

“Not everything has to be chaos,” you snap. “Some of us actually need structure.”

“I’m not asking you to be chaos,” he says, voice even. “I’m asking you to be human.”

You fall silent.

He steps forward, a little closer than usual, and nods toward your reflection in the mirror. “Right now, I don’t see you in that mirror. I see a version of you trying not to crack.”

The words land heavier than you want to admit. But instead of replying, you turn back to the speaker and hit play again, drowning everything else out.

You run it again.

Still sharp.

Still empty.

And Hoshi—he doesn’t stop you.

He watches.

Not because he doesn’t care.

But because he’s waiting for the moment you decide you’ve had enough.

⸻

You’re circling through the routine again, each step clean but tight, like you’re holding your breath and trying not to shatter. The mirror catches every tiny hesitation—every second-guessing motion.

Hoshi leans against the wall, watching quietly, arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel his gaze drilling into you, heavy and sharp.

Finally, he shakes his head, voice low but cutting through the music: “You’re back to trying too hard. This entire past week. What happened to the progress we made?”

You stop, hands on hips, glare sliding toward him. “I’m supposed to just let it all go? Just dance like I don’t care? Like trying too hard hasn’t been my entire life?”

He pushes off the wall, stepping closer, eyes darkening with a mix of frustration and something almost like worry. “No, I’m saying you’re stuck. You’re choking yourself with all this… perfect routine crap. Like it’s going to save you.”

You bite your lip, the edge of his words hitting harder than you want to admit.

He’s quiet for a second, then shakes his head again, exhaling like he’s trying to get past the weight of it all.

“Big deal you got an A-minus. Big deal if you show up late to class. Big deal if you forget to do your stretches once or twice. Big deal if you are half a degree off in your turn.”

His voice rises just a notch, fierce but raw.

“So what?”

You blink, stunned.

“The world doesn’t care about your perfect scores or your perfect moves. It doesn’t stop spinning because you mess up. It just keeps going—whether you’re ready or not.”

His eyes hold yours, steady and unflinching.

“You think you’re protecting yourself with all this control. But what you’re really doing is locking yourself in. Trapping the part of you that wants to breathe, to feel, to live.”

He steps closer, voice softer but urgent.

“You’re not a robot programmed to never fail. You’re alive. So stop micromanaging every second. Stop trying to choreograph a life that’s meant to be messy.”

There’s silence. You swallow hard, heart pounding, the tight cage inside you creaking just a little.

He watches you across the studio, the way your shoulders coil tight, your breaths measured and small—like you’re holding yourself hostage in a cage built from routines, expectations, and the silent demand for perfection. The music hums low, pulsing in the background, but it feels like you’re trapped somewhere else, somewhere far from the rhythm.

Then, his voice cuts through the quiet, rough and steady, a tether pulling you back. “You can’t be free in here if you’re not free out there.”

The words hang between you, simple but heavy, like a challenge and an invitation all at once. Your eyes flick up, searching his face, but he’s already turning toward the door, hands shoved deep in his pockets, that easy soft smile twisting his lips.

You blink, heart speeding as you try to gather what to say, but the moment slips away before you can catch it. “Wait—what do you mean?” you start, but he doesn’t look back. “Come on. You’re wasting your breath.”

Before you can argue, he’s sliding off his sneakers, pulling his socks down, the bare skin of his feet touching the worn floor with a confident ease that makes your chest tighten. “You ready to shake off all that tightness?” he asks, voice low and sure.

You hesitate, the neat lines of your carefully constructed day flashing in your mind—the plans, the schedules, the need to control every movement like it’s a lifeline.

“Barefoot,” he repeats, eyes glinting with mischief. “No excuses.”

His hand shoots out, fingers curling around yours with a warmth that feels like a lifeline. You don’t want to let go, don’t want to follow him, but there’s something in the pressure of his grasp that says—just this once, trust me.

Outside, the moonlight paints the dark sky. The grass is cool beneath your bare feet, soft and a little prickly, sending little shivers up your spine. The sprinkler system hums, sprinkling arcs of water like liquid glass, droplets sparkling in the lampposts. Your breath catches. “Hoshi, what are you doing?” you murmur, tugging your hand free, stepping back toward the dry concrete.

But he just laughs—deep and free—the kind of laugh that cracks open the walls around you. “You’re coming. No backing out.”

Before you can protest again, he grabs your wrist, steady and sure, and drags you toward the sprinklers.

Cold water splashes your ankles, shock turning your knees to jelly. You gasp and stumble, fingers clenching into fists at your sides.

“Stop,” you say, but the words are weak, the corners of your mouth twitching despite yourself.

He grins, soaking wet hair plastered to his forehead, eyes shining with reckless delight. “Nope. You’re doing this.”

You take a tentative step forward, then another, the cold biting into your skin, breaking through the armor you wear like second skin. The water soaks through your clothes, chilling you to the bone, but your heart is pounding in a way it hasn’t in weeks—sharp and wild and alive.

You glance at him, and he’s grinning like a kid, arms wide, daring you to let go.

And something inside you snaps.

Suddenly, the laughter bursts out, unrestrained and loud—giddy and infectious. You chase him across the wet grass, the spray catching in your hair and drenching your clothes. You slip and slide, landing in the soft mud with a startled squeal, your laughter mixing with his as you both lie tangled and breathless.

The world falls away—the schedules, the perfection, the constant pressure to be flawless.

He presses your hand to your chest, voice low but fierce with something raw and real. “You feel that?” he asks. “That’s your body remembering it’s alive.”

You stare at him, breath hitching, the cold seeping through your skin, but now it feels different—like a shock to a system that’s been frozen for too long.

He squeezes your hand, eyes never leaving yours. “You need to loosen up. Not just in the studio. Not just on the dance floor. Out here too—life’s messy, imperfect. And you gotta stop trying to micromanage every second of it.”

For a long moment, you just breathe. The moonlight glowing on your skin, the grass beneath you, the warmth of his hand—it all feels like the first crack of light through a window you’d forgotten was closed.

Maybe freedom isn’t about control at all.

Maybe it’s about letting go.

⸻

Tag List: @minafrost @codeinebelle @sojuxxi @bestboileeknow @angelsbitx @socialsymphonies @chemiru @dinonara-ara @sourkimchi

[mandarinmoons]

Mandarinmoon's masterlist

Masterlists

Incorrect Criminal Minds quotes

Series

Pregnancy:

Spencer suspects you're pregnant

Spencer and pregnant reader argue

Spencer comforts reader after giving birth

Spencer talking with the baby

Baby says her first words

Teaching baby how to walk

Spencer calls while he's away

Shorts

Making out with later seasons Spencer

What Spencer's kisses would be like

A lazy night with Spencer

Being at a bar with later seasons Spencer

18+ ONLY

Cockwarming with Spencer

Spencer's mind wanders while watching a movie

One shots

Annabel Lee - Spencer Reid

A true friend - Spencer Reid

A true friend pt. 2 - Spencer Reid

Talking to the moon - Spencer Reid

Office romance - Spencer Reid

Office romance pt. 2 - Spencer Reid

Safe place - Spencer Reid

Bloody surprise - Spencer Reid

Spencer has trouble confessing his feelings for you

Slow dancing with Spencer

Giving Spencer a head massage

Reading with Spencer

Spencer comforts you

"I won't give up on you" - Spencer Reid

Spending the night with Spencer

Be my Valentine? - Spencer Reid

Spencer has nightmares after being kidnapped by Thomas Hankle

Spencer gets drunk

"That was kind of hot" - Spencer Reid

Situationship with Spencer

Spencer helps you take a bath

Spencer helps you make your coffee

Spencer gets his hair cut

Spencer comforts you after a friendship break up

You and Spencer are a new couple

Spencer fights you for his clothes

Spencer with a foreign reader

Spencer x agitated reader

Waking up with Spencer the day after

Helping Spencer with his hair

Reader helps Spencer get out of jail

Spencer helps you with your depression

Surprising Spencer with a dog

Helping Spencer relax

Spencer's first kiss

Spencer falls asleep on your shoulder

Knitting Spencer a scarf

Spencer wins you over with his magic

First time Spencer says I love you

"How'd these end up here?"

Spencer and his mismatched socks

Spencer and you aren't able to sleep

Spencer x athlete reader

Spencer gets home from a case early

Spencer grieves your death

Spencer gets home from a case

Peaceful morning with Spencer

Spencer comforts professional reader

Post prison Spencer comforts bau! reader

Reader leaves The BAU

Reader admires Spencer

Spencer spoils you on your birthday

You and Spencer break up

Spencer x reader "we're not done here" scene

Reader makes matching bracelets

Spencer raising a child with male! reader

Reading with sleepy Spencer

Shy reader meets the team

Surprising Spencer in the morning

Enemies to lovers with Spencer

Spencer comforts student reader

Spencer breaks up with reader

Having a sleepover with Spencer

Spencer rambles

Spencer comforts reader after they get kidnapped

Spencer has a secret crush on reader

Moving in with Spencer

Spencer x ballerina reader

Spencer comforts you after a break up

Spencer x hiker reader

Spencer and bau! reader stay at a hauntel hotel

Reader wears Spencer's clothes

Drunk Spencer gushes over reader

Reader has a big dog

Helping Spencer tie his tie

You and Spencer can't sleep

Spencer gets jealous

Taking care of Spencer when he's sick

Spencer keeps standing you up

Lipstick kisses with Spencer

Reader breaks up with their boyfriend for Spencer

You and Spencer can't sleep pt. 2

Spencer is jealous over Derek

You and Spencer go to an aquarium

Spencer is stressed out over reader being kidnapped

[97keanu]

Premise: When a mission goes wrong, young John “Jardani” Wick is dragged into the dark by something ancient and monstrous, leaving his partner behind to return to the ballet company alone, bloodied and broken. Branded a failure and a liar, she’s forced to dance through her grief under The Director’s cold eye, haunted by the loss no one believes was real. But John isn’t dead. Changed into something unholy, he watches her from the shadows, starving for the taste of her blood, the comfort of her body, and the memory of who he used to be. To return to her without destroying her, he’ll have to master a hunger stronger than death itself.

CW/Tags: vampire!john wick, young!john wick, ballerina!reader, john and reader are partners, intense yearning, bloodlust, horror/drama, soulmates, grief, eventual smut, slowburn.

Words: 2.6k

A/N: reply to this post to be added to the taglist for the next chapter!

Dust ebbs and flows through two ever searching streams of light, your boots crunching on years of built up debris in the run down mansion. You’ve been on missions before, this isn’t close to your first time going out with your partner and hunting down your target as instructed. That thought only barely quells the hairs standing up on the back of your neck and the chill that follows down your back in a hot, cold flash.

Crunch…

“John?” You whisper in the darkness, knowing you shouldn’t talk right now, but not being able to stop yourself, the feeling of danger increasing.

“…yeah?” It takes him a moment to reply, and you imagine his face as he walks behind you, serious as always and searching for any sign of who you’re looking for.

“Something feels…not right…” you try to drop your voice as low as possible, for his ears only.

Crunch…

He doesn’t respond, and you feel your stomach drop as you worry you’re alone in this, trying to calculate in your head just what seems so wrong about this place.

Crunch.

The long, grey dilapidated hallway holds harsh shadows, and your feet try to freeze as your beam of light from your handgun drifts over long, gouged scratch marks on the wall. They end toward the bottom of the wall, where thick black blood is slowly becoming abundant in pools that mix with the grit of the ground.

Crunch…

You can’t help yourself, you turn to John, and you can just barely see his thin, dark brows furrowing together. Your eyes scream at him as if to translate just how much fear is beginning to set in your body.

“Something is wrong here, John…” you plead with him, softly padding closer to him, afraid to be to far away. “Those marks don’t look…”

“…human.” He finishes your sentence, looking away from the deep claw marks and back to you.

His nostrils flare as he tries to assess what to do. He knows if he returns home without the target dead The Director’s punishment will be brutal, and the level of trust they have in him and you will be wavered, setting both of you back, taking on lesser missions from now on.

Crash.

He doesn’t have time to decide. Something from the open doorway to his right sends his partner flying down the hall, your body tossed so easily. You skid through the dirt and blood you saw earlier, scratches and scrapes forming before the later bruises you’ll see later.

If there is a later.

Your mouth falls open in a wordless scream as you watch John being pinned against the hallways wall, and just what exactly is pinning him you can’t comprehend.

It looks human.

Or maybe once human.

Faking being human.

But those claws, that distended jaw that opens and leaves trails of spit between razor sharp teeth. The naked, twisted body, bones not where they should be under grey translucent skin.

Oh god.

The eyes.

They’re looking at you now and you realize the screaming finally broke free from your body, guttural and ancient, a primal scream you had no idea would even come out of you. True fear.

John’s struggling under the creatures grip, his hands gripping the oversized claw that threatens his neck, his face red and breaths spitting between gritted teeth as he fights with all his might.

“Run!” He yells as he connects his boot with the torso of the thing, not helping himself, but attempting to give you time to flee.

The thing recovers its attention to John, and you stumble to your feet, fear making you fumble with your handgun, trying to aim in a way that doesn’t hit John.

You fire.

It hits into Its shoulders.

It doesn’t care.

It’s already driving its fangs deep into John’s tender neck.

It’s slurping.

John screams in agony.

You fire again hitting it in the back, and It growls.

Faster than you can understand it drags John screaming back down the hallway until your flashlight only captures the dust swirling in the dark once again.

You run.

————

It’s like a black hole.

Like the photographs of your memories of that night have been burned in the middle, leaving only the most horrific, over exposed snapshots to haunt you when you least expect it.

A whisper of snowflakes take nest in your hair, the rest dancing around in street lights, the road desolate and quiet save for your whimpering and limping down the sidewalk.

You don’t even know how you stumbled home, the Belarusian cold numbing every part of you. Your tears are frozen against your cheeks as you fling open the doors to the ballet company.

Those on watch have guns on you before you can blink, trying to figure out who and what and why.

They let up when they realize it’s you.

Only you.

You feel them shaking your shoulders, your body seizing in pain and your mouth blubbering a cry.

“Where is he?” They demand.

“Where is John?”

You can hardly make out who exactly is even talking to you, the world too bright and the faces simple shadows that shout questions and give orders.

Another shake.

“Answer me!”

You open your mouth, and your lips tremble, your whole body trembles.

“It…It got him…”

————

It’s been days.

You’ve hardly seen the outside of your room.

They’re treating cuts, the chunk of skin missing on your knee and your swollen ankle, the mild frostbite on your fingers. You hardly even notice when they enter and when they leave.

You’re not sure why you haven’t been punished.

You know The Director doesn’t take failed missions lightly, but you wonder if it has to do with what happened to John.

John.

You just keep hearing his screams bouncing off the walls ringing in your ears. You blame yourself. You blame how you didn’t do anything to stop it, how you didn’t run towards him, try to fight. You also know deep down that if you had, you’d be as good as dead.

Just like him…

Your heart aches so deeply you don’t know what to do with it.

They teach you here not to form relationships with one another for a reason, and you suppose you know why now.

This pain was unimaginable.

You don’t even know how to explain what you and John had. It was moments of softness when all eyes were closed. It was breaths in the cold as you share a secret cigarette on the fire escape outside your window. It was hands exploring just what one another had in the dark beneath your bedsheets.

You aren’t sure if you could call it love. If you deserve to call it love. But the pain of never having it again doesn’t lie.

Your days continue with cooling bowls of soup outside your door, and the covers over your head while your mourn.

————

“Tell me again what happened.”

The Director’s voice has no emotion. She sits back in her chair, her office lush and extravagant, rich smells of incense fill your nose as smoke from their fragrance and her cigarette billow in the room. The fireplace roars and cracks in your silence, your eyes unfocused on the floor.

“It came out of nowhere,” you speak slow, concise about what happened, too many details bringing too much hurt.

“It targeted Jardani, and it bit him. I shot It, but it didn’t matter, It already had him, and It dragged him away.”

“And ’it‘ looked like…?”

“I already told you… It wasn’t like us, it was something else. Something too tall, too skinny, too many teeth…”

“You expect me to believe that пачвара, that a…monster, took Jardani?” Doubt was one of her specialities.

“You can believe what you want. I know what I saw. It was not human.” You grit your teeth, the pain of having to relieve what happened combined with her probing and doubt leaving you short-toned.

Your almost surprised in yourself with how you’re talking to her, but losing all will to care.

She says nothing, mulling over what you’ve said.

The fire sizzles and snaps loudly.

“There still must be a punishment for failing to complete your assigned task.”

“There is no punishment that could hold a flame to what I’ve just experienced.”

—————

You’ve been stripped of everything.

No one is allowed to glance your way. No one shall speak to you.

You take the stage nightly after everyone else has run their routine.

You’ve lost The Director her most prized weapon, her most cherished son. For that, you must pay.

“You are not dismissed. You are reclaimed. You will dance every set he ever touched. Alone. Night after night, until the ghost of him is burned into your muscle memory.” Her voice echoes in your head as you begin, the stage silent except for your breathing.

“No name. No partners. No contact.”

A pause. Her voice softened for just a moment, sickly sweet.

“Perhaps, in your silence, he’ll hear you calling. And if not…”

She turned her back on you like you were already buried.

“Then we dance for the dead.”

Your feet strike the stage with precision. Your muscles tight and controlled, your hands trying to achieve the same strength, the same flow, as that of what John had. You twirl into his signature pose, leg wobbling and forcing you to give up on landing it, and you know it will take weeks before you’ll even come close to being what Jardani was.

You start his routine again.

And again.

And again.

The ghost of him your only partner in this hell.

—————

The days pass, and your body aches nightly, you try to keep your bloody feet from failing you with cloth bandages wrapped around them tight. It feels as if you haven’t slept since that night. You simply lie awake until the hours pass, facing the plain aging wall of your tiny bedroom made for one.

You hold your pillow, eyes following the cracks in the wall when you hear a creaking on the rusty fire escape outside your window.

Instinct takes over and you’ve instantly sat up, head swerving around to monitor just where the sound has emerged from, a shadow crossing your bedroom floor as something moves out of sight from the window.

You jump out of bed, flinging the window open and squinting as the icy night air quickly chills you to the bone. You scan the dark alleyway outside, looking for any sign of movement or life, your body cold in your skivvies.

The night is just as lonely as you are out there.

—————

He watches from the shadows as you close the window, your scent hanging heavy in the freezing night air. His gums are throbbing, and the pit in his stomach aches with want just from smelling you. It’s delicious, sharp and sweet to his senses, a fine liquor mixed with the smell of dark cherries and almond. A shaky hand has to wipe the drool from his chin as his tongue lusts for you.

He doesn’t even know why he’s come.

He knows what kind of monster he is now.

Something that can never be trusted.

Something that can never be safe.

And yet, he’s crawled his way back to you.

His eyes shine animal-bright in passing car lights, fangs extending longer from bloodlust.

Jardani knows he must do what he does best if he’s to ever have a chance of coming face to face with you again.

If he can want you, but not taste you, then he may still be some semblance of a man.

He must learn control.

——————

No human blood. No animal blood. Nothing. Jardani trains in front of mirrors that do not see him, goes through the motions of routines he knows the memory of deep in his muscles. He focuses on how long he can last without breaking, each attempt longer than the other.

“I once learned to throw a knife through a man’s eye without blinking. I can learn this too.”

He repeats this to himself between push ups, keeping his body busy and moving as much as possible.

When he does break, he does so without carnage, without killing and draining his prey dry like a beast. He controls his kill. Leaves no drop of blood undrank, returns back to his chosen hovel, an abandoned warehouse near the studio, without a mess of blood on him.

His first kill, instinct.

His second, survival.

His third, choice.

———————

It wasn’t easy sneaking into the studio, but Jardani knew of the most secret ins and outs of this place. He moves like a wolf in the shadows, slipping across the grid above the catwalk with ease.

He narrows his eyes, zoning in on just who’s below on the stage, carefully studying a few of his former fellow students as they finish up their routine for the night. There’s a few minutes of pause, some chatter backstage as most of the students head back to their rooms for the night. Finally, even The Director leaves and the studio falls silent.

That’s when you float out onto the stage, ballet slippers en pointe, holding all of your pain in the perfect precision of your body. You’re shroud in flowing white, a ghost that dances alone and for no one. His breath is held.

You begin Adagio, slow and fluid, an extension of yourself, before working your way into an Arabesque, arms held out, searching, reaching for someone who’s not there. You twist and flip, having to catch yourself, when you should be dancing with a partner who shares the burden of the dance, who guides your weight to where it should be. You move as if you may fall any minute, as if he may still be there to catch you.

Jardani can smell your scent wafting up into the rafters, the sweat and the rosin on your slippers, that sweet swirling scent of your blood that threatens to drive him mad. He grips the metal of the grid, gritting his teeth and trying to stop the hunger that grows within him.

“You must resist her. You must not give into the temptation of her blood.”

But oh, how he wants.

He wants not only your blood.

But you.

Your body, your warmth, your fingertips on his chest as you moan in pleasure underneath him. He wants to hear you say his name like a prayer in the dark.

Hunger clawed up his throat. His fangs throbbed with want and pressed down against his tongue.

He imagined descending the ropes like a phantom, pressing his mouth to the hollow of your neck, inhaling that sweet scent from the source and feeling your pulse flit against his lips.

Not biting.

Not yet.

Just having you.

He wanted to bury himself in you, take everything with greed. Bury in your scent, your heat, your pain.

But he couldn’t.

Couldn’t touch you without unraveling. He could barely be this close now without thoughts of himself drinking deeply from you creating fuzz of noise in his head he could hardly ignore.

Instead, he steadied himself as much as he could, attempting to hold on as long as possible, to prove to himself that he could stand it, he could be in the same room as you, someone made so perfectly for his new, monstrous tastes.

He crouches in the rafter, shaking with want and salivating at the thought of letting go.

Wanting to hold you.

Wanting to feed.

Wanting to take all that pain away.

But the dead don’t get love stories.

Only hunger. Only distance. Only you, on stage, dancing for the ghost he’d become.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 199 (The Beauty and the Beast)

The San Myshuno Ballet Company was known for mixing classical dance with modern touches, a perfect fit for the forward-thinking city that loved to mix the old with all things shiny and new. The company's rendition of the 18th Century French tale The Beauty and the Beast was booked for months of sold out performances.

Dancers from all over Simlandia auditioned for the honour and prestige of being part of the company - the current prima ballerina, Daniela Devine, had come from Willow Creek, and her dance partner, Connor Kibo, said he'd grown up with close to a dozen siblings in a parallel universe before arriving in San My! Now he was dating simfluencer Autumn Owens, and was on the cover of three different magazines at the grocery store this week alone.

But Connor was a fun-loving goofball, and Pearl Richards thought his backstory was probably a joke. Yet, as the troupe's youngest member, she respected the older dancers too much to call him out.

The company's appeal was diversity - their dancers could perform to a mix of orchestral and contemporary music that often left audiences cheering and gasping in their seats. Men often danced parts for women, and women could dance parts for men, but they always stayed within the confines of classical ballet just enough to charm fans of all ages.

The driving force behind the company's popularity wasn't the executive director, Marina Glumova, a platinum blonde retired dancer, or even the dancers themselves - the single most influential person with the San My Ballet Company was the head of their Board of Directors, Nancy Landgraab.

She had the best ideas and the money to see plans through to fruition. Her connections meant donations and memberships flowed like Cordelia Falls, and she'd been even more dedicated to the company's success since the death of her husband.

"Pearl and Charlie need a solo," insisted Nancy, while she and Marina observed the rehearsal from the stage. "We need to showcase the next generation."

Marina frowned. She'd known Nancy for years and still couldn't stand her, but her job required her to pretend she did. "You're sure they're ready?"

"You've seen them dance, Marina. If you don't think they're ready, are you really paying attention?"

"Pearl's ready." As she made her way to the seats below with Katrina, Elyse Rockwell spoke proudly of the school's best student. "We've watched her grow up in pointe shoes, and she's always been ready."

Pearl had known several of the dancers for years - Natasha Lobo and Sierra Prairies, partners both onstage and off, taught the younger students with Elyse in their teens. Now Elyse danced background roles in stage productions, but spent most of her time focused on teaching the next generation of dancers through the company's connected school.

The other teenagers were Katrina Martinez, a lanky girl with a strong work ethic, and Charlie Wise, a blond ballet dancer from Evergreen Harbour whose skill at ballet made Pearl a little weak in the knees.

She didn't know what it was about Charlie. He wasn't the type of guy she'd ever seen herself crushing on, but since they met, her feelings for her childhood best friend, Ash Landgraab, had begun to fade like the end of a quiet concerto. Sort of. But Ash liked that witch, Scotti Holiday, and lived in a different city. She wasn't going to wait around for him to figure anything out, and Charlie lived right here in San Myshuno.

But Pearl was fourteen, and Charlie was almost three years older. Still, she could swear he looked at her in a way Ash probably never would...

At the end of their rehearsal, cheerful Daniela invited everyone to a local nightclub specializing in Latin music. "I moved here less than a year ago, but all my friends in town are still my boyfriend's friends," she said.

Natasha Lobo had danced with San My since childhood, and worked harder than any other dancer in the city. She'd dreamed of becoming the prima ballerina at San My Ballet Company from the time she first laced on her pointe shoes, but Daniela Devine had come from nowhere and stolen her dreams away. "Thanks, but Sierra and I-"

Natasha's girlfriend cut her off. "We'd love to, Dani. We haven't danced for fun since prom. And that was years ago."

Daniela smiled, turning to Katrina, Charlie, and Pearl. "You guys should come, too, if your parents will let you."

"Sounds good," said Charlie. "The Zests only rule for me is don't piss off Nancy so they don't have to hear about it."

"I can go, too," said Katrina, and suddenly, fourteen-year-old Pearl felt like the odd one out.

"My parents are cool. If I'm with the company they don't care how late I'm out," she lied, blushing as Charlie smiled at her from across the table.

"That's great!" Daniela beamed. "And don't worry, we'll make sure you get home safe."

Charlie nodded. "Definitely."

Pearl smiled, feeling like a mini celebrity when the bouncer waved them through without even looking at IDs. "It's an all ages club. We can skip the line because my boyfriend, Byron, knows every venue manager in the city," Daniela explained. "If there's a stage, he and the San Minions have played there."

Daniela always talked about her famous boyfriend, but she was in love; only Natasha found it obnoxious. But she found everything Daniela did to be obnoxious, so the prima ballerina focused on the music, moving her hips to Latin beats dancing the rumbasim.

Pearl glanced around the red-walled nightclub in awe. It was obvious she'd never been inside such an establishment, and Charlie stayed close. "Did you want to dance? But I warn you, I'm only really good at ballet."

She smiled. "Yeah, okay. Show me your moves, Charlie Wise."

From a lounge area above the dance floor, Natasha sulked while Elyse told a funny story she wasn't even listening to. She nursed a vodka tonic and glowered at Daniela on the dance floor, while Sierra did her best to ply her with compliments. Usually, this was the best way to get Natasha to feel less tense, but Daniela was a bit like her kryptonite. "She thinks she's so great dancing to this crap music."

Scowling, Natasha threw back her drink and excused herself to the bathrooms, glowering at Daniela on her way.

"She hates me," lamented the prima ballerina. Wearing a smile to combat her disappointment, she climbed the steps to join Elyse with a bowl of chips. "I came with a peace offering, but everyone made themselves scarce."

"Natasha's only going to hate you until you retire from dancing and she gets all your roles," Elyse joked.

"What if I don't retire for decades?"

"Eventually, you'll have to move aside for Pearl," Elyse said plainly. "She's the anointed one."

"Maybe Pearl and I will share the stage," she suggested hopefully. "Just because Natasha doesn't like to share the spotlight doesn't mean-"

Elyse sighed, keeping one eye toward the bathroom door in case Natasha saw them chatting like old friends. "We really like you, Daniela. I think Sierra wishes Natasha liked you more so she wouldn't feel the need to walk on eggshells around you, but things come so easy to you. It's not your fault, but it's not Natasha's fault her life has never been quite so charmed, either."

Daniela listened carefully. "I understand," she said. "But what can I do to change her mind?"

Elyse nodded toward Sierra at the bar. "Talk to Sierra. They might have an idea."

Retiring to please Natasha wasn't an option, so Daniela approached Sierra cautiously. She thought better of trying to bond with her by putting them on the spot about Natasha, coming up with a different question, instead. "So, what do you think of Charlie? Pearl's so sweet, but I swear there's something off about him. I can't explain it."

Sierra stood awkwardly at her side. "He's more pale than a vampire, but I don't think he actually is one, if that's what you mean."

"No, that's not- I don't know what I mean. But maybe it's getting late, and one of us should get Pearl home."

"Tash and I will go," offered Sierra. "She's having a bad time, anyway."

(Daniela has known Pearl and Charlie for many months, at least, at this point in the timeline, but of course this is the first time they've 'met' in my save, so these first impressions are legit.)

Before they could pay their tab and leave, an old woman with braided hair tied up a bun entered the nightclub in her pajamas.

Pearl gasped. "Grams, what are you doing here?"

Susan Richey eyed her granddaughter sternly. "I was going to ask you the same thing. You know your parents put an app into your phone. Did you think they wouldn't know you went to a nightclub on a school night? Time to get home and get grounded, Pearlie Girl."

Mortified, Pearl hid her face from the other dancers - and from Charlie, most of all - as her grandmother dragged her home. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

This episode isn't possible without @changingplumbob who sent me five incredible sims from her SBL and 100 Baby saves/stories! Thank you so much, I'm having so much fun with this collaboration! With the exception of Connor, who comes courtesy of Yvonne Ryder and the admittedly insufferable Akira Kibo in her 100 Baby save, Kirsty got these sims from some amazing simmers/fellow moots. So thank you @mdshh for Daniela, @bloomingkyras for Natasha, @paracosmic-sims for Sierra, and @simmerbeans for Elyse. They're so gorgeous and so much fun to do ballet with!

NOTE: The current age gap between Charlie and Pearl is not condonable for me, but the mod doesn't know how old they are in my canon/game clock. And I won't be ignoring it or glamorizing it, nor will I be rushing these two into romance. So what if they have feelings? It can wait.

While I love @janesimsten's Soulmates mod for finding gold like Lilix, it comes with a cheap potion to erase soulmate ties any time I want, so feel free to ship whomever you like in this building semi-quadrangle with Ash and Scotti. We don't know how any of it's going to go, but the odds appear stacked against any fans of Ash and Pearl (like me).

NOTE 2: The San My nightclub they went to is actually an EA lot in Ciudad Enamorada. Daniela set up a dance party night out so they could only go to a nightclub, which wrecked my original plan to send them to a karaoke bar. But somehow this was better and just as chaotic. Natasha hated the nightclub and the music and it perfectly translated to presenting her feelings on Daniela without making them actually fight.

Pearl's grandmother really showed up randomly at the nightclub and I made it canon. Also there but not canonically? Heather, her sister Holly and brother River, Rahul Chopra who's about 50 now in game, ISEUL KANG @purplesimmer455 who is chilling in my save file for another imminent crossover (imminent in game, won't be posted for a while!), and a random happy green ghost.

Iseul, is that you? It is!

WCIFs: The San Myshuno Theatre lot is a pretty epic build on the Sims 4 Gallery by AndrewX28. There is so much to love about it but it took me a while to figure out how to turn enough lights down to stop Charlie looking like a fluorescent Casper the ghost. Highly recommend it for the aesthetic and the possibilities for use here!

Executive Director Marina Glumova and fellow teen ballerina Katrina Martinez were uploaded to the Sims 4 Gallery by RubbinHD - their original names are Bella Gloom (too close to Bella Goth) and Katrina Ballet was YA, but I left everything else.

All ballet poses on stage were from the Ballet mod, Simmisstrait's Feeling the Music animation, Ceci's Couple dancing #1 pose pack, and RayGun's Ballet Duet pose pack.

[happy-beeeps]

Meet Me In The Woods

*gif credits to creator!*

pairing: reader (f!Rook) x Lucanis

WC: 1k

Warnings: There's some shedding clothes but nothing steamy, PG13!

Summary: Spite tries to make another break for it, and you take Lucanis to the only place you can think of to ease his mind.

A/N: I know I'm supposed to be doing Dincember but SURPRISE SORRY OKAY BYE

also def recommend listening to Lord Huron's "Meet Me In the Woods" with this one

“It’s Spite,” you murmur, and Lucanis slumps a bit against the touch of your hand on his forearm.

“I tried, he is… becoming more difficult.”

You know, you can see it. The darkness under his eyes rings clearer now than it has since you first met him. He’s been trying to stay awake, and it’s not working.

And of course, there’s the moment you’ve been coping with, the breath away from a kiss, when he startled and darted out of the room.

“Lucanis,” you sigh, removing your hand slowly and backing up, “there has to be another way, you can’t keep doing this.”

“Worried I’m not at my best?” He smirks, but there’s a deal question there. Are you worried? Should you be?”

You shake your head, “No. I trust you with my life, so does the rest of the team.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” He shakes his head, whether it’s from exasperation or sleep you cannot say. “I’m a danger,”

“And I told you before,” your hand is on his arm now, and a warm sensation floods your chest when he puts his own hand on top of yours. “I like to toe the line.”

The Eluvian glimmers behind you, Spite has not entirely stopped trying to leave early, and a thought enters your mind. A memory of a life past.

Without thinking, you grab him further and pull him deeper into the Eluvian, crossing into the Crossroads. As you locate your prize, you ignore his confused sputters. “Just, just let me do this. Please.” 

He relents.

Arlathan is softer at night, in your opinion. Bathed in moonlight and speckled with small fires from different camps, it feels almost like a small city. The grass is plush beneath your feet and, to his credit, Lucanis hasn’t questioned your motives yet. The forest is hard to make out, but you find what you were looking for soon enough—a small waterfall lined with drooping trees and well worn rocks. You pause at the edge of the small river that winds beneath the falls before quickly shucking your top and pants, leaving you clad in just your underclothes.

“Mierda, Rook,” Lucanis starts from behind you, but he’s laughing. You gingerly step into the water, before sinking deeper. The river is slow and small, so you can wade into the middle without being pulled by the current.

Lucanis has followed you in, and left behind his own outer layer next to yours. How long does it take to undo that vest?

“Did you bring me out here to freeze me to death?” He quips, but the barb lacks venom. He rushes his hands over his head, sighing at the contact of cool water across his face. The sight of his hair, swept back with water and beads dripping off his forehead, sends butterflies across your chest, but the feeling appears to be reciprocated. Lucanis eyes rake over your form in a way that doesn’t imminently come across as lustful, more longing.

“When I was little, I used to come here all the time and do this. When I couldn’t sleep, or I was overwhelmed.”

“I thought you were from Minrathous?”

“Mmm,” you kick your legs up to float, tummy pressed to the sky, “not originally. I was from a little village out here.”

“Why haven’t we seen it?”

“Because it’s gone.”

Lucanis doesn’t speak, but instead moves to stand behind you. There’s a reassuring hand pushed up against your back beneath the water, and you can feel from his navigation that he’s propped himself near the bank, tethering you to land.

“I wanted to be a performer, I left to Minrathous when I was young,”

“A performer?” He snorts, and you open one eye to squint at him.

“A dancer. I wanted to tour, maybe make it all the way to Treviso.”

“You’d have been an excellent ballerina.”

You stay there in silence for a while longer, and you can feel Lucanis’ heartbeat stop thrumming against you. He’s soothed, finally. 

“The woods always helped. The darkness.” You murmur, and his hand presses firmer against your back.

“And you think it will help me?”

“Did it?”

A pause. “Fine.”

You snort, and the sudden movement encourages you to flip back over in the water, submerging before emerging. You turn to face him, and his eyes are burning into you. Deep and fond. This man in front of you has killed, will continue to kill. There is a part of him you can’t quite reconcile. And yet, you jumped to help him, his town, in an instant. Even now, you want to do nothing more than run your fingers through his hand and soothe him. You haven’t even kissed and yet you’re in front of each other, nearly bare. This feels more intimate in more ways than one.

“I’m terrified,” he starts, eyes dropping to his hands, “that Spite will take control and I won’t have any part of me left.”

“Lucanis—“

“That he’ll hurt someone, hurt you. And if I ever come to, it’ll be your blood on my hands.”

“You won’t let that happen, we won’t let that happen. We’re a team in this, you know.”

“I know,” his hands move to find yours in the water, “and that’s the other reason I’m terrified. You don’t know when to run.”

“Maybe I’m just tired of it.”

There’s a moment there, where the air smells like lavender and bitter coffee, and there’s a breath of anticipation. But neither of you sour it. It’s almost as if the moment would be ruined now by physical intimacy. But you know, and he knows. and that’s good enough for you.

[the-lost-archivist]

Details I adore in dbd (in no particular order)

There may be some vague spoilers, be warned

1. The bracelet that the cat king gives Edwin looks like an ouroboros with a cats head (an ourobrpuss if you will, I’ll see myself out)

2. Maxine has cleaver earrings when niko confronts her about her love/ obsession of Jenny

3. Nikos outfits are all monochrome, the colours may have meanings in some way, I’m too lazy to cross reference, white is used for death in some cultures and she wore white in that final episode

4. The first thing we see in tragic micks shop is the polar bear

5. The animation style being different for each person telling a story

6. Charles and Edwin pick up on each others language, Charles can quote Edwin’s dad and Edwin has said ‘that’s brills’

7. Niko wearing a ring that is then worn by older niko

(Credits to this post for pointing it out)

8. The way the cinematography made the neon crown sign line up with the cat kings head

9. Apparently Edwin stands like a ballerina (post)

I will add to this post as and when but this has been saved in my drafts for months and I’m an impatient soul

[msfandomsblog]

Alastor x fem!ballerina-reader

This is my first alastor x reader fic! I don't know how many parts imma make but it will be somewhat a slow burn.

Also this is mostly your backstory

Hope you enjoy!

warnings: use of y/n, being laughed at, implied death, blood, readers insane like Al, guns, suicide, kinda short anddddddd yeah

In life you were one of the greatest pointe dancer in the world. In death, eh, not so much. Yes you danced but this was simple practice, hell wasn't exactly known for its refined~ practice. Your demon form was simple, you were tall (charlie sized) pale and had small wings on your back. Swan wings, that you could enlarge in and out at your will, not that you usually needed to. You mostly had them compact to your back. Most of your friends wondered why you were in hell to begin with, you were always civil to most characters. There was ofc the off-hand time where you'd threaten any demon who'd dare touch you or close friends, but... who's keeping count!?

As for the reason why you were there well... yes being a dancer had its purks but, it had just as many faults.

More then once at a young age in life you were cast for the villain rolls of dances, plays, etc.

You asked you teachers why and their answer was always, "the way you play it y/n! your body language, face and being on stage! you just do it so well"

As you progressed through as an actress and dancer you were never the 'princess' or the main heroin. Only the dark, cold villain. The black swan, The mouse king, Maleficent. How you longed to be the beauty and not the beast.

Not only did this anger you but soon after a while many other dancers would avoid you because of your 'villain' demeanor on stage. This caused you to grow a hatred for your fellows. It all became too much one day.

It was dress rehearsal, your last one before your last show, and the boys got a wise idea for a prank to play on their black swan. When rehearsing your first entrance you moved over to stage right when suddenly a type of slime/glue pored on you, burning your eyes and ruining your clothes. Then the lead boy shot what looked like a party popper at you but instead of confetti, landed black feathers. The boys were on hunched over laughing, 'childish' you thought while glaring at them.

Every other dancer turned their heads or ran over to see what was oh so funny. Once they all started laughing or turned their head to hide smiles, the director yelled at them all, "oi! that's enough, this isn't a baby recital that you did when you were 5! this isn't mature! Boys, help y/n and run 40 laps around the stage ey?" But it was too late, you'd decided right then and there.

So they saw you as the villain hm? You'd be happy to oblige.

The next day you played your part amazingly well but it was your next audition that excited you. It was for the seasonal part in the nutcracker. As always you were given the part, The mouse king.

When you met the lead playing Clara, the young girl heroin, you saw she was a perfectly civil young dancer. She met her end quickly enough tho.

When you came around to auditioning for The Sleeping Beauty and once again did not get Aurora, you found it quite enjoyable to get rid of the blonde broad that played her.

Then there was Romeo and Juliet. you never did audition for this one, reasons unknown to you. But when you did you somehow found that you felt no sadness you got the email saying that you didn't get the part of Juliet. You instead found joy when you cracked a wide smile as the blood of the girl who did get the part flowed down your hands.

Pretty thing she was, good dancer too. poor thing. ah well.

After about 3 years of of getting away with this little 'hobby; of yours you were found out and surrounded by a large S.W.A.T team. The team leader spoke softly to you.

"Miss y/n, please put your hands up, and drop the gun."

You were so annoyed by this, you'd had to use the damn thing to kill a small African-american girl who was playing Coopelia. You didn't like using guns but this was supposed to be quick. You'd even bought a silencer for the job.

"No officer, I don't think I will." You said back. you smiled as you turned to face the 20 guns pointed at you.

"You won't make it out alive L/n" He said trying to convince you.

"I don't plan on it," And smiling you flipped them off as you shot the gun at your own neck.

OKKKKKKK that was part 1! I hope ya'll like it and stay tuned. I don't know if you could tell but I am ballet dancer, I'm not professional yet but I know quite a bit.

y/n might be oc just a warning but again my first fic sooooo.

Anyway!!!!!! have a good day/night little humans!

part 2!

[futbolfatale]

Wanna Watch A Scary Movie: Abigail

Diana Taurasi/Reader

Tags: Kidnapping, Gore, Fingering, Blooddrinking, death of side character, body horror,

Summary: You are hired to kidnap a child ballerina. You later meet her mother and maybe fall in love.

Wordcount: 3.4K

Two weeks ago, you had been approached by a man about an obscure job. You needed the money, so of course, you accepted. Which puts you currently on a street corner waiting for your ride. All the information you got was to be at this spot at 7:30 pm, and a man would pick you up. Seems like a great way to get kidnapped, but also a great way to make a lot of money. The iced tea in your hand has long since gone warm, yet you still hold onto it as a black car pulls up to the curb in front of you. The window rolls down, but the man inside doesn’t look at you. Once you're in the car, it pulls off before you have a chance to even buckle in.

You settle into the backseat before the man in the passenger seat looks back at you. His face is hardened, showing no emotion, making it hard to gauge what he is thinking. “Is the temperature alright back there?” The driver asks, turning back to look at you. He is the muscle clearly. He is a large man with a small brain, from what you can tell. “ The temperature is fine just fucking drive” The man is the passanger reponds his voice high and nasley. If he had let you respond, you would have said it was a little chilly, but it feels too late for that now. On the seat next to you sits a black case with your codeman written on it. Inside is the settitive man who hired you, had mentioned. 

The car pulls to a stop in front of a large house. The three of you step out, ski masks already on, and head into the building. The front door is unlocked, and all three of you Head of stairs, following the man from the passenger seat, he seems to be the assigned leader. The room he leads you into is a child's. There are dolls and books scattered all over, and from the pictures on the wall, she is only nine or ten. “Nobody said we were kidnapping a child,” You whisper to the self-ordained leader.”It’s a fucking kid if your going to walk fucking do it.” You don’t move. You can’t afford to walk, this money is what is going to keep your mother's mortgage paid. “Get in position over there,” He gestures to a corner, and you walk over there. The door opens and you have to hold back tears the girls just come home from a fucking dance retial and you about to ruin her fucking life. Her phone rings and she picks it up, bringing it to her ear. “Hi Mama,” She should be excited as she throws her stuff on the floor and bounces into bed. “ It was good, I had fun… Ya, I think so,” she settles into bed and pulls out a journal, opening it up on her lap. “No, not yet… Ya… Everything is great, Mama, I love you”. There is a pause as she listens to whatever her mom is saying. “Bye,” she tosses the phone, and that's when you pounce. The leader holds her down, but she stabs him with a pen, then the muscle holds her down while you jab her with the sedative.

The radio goes off, grabbing everyone's attention. “Incoming. It could be the mother,” A woman says. “Shit” The leader shoves the girl into a duffle bag. “They'll be at the door at ten. Should I take the shot?” A man asks over the coms. “Negative, hold your fire,” The leader says before guiding the way out of the house. He takes you out the back door, making a move for the back gate. “New pickup at the back gate,” your leader whispers over the coms. You make it out of the gate, the sniper joins you. “I think we are in the clear,” your leader states. That is when the lights flicker on and the sirens start blaring, cause of course, he had to jinx it. You make a break for the van, running like your life depends on it. All four of you, plus the girl, get in the van. You pull off your mask, happy to finally feel like you can breathe again.“Alright, kids, we aren’t out of the woods yet, we still need to get out of the city.” You leaders say, his words degrading. It's like he thinks he knows more than all of you combined. The rest of the drive passes in a blur with loud conversation and sharp turns.

The house you pull up to looks straight out of a horror movie. It’s surrounded by iron fencing and looks completely abandoned. The muscle picks up the girl, slinging her over his shoulder, as the group of you head inside to meet your boss. The house is even creepier inside, though it’s cool, it reminds you of a Victorian-style movie set. “Find a room, get the girl situated. Set up a look-out position. Meet back here in five,” the Boss orders, and you set off in search of an adequate room.

“For those of you who don’t know, I am Lambert. Each of you came highly recommended. And so far, those recommendations have paid off. The rules are the same as always no real names, no backstories, and keep the grab ass to a minimum. It is only a twenty-four-hour job, and the hard part is over. You’ll be the only one to talk to her, so she hears only one voice.” He says, pointing at you. “I just have one question: whose kid is she?” You ask curiously. You really want to know who you're about to be extorting and how much shit you'll be in if this goes south. “A very wealthy woman who is about to be 50 million dollars poorer. You’ll be safe here. And to be completely certain you can’t be tracked, I will be taking your phones.” He goes around collecting phones, some more reluctantly than others.

“Why can’t we use our real names?” Muscle asks. “ So if someone gets caught, they can’t rat anyone else out,” Your leader says. “ You want names, fine.”

“You're Frank,” He points to the leader.

“Dean,” The driver.

“Sammy,” The tech girl.

“Peter,” the muscle. 

“Kate,” He points to you. It's insulting that you don’t look anything like Kate.

“Don,” The sniper.

“There is clean bedding and light fires in the rooms. The kitchen and Bar are fully stocked. I’ll see you in 24 hours, my lovely pack of rats.” He shuts the doors after that, leaving you trapped here. “I’m going to find somewhere to lie down.” You turn and head up the stairs in search of a room to sleep in. You don’t acknowledge the disputed noises your crewmates make. They can go get drunk, but you don’t need that.

You find a bedroom just down the hall from where the girl is handcuffed. You throw yourself on the large bed and stare up at the ceiling. When you turn to lie on your side, you notice the portrait hanging on the wall. It depicts a tall woman with brown hair and a large nose standing next to a little blonde girl in a ballerina outfit. The portrait looks old, at least fifty years if not more. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” a voice whispers right into your ear. You turn to scream, unsure of who is behind you. Sammy didn’t sound like that, and the voice had definitely been feminine. A cold hand wraps around your mouth. “Don’t scream. I really don’t want to have to kill you,” the person behind you whispers. She removes her hand, and you lie there locked in place from fear alone. You try to pull away as if a blindfold is tied around your eyes. “Shhh. Just stay quiet, okay. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you make me.”The woman whispers her breath ghosting across your skin. 

“Who are you?” The words come out breathlessly. “ A very wealthy woman,” She whisper’s mirroring the earlier words. She rolls you onto your back, your legs spread. The position makes you feel exposed despite the clothing on your body. “That’s your daughter,” You say, the obvious question as the woman's lips ghost over your collarbones. “Yes.” She whispers before her tongue darts out, licking softly at the side of your neck. “What do you want?” You whisper a voice shaky from fear or arousal, you may never know. “First I am going to fuck you. Then I am going to kill your teammates slowly and excruciatingly. And after I’ve had my fill of playing with them, I will come back for you.” Something sharp pierces your neck, and you feel the blood oozing. It only lasts a moment, for then her mouth is there licking it up. “Why me?” you whisper before choking on your own words. Her hand slid between your legs and into your pants as you were talking. She rubs softly at your clit from outside the thin fabric of your underwear. “You’ll know soon enough. Now just lie back and let me help you.” She whispers against your skin. Her fingers find their way into your underwear and run slightly as your soaking entrance. Before you have much time to react, she slides two fingers in, and god, they are so big. They feel good inside you, like that’s where they are meant to be. 

A knock at the door pulls you from your sex addled mind. “It’s time to check on the girl. Can you get out here?” Frank shouts, now kicking your door. The man has no patience. The woman’s presence is gone. You long for her, though you shouldn’t. She admitted to a future attempt to kill your crewmates. But then again, she just gave you the most mind-blowing orgasm of your life.” I’m coming,” you crawl out of bed, pulling on the blindfold and throwing it on the bed behind you. You open the door and step out into the hall, pulling it shut behind you. He leads you into the girl's room wordlessly and stands outside as you slip in.

“What’s happening?” The girl whispers fearfully. You walk over and sit next to her on the bed. “Are you feeling okay?” you question, rubbing her arm in an attempt to be soothing. This would all be over soon, whether her mother kills everyone or your crew succeeds, this will be done within twenty-four hours. “Who are you?” she questions voice , still fearful. “You can call me Kate”. “Can you take off the blindfold? It’s really tight,” She questions softly. You pull your gator up to conceal your face before removing her blindfold. “Are your cuffs hurting you?” You question. She nods, and you have her sit up and move the cuffs so that her hands are in front of her. “What’s going on? Where is my mama?” She asks, tears gathering in her eyes. “The man we work for wants money from your mama. Once we get the money, we’ll give it back,” you explain, keeping your voice as even and calm as possible. “But my mama is here, I can smell her perfume. It’s on you. You're the one she told me about.” She switched from being fearful to thoughtful in a second. “What did she say about me, because as far as I know, I have never met your mother?” You ask curiously. Maybe she knows something about her mother's mysterious appearance and her threat. “You’ll know soon enough,” She whispers voice barely audible. “I have to go now, I will be back to check on you in a bit.” You stand and turn to walk to the door. You need a drink and to calm down. Surely it was just some fucked up dream. Maybe there was mold in that room, and it was poisoning your brain. “Kate,” she questions from her bed, causing you to turn around, hand still on the doorknob. “I’m sorry for what's about to happen to your friends,” which makes you hurry out of the room. The least you could do is warn them. Maybe they would just leave.

Frank is sitting at the bar alone, making him the perfect person to talk to first. You sit down next to him, waiting for a beat before the words finally burst from your lips. “Do you know who the girls’ mother is?”. You don’t even have to wait a moment for his reply. “No, do you?” the words sounding accusatory. “No, but from what she is insinuating, her mother is of a particularly violent nature. “Of course, she implied that she is terrified. Her goal is to rattle you.” He replies with a tone back to uncaring nature. “Well, I am inclined to believe and I hope that you take her threat seriously.” You push away from the bar and head off in the opposite direction. You're unsure of where you are going, but the need to get away from Frank's Idiocy is overwhelming. You find yourself in an industrial kitchen. It looks like it belongs in the back of a restaurant, not in the basement of this creepy mansion. “Are you tired? I will give you that.” You turn sharply, the woman from the bedroom is now sitting on the edge of the counter, looking at you expectantly. “They wouldn’t listen.” You shake your head, rage boiling inside of you. “They never do. You can’t blame yourself.” She looks up, hair falling behind her, so you get the first clear view of her face. She has a strong jawline, a large nose, and freckled cheeks. “How often are you doing this?” How many people have been in your exact position. “Every so often, Abigail finds it amusing, and I love my baby.” She pushes off the counter and walks towards you. That's when it hits how truly large she is. Tall and not only that, but built as well. She cups your face before tilting you to look at her. “When things start to get really messy, just go back to bed and lock the door; you’ll be safe there. Sometimes Abigail goes a little overboard. Wouldn’t want you to get caught up in the crossfire.” She taps your nose, a condescending smile taking over her face. Shouting from upstairs draws your attention, and when you turn back to her, she is already gone. 

“What is going on?” You ask, spotting Frank trying to open the door. “What’s going on is that little crotch demon we kidnapped is fucking Diana Taurasi’s daughter.” That’s where you recognized that woman from. She had been on the news multiple times, but the photos were always of poor quality. “Who is Diana Taurasi?” Sammy asks, slopping her gum loudly. “She is your worst fucking nightmare. Nobody even knows how big her empire is.” Frank's pacing puts you even more on edge. “So is she like some crime boss?” Sammy questions nervously. “Now we all have a death mark,” Don pipes up. “What if we just give her back?” Sammy proposes. “Here is your daughter back, mistress Antichrist, so sorry,” Frank mocks. “UH, Where is Dean?” Peter asks, glancing around at all of us. “Fucking Shit of course. Spread out and find him.” Frank orders something annoyed. It takes all of ten minutes before you stumble upon his decapitated body. His head lies on the ground a few feet away. The sight alone urges you to vomit, but then the stench hits you, and you vomit all over the floor.

—--

“It looks like a wild fucking animal ripped him apart” Frank is practically shouting while investigating the body. “It’s her. She said her mother was dangerous.” You whisper, finally able to hold in your bile. “There are rumors that Diana Taurasi isn’t fully human. And there is plenty of evidence if you believe in those things,” Don adds. “We should check on the girl,” Sammy whispers, unable to tear her eyes away from the body.

You slip into the bedroom, leaving your crewmates outside as you go to sit on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on?” She whimpers. Her acting isn’t very good, or maybe you're just better attuned to it now. “Someone just beheaded one of my crewmates, and I need to know why.” You try to harden your voice to seem like you have everything under control. “Mama already told you why. It’s not my fault if you aren’t a very good listener.” Her voice is teasing as if she is only trying to piss you off. “Why are you doing this to me?” You whisper, allowing your walls to crack slightly. “Let me go, and this can all be over. “She promised, and you stood back. You know yourself too well, and the offer is far too tempting.

“What did she tell you?” Frank asks as soon as you step into the hall. “Nothing useful, just how we already know why we are here. I don’t have any clue.”. You run a hand through your hair in frustration. “Then we will need to get rough with her,” Frank smirks as if this is what he wanted the whole time. Peter stalks into the room, and you follow after him, trying to slow him down. “Don’t hurt her, this isn’t part of the job,” You shout, trying to drag him out by his bicep. “ The jobs over you, idiot. This is life or death now,” Frank taunts before pulling a gun on Abigail. “I wouldn’t, my mama really doesn’t like guns.” Abigail's voice is sickly sweet. “Well, your mama isn’t here, is she?” Frank fires a warning shot into the wall beside the bed, startling all of you. A gurgling sound beside you gathers your attention.

When you turn around, Don is on the ground convulsing and clutching his throat, blood is spilling out all over the floor. You scream so loud your ears pop, and when you turn back to Abigail, she is free from her handcuffs. As you turn to run, she jumps on Peter, biting into him. You take off down the hall, Sammy hot on your heels. “What the fuck. We kidnapped a vampire ballerina.” Her shouts are mostly drowned out by your racing heart. You reach the bedroom and the two of you make it inside before you lock the door. “What the fuck” Sammy crys her voice panicky. You just hope that what Diana said is true. “Let me in,” Frank shouts, pounding on the door. Sammy’s eyes dart to you, and you shake your head in response. He is as good as dead already. He screams, and there is a thud. Then the door handle jiggles. You can’t look away, but god, you want to. The sound of a key scraping against metal fills the air before the door is pushed open with a creak.

There she stands, Diana Tuarasi, in all her glory. She is drenched in blood, and her once white hoodie is stained, and her basketball shorts are better off, but not by much. “Did you think you could lock me out, baby?” Diana questions a faux pout on her lips. “What’s happening?” Sammy whispers, her eyes darting between the two of you. She stalks closer until your faces are only inches apart. “I told you I would come back to you” Her hand sneaks around grabbing a handful of your ass. You gasp in surprise, leaning into her. “Abigail, take your snack to your room.” Diana doesn’t break eye contact with you as she speaks. “What, wait no please,” Sammy screams, her body collapsing to the floor as Abigail drags her away. The door slams, and Sammy’s screaming drifts further and further away. 

“You are absolutely filthy, baby. Come on,” Diana pulls you into the bathroom. You can’t read her expression, you wonder if this is all just some sick game. Convince you that you're special, that you are final girl material, only to kill you. She starts to draw a bath, but you drift to the doorway just in case you have to run. Not that you would make it very far. “Are you finally going to tell me why you're doing this to me?” Your voice is low and soft. “You're my mate, it is as simple as that. Abigail wants you around because you will be the only one ever capable of carrying my blood children. She’s always wanted a little sister.” Diana doesn’t look up as she speaks. “Don’t think too much about it, you don’t have much choice in that matter anyway.”

Taglist

@evry1luvzzae, @liloandstitchstan

[ultimate-marysue]

I made some sort of alignment classification based on whether they're impulsive or if they plan ahead for the Batfam. Feel free to correct me (politely please, I'll cry) or to add your opinion. I'm not trying to be super canon, just based on their characters' vibes.

Bruce Wayne: 100% planner. This man could be a Bene Gesserit, plans within plans, and they always work even if they shouldn't (because DC can't have him be wrong). It's like a choose your own adventure, you follow the plan and each time something new happens that is sure to chase things up he pulls a subsection specifically for it. Senior Justice League Members just don't question him anymore no matter what. "You had a contingency for getting invaded by mind controlling ballerina spiders? Yeah, sure, tell us all about it".

Barbara Gordon: she plans around her impulses. She is self aware enough at this point to know she's a bit of a hot head. It is what it is, she's called Batman an Emo Boy's idea of Therapy enough times to his face to know she just can't help herself with some stuff. So instead of working against it she plans around it. In the end, it was her plan all along. Canary thinks she could just hold her tongue, but considering the vigilantes Oracle manages, her experience in planning for these situations is invaluable.

Dick Grayson: Impulsive, not because he can't make plans or because he isn't smart. Quite the opposite. He just has that ADHD dog in him. He would be guiding the Titans through a mission and they'd be thinking "Woah, everything is going according to his plan", meanwhile inside his head is Bear Grylls saying "Improvise, Adapt, Overcome". It's not so much that he comes up with plans on the spot but he ends up changing it along the way because he thought of something better for that specific situation. He may use B's protocols for a general structure but then trusts his instinct to come up with something better on the spot.

Cassandra Cain: Neither. She's not one to be coming up with elaborate schemes but, as much as she relies on her instinct, she's able to stop before jumping. She doesn't need to plan, she knows what works. She observes and then takes the best course of action. When Bruce goes on and on about the importance of planning she just answers "Skill issue" and leaves.

Jason Todd: impulsive planner. This is a man that makes plans, okay? He's theatre kid coded, he needs to know his little monologues by heart. The thing is, he's also very emotional and has the impulse control of a toddler in front of the cookie jar. He can't help himself, he has to punch the asshole and make the witty comeback or he will explode. The outlaws have been grilled to death on the importance of following the plan but then watch him like ten minutes later throw it out the window. They find it both endearing and annoying.

Stephanie Brown: Queen of Chaos. She can plan. She's good at it too btw, she just doesn't want to if she can avoid it. She works best when she's improvising and it drives Bruce and Tim up the walls. They just hate to see women winning. She's the best one out of all of them at turning a mistake to her advantage in a matter of seconds. It's quite impressive.

Tim Drake: Chaotic planner. Everyone is so sure Tim is a mini Bruce and to a certain extent, if you squint your eyes, then yes. But Young Just Us know the truth: his plans are extremely effective but only in the most chaotic way possible. There's the Batman plan, and there's the Red Robin plan, which is like the first one but faster and with more fire. He also has to be periodically reminded to take into account his own wellbeing when making his little schemes.

Duke Thomas: plans on the go. I don't know how else to explain it but it's like those sequences in the Sherlock movies (the ones with RDJ) where he's watching his surroundings and opponents almost in slow-mo till he puts together a plan. It's similar to Dick from the outside, but if you pay attention you can see the wheels turning in his head as he goes along. He actually stops and thinks (metaphorically, most of the time his thinking is done while he distracts enemies).

Damian Al Gul Wayne: he's a strategist, not a planner. This is an important distinction because whenever Batman or Red Robin are explaining one of their convoluted plans he feels like he's actively losing braincells. He's closer to Cassandra in the way he prefers a more direct solution. He also gets palpitations anytime Jason or Stephanie just start doing things without thinking. If he knew what Dick's thought process was he would have probably developed an anxiety disorder in his time as Dick's robin. He doesn't understand the need for such high detail planning and hates the idea of making it along the way. No, he just needs to come up with the most efficient strategy and that's all.

[ultimatelytired]

Lullaby pt. 3

word count: 15,031

Fandom: Poppy Playtime Pairing: N/A Pronouns: She/Her Relationship: Familial Occupation: Caretaker Ability: Ballerina Music Box

The character takes the appearance of a beautifully crafted music box ballerina figurine made of the toughest porcelain and glass, their clothes made from real fabric that is soft to touch and hair so smooth and silky you'd mistake it for real hair. Attached to their back is a wind up key that continuously spins when they're active and stops when they switch off. If the key is removed they cease to operate until key is returned and they are wound up again. Before CatNap, the character was the one to put the children to sleep with their built-in music box that would constantly be updated with new songs to play to help ease the children to sleep.

Keys:

[F/N]: Female Name

Warnings: the hour of joy, blood, death, all that shit.

"Lullaby" pt. 1, pt.2

I couldn't figure out how to end this so i'm not really satisfied with it, maybe I'll tweak it later but i'm not fucked right now.

that is all.

“Go! Get out of here! Get back to the Safe Haven!” Ballade’s voice cracked with urgency as she, Hoppy, Kickin, and Doey fled through the prison’s crumbling halls, their arms full of the few toys they had managed to rescue from the ruined ones. The closer they got to the Safe Haven, the more relentless their pursuers became. Ballade’s heart pounded — she couldn’t let them find it. She couldn’t let them get close. Not with CatNap lurking nearby. “I’ll stall them — just go!” she insisted, turning toward the oncoming threat.

“But what about you?!” Kickin’s voice rose in panic, his arms weighed down by the rescued toys.

“Forget about me! I’ll be fine!”

“How can we know that?!”

“Because CatNap won’t kill me — and those ruined critters can’t hurt me. But if any of you get caught, he’ll make sure you don’t walk away from it.” Her face hardened at the mention of him, her voice bitter. She knew his cruelty — but she also knew it would be far worse for the others.

“But if they take your key—”

“We won’t know how to save you!” Hoppy cried.

“Maybe it’s for the best.” Ballade’s voice softened, her guilt seeping through. “After everything I did… this mess is my fault. If I’m the price for your safety, so be it.” She turned to Doey, placing firm hands on his shoulders, her eyes filled with a desperate seriousness. “Take care of them, Doey. You’re the only one I trust to keep them all safe.”

“W-What? Me?!” Doey’s eyes went wide, his voice shaking. Behind them, the twisted laughter of their pursuers echoed closer, growing louder.

“I know it’s a lot, and I hate putting this burden on you, but I don’t have a choice! Please, Doey — if I don’t come back, don’t try to save me. Just… forget about me.” Doey shook his head violently, panic rising in his chest.

“B-But I don’t know the first thing about being a leader! I-I can’t—” A loud crash cut him off. They all spun toward the sound — the ruined critters had finally caught up, their broken forms crawling into view.

“There’s no time!” Ballade shouted. She pushed them back, then struck a support beam with all her strength. The ceiling groaned before collapsing in a cascade of rubble, blocking the path between them and the ruined toys. Dust filled the air, but Ballade didn’t waste a second. She turned back toward the enemy, steeling herself. “Go! I’ll hold them off. And remember what I said — if I don’t come back—”

“Ballade—” Kickin started.

“IF I DON’T COME BACK!” she repeated, her voice fierce. For a moment, no one moved. Then Hoppy sucked in a shaky breath, turning her face away as the sound of sinister laughter grew closer.

“…Don’t try to save you,” she whispered weakly.

And then they ran.

She let out a breath as she heard the sound of their footsteps disappear down the hall until she couldn't hear them anymore, she rolled her neck and turned towards the ruined critters with a fury burning in her eyes.

"Well then? Come on, let's see you get past me."

-

A figure stepped cautiously into a dimly lit hallway, their flashlight beam cutting through the heavy darkness. The walls here were lined with faded murals of smiling toys and children, their once-bright colors dulled with age and grime. The eerie quiet was only broken by the soft hum of flickering lights overhead. As they moved forward, the beam of their flashlight fell on something ahead — a shape standing motionless in the center of the corridor. Instinctively, their heart leapt, but as they got closer, they realized it wasn’t a threat.

It was a cardboard cutout.

The cutout depicted a toy they hadn’t seen before — a delicate, doll-like figure with big, expressive eyes and an elegant dress. Despite the wear and tear, the character’s design had a grace to it: flowing ribbons, musical motifs, and a kind but somewhat melancholy smile. The words “Press Here” was scrawled in ornate letters within a white speech bubble, though parts of it were scratched and peeling. Like the many other cardboard cutouts they came across, the reached forward and pressed the button and the cutout came to life with a burst of static from a hidden speaker.

“Hello there, little one!” The voice was warm and gentle, with a soft musical lilt, though the audio crackled with age. “Welcome to Playcare — the happiest, safest place in all of Playtime Co.! My name’s Ballade Ballerina, and I’ll be your guide while you stay with us!” there was a moment of silence before they press it again. “Here at Playcare, we believe every toy — and every child — deserves love, laughter, and a safe place to call home. You’ll make so many friends here! There’s games, stories, and oh-so-many songs to sing!” The recording glitched, her voice stretching into a distorted warble before cutting back in. “…And remember, if you ever feel scared or lonely, just find me! I’ll always be here to help!”

The cutout’s smile seemed a little too wide now, the dim light casting long shadows across its face.

The speaker clicked off, leaving only the faint buzz of static in its wake.

Ahead, the hallway stretched into darkness, and with a deep inhale they ventured on.

We now welcome our protagonist, the Player, and their journey for answers as they traverse deeper and deeper into Playtime Co. after the horrors they had experienced since stepping for into this facility.

Huggy Wuggy had been the first nightmare — a towering figure of blue fur and wide, unblinking eyes, his silent pursuit relentless. The player could still hear the sound of his massive limbs scraping through vents, the way his sharp teeth snapped just inches from their heels. Only through sheer desperation and quick thinking had they managed to outmaneuver him, dropping a heavy box on him just in time and watching him fall into the depths below.

And then there had been Mommy Longlegs.

Her sing-song voice still echoed in their mind, playful and sadistic. The chase through the twisted factory had been a nightmare of tangled machinery and crushing danger. Her elastic limbs had reached through impossible spaces, her laughter turning shrill when the player narrowly escaped her grasp. The final confrontation left the player scraped, battered, and with a deep sense of unease — as if she wasn’t truly gone.

And now they find themselves in what is left of Playcare.

Broken play structures loomed in the dim light. A carousel, long stilled, sat tilted on its side. Empty cribs and overturned chairs lay scattered across the area, and torn stuffed animals slumped against the walls.

But it hadn’t always been this way.

Once, Playcare had been filled with the sounds of laughter and music — a safe haven for the children of Playtime Co.’s employees. The walls had been vibrant and bright, decorated with colorful murals and happy handprints. The toys here had been companions, carefully crafted to nurture and delight. But something had gone terribly wrong.

The downfall of Playcare had been swift and brutal. Whispers of experiments gone awry crept through the abandoned halls — the blending of innocence and industry turned monstrous. The toys designed to protect became the very thing to fear. Children vanished, their giggles replaced with terrified screams. Staff members who tried to intervene were never seen again. The signs of that ruin were everywhere. Walls scarred with deep gouges, as though something with claws had tried to escape. Dried stains marred the cracked tiles, and the flickering lights cast frantic shadows. The colorful handprints smeared across the doors were not all made in paint.

Given the mission to bring back the power to the Playcare, the Player entered Home Sweet Home first as instructed by the young boy Ollie had instructed.

The red smoke hit them first — thick and choking, its hallucinogenic effects warping the world around them. Walls twisted and pulsed, laughter turned into distorted echoes, and familiar shapes morphed into something sinister. The Player stumbled through the haze, their vision swimming with impossible images — the faces of children flickering into grotesque grins, toys shifting and writhing with unnatural life. It felt endless. But somehow, they pushed through. When the smoke finally thinned, the Player found themselves in the wreckage of what had once been Home Sweet Home — a place once filled with children and laughter, now as broken and abandoned as the rest of Playcare. Cribs lay overturned, toys lay shattered, and the air was thick with an oppressive quiet.

And there in the main lobby of Home Sweet Home, the Player spotted a stage that had seen far better days. Its wooden frame sagged with age, the paint chipped and faded, and the once-vibrant curtain hung in tattered, dust-covered folds. The air was thick and heavy, carrying the faint scent of decay and something sickly sweet — like old candy left to rot. The soft creak of the floor beneath their feet echoed through the hollow stillness as the Player approached cautiously. Their eyes locked onto the curtain, noticing it was open just a crack. Through that narrow gap, a faint green glow pulsed softly.

Curiosity and unease prickled at the Player’s skin as they reached out, their fingers brushing the old fabric aside. The curtain’s texture was rough and brittle, and a cloud of dust rose as they pushed it aside. With a slow, hesitant motion, they opened the curtain wider — and their breath caught in their throat.

There, slumped against a pile of forgotten and broken boxes, sat the remains of Ballade Ballerina. The once-elegant toy had fallen into a state of tragic disrepair. Her porcelain-like face was cracked and smudged, the painted features chipped but still heartbreakingly delicate. Her glassy eyes, half-lidded and lifeless, stared into nothingness. Her dress, which had surely once been a vision of grace, lay in tatters — the flowing fabric torn and stained, the ribbons frayed and hanging limp. Her hair, once meticulously styled in a pristine bun, had fallen loose, draping unkempt and tangled over her face.

Despite her ruined state, there was an eerie beauty to her stillness — a lifelike presence that made the Player’s skin crawl. It was almost as if she could move at any moment. And through the dimness, the source of the green glow became clear: a battery clutched tightly in her unmoving hand.

"Whoa..." The Player’s voice was barely above a whisper, but even that seemed too loud in the oppressive quiet. Despite everything, they couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer realism of Ballade. Other than Poppy, she was the most human-like toy they had encountered — and even in her broken state, there was a strange sense of care in how she had been left here, as if someone had made an effort to preserve her, even as everything else around her crumbled.

Shaking off their unease, the Player activated their GrabPack, aiming for the battery. The metal claw latched onto it with ease, but when they tried to pull it back, Ballade’s arm jerked forward — her fingers remaining locked around the battery in an iron grip. The Player grimaced and tugged harder, but no matter how they pulled, she wouldn’t let go.

"Haaa, of course it wouldn’t be that easy," they murmured, frustration creeping into their voice.

As they stepped closer, their eyes fell on a crumpled, faded drawing lying near Ballade’s feet — clearly the work of a child from long ago. It depicted Ballade in happier days, twirling gracefully with a wind-up key embedded in her back. The detail stood out immediately. The Player’s gaze shifted to Ballade’s back, and sure enough — the slot for a wind-up key sat empty and waiting. Their heart sank. Of course it wouldn’t be as simple as taking the battery — they’d need to find that missing key.

Letting out a tired sigh, the Player stood and surveyed the wreckage around them. The thought of combing through Home Sweet Home for a tiny key felt like an impossible task — a needle in a haystack. But there was no choice.

Leaving the stage and the battery behind for now, they pressed forward, solving the puzzles scattered throughout Home Sweet Home. Room after room yielded new challenges and eerie reminders of the building’s past. Children’s murals, long faded, peeked through layers of grime. Toys lay scattered and broken, their smiles cracked and hollow. Every step forward felt like intruding on something long abandoned — and yet not entirely lifeless.

Eventually, their search led them to the upper levels — and into a room unlike the others.

It was unmistakable. The oversized, plush cat bed and scattered toy remains made it clear.

They had found CatNap’s old room.

Realizing what they had stumbled upon, they turned to leave — until something on the oversized bed caught their eye. Their heart leaped when they spotted it: the unmistakable glint of Ballade’s wind-up key. Without hesitation, they darted forward, snatching up the key and cradling it in their hands like a fragile treasure. Relief flooded them — but it was short-lived. The ever-present sense of being watched prickled at the back of their neck. CatNap was still lurking somewhere nearby. They had to move — and fast.

Keeping their steps light and their movements subtle, the Player hurried back down the stairs, every creak of the old wood sending spikes of fear through their exhausted body. They reached the stage without incident, their chest heaving with the effort to remain quiet. Climbing onto the stage, they knelt beside Ballade’s still form. Gently, they pushed her slumped body forward, revealing the empty key slot on her back. Taking a steadying breath, they slotted the key into place.

Then they began to wind.

The resistance was immediate — the mechanism inside her body was worn and rusted, and every turn of the key felt like a struggle. The Player’s arms burned with the effort, their grunts of exertion breaking the oppressive silence. It was a wonder the key turned at all.

Finally — with one last, straining twist — the key clicked into place. As the key slowly began to turn on its own, Ballade’s hand twitched. Fingers that had been frozen in a death grip began to uncurl. The green battery slipped free, falling to the stage with a quiet thud. The Player exhaled in relief, their muscles trembling with exhaustion, and reached forward to claim their prize.

With the final battery in hand, the player stumbled off the stage, their heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from their chest. Every muscle in their body ached from the endless chase, the constant fear, the exhausting puzzles — but the urgency to get out of this place kept them moving. They tightened their grip on the battery as though it were their only lifeline.

Behind them, the eerie ticking of Ballade’s wind-up key still echoed softly, rhythmic and deliberate, growing fainter with each step as they hurried toward the battery slot. But even as the sound faded, it felt like it followed them — like something unseen was counting down.

The building around them felt more oppressive than ever — the walls seemed to close in tighter, the air thick and stale. Every shadow stretched a little too far, twisting unnaturally with the dim, flickering lights. Every distant creak and groan made their skin prickle, their breath catching in their throat. The remnants of Home Sweet Home were silent, but never still. And worst of all, they knew they weren’t alone.

CatNap was still out there. The colossal cat had been stalking them ever since they set foot in this cursed building — an ever-present threat lingering just out of sight. Watching. Waiting. The Player’s eyes darted to every darkened corner, every vent, every narrow hallway. The feeling of being hunted had become almost suffocating.

Reaching the battery slot, the Player slid the battery into place with trembling hands, the device clicking into position with a satisfying thud. They exhaled shakily as the system hummed to life, ancient machinery groaning and sputtering like a creature slowly awakening from a long slumber. Lights flickered, casting long, wavering shadows on the walls. The room vibrated with power as circuits sputtered and sparked to life.

But even with the relief of progress, that uneasy feeling didn’t leave them. Instinct tugged at the Player, a cold chill crawling up their spine. Slowly, almost unwillingly, they glanced back toward the stage.

They froze.

The stage was empty.

Ballade was gone.

The curtain still hung open, the boxes she had been slumped against remained — but she was no longer there. Only the faint sound of the ticking key remained, echoing softly from somewhere deeper in the building. The Player’s throat tightened, their pulse quickening as they scanned the darkened room. And then — the ticking stopped.

"W-Where... where did she--" the Player’s voice barely rose above a whisper, their words cut short by the suffocating weight of fear. But there was no time to linger, no time to question. They’d done what they were supposed to do within Home Sweet Home — the last thing they needed was to stick around where that big cat and an even bigger doll could find them.

Screw it.

They turned and ran, feet pounding against the floor as they rushed out of the building, desperate to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the threats lurking inside. But as they vanished into the dim, flickering corridors, they remained unaware of the pair of eyes watching their every move from the shadows.

-

Ballade didn’t know how long she had been turned off for — she never really could tell how much time passed when she was asleep until someone "woke her up." It was almost like being in a coma or perhaps paralyzed; she couldn’t move or see, but she could faintly hear what was happening in her surroundings. Distant voices, the scraping of metal, the slow decay of her world — all filtered through the darkness of her slumber.

She could feel it too — the slow breakdown of her own body. The way her delicate mechanisms grew rigid and rusted over time, the stiffness of her joints settling like an ache she couldn’t relieve. Dust settled thick over her frame, and the once-smooth grace of her design began to fade beneath the weight of neglect. Her porcelain-like face, once pristine and expressive, had cracked, faint fractures spreading like delicate spiderwebs. The once-vibrant paint of her features had faded and chipped, her eyes dull and lifeless. Her limbs, so carefully crafted for fluid movement, had grown stiff and unyielding, the internal gears grinding with each attempt at motion. The soft fabric of her dress had long since frayed, the elegant ribbons trailing in tatters. Her hair, once styled into a graceful bun, had loosened and fallen over her face in knotted, dusty strands. The neglect was total — and yet, she had felt it all.

But then, there was something new.

A click. A winding. The sudden, jarring sensation of gears turning, slow and strained, after so long without movement. She could feel her key twisting into place, the old machinery inside her fighting to respond. It hurt — but it also meant something else.

She was waking up.

*blink*

*blink*

A soft gasp left her lips as her eyes blinked to life, flickering with an eerie glow as they darted around in alarm, desperate to see who — or what — had turned her key. The disorientation was overwhelming. She felt the stiffness in every part of her body, her joints cracking and groaning as she shifted. The effort it took just to lift her head sent sharp pangs through her worn-out frame. She managed to catch a glimpse of a figure slipping out of her tent — too fast to make out any details. But she ignored it for now. There was something more important.

She needed to move.

The struggle was immediate and humiliating. As she tried to push herself upright, her legs buckled beneath her, the rusted mechanisms inside protesting every motion. She fell once, twice — each time catching herself just before hitting the stage floor. The effort left her breathless, but she forced herself onward, finally managing to stand on trembling legs. Peeking through the gap in the curtain, her wide eyes scanned the room — and then stopped, her breath catching.

A human.

Her mind reeled. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. An actual human employee. But… how? Weren’t they all dead? The factory had been silent for so long — abandoned, left to rot just like the toys inside. And yet there they were, very much alive. But why? Why on earth would anyone willingly come here? What could they possibly hope to achieve? More than anything, though — what confused her the most — was the fact that she did not recognize them. They must be a lower level employee, Leith told her she didn't need to put in the effort of remembering employees who were disposable. But still, how the hell did they get so far into the factory on their own?

How did they get past Huggy? And Mommy?

Her eyes narrowed as she watched them place the battery in its slot and restore power to Home Sweet Home. Hmmm... she’d just watch them from afar for now, just to see what they were doing. After stretching her limbs, she hoisted herself up by the rafters above her head, the rusted joints protesting but slowly obeying her commands. With surprising agility for something so long dormant, she leapt up to the upper levels of Home Sweet Home, silent and shadowed. From her vantage point above, she watched with cold amusement as the employee looked around in alarm, their panic clear when they noticed the empty stage. It was almost hilarious to watch them scramble out of the building with their tail between their legs.

Seriously… how had they gotten this far?

Ballade's eyes narrowed as she watched the employee from her spot in the upper levels of the building, their frantic movements betraying the fear she expected. Every little sound they made echoed through the hollow, broken remains of Home Sweet Home. The flickering lights cast long, distorted shadows across the decaying walls, making the space feel even more eerie and oppressive. She shifted quietly, her body still stiff and aching from years of stillness, the rusted joints inside her creaking with every small motion. She winced at the sound—like old gears grinding against each other—but her curiosity kept her silent and patient.

And then she saw it—something that truly caught her attention.

"Is that..." she whispered, her voice barely audible as she peered through a cracked and grime-streaked window, her face twisting in mock disbelief. "Poppy?" It had been so long since she’d last seen that doll—so long since any familiar faces crossed her path. The sight of that small, porcelain-like figure sent a strange jolt through her system. Ballade leaned against the windowsill, her faded ribbons trailing limply from her arms as she watched intently. Through the dim light, she saw Poppy handle Kissy Missy—ever the sweetheart—after she had tackled the employee to the ground in what was clearly an attempt to kill them.

Ballade’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the rotting wood beneath her, the soft sound blending with the distant hum of restored power and the occasional groan of the building settling. Her mind pieced together the situation from the fragmented conversation she managed to overhear. The employee had come to Playtime Co. searching for their missing coworkers—fools, she thought, for stepping into this graveyard of twisted dreams. And yet they had somehow survived encounters with Huggy Wuggy and Mommy Long Legs, defeating both of them despite the odds.

But their victory had been hollow. They’d been meant to leave—finally escape this nightmare by taking the train from the Game Station. And yet... Poppy had intervened. Ballade’s lips curled into a wry, bitter smile. Of course she had. That was so like that manipulative little girl. Trapped in that fragile doll body, Poppy was incapable of doing things on her own—so she pulled the strings of others, making them dance to her tune. It was always the same—always others who did the hard work while Poppy watched from the sidelines, her innocent appearance masking the calculating mind underneath.

And now it seemed she’d found her latest puppet.

The employee. The survivor.

But how long would they last, Ballade wondered, before Poppy’s game broke them too? How long before this poor fool realized they were nothing more than a disposable piece in Poppy’s never-ending quest for freedom? Ballade almost pitied them. Almost.

"Hmm, what to do, what to do." she murmured to herself. She continued to watch them from Home Sweet Home as they restored power to Playcare and a sense of nostalgia hit her like a wave. Memories of when Playcare had been whole—when laughter filled the air and the children’s joy was the only sound that mattered. She could still hear their giggles echoing faintly in her mind, the pitter-patter of tiny feet running through the halls. She remembered the way they’d reach for her hand, their eyes wide with wonder as she twirled and danced for them on the stage. The warmth of their applause, their delighted cheers—those days felt like a distant dream, faded and fra— she nearly threw herself out the window when she saw them approaching the school. "Oh, no. If she's still in there... uh oh."

-

Uh oh, indeed.

The Player moved cautiously through ruined corridors of the school, every step echoing off the cracked and peeling walls. They turned a corner into what looked like an old classroom, the faded remnants of colorful posters and children’s drawings hanging limply from the walls. As they ventured through the school, collecting notes that solved the mystery that happened to this establishment, the PA system crackled to life. A high, lilting voice filled the corridor, sweet yet off-kilter, like a pre-recorded message gone wrong.

"This is Miss Delight speaking, please excuse the interruption! Students, remain in your seats until the bell has rung, and no going in the halls without a hall pass!" The Player’s skin prickled as the message faded out. They pressed on, tension coiling in their gut. Later, as they crawled under a desk in another room, they caught a glimpse of her—a flash of frilly pastel fabric and jerky, uneven movement. Miss Delight walked across the hallway just ahead, her head twitching unnaturally, one glassy eye swiveling in its cracked porcelain face. The Player held their breath until she passed. As they were still reeling from the sight, Miss Delight’s voice boomed again over the PA system. "Wait, I recognize you… Yes! I remember! You used to work here! How are you… alive? Hm? Barb? Oh… Barb says you're looking for your co-workers. CatNap wouldn't like that you're here! You should leave, for your own safety."

Ignoring the warning, the Player pushed forward through the abandoned school. Eventually, they reached a door leading to a dark, forbidding area. The PA crackled again, the sweetness in Miss Delight’s tone giving way to something darker. "Not a good listener, are you? You're a lot like the other humans in that way. I wonder if your screams will sound like theirs too! I look forward to finding out."

Determined, the Player powered on the generator, hoping to illuminate their path. But the light was short-lived. With a loud crash, the door burst open, and Miss Delight strode into the room. In one swift motion, she lashed out with Barb—her twisted, jagged weapon—smashing the generator and sending its battery flying across the room. The lights flickered, then died, plunging the halls into darkness once again.

The Player races through the dim corridors, their breath coming in ragged gasps as Miss Delight’s sinister laughter rings out behind them. Every time they risk a glance back, they see her frozen in place — a weeping angel-like figure locked mid-step, her face twisted into an eerie smile. But each time they look away, even for a second, she draws closer. The sound of her footsteps echoes impossibly loud in the empty space, and the Player can almost feel her breath against their neck. Panic rises with every turn, every flickering shadow playing tricks on their eyes as they search frantically for more batteries to restore power and unlock the closed gates and doors.

At one point, the Player whips their head back, heart slamming in their chest — and Miss Delight is right there. Too close. Her twisted face inches from theirs, her hand outstretched, ready to grab — and then she stops. Dead still. The Player lets out a breath of relief that they managed to catch her before they caught them and slowly backs away, unaware that Miss Delight's gaze wasn't looking at them but instead on what was ahead of them. It was the gaze that was stopping her from getting too close to them, from killing them.

As they near the exit in the maintenance area, the desperation in Miss Delight becomes palpable. Her movements grow more erratic, more forceful, as if the thought of losing her prey is too much to bear. They sprint for the final gate, hands fumbling with the controls as the sound of her approach grows louder and faster. Finally, they spot a lever and yank it down with all their strength. The heavy door begins to close with a grinding screech — but Miss Delight is not done yet. With a burst of speed, she drops her frozen façade and charges forward, her porcelain face contorting with a mix of rage and desperation. The Player watches in slow motion as she reaches out, fingers just inches from their face — and then the door slams shut with a sickening crunch. The laughter stops. The halls fall silent, save for the faint echo of metal settling into place. And when the Player dares to look back, all that remains of Miss Delight is the twisted ruin of her head beneath the heavy door — her wide, delighted grin forever frozen in place.

"Whew..." finally, they can take a breather.

-

Ballade moved with calculated precision, her every step taken in the dark corners of the school, her presence barely more than a whisper in the air. She watched as Miss Delight, once a beacon of warmth, now stood twisted and savage, her eyes burning with hunger, no longer the kind and gentle teacher that had once graced these halls. It was a sickening sight, the aftermath of years of suffering, the price paid for survival. Ballade could feel the weight of regret heavy on her chest. If only she had been able to reach her sooner, perhaps things wouldn't have spiraled so far.

Ballade’s eyes tracked the employee, her focus shifting between them and Miss Delight. She couldn’t let the deranged teacher get too close. With careful timing, Ballade would step out just enough to catch Miss Delight’s attention, drawing her gaze away from the employee. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to stop Miss Delight in her tracks. Ballade would retreat the moment the employee turned their attention back towards the woman, ensuring the cycle continued. She had to make sure Miss Delight didn’t get close enough to the employee. She still wasn't sure what their goal was but Poppy needed them alive to achieve something, and she was very curious as to what it could possibly be.

When they reached the hallway leading to the exit in the maintenance area, the employee suddenly turned and fled, desperate to escape both the school and Miss Delight. Ballade watched helplessly as Miss Delight reached out for them, her fingers stretching toward their target. But as she drew near, the employee slammed the door down, crushing Miss Delight beneath its weight. Ballade approached the lifeless form slowly, a deep sadness in her eyes as she stared down at what had become of her.

"Oh, Miss Delight," she whispered softly, kneeling beside her. "I'm so sorry this happened to you. I wish it didn't have to come to this." Her hand gently caressed what was left of Miss Delight’s face, a tender gesture in the face of such brutality. As much as it pained her, maybe this was for the best. After a few moments of quiet reflection, Ballade rose to her feet. With a grunt of effort, she reached for the underside of the shutter and, using sheer brute force, ripped it open. She stepped out into the cavernous depths, her eyes narrowing as she set her sights on the employee once again. They were heading toward the Playhouse, the den of those ruined creatures. How could she not follow them now? The stakes had never been higher.

-

It was seriously one horror after the other.

After completing some puzzles within the caverns and quietly passing by CatNap worshipping an amalgamation of dead toys, the Player approaches a heavy, rusted door with a faded sign above it, signifying they're next destination was the Playhouse. The air grows colder as they step inside, the dim light flickering ominously. The walls are cracked and stained, and the distant sound of skittering echoes through the darkness.

Continuing into the Playhouse proper, The Player navigates a maze of shadowy rooms and claustrophobic tunnels. They're startled at the sight of the Ruined Critters lurking around, grotesque and twisted versions of their former selves, appearing suddenly from holes in the walls and nipping at their heels. Their chittering grows louder and more frantic as more of them join the pursuit. To keep them away and light their way, the Player uses their newly acquired orange hand — a weapon-like tool gained after surviving the School and defeating Miss Delight — to shoot flares that burst with brief, brilliant light, sending the Critters scurrying back.

Their progress is halted by a massive door requiring two pressure pads with the Playtime Co. logo to be activated. So much work to do, they thought. They enter a network of tunnels, solving the puzzles to locate two heavy boxes and drag them onto the pads, shooting at the ruined critters that came out of their little hidey holes before continuing with the task at hand. They perk up at the sound of shifting mechanisms rumbling through the walls as the door slowly creaks open. Beyond the door lies a vast chamber dominated by a towering central spire. A platform connected to a long beam juts out from the structure, they scurry onto the platform, pressing a button that has the platform moving rather slowly. As it aligns with various doorways, they curiously explores each one, eventually entering a cavernous pool room with stagnant water reflecting the dim light. At the back of the room are two foreboding yellow doors.

They shudder to themself as they enter the room and find a rusting cell block. They could only guess who the residents of the cells belonged to, counting eight altogether as they walked down the dimly lit hall. They're careful to mind their step when they spot a hole in the ground barely covered by the wooden boards that could collapse under their weight, if only they could just find the exi-

"You..." they jump in surprise at the sudden voice, their heart leaping into their throat. They whip their head around and their eyes widen at the sight of DogDay... or rather, what was left of him. A once-joyful toy now reduced to a ragged and broken figure hanging on the wall by his arms, his once-bright colors faded and his blood seeping through gaping tears in his fabric. "...You're Poppy's angel, come to save us."

"S-Save you...?" they whisper, their voice trembling as they take an uneasy step closer. Their eyes rake over his horrific form, a hand flying to their mouth in shock. His bisected torso, blood-stained and grotesque, was only held together by a leather belt cinched tight, barely keeping what little remained of his innards from spilling out. Despite his broken state, DogDay gave a weak, humorless chuckle.

"Nothing left to save... not here..." he rasped, his voice strained and fragile. "You're in CatNap's home, angel. Their home." He lifted a trembling arm, gesturing toward their bleak surroundings. The subtle sound of scampering echoed through the Playhouse—the Ruined Critters, always watching. Always waiting.

"A million pairs of eyes are on you now. Watching, waiting... hungry," he continued, his words a haunting whisper. "That... thing... CatNap. The Prototype is his god, and this..." his voice cracked as he gestured toward his broken body, "this is what he does to heretics." The distant sounds of the critters grew louder, their scratching filling the heavy silence.

"These little toys follow CatNap to avoid that very fate—and in return, they are fed." His breath hitched, his eyes glassy and distant. "We tried to fight it... to fight the Prototype's control." He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper now. "I'm... the last of the Smiling Critters." the state he was left made them think of Ballade, how she was left to collect dust and to be forgotten by those who remembered her. CatNap must have had a deeper connection with these two to have kept them around, even with the conditions he gave them. "Listen to me, you need to get out of this place. You need to live." their eyes widened.

"You want me to... leave you here?" they whispered softly, their eyes darting around when they heard footsteps. "At least let me take you with me." he only shook his head.

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I'll... only slow you down." they bit their lip.

"There must be something I can do." they mutter but DogDay shook his head.

"You and Poppy can fix this, end this madness, the torment, the—" The Player let out a startled shout when a hand suddenly appeared against the cell bars. They stumbled back, quickly raising the flare gun, only to freeze in shock at the sight of Ballade. She paid them no mind, her wide eyes fixed on DogDay with an overwhelming sense of sadness and horror.

"Oh, puppy..." she whispered, her voice trembling as her hand reached toward him. "What has he done to you...?" The empty void of DogDay's eyes seemed to spark to life at the sound of her voice—at the sight of her after so many years.

"B-Ballade? Is that really you? I'm not hallucinating, am I?" His voice cracked with disbelief. She shook her head, stepping into the cell and collapsing to her knees. Her hands cupped his ragged cheeks, her thumbs brushing over his battered face with heartbreaking gentleness. He leaned into her touch, starved for comfort after years of isolation and agony.

"This isn't a dream, right?" he whispered, his voice fragile.

"No, puppy," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm really here. I'm here, my sweet baby." She pulled him into a tender embrace, cradling him as his broken frame shook with quiet sobs. Her hands rubbed soothing circles over his back, desperate to offer whatever solace she could.

"How long was I gone?" she asked, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

"...Four years," he whispered, his voice breaking. DogDay let out a soft grunt as her arms tightened around him. When he finally pulled back, his gaze locked onto hers—and the pain reflected in her glassy eyes was almost too much to bear.

"When you disappeared," he continued, his voice quivering, "it was the worst time of our lives. We didn’t know what he did to you, where you were... we couldn't even confirm if he’d taken you to the Prototype or not. We were so scared. What happened that day?" Tears welled in his eyes as he searched her face for answers.

"I'll explain later," she said quickly, shaking her head. "Right now, we need to get the hell out of here." Her eyes flicked up to the belts strapping him to the wall. "Hold on, puppy—I’m getting you down." her grief now replaced with anger, she grasped tightly at the belts and tore him free from his confines and when he fell into her arms, his own arms wrapped around her and they shared another tender embrace.

"U-Um, I hate to interrupt..." the Player's voice broke the moment, hesitant and uneasy. Both Ballade and DogDay turned toward them. "But I think we've got company." Ballade's face darkened instantly. She felt DogDay's arms tighten around her, his broken body trembling as the sound of the ruined critters echoed around them—scratching, skittering, getting closer.

"N-No, not again... please, not again," he whimpered, his voice cracking with fear. Ballade's eyes hardened.

"You! Come here!" She moved with sudden urgency, grabbing the Player before they could react. Spinning them around, she carefully pressed DogDay against the back of their GrabPack. With quick, practiced motions, she snatched up several of the discarded belts littering the ground and began strapping DogDay securely to their back.

"Alright, can you move well enough with him on your back?" she asked, tightening the last belt. The Player staggered slightly, adjusting to the unexpected weight.

"I-I think so—"

"No time! Get moving!" Ballade shoved them forward just as the first of the ruined critters began pouring out of the holes in the walls, their twisted forms scrambling toward them. DogDay watched as Ballade backed away, rolling her neck, her whole posture shifting into a predatory readiness. Despite his fear, a weak chuckle escaped him when he saw that familiar, dangerous glint in her eye.

"Is she going to be okay?" the Player asked breathlessly as they ran. DogDay let out a weary, fond laugh.

"Oh, she’ll be fine. Trust me." The Player plunged into the twisting tunnels of the Playhouse, their pulse pounding in their ears. DogDay’s weakened voice guided them through the maze-like corridors while the distant sounds of Ballade’s fight faded behind them. But the ruined critters weren’t far off. Their skittering grew louder, closer, and soon they were spilling from the walls, giving chase.

"Faster! Please—faster!" DogDay pleaded, his panic rising as the swarm closed in. Ahead, the path ended at a steep drop. Without hesitation, the Player launched themselves forward, using their Purple Hand to swing across the gap. The roller door slammed shut behind them with a metallic crash, cutting off the horrid screeches just in time. Shaken but alive, the Player stumbled into an elevator, their breath ragged. As the lift carried them upward to the top of the slide and out of the nightmare of the Playhouse, the reality of their narrow escape began to sink in. But there was no time to rest. Not yet.

"Finally... we're out!" the Player shouts aloud before pressing their hands to their face. "That was literal hell," they murmur against their palms. They feel a pat and see that it was DogDay.

"Are you alright, Angel? I'm sorry you had to lug my dead weight around while you were running." DogDay’s voice is soft, filled with guilt. They give a weak laugh in response.

"Nah, you're probably the nicest face I've seen that hasn't backstabbed me or actively tried to kill me. It's nice to have someone like that around after what's happened in the past few hours." DogDay gives his own weak laugh.

"I'll say. But thank you, Angel. You didn't have to do what you did." They shake their head.

"That toy scares me. I think she would have snapped my neck if I refused to do as she said." DogDay makes a face at their words, though they don’t see it. You're not wrong. "Anyways, are you sure she'll be okay? I feel bad for just leaving her there by herself."

"That's the thing, Angel. She prefers to be alone when dealing with the ruined critters — it allows her to fully let loose."

"Let loose?" they echo, confused.

"Yes. She was a toy designed to handle the bigger toys the human employees couldn’t — like Huggy and Mommy. The little ones? Though they outnumber her, they won’t even be able to leave so much as a scratch on her." As if on cue, the doors to the Playhouse are suddenly kicked off their hinges and a few dead critters fly out. Ballade steps out, crushing the neck of a ruined Crafty in her hands before kicking a ruined Bobby so hard it splatters blood all over the pavement.

"Better think twice before coming at me again, twerps!" she shouts, tossing the dead toy aside without a second thought. Her eyes scan the area, lighting up when she spots DogDay. "Puppy! You're okay!" DogDay cheers as Ballade scoops him up and starts twirling him around. It’s only when she starts planting kisses on his head that she notices the extra weight.

"I don't suppose you could put me down, could you?" the Player grunts from where they dangle off DogDay’s back. She sweatdrops.

"Oh, right. Sorry about that, Angel." Her tone carries a teasing lilt as she uses the nickname. Holding DogDay in her arms, she nuzzles her cheek against his head, cooing sweet nothings to comfort him. "Thank you, Angel. Not only for returning my key to me and turning me back on but for also protecting DogDay from those ruined toys." They rub the back of their head.

"It was nothing — I’m just glad you were there to hold them back." Ballade chuckles softly.

"Well, I've been following you ever since you stepped foot in the school. How else do you think you survived?" They blink in surprise.

"Wait — what?"

"I kept Miss Delight back each time you turned your back on her," she explains with a grin. "She got real close a couple of times, but I stopped her before she could kill you." She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Thanks," they mutter, still processing everything.

"Why are you trying to turn on all the backup generators by the way? What has Poppy got you doing?" Ballade asked, following the Player toward the Generator Room. She adjusted her hold on DogDay as she crouched down to squeeze through the tiny door. "I don't suppose you're trying to get the full 'Playcare' experience, are you?" The Player let out a weak, playful laugh.

"No, she wants me to redirect the red smoke — send it in the opposite direction from where it was in the beginning." Both Ballade and DogDay froze at the words, exchanging a look of confusion and concern.

"Why would she want you to do that, Angel?" DogDay asked, his voice uncertain. "Did she tell you why?" The Player shook their head.

"Not really." DogDay watched Ballade closely, noting the way her expression hardened in thought. They must have been in Gas Production Zone, inside were three massive tubes that controlled the red smoke’s direction. Ballade hadn’t seen it in years, not since everything fell apart — but even after all this time, she remembered the right tube was where the red smoke had always been contained. If Poppy wanted to redirect it to the left tube… that meant the smoke was headed toward the prison and the lab.

"Don't tell me..." Ballade murmured to herself, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What is it, Ballade?" DogDay asked, his face filled with concern. She glanced at him but shook her head, brushing it off.

"It's nothing," she said, though the tension in her voice told a different story. "I'm probably overthinking it." The Player kept moving ahead, taking the key from the tube and heading toward the Counselor's Office. Ballade and DogDay trailed close behind, their footsteps soft but ever-present. After a moment, Ballade noticed the Player sweating a little.

"Is something the matter, Angel?" she asked, a hint of teasing in her tone. "Nervous?" The Player hesitated before glancing back.

"Are you... planning on following me?" Ballade blinked at the question.

"It's not like we've got anything better to do. Why? Don’t want the extra muscle? I can keep CatNap back, if he’s got the gall to show his face." DogDay winced slightly when he saw Ballade clench her fist tightly. She probably wouldn’t mind getting a shot at CatNap if the opportunity arose.

"We can help you get the backup generator up and running," DogDay added quickly, trying to ease the tension. "We know this place like the back of our hands. And like Ballade said, she’s your extra muscle. I might not be as strong, but I can be an extra pair of eyes." Both of them looked at the Player with genuine gratitude. "Allow us to pay you back for setting us free," DogDay said softly. The Player hesitated, then nodded.

"Well... having you two around will definitely make this task safer and quicker."

"That’s the spirit!" Ballade grinned, ruffling their hair in a warm, familiar gesture—an old habit from the days when she looked after children and the few employees she liked. "Let’s get a move on. That generator won’t run itself." With a gentle push, she urged the Player forward, following close behind. Since Ballade’s body was larger than the doorframes, she had to crouch to avoid knocking her head, letting DogDay take the lead. The three of them made their way down the corridor until they reached two locked doors. To their left stretched a hallway filled with red smoke, while the path ahead led to the reception area, which required a battery to unlock.

Well, at least they knew where they needed to go.

*THUD*

"Ow." The Player and DogDay turned to see Ballade rubbing her head after hitting a light fixture when she tried to stand up. "I forget these buildings were only meant to accommodate the human employees, not us toys." DogDay laughed softly, patting her head in an attempt to comfort her.

"We never really were allowed in here." Despite the tension, the Player couldn’t help but chuckle. It was nice to have some company around. After a quick search, they found the battery hidden in an air duct and swiftly placed it into its slot. The door swung open with a mechanical hiss, inviting them inside. As they entered, Ballade and DogDay wandered toward an old vending machine, their curiosity piqued.

"You think the drinks in here are still good?" DogDay mused.

"Only one way to find out," Ballade replied, cracking her knuckles as she prepared to strike the machine. But before she could, an all-too-familiar alarm blared through the room, making both toys jump. Their heads whipped toward the TV screen, where the Player had just inserted a VHS tape labeled 8/8/95.

The room fell silent, save for the low hum of the monitor as the tape began to play. The Player didn’t seem to notice how Ballade reached for DogDay and gently covered his ears. He hadn’t been conscious that day, but the ringing had gone off the entire time — a sound that never stopped until everything was over. When the tape finally ended, the Player turned toward the two toys, noticing their unusual quiet. Their suspicion grew when they found the duo locked in a silent embrace, Ballade’s hand softly rubbing DogDay’s head in a soothing, apologetic gesture. The weight of whatever memory the tape had stirred hung heavy in the air, unspoken but undeniable.

"It's over, puppy. I'm sorry that it happened, I'm sorry."

"Are you two... alright?" she looked back at them and gave a weak smile.

"Just... old memories resurfacing, but we'll be alright." The Player was kind enough to wait for them to collect themselves before proceeding. Walking down the halls of debris and dead bodies was a familiar sight, but it still hurt seeing the few bloodied toys that littered the ground. The Player found the room they needed to enter filled with red smoke — not a problem thanks to the gas mask they’d acquired in Home Sweet Home. The real problem was the locked door — their eyes widened when Ballade kicked it off its hinges with a single powerful strike. "Ladies first," she said with a smirk.

"Thank you." It beat having to take the long way around. The Player slipped on their gas mask and stepped into the room, but they quickly noticed the two toys lagging behind.

"Go on ahead," Ballade called. "We’ll wait here. I can follow you, but DogDay can’t. The red smoke doesn’t affect me, but I also don’t want to leave DogDay alone while CatNap is still roaming around." DogDay whined softly.

"Sorry for being a burden." The Player shook their head.

"You guys being here keeps me at ease." They offered a reassuring wave before heading off to restore power and unlock the next door. With that, Ballade found a corner where she could keep an eye on both the room the Player had entered and their only exit. She knelt down and patted her lap, inviting DogDay to lay his head down and rest. As she gently stroked his head, the soft but fragile sound of her music box began to play, filling the tense silence with a bittersweet lullaby. After a few moments, DogDay broke the quiet.

"Can you tell me now?"

"Hmm?" Ballade glanced down at him.

"The day you didn’t come back with the others... Can you tell me what happened?" Ballade’s hand stilled. She took a deep, steadying breath, closing her eyes for a long moment. When she finally exhaled, the weight of old pain settled into her features.

"...To me," she whispered, "it really feels like it was only just yesterday."

-

"Is... is that all you got?" Ballade panted, hunched over her knees as she struggled to catch her breath. If she could sweat, she'd be drenched — the endless waves of ruined critters sent her way had pushed her to the brink. Her chest rose and fell in ragged motions, and though she fought valiantly, the sheer number of enemies was starting to take its toll.

She had cornered herself without realizing it. There was no clear path of escape, no way to break free from the swarm. The little toys couldn’t harm her directly — they had no claws or teeth sharp enough to leave so much as a scratch — but their numbers were proving to be their greatest weapon. Their relentless assault, throwing themselves onto her to weigh her down, was working. The growing piles of broken bodies made movement harder with every second, and the sheer mass of them threatened to bury her alive. Ballade gritted her teeth, shoving one off her shoulder and stomping down on another’s head, but her limbs felt heavier with each passing moment. She was strong — built for battle — but even she had limits. And the enemy knew it.

“You always were a strong fighter, [F/N].” Lifting her head, Ballade let out a weak, bitter laugh. Bloodied, battered, and surrounded by the broken bodies of ruined toys, she still managed to glare defiantly at the figure stepping from the shadows.

“Of course… it just had to be you…” she spat, eyes narrowing as CatNap approached with that same calm, calculated air she remembered all too well. “Was this your idea? Wearing me down? Other than the Doctor, you’re the only one who knows that endless hours of fighting will tire me out.” CatNap shrugged, his eyes watching her closely.

“There was no way I could beat you in a fair fight. Wearing you down was the best and safest option.” She scoffed, her breath ragged. The cynical laughter of a ruined Hoppy rang out from the shadows behind her, and with a violent stomp, she silenced it, grinding its remains into the floor.

“Safe for you?” He tilted his head, his tone almost gentle.

“For you.” Her face twisted in confusion. She took a step toward him—and then the exhaustion crashed over her like a wave. Her limbs felt like lead, and the subtle ticking of her wind-up key behind her back began to slow. Each click echoed louder in her ears.

“You… you planned this,” she rasped, trying to force her legs to move. But the ache in her joints grew unbearable as they started to lock into place. He nodded slowly.

“I knew you wouldn’t let me or the critters get too close to your hideout. And I knew you’d sacrifice yourself to let the others escape. That’s because I know you. You’d rather get hurt yourself than see others suffer—trying to make things right after what you did…” Her vision blurred, the room spinning around her. She stumbled, her knees buckling as she collapsed onto the lifeless bodies scattered beneath her. The coldness of them pressed against her, an eerie reminder of what would soon become of her.

“You’d rather… my body shut down… than fight me…”

“It’s better this way,” he said softly. “Better than the Prototype or the Doctor stepping in.” Her key turned slower. The sound of it was fading. “If you change your mind now… maybe I can convince the Prototype to forgive you.” Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing despite the weakness overtaking her.

“…Huh?”

“The Prototype is merciful to us toys,” CatNap continued, his voice soothing, persuasive. “I’m sure, with time, he’ll forgive you for turning your back on him. He only wants what’s best for us. So please, [F/N]—” He extended a paw toward her, his expression almost pleading “—won’t you join my side again?” For a long moment, she just stared up at him. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. The room around her felt distant and cold. With the last bit of strength she had left, she raised her arm—and smacked his paw away.

“I made a mistake… trusting you years ago…” her voice was weak, but her words were laced with venom. “I’m not gonna… make that mistake… again…”

And her body stilled, locked in place and waiting for her key to be turned again. Ballade lay there amidst the lifeless bodies of the ruined toys, her form slumped and motionless. The soft ticking that had once been the quiet rhythm of her life had finally gone silent. CatNap stood over her, his shadow falling across her still frame. His paw flexed slowly, claws extending and retracting as he stared down at her. This was his moment — the perfect opportunity. One strike, and the most dangerous and capable toy within the factory would be gone. The Prototype’s paranoia would be eased, their fear of Ballade’s rebellion finally put to rest. He raised his paw, ready to deliver the final blow… but he hesitated.

The seconds stretched out, and his arm trembled. His mind replayed flashes of the past — moments of laughter, of camaraderie, of whispered conversations in the dark when they’d both been afraid. He remembered the warmth in her voice when she’d encouraged him, the fierce loyalty she had always shown, even when the world around them turned to madness. But then came the guilt. The lies. He had manipulated her trust, twisted the truth to push her toward the Prototype’s cause. And deep down, he knew — if she had known the reality, the full extent of the Prototype’s plans — she never would have sided with them.

CatNap’s arm fell to his side, his face twisting in frustration and something dangerously close to regret. He couldn’t do it. Whether it was loyalty, guilt, or the echo of their old friendship… he just couldn’t strike her down.Instead, he grabs her wind-up key and yanks it out, the sharp, metallic sound echoing through the hollow chamber. Ballade's body slumped further, completely lifeless now, her glassy eyes staring into nothingness. CatNap stood there for a long moment, his paw still clutching the key as his chest rose and fell with shaky breaths. With a strangled sigh, he let his arm fall to his side. The fight drained out of him as his claws retracted, and without another word, he reached down and grabbed her by the nape of her neck. The weight of her dormant form was nothing as he dragged her through the winding corridors of the factory, up to Playcare, and into Home Sweet Home — the place where she would remain, motionless and silent, for four long years.

And yet, he never left her side. Day after day, he watched over her stage like a silent sentinel, his eyes ever-vigilant for the ruined critters that occasionally dared to draw near. He chased them off with swift brutality, his protectiveness never waning. Sometimes, when the loneliness grew too heavy, he would climb into the stage and curl up beside her lifeless body, just as they used to do when things were… better. Back then, she would talk for hours, filling the silence with stories of her day or soft lullabies that soothed his restless spirit. Now, the only sound was the distant hum of the factory and the occasional soft, ragged breaths he took as he lay beside her, longing for the warmth of her voice once more.

-

"I'm not completely... unconscious when my key stops turning," she began, her hands gently caressing DogDay's head. "I'm somewhat aware of what's going on around me, just not fully. To me, it was like I was trapped in a dream and no time had passed at all inside my head — like I just went to sleep and woke up the next day. The same, however, can't be said for my body." Her voice softened as she lifted her arm, the quiet creak of her joints filling the air. She was one of the toys that had been looked after the most. A rare, one-of-a-kind creation that couldn’t simply be remade. As the Doctor often said, she was a masterpiece — fully conscious, capable of speech, and above all, obedient. That was why she had weekly maintenance to ensure she would malfunction.

DogDay nuzzled closer, his voice quiet. "I... I had no idea."

"No one did," Ballade murmured, a distant look crossing her face. "Not even CatNap. I kept that one to myself."

“It must've been so hard for you." DogDay’s voice was soft, filled with a gentle kind of empathy. Ballade shrugged, her movements stiff.

"Eh, maybe I deserved it. I did side with the Prototype, after all. I had it coming." She tried to sound flippant, but her voice cracked just a little. DogDay pursed his lips before slowly reaching out and taking her hand. His grip was warm, steadying. He squeezed it, and when she looked down at their joined hands, something in her hardened expression softened.

"...You did what you thought was right," he said quietly. Her face twitched. She wanted to pull away, but the warmth of his hand kept her still.

"I locked you and the other critters in your cells," she whispered, her voice heavy with guilt. "I knew the Hour of Joy was coming years before it even happened, but I did nothing to stop it. I—I killed humans and toys alike and thought what I was doing was right… but I was wrong. So wrong." DogDay’s eyes filled with a sadness she hadn’t seen in a long time.

"But you did it out of love," he murmured. "What you did… it may not have been the right choice, but you thought there was no other way to save us. You fought for us in the only way you knew how." He paused, his voice growing softer, more fragile. "You may not be able to forgive yourself… but I forgave you a long time ago." Ballade’s breath hitched, and though she was incapable of crying, the way her lips trembled made it clear how deeply his words cut through her. She shook her head slowly, the weight of her guilt pressing down on her.

"How… how could you forgive me?" she asked, her voice breaking. "I helped ruin everything." He looked down at their hands, his fingers tightening around hers as he searched for the right words.

"...You could have left a long time ago," he began softly, his voice heavy with emotion. "You're capable of doing so—but you didn't. You stayed here to help us. You stayed to make things right… even when you didn’t have to." He paused, his breath catching, then slowly pulled himself up, wrapping his arms around her neck. He nestled into the side of her neck, his voice a warm whisper. "So how could I not forgive you?" She believed she choked out a sob as her hands slowly rose, trembling, to press against his back. She held him close, her grip tightening like she was afraid to let go.

"Y-You always did have a heart of gold, puppy," she whispered softly then they both sat in a comfortable silence, waiting patiently for the Player to return while remaining vigilant- who knows what could be lurking in the shadows. A couple minutes past and Ballade hears the whir of electricity, seems they finally managed to restore power to the back up generator. "I'm going to check on Angel, will you be fine here if I leave you?" he salutes her, she snickered softly when she could see an imaginary tail wagging.

"Affirmative." she pats his head.

"Okay, but I'll be quick." She set him down gently where she had been sitting, giving him a reassuring pat before rushing off to find the Player. She moved through the thick red smoke with ease and entered the maintenance room, her eyes scanned the area, but the Player was nowhere to be seen. She hummed softly then scaled the wall leading to the room with the generator but then she saw the shutter doors closed, her brows furrowed in confusion. Without hesitation, she grabbed the edges and tore them open with a loud screech of metal. But the room was empty. Her eyes swept the space carefully until they caught the glint of an open vent, the cover hastily removed and set aside. They must have trapped themselves in the room and neither she nor DogDay could hear them, if they called out for help, so they took an alternative route. But where did they-

"Ballade!" The desperate cry of DogDay rang out, sharp and panicked. Her head snapped toward the sound, and without a moment’s hesitation, she leapt down from where she stood, landing in a low crouch with a soft thud. She broke into a sprint, her heart pounding against her chest as she raced back to where she’d left him. The Player would have to wait — DogDay's safety came first. She couldn’t let anything happen to him. She wouldn’t. As she neared the end of the corridor, she felt a brief wave of relief when she saw him — still in one piece, still there. But the feeling vanished in an instant when she noticed the wide-eyed panic on his face. He was pointing down the opposite hallway, his whole body trembling.

"CatNap!" he gasped. "I saw CatNap!"

"Where?" DogDay couldn’t help but shudder at the venom laced in her voice.

"Down the hall from where we came from!" he cried. Ballade scooped him up and sprinted down the corridor, specifically to the door they ignored. She barreled toward the door leading to the room filled with red smoke, her hands slamming against the doorframe as she skidded to a stop. Her eyes widened in horror when she spotted CatNap through the glass, his claws raking viciously at the Player.

"Angel!" DogDay’s desperate shout echoed through the hall. The sound made CatNap’s head snap toward them, his eyes locking on the sight of Ballade and DogDay. His expression shifted from menace to fear.

"Get away from them, CatNap!" Ballade’s voice was a furious snarl. She struck the door with enough force to make it shudder in its frame. CatNap didn’t take his chances. He stumbled backward and quickly scrambled into the vent, disappearing from sight. The second he was gone, DogDay leapt from Ballade’s arms just as she kicked the door open, red smoke billowing out into the hallway. Her eyes flicked upward toward the vent, but she forced herself to focus on more immediate concerns. "Oh no," she whispered harshly when her gaze fell on the Player’s still form. They lay unconscious on the ground, their gas mask shredded and useless.

"Are they okay?" she let out a breath as she quickly picked them up.

"Maybe a few scratches, but CatNap broke their mask. They inhaled some of the red smoke." DogDay pressed a hand to his forehead.

"Oh no." she nods as she carried them out of the room.

“My words exactly.” Ballade let out a long sigh, the weight of the situation settling heavily on her shoulders. “Let’s get out of here.”

She knelt down, offering DogDay an easy path onto her back. Once he climbed on, she stood and carried them both out of the building, not venturing far — just enough to escape the oppressive red smoke. Outside, she settled on the worn concrete steps, the cool air a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of the facility. Carefully, she removed the GrabPack from the Player’s back and adjusted their position so their head rested gently in her lap. As their face twisted with the torment of the hallucinations the red smoke induced, Ballade’s fingers instinctively moved to their forehead, brushing soothing circles in an effort to ease their pain.

“Will they be okay?” DogDay’s voice was soft and worried as he slid off her back and settled beside her. He leaned into her side, seeking the comfort she always provided.

“Hopefully,” Ballade murmured, her eyes never leaving the Player’s pale, strained face. “It might be a while before they wake up. I feel like this is the first bit of rest they’ve gotten since getting stuck here… even if they’re suffering through whatever haunts their mind.” She huffed softly, the sound heavy with a mix of frustration and concern, her hand never stilling as it moved in gentle strokes through the Player’s hair.

"Shouldn't we... hurry?" DogDay asked softly, his voice tinged with concern. Ballade shrugged, her eyes still scanning their surroundings.

"What's the rush? CatNap's not gonna do anything rash now that he knows we're out and protecting the employee, and Poppy can eat it. She ain't gonna rush me—I just woke up." DogDay couldn't help but chuckle at her choice of words.

"I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right." Ballade’s tone softened just a bit. "Let's enjoy this last bit of freedom before we have to go back to the prison." He peeked up at her, his brows knitting together.

"How do you know we're going to the prison?"

"Where else is there to go?" she said with a sigh. "I’ve got an idea of what little Miss Poppy is planning, but I highly doubt she's gonna let them go now that she's trapped them this deep. If we don't keep a close eye on them, she's gonna wear them down." Her voice grew quieter, more serious. "And that's the last thing we need." She wrapped an arm around him, her hand rubbing up and down his arm in slow, comforting strokes. DogDay leaned into her warmth, his tension easing little by little. But even as she comforted him, Ballade’s eyes never stopped moving, watching every corner, every fleeting shadow. She was waiting, daring that cat to show his face again. If CatNap came near them—near DogDay, near the employee—she wouldn’t let him get close.

"Nngh..." the two look down and saw the Player stirring softly, their hand weakly lifting from their side to press against their head. Their hand rubbed over their eyes then dragged down their face and when they finally came to they were startled to see Ballade looming over them.

“Well good morning, sleeping beauty~” Ballade teased, laughing when the Player practically launched off her lap. DogDay peeked over her shoulder and couldn’t help but giggle himself when the Player scrambled to their feet, eyes wide in confusion.

“W-What happened?” they asked, brushing themselves off. Ballade pursed her lips, drawing lazy circles in the air with her finger.

“CatNap attacked you, and you inhaled some of that nasty red smoke. We saved you just before he could do any real damage, but… sorry we didn’t get to you sooner.” The Player let out a long breath, rubbing the back of their neck as they settled down next to Ballade again. “Did you enjoy your nap?” she teased.

“Other than the hallucinations? Yeah. Great nap,” they deadpanned, making her snicker. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“We noticed how exhausted you were,” DogDay answered before Ballade could. “She thought you could use the rest… even if you were suffering through a couple of hallucinations.” Ballade sweat-dropped at his bluntness.

“Never know when you’re gonna get to sleep again.”

“Yeah, especially when I’m already stuck in a nightmare,” the Player muttered.

“You could say that again,” Ballade agreed softly. The three of them fell into a comfortable silence until the Player surprised them both by leaning their head against Ballade’s arm. She blinked in surprise but let them stay—what’s a few more minutes of peace? “…I almost miss it,” Ballade murmured so quietly they almost didn’t hear her. The Player and DogDay both glanced up at her.

“What do you miss?” the Player asked. She laughed softly, a little wistful.

“The work. The best thing about being assigned to Playcare was watching the kids… making sure the Smiling Critters didn’t get into too much mischief—which they often did. But still… most of the time, I was just lazing about, listening to their laughter.” She smiled, the memory clearly warm despite the weight of everything that had happened.

“We gave you a lot of trouble back in the day,” DogDay said with a small grin.

“Oh, you did. But you? You were the peacemaker,” she said, giving his head a soft pat. “Kickin and Hoppy were the ones that had me running around like crazy, but they never got far.” Her smile faded as a heavier thought crossed her mind. “I miss it. The good days… I really do.” The Player swallowed thickly when they noticed her hand clenching into a tight fist. The tension only eased when DogDay placed his paw on her other hand, grounding her. She was surprised when the employee gently placed their hand over hers. Looking down, she saw the pained expression on their face.

"I don't understand what you've been through, not one bit," they admitted, their voice soft but steady. "But I do know one thing... you didn’t deserve what happened to you." They turned her hand over, rubbing their thumb over her knuckles in a comforting gesture. "None of you did. You were just… you were just children." Her eyes widened.

"You..."

"After finding those VHS tapes and notes on my way down here, I could put two and two together." They shook their head, a mixture of sorrow and determination in their gaze. "You could have had a life, but you were robbed of your childhood. I can't give that back to you, but the least I can do is help take down the Prototype—the thing that brought all of this crashing down." Ballade and DogDay stared at the Player for a moment before bursting into laughter. Ballade placed a hand on her chest to steady herself, while DogDay pressed a paw to his mouth, trying to stifle his giggles.

"You're funny, Angel," DogDay managed to say between muffled chuckles.

"We appreciate the sentiment," Ballade said, amusement still lacing her tone, "but if you really want to take down the Prototype, you're going to have to do a lot of work. He’s been scheming since the early nineties... I think. I’m close." She inhaled deeply before rising to her feet, easily hoisting DogDay onto her shoulder. She then looked down at the Player, offering her hand. "Well, if you’re serious about this, then let’s get to it." The Player met her gaze before letting out a soft laugh, placing their hand in hers.

"Let’s." She helps them up, and the three of them take the power cord connected to the Counselor's Office and bring it back to the generator room. When connecting it, they realize they're just a tiny bit short due to Poppy restoring power to the skylights. Ballade leaves DogDay with the Player and quickly rushes off to grab the power cord from that terminal. She's back in record time, and with that last power cord, they've produced a giant blue battery. She offers to carry it, but they reassure her that it's no problem, picking it up with the GrabPack and carrying it to the Gas Production Zone.

"Do you think..." DogDay's voice breaks the silence as he shifts slightly on her shoulder, lagging behind a bit as the employee walks ahead. "Do you think we'll actually be able to beat the Prototype? We've been trying to get the upper hand for years, but we haven't even come close." Ballade stares at him for a moment before shrugging.

"Who knows? Maybe we'll all die in the end. Maybe that's better. But they've come so far... maybe they really will kill the Prototype and finally end our suffering." She feels DogDay’s small arms wrap around her.

"I hope they do." She pats his arm gently. "I'm just so tired of needing to survive, I just wanna live again." She nods, her voice soft.

"Me too, puppy. Me too." As they finally approach the Gas Production Zone, the Player has already entered the room, making their way toward the blue battery slot. Just as they reach it, the doors suddenly slam shut. "Wha—what's going on?!" Ballade shouts, rushing forward. She grimaces as she peers through the glass, only to see the shutters closing as well.

"Angel! Angel, are you okay?!" DogDay yells, his voice edged with panic.

"It's CatNap!" Their eyes widen as the Player’s voice crackles through. "He's filled the room with the red smoke! I—I've got to go!" She can hear CatNap's heavy footsteps stomping after the Player before they vanish completely.

"No... no, no, no!" Ballade dropped DogDay to the ground and tore the door open, flinging it aside before forcing her hands beneath the shutter doors and ripping them apart. A thick wave of red smoke billowed out, forcing DogDay to cover his mouth as Ballade rushed inside, searching desperately for both the Player and CatNap. She cursed under her breath. The room was empty. The lift to the escape room had already been activated, the blue battery abandoned on the floor. "They got away, but CatNap went after them...!"

"Then follow after them!" Ballade hesitated, catching the way DogDay’s gaze flickered toward the red smoke, fear flickering in his eyes.

"What about you?" DogDay clenched his fists before looking up at her.

"Take me with you... I'll—I'll be fine." She swallowed thickly.

"Are you sure?" He nodded.

"Yes. I don’t want to wait this time."

Ballade sighed but nodded nonetheless, scooping him up before stepping back into the smoke. She felt him shake his head, trying to fight off the hallucinations as she quickened her pace toward the elevator. As they waited for the lift to descend, she kept a comforting hand on his back. Finally, when it arrived, she jumped in, hitting the next button to take them up. If memory served her right, the room CatNap had taken the Player to was a panic room. She vaguely remembered Stella mentioning it in passing—back when things were normal. It was never meant to be used, but when everything went to hell, that’s where most of the human employees fled. And she had personally dealt with them.

-

Fending off CatNap in the Safe Room was a waking nightmare.

The moment they entered, Poppy’s voice crackled through unseen speakers, her instructions flashing on the terminal. Defend yourself. Activate the traps. Survive. The Player wasted no time. They grabbed a battery and slammed it into one of the defense stations, watching as a steam wall roared to life, sealing off one corridor. They activated a green hand port, but the moment it triggered another steam wall, the first one flickered off. A mistake. They cursed under their breath and tore the battery out, resetting it before CatNap could take advantage of the gap.

With the final battery in hand, they sprinted to the top-left receiver, locking it in place. A timer appeared on the terminal. The countdown had begun. Then came the footsteps.

They paced between the two open corridors, Flare Hand at the ready, breath hitching as shadows loomed at the ends of the hall. CatNap. Or was it? The red smoke thickened around them, warping their vision, making the walls feel closer, suffocating. Illusions. They raised their arm and fired a flare down the corridor—the ember burst, cutting through the haze. Nothing. A hallucination. The terminal alarm blared—new battery required. The Player bolted to the next receiver, shoving in another battery just as the trapdoor above them creaked open. Their stomach dropped. A low, guttural growl rumbled from above. He was using the ceiling now. They barely had time to react before the hatch shifted, a clawed hand reaching down. Their heartbeat pounded in their ears as they lunged, slamming the trapdoor shut just before CatNap could drop in.

His claws scraped against the metal, the sound making their skin crawl. Every second, his footsteps echoed from all directions. The illusions flickered in and out of existence, growing closer, the glowing white eyes multiplying in the shadows. They couldn’t tell what was real anymore. Somewhere beyond the suffocating red haze, Ballade and DogDay’s voices rang out. Their stomach twisted—was it really them? Or just the smoke playing tricks on them? There was no time to figure it out. CatNap was relentless, his attacks coming faster. The Player barely managed to stop him, blasting steam at him, whipping around to fire off flares, and slamming the trapdoor shut again and again. Their lungs burned, their arms ached, but they couldn’t afford to slow down. Every time they turned, those soulless white eyes were closer.

The terminal outlet flashed brighter than before. The Player’s eyes snapped to it. This was it. Without thinking, they shot out their Green Hand, feeling the electricity surge through their arm as the circuit overloaded. CatNap crashed through the trapdoor just as they turned. With gritted teeth, they raised their hand, aimed at the monstrous cat, and fired. A surge of pure electricity shot forward, slamming into CatNap’s chest. His body convulsed, a twisted, piercing screech ripping from his throat. Smoke poured from his body, his glowing eyes wide in shock as the energy coursed through him, crackling through fur and metal alike. The stench of burnt flesh filled the air as he collapsed.

CatNap, against all odds, was still alive. His body trembled as he struggled to push himself up, smoke curling from his scorched fur. His ragged breaths filled the tense silence, his limbs barely able to support him. Then, the trapdoor above groaned open. The Player flinched as a long, mechanical claw descended from the darkness—a skeletal hand of slender silver pins, its joints clicking unnervingly as it extended downward. The Prototype.

The metallic fingers twisted with eerie precision before stopping, hovering inches from CatNap’s face, waiting. His breath hitched as his pupils shrank to pinpricks. Then, with a slow, reverent movement, he pushed himself onto his knees, head tilting slightly as if gazing upon something holy. He remembered the first time that hand had reached for him—the day it saved him, the day he learned what true power was. His lips curled into something between a grimace and a grin as he presented himself openly to the Prototype. He was here to save him. Just like before. Just like always. What more could he ask for—

"No!" A voice cut through the tension a second before Ballade slammed into CatNap, knocking him away. They hit the floor hard, but she didn’t hesitate, scrambling over him as she fixed her wild eyes on the Prototype. She and DogDay had finally reached the panic room, just in time to see CatNap kneeling before the monster that had destroyed them all. The Prototype’s fingers had been poised like a spear, seconds away from driving straight through his skull.

Ballade didn’t know why she had moved. She was still so angry. Angry at him for lying to her, for manipulating her into following the Prototype, for trapping her inside her own body for four long years. But as she gripped his tattered fur, her breath shaking, something inside her twisted painfully. No matter how much she hated him, there was still a part of her that remembered the boy he used to be. The one she had cared for. The one she had lost. Ballade grappled with CatNap, the two rolling across the ground in a violent struggle. She managed to slip behind him, locking her arms around his neck in a tight chokehold. He clawed desperately at her arms, but after enduring a surge of electricity and severe burns, his strength was fading fast. He was no match for her.

"You are not going to die!" she shouted, tightening her grip as he thrashed. "I won't let him take you, Theo!" CatNap's breath came in ragged gasps.

"No! My god... he wouldn't abandon me! After everything I did for him, he wouldn't just..." His voice faltered, and his wide, panicked eyes darted upward. DogDay appeared beside them, his arms wrapping around both Ballade and CatNap, reinforcing the hold. His voice was soft, yet firm.

"He abandoned us a long time ago, old friend." CatNap's gaze snapped back to the trapdoor above. The Prototype, his supposed savior, was already withdrawing, disappearing back into the darkness. There was no hesitation, no second thought—just cold indifference. The realization struck like a blade to the gut. The god he had worshipped, the entity he had given everything for, had never truly cared for him. A furious growl rumbled from his throat, and he twisted violently, trying to break free.

"Let go! Let me go!"

"No, not this time!" Ballade barked, her grip unwavering. "I ran from you once, blaming you for what I had done. But it was my fault for abandoning you with that thing when you were just as manipulated as the rest of us. And I am so sorry, Theo!" His struggles weakened, his body trembling. His voice came out in a whisper, fragile and broken.

"N-No... he- he didn't..." But the truth was right in front of him. The Prototype was gone, and all that remained were the people who still cared for him, even after everything.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry for blaming you. You only did what you thought was right, and I believed in you. We both did. We put our faith in something we thought would save us, something that promised us salvation—but all it did was take everything away. And I let it happen. I turned my back on you when you needed me the most." Her voice trembled, thick with regret. "I can't take back the things I said. I can't undo the pain I've caused, the choices I made, the years we lost... but I swear, Theo—I swear—I want to make it right." even after everything that happened, even after they put each other through, she just couldn't bring herself to hate the young boy whom she loved with all her heart.

"I-I'm..." she peeked her head over his shoulder and let out a breath when she saw tears streak down his burnt face, she loosened her grip when she felt the fight drain out of him and he instead hunched forward and start crying. "I'm sorry for what I've done...!" she hummed softly as she moved her arms to wrap around his body and embrace him, her head leaning against his cheek and nuzzling it softly to comfort him.

"I know, I know..." Ballade left CatNap to DogDay, who was clinging to the toy and repeatedly apologizing for the state he had reduced him to. She turned toward the Player, who had been watching. "Are you alright?" she asked, kneeling down to avoid overwhelming them.

"Yeah... yeah, I'm good." They let out a sigh of relief and reached forward to gently pat her head.

"I'm sorry we weren't there to stop him in time. I feel awful for leaving you alone." Ballade shook her head, waving her hand to dismiss the concern.

"It's fine, really. I'm just glad you were here in the end." They smiled softly and withdrew their hand. Ballade helped them to their feet and then glanced back at CatNap and DogDay.

"I think this is where we leave you," she said, causing the Player to look up at her in shock.

"What?" She chuckled at their reaction.

"Don't worry. You're just going to have to go on without us for now, but we'll catch up. I’m going to have CatNap find DogDay's legs—he definitely left them somewhere. I also need to grab a couple of things. If you're going deeper into the factory, there are some things I need before we can follow." Ballade patted their shoulder. "But I must warn you... what you went through up here is nothing compared to what's below. If you're not careful... you might not make it out." The Player swallowed thickly.

"Right... I’ll take that warning to heart."