#can you believe this is the first time ive drawn her | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunnami · 5 months ago

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

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

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

wc. 24.1k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How repulsive.

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

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

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

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

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

What a bunch of insufferable fools.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He furrows his brow. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately!

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

That, after all, is how you learned.

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

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

What’s wrong?

The question echoes in your head.

Ha!

You scream inwardly, if they only knew!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you are not fine.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ve made it all too easy for you.

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

Sirius staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before?

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

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

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

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

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

When does duty end? And when does life begin?

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

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

You want to go to sleep already.

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

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

You miss your cat.

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

You want to die.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

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

Dimwitted fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains.

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

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

“Daphne!”

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

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

“Daphne, get away from there!”

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

But there is nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How confusing.

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

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

(Hogwarts is the best!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily says thank you, by the way.”

“Oh? For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly.

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how easy they make it for you.

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

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate her.

You hate her with all your heart.

But even monsters need a heart to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bile rises to your throat.

Tears fall from your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

You pass out in her arms.

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

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

You are tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss the newspaper into the fire.

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

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

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

Maybe. . .

If you move a few inches forward. . .

If you just fly.

You’d be free.

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

I don’t care.

Go away.

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone?

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

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

You let your weight shift over the window.

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

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

You sigh.

Maybe tomorrow, then.

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

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

You stay silent.

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

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

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

You nibble on your bruised lip.

Could you really?

Maybe just this once.

You’re only human, magic as you are.

You take one step forward.

Then another.

Another.

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

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

To do what is right.

To endure.

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

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

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

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

Your mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not!” you scream.

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

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

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

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

Tom snarls, “Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Mum, wake up, please!”

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

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

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear.

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

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

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

There’s a faint smile on her face.

“I’m. . . sorry.”

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

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

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

Tom Riddle.

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

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

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

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hannieween · 11 months ago

Text

stargazing | city lights series | h.js

Joshua should've known the minute he saw you standing outside his door for the first time. Then, maybe he would've gotten the opportunity to make things right with you. But no, he let his hedonistic ways get in the way first. Now, will he get the opportunity to make things right with you?

✮ pairings: joshua hong x female reader ✮ genre: angst, fluff, smut (18+) ✮ aus: rock singer joshua, neighbours with benefits ✮ word count: 17k

↣ part i – part ii – part iii – part iv – navi post – other fics

₊🎧: guilty - taemin ♡︎ | dumb - i.m ♡︎ | say you love me - kai ♡︎ | accident - woodz ♡︎ ₊ nsfw warnings under the cut!!

✮ warnings: smut with plot, dom joshua, sub reader, big dick joshua, thigh grinding while joshua is on the phone [i love that cliché let me be], fingering (f), multiple unprotected sex scenes, exhibitionism: being heard by others during sex, brat taming: spanking and a bit of edging, oral sex (f), cowgirl, creampies [yes, plural], pet names: pretty, baby, bunny, sweetheart, princess (hers) this is loosely proofread

part v

Joshua couldn't believe his ears.

He sat there frozen, phone still pressed to his ear. The line had gone dead a minute ago, Jihoon who was on the other side hung up after getting a barely coherent response from Joshua.

He blinked himself back to reality.

Apparently, someone had scouted them from the rock festival a week ago and were in talks with his manager. So Joshua had just learned that Midnight Haze had been picked up to open for a huge band a weekend straight.

Jihoon had called him to confirm the news, and to tell him to get his shit in order to travel overseas.

"Are you alright, bro?" he heard a voice in the distance.

Seokmin was standing in the kitchen, looking out to the living room as he munched on a pop tart.

"Yeah," he breathed, finally getting off the phone. "I'm just shocked, that's it."

"What happened?" his roommate asked slowly, approaching the couch.

"I'm... leaving in a few days," Joshua frowned, the news sinking in. "For a couple of shows."

Seokmin arched his eyebrows in surprise. "Dude, that's awesome!" the younger man slapped his shoulder and squeezed it. "Congrats!"

"Thanks, man," Joshua sighed. "I'm still processing it."

"I can see," Seokmin chuckled lightly.

Joshua checked his phone absentmindedly, he tapped on the conversation he had with you to check if you had read it yet. His knee had started bouncing nervously when he saw he had no reply from you yet.

Are you pushing him away again?

He got up from the couch and without a word to his roommate he left the apartment and walked straight to the fire exit and went up the stairs.

The rooftop was deserted, as he should've expected. There he stood, breathless and feeling stupid. He was working on his self-deprecating thoughts, but he couldn't help but feel a little dumb as he stepped into the large open space.

It was a special spot, Joshua felt like it was becoming more his thing than yours—given that he rarely saw you in there anymore. So he picked his phone again, and didn't let the several flights of stairs go to waste.

He called his mom, let her know the news. They talked for about an hour, the conversation had moved from the news and turned into a conversation about his life. His mom asked him normal stuff—how he's been, what he's been doing, if he's taking care.

When it was time to hang up, he returned to his apartment with a content smile on his face.

"What are you doing tonight?" his roommate asked, eyeing him cautiously. He'd been doing that the last few days, Joshua didn't know the reason why.

"Uuh, tonight. Tuesday. Nothing, dunno yet. Why?" Joshua sat down on the couch again with a tired sigh. Going up to the rooftop was an incredibly effective exercise.

"Are you interested in going to the aquarium?"

"Aquarium?" he parroted, his attention drawn from his phone. "Uh, yeah. Okay."

"Yeah, I got two tickets for an aquarium night but it turns out that my girl also bought two tickets for another night. So, sharing is caring right?" his roommate smiled sweetly at the brief mention of his girlfriend.

"Oh, oh. I get it," Joshua laughed awkwardly. "Thanks, man."

"So maybe you can take our neighbor for a nice date," he muttered with a cough.

"What?" Joshua choked, eyes widened.

"I know you've been... seeing her. Right?" Seokmin muttered shyly, the tips of his ears glowing brightly red.

"How do you know? Do you even know her?" Joshua asked slowly, not denying anything.

"We've met once. But that's not the point—every time she gets home it's like she whistled and you went running to her," he frowned.

"Did you just compare me to a trained dog, Dk?" Joshua laughed.

"It sounded better in my head. But not only that, I've heard you guys. You're not exactly quiet, and—I mean, how many Joshuas could there be in this city?" Seokmin blinked and looked upward, clearly ashamed of himself.

Joshua scoffed hard. "Sorry about that."

Though he was obviously not sorry.

"Please accept the entrances," Seokmin muttered meekly.

Joshua thought about it for half a minute. "Yeah, okay."

Seokmin exhaled. "I'll send you the link."

"Thanks Dk," Joshua smiled.

"So are you two... dating?" Seokmin asked, a small smile creeping in his face.

"Nope," Joshua replied dryly. "We're just friends."

Seokmin exhaled, leaning back on the sofa. "Wow, okay."

"What?" Joshua frowned.

"It's going to be a little awkward if you're not dating," Seokmin frowned.

Joshua was just about to inquire something back at his roommate when his phone buzzed in his hand.

[16:12 PM] bunny: Can you come over? [16:12 PM] bunny: I'm free now [16:12 PM] bunny: Just let yourself in [16:12 PM] joshua: omw

He stood from the couch immediately and walked over to the door.

"See?" Seokmin clicked his tongue and sighed. "Just like a whistle."

"Thank you for the tickets, man!" Joshua said quickly as he got out of the apartment.

Joshua opened your apartment door confidently, kicking his shoes off as he closed the door. He already suspected he'd find you in your study, and you were just taking your headphones off and turning in your chair when he walked in.

The room was a great example of the great personality you had: walls covered with bookcases, which housed a lot of your paraphernalia, toys, photos, awards.

It was strange not to see copies of your books with your pen name. Something he meant to inquire about to you later.

"Hi bunny," he muttered warmly.

"Hi there," you stood from your armchair and he was almost taken by surprise when your arms wrapped around his shoulders, dragging him into a needy kiss.

Joshua chuckled in your lips. "Are you horny, princess?"

"Shut up," you sighed, pressing your puffy lips on his again, and again.

Another chuckle was muffled by your mouth, he found it amusing— the times when you were being so needy that you couldn't even talk. You zipped down his hoodie and practically yanked it down his arms.

"Sit," you muttered, Joshua looked at you confused until you pushed him back on the small couch behind him.

Joshua obediently sat on the couch, between your small army of squishmallows which you pushed to the sides as you sat on top of him, straddling him sloppily.

You clashed your mouth with his, kissing him hungrily, your hands grabbing him by his shoulders.

"Shit, baby," he muttered. "Slow down."

"I'm sorry—I just need you so much," you mumbled sheepishly as you leaned down and pressed your wet lips on his.

Joshua groaned, his hands grabbed you by the waist, rendered utterly speechless when your lips reached his neck.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier? I texted you hours ago," the words escaped his mouth before he could even stop himself and think.

"Was busy," you groaned nervously.

"Baby, slow down," he insisted when your hands slid underneath his white tank top, his skin prickling at the touch of your cold hands.

He grabbed you by the waist firmly, pulling you back without forcing you out of his lap.

"I have something to tell you," he muttered.

Your eyes widened, searching his face anxiously. "What, what's wrong?"

Joshua paused to read your face. "We've been chosen to open for a band this weekend," he could not avoid the smile that crept on his face in pure excitement.

"Oh my god? That's great!" you squealed, almost bouncing on his lap. "When?"

"I'm leaving on Thursday. My flight is scheduled really early in the morning," Joshua replied, his hands anxiously moved to your back.

"Leaving?" your smile faltered slightly. "Oh, I see."

Joshua's eyes were still trained on your features. "What, are you sad I'm leaving?"

"A bit," you said, looking deflated.

"I'll be back in no time, baby," he muttered with an amused smile. "Or I can take you with me if you want."

You looked startled, and something within him told him he crossed a line.

"Oh, uh. I, uh, 'm not ready and I have so much work to get done before the book release and," you sighed. "Maybe it's best for me to stay? But thank you for offering."

Joshua rolled his eyes. "Baby, I'm joking," he smiled with ease.

You blinked in surprise and slapped his shoulder. "I hate when you do that."

"Do what?" he chuckled.

"When you play jokes on me," you muttered shyly. "I don't know when to believe you."

Well, that makes two of us. His internal voice sulked.

"Sorry, it's fun to see the faces you make," he replied instead.

"Yeah, yeah," you stuck out your tongue to him, which made him smile again. "Well, tell me more about this band you're opening for."

Joshua had his hands still firmly parked on your waist. You looked especially good that day. He didn't know exactly what it was because you were wearing something he's seen on you before, did you get something done on your hair? No, it looks the same.

So what was it?

"It's a huge band, like legendary big," he looked perplexed again. "I don't even know how they picked us. But it turns out that their original openers were canceled for some reason and we were their first choice."

As he spoke, he could notice your eyes wander. To his hair, then to his eyes, you seemed to like his piercings, since you toyed with them absentmindedly as you heard him. He smiled softly when your fingers reached the piercings on the shell of his ear. Like a cat seeing something flashy.

"Apparently if we take a liking to the crowds, we can get picked up for a label and that would also be huge for us," he told you, his eyes trained on your face.

"Oh? That sounds like a good opportunity. Great, actually," you replied, your eyes big in wonder.

"Yeah, it would mean a lot for us. I'm really excited for this," he muttered, your eyes were now in his throat. You did this a lot too, you seemed to like his throat, and he knew why: there was a big hickey below his Adam's apple.

Oh god, the look on his mother's face when she saw it. There was no comment made about it, but there was an obvious dislike about it.

Joshua, in fact, had never let anyone mark his body, even so much as to leave a scratch on him, he didn't allow it. But everyday when he caught a glimpse in the mirror of the lovebites you made on his body, he would remember you.

The hickeys you made in his skin were now fading, they looked like light brownish spots scattered on his neck and chest.

"I'm happy for you, Joshua," you told him with a small smile.

"Yeah, baby?" he purred and he could feel your legs tense up on his lap when he called you that.

"Yeah," you breathed sweetly.

"How happy are you?" he smiled, noticing that you weren't listening anymore.

"So happy," you whispered idly now, leaning forward to capture his lips with your own.

The kiss was brief but soft, your lips were the softer he's ever kissed, and he couldn't get enough of the softness. Joshua released your wrists and your hands instantly slid up his abdomen, a shudder ran down his body when your hands reached his chest and you were taking his tank top off.

"So, so happy," you muttered again dazedly. You landed a few kisses on his lips and then your attention was drawn to his neck, where you started placing open mouthed kisses.

A low laugh resounded in Joshua's chest. "You're not sad I'm leaving?"

"Yes I am," you replied, again, almost in a daze.

"You're sad you won't be fucked this weekend, bunny?" he dared ask, feeling like he was crossing multiple lines.

"What?" you blurted, seemingly snapping you out from your trance. "Joshua!"

He chuckled when he heard your high pitched voice reprimand him. "Answer the question."

"No, Joshua! I will miss you," you replied with a nervous tinge in your voice.

"Why?" he bit his lip.

Lately, he had been crossing the line of being just your fuckbuddy. And he knew that. But something troubled him and every time he tried to press about it, you'd get nervous and brush him off.

"You-you're my friend, you-," you frowned, stopping suddenly and slapped his shoulder harder this time. "Stop playing games, Joshua Hong!"

The tone your voice acquired whenever you chastised him was amusing to him, he even threw his head back a bit as he laughed at your reaction.

"Okay, okay. I'll stop," he said finally. "I'll miss you too, bunny."

You rolled your eyes at him. "Yeah, right."

He didn't get a chance to respond, your lips were on his when he tried to say some quippy response.

He meant it though—although he wasn't sure what exactly he would miss. It was only a weekend.

His fingers found the hem of your t-shirt and yanked it off your body, his train of thought fading to the back of his mind when he realized you weren't wearing a bra.

"Can I mark you again?" you asked eagerly after his hands started cupping your breasts.

"Yeah, go ahead," he replied, not really caring that his skin was healing from the other darkened spots.

You sighed softly in his neck when his fingers toyed with your nipples. "Fuck," you breathed and pressed your hips against his.

"You're swearing more often," he pointed with a smile.

"Sorry," you mumbled back shyly, kissing the spot below his ear.

"Fuck," he tensed up when you sucked his skin on the sensitive area. "Don't worry," he giggled softly.

"Maybe I need to stop hanging out with you," you mumbled jokingly, he could even feel you smiling on the crook of his neck where you landed another love bite.

"Mmm yeah, maybe," he replied aloofly.

"Would you like that, Joshua?" you asked and for a moment he liked that you were asking that question with the same intonation he uses when he asks you things while fucking you.

And to think you almost call him 'baby' too.

"No," he replied shortly. "I wouldn't."

Your lips reached his collarbones and he muttered more cuss words.

"You're so sensitive," you teased against his skin with a tinge of fondness in your tone.

Joshua couldn't make a reply again, feeling like it was self explanatory: his body liked you. Everything you did to him felt a million times better than anything ever did before.

You pressed your core down on his hardening cock and he groaned louder.

"Do you want me to take my pants off?" you asked sheepishly, batting your eyelashes at him.

"Fuck, yes, please," he muttered with a sigh.

You said nothing about him completely forgetting to dom you, instead, you smiled sweetly at him and stood from his lap. Your fingers played with the band of your sweatpants and when you stepped out of them, his mouth parted a little.

Joshua loved how confident you had become. When he first met you and slept with you, your body language was down right timid, which was totally okay to him, he also found it cute. He found it cute to see your fingers would tremble and the stutter was a bit more prominent. But now, you were more playful with him, even flirty sometimes.

"I like that on you, baby," he muttered when all you wore was a pretty lace thong. "Did you wear it for me?"

"Yeah," you replied coyly.

Joshua swallowed thickly. "Can you show me?"

You silently nodded and slowly turned around to show him. He smiled through a soft sigh when you displayed your nearly naked body to him.

Then, much to his disgrace, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

"Ignore it," he mumbled. "It's probably Jihoon again."

"What if it's important?" you asked.

"You're right," he replied and fished his phone out of his pocket. "What is it, now?" he growled into his phone when he picked up Jihoon's call.

"Damn, why are you pissy again?" Jihoon said. "I'm calling you to tell you something about the setlist and dynamics because I think we need to rehearse more," he began.

"Can't this wait?" Joshua groaned and threw his head back on the couch.

"This is important," he pressed. "We only have a few days to prepare. Then, who knows what we'll be able to do."

Joshua closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Be quick."

Jihoon started rambling. That was all Joshua could hear, essentially. Just babbling about stage dynamics, setlist order, specific details about lyrics, everything.

Something soft landed on his bare thigh and he opened his eyes to find you rolling his shorts up uncovering his thigh. Then you pressed a knee in the couch beside him and then you sat your pretty, wet pussy on his thigh and your hips started swaying back and forth.

At least you could have some fun through this, he thought.

He felt torn between Jihoon's voice telling him important things about the upcoming weekend's two-night concerts and you riding his thigh. His eyes landed on your forgotten thong lying on the floor and he smiled.

"Are you there? I'm telling you something important," Jihoon reprimanded, getting annoyed.

"I'm here," he replied flatly. His hand slid on your hip to press down on you, indicating that you could go harder on his thigh. Your eyes found him, you looked flustered and hot.

Your eyes widened, your pouty lips and your brow slightly furrowed as you continued riding his thigh.

He moved his hands from your hip and gently teased one of your nipples with his thumb and pointer finger. You bit your lower lip and pressed your pussy harder on the tensed muscles of his strong thigh.

"Are you paying attention?" Jihoon demanded. "I'm thinking of changing Dawn to be the closing song."

"Mmm, no. I think it's best if we end with a bang, don't you think?" Joshua replied expertly, not caring that he barely heard what his bandmate was saying before that.

"Yeah, you're right. We're playing for a bigger crowd and opening for a heavier band. So maybe we should include more of our old songs, since those are a bit heavier."

"Yeah, yeah. Sounds great," Joshua muttered. His eyes trained on you, a few strands of your hair had stuck on your wet lips and when you exhaled softly, they fell at the side of your face.

"And what about our new songs?"

Your hands were anchored in his shoulders, fingers digging on his skin so hard it hurt him a bit.

But he didn't care, he knew you were close because you started to sway your hips harder and with a certain rhythm, not exactly fast but your mouth was parting the same way it always does when you're almost there.

"What about them?" he replied, trying not to hang up at that minute and help you out.

His thumb started to rub one of your nipples, making your hips stutter in their sway a little and you started twitching on his lap, coming on just grinding against him.

His big eyes lifted to yours, a pleased smile drawing on his face as he watched you come.

"When should he play them?" Jihoon asked with an obvious tone.

"They should be the first songs of our set," Joshua replied flatly, seeing you come silently on his leg until your hips stopped swaying.

His hand grabbed you by your hip, motioning to move a little and you stilled on his lap, pulling back so that you weren't sitting on his lap.

Then a moan escaped you when he slipped his fingers inside your wet cunt.

"What was that?" his bandmate asked slowly.

"What are you talking about?" Joshua asked back, feigning innocence with mastery.

"I thought I heard—whatever, I'm going crazy," he sighed.

"You and me both, man," Joshua said through a breath, although it was evident to him that they weren't talking about the same thing.

You started riding his fingers and he knew you were enjoying being heard because you started moaning more frequently, small groans fell from your soft lips, your eyes fluttering close when he started palming your clit as you rode two of his fingers.

"So, that would be the setlist. We need to rehearse man, a lot," his bandmate told him reproachfully. "

"Yeah, I know. Don't worry, Jihoon," he muttered absentmindedly.

"Now, about the transportation of our things."

Joshua groaned out of frustration and you smiled at him. He looked so cute to you, his pouty lips and furrowed brow. Joshua decided he was going to spice things up a bit, so he introduced a third finger.

"Oh god," you muttered and his palm pressed harder on your clit. "Fuck, that's good."

Jihoon was discussing details about the transportation of their instruments. The tour production of the band they were opening to actually provided them with the sound equipment so he wasn't too worried he had to rent something. So he didn't listen to what his bandmate was saying.

Because you started moaning again, your face telling on your second orgasm. You were determined to make yourself cum again, the movement of your hips changed and you were practically pressing on his hand so hard it started to go numb.

"God, Joshua," you breathed and started moaning, over and over again, cumming loudly on his fingers.

"Is that—are you watching porn?" Jihoon finally asked.

"Nope," Joshua muttered simply.

"Why does that sound like porn?" he sounded scandalized.

"I'll call you later, Jihoon. Bye," Joshua tossed his phone to the side and his free hand pulled you from the nape of your neck to kiss you hungrily as your pussy clenched his fingers hard.

"Having fun, princess?" he asked gruffly on your lips, then he nibbled your lower lip softly with his teeth.

"Mmm yeah," you replied sweetly, smiling playfully at him. "What was your call about?"

"Nothing that important," he said dismissively. "He might've heard you though."

"Oh, god. Really? Did he mention something?" your eyes widened.

"He thought I was watching porn," he smiled amusedly at you.

"God, that's so embarrassing," you replied, biting your lip and then you stood from his lap.

Joshua stuck his soaked fingers on his mouth, licking your slick off of him with a pleased groan. You were standing between his spread legs, so he just grabbed you by your hips to place soft wet kisses on your tummy.

"Can I—can I ride you?" you asked with a tiny voice as your fingers tangled in his dark hair,

"Yes, baby, fuck yes," he groaned and sat back when your hands gently pushed him by the shoulders.

You grabbed the waistband of his shorts and briefs and pulled them down together, undressing him completely.

"Fuck, baby. You're really needy today," he muttered in amazement.

"I was thinking of you today," you explained with a shrug as you sat back on his lap, straddling him on your couch. "Couldn't get you out of my mind."

"Why, what were you thinking of?" he asked, grabbing you by your hips again as your hands found his shoulders again to help yourself not lose your balance.

"I was thinking of doing this," you nodded to his naked body sitting on the couch.

"Mmm so you were fantasizing while writing your book?" he asked as your hand wrapped around his big cock and stroked his shaft.

"I couldn't even get work done," you nodded with a sigh. "It's driving me crazy."

Your thumb rubbed the precum gathering on the tip and he swallowed thickly as he processed what you just said to him.

You propped yourself on your knees, his hands guiding you down as you held his cock for you to ease yourself down on it.

Joshua groaned, his hands involuntarily clenching on your love handles. You also moaned loudly, shuddering hard on top of him as you bottomed out on his cock.

"So big," you sighed tiredly.

Joshua let out a faint laugh, his hands moving your hips back and forth slightly, urging you to move.

"Okay?" he muttered, his voice already strained.

"Yeah, 'm okay," you nodded, anchoring yourself with your hands on his marked chest.

"Fuck," Joshua swallowed hard and threw his head back slightly, his fingers trying to dig holes into your skin.

You started riding him faster, his hands shifting from your hips to your ass, following your movements as you practically bounced on his cock.

"Joshua," you whimpered. "Let me kiss you."

That was a bit of a problem for him.

It took him some moments to realize it at first, but when you dipped your head to lock your lips with his own, he moaned. He was just so weak for you, he usually found it so hard to contain himself when he was with you, but when you started landing kisses on him, he just couldn't resist.

You blinked and locked eyes with him, a frown appearing on your face when Joshua pulled his head back with a guttural groan. His hands grabbed your hips and forced them to stop, retracting your wet, throbbing pussy from his cock abruptly.

"Fuck, sorry, fuck. I'm sorry, baby," he whispered, clenching his jaw hard and screwing his eyes close.

"What's wrong?" you asked, reading his face desperately.

"Shh," he shuddered slightly.

You understood what was happening, and when Joshua opened his eyes again, he found you smiling.

"What's wrong?" you asked again when he allowed you to ease back down on his cock.

He licked his lips and shot you a brief look. "Almost came," he muttered shyly.

"From kissing me?!" your voice shot up an octave higher.

He groaned and threw his head back again on the couch and nodded wordlessly.

"Why?" you pried.

Joshua's hands were kneading on your sides, trying to get you to move a little faster, since it seemed that you had forgotten to continue riding him.

"I like it," he replied and his eyes shot you a dark look when you laughed.

"Sorry. I shouldn't laugh, 'm sorry," you tried to regain control of yourself but a big smile spread on your face, you even looked teary eyed for a second.

But Joshua smiled too despite himself. "You find that funny, princess?"

"A bit, yeah. It's cute," you muttered, suppressing a moan when you found a certain angle that you liked, you leaned forward a bit, taking his cock in your walls slowly.

"Cute?" Joshua snorted.

"All this time I thought—I was so dumb," you sighed and smiled at something only you appeared to be knowing of.

"What?" he pressed.

"Nothing," you shook your head and started riding his cock faster, earning a groan from him.

Then your hand sneaked in between you and him and started toying with your clit using your fingers. Joshua's eyes trailed down to where your bodies joined and saw your pretty fingers swirling around your swollen bud.

He might've come from the sight alone. He was biting his lip, watching you bounce on his cock, completely naked, making soft noises with your mouth as you appeared to be reaching your release again.

"Oh, Joshua—I'm close," you mumbled, pushing your forehead against his. Your pussy was clenching harder and you stiffened a moan. "Fuck, so close, Joshua."

"Do you want me to cum with you, baby?" he asked, his fingers teasing your nipples softly.

"Yes, god, yes. Please, Joshua," you whimpered.

"Want me to cum inside too?" his voice was low and strained.

"Yeah, oh god, Joshua. Ah'm there," your hips pressed down on him and your cunt squeezed him hard.

"God, fuck baby," he muttered and his hands grabbed you to help you keep moving on his cock as you went completely languid, succumbing to your third orgasm.

You leaned down and pressed your forehead on the crook of his neck, muffling the sounds of your whimpers and cries of pleasure as you came. Soft wet kisses and nibbles on his skin made him moan and cuss, the tip of your tongue swiped a line on his neck to his earlobe and that tipped him over the edge.

Joshua pushed his hips forward, thrusting his cum deep inside you, riding both your orgasms in a frenzied craze, he screwed his eyes shut while you continued to place lovebites in the crook of his neck, your body almost convulsing against his.

He was breathing hard, feeling like he almost passed out right there on your couch, his cock still inside your walls. What kept him conscious was the fluttering sensation on his chest, your heartbeat banging so fast against his that for a second he thought of asking you if you were feeling it too.

Fuck, he would miss this. Even if it was only a weekend.

"Oh, that was intense," you whispered, still shaking from your high.

You nuzzled tightly against his chest, burying your face on the crook of his neck and Joshua wrapped your body in his arms, holding you tightly as you breathed tiredly on his neck.

"Are you going to tell me now?" Joshua asked, not forgetting what you tried to say.

"All this time I thought you didn't like to kiss me during sex," you confessed and then let out a soft chuckle. "But it turns out you do?"

"What?" Joshua exclaimed. "Why would you think something like that?"

"Because you never kiss me—or let me touch you when we fuck," you shrugged slightly.

"Why did you never ask? It's important that you know these things," he reprimanded, pushing his shoulder forward and you moved your body back, understanding he wanted to be face to face with you.

"I just thought that us being fuckbuddies, kissing during sex would be too affectionate, you know?" you mused coyly.

"That's nonsense," he shook his head.

"It's not to me, Joshua," you muttered, eyeing him abashedly.

"You know you can trust me with these things. I'm not trying to belittle your worries, just—I want you to be comfortable with me," he looked upset, and almost disappointed.

"Well, what was I supposed to think?" you countered.

"Not that I don't like to kiss you," he rolled his eyes with annoyance.

"But you do," you smiled eagerly, reveling at the fact that he liked kissing you during sex so much that he could come from it.

"Of course I do," he laughed faintly.

Joshua looked at you expectantly, but you slowly rose from the couch, and let out a sigh when you saw that you had spilled his cum on the couch, and it also dripped down your legs.

"Oh, I made a mess," you mumbled embarrassedly and seemed to look around for something to clean it up immediately.

"I'll sort this out. Don't worry," Joshua told you and nodded. "Go get cleaned up, baby."

"Right," you frowned, your attention drawing back to the cum dripping down your thighs. "I'll be back."

While you took care of that in the shower, Joshua found paper towels in your kitchen and cleaned the mess on the couch and the few drops he found scattered on the floor.

Then he took the liberty to enter the bathroom while you were showering. Joshua had been there many times before to wash up after having sex with you, so he knew pretty much everything about where to find what he needed.

"Are you going to hop in with me?" you asked, eyeing him with curiosity through the glass door of the shower.

"I was just thinking of cleaning up here but," he shrugged, seeing your soap covered body.

You moved from the stream to let him step under it. Joshua was well aware that you enjoyed seeing him shower, even though he didn't even make a show of it, he usually just stuck to get himself cleaned fast.

But your eyes—oh, they were so telling on what was going on your mind. They wandered and roamed all over his naked wet body and he smiled knowingly.

"Are you hungry, princess?" he asked suddenly, bringing your fascinated eyes back to his own.

"Uh?" your mouth parted cutely.

"As in, food, I mean," he chuckled.

"Oh, oh, yeah," you muttered awkwardly.

"Do you want to order something? Or maybe I can cook something for you, if you want," he shrugged as he rubbed soap on his hands to clean his cock thoroughly, which was getting hard under the eye fucking by you.

"You can cook?" you asked innocently.

"I don't like your tone of surprise," he pointed. "Yes, I'm a decent cook."

"Oh? I'd like to, yeah," you replied while pretending to be washing your skin very consciously for the second time already.

"Okay," he mumbled, throwing his head back to finish rinsing off and stepping out of the stream for you to wash off the bubbles from your neck and breasts. You weren't making a show of it either, but Joshua couldn't help but gape at your body too.

Now, he was not entirely sure you weren't making a show of it, since you had rubbed soap all over your tits, bubbles gathered around your nipples and when the water washed over them, it looked so alluring that a shudder shook him hard.

Joshua chuckled breathily, snapping himself out of his trance and stepped out of the shower, fighting a semi-hard on. He was quick to dry off his body with the towel that you assigned him the very first time he showered in your apartment.

He had grown a fondness to this. Something so simple and ordinary as washing up. You didn't have any particular way of doing it but he found it cute. He liked the mundanity of it all.

"Take whatever you want. You have free rein," you offered as Joshua stood in your kitchen.

"Do you follow a special diet?" he asked, appearing to be focused on his task. "Are you picky about something?"

You told him a brief summary about your food preferences and he listened intently, starting to gather ingredients from your cupboards and fridge.

"Okay, princess," he sighed and started to busy himself in making you a full meal.

"Do you need some help?" you offered meekly, feeling a bit idle in your own kitchen while he got to work.

"Um, I need these chopped. Can you help me sweetheart?" he asked with an aloof tone and nodded to the cutting board.

You instantly melted at the tone he used to address you. "Sure," as you did so, he eyed you curiously. "Am I doing it wrong?"

"Not at all," he assured.

"Okay. That's done. What next?" you handed him the cutting board and he diligently put the chopped veggies on the large pot and covered it, lowering the heat and sighed with satisfaction.

"That's it baby, thank you. Now we wait," Joshua said, setting a timer in his phone before gathering the used cutting boards, knives and such to put them on the sink.

"Oh, don't worry about that, I'll do the dishes," you stammered, grabbing one of his wrists to stop him. "You cooked, I'll wash."

"Sure about that, princess?" he asked. "I can do both, no worries."

"Move aside," you commanded and then batted your eyelashes at him before adding. "Please."

He smiled amusedly. "Okay."

He didn't leave the kitchen, he just stood there while you washed the dishes neatly. You looked over your shoulder at him to find him leaning on the kitchen counter, you turned around to continue washing the dishes, smiling with a blush on your face.

A yelp in surprise came out of you, startled when Joshua's hands clutched your waist over the soft fabric of your silk robe.

"Careful, bunny," he muttered softly when you jolted slightly. "I don't want you cutting yourself on that."

You were just rinsing the knife you used, and moved it to the drying rack. "You startled me," you replied shortly, trying not to show how flustered you already were.

"Sorry about that," he moved a hand from your waist to brush your wet hair from the back of your neck with his fingers, leaving your nape exposed.

He pressed his lips behind your ear, inadvertently getting the scent of your soft skin and wet hair. The scent was sweet, he could almost taste it in his tongue, it left him feeling something akin to a punch in his chest.

"Joshua, I'm in the middle of something right now," you mumbled, but you sounded amused, almost as if you found it funny that he couldn't keep his hands to himself for longer than half an hour.

"So?" he replied in a similar fashion to you.

And to really make his point across, he pressed his body on yours firmly, making you inevitably feel his semi-hard cock lodged in your ass.

"Joshua–"

"Hurry up," he muttered in your ear, teasing you with soft kisses.

He only heard you smile, but was so busy trailing kisses down your shoulder that he didn't get to see it again.

"Okay," your voice was rendered to a whisper. You finished rinsing the last cup and put it neatly on the rack. But then you scooted to the side to wipe something on the counter, clearly dodging his advances to tease him a bit.

When you heard a groan from him you didn't dare look back at him, but you laughed at his evident impatience.

"Calm down. And you say I'm needy," you teased. "Honestly, you should look in the mirror, Shua."

A gasp left your mouth when you were suddenly turned in your feet and pushed back in the kitchen counter that dug into your smaller back.

"You're becoming more confident with the tone you use with me, princess," he cooed with a playful grin on his face, his pierced eyebrow arched a little before he dipped his head to capture your lips with his own.

"I'm sorry," you replied in a whisper, but deep down you were excited to see where this was going.

"You know I don't like liars," he muttered darkly in your lips before swiping a line in your lower lip, making you whimper pathetically in response.

He nibbled your lower lip gently as his hands found the knot tying your robe blindly and tugged at it loose.

"You're so sure about that, Shua. But you seem to like me," you countered, your whole body recoiling in a thrilling shudder at your own audacity.

He stepped back a little, he looked in complete fascination, as if you had slapped him silly for a second before he broke in a throaty chuckle.

"What's gotten into you today, princess?" he asked with an amused look. "You've been so bratty lately. Do you miss being punished?"

"I do," you breathed into his lips, pressing your own against them a couple of times before adding: "And now that you're leaving I'm going to miss it more."

You felt his smirk with your lips, his breath landing lightly on your mouth. He had already parted your robe, making your breath hitch embarrassingly when his hands slid in your naked waist.

"You're trying to make me punish you. You know that doesn't work with me, baby. So why try?" he tilted his head to the side a bit, the smirk never fading from his face.

"Oh, but it does work, Joshua," you whispered, your jaw trembling ever so slightly when one of his hands slid on your back, fingers caressing gently on your skin. "It has worked every time."

Joshua seemed at a loss for words. This was a first for him—being so enthralled by someone that he didn't know what to say. It made him feel challenged, and he liked that a bit too much.

You found the strength to start toying gently with the piercings on his earlobe, knowing it was a weakness for him. His eyelids fluttered briefly and he tried not to smile.

"You were right, Joshua," you muttered with a sigh. "I do feel a little sad that you're not fucking me this weekend. But, think of how bratty I'll get. I don't think I can be that patient for you."

"Careful, princess," he muttered again, but this time, he was deadly serious.

"Are you going to miss my body too, Shua? I can play with my toys all I want, but what are you going to do?" you continued with a honeyed tone, being cautious to avoid his darkened gaze.

One, two, three seconds passed, and as time progressed and your words hung in the air, you knew it would be bad for you. But in reality, Joshua was just racking his brains for something to say, since you almost had punched him with your words.

Then, the timer in his phone reached zero, the alarm went off, distracting his attention and breaking the silence in the kitchen. He turned away from you to get the alarm to stop and turned the stove off.

"Turn around," he muttered as walked back to you.

You bit your lip to avoid him seeing your triumphant smile as you turned your tummy to face the kitchen counter.

"Bend over," his next instruction was cold, devoid from all the warmth and gentleness he used before.

Bent over the kitchen counter, you started to get a fiery anxiousness over what was coming. His hands gently caressed your ass over your panties when he pushed the robe up your back, making you sigh your nervousness away.

Then you felt his fingers tug on the band of your panties to move them down to your knees.

And, something you weren't expecting happened. Joshua pushed one finger into your core, a whimper fell from your lips and your muscles tightened in response at the sudden intrusion.

"So wet already," he tutted. "I love this about you, baby. Your pretty cunt is always ready for me, even when you know what's coming for you."

He sounded serious, but on the inside, Joshua was far from disappointed. He was deeply awed by you, almost to the point he knew he had to be crazy.

"Joshua," you breathed against the cold surface of the kitchen counter.

"Mmm, yes baby. That's my name," he introduced a second finger in your warm gummy walls and you gasped. "Do you say my name when you play with your toys?"

"You know I do," you replied despite the blazing tingle sensation in your ears and cheeks.

"Are you going to say my name when you get fucked by someone else while I'm gone?" he asked and you knew by his tone he was not playing.

"I'm not fucking anyone else! Just you, Joshua," you replied instantly.

Joshua dragged his fingers out your sopping walls and landed his hand firmly in your ass, the wetness of your arousal in his fingers leaving a tickling feeling over the pulsating soreness in your skin.

You yelped loudly in response, screwing your eyes shut and fingers clenching into fists at your sides.

"That's right, princess," he purred softly. "If anyone gets to fuck you, is me," he rubbed a hand over the sore area.

"Yes, yes!" you squealed mindlessly. "Only you."

You let out a mewling sigh when he ran the pads of his fingers in your folds, caressing softly before slipping his fingers inside your walls again.

He leaned forward, placing a loving kiss on your bare shoulder. "What made you think you could even imply otherwise?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

Your eyes fluttered shut, holding onto the cold counter to try and control your shaky breaths.

"I asked you a question, princess," he cooed.

"I'm sorry, I-"

Again, he pulled his fingers out of your throbbing walls to land another slap in the same spot he did previously, it made you jolt and groan through clenched teeth.

"Don't," he muttered. "I don't like lies. You know that."

You nodded and then pressed the side of your face on the hard surface of the kitchen counter.

"You wanted this, baby," he cooed, marveling at the sight of your glute starting to redden in the recently hit area.

Joshua continued to tease your cunt with his fingers, then introducing a third one, massaging your walls, pressing on them with his knuckles when he crooked his fingers inside you.

"Oh god," you breathed, your eyelids fluttering when your arousal trickled down your thigh.

"Shit, princess," Joshua muttered in his fascinated trance. "I don't think I'd ever seen you this wet. I suppose that thinking of fucking other cocks while I'm gone gets you this wet, is that it baby?"

"No! I just said that to s-spite you," you stammered quickly and then screwed your eyes shut to brace yourself for another spank.

"Then you're saying that teasing me gets you wet," he laughed faintly when you whimpered at the loss of his fingers when he pulled them out of you to land another slap in your ass.

"Fuck," you cussed through clenched teeth.

That one resounded harder than the last, so hard that Joshua believed that your neighbors would hear. Does his roommate hear this every time he's with you doing this?

"Mm?" Joshua pressed, while caressing your sore ass briefly before resume fucking you with his fingers, sighing in satisfaction at the sight of you completely bent, ass red and your cunt displayed for him, soaking wet.

"It does," you mumbled.

"You like to get in my head, is that it?" he wondered aloud, hoping to get a reaction from you. "Do you like to incite me with your bratty behavior?"

"I do, I like all of it," you breathed, then bit down your lower lip.

"Don't bite your lip," he warned. "You're going to hurt yourself."

Joshua raised his hand to land another firm slap in your ass. Both of your glutes were tingling, sore and hot. You groaned in both pain and in pleasure when he introduced his fingers in your throbbing core again. The sight of his wet fingers disappearing in your pulsating walls was fascinating to him. And you, being so completely subdued by his control was even more arousing.

"You're being so good right now, bunny," he praised with his honeyed voice. "I wish you could see yourself."

You only moaned in response, feeling silly to even give a full coherent response. You only were able to angle your ass up for his fingers to reach deeper in your walls, letting out a puffy breath through your wet and chapped lips.

"Oh, my pretty girl. Are you fucked out already? Do you like being fucked with my fingers, sweetheart?" he smiled when he saw you were nearly drooling, your mouth agape and eyelids fluttering shut.

"Uh-huh," you breathed.

"Is this why you misbehave?" he pressed, but even you could hear that he was smiling.

"Yeah," you replied in the same manner.

He chuckled, completely entranced in your fucked out babble, drooling, soaking wet on his fingers, which he pulled out to deliver another spank on your red glute, earning a lewd yelp from you.

"Baby, are you close?" he asked. "I'm barely fucking you with my fingers, do you like being spanked that much?" he asked when your walls started cramping down on his fingers.

"Mmm-mmph," you nodded with your head pressed against the counter. "Feels so good," you replied in a whimper, it was not only the fact that he was teasing you with his fingers, or the pain from the spanking.

You were absolutely drunk on him controlling you, talking to you in that way, acting possessive over you.

He pulled his fingers once again and you lifted your head from the counter when you saw out of the corner of your eye that he had dropped to his knees.

An embarrassingly lewd sound escaped from your gaping mouth when he licked a stripe from the side of your thigh to your wet folds, his hands firmly grabbing you by your sore ass for him to bury his mouth on your cunt.

You cried out his name, not caring that it was the middle of the day, you were in close proximity to the door of your apartment and the walls to the hall outside were very thin.

He hummed in response, reveling at the sound of you calling his name out loud. His hands were kneading at your ass, pushing you on his face as he ravaged your core, giving it broad strokes with his tongue, tasting you, getting drunk on you.

"God, Joshua!" you cried out lewdly.

Just when his tongue started to push in your core, making you moan and tremble in pure bliss, he stood up, yanking his mouth from your throbbing cunt.

You let out a whimpering groan, expressing your disapproval. Joshua you felt genuinely amused, but you didn't see any sign of it, his nose and lips covered in your slick that he wiped away with one hand.

Joshua leaned forward as you lay on the counter and you stilled when his lips pressed wet kisses where your silk robe didn't cover your back, your shoulder and neck.

A pathetic moan spilled from your lips, your body alight from the soft kisses he planted on places no one but him had ever touched before.

"Did you think I'm letting you cum that easy, baby?" he purred, planting a kiss on your shoulder. "You're cumming when I say you can, you know that."

Joshua couldn't ignore the glint of triumph he caught in your eyes. A thing was for certain: you learned his game, you won.

His hand rubbed the area where he had spanked you, it was red and it felt some tingles. He felt you shudder slightly and you dropped your forehead back to the kitchen counter.

"You like being spanked," he cooed softly. "You enjoy being tied too. Maybe I should change my tactics, since you're misbehaving so much lately."

That sparked your interest, you budged a little to sneak a glance his way, the sight of it was so cute that Joshua almost breaks right there and then.

"Should I punish you by giving you the cold shoulder?" he mused softly, introducing his fingers back into your walls and you let out a moan in eagerness. "You seem to like giving me the cold shoulder, maybe I should start doing the same to you."

But it was you that broke first.

"No, please don't," you raised your head to see him. "I'm sorry Joshua, I won't do it again, please."

His fingers came to a stop inside you, pulling them out slowly to then fix your panties back to their place. "On the table, now."

You swallowed thickly, but didn't waste more time and walked over to the table with Joshua closely behind you. He grabbed you by the waist and sat your body down on the cold surface.

Luckily the table was sturdy and it didn't budge when Joshua set your body down brusquely.

"I'm having a hard time believing you. Why do you give me the cold shoulder, bunny?" he asked, his tone silky and taunting.

But in his eyes you saw another thing, was it frustration? You leaving him aside was something that troubled him deeply, he knew that he couldn't press you too much about it because you always seemed to steer the conversation away from it.

"I can't tell you, Joshua," you whispered and the air was robbed from his lungs when he knew you weren't in the subspace anymore.

"It's okay," he responded and his gaze softened immediately. "If you can't tell me I won't bring it up again."

"Oh, Joshua," you sobbed. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"No, don't be," he faltered. "Are you safewording, bunny? We can stop right now."

"Nonono, don't stop," you muttered quickly, bringing a hand to his nape to pull him into a heated kiss.

"Baby-," he pulled away but you shushed him with another kiss.

"Please don't stop," you urged in a broken whisper.

"I'm confused," he admitted.

"Just know that I don't push you away over something you do," you muttered faintly, looking at his eyes but your gaze was shifty. "You don't do anything wrong."

"You trust me, don't you?" he asked, feeling his chest contract at his words, why did he feel so unsettled by this?

"I do, I trust you Joshua," you replied immediately.

"And you know you can safeword anytime," he continued.

"Yes, I would've safeworded if something was too much for me," you nodded.

"I'm not doing anything that pushes you away?" you shook your head silently. "Okay, that's all I need to know."

Except that wasn't true. Joshua was still clinging to the question around your sudden disappearances. He was sure it got something to do about the stuff you said about your exes: you didn't stick around.

But he's not your ex, he's not even remotely something close to even having a title in your life. You don't introduce someone to your friends and say 'This is Joshua Hong, my fuckbuddy.' So, why should you treat him as anything more than that?

"Joshua," you called to him, tearing him from his thoughts and cupping his beautiful face in your hands, locking your eyes with his. "I won't push you away again. I promise."

"You don't have to make promises with me," he muttered and instantly regretted it.

Because he wanted this, he wanted you, no messing around, no lies. He wanted your honesty, your secrets, everything.

"But I want to. Let me," you whispered, he could see the honesty in your eyes, but also, a glint of desperation in them.

"Okay," he conceded. "It's a promise, then."

Joshua held in his breath, he was an idiot.

"Joshua, I..." you whispered, your fingers were now fidgeting with the hair on his nape, as if that was meant to soothe you, not him. "Give me time, and I'll tell you when I'm ready."

"Baby, you're allowed to keep your secrets," he emphasized. "I just don't like to feel like it's my fault that you disappear."

"It's not," you said and seemed to relax, the tension around your shoulders eased.

"Then I have nothing more to worry about," his fingers grazed your chin fondly. "Okay?"

You nodded, offering him a sweet smile that twisted his guts. "Okay."

"You scared me, baby. Don't do that again," he reprimanded softly with a sigh, leaning his forehead on yours.

"I'm sorry," you muttered. "I know, I'm so, so sorry. I panicked. I ruined the moment."

"Don't worry. Your comfort comes first," he said softly. "It's a good thing that you stopped me, but just try to remember to safeword. Even for things like this."

"I will. Thank you," you whispered.

"Are you sure you're okay, baby?" he whispered. "We don't have to keep going. We can skip to aftercare, it's alright."

"But I want to keep going," you muttered back in a tiny voice. "Do you still want me?"

Joshua still felt confused, but one thing yanked his mind from the lingering question: you being so restless, so utterly vulnerable and exposed to him made his heart wrench.

He wanted you in ways that he couldn't explain.

"I always do," he replied before kissing you.

His hand found the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling on your hair to kiss you hungrily.

The atmosphere between you had changed and Joshua felt it, he didn't have to ask you if you felt it too this time.

What Joshua didn't know is that your heart was beating like crazy. So completely lovesick because you were becoming more and more transparent with your feelings and at the same time, you couldn't find it in yourself to tell him you're in love with him.

Instead, your hands were zipping down his hoodie again, sliding it down from his shoulders. This time Joshua forgo his tank top, so he just shrugged out of his hoodie, and you helped him step out of his shorts.

You grabbed his hard cock with one hand and he sighed softly in your lips, shyly giving it a few pumps with your hand. Darting a look up to find his big doe eyes trained on your face, making your stomach jolt in nervousness.

"What?" you breathed.

"Lie back, princess," he muttered, blinking lazily at you with a smile on his face.

The curtains in your apartment were wide open, letting the warm light from the sunset pour inside and reach the round table where you were lying down, still wearing your robe and panties. The splits of the robe parted and exposed your naked chest for him.

Joshua could've sworn he never laid eyes on someone so beautiful. Removing the fact that you were nearly naked, he still thought you were so pretty; your puffy soft lips, your wide eyes looking fondly at him.

He hooked his fingers on the waistband of your panties and slid them down your legs again and put them aside somewhere.

"Joshua?" you called in a small voice.

"Mm?"

"Can we—can we skip foreplay?" you breathed. "I really need you right now."

Joshua complied wordlessly, being that he also ached to do just that. Grabbing your legs to hoist them up his shoulders, he aligned his cock with your core, he sent you a look before he sheathed himself in your walls to his hilt.

He let out a puffy breath in pure delight as soon as his cock was surrounded by your walls.

"God, Joshua," you sighed.

He would never get tired of this, hearing you call his name.

He started moving, dragging his cock back to push it right in, picking up a pace instantly. He was hitting you so hard and deep that the sounds of skin slapping against skin, paired with the soft moans you made and Joshua's own groans flooded the room.

Joshua looked down where your bodies joined, a low guttural moan bubbled in his throat when he saw his cock disappearing on your pretty swollen cunt.

"Mmfuck. You feel so good baby," he muttered in a fucked out slurry tone, his eyes trailing back to yours. "So tight and warm."

"All for you, Joshua," your reply reverted him back to the thing he always says to you and that made him smile broadly at you.

"Just for me," he breathed, the air leaving his lungs once again but now knowing that your eyes were looking adoringly up at him. "Why is that?"

"Because 'm yours," you mumbled with a small smile that let out a moan.

"All mine. That's right, baby," he breathed, pushing in and out of you in steady pace, barely holding onto the fragile threads of reality.

Joshua has never felt something so otherworldly. He thought he might be going insane for a split second. The warm light pouring from the windows bathed what your robe didn't cover, your bare skin exposed to him, your adoring eyes looking at him.

Then, he suddenly leaned down, motioning for you to hook your legs around him, as you did, his arms wrapped around your body to hoist you hip, so now that the only part of your body pressed to the table was your ass.

You cried out in both pleasure and from the unexpected motion as he continued ramming his cock in and out of your cramping walls, hitting so deep in a spot that felt just so good you inevitably started moaning lewdly.

You instinctively hid your face on the crook of his neck, nibbling at his soft and marked skin. You placed open mouthed kisses on the spot below his ear, making him plunge deeper in you.

"God, ahh—baby," he called with a hoarse voice. "Fuck–I'm close. Are you close too?"

"No, 'm not there yet, Joshua," you mumbled breathlessly, pulling your head back to see his furrowed brow.

"You want me to cum inside, sweetheart?" he purred with a lazy sigh.

You nodded, and he enjoyed the frenzied look on your face because he knew you went wild when he talked to you in that way.

"Do you want me to keep fucking you until we come again and again?"

He smiled at you when you shuddered visibly. You nodded and gulped hard. "Yes—god, yes! Please, Joshua."

"Gonna fill your pretty cunt to the brim. You're gonna take it all, right baby?" he continued, enjoying the frenzied look in your eye when he talked pure filth to you.

"Yes, yes, yes," you nodded frantically. "I want everything, Joshua."

You cupped his face with your hands and pulled him into a hungry, passionate kiss. He groaned helplessly in your mouth, feeling like you were playing dirty with him, because he couldn't hold out anymore.

He pushed his hips against yours lazily, his hands cupping your ass to push your body impossibly close to his own as ropes of cum spilled inside your pulsating walls.

But he continued fucking you aimlessly, your body now clinging to his. One of his large hands grabbed you by the back of your head to kiss you harder, swallowing your moans of pleasure as you came with him.

"Joshua," you breathed in his mouth. "Oh, god–fuck. Joshua!"

"I know, I know," he replied lazily. "You're taking it so well, baby."

Then you did something he wasn't expecting. You moved your arms from his shoulders and propped yourself on the table, splaying your legs wide for him.

A low moan bubbled in his chest, his glazed eyes at your body splayed on the table for him, making him follow you by leaning towards you and lowering his hands flatly on the table too.

His gaze fell again where your bodies joined and groaned loudly, clenching his jaw as he felt his cock getting harder at the sight of your cunt sopping wet with his cum. The base of his cock dripped with a ring of your cream around it.

"Umffuck, fuck baby," he groaned mindlessly. "You look so good like this."

It was at this moment that you knew why he liked watching you come. You always thought he looked insanely hot when fucking you, but this time something was different. He looked as if he was trapped in a trance—his gaze was out of focus, lust lidded eyes, leaning his head back while pushing his cock in and out, biting his lip and moaning out incoherencies.

He was ruined, so ruined.

"All yours," you responded in the same craze as his. "I'm yours, yours, Joshua."

He moaned gutturally and nodded with his head, his thrusts had long ceased to be controlled and calculated, as he was growing tired but drowning deep in you.

"Baby," he called. "Kiss me."

You pushed your body with your arms and reached out to him, wrapping one arm around him to capture his sweet lips with your own, a hand pushing him by the back of his head to pull his head as humanely close to you.

"Mine," he breathed in your lips.

You nodded and pressed your lips against his softly.

"Give me one more. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?" he asked in a broken mutter.

Joshua smiled sweetly at you just nodding your head, completely unable to utter a word.

"You're being so good for me," he grunted, pushing lazily in your walls. "Fuck, so perfect. You're gonna give me one more? Cum for me again, baby."

You groaned loudly and nodded frantically. "Yeah," you mewled.

"Rub your clit. I'll cum with you," he muttered and smiled again when you complied with zero hesitation.

But you brought the hand that was on his nape to his lips and he understood immediately, and took the pads of your fingers inside his mouth to coat them with his drool along with a groan.

Then you gently pressed the now wet fingertips on your clit and started flicking swiftly, you knew it was game over for you again.

You threw your head back a bit, jaw going slack as Joshua continued fucking you open on your table, grunting and cussing over and over again as your walls started cramping erratically around his cock again.

"Uum fuck-k," you gasped, your muscles contracting erratically. "Joshua, god–Joshua!" you cried out harder. "I'm cumming, I'm–gaah!"

Joshua moaned in response, but continued ramming his cock inside and out, not wanting to tear his eyes off you, writhing on your table, crying out his name for the whole building to hear.

It didn't take much for you to drag him over the edge again, it was just so irresistible, and it felt so good to be in there with you; both so drunk on each other.

"That's it, baby. Take it all," he whispered, completely lost in you, so much that he couldn't believe that he was already cumming for the third time that day.

Joshua blinked lazily as he pushed his hips sloppily, dumping his load inside your walls with a blissful groan and faint babbles about how good you were for him, calling you his over and over again.

You were breathing hard, rendered speechless, your arm supporting your body was shaking slightly as you stopped writhing from your high.

"Joshua," you whimpered, signaling for him to stop.

"Too much, sweetheart?" he cooed, reading your face with his eyes.

You nodded wordlessly and he complied immediately, his hips coming to a stop, his chest heaving and completely covered in hickeys and sweat.

"Hungry now?" he smiled weakly.

"Mmyeah," you mumbled clumsily.

"Let's go wash and then we eat," he nodded back to the bathroom.

"Get out of me first," you smiled playfully at him.

He sighed a smile, his eyes glinting with something you couldn't place. He reached out beside you on the table and motioned you to lie back again.

Then you noticed he had reached out for our panties he discarded on the table and hooked them on your ankles, sliding them up your legs and you lifted your hips for him to fit them properly.

"Thanks," you muttered happily.

"D'you still have questions for me, sweetheart?" he asked out of the blue, his hands beside you hovering over your body on your table.

You blinked a bit surprised. "Yeah," a frown appeared on your face. "Why?"

"How about," he booped your nose with his finger, "we eat, and we go somewhere you can ask away all you want."

"Why, I can ask you right now," you shrugged slightly, the small smile remaining on your face.

"I'm jus' saying since we can't be around each other for two minutes without having sex," he chuckled breathily.

You giggled sweetly and his heart clenched again. "Alright, mister. It's a plan."

Then you booped his nose and he smiled.

Joshua was actually a really good cook, not 'decent' as he said. However you didn't eat on the table, you both sat on your couch and ate to your heart's content.

The tv was on, but none of you were watching. You sat with your legs extended on the side and Joshua sat on the sofa beside you.

Sometimes you would catch him looking at you with the lightest smile on his face. You would laugh and roll your eyes at him, trying to play hard at his suggestive looks.

Maybe it was the fact that you were both half naked in your living room.

"What?" you finally managed to ask after he looked at you for the third time. Or when you caught him looking for the third time.

"I think I'd never seen you eat a full meal 'till now," he replied, eyes on his bowl, scratching with his chopsticks at nothing.

"Yeah, I'd never seen you eat either," you nodded with a small frown.

"You're cute," he muttered shyly. "You pout when you chew on your food."

You giggled. "No, I don't. Now you're just inventing stuff," you joked, but you couldn't ignore the fluttering in your stomach.

He rolled his eyes. "Right. Forget what I said. You actually look like a monster that's been starved for decades."

"That's more like it," you smiled at him.

"I'm never giving you a compliment again," he smiled, leaving his bowl on the side. "Want more, sweetheart?"

"I'm full," you left your bowl on the coffee table as well. "Thank you, Joshua."

"Don't thank me," he replied, leaning back on the sofa.

His legs were spread, a hand resting on his thigh and the other propping his head.

You swallowed hard and looked away. But he noticed, he stood up and squeezed his body on the couch lifting your body to place you on top of him.

He was smiling knowingly. "You're insatiable, princess. Did you know that?"

"What are you going to do about it?" you asked coyly.

"How about we just make out?" he laughed in embarrassment.

"Yeah, I'd like that," you breathed.

Joshua chuckled, dipping his head to kiss you deeply, smiling between your lips.

Joshua Hong, you idiot.

When his roommate gave him the tickets for the Aquarium night event, he failed to mention that it was an event intended for couples mainly. So the look on his face might have given him away immediately when he led you inside.

"You know, if you wanted to go out on a date with me, at least give me the courtesy of letting me know beforehand. I could've dressed better," you smiled impishly as you looked around the entrance of the place where the first thing you saw was a heart shaped sign that said: 'love is in the water.'

"I didn't know it was for couples," he admitted.

You gave him a look, and his heart sank. Why couldn't he just say that this was an actual date?

Maybe because this was not his style.

If it were up to him, he would have taken you somewhere else, and perhaps under different circumstances, he would have told you beforehand that he intended to go out with you seriously instead of dragging you on an impromptu date.

"We can leave," he put in quickly.

"No, it's okay. I don't want to leave," you reassured him. "I like aquariums."

"You do?" he pushed his eyebrows up.

"Yeah!" you smiled, pushing the door and holding it open for him.

He was dumbfounded still by the mess he brought you to.

"What else do you like?" he asked, walking beside you through a corridor that looked more like a glass tunnel crossing through water, fish darting away above, the soft light illuminating the path you walked together painted a soft blue glow on your skin.

"I'm asking the questions tonight, sir," you arched an eyebrow playfully.

"True, sorry," he returned the smile. "What do you want to know?"

"I know your birthday, your favorite color, I know that you go out with your mom on Sundays... Do you have siblings?"

"Only child," he muttered simply. "It's just me and my mom."

"Oh," you frowned cutely.

"It's fine, don't worry," he shrugged.

"O-okay," you nodded. "Is guitar the only instrument you play?"

"So you do have a list of questions, huh?" he asked jokingly. "I play the piano too."

"You know I do have a list," you quipped with a grin. "Will you show me one day?"

He smiled sweetly. "Sure."

You returned the smile before standing in front of large tanks showing pink jellyfish. You cooed cutely, looking mesmerized at the exhibit.

Something irked him. His hand itched to grab yours, to lace your fingers with his and stroll with you hand in hand. He wanted to show you off to the world, as though you were his entirely.

But instead of that, he just took out his phone and snapped a photo of you deep in your trance watching the jellyfishes floating in the water tank. You never noticed he did, but that was his plan all along.

"I always wanted to ask," you eyed him shyly, walking to the next tunnel, through the reefs and fishes swimming away. "Were you taught to tie rope?"

Joshua snickered. "Why do you want to know?"

You smiled through your blush. "I just can't imagine you learning from a tutorial on youtube."

"What's wrong about that?" he laughed. "I did learn some things on the internet. But before that, someone taught me."

Your eyes sparked with interest, turning away from the colorful schools of fish darting gracefully between swaying seaweed to face him. "And who–who was that?" you stammered a little.

"An ex," he put it simply.

"Girlfriend?" you mused, trying to sound uninterested.

But Joshua noticed, his eyes fixed on your face as he nodded. "Former dom. Long time ago, bunny."

Your eyes widened, your mouth even dropped in the tiniest 'o'. "You used to have a dom?" you whispered, but couldn't hide your disbelief.

"For a while," he replied simply, not caring much about sharing his past with you, he wanted you to know all about him, so he felt like he could be more open.

"Did you like being a sub?" you asked nervously.

"It was alright. Fun, short-lived," Joshua shrugged.

"Why did you change?" you pried.

"I prefer having control," he sighed with a gentle smile.

"Mm yeah, that I do know," you smirked, looking up to the water ceiling, your eyes following each fish that swam by. "Would you let me dom you?"

Joshua's laugh reverberated across the tunnel, he even threw his head back a little.

"Don't laugh!" you mumbled sheepishly. "I'm serious."

"Sorry. I know you're serious," he replied, bringing a hand to your back as he walked beside you. "You just took me off guard."

"Why, you don't think I can do it?" you pressed, although you felt like it was quite obvious.

He ran a hand through his black hair, pushing it back. "Honestly? I don't know. But if it's something you want to try, we can do it some time. I can teach you a few things."

"Is there anything you want to try with me?" you mused, glancing up at his big doe eyes and the water ceiling on top of him.

"Mmm, dunno. I think I might be down for anything you want, honestly," he confessed, then paused. "Is there anything you want to try, bunny?"

"Mmm," you hummed and Joshua smiled when he noticed you've been echoing him a lot lately. "There's a lot I haven't experienced. Car sex, mirror sex, butt stuff," you laughed then looked down meekly before adding: "Threesomes."

"Do you want to have a threesome?" he asked, looking around to make sure no one heard his voice over the soft music playing through the speakers.

You shrugged. "I mean, only if you want, obviously," you gave him an abashed look.

"Huh," he smiled broadly. "I don't know how I feel about that," he admitted through his smile.

"If you don't want to, it's fine. It's just something I thought might be hot, y'know, being... shared," you stuttered quickly, scratching the back of your head awkwardly.

"I think it will take me a while to be ready to share you with someone else, honestly," he mumbled shamefully, standing before a large exhibit, where the vibrant hues of exotic fish shimmer under the gentle illumination.

It looked something like watching a meteor shower, Joshua thought. The fish were darting in all directions, glittering in the dark ocean depths, and he almost fell into another trance, seeing you enveloped in a silvery aura in the dim lights.

"That's fine," you smiled nervously. "We can try other things."

"Maybe in some other time we can try," he conceded.

"Never done it before?" you asked, your cute eyes reading his face.

He rolled his eyes with an uneasy smile. "I've done it before, princess. A few times."

"Then why...?" you frowned slightly.

You didn't get to finish your question, instead you shook your head and turned to face the underwater life, letting yourself be drawn by the next exhibit. Joshua gravitated naturally around you so he followed closely.

"Maybe we can try it when I don't feel as... you know, possessive," he mentioned offhandedly, looking away from you to the ceiling.

"Joshua, it's okay," he heard you smile and his eyes trailed back at your face. "We don't have to do it now. I don't think I'd be able to try it with anyone else that isn't you."

That sent a strange fuzzy feeling down his body.

"Yeah? Why is that?" he mused.

"I dunno," you mumbled sheepishly, avoiding his gaze while you twiddled your fingers around the necklace you wore. "I feel safe with you, Joshua. You don't mock me for my inexperience, or make me feel bad in any way when you teach me things. And I trust you would take care of me in anything we try together."

There was no one around inside the small exhibit, in fact, the large glass wall showed nothing but water, since the lonely beluga had already swam out of sight a couple of minutes ago.

"That's the only thing I care about," he replied, the feeling coiling in his throat had robbed his voice. "Your trust in me."

You raised your eyes back at him, there was a glint of emotion in them Joshua couldn't quite place. You gaped slightly, as if wanting to say something but fell short of courage.

But then your eyes trailed down to his lips, then back at his eyes and he understood what you meant. He knew you were shy about a lot of things, not just things revolving around the physical, so he decided to initiate.

"C'mere," he muttered, wrapping one arm across the small of your back, pulling you close to him as the other hand cupped your chin.

Joshua slowly captured your lips with his own, feeling his heart melt under the softness of your skin, the taste of your sweet breath as you sighed in his mouth.

Joshua Hong, you idiot, his internal voice reprimanded again.

He should've known why he was feeling this uneasy.

He should've known the minute he saw you standing outside his door for the first time. Then, he would've gotten the opportunity to make things right with you—to ask you for a date, to get to know you better, to win your heart over.

But no, he let his hedonistic ways get in the way first. Now, will he get the opportunity to make things right with you?

"Joshua," you breathed. "I–"

"You don't have to say anything. Please," he interrupted, afraid you were about to pull back, to tell him something witty that drives the moment away from him.

But you tangled your fingers in his tousled black hair, stopped at the nape of his neck and pulled him in for a deeper kiss, teeth clashing and breath hitching, both of you desperate to tell each other without words what you couldn't yet say to each other.

"I really, really like when it rains," he murmured against your lips. "In fact, whenever it rains I go for a walk. Same with snow. I used to be a choir boy and used to stay up all night reading the Percy Jackson books."

You began to laugh heartily into his mouth, his hand was cupping the side of your face, as he pressed feathery kisses to your lips in between choppy phrases spoken frantically.

"I like pastries and ice cream," he laughed a little at himself, but held you firmly to his body, as if for support. "I like to play slow music when I feel stressed. I like midnight walks when I feel lost."

His fingers clenched lightly around your hair, his face scrunching up to fight the uneasiness of sharing stuff about him with you.

"I also like to drive. Whenever I need to think I drive somewhere. I think that's why I related to you that night we first talked on the rooftop," he murmured hastily, as if trying to get the words out before he couldn't contain himself. "You have your rooftop, I drive my car."

You smiled against his lips, feebly trying not to cry from the flood of feelings that overwhelmed you.

"I..." he faltered for a second. "I really like sleeping next to you. I like doing normal stuff with you, not just sex—cooking, doing the dishes, grocery runs, all of it. I really like doing the laundry, we can do that together someday, would you like that?"

"I'd love that, Joshua," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly.

"Yeah? I also want you to go to more of my concerts, I liked seeing you singing in the crowd," he muttered with a strangled sigh.

"Just tell me when and I'll be there," you replied, completely enthralled by him.

"I don't know right now, just—I... want to be there when you publish your book," he mumbled, swallowing hard.

Joshua didn't let you give him a reply, he kissed you again, afraid of his own emotions, afraid of what you would say. He felt vulnerable and he didn't like it.

But you saw that. You could see it in the way he struggled to get the words out. And you understood that so well, better than anyone.

So you followed the kiss, feeling elated, almost to the point that your knees threatened to give out, but his arm held you tightly close to his own body.

"Do you want to stay for dinner?" he asked both gruffly and dazedly. "I think there's a live jazz band or something."

"We're a little late for dinner, I think. And we've been listening to the band all along," you told him with a faint chuckle.

"Really?" he responded aloofly. "Then, in that case, can I take you home? Or do you still want to look around?"

"You can take me home," you replied, caressing his cheek with a thumb.

"Sleep together?" he mused with a small grin that didn't fully show his teeth.

"I'd love that," you replied, melting at seeing his smile, turning his eyes into crescent moons.

"Okay," he whispered, letting himself be overtaken by the unrested feeling in his chest. "Let's go then."

And true to his word, the tension in Joshua's features had relaxed, and he almost looked excited when you got back to your apartment. He quickly went to him to grab a change of clothes and his toothbrush.

"Hey, you're back," Seokmin welcomed him as Joshua pushed to his apartment's door. "How did it go?"

Joshua came back from his bedroom with his arms full of clothes and a hand grabbing his toothbrush.

"I suppose it went well?" Seokmin let out a low chuckle as Joshua nodded and walked to the door. "Just try to be quiet tonight? I really do need a peaceful night's sleep."

"Sure thing," Joshua muttered, totally not listening.

When he came back to your apartment, you seemed to be tidying up your bedroom a bit. It didn't need tidying but it was a fixation of yours, since you were trying to hide your nervousness away.

"Hey," you muttered. "That was fast."

"I just needed a few things," he shrugged, but in fact, he didn't want to waste a second with you. "Besides, it takes like thirty seconds to get to my room from your apartment."

"Oh, that reminds me!" you almost jumped from where you stood in your bedroom and hurried to your little studio and came back with a naked manuscript, handing it out to him with a smile. "Here."

"Is this what I think it is?" Joshua took the very heavy pile of white sheets all neatly bound with stitches. "Did you bind it yourself?"

"I did. How did you know?" you asked bewildered.

"Just a guess," he smiled softly, wrapping a hand on the sewn binding and tuning the first blank page to find the working title of your book.

He turned the second page, where he found a handwritten note in your hand that read:

dedication: to...

"Is this annotated too?" his widened eyes turned to yours and you nodded eagerly. "This is so cool," he sighed.

But not only that, as he turned the next page, he also found small doodles on the corners, next to side annotations.

"I'll give you a full review when I'm back," he smirked.

"You will? I'd love that Joshua," you cooed softly, and he finally tore his eyes from your manuscript, left it aside on the nightstand and wrapped an arm around you.

"Of course I will, baby," he pressed his lips on the tip of your nose.

When it was time to go to bed, it felt like another world to be so comfortable and normal with each other. It almost turned his stomach when he couldn't help but feel a crushing affection for you.

He brushed his teeth at the same time you did, pushed each other to use the sink, and laughed together. When it was time to put on pyjamas, he simply undressed, keeping only his briefs on, and smiled at your bunny pyjamas.

You yanked the covers of your bed open and climbed on one side of the bed, looking at him expectantly. Joshua took the space beside you, slipping an arm beneath your body to drag you close to his chest, hugging you snuggly.

You caressed his bare chest with one hand, over the red hickeys and the older brown ones and smiled softly. Your hand trailed up to the side of his face and craned your neck to reach his lips with your own.

He breathed out in both pleasure and bliss to kiss you so tenderly, both so tired to even go past kisses but wanting to.

"G'night Joshua," you whispered in his lips, pressing one final one before snuggling your face against his chest.

"Good night, bunny," he muttered, kissing the crown of your head before closing his eyes himself.

In the morning, you woke up first to find him sleeping beside you. Your stomach twisting nervously as soon as you laid eyes on his relaxed features.

He was lying face up, so you had enough space to rest the side of your head on his chest, which he felt and lazily threw an arm around you, his fingers reaching for your head to tangle in your hair.

"You talked a lot last night, sweetheart," he muttered with a light laugh.

"Oh, god," you sighed. "'m sorry."

"Don't worry. It was fun," he responded with ease.

"What did I say this time?" you darted a look to his face, his eyes were close and seemed to be half asleep still.

"I couldn't get anything this time. Well, just one word," he laughed and that seemed to shake him awake.

"Which was...?"

"Jellyfishes," he muttered and giggled softly.

"Pfft," you huffed with a smile. "Oh, god. Really?"

"Mmm-huh," he hummed softly, his sweet voice reverberating in his chiseled chest.

"Sorry, Josh," you mumbled.

"I like it, bunny," he muttered lazily.

Truth be told he almost took his phone and recorded you talking in your sleep. But he refrained since it was just a crazed desire that might be misunderstood deeply.

"M'kay," you hummed.

"I have rehearsals in a couple of hours," he mentioned with reluctance. "But I want to see you before I leave tomorrow, is that okay?"

You lifted your head to see his face, he blinked lazily at you, his face relaxed and when his eyes locked on yours, he smiled slightly.

"Yeah, of course it is okay," you replied. "You don't have to ask that."

"Mmm," he hummed thoughtfully but then, he asked. "Do you like French toast?"

Joshua cooked breakfast humming a joyful tune and you helped in what you could against his protests. But he couldn't help but feel elated at you being beside him, helping him cook breakfast.

When it was time for him to go, he leaned back on your door, before opening it so you could cup his face with your hands and kiss him tenderly. He didn't want to go, he wanted to spend all day in bed with you, making out with you, fucking you silly and then taking care of you.

"I'll call you when I'm free, okay?" he muttered in your lips, his heart going crazy when you swiped a line on his lower lip with the tip of your tongue.

"Okay," you replied, pressing more kisses on his lips, making him giggle.

"If you're going to be like this every time I go away, I think I'm just going to go away more often," he joked.

"Shuddup, Joshua," you whined, slapping his shoulder playfully.

"Alright, alright," he giggled sweetly.

"See you in a bit, then?" you asked in a high pitched tone, which he made note of.

"Yeah. See you in a bit, baby," he returned the smile to you, before grazing your cheek with his knuckles to then lean down to kiss you goodbye and turned to leave.

"Joshuji, you haven't been sleeping well?"

Joshua looked over at Jeonghan, who was ravishing a plate of fried rice with a focused expression in his face.

"Why you ask?" he frowned, the question came out of nowhere, since they had been chatting over seemingly nothing important a minute ago.

"Your eyes look swollen," his best friend replied, rubbing the air in front of his own eyes. "Have you been crying?"

"What. No, Han," he shook his head. "I just had a long night, that's all."

"Mmm," he hummed and nodded his head, his fluffy dark hair dangling in his forehead.

Joshua wasn't lying. He really did have a long night. Not by choice, though, he just felt really restless. With upcoming concerts, rehearsals and pending conversations with you, he couldn't find peace in his thoughts.

Rehearsal was totally botched by his inability to focus, because no matter what he did, his thoughts would revert back to you.

[18:21 PM] bunny: I'm still in the middle of this book interview, I'll let you know as soon as it's over. 😊

Jeonghan's eyes narrowed when the phone buzzed on the table and Joshua practically jerked awake from his daydream and his hand flew to look at his screen.

"Who's that?" his best friend inquired.

"No one," Joshua muttered quickly.

He had asked you an hour ago if you were free for him to go see you. And as always, you were in the middle of something. You did tell him in passing that you had a live stream with a popular pair of content creators that invited you to talk about your upcoming book.

[18:21 PM] bunny: Maybe by 8 pm. Is that okay with you? [18:21 PM] bunny: I don't know yet. They were wrapping up half an hour ago but still going 🫥 [18:21 PM] bunny: They're not even asking me things anymore. They're talking to each other [18:21 PM] bunny: I think it's good that I don't have to show my face 'cause the don't see me texting you

Joshua smiled, but his joy was cut short when Jeonghan's head blocked Joshua's line of view, taking a peek at the phone in his hands.

"Stop it, Han," he muttered, pushing the smaller man out of the way.

"Oh, you have a girlfriend!" Jeonghan cooed, then stopped and his shoulders went slack. "Wait, you have a girlfriend? Since when? And how did that happen?"

"I don't have a girlfriend," he replied tiredly. "Mind your business."

Jeonghan chuckled. "Oooh, I see," he muttered and resumed eating his food.

But his best friend said nothing else. And that might have sent Joshua on a spiral.

"What?" he muttered reluctantly.

"Nothing, nothing," Jeonghan responded, looking at his food.

"Tell me," he pushed.

"Is this what's got you in a bad mood?" Jeonghan's lithe fingers pushed the empty plate on the table.

"Like what?"

He shrugged. "Impatient. Barely touching your food, barely talking."

That much was true, as well. His plate was still half full, and he was not a man to leave food on his plate, but he simply did not have the appetite to keep eating.

"It's just—I'm sorry, Han," Joshua muttered and sighed heavily. "I can't think straight. You're right, I didn't sleep last night."

Jeonghan breathed a low chuckle. "Ah, I'm always right, Shuji," he joked but faltered when Joshua sent him a dark stare. "You wanna talk about it?"

Joshua dropped his chopsticks and pressed his elbows on the table. "No. I don't know—I haven't told anyone about this."

Jeonghan dropped his playful act upon seeing the torn expression on Joshua's face.

"What's wrong?" Jeonghan's serene brown eyes studied Joshua briefly. "Something bad happened?"

"No, not at all," he shook his head briefly. "I don't know."

Joshua sighed and called for the bill.

"You're not gonna tell me?" Jeonghan asked in bewilderment.

"No. Fuck, I don't know. I can't focus," Joshua's transfixed eyes landed on the table before him.

"Pfft," Jeonghan leaned back on the chair. "I'm exhausted of being everyone's therapist. No wait, scratch that, I hate that I have to fucking wait until you explode and have no one else to run to but me."

Joshua met his eye for the first time. "Oh, you're for sure not talking about me," he chuckled darkly. "Fine, I'll tell you but you're going to shut your mouth until I'm done talking."

Jeonghan followed Joshua out of the restaurant after they had paid the bill.

"I'm listening," he pressed.

"I'm... seeing someone," Joshua muttered, and felt every cell in his body protest against continuing. "God, this is insane."

He stopped abruptly on the sidewalk, making Jeonghan bump shoulders with him.

"I need a drink," he blurted, running a hand over his black hair.

Jeonghan looked wearily at his friend. "Let's go to mine. It's closest," he nodded towards the end of the street.

Jeonghan handed him a short glass with whisky on the rocks.

"Thanks, man," Joshua muttered, frowning a little over his best friend's hospitality.

"Don't mention it," Jeonghan said, popping a can of beer.

Joshua took a large gulp of whisky and slid the empty glass on the coffee table. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees.

"I don't know how else to say it," Joshua muttered, still wearing an empty expression on his face.

"Just say it," Jeonghan shrugged. "How bad can it be?"

"I'm fucking my next door neighbour," he blurted, cringing internally at every word, scrunching up his face.

The ice-cubes in Joshua's now emptied whisky glass shifted and for a whole minute that was the only thing he heard after muttering those words.

Joshua's big doe eyes lifted from the emptiness and found an expressionless Jeonghan.

"That's not bad," he said finally with a shrug. "Is she married or... why are you so pent up about it?"

"No, she's single. She's... driving me insane," he dropped his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes harshly.

"Why? I don't get it," he heard his best friend ask.

"It started two months ago. And I didn't think it would lead anywhere, I really thought she would just get tired of me and–," he sighed and brushed his hand over the air as if trying to push you out of his mind.

"I'm getting the bottle, hold on," Jeonghan said, rising from his sofa.

Jeonghan brought the whole bottle to the fancy coffee table he had in the middle of his living room. The apartment was obnoxiously large and every piece of furniture looked carefully selected. Like the coffee table in front of Joshua's knees.

"Thanks," Joshua said as he downed his second glass of whisky.

Joshua was particularly resilient when it came to drinking. So he wasn't worried about getting drunk. He could keep going all night if he wanted to.

But no, he made a promise to go see you first.

Joshua let out a sharp breath when the whisky warmed his throat.

"At first it was just casual sex, just fun. But it's becoming more serious lately and I don't know how to stop," he blurted the last words with a clenched jaw.

Jeonghan waited, perhaps because he didn't know what to say or because he saw that his friend was still gathering his thoughts.

"I don't know what to do," he concluded in a faint murmur, running the tip of his finger over the rim of his glass.

And like a work of magic, his phone started buzzing again, vibrating furiously against the glass table.

Joshua frowned, looking deeply obfuscated at the phone screen. You were calling him.

"You're not going to get that?" Jeonghan said, evidently knowing that it was you who was calling, since Joshua's display had that photo he took of you and your contact read only one word: 'bunny'.

"Yeah," his voice was rendered to a whisper. "Give me one minute."

Jeonghan nodded and stood up from the sofa, pretending to be busy himself elsewhere.

"Hi there," you told him and he could tell immediately that you were in a chipper mood than usual.

"Hi bunny," Joshua muttered, a smile instantly spreading on his lips. "How was the interview?"

"It was fine. It's just a pair of kids with a bunch of questions about the book. They were fun, it dragged on, though," he could hear you munching on something while you talked to him.

"Mm, yeah. I noticed," he muttered, his eyes briefly scanning his surroundings to make sure Jeonghan was out of earshot. His friend was nowhere to be seen.

"And you? How was your thing with your friend? Are you home right now? Why don't you come over and we talk here?" he could almost picture your sweet smile and the way you act shy when you prompt him to do something.

"I'm at his house right now," he replied shortly.

"Oh, really? What are you guys doing? Am I interrupting?" you asked nervously.

"We're actually talking about you," Joshua smiled deviously despite himself.

"What—no you're not. Stop playing or I'm hanging up," you said and that reminded him why he was in this mess.

He played too far.

"Can I call you in an hour, bunny?" Joshua asked abruptly.

"Sure. Let me know if you're coming by later, will you?" you asked. "I want to see you before you leave."

"I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye," he muttered and could feel his own face contorting into a frown.

"I'll hold you to that statement," you sighed into his ear and he knew you were smiling.

"You won't have to, baby," he lowered his head as he spoke to the phone in a low tone, as though he didn't want the walls to hear him. "I promise."

"Alright. I'll leave you with your friend. See you in a bit, then?"

Joshua smiled when he heard what appeared to be a new tradition between you two.

"See you in a bit, bunny," he muttered and hung up.

Joshua looked around again, but this time he found Jeonghan standing in the open kitchen, eyes big, mouth wide open in a smile. Because of course he was listening. Was he hiding all this time? Joshua imagined his best friend hiding behind the kitchen counters.

Joshua let out a heavy sigh and returned to his position of hiding his face in his large hands.

"You are down horrendous," his best friend punctuated each word.

"Fuck off," Joshua bit back, his voice muffled by the palms of his hands.

Jeonghan returned to his sofa, curling into a ball. His friend looked shocked, but almost giddy. Like a child seeing fireworks for the first time.

"Seriously, Joshua," his jaw dropped a little. "Why are you here? I thought you were all wind up because you wanted to end things with her. But here you are, actually whipped."

"I am not whipped. I can't believe you were eavesdropping," he groaned in defeat. "I'm here because I can't find an appropriate way to tell her."

"What, you don't know how to speak your mind?" his friend asked, sounding dumbfounded. "That's a first. Why can't you just man up and tell her? By the way you talked to her I can only assume it's mutual."

Was it mutual, though? Every time he tried to initiate the conversation or said something remotely romantic or affectionate you seemed to turn away from him and change the conversation.

"I don't know if it is—mutual, I mean," Joshua declared and a shudder shook his bones. "I've tried to tell her, but it's never the right time. It's confusing. It happened so fast and I wish I could've done things differently with her."

"Leave then," Jeonghan shrugged with ease. "Don't waste your time and hers. You know better than that, Shuji."

"I know, I know," he muttered with a weary sigh and slowly rose from the sofa, dragging every inch of his body up. "Wish me luck."

Jeonghan followed him with his inquisitive eyes. "You'll do the right thin—you fucker, you're not planning on following through with this?"

Joshua's cheeky smile gave him away fast.

"Fuck, you're going to regret this," his friend followed him out the spacious apartment. "Well, you know where to find me."

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the drink, Han."

When he finally got to your door, he thought of all the times he's stood there, all the times you answered—and the times you didn't. It felt to him like he spent more time standing outside your door than in his own apartment.

"Hi bunny," he smiled when his eyes landed on your face.

He suddenly forgot his hysterical episode earlier. He forgot everything he was planning to tell you. Something inside him wondered when the time would come when he would stand in front of your door to tell you that he is falling in love with you. But he could push all his feelings away.

All to have another night with you.

Even if it killed him a little.

✮ a/n: hellooo! ( •̀ ω •́ )✧

i'm sorry this chapter was so long!!! i had so much fun writing from joshua's pov and it just went out of my hands — this fic is so self-indulgent i love it

so if you liked this part please let me know? (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)

happy new years everyoneeee! ilyyy

READ PART 6

– join my taglist!

#joshua hong smut #svt smut #joshua smut #seventeen smut #svt fanfic #joshua hong x reader #joshua hong fanfic #svt x reader #ff:city lights #hannieween

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sofie-toffy · 1 year ago

Text

Mizu Headcanons

AN: Broo ive just finished blue eye samurai and im obsessed w it..so here are some headcanons! SHE WAS SO FINE IN THE LAST SCENE BTW UGHH

(I’ll be separating it based on genre eg. angst or fluff)

Warnings: Angst, Contains mentions of death & murder, spoilers! The fluff is x reader

(if you know me irl, no you don’t)

Angst:

- Mizu often thinks about how life would be if she chose to forgave her husband and didn’t kill him

- After Ringo leaving her she feels awful for what she’s done and wishes that she could let go of her revenge path but cannot

- Once Mizu’s “mother” betrayed her and Mizu killed her, she still had the motive of killing her father, but instead of the motive to avenge her mother it was to curse the man that made her live in the first place

- She understood that she never should’ve been born in the first place and was born as monstrous, hence her obsession with revenge. But there is obviously a part of her that wants to live a peaceful life

- She normally has panic attacks but no one has ever witnessed them except Swordfather

- When she was with her husband (the night before the sparring) that was the only time she felt loved for who she was

- She wanted to show who she really was as her husband asked to, and once she did she was called “a monster” and now she’s reluctant to show anyone even half of who she really is

- She overworks herself to the point of exhaustion and most times collapses, forgetting to eat and rest

- Whenever she checks her reflection, she imagines herself with brown/black eyes

- (Canon) she wears the same clothes she wore since she was a child and stitches them whenever they tear

- because of her binder she often has trouble breathing but she’s so used to it she thinks it’s normal

- She once wanted to gouge her eyes out so she won’t witness the looks of disgust when they see her eyes

- She’s entirely convinced that there’s no way she’ll ever be truly loveable. She’s convinced she’s monstrous in every way, from the hues of her blue eyes to the violence she bears

(MY POOR BABY I LOVE HER SM I JUST WANNA SEE HER HAPPY N SATISFIED 😭😭)

Fluff/Not angst(finally)

- Love language is quality time & acts of service

- Although she’s not aware of it, she has an unconscious fixation with music. Mizu has always been drawn to musical festivals and it both calms and excites her

- If given the time, she normally asks if you want to go to festivals (her unnamingly pleading for you to agree) and her face is relaxed the whole time, her fingers intertwined with yours

- I feel her normal dates with you would be very simple. She’d enjoy just spending time with you, quietly or with small chatter

- She loves stargazing with you. My god. Laying beside each other, feeling each others warmth contrary to the harsh snow as you look at the different constellations

- Actually, you’d be looking at the constellation while she looks at you with a small smile tugging at her lips, while she adores the light in your eyes as you gaze up

- Speaking of holding hands she LOVES to hold your hand, doesn’t matter if your hand is cold or warm, it intertwines with hers perfectly

- Whenever you compliment her eyes she doesn’t believe you until you say it a thousand times

- takes a LONG time to warm up to you, but once she does it is SO worth it

- unconsciously misses your warmth, once sleeping she searches for your hand to hold or for you to hug

- speaking of hugging, i think she can be both spoons but mostly big spoon

- loves resting her head on your chest but loves wrapping her arms around you, ensuring that you are safe

AN: GUYS I NEED HER SO BAD U DONT GET IT

#blue eye samurai #blueeyesamurai #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu #mizu x reader #mizu x you #mizu headcanons #mizuxreaderhc #headcanon #headcanons #mizu fanart #fluff #besfluff #besangst #angst #fanfic

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lucysgraybird · 3 months ago

Note

Billy x female reader where she gets the same sickness as her mother and brother but she manages to survive and he takes her to their graves (yep long hours traveling) just to share that part of his past with her because he loves her and is glad she survived because he wouldn’t have bared another lose

hiiii this is so brutally late. im sorry. ive also adjusted a little because i wanted to write it but im so bad at writing travel and couldn't figure out a way to do it that didn't feel drawn out but i can do a part 2 if u want!!

warnings: dscs of death and illness

Billy feels like he's been living in a haze. First a haze of ignorance, pretending that he didn't recognize the wet, hacking sound of the coughs you muffled into your elbow, that the way your brow bloomed with dry heat didn't throw him back into the pit of being seventeen and curled around his mother's febrile form. Then a moment of clarity, like a bucket of ice dumped over his head, when the doctor touched his elbow and confirmed consumption. Finally, and he can't decide which stage he's hated most, a thick fog of despair and desperation, rimy water dripping from washcloths down his arm in twin trails to the sweat he's wiping from your forehead, trying to convince himself of minute drops in your dogged temperature. He nurses broth down your raw throat and prayers up his own, pleas to a God he might not believe in to just leave him with something good in this world and pleas to himself to believe that this time will be different.

And he might just make a return to church, because his calls are answered. Slowly, like a slug creeping to salt, you recover. Color fades from the pyretic spots high on your cheeks and returns to the rest of your face, you sleep through the night without a coughing fit tearing you awake. The brightness in your eyes starts to look more lively and less dazed, and eventually you're strong enough to stand and bathe. Billy helps you into the tub and then opts to sit outside the door -- close enough that his anxiety isn't spiking, that if something happens he can help, but far enough that you can regain some of the autonomy that is ripped away in illness.

He'll never quite figure out why he says this. Maybe it’s the dim candlelight, coaxing the world out of reality and into a dream, a place where anything that happens will stay forever locked somewhere out of time. Maybe it’s that he wants to pretend you have the kind of relationship that demands this honesty, because you've said “‘Til death do us part” and meant it and so he owes you his greatest love and his deepest fears. He'd give you the former without question, of course, but he's still practicing that the latter is an unavoidable sidecar to that kind of devotion.

"I thought you were going to die," he says, and his stomach immediately twists in shame. You're recovering still, and here he is making it about himself. When you don't say anything, surely listening in that tranquil, soft-eyed way that you somehow always managed, he continues.

"I wish you could've met my ma. She was...good, like you. At her core, that's all there was, this sturdy kindness that I never understood how she maintained. Sometimes she'd say that when good people died young, it meant that God thought that spirit belonged more in Heaven than on Earth, and I was so scared that he got...impatient again, with you, and I was so scared that..."

Silence for a moment, then your voice, still hoarse:

"I would've liked to meet her too. She must have been quite the woman, to have raised someone like you."

Billy snorts out a laugh. "Something like that."

There's the sound of sloshing, and Billy can see the way your spine curves in his mind's eye, chest pressed to your thighs and chin rested on your knee. He can hear the way the position stretches your neck in your voice when you speak.

"I'm not letting anyone take me away from you. I don't care how much I'm needed somewhere else, I need to be here with you. You make it easy to be this good, Billy. It isn't in spite of yourself that you always manage to find warmth; there isn't a fire I've found that...exists without stoking."

Tears prickle his eyes and his throat tightens so that the next deep breath he takes squeaks like his voice is dropping again. He can't bring himself to use the crackly tone he knows is the only one he can access now.

"We should visit your ma," you suggest. "Someone's gotta tell her what a wonderful young man she raised."

"Her grave is far," he manages, though the end of the sentence cracks and so does the dam, silent tears streaking his face. In all truth, it's not outrageously far, but he's been scared to visit. Scared to tell his ma who he's had to (chosen to?) become, scared she'll smell the gunsmoke that seems to cling to his hands and clothes and memories, scared she'll meet the ghosts that have become more like his shadow.

There's the patter of wet feet on the bathroom floor and he stands with the intention of making himself scarce by the time you emerge, leaving nothing but the pale ghost of his vulnerability on the floor outside the bathroom as proof of the wall that just crumbled there. He'll calm in bed until you're done bathing, and hope for your mercy in disregarding his momentary fragility. But the door clicks open and there you are in your nightgown. There you are with your skin scrubbed clean, you with your hair in the braid you wear to sleep. There you are with tears on your face, with your arms open to him like the Virgin Mary, offering a forgiveness that he doesn't deserve. The guilt of this will carve stigmata into his hands later, nailing him to the cross of his history, but for now he takes the pity and collapses into you.

"We'll start out tomorrow," you say, overcoming the awkward angle your height difference creates to pet his hair. "I'd like to meet her. We should bring her flowers."

#ehhhh . idk how i feel about this #(presses post)#tom blyth #billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #tom blyth x reader #billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid imagine #billy bonney #billy the kid hc #billy the kid x you #william h bonney fanfiction #william h bonney x you #william h bonney x reader #william h bonney imagine #william h bonney

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philtstone · 9 months ago

Note

Eowyn, 1

1 - in lonely beds ive finally scraped together a functional first scene for my accidentally-a-psych 3 hunters detective agency au. if you guys like this mess i'll turn it into a real fic. with chapters and a plot and everything!!!!! the prompt is ... interpreted but loneliness and my girl eowyn are well acquainted

It is four o'clock on a Tuesday and Eowyn Eomundsdottir has three significant problems.

Arrest, rapid-onset dementia, and laundry.

Each of her issues is easily explainable if considered separately. Eowyn is the first to admit that her brother Eomer’s always had a bit of a temper, and if she puts aside the necessary development of maturity and commitment to familial responsibilities that happened after their parents died, it was always a matter of time before some poor idiot pressed his buttons in just the wrong-enough way in front of another just the wrong-enough idiot to get him jailed overnight for knocking in an unwitting nose.

Plenty of people’s uncles develop rapid-onset dementia, she is freely ready to acknowledge.

And – if Eowyn may be so self-aware – she has certainly fallen behind on her laundry many times before.

But no matter how short her brother’s temper, he wouldn’t be arrested for trying to embezzle family funds. Rapid-onset dementia is far less likely when there is next to nil history of it in your family tree, and even less so when the Uncle in question is a scant fifty-three and doing perfectly fine not two months ago. And, most importantly: Eowyn has fallen behind on laundry before, but never because of the above-mentioned two issues, and never such that the only thing she’s got left to wear is a thin white sundress from when she was fourteen that is too short at the knees and not at all suited for the early spring cold spell they are currently experiencing, nor the creepy wandering eyes of Uncle Theoden’s new business manager, who routinely looks like he’s been doused in oil.

It’s fucking miserable, is what it is. Her knees have goosepimpled, she’s so cold. And to make matters worse, her cousin Theodred, whom she would usually text for help in a crisis, seems to have blocked her phone number.

That, Eowyn simply can’t believe.

It’s because of all these things that she finds herself standing at the dingy brick building by the docks, eyeing the circling seagulls warily, and clutching her backpack in one hand and her bike helmet — which has left her long blonde hair looking like a birds nest — in the other. It’s a small place, with a glass window in place of a front wall that’s got the blinds drawn on the inside. There’s no official sign, but someone has taped a small piece of cardstock to the back of the windowpane, facing out. It reads, in surprisingly elegant black Sharpie penmanship:

Telcontar, Gloinson & Thranduilion Private Investigators for Hire

Beneath this, there is an additionally taped series of brightly coloured post-it notes, which are scrawled over with the following in various hands:

Got a phone! +1591-334-9920 (If no one answers the door, call the number! We DO NOT have a website.) That’s because Gimli thinks the government is spying on us. SO DO YOU! All inquiries welcome :-)

Eowyn takes a moment to read through it all. Then she pauses, listening. There is the distinct sound of voices from within, muffled. So someone must be home, then – better just to open the door, rather than knock, in case no one hears her. She takes a deep, steadying breath, tugs at the too-short hem of her dress, and twists the doorknob.

Inside there is what can only be described as carefully organized chaos.

Within the small office space there is a cluttered desk housing a laptop and overlarge monitor. Boxes cover everything, as though someone has only just moved in, and a lopsided whiteboard rests against the far wall, covered in a far less elegant version than the hand that wrote the outside sign. Everything smells a little bit like camphor, and also cookies, and a very faint touch of gym socks. A man sits on a rolly chair in the corner; he is on his cellphone. Eowyn wouldn’t have even seen him if he wasn’t talking, so well does he somehow blend into the taupe walls and cluttered box decor, but as she does: he is tall (too tall for the chair), dark haired, and wearing an old grey hoodie, running shoes, and an abominably ratty pair of jeans. He’s talking on the phone in a low gentle voice that is nonetheless a touch put-upon, but nowhere near snippy or even frustrated. Eowyn (in a fit of fancy) doesn’t think a voice like that could be capable of snippiness, and then promptly feels very embarrassed by her own foolishness. At his feet, by the bottom of the whiteboard, a pile of dirty blankets rests. From within them sounds a plaintive meowing. Opera music plays from a speaker system Eowyn can’t see; a hammer (maybe?) is banging somewhere in the distant back room, the door to which hangs open on squeaky hinges; and two other voices can be heard arguing loudly from the same general direction.

Also, there is a young man, around Eowyn’s own age, standing very awkwardly with his green jumper and moppish brown hair to the immediate left of the door and looking as if he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing with himself. At Eowyn’s bewildered look, he offers her a pained smile and a weird little wave hullo. Eowyn waves weirdly back.

“Yeah – yeah, just a second. We’ve got a client –” The man in the rolly chair looks up at Eowyn and smiles. It is such a very nice, genuinely kind smile that Eowyn cannot help but smile back immediately and then feel her whole face go red; she’d be thoroughly soothed if she wasn’t also feeling so completely out of her depth. Bang bang bang, comes the hammer from the back room, along with a swelling of the arguing voices. “Someone will be with you in a second,” whisper-mouths the man. Then he reaches down, takes off one of his running shoes, and flings it very expertly through the open door. There is a small noise, like a crash, and the other two voices stop. He returns to his phone call.

“... what I was saying. No. No, I don’t want you to be halfway across the world. That’s not the point, the point is your dad stopped practicing ten years ago and now owns a bed and breakfast. He’s not the one who’d be navigating a corrupt healthcare system. Do you know how much lobby money lines the pockets of mega corporations? Remember the whole Nestle baby formula thing? The media definitely doesn’t …”

“Good afternoon!” declares a second, much louder voice, minutes before its owner materializes behind the cluttered desk. He is more beard than man, wears a very formal and very 1990s plum coloured suit and one single gold earring, and comes up to about Eowyn’s shoulder. He claps his hands together. “Now, which of you was here first? No – don’t tell me, I will guess!”

But his imminent guessing is interrupted by the third voice, floating in:

“I still can’t find it!”

Desk man deflates by a margin. Without turning his head, he calls,

“I told you to look in the third box!”

“I looked there. It’s not there, Gimli. I’ll try going through the books.”

“Why would a thing like that fit in a book?”

“Try the kitchen,” mouths the man on the rolly chair. A muffled woman’s voice comes through his mobile. He has one hand covering his face now, and his head tipped back to face the ceiling. “Well, yes – I do know that. You’re really telling me you don’t want to go to Paris for a year.” While Eowyn watches the meowing blanket pile moves and from within it a truly horrible looking little cat emerges. It shoots one paw out as if intending specifically to scratch its phone-occupied companion; the speed at which he moves his foot to pin the blankets hem and thwart the little paw is bordering on superhuman. Cat hisses pathetically from under its blanket prison. On the speakers, the opera singer has reached a uniquely high pitch in her stanza. “No, obviously I don’t want to do long-distance, I just think — uh huh. Yes. I’d tell anyone to go to Paris. I’d tell Gimli to go, if Gimli’s university was offering to send him to Paris.”

“He’s already tried the kitchen,” says the man at the desk – presumably Gimli. Still, he yells out, “Try the kitchen, would you?”

“I’ve already tried the kitchen!” calls the disembodied voice. “I can’t find it!”

“You can’t find it because of your terrible organizational system.”

“It is not my terrible organizational system, which you know, and besides which I have never had problems with it before.”

“No,” from the rolling chair, “Legolas is maligning my organizational skills. I know you think they’re fine, so you can tell your cousin that on Sunday …”

“Try the kitchen.”

“I’ve tried the kitchen twice.”

Bang bang bang, continues the sound from the back room. Eowyn wonders if there isn’t an ongoing construction project. The young guy on her left, with the moppish hair and jumper, gives her a look as if to say, Filing cabinet, maybe?

“As you can see, gentle lady,” explains Gimli the desk man, very politely to Eowyn, while the second voice declares somewhat redundantly that he is, in fact, going to check the kitchen, “we are a tad busy this afternoon. Someone will be with you momentarily.” He turns, presumably in the kitchen’s direction, and calls out, “if you ask my opinion on the subject again, I’ll wallop you with Aragorn’s dratted guitar!”

Eowyn looks. There indeed is a battered old guitar, perched merrily on a pile of papers behind the front desk, ready to be used for walloping.

“I could come back later,” says Eowyn. She looks over at jumper guy, who’s staring at the still-hissing pile of blankets with some concern. “Can’t really speak for him, though.”

Jumper guy looks aggrieved. “Er – no, I’d rather not come back later. Gandalf said you’d be free to help.”

“And help –” begins Gimli, while there is another crash from the back room (they all wince, though Gimli does it with serenity) “-- we shall! If you give my colleague Legolas a moment to get his head on straight –” (the disembodied voice says something very rude in response to this pointed inflection), “-- then the two of us will be at your disposal.”

“Three of us,” interjects the first, almost forgotten voice.

Eowyn and her jumper-clad companion turn startled to look: cellphone put away, rolly chair man has stood up to his quite considerable height and is looking at them consideringly. Despite his mildness of expression Eowyn experiences the uncomfortable feeling of being looked at by someone who could in a more fantastical setting have, like, laser vision or something – how is he doing it? And she is sure he isn’t really seeing right through her but she does get the sense he is understanding a lot more than she’d like to let on. Almost defiantly she tugs at her dress and clutches her bike helmet closer to herself. Jumper guy clears his throat. Then from the back room comes – presumably – Legolas, who is fair, thin, and for reasons unexplained wearing sunglasses indoors. He is also covered in what Eowyn hopes are pillow feathers and holding, in one hand, a very large glittering silver sword, and in the other a dingy looking VHS tape. It has cartoon vegetables in cloaks on the front.

“Did anyone know we still had this?” he asks pleasantly, and it is not clear to which find he is referring, “Arwen and I used to stare at it for hours as kids.” He spots Eowyn and her jumper-clad counterpart. “Oh – hello!”

Eowyn gapes. The three of them make a fascinating picture, standing there alongside each other.

“Now then,” says the man called Gimli. “Faramir, we know of already –” he nods at the boy beside Eowyn, who looks a bit bewildered by this, “as Gandalf sent him here! But this young lady we do not. How can we help?”

Perhaps it is the blinding reflection of the hopefully-a-prop sword, but Eowyn is suddenly overtaken by an awful affliction of watery eyes, which has nothing at all to do with her general feelings of overwhelm — until now expertly repressed — she is sure. She feels at once full of despair and yet shaking with eagerness, and everything she’d been desperate to explain to a listening ear gets stuck in her throat in the face of three, admittedly sort of weird (somewhat stern, verging on intense, dipping into outright comical), thoroughly kind faces looking right at her. It suddenly occurs to her how horribly, horribly alone she’s felt for the past six weeks.

She remains rooted to the spot and tragically mute while Faramir, from beside her, begins all at once,

“I wasn’t sure where to go. I didn’t want it getting back to dad, so Gandalf seemed like the best option — and he said you were very trustworthy, and I do trust Gandalf of course – but it's my brother, you see, he’s disappeared,” vaguely Eowyn is aware of a grim look of surprise rippling through the collective at this reveal, “and it’ll sound crazy but I had this awful dream two weeks ago …”

While Eowyn attempts to wrangle her misbehaving emotions like one would a wobbly-legged yet stubbornly misbehaving colt, an impromptu consultation begins.

“Gone missing?”

“I bet he went hiking or something and lost his phone. It’s happened before.”

“Boromir hates hiking, though. Remember when Aragorn tried to bring him camping with us?”

“No wonder Gandalf sent you here.”

“I have odd dreams too sometimes; they are usually because of indigestion. I’m sure old Boromir’s just fine.”

“No,” insists Faramir, who seems – in Eowyn’s half-attentive estimation – to be doing an admirable job at hiding his surprise at this existing knowledge of his brother. “He’s not answering my texts – it’s like he’s blocked my number, which doesn’t make any sense!”

Eowyn’s head jerks around to stare at him.

Could it be a coincidence? That is exactly the thought she herself had, not an hour ago, about her own cousin. Is it possible that she isn’t crazy, and her awful yearning for Eomer to be here and not in overnight jail, so someone who is not Eowyn could deal with things, is not childish? She opens her mouth, but her words are stuck again. All she can do is inhale like a small bird puffing up its chest and make a very very faint squeaking noise, which she is mostly sure no one can hear.

“Legolas,” interjects rolly chair man. His sharp grey eyes, which had flitted around briefly and shrewdly throughout the hubbub, are now fixed again on Eowyn, and thoughtful. The commotion dies down. In a mild voice he says, “Maybe you could fetch a clean pair of gym shorts and a blanket to lend our new friend, so she’ll be a bit more comfortable.”

Eowyn, swaying a bit on the spot, hadn't even realized she was tugging at her dress again.

“Oh,” she manages.

“Aye, I’d say you’re about the same size,” agrees Gimli, to Legolas, after a beat. “Aragorn has a good eye for these things,” he adds, as if needing their prospective clients in crisis to know this.

“I’ll bring her a comb, too,” says Legolas, not at all meanly, and goes to fetch these things.

“And I’ll put on some tea,” says Aragorn, so named, and for a second time his face softens with that warm, open smile. “I’m Aragorn,” he continues. “Let’s all sit down, and you can both start from the beginning; everything will be alright.”

In the moment after this offer Eowyn locks eyes with Faramir. He is standing next to her. His jumper looks particularly sad now that she is paying attention. He isn’t looking at Aragorn or the sword or the pillow feathers Legolas left behind, but at her. Right at her. There’s a solidarity there. It would be a touching exchange, Eowyn thinks, if not for the fact that the feral cat in its blanket pile has started talking to itself in oddly pitched meows.

A large crash sounds from the back room, accompanied by the sound of a child swearing.

“Yeah, okay,” Eowyn says.

For the rest of today, at least, she has decided that she refuses to feel alone.

#my writing #taylor swift prompt memes #lord of the rings #eowyn #faramir #eowyn x faramir #aragorn #gimli #legolas #legolas x gimli #aragorn x arwen #for those wondering yes the veggie tales vhs is lord of the beans #and the cat IS gollum

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ivanttakethis · 10 days ago

Text

Post Row 5 [Pt. 1] - Tov’s Log

————————————————————

Tov woke up in the hospital.

Again.

Same room layout.

Same smell of antiseptic.

Same IV needle.

Same heart monitor beeping.

The sense of deja vu was strong enough to make her dizzy.

Fleeting vestiges of Himei’s warm smile slipped through Tov’s fingers like sand.

Despite the IV feeding into her left arm, her right arm stung like she’d been burned.

She groaned.

“Welcome back to the world of the living.”

Wren was sitting at her bedside, just as she was before, grey eyes studying her face in anticipation. Her face mask was white again.

“Heart attack?” Tov rasped.

Is there really a need to ask?

“Yep, right on stage.” Wren nodded. “It happened before you could be shot. Though this one was worse than the last. We almost lost you for a second there.”

Tov furrowed her brow, “Lost me? What do you mean?”

“You died. Technically. But only for a little while.”

Because that makes it so much less traumatizing.

Tov resisted rolling her eyes. Truthfully, she should be grateful to have the chance to roll them at all.

“So what now? Are they going to make me compete again?” She asked.

“Nope!” Wren clapped her hands together, pleased. “The Alien Stage contract states that contestants who die are removed from the competition. Since you technically died, you were removed. So you can’t be forced to participate again.”

“A legal loophole.” She muttered under her breath.

The gears in Tov’s head were working overtime, fighting against the sedatives she’d been given to try to make sense of everything.

She couldn’t believe it.

A heart attack had killed her and saved her life all at once.

She was reborn.

She was free.

Tov would laugh if her ribs didn’t ache.

“I never thought I’d feel lucky to have a heart attack.” She said. “I guess I shouldn’t have doubted your good luck charm.”

Wren’s tone sharpened. “Yeah, it served both of its purposes well.”

The fine hairs on the back of Tov’s neck stood on end, “I… don’t follow.”

“Well, while the ring is a good luck charm, it’s also an electronic device that can be remotely controlled. So when you lost your round, I sent an electric shock through the ring.” She said.

Tov blinked. Once.

Twice.

What the fuck?

Her heart rate spiked, the monitor she was hooked up to started beeping faster. “Y-You caused my heart attack? You shocked me into cardiac arrest?!”

“Yep.”

“I’ve been wearing that ring since I got out of the hospital after my first heart attack. You’re telling me you could’ve shocked me any time between now and then?”

Wren nodded once, completely unfazed by Tov’s change in demeanor. “If you’d lost to Akane or Jae, I would’ve done it sooner.”

What the fuck?!

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want you to die.” Wren said, like what she did was a completely normal solution to the problem.

“But—” Tov groaned in frustration, her chest heaving from short breaths. “But why me? Why would you do all of this for me?” She asked. “We don’t know each other well. We’re barely even friends. It doesn’t make any sense!”

“It makes perfect sense,” Wren said, calmly removing her mask, “Because I’m your twin sister.”

She pulled the cloth away from her face revealing a nose very similar to Tov’s own, with a broad scar across the bridge, and an identically shaped mouth drawn up in a smile.

Tov reeled back, struck by the glaring similarities. Alarm bells rang loud in her head.

Not possible.

That’s not possible.

It must be a coincidence.

It has to be.

“H-How are you so sure?”

Wren’s smile shifted slightly before she pressed two fingers against her eyes and removed contact lenses.

Grey contact lenses.

The ones Tov always thought looked off.

And she found herself staring into dark brown eyes, with slightly misshapen white stars in their irises.

A mirror image of her own.

WHAT THE FUCK??!?

Her heart slammed against her chest, punching the air out of her lungs, hard enough to make her physically wince.

She couldn’t breathe.

No.

No no no no no no no.

I don’t have any biological family.

I don’t have a sister.

Flor was the closest thing I ever had to a sister and she’s dead.

I’m an only child.

I was alone when Cassio adopted me.

Why is this happening?

How is this happening?

Tov gripped her bedsheets until her knuckles turned white.

It felt like her world was tilting again.

Sharp and sudden.

Disorienting.

A wave of nausea rolled through her.

“This whole time… Have you known this whole time?” She could taste bile on her tongue as she spoke.

“I always knew I had a sister, but I’ve known you were my sister for a long time now.” Wren said.

Tov looked up at her… sister? Twin? She didn’t know anymore. “How long?”

“The first time I saw your face was when I was ten. It was on a billboard downtown. I knew from your eyes.” She said. “It’s been thirteen years since then.”

“Fourteen,” Tov said, reflexively. “We’re 24 now, so it’s been fourteen years.”

“About that, we’re actually 23.”

Tov frowned, confused, “But my teeth were—”

“Growth-dated?” Wren finished for her. “Mine were too, probably around the same time as yours. The results placed my age at 3.45 human years old, and my age was rounded down to 3 years old.” She said. “I’m guessing, your results came out to 3.5 after rounding, and then you were rounded up to the whole number age of 4 years old; a rounding error on their part. Otherwise we would’ve been in the Season 40 class together.”

She stared blankly at Wren.

Blinked.

Struggled to process what she’d just heard.

A rounding error?

My life is the way that it is… because of a rounding error?

It all felt so trivial.

By the mark of a different pen 20 years ago, Tov would’ve never met Himei, or Tallis, or Nyx, or Moran, or Dian, or Flor.

She would’ve never come to love or care for or lose any of them.

Tov wouldn’t even be the same person.

Her temples throbbed.

She was so distracted by the new flare of pain that she didn’t hear the door swing open and slam shut, or the pairs of footsteps quickly approaching the side of her bed opposite of Wren.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” A deep voice snapped.

Tov lifted her head and her vision went fuzzy for a moment before focusing on Elias’s face.

He was angry. Furious, even.

She could see it in his eyes and the tight pinch between his eyebrows and the sharp, downward curve of his mouth.

There was a wild emotion simmering just below the surface of his skin, barely held at bay by the strict and obedient frame of a soldier.

But his anger wasn’t directed at Tov.

It was directed at Wren.

She didn’t seem phased by him at all, “What are you talking about?”

Elias scoffed and dug into the pocket of his jacket, tossing whatever he found inside at Wren.

She caught it midair with a lazy, outstretched hand, without looking away from Elias staring her down.

“Oh,” Wren said, “You found my good luck charm.”

The shock ring. Tov thought.

Only now did she realize she wasn’t wearing it anymore.

“Cut the bullshit, Wren. I know what the ring did. You are so fucking lucky I found it first. What were you thinking?!”

“I was saving Tov.” Wren said plainly.

“You could’ve killed her!” Elias hissed. “Her heart stopped. Prem and I had to keep it beating manually until we got a pulse back.”

Tov tore her eyes away from the growing volatility of the back and forth to look behind Elias.

Prem was there too, almost as pissed off. His arms were crossed, jaw set, eyes narrowed and glaring daggers at Wren.

“She would’ve died for sure if I’d done nothing.” Wren countered, voice scarily even despite the subject matter. “At least this way she had a chance of surviving, and we didn’t have to watch her take a bullet to the head.”

We?

Hang on—

“How do you guys know each other?” Tov asked.

Despite not raising her voice, or even speaking at her usual volume, Elias and Wren immediately stopped to give her their full attention.

Like a fire smothered in foam, the tension between them fizzled out.

They both looked at her with gentler gazes and softened edges.

It felt oddly familiar.

Elias sighed and ran a hand down his face, “Tov, meet your benefactor.” He said, nodding to Wren.

Wren gave her a half smile, “Surprise.”

…

What?

————————————————————

So yeah, Wren is a little fucked up, actually. She’s a very “the ends justify the means” type girl, even if the means are like,, morally questionable.

But that’s just how she was raised. You’ll learn more about that next time!

Also, note the wording used in the letter Tov’s benefactor (Wren) wrote to her in the Before Round 30 log:

“We will meet at the End of Round 30,” instead of “When you win Round 30,” because if Tov survived her heart attack, Wren was going to “meet her” as her twin regardless of if she won or lost.

Shoutout to @rockwgooglyeyes who guessed that the information leakers (Elias and Prem) were linked to Wren a while back.

I had a good chuckle reading your tags with my narrator knowledge 😁

#alien stage #alnst #alien stage oc #alnst oc #alnst oc: tov #alnst oc: wren #alnst oc: elias #alnst oc: prem #alien stage fan season #alnst fan season #alien stage season 39 #alnst season 39 #tw hospital #tw medication #tw shooting mention #tw nausea #tw needle #tov’s log

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crushedsweets · 10 months ago

Text

OK I NEED TO CLEAR MY ASKBOX

IM JUST GONNA ANSWER A TON OF THEM HERE SO I DONT CLOG UP MY FEED....

hi >.<

this is so fucking sweet i remembered how happy i was when i first got my car. i cried everyday for a week straight because i was so happy. very glad yall got to watch me get my first car. i spend over an hour in her every day commuting now. LMFAOOO (i named her lindsay btw) ((after tdi lsinday)). im so sorry im late but thank you so much this meant sm !!! <3

you asked me this in august im evil oh my god. anyway i aagree. but i am always inclined to forever think he's a midwest emo guy. twin sized mattress forever

SHE NEEDS AND DESERVES SO MANY.

im immediately inclined to say clocky or toby the second i see time and fire mentions. so ticciwork. my clocky is often a bit messy so she'd be pissed and angry and upset over the sort of war she's found herself in, especially as she sees toby just falling deeper into it. 'my god, was i oblivious?' when she finally realizes toby will always, always put Slenderman before her. frustrating. 'hell stays hungry for a world so weak' natalie is hungry for a good world, but she thinks everyone is too weak for goodness, meanwhile toby is hungry for power so he can make everyone else seem weak. etc. 'they only want you to bleed' they being slendy, operator, zalgo, etc etc etc... power, being a pawn, fighting, using humans as toys in a battlefield, etc etc.. yeah

RELEASE ME JOEY

i genuinely think nina is a really good influence on so many of the creeps. like theyre all assholes, traumatized, refuse to believe in the good in the world, etc etc. but nina is traumatized and still kickin. she comes in like ^_^ hello chat. and i think that, while its still important to feel the shitty feelings, it's really grounding to see someone whos just so .. able to be happy. idk. someone who SEEKS joy, rather than expects it to fall into their lap, and blames the world when it doesnt

this si perfect idk why i forgot about bats for him. gotta get back into this idea

AHHH OK I WILL DO MORE EVENTUALLY i just wanna say thank yewww i think theyre such a good sibling dynamic. like little brothers and big sisters and both being little assholes to eachother but would die for the other. idk. ugh. important to me.

actually this sounds really sweet..... thats funny cuz i was JUST talking to a friend about who i would have EJ go endgame with if i had to, but i couldnt settle on anyone. but liu seems like a good fit for ej. i think they'd be super sweet

ANON ME TOO AHHHH ITS LITERALLY MY FAVORITE FUCKING THING EVER. I DONT GAF ABOUT EVIL MEAN 'CANON' SLENDER I LOVE WHEN HE'S A DAD AND WORRIES AND STRESSES. IEPFB AND KASTOWAYS SLENDY>

AH THANK YOU!!! he reminds me of my little cousins HAHA theyre like 10-14 right now and theyre all cuties.... just playing roblox and being mischievous...

THIS IS ABOUT THE BLUSHING NAT DRAWING ISNT IT AHAH OMG THANK YOU!!! i think shes so cute. i know she cant handle compliments. she's either deadpanned 'thanks' or just covers her face and says 'shut up' cuz she doesnt know what to do.

I LOVE HER TOO!!!

GOOD NEWS THEN ive drawn her a handful of times since u sent this HAHA TYSM

you sent like... natobina i think... ok tbh kinda slaps

OK REAL but also when i read it i keep reading it as 'cochina' and i cannot bring myself to name the throuple that </3 HAHA

TBH AHAHA I SEE IT. TOBYS AMETHYST GARNETS NATALIE AND NINA IS STEVEN.

i want jeff to ache in his loneliness

i need to draw connie asap but also THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN FOR THE CAR CONGRATS I REALLY APPRECIATE IT IM SO HAPPY I LOVE MY CAR SO MUCH i gotta go vaccuum her..

shes such a cat to me. feline. of sorts, if you will

also good news for you anon, i have also drawn her an ungodly amount of times since youve sent this. LOL

THEYRE MY ANGELS I HAVE MORE OF THEM !!! I LOVE THEM!! AHHHGGG

literally the second that people tell me i made them start to like clocky i am overwhelmed with joy. i feel so much ache when people aren't fond of her bc shes so fucking cool and such a good character and so much fun. so sad that 2015 era creepypasta fandom destroyed her. but im here to fix it...

IM SORRY ANON I BARELY DRAW HIM HES JUST SO BOYISH I LAUGH EVERYTIME I SEE HIM FKAHAHAAH OK OKOK ILL CHANGE ILL DRAW HIM I SWEAR

I REMEMBER WHEN I FIRST STARTED DOING EMOJI ANONS BAHAHA u guys r funny

incredibly. happy. to do this to u.

nope! im not too interested in the 2021 nina just cuz i feel like i've seen that character concept many times (not just in jane), BUT if i had to do my own intepretation of her, 2021 nina would be INCREDIBLY immature in like. not a childish way, but an entitled, angry-fueled adult who cannot comprehend anyone else's thoughts/feelings. and thus, would despise OG nina (although within reason, OG nina idolizes the person who killed her family) . but even if there wasnt a good reason to dislike OG nina, she'd be mean. and OG nina would be mad and bitch. and theyd theyd fight. HAHA

I-IF...???????? ANON?

HELD TO THE FUCKING BRIM

#asks #ok thats 30 asks.#wow #ok #i was skipping things that are requests for art/headcanons just cuz i dont wanna throw a drawing/hc in this thing so HAHA

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anthroposeen · 5 months ago

Text

tmagp 20 relisten notes!

we're 2/3rds of the way through the first season! very exciting, and with a lot of red string thats really starting to connect!!

as always, tma and tmagp spoilers under the cut! proceed with caution

celia:

- going into the meeting, celia is cautiously supportive of sam. so far, shes the closest to the (tma listener) audience in terms of background info. she's more inclined to believe sam anyway bc she has experience w the paranormal and especially with eye-related world catastrophes (from here on out, im going to approach celia as a character who is canonically from the tma universe, as i think theres plenty of supporting evidence at this point)

- she didn't know that starkwall were a militant branch that used to be employed with the oiar! in this way, shes working as a small foil to alice, who has a lot more info on government secrets, but actively avoids learning about paranormal ones.

- celia proposes that burning down the institute was actually done for good reason. as an audience, we can understand why (and even agree with her) but this is going to be a hard moral take to justify to her coworkers (especially if she wants to maintain a relationship with sam, whos falling on the opposite of this fence) and i get the sense that her grand reveal will eventually be drawn from them distrusting her. even from the perspective of tmagp characters, its becoming clear shes hiding things

- she says shes done research on TMI and describes its research as "catastrophic, world-endingly bad" ofc, shes right, but it does raise a question about how much of this research shes shared with sam, who requested she update him with anything she could find on it. either she was, and sam still believes that the protocol wasnt justified, or she didnt. and we dont know how much more she could be keeping to herself

- celia leaves an invitation for sam to keep her in on the conspiracy, but i dont see them agreeing on the morality of what he finds

sam:

- despite receiving pushback about his 'The Computers Are Spying On Us' theory last ep, sam is still determined to confide in a "safe" environment. as the audience, we know that phones, security cameras, and god knows what other devices are also being used to watch them, but this is still a proactive step on sam's part to avoid being listened-in on

- he's put together that starkwall initiated the protocol in 1999 to put a stop to whatever the magnus institute was doing -> based on the fan reactions ive seen, its been widely assumed that this was related to the tmagp!watcher's crown or some other eye ritual, and while thats entirely likely, the protocol could have been triggered from a large unbalance that wasn't necessarily ritual related

- he's pretty convinced that the protocol mentioned in ep 19 cant be the same protocol as in the modern day, positing that theres such a large lapse in time between the incident and TMI burning down (with sam and celia agreeing). but i dont think its a stretch for us to assume the protocols are the same, or at least based heavily in the same concept

- he received starkwell paperwork from 1999 via a mysterious email! though the address was different this time, it makes sense to relate this back to the email he received from "john", and also the email that sent gwen info on lena. im not sure if these are individuals each sending their own mail (jmj), or if its one person (thinking of the man colin keeps referencing as their spy)

- the paperwork he received was about the total destruction of TMI, but was heavily censored. i wonder if it was already redacted when it was recovered by the emailer or if they were the one who concealed parts of the documents

- "you cant seriously be ok with working for such a shady organization/ people died. they might still be dying." sam seems to really be coming into his protagonist wings this episode, reminding the audience why he scored so high on empathy at TMI as a child. similarly to alice, hes very motivated by protecting people, but has a strong sense of justice that i dont see in the other characters yet. while alice and lena are motivated by keeping the status quo for maximum guaranteed safety, sam is already pushing for change even at a personal expense

alice:

- expectedly, alice is more hostile towards sam's revelations, but not in her usual skeptic manner

- she knew about starkwall's history and reputation within the oiar and wasnt at all skeptical about their involvement in the TMI fire. i found this interesting because it showcases her specific brand of knowledge (government secrets and conspiracies) but also lacks the complete shut-down she normally uses when discussing paranormal topics.

- i think alice genuinely doesn't believe in supernatural stuff, or at least she's alright with vaugely accepting it as long as it cant affect her or her friends. she holds the same sentiment for government conspiracies, but without the heavy handed skepticism. i think she largely operates off of 'ive personally experienced this so i know it definitely exists' rules

- we get to see a small fan theory get confirmed this episode: alice does firmly believe in the conspiracy sam is looking into, but is motivated to ignore it for her safety and his own, and she admits to turning him away from it to keep him safe

- very important to note: she repeatedly says shes scared of them all getting fired, and seems to place getting fired and safety as two equal options, like you cant have one without the other

- we see alice refuse to believe certain aspects of the protocol conspiracy based on the idea that things dont run smoothly enough to support such a massive cover-up. ie; the computers cant load properly so they couldnt spy on them, and the protocol is not an ongoing project bc the staff are too small and flaky to take on that task.

- "i hate that thats how things are. i hate it. but it doesnt stop it from being true." -> this gave me flashbacks to jon and martin discussing the eyepocolypse in s5, where martin found it difficult to conceptualize and accept that the new world order was purely evil, constantly repeating that he hated reminders of their reality. always followed by jon firmly stating it WAS the reality, though, and denial was unhelpful. alice seems to be stuck in the middle of this same type of moral battle. constantly weighing her denial of her situation with the reality she is starting to be forced with facing

- the difference between her and sam's empathy lies in its scale. sam is willing to accept massive risk if it has the potential to help others, purely based on strong principles. whereas alice doesnt see the point in taking that risk- in putting everyone in danger- if it will not have a definite payback. she puts a high price on protecting her people, and weighs reality over hypothetical good

- as such, she refuses to be a part of the conspiracy, seeing it as an unrealistic risk that would do her and sam more harm than good

gwen:

- shes been assigned to recruit new externals, which does shine a new light on why she wanted more security. its one thing to interact with a contracted killer that has ties to the oiar, but another to confront one with no reason to respect her authority

- she is so clearly out of her depth in this career pitch

- "youve got completely the wrong idea", implying that the oiar isnt interested in controlling the actions of the externals. they're still free to do as they please, and the way gwen phrases it you get the sense that their opportunities are only increased through involvement with the oiar

ink5oul:

- they're tattooing on a dead body, and seem surprised that gwen was able to find their warehouse

- they dont fully understand what they're becoming. they can sense a change in their humanity and how they interact with energy (how they feed upon the fear of their victims and the attention from others)

- they refer to this need for attention as an addiction*

- another theory was confirmed! ink5oul is stealing designs from old artists like sutherland macdonald and oscar jarrett. i didnt think was going to be true when it first started circulating, but im not against the narrative move! it makes for a very conflicted character rather than a purely talented and perfect one. plus, i find it kinda funny that their not magically good at tattooing, their ascendence into avatar-hood started with them stealing designs

- they actually refer to their art in a really self depreciating way, only really having confidence when it came to their adaptations of older work, but still seeing their art as different and lesser-than the original

- i think a portion of this is due to the chemical ingredient of the ink -> though oscar jarrett doesnt have any alchemy ties that i could find, i think it might play a role in how the tattoos behave and how the skin beneath the designs was perfectly preserved

- despite their personal dislike of their own art, ink5oul still seems pretty egotistical, accepting that they must be better than others if theyve been given a platform. this is an interesting flip on an imposter syndrome, where we get a character who truly believes they deserve recognition knowing they didnt do the work behind the fame

- around the time ink5oul started enjoying the fear of their clients, their physical body also experienced a reflection of that. their tattoos began to change, with the ink (presumably the kind that jarrett had used) flowing under their skin. its implied that they use this to adapt designs into something more beautiful and brutal, as a way to continuously feed

- "have i changed or have i simply emerged?"

- ink5oul is one of the first tmagp avatars that seems to really disregard consent in their victims. ripping away the idea that victims, in some respect, "choose" to get involved in their fate. all of those people chose to roll the dice. that mugger chose to approach needles. the chef chose to accept lady mowbray's hunt. but ink5oul takes relish in the concept that they can take this away from people.

incident:

this is our first example of a live incident! taken directly from the interaction between ink5oul and gwen, most of the incident notes will be in their fields.

- what really strikes me is that gwen didnt ask many questions to prompt ink5oul into speaking, and we get a decently long and comprehensible (dare i say) statement from them. this could be explained as ink5oul just being full of themselves- its not out of character for an influencer to monologue about their life and accomplishments and drama, but its strange that we get such a concise statement in this setting. in tma, unless it was taken by an archivist or within the institute, statements were jumbled and inconclusive most of the time, so what was influencing ink5oul to spill their darkest secret? this is easily something that could end their career, but they say it all very casually, for apparently no reason

- i went back to check, and the incident is recorded through gwen's phone, not via a tape recorder, so im unsure what could be the influencing factor here

glitches/lies:

none

extra comments:

- *ide love to see addiction in the tmagp universe be explored in a new way. in tma we saw examples of how addiction fell into the becoming of an avatar and we got some examples of withdrawal, but i feel like there could be room for exploring a character whos getting sober. we saw this with melanie in tma, but her route to forfeiting her 'addiction' was through a horrible sacrifice, and i wonder if they'll keep with these rules in the tmagp universe or if addiction will play a somewhat different role

- im happy that ink5oul will remain a rogue agent for the time being, it offers some depth to their character arc that i feel other externals might lack, just because they become tools of the oiar and they might lose some spontaneity in their actions. though, im very interested in how the externals contract operates, since gwen seemed to think it offered a much better deal than free ranging fear (it checks out if the oiar is routinely feeding the externals).

#tmagp #the magnus protocol #tmagp theory #tmagp spoilers #tmagp thoughts #tmagp 20 #alice dyer #celia ripley #gwen bouchard #sam khalid #ink5oul

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lu-is-not-ok · 1 year ago

Note

If you are still taking EGOs to analyze, have you done Sunshower / Drifting Fox?

I have not yet, so let's take a look!

Under the cut, wheeee~

Let's start with the Drifting Fox itself. Unlike most Limbus Abnormalities, for which you have to do some deep readings to recognise their themes, Drifting Fox spells out its themes quite clearly in its Observation Logs.

Here, we're dealing with the idea of feign kindness vs genuine kindness. Kindness done to make yourself feel good without thinking of whether or not it will actually help the one you're being kind to, vs kindness done because you genuinely care about the one you're being kind to.

Some other themes that can be read from this abnormality are abandonment, seeking affection, thoughtfulness behind one's actions (and lack thereof), and learned distrust.

Now, there is also the fact that Drifting Fox and its E.G.O, Sunshower, seem to have some inspiration in the Fox Rain folktale, which mostly revolves around unrequited love. However... There isn't much about Drifting Fox that seems to really connect to that theme at all. The most I can say about it is that the theme was twisted into one about the Fox struggling to accept love from others due to its bad experiences with people who pretended to love it for selfish reasons.

As such I won't really be using the folktale in the analysis, as while I'm sure some connections can be drawn between it and Sunshower E.G.O users, in my opinion they're not as important to character analysis as drawing connections to the Drifting Fox itself.

While we're talking about Sunshower E.G.O users, let's name them finally. Outis and Yi Sang. While Heathcliff uses a Lobcorp version of the E.G.O in one of his IDs, I won't be looking into it in this post because analyzing Identities is a very different process to analyzing E.G.Os, and one I'm still trying to polish. Maybe one day I'll be able to dip my toes into full ID analysis, but until then, E.G.O only.

With Yi Sang, we can definitely see Drifting Fox's themes here, especially with the context of Canto IV. After all, feign kindness is exactly what he experienced from Gubo after the League disbanded, an event that led to him feeling abandoned and distrustful of everyone but Sang Yi. Which, speaking of him, is the main person Yi Sang was seeking affection from during the time he was effectively abandoned.

Now, when it comes to Outis... We really don't know much about her or her background. However, I think one way the theme of feign kindness presents itself in her is, well, with how she acts. Outis's whole schtick is that she's pretending to be kind towards Dante, seemingly for her own benefit.

However... Something tells me it's not as simple as that. Thoughout the story, we get hints towards Outis's life. How she had to sacrifice a lot during her time on the battlefield, and hints towards some complex feeling regarding family she had to leave behind to join the war.

Does she believe she abandoned her family? Or, now that the war is over, does she think they had abandoned her in return? Is feign kindness something that only applies to her own actions? Or is it something she herself experienced as well, and had to learn how to use by herself to survive? She certainly feels like the distrusting type to me...

We don't know enough to say for sure right now, but it is certainly interesting to speculate about.

Let's move on to Sin analysis, as this is where something very interesting happens.

Sunshower is the first shared E.G.O we have that has Different Sin Damage depending on its user. This, of course, paints a very different picture of how these themes apply to each of its users.

Outis's Sunshower deals Gluttony damage. Gluttony is a Sin that represents actions done out of hunger, both hunger for survival and hunger for more. With what little we know about Outis, I think in this case we can firmly place this Gluttony as the survival type.

This implies that her own feigning of kindness is something she began doing as a way to survive what she has gone through, likely during the war and after it had ended. It could also symbolize her own distrust being a way to survive in the wake of other people feigning kindness towards her.

Yi Sang's Sunshower deals Sloth damage. Sloth is a sin that represents actions done out of apathy and inaction, which at this point is a Sin Staple for Yi Sang. This, of course, represents how he deals with feign kindness and abandonment - apathy and resignation.

When the League fell apart, Yi Sang resigned himself to following the guidance of whoever first told him what to do. When met with Gubo's feign kindness, Yi Sang responded with apathy, and resigned himself to following his orders because there was nothing else he thought he could do.

Sin requirements-wise, both Outis and Yi Sang require Sloth, Gluttony, and Gloom, while Yi Sang also adds some Pride on top of that. Let's take this one at a time.

For both Outis and Yi Sang, Sloth represents some form of resignation and/or apathy. This, of course, is extremely clear for Yi Sang, whose very character arc revolves around overcoming his depressive apathy. When it comes to Outis, I think this also applies, if in lesser amounts. Over the course of the war she participated in, she likely had learn to be complacent, to simply follow her leader's orders and not grow too attached to anyone.

Next up, Gluttony. Like with Sloth, I think this represents the same thing for both Outis and Yi Sang, that being that their actions were a way to survive the circumstances they were in. For Outis, it was the only way she could make it through the war, and the only way she can keep going after. For Yi Sang, it was the only way he could survive the League's disbanding and being captured by N Corp.

Then, we have Gloom. Gloom as a sin represents actions done under the pressure of negative emotions. It implies severe emotional stress. Knowing what we know about Outis and Yi Sang... Yeah. Yeah it makes sense for Gloom to be there. I don't think I need to go into too much detail on that.

Lastly, we have Pride for Yi Sang. Pride represents actions done purely for their benefit, while their consequences are ignored. This, I think, is meant to reflect the dilemma Yi Sang was going through during his time at N Corp. He had to do whatever Gubo was telling him to just to survive, and had to ignore the damage he would be indirectly contributing to by helping him.

Before we end off, let's briefly look at the dialogue lines.

Outis's lines are quite... interesting, in my opinion. Her Awakening line reflect the theme of rejecting feigned, meaningless kindness, which I think further affirms Outis's distrust towards others.

However, I think her Corroded line here is much more interesting. It seems to represent Outis's fear of being abandoned. Not only that, but it implies it's something that happened to her at least once before. Perhaps I wasn't that far off about the idea of Outis suffering through something herself that made her learn to feign kindness herself.

Yi Sang's lines on the other hand seem to be more focusing on his own inability to do anything about his situation. His Awakening line reflects his worries about not being able to truly help anyone, while his Corroded line seems to show him falling fully into hopelessness and lamenting over the situation only getting worse.

So, there you go! I might at some point later analyze Sunshower Heathcliff once I figure out a proper method to analyzing IDs, but that day isn't today.

#limbus company #limbus company project moon #outis #outis lcb #yi sang #yi sang lcb #sunshower ego #lcb analysis #lcb canto iv #lcb spoilers #ask #runn1ngn0se #lu speaketh

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yanderu-deredere · 2 years ago

Text

drawn.

★ they've just been so lonely, all by themselves in this abandoned little factory town. it's hard not to be attracted to someone so wonderful, so glittering and beautiful, someone like you

a/n: sorry i ended up not posting anything the past few days. ive been really struggling with chronic pain flare ups and general bullshit but you guys really encouraged me to come back! so here i am with the latest chapter of the cannibals!

minor changes with part three where i made it so that none of the friends come down to dinner hehehe wonder why? neway, you can go back and reread that if you'd like but it's not that big of a change.

finally, after teasing it for so long, it's the gore chapter ive been waiting for forever to write! with that said, please mind the warnings!

i feel like this got really long so i didn't really do as much as i wanted to... you'll see when u finish reading. if you think i should keep going, send a couple asks and maybe i'll write another extra chapter?

part one (hook.) ★ part two (line.) ★ part three (sink.) ★ extra (captive.) ★ part four (here) ★ part five (quartered.)

pairing: casimir fiala x reader x emmaline fiala word count: 3612

warning: gender neutral reader, mentions of throat knife violence, mentions of coroner's and mortician's equipment, descriptive head injuries, descriptive eye violence and gore, mentions of drugging someone nonconsensually, mentions of medical and recreational drug use

Casimir knew as soon as the white van pulled up into the factory town that his entire life would be completely turned around, that this group of rule breaking idiots would be different from the usual.

When he saw your cute little face peek out of the window, he knew exactly why.

Casimir always believed himself to be a man of science and he had explained away his fascination (or rather, attraction) to Emm by just acknowledging that the two of them were polar opposites and evolution simply made it so that human beings were attracted to their polar opposites.

Opposites attracted simply because it gave their offspring better survival chances.

But then, of course, you threw a wrench in all of that, didn't you? Because he knew nothing about you except that your entire face made his heart palpitate in his chest for no reason.

He didn't even know if your personality was good with his or if you would even irritate him with your small habits. But, still, he found his eyes attracted to you like a magnet to metal and he wanted more.

Emm felt exactly the same. Unlike Casimir, she believed in love at first sight. It's what she felt when she met Casimir after all.

She knew as soon as she saw the man that she wanted to ravish him and she knew as soon as she saw you that she wanted to ravish you too.

She loved Casimir; the two of them have been together for years now. The only reason they were able to enjoy those years together was because Emm followed those instincts of hers.

Emm wasn't going to let Casimir use his science mumbo-jumbo talk to get her out of keeping you.

Thankfully, the two of them were on the same page. They didn't even have to communicate verbally. They shared a look; Casimir from the road and Emm from her binoculars.

So, despite the rules that they'd agreed on (not to kill the people who weren't breaking the rules, to try and stay inconspicuous, to be polite and nice just in case), Casimir couldn't find it in himself to stop Emm from using a silenced gun and popping your friend's tire.

The both of them only felt more and more justified the longer they spent time with your friends.

They pretended to be polite but whispered about how weird Casimir was. They tried to take photos of Emm's burns (and you were the angel that prevented them from doing it). They even went so far as calling you a freak.

It made both of their blood boil. Emm's more than Casimir's but Casimir's head had always been more level headed.

So, really, the group dug their own graves.

The first one that had to go was that damn bimbo.

Casimir didn't like her at all. Chloe was it? She just didn't look at Emm the right way and don't even get him started on the whole 'taking a photo of Emm' business again.

Plus, she kept sneering at you and whispering about how stupid you were to her boyfriend.

So, when you went upstairs to go change right before helping Casimir out with cooking dinner, he went to work.

"Hey, by the way, you guys wouldn't mind it if Emm smoked a couple of joints, would you?" He mentioned off-handedly to the bimbo as he sharpened one of the knives at the kitchen counter.

His sleeves were pulled up to his elbows, his muscles flexing as he clenched and unclenched his fists, trying not to get annoyed.

It was odd since both he and Emm usually didn't let them last this long but, he supposed, for your sake, he would put up with the disrespect.

It just really got at his nerves that she was treating the entire place like it was hers, looking into their fridge like she owned the place. They said 'make yourselves at home' but that wasn't exactly what they meant.

The ditzy blonde didn't even have the decency to hide her emotions when she looked at him, all wide-eyed with wonder "Oh? You guys smoke?"

"Yeah, some strong medical stuff." Casimir shrugged as he kept his eyes on the smooth metal of the knife and the rough grey of the whetstone, his knuckles turning white as he gripped it harder and harder "You know, because of--"

"Oh, of that whole--" She finished for him, making a gagging sound from the back of her throat.

It took everything in him not to just run the knife in his hand through her face.

He could imagine how satisfying it would be. It would meet some resistance when going through her nasal cavity but the crunch of it as it met bone would feel so good.

Before he completely lost it, though, the sound of the other three idiots in the living room convinced him fully that he needed to keep it together.

This needed to be their cleanest kill yet.

Not just because the four of them were a big group but also because they needed to get away with killing three of them without letting you know.

"Yes, she smokes all of it downstairs in the basement." He nodded his head towards the main hall and he watched her face turn blank, her eyes obviously confused.

She definitely looked like she was turning an idea carefully in her head. Casimir wished she'd hurry it up since she still had the fridge open and it was using up electricity.

Then, as if he could literally see the lightbulb above her head, he saw her expression brighten. She closed the door and gave him a bright smile that grated even harder on his nerves before flouncing away.

Casimir glanced at the knife in his hands, giving her a few seconds, before rinsing it off and wiping it with a dish towel hanging on the oven handle.

Then, he sheathed the knife, grabbed a meat tenderizer, slipped it into his pocket and unfurled his sleeves. Of course, the other idiots paid him no mind. Probably just like they paid their friend no mind as she slipped past them.

They looked deep into a conversation about something, all their backs turned towards the main hallway.

The realistion that hit the bimbo was probably the fact that there was a door at the very end of the main hallway. Normally, people mistook it for a cupboard under the stairs.

Casimir could at least give her credit for being smart enough to realise that it was most likely the steps to the basement he had been talking about only seconds ago.

He quietly followed her down, locking the door behind him just in case.

Casimir was nothing if not careful.

He would've paid big bucks to have seen the look on her face when she reached the bottom of the stairs.

He saw the way her steps faltered (he was right behind her, after all) so he knew she must've been surprised. Plus, she gasped too, which seemed a bit much but she also seemed like the type to overdramatise.

It probably surprised her to see that it wasn't a wine cellar or a man cave in their basement but a clean and proper butcher's dream.

It was Casimir's hard work after all. Emm helped a little but she was a bit too messy to really take care of a lot of the detailed work. Instead, she helped weld things together and fix some things up.

Before the bimbo could turn around or freak out, of course, Casimir shut her up.

She crumpled like soggy paper when the meat tenderizer hit the back of her head.

The crack of it was so satisfying, honestly. The splatter of blood was less so but it still felt good to see the crater of gore in the back of that bitch's head.

Surprisingly, he could see a brain in there.

As he watched her crawl on her hands and knees, trying desperately to get away, Casimir tested the hammer in his hand and frowned.

He wasn't usually one to use such bulky tools. Though the sound of it was music to his ears, the feel of it wasn't right. It really was better to stick to knives and the like. Leave the more brutalizing ones to Emm.

Before the little worm could get too far, he stepped forward, accidentally stepping on her ankle as he scooped her up, his arm wrapping around her torso and his free hand gripping her chin, his fingers digging into her cheeks.

He lifted her easily enough, despite the fact that she was so top heavy.

Unfortunately, he wouldn't get a lot of breast meat from this one since it was probably all plastic but he'd need to get rid of her regardless.

"Now, what are you doing here?" He whispered against her temple, relishing a little bit in the way she struggled against him, her well manicured nails trying to claw at his clothed sleeves.

She was barely making sense before he'd whacked her with the meat tenderizer but, now, her voice was slurred and stuttering beyond recognition.

She was concussed then. He would've been more surprised if she hadn't become concussed. In fact, he had to give her credit. That blow would've knocked most normal people unconscious.

Maybe she was particularly hard-headed?

In any case, her blabbering was entertaining at first but then it eventually got too annoying.

With barely any care at all and completely ignoring the way her feet dragged on the cold concrete, Casimir brought her over to his special autopsy table and plopped her down.

It was his own invention; not exactly his life's work but certainly one if his more brilliant ideas.

It wasn't entirely made from scratch, of course. He built it off of a second-hand autopsy table but he made it tilt one way so that the blood would pool better. He liked collecting it in case he wanted to use it for blood sausage or something.

He also added some restraints for the really shitty visitors that really pissed them off. Sometimes, the couple really liked to take their time with their kills, really carve them up, slice and dice them and hear them scream--

Plus, sometimes, Emm liked putting him in there too and he could be a little too wiggly for her tastes.

In any case, when he slammed her down on the cold metal table, Casimir couldn't say he was taking the usual care with her.

She was sprawled across the cold metal, her body locked into the restraints with a little distain, even his initial incision of her jugular was sloppy at best.

He didn't have any respect for people like her who couldn't even take care of people like you. You had trusted her with your friendship and she betrayed you. She didn't deserve any kindness from him.

She couldn't complain anyway.

Mostly because she was finally knocked out cold.

Anyway, Casimir left her down there. If she bled to death, good for her. If she were still alive when he got back down there?

Well, he wouldn't enjoy her screams in the usual way but he'd definitely get some sort of sadistic glee out of them.

He'd flay her skin open, watch her muscles twitch as she struggled to move away, see the life ebb out of her; he'd make sure that every single thing you'd suffered through, she'd feel but a hundred times worse.

Hopefully, enough, she'd be alive.

Before he left, of course, he had to wash the stupid meat tenderizer. Surprisingly enough, fragments of her skull stuck to the spikes of it and chunks of her scalp clung to the metal.

Then, he obsessively cleaned the blood splatter off the walls, taking care to wash himself and any wash cloths he used with the sink in the room.

It was easy enough to wash everything since the entire basement was made like an embalming room; the floor sloped slightly to the middle where there was a drain.

Lastly, he changed his clothes because he got a little messy in his anger-- No, irritation. He didn't want to accredit such a strong emotion to such an insignificant ant.

He and Emm kept spare clothes down in the basement just for situations like this.

Honestly, the entire thing was so easy that it disappointed Casimir. He had hoped the blonde idiot would've struggled a little bit more, at the very least.

Maybe the others would prove to be a challenge.

Speaking of the others, Casimir knew that the boyfriend would notice the fact that his girlfriend was missing the fastest.

Unless, of course, he was a piece of shit too.

So, Casimir's next objective was to get rid of him.

The very last thing he did before he left the basement was he grabbed a little baggy of weed. It was a specific one they used to drug some of their more troublesome victims.

Seeing as his girlfriend was interested, it was possible that the boyfriend would've been interested too.

The drug wasn't anything deadly. Just something to help them get a... better high. Which didn't just distract them but it also affected their short-term memory and their attention span.

Casimir just had to make sure that he mentioned where his girlfriend could be before the dumb idiot started smoking the stuff.

Finally, when Casimir emerged from the basement, he was met with the boyfriend. He kept saying 'the boyfriend' in his head but, truly, it was because he didn't recall what his name was. Dick? Rick? Something along those lines.

Casimir would mentally refer to him as Dick just because that's what the guy was.

Hell, even the one thing Casimir knew him for (being that bimbo's boyfriend) he couldn't do properly.

When the ditz wasn't paying attention, Dick? complained about how annoying his girlfriend was, about how much of a drag she was, how he was tired of her.

It was a surprise to Casimir since he had pretty much been singing her sonnets since he first met them when she was around to hear his compliments.

Though, it made sense when Casimir noticed the sleeze bag's eyes always seemed to be glued to her chest.

It just showed how two faced this entire group was, Casimir supposed.

"Hey, did you see where Chloe went?" Dick? asked, looking suspiciously at the door behind Casimir and then suspiciously at Casimir himself.

Casimir doubted it was because the idiot thought he killed his girlfriend, though. The man didn't look that smart.

"She mentioned she had a migraine? I think she might have gone to her room." Casimir looked towards the stairs before glancing to the front door "Or maybe she went outside for some fresh air? I don't exactly recall what she said."

The boyfriend clicked his tongue but, before he could leave, Casimir placed a hand on his forearm "By the way, she mentioned she takes medical marijuana for her migraines so I mentioned to her that my wife took some too, for her burns?"

When the guy turned back to look at Casimir, arrogant confused expression on his face, it took everything in Casimir not knock the living daylights out of the guy.

He bet he could make the same crater in this guy's head as he did in this guy's girlfriend's head with just his fist.

"She ran out and asked me for some. Emm had some extra so I figured--" Casimir shrugged and then held up the little baggy with the drugged weed "She told me to ask you to pay for it but, between you and me, it's honestly fine."

"My wife goes through so much pain, I can't even imagine--" Before Casimir could finish, the idiot snatched the baggy up and nodded quickly, that confused expression completely taken over by his arrogance.

"Of course! I'll make sure to get it to her!" Dick-head looked like it took everything in him not to cackle at Casimir.

And it took even more in Casimir not to choke the man.

Before he could be further tempted, Casimir just gave a curt nod and left for the kitchen.

He rolled his sleeves up and went to get ready for you to come downstairs.

It was a shame you had a change of clothes. He had an odd highly illogical fantasy of you borrowing clothes from them, maybe something of Emm's or of his, and then decending down the stairs.

He could imagine you, looking so breathtakingly theirs.

It didn't make sense to Casimir but he supposed his love for you didn't make any sense in the first place either. He would just have to keep you by his side and study you.

"Did you go shopping?" Emm suddenly appeared at his side as he got out cling-wrapped meat from the freezer above the refrigerator, her arm brushing against his waist.

Did you deal with one of them?

She was probably asking because she passed by the living room and noticed that there were only three of them.

"Yes, I did. But that meat is for next week." He pressed a kiss to her cheek, smirk playing on his lips as he closed the freezer door and opened the fridge "We're having the meat I bought last week. It will go bad if we don't have it now."

Yes, she's downstairs. I haven't cut her up into pieces yet. We're having that couple we killed from last week, the ones that tried to break into the factory to steal spare parts.

"You wan' me to take care of next weeks shopping since you've taken care of this weeks?" Emm tried not to grin too widely, excited by the victims that her husband had left for her.

"I mean, I have plans for next weeks shopping but, if the opportunity arises..." Casimir sighed like he was tired of the way Emm always seemed to go off script but, in reality, he was glad she always seemed to enjoy herself.

It was evident by the way that smirk on his face didn't even waver.

"I dun' know what I'd do without such a dedicated house-husband." Emm teased, mirroring Casimir's smirk as she cupped the side of his face and pressed her own kiss against his temple.

Casimir took the ingredients out one by one, bundling them into his arms "And dessert?"

The fourth one. The one best saved for last. That was, of course, you.

"We def'nitely have room for dessert." Emm pulled back enough to look Casimir in the eye and he knew that, from the expression on her face, she would take no arguments.

We're keeping them.

Casimir didn't want to argue with that. From looking at his face, Emm saw that.

"Good because dessert is the caramel flan I made last night." Casimir chuckled almost breathily as he finally pushed away from his wife and brought the food to the kitchen counter.

That one wasn't code at all but an honest fact. It took everything in Casimir to convince Emm not to scarf the six tins he made last night in one sitting.

"I'll jus' go move my bike into the garage." Emm sighed, her expression morphing to one of boredom as she stretched a little.

She didn't like the idea of having to go out into the rain but, if she left the bike just parked there, there was a possibility that it would rust.

It was just hard to go outside, to leave the house really, when you were inside, so close yet so far away. Emm had never felt so pained and lazy before until you.

Then, to make matters worse, while Casimir was getting the ingredients ready for dinner and Emm was putting on her work boots, that stupid boyfriend tried his moves on her.

Unfortunately, he didn't seem high at all.

Had he not smoked it yet? Casimir hadn't smelt anything so, perhaps, he was saving it for later?

Either way, it was stupid to flirt with Emm right there, where Casimir could obviously see them. Normally, Casimir would've lost it but he needed the night to be perfect so he figured he'd let Emm handle it.

"You goin' somewhere, gorgeous?" The idiot leaned against the wall, sleezy expression on his face as he eyed her up and down.

Emm tried her best not to sigh too loudly or even groan like she wanted to. Instead, she tied her boots and smiled politely at him "Yeah, jus' need't park my bike in the garage."

"Oh, you know, I know a lot about motorcycles." The guy didn't even wait to hear what Emm would say before he was putting his shoes on "Let me go with you."

At first, Emm's fist clenched and she felt her entire body tense. But then, she realised how good of an opportunity it was. She'd be able to get him alone.

So, she forced another smile onto her face as she nodded "Sure!"

"You know, my dad owns like five Harleys." He bragged as he stepped out of the house, that same smug look on his face as he walked with his hands in his pockets.

Emm wanted so badly to trip him into a puddle but, instead, she crossed her arms under her breasts and nodded, trying her best to look interested "Oh, I have a Harley in the garage."

"D-Do you?" The pervert didn't even disguise his staring "Why don't you show me that first? I can help you with your motorbike after."

Moron.

"Sure." Emm lead the way through a side door, letting them into the garage without triggering the loud garage door.

It was dark and, even when Emm pulled the string for the florescent lights, the entire room was still dimly lit.

The garage was kind of Emm's domain but she wasn't exactly proud of it. After all, though she could be a real genius when putting parts together, organisation wasn't her specialty.

Casimir had to come down every month or so and fix the place up for her. Even then, the entire place always ended up looking like a tornado went through in a week.

Basically, the clean look never lasted.

"Damn, you should tell your husband to clean up in here." The moron laughed as he stepped over some steel bars.

Emm tried not to cringe "Oh, Cas don't really come in here. The mess's mine."

"Yours?" He said, as if saying 'but you're a girl' and it wasn't the last straw for Emm but it was damn close to it.

She looked around, trying to see if there was anything fun to kill this guy with or if she'd have to go old fashioned and just fuck his head up with a wrench.

She knew she couldn't make too much noise, though, so no chainsaw or anything too fun. Even if splattering his guts everywhere would've been worth the clean-up.

"Sure, let's go with that then." The guy laughed one more time before caging Emm against one of the various shelves in the garage, his disgusting breath damp and putrid against her ear

Emm couldn't take it anymore. She grasped at something with her hand; it was smooth against her palm, dusty, something with metal and plastic.

Her arm was swinging before her brain could even connect the dots as to what it was.

The guy fell onto his back, screaming profanities as he clutched one of his eyes "You fucking bitch!"

Emm just straddled his chest, that grin she'd been suppressing for so long finally stretching out onto her face.

She looked down at her hand and noticed that she had grabbed a spare motorcycle headlight.

When she had swung, the entire thing had been a blur so she hadn't really seen what she had done to him. Even now, she couldn't see because he was covering it.

But the screw end of the motorcycle headlight was covered in blood and the ripped apart flesh of an eyeball. She could make out the veins against the whites, the chunks of it clinging to the grooves of the metal part.

It filled her with a rush to know that she'd jammed the entire thing in there in one try.

To prevent him from screaming any more, she grabbed his wrist and stuffed it into his mouth, essentially making him pretty much choke on his own flesh. Then, she saw a peek of it.

He was still trying to dig the heel of his palm there, as if putting it there would stop the bleeding. Which made sense, of course. But it definitely wouldn't make a difference.

In any case, when she had yanked his hand away, she saw that his eyeball was replaced with bloody indecipherable gore. There were torn parts of the whites of his eyes near the outsides but it didn't look like there was much of it.

She laughed and he continued to struggle, kicking and bucking, desperate to get her off.

"Oh, so you wan'o play with the bull but y'can't handle the horns?" Emm couldn't help but taunt him a little, relishing in the way his own teeth dug into his wrist as she pressed down on him harder.

Despite the fact that they were almost the same height, she was much stronger than him and holding him down wasn't even a contest.

Before long, though, the struggling and the gore started to bore her. She realised she'd gotten too messy and that she'd have to clean up before she could see you.

Which meant, of course, that it would take longer to go see you. Something that felt unacceptable in her eyes.

So, she bashed his face in with a motorcycle headlight. Over and over. Till his entire skull caved in. And the motorcycle headlight got crushed in her fist. Or till it got crushed against his skull?

Whichever one was stronger, she figured. Her palm would bruise but his head caved in so, she supposed, it was her fist?

It was unfortunate, really, but the anger had built up inside her and the way he had tried cheating on his girlfriend really rubbed Emm the wrong way.

It wasn't like they ever used the head or the brains for anything anyway.

Then, she wrapped his face with a towel she had lying around and she carried him to the basement using the back cellar doors.

If holding him down was pretty easy, this was a piece of cake. She just slung his arm around her shoulders and then wrapped her arm around his torso, holding him up entirely.

She would've fireman carried him but there wanted to stay as clean as possible so there was less clean up.

When she entered, Emm spotted his girlfriend and felt bad for her.

That feeling immediately vanished when Emm remembered how rude she was in the van, trying to take a picture of her like she was a freak or something.

The thing Emm really struggled with was putting him on the autopsy table. She always complained to Casimir about the things. She absolutely enjoyed the sausages he made and the soups too but it was so much work.

She had to put his upper body down first but, then, she did it wrong and accidentally hit his head against the edge. Not like he was still alive but it was still annoying.

Emm had to try again and then a third time. Finally, the third time worked but then she had to get his legs up which wasn't that much of a struggle but it was still time she wasn't spending upstairs!

Where the two loves of her life was!

To make matters worse, as she was doing that, the stupid bimbo woke up and started struggling and stuttering and freaking out. She was crying up a storm, begging and pleading for her life and her boyfriend's life.

Like his entire face wasn't caved in and bloody already?

Emm just left her be and went to go wash her own face, hide the idiots' things, lock one of the guest doors and change her own clothes again.

Hopefully, the bimbo would just tire herself and bleed out.

"You okay, my love?" Casimir cupped her cheeks, pressing their foreheads together.

Emm just sighed and rolled her eye before nodding her head "Jus'... wanted to ask you 'bout somethin'."

Casimir smirked at that and pressed a kiss to Emm's lips before continuing what he was doing with prepping ingredients "What is it, my love?"

"I d'no if I was p'ck'n up what you were puttin' down before." Emm crossed her arms and leaned her back against the kitchen counter "But you... you think they're real pr'tty too, right?"

Casimir felt his ears get just a little bit hot but, of course, he quickly nodded because he never hid anything from his wife "We'd of course have to get rid of the nuisances but..."

Emm quickly nodded and hugged Casimir from behind, pressing a kiss to the back of his ear "I love 'em so much and I don' know why but I just--"

"I know, dear, calm down." Casimir laughed a bit breathily, trying to keep an understanding expression on his face as he smiled at his rather nervous and bashful wife.

The two of them had been with each other long enough that they could have discreet conversations without having other people know about what they were truly talking about.

For Emm to outright ask him these questions, she must've been really concerned about this. So, of course, he wanted to reassure her as best as he could.

"I'm very interested in them as well. Don't worry." He sliced into the middle of a bell pepper with precision, his ears feeling a little hot from his confession.

Casimir wasn't the best at confessing his feelings but, still, he wanted to make his intentions clear to his wife so she wouldn't be so insecure.

"Y'think they'd go for it?" Emm bit her lip a little, frown gracing her lips as she tightened her hold on her husband "Go f'r me?"

"My dear, you are a mighty fine specimen of a woman. If they don't go for you, well..." Casimir thought on the plethora of drugs he had in the basement and smiled, his finger tracing the silver sheen of the knife in his hand "I have a plan for that."

"You an' your plans." Emm huffed, her breath ruffling Casimir's locks a little bit.

Casimir just laughed again, all airy and soft, before shrugging her off and returning to slicing and dicing the peppers for the steak dinner he was making "Why don't you go and fix the garage? I know you were in a hurry and you didn't clean up after yourself."

Emm groaned, burying her face into her husband's neck. He reached behind her and, for a second, she thought he'd comfort her somehow. Instead, he thread his fingers into his hair and gave a hard yank, pulling her head up so that her ear was right next to his lips.

"You know how I feel about messes right, my dear?" Emm couldn't properly see Casimir's expression but she could imagine what it was: that wide sadistic smirk he always had when people tested him or when something interested him a bit too much

So, she huffed and rolled her eyes "Fine, fine."

Casimir let go easily enough and she unravelled her arms from around his torso, pulling away from him but not before pressing a kiss against his cheek.

She'd go clean up as fast as she could and then, maybe, she'd go join you and Casimir in preparing dinner.

Casimir watched as Emm left to go deal with her mess, a fond smile on his face.

Unfortunately, the peace was interrupted when he was shoved from the side by that one guy who loved tormenting you.

He remembered this guy's name purely because he hated him so much: Bran. Like the cereal. What an idiot.

Casimir had heard the footsteps so he hadn't been surprised by the shove but he hadn't exactly braced himself either so, when he was pushed against the counter, the knife clattered out of his hand.

It didn't matter. If needed, Casimir had other things he could kill this douche bag with.

Hopefully, he wouldn't have to. Casimir was hoping to bleed this one out and torture him slowly.

Casimir and Emm both noticed the way Bran had stared after you, looking at you like you were an object to be lusted after, like you belonged to Bran, all while he already had a girlfriend.

It definitely disgusted Casimir and he knew that cheating was a sore subject for Emm.

"The fuck are you two talking about?" Bran tried to sound as menacing as possible.

"Nothing." Casimir just smirked as he turned to face the asshole, hoping this man would give him any reason at all to humiliate him "Can I help you?"

"I'm fucking on to you." Bran spat out which, of course, made Casimir feel especially disgusted. "You and your fucking freak wife."

Casimir felt a little bit of his sanity snap when Bran said that specific phrase but he knew he had to hold back "On to me about what exactly?"

"I don't know." The question made Bran back off and the admission made Casimir smirk mockingly at him.

Bran looked like he was about to punch Casimir in the face but, before he could, Casimir took him by the wrist and straightened himself so that he was easily taller than Bran.

"We have helped you, we have sheltered you and we are now about to feed you. I will not have you disrespect me in my own home." Casimir smirked from ear to ear, his eyes boring into Bran's "So, tell me what your problem is with your words, like an adult, or get the hell out of my face."

Casimir could at least give credit to the man: he was fearless. Bran didn't back down. "They're mine."

"Your girlfriend?" Casimir played innocent, all the while his grip on Bran's wrist tightened to the point of being unbearable.

He could see it in Bran's face; the man was wincing and flinching away but the feeble tugs he tried to make were no match for Casimir's grasp.

Still, stubbornly, Bran continued "You know who I'm talking about."

Casimir finally let go "I am quite sure I do not. In any case, neither my wife nor I have any interest in your girlfriend."

"Where is she anyway?" Casimir added, dusting himself off and wiping Bran's spittle off of his skin.

"She's high right now so she's in Chloe and Dirk's room." Bran growled, still as aggressive as before but unable to make a move against Casimir since he was cradling his wrist "Once Chloe and Dirk get back, we're fucking out of here."

"Have fun driving with three wheels." Casimir just turned back to the food, not at all worried about the idiot behind him.

Oh, but Casimir definitely stored this entire event in his mind, knowing for a fact that he'd get his revenge later.

Bran didn't respond but he could hear the moron's thumping steps as he ran up the stairs and slammed one of the doors.

After your dinner with the two them, Casimir watched as you excused yourself and went outside.

Emm looked worried but Casimir didn't have a single doubt in his mind. His plans were absolute and he wouldn't let you escape. He had planned for every single eventuality and he would make sure you were theirs.

"Wait a few minutes before going after her." He said instead, pressing a kiss against her forehead as he started putting the dishes away.

"What about you?" She glanced at him warily.

Casimir simply picked up one of the sheathed knives with a bored expression on his face "I think the other two got high so I better just chloroform them and bring them downstairs."

Emm seemed satisfied by that because she grinned, laughing at Casimir's expression "What kind'a fucked up freaks are we that we get both'red when the killin's all borin'?"

Casimir just clipped the leather knife sheath to his belt loop and stepped towards his wife, kissing her chastely on the lips "Why, my dearest, the best kind, of course."

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